Works

m

THE

SKETCH BOOK

OF

GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT?.

" 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
their parts, which, methinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a
common theatre or scene." — BURTON.

Eefriseti lEtoitfon.

NEW YORK : 46 EAST 14TH STREET.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

BOSTON": 100 PURCHASE STREET.

THE SKETCH-BOOK.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION , v

ADVERTISEMENTS TO THE FIRST AMERICAN AND ENGLISH EDITIONS . . . xi

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF 5

THE VOYAGE 9

ROSCOE 14

THE WIFE 20

Rip VAN WINKLE 27

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA 41

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 49

THE BROKEN HEART 55

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 59

A ROYAL POET 65

THE COUNTRY CHURCH 77

THE WIDOW AND HER SON 81

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP 87

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 96

RURAL FUNERALS 105

THE INN KITCHEN 115

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 117

WESTMINSTER ABBEY • 130

CHRISTMAS 139

THE STAGE-COACH 144

CHRISTMAS EVE 149

CHRISTMAS DAY 159

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER . 170

LITTLE BRITAIN 182

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 194

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 210

PHILIP OF POKANOKET 219

JOHN BULL 233

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE 242

THE ANGLER 250

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 258

L'ENVOY 285

A SUNDAY IN LONDON 287

LONDON ANTIQUES 289

APPENDIX 295

iii

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

THE following papers, with two exceptions, were written in
England, and formed but part of an intended series for which
I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature
a plan, however, circumstances compelled me to send them
piecemeal to the United States, where they were published
from time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my in-
tention to publish them in England, being conscious that
much of their contents could be interesting only to American
readers, and, in truth, being deterred by the severity with
which American productions had been treated by the British
press.

By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared
in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across
the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in
the London Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London
bookseller intended to publish them in a collective form. I
determined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they
might at least have the benefit of my superintendence and
revision. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I
had received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray,
the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received
friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination,
informing him that should he be inclined to bring them before
the public, I had materials enough on hand for a second vol-
ume. Several days having elapsed without any communica-
tion from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him in which I
construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and
begged that the numbers I had left with him might be returned
to me. The following was his reply :

MY DEAR SIR : I entreat you to believe that I feel truly
obliged by your kind intentions towards me, and that I enter-
tain the most unfeigned respect for your most tasteful talents.
My house is completely filled with work-people at this time,
and I have only an office to transact business in ; and yester-

yi PREFACE TO THE EEVISED EDITION.

day I was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the
pleasure of seeing you.

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 circu-
lation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future, plan
of yours.

With much regard, I remain, dear sir,

Your faithful servant,

JOHN MURRAY.

This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from
any further prosecution of the matter, had the question of
republication 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 Edin-
burgh ; but first I determined 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 opinion he had
expressed to others of my earlier writings. 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 success-
ful 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 republi-
cation, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined
to be the publisher.

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

" I was down at Kelso," said he, " when your letter reached
Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will con-
verse 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

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. vii

devised a way of aiding me. 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 appointment of the editor,
for which ample funds were provided, would be five hundred
pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable prospect of further
advantages. This situation, being apparently at his disposal,
he frankly offered to me. The work, however, 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 important 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 Sketch Book. • It
is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you,
if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in man-
aging 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
unfitted 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 stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no com-
mand 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 me more into rule ; but at
present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own
country Indians or a Don Cossack,

yiii PEE FACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

" 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 oi
answering 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 encourage me to further enterprise ; and it will be some-
thing like trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlmgs,
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
declining what might have proved a troublesome duty. He
then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence ;
entered into a detail of the various terms upon which arrange-
ments were made between authors and booksellers, that I
might take my choice ; expressing the most encouraging con-
fidence of the success of my work, and of previous works
which I had produced in America. " I did no more," added
he, " than open the trenches with Constable ; but I am sure
if you will take the trouble to write to him, you will find him
disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of atten-
tion. 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." l

1 I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's
letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our corre-
spondence, 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
;' nigromancy " of the American press, by which a quart of wine is con-
jured into a pint bottle. Scott observes : " In my hurry, I have not
thanked you in Sophia's name for the kind attention which furnished her
with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own,
since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly 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."

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. ix

Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I
had determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch,
but to 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, arid 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 accompt; for the booksellers set their face
against the circulation of such works as do not pay an amaz-
ing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of alto-
gether 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 win-
dows of my Lord Understanding's mansion. I am sure of
one thing, that you have only to be known to the British pub-
lic 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
Blackwood's 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
illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into
consideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be
still more so when

Your 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 pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand."

The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in
London, 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 by the extracts which had previously appeared
in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind word spoken by the
editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circu-
lation, 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

X PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through
his favorable representations, Murray was quickly induced to
undertake 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 him-
self in all his dealings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit
which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation of
the Prince of Booksellers.

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 trifling degree, my debt of gratitude
to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging
my obligations to him. But who of his literary contempo-
raries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not ex-
perience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ?

W. I.

SUNNYSIDE, 1848.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE 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 proceed, much time may elapse between the appearance of
his numbers ; and their size will depend on the materials he
may have on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctua-
tions of his own thoughts and feelings ; sometimes treating of
scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaginary, and
sometimes wandering back with his recollections to his native
country. He will not be able to give them that tranquil atten-
tion necessary to finished composition ; and as they must be
transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will have
to trust to others to correct the frequent errors of the press.
Should his writings, however, with all their imperfections, be
well received, he cannot conceal 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 is the
dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though
humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his
countrymen.

London, 1819.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST ENGLISH EDITION,

THE following desultory papers are part of a series written in
this country, 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 much of the contents of his papers can be interesting only
in the eyes of American readers. It was not his intention,
therefore, to have them reprinted in this country. He has,
however, observed several of them from time to time inserted
in periodical works of merit, and has understood, that it was
probable they would be republished in a collective form. He
has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them forward
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 can-
dor which a stranger has some right to claim who presents
himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation.

February, 1820,

xi

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was
turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on ; so the
traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so
monstrous a shape, that he is faiue to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live
where he can, not where he would. — Lyly's Euphues.

I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing
strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I
began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into for-
eign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the fre«
quent 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
about 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 neighboring 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 summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill,
whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incog-
nita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhab-
ited.

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 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 imagination 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

6 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

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 fertility ; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their
solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous ver-
dure; 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 American
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 country 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 renowned achievement — to tread, as it were,
in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle
— to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, 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 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 anxious 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 countries,
and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot

THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 1

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 an-
other ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, some-
times by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the
loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tour-
ists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios
filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the en-
tertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the
hints and memorandums 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 travel-
ler who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disap-
pointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who had travelled
on the Continent, but following the bent of his vagrant inclina-
tion, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His
sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and land-
scapes, 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 SKETCH-BOOK

OP

GEOFFREY CRAYON,

" 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 their parts; which, methiuks, are
diversely presented unto me, as from a common theater or scene." — BURTON,

THE VOYAGE.

Ships, ships, I will descrie you
Amidst the main,

I will come 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 invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading,
Hallo! my faucie, 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 pe-
culiarly 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-

9

10 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 voyage severs us
at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the
secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful
world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real,
between us and our homes — a gulf, subject to tempest, and
fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return
precarious.

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last
blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the hori-
zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and
its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened
another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which
contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might
occur in it — what changes might take place in me, before
I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to
wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of
existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be
his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ?

I said, that at sea all is vacancy : I should correct the expres-
sion. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing him-
self in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation j
but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and
rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I de-
lighted to loll over the quarter-railing or climb to the main-top,
of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil
bosom of a summer sea ; — to gaze upon the piles of golden
clouds just peering above the horizon ; fancy them some fairy
realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch
the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if
to die away on those happy shores.

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe
with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon-
sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols : shoals of porpoises
tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heav-
ing his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark,
darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagina-
tion would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery
world beneath me : of the finny herds that roam its fathomless
valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very
foundations of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that
swell the tales of fishermen and sailors.

THE VOYAGE. 11

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 dis-
tance. At sea, every thing 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 abont 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 intelli-
gence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened
into anxiety — anxiety 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 ! "

The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when
the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild
and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden
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, u in a fine, stout ship, across

12 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which pre-
vail 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 smack-
ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the
water. Suddenly 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, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked
wretches, rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their
beds to be swallowed 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 farther 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 any thing
of them more."

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 bellowed over the wild waste of waters,
and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I
saw the ship staggering 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
impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing
but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the
shock.

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed

THE VOYAGE. 13

me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded
like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts ; the strain-
ing and groaning of bulkheads, 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 the 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 ! "
was given from the mast-head. None but those who have ex-
perienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensa-
tions which rush into an American's bosom when he first comes
in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the
very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing
of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years
have pondered.

From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all fever-
ish 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, towering 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 shrub-
beries 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 charac-
teristic 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 calculating 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

14 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 woman of humble dress, but interesting de-
meanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ;
her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch
some wished-for countenance. 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 ex-
cited 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 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.

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. — THOMSOX.

ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liver-
pool, is the Athenseum. It is established on a liberal and
judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious read-
ing-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. *

HOSCOE. 15

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention
was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was ad-
vanced 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 something in his whole appearance that indi-
cated a being of a different order from the bustling race around
him.

I inquired his name, and was informed that it was ROSCOE.
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 solitudes of Amer-
ica. 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 sordid pursuits, and jostling
with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life.
They pass before our imaginations 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 min-
gling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poeti-
cal ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situation
in which he has been placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives his high-
est 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 maturity ; and to glory in the vigor and
luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds
of genius to the winds, and though 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. Born in a place
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very
market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, or
patronage ; self -prbmp ted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught,

16 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence,
and having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has
turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance
and embellish his native town.

Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given
him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particu-
larly 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 and inconsistency. 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. Roscoe, on the contrar}-, has claimed none of the accorded
privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of
thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the high-
wa}'s 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, ex-
ample of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet sim-
ple and mutable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but
which, unfortunately, 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 founda-
tions of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you

ROSCOE. 17

go, in Liverpool, yon 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 invig-
orating rills to refresh the gardens of literature. By his own
example and constant exertions, he has effected that union of
commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recom-
mended in one of his latest writings ; l and has practically
proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and
to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and
scientific 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 commer-
cial importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in
awakening an ambition of mental improvement among its in-
habitants, 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 adversity ; but
a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of for-
tune. 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 associates. 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 came to a spacious mansion
of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest

1 Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution.

18 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was de-
lightful. 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, blende'd 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 lit-
erary retirement. .The house was now silent and deserted. I
saw the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft
scenery I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the
library was gone. Two or three ill-favored beings were loiter-
ing about the place, whom rny fancy pictured into retainers of
the law. It was like visiting some classic 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 shat-
tered 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. Pigmies 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 specu-
lators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding
and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; of the air of in-
tense, 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 misfor-
tunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 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,

ROSCOE. 19

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 Liver-
pool 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 certainly appears to me such an
opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind strug-
gling 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 unostentatious 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 preten-
sion. But the man of letters who speaks of Liverpool, speaks
of it as the residence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who
visits it, inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the liter-
ary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant
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 alluded to in the preceding article. If
any thing 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, but 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, who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,

I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ;

20 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,

And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

THE WIFE.

The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Lock'd 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 HAVE often had 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 sup-
porter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with un-
shrinking 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
hard3T plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its
caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered 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 calam-
ity ; 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, " than
to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they
are to share your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to

THE WIFE. 21

comfort you." And, indeed, I 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 stim-
ulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and be-
loved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly,
because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endear-
ments, 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 a harmonious
combination ; he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious 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 still 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 confiding 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 helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the
flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer
prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have em-
barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been
married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disas-
ters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced al-
most to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself,
and went about with a haggard -countenance, and a breaking
heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what ren-
dered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a
smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring him'

22 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

self to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with
the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She
marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be
deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She
tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to
win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow
deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the
more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her
wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish
from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the
lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow — and the
happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be
weighed down, like mine, by the cares and 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 had heard
him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this? " At
the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God'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 almost to
madness ! "

"And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or
later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence
may break upon her in a more startling manner than if impartec]
by yourself ; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest
tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of
her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the
only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved com-
munity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that
something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love
will not brook reserve : it feels undervalued and outraged,
when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."

" Oh, but my friend ! to think what a blow I am .to give to
all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to
the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! — that
she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of
society — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To
tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which
she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the
light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can
she bear poverty ? She has been brought up in all the refine-
ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has been
the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart — it will break
her heart! "

THE WIFE. 23

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for
sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had sub-
sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the
subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to
his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.

" But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she
should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the
alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style
of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his coun-
tenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have
never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet
friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for
being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a
palace to be happy with Mary — " "I could be happy with
her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel! — I could go down
with her into poverty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God
bless her! — God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a trans-
port of grief and tenderness.

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and
grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the
same with 3^011. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and
triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and
fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove
that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true
woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in
the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and
beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man
knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a
ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through
the fiery trials of this world."

There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and
the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited
imagination of Leslie. I knew the .ciiiditor I had to deal with ;
and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per-
suading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his
wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some
little solicitude fo.r the result. Who can calculate on the forti-
tude of one whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her
gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of low
humility, suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling
to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled.
Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many
galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger.

24 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

— In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without
trepidation. He had made the disclosure.

" And how did she bear it? "

" Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her
mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if
this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor
girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must
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 accustomed
conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to
experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humilia-
tions— then will be the real trial."

"But," said I, "now that you have got over the severest
task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world
into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying ;
but then it is a single misery, and soon over ; whereas you
otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, ever}T hour in the day. It
is not poverty, so much as pretence, 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 afterwards, he called upon me in the evening.
He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cot-
tage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been
busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establish-
ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind.
All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold,
excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely asso-
ciated 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 melting 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 we
walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing.

THE WIFE. 25

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

"And what of her," asked I, "has any thing happened to
her?"

"What," said he, darting an impatient glance, "is it noth-
ing 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? "

" 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 ine all love, and tenderness, and
comfort ! "

" Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor,
my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the bound-
less treasures of excellence you possess in that wonian."

"Oh! but my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage
were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is
her first day of real experience : she has been introduced into
a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arran-
ging 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 every thing ele-
gant — almost of every thing 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 of
seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was humble
enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; 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 several pots of flowers taste-
fully 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 music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and
listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most
touching simplicuy, a little air of which her husband was pecul-
iarly fond.

I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward,
to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel-

26 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and
vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came trip-
ping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of
white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her tine hair ; a fresh
bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with
smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely.

" My dear George," 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. I've set out a table
under a beautiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gath-
ering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you
are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and
every thing 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 happy ! ' '

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 indeed been a happy
one, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite
felicity.

[THE following Tale 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 former 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 genu-
ine 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, and studied it with the zeal of
a bookworm.

The result of all these researches was a history of the prov-
ince, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he pub-
lished 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

RIP VAN WINKLE. 27

its first appearance, but has since been completely established ;
and it is now admitted into all historical 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 his time might have been
much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was
apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did now and
then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and
grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the truest
deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remem-
bered "more in sorrow than in anger,"1 and it begins to be
suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But
however his memory may be appreciated 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 likeness 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.]

RIP VAN WINKLE.

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

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. — CARTWBIGHT.

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remem-
ber the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered 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 weather, 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 blu^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

f Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplanck, Esq., before the New- York
Historical Society.

28 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 shin-
gle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of
the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer land-
scape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been
founded by some of the Dutch 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 of the original settlers standing within a
few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Holland,
having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounted with
weathercocks.

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 accompanied 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 henpecked 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
discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic
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 ma}', therefore, in some respects, be consid-
ered a tolerable blessing ; and if so. Rip 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 gossipings, to
lay all the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the
village, too, would shout with joy whenever he approached.
He 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

RIP VAN WINKLE. 29

about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them hang-
ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thou-
sand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark
at him throughout the neighborhood.

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable
aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from
the 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 murmur, even though he should not be
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece
on his shoulder for hours together, 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 roughest 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 obliging
husbands 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 coun-
ty ; every thing 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 fields 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 management, 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 be-
longed 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 galli-
gaskins, 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 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

30 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 every thing he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of
household eloquence. Rip 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 eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a
fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his
forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side
which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband.

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as
much henpecked 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 withstand the ever-during and all-be-
setting 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 edge tool that grows keener with
constant use. For a long while he used to console himself,
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual
club of the sxiges, philosophers, and other idle personages of
the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small
inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty George
the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of 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 discus-
sions that sometimes took place, when by chance an old news-
paper fell into their hands, from some passing traveller. How
solemnly they 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 gigantic word in
the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon
public events some months after they had taken place.

RIP VAN WINKLE. 31

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by
Nicholas V^edder, a 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 inces-
santly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his
adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather
his opinions. When any thing that was read or related dis-
pleased 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 appro-
bation.

From even this strong hold 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 nought ; nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder
himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago,
who charged him outright with encouraging 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 clamor
of his wife, was to take gun in hand, 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 persecution.
" 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

32 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 fragments
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, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " He looked
round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary
flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have
deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the
same cry ring through the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle !
Rip Van Winkle!" —at the same time Wolf 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.

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singu-
larity 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 pair 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
stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip
to approach and 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

KIP VAN WINKLE. 33

issue out of a deep ravine or rather cleft between lofty rocks,
toward 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 perpen-
dicular precipices, over the brinks of which, impending trees
shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the
azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. During the whole
time, Rip and his companion had labored 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
something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown,
that inspired awe, and checked familiarity.

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pre-
sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a com-
pany of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They
were dressed in a 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 peculiar; one had a
large beard, broad face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of an-
other 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 vil-
lage 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,
the 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 suddenly
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed
statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre coun-
tenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote

34 THE SKETCH-BOOR.

together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com-
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed the
liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game.

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bev-
erage, 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 provoked 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. He 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 occur-
rences before he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg of
liquor — the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks

— the wo-begone party at nine-pins — the flagon — " Oh ! that
flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip — " what excuse shall
I make to Dame Van Winkle? "

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well-
oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire-lock lying b}' him, the
barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the
mountain had put 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.

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 mountain
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 which he and
his companion had ascended the preceding evening ; but to his
astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it,
leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling

EIP VAN WINKLE. 35

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 grape vines 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 impenetrable 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 Rip 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 clown 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 fire-
lock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his
steps homeward.

As he approached the village, he met a number of people,
but 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 astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long !

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and point-
ing 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 lar^3r and more populous.
There were rows of houses which he had never seen before,
and those which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared.
Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the win-
dows — every thing was strange. His mind now misgave him ;
he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him
were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which
he had left but the day before. There stood the Kaatskill moun-
tains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was

36 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 the 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.
This was an unkind cut indeed. — " My very dog," sighed poor
Rip, " has forgotten me ! "

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn,
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame 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, the vil-
lage inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wooden build-
ing 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 Jonathan 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 flag, on which was a singular assemblage of
stars and stripes — all this was strange and incomprehensible.
He recognized 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 of blue and buff, a sword was held in the
hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated 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 bus}*, bustling, disputatious
tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy
tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedcler,
with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering
clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches ; or Van
Buinmel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an
ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bilious-looking

RIP VAN WINKLE. 37

fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehe-
mently about rights of citizens — election — members of Con-
gress— liberty — Bunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — and
other words which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the be-
wildered 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 attention of the
tavern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from
head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to
him, and drawing him partly aside, inquired, "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 his ear, " whether he was Federal or Demo-
crat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ;
when a knowing, 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 plant-
ing himself before Van Winkle, with one arm a-kimbo, the
other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrat-
ing, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere 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 loyal subject of
the King, God bless him ! ' '

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders — " a tory !
a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him ! "

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 re-
plied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder? wJhy, he is
dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden
tomb-stone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him,
but that's rotten and gone too."

38 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

" Where's Brom Butcher? "

" 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 the 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 Winkle ? ' '

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

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he
went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy and certainly as
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded.
He doubted his own identity, and whether 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 every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell
what's my name, or who I am ! "

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads.
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keep-
ing the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion
of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired
with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the
gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms,
which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip,"
cried she, " hush, you little fool ; the old man won't hurt you."
The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her
voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind.

" What is your name, my good woman? " asked he.

"Judith Gardenier."

RIP VAN WINKLE. 39

" And your father's name? "

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name ; but it's twenty
years since he went away from home with his gun, and never
has been heard of since — his dog came home without him ; but
whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians,
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl."

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

" Where's 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. He 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 ! — 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, u Sure enough! it is
Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. 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 corroborated 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 be-
ings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson,
the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of
vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon,
being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enter'

40 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

prise, and keep a guardian eye upon 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 hollow 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 hereditary disposition to at-
tend to any thing 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 toolf
his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was
reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chron-
icle of the 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 the United States. Rip,
in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires
made but little impression on him ; but there was one species
of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was —
petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end ; he had
got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and
out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame
Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he
shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes;
which might pass either for an expression 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 doubtless owing to his
having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 41

to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in
the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pre-
tended 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 thunder- storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaats-
kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their
game of nine-pins : and it is a common wish of all henpecked
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 foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knicker-
bocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart and
the Kypphauser 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 the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been
very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenti-
cated 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 consistent on
every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the
bargain; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and
signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond
the possibility of doubt.1

D. K."

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.

" Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong
man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle, mew-
ing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." —
MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OP THE PRESS.

IT is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary
animosity daily growing up between England and America.
Great curiosity has been awakened of late with 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 be-
tween the nations, there is no people concerning whom the
great mass of the British public have less pure information, or
entertain more numerous prejudices.

i Appendix, Note 1.

42 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

English travellers are the best and the worst in the world.
Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal
them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faith-
ful 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 confi-
dence in an Englishman's description 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 trav-
ellers 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 those nations with which he is
in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be
disposed to trust his 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 philo-
sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from Eng-
land to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study
the manners and customs of barbarous nations, with which she
can have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has
been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adven-
turer, the wandering mechanic, the Manchester and Birming-
ham agent, to be her oracles respecting America. From such
sources she is content to receive her information respecting a
country in a singular state of moral and physical development ;
a country 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 America is
1 not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contempla-
tion are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national
character is yet in a state of fermentation : it may have its froth-
iness and sediment, but its ingredients are sound and whole-
some : it has already given proofs of powerful and generous
qualities ; and the whole promises to settle clown into something
substantially excellent. But the causes which are operating to
strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable
properties, are all lost upon these purblind observers ; who are
only affected by the little asperities incident to its present sit-

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 43

nation. They are capable of judging only of the surface of
things ; of those matters which come in contact with their pri-
vate 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 appe-
tite and self-indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are
all-important in the estimation of narrow minds ; which either
do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are more
than counterbalanced among us, by great and generally diffused
blessings.

They ma}^, perhaps, have been disappointed .in some unrea-
sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured
America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver
abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where
they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some un-
foreseen but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that
indulges absurd expectations, produces petulance in disappoint-
ment. Such persons become 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 shrewd-
ness 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, having been accus-
tomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface
of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferior-
ity, 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 consequence.

One would suppose, however, that information coming from
such sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would
be received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the
motives of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of in-
quiry and observation, and their capacities for judging correctly,
would be rigorously scrutinized, before their evidence was ad-
mitted, in such sweeping extent against a kindred nation. The
very reverse, however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking
instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the

44 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 description of
a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in
these contributions of merely curious knowledge ; while they
will receive, with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the gross
misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a
country with which their own is placed in the most important
and delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apocry-
phal 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 hackneyed
topic ; nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue in-
terest apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain
injurious effects which I apprehend it might produce upon the
national feeling. We attach too much consequence to these
attacks. They cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue
of misrepresentations attempted to be woven round us, are like
cobwebs woven round the limbs of an infant giant. Our coun-
try continually outgrows them. One falsehood after another
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 importance and matchless prosperity. They
could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical
and local, but also to moral causes ; — to the political liberty,
the general 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 by 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 national glory or national
disgrace established.

For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little
importance whether England does us justice or not ; it is, per-
haps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 45

and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow
with its growth, and strengthen with its strength. If in Amer-
ica, as some of her writers are laboring 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 irri-
tated 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 iii the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever present in the
mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collis-
ion. It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hos-
tilities between two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a
previous jealousy and ill-will, a predisposition to take offence.
Trace these to their cause, and how often will they be found to
originate in the mischievous 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 universal 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 ever}7 part of it. There is not
a calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm
uttered by an English statesman, that does not go to blight
good-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possess-
ing then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the litera-
ture of the language flows, how completely is it in 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 together, 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 uncer-
tainty. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should these
reverses overtake her from which the proudest empires have
not been exempt — she may look back with regret at her inf atu~

46 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

ation, 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 prepossessions 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 wuntry, 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 birth-place and mausoleum of the
sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own coun-
try, there was none in whose glory we more delighted — none
whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess — none
toward which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm
consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was
the least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was
the delight" of the generous spirits of our country to show, 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 in-
terfered occasionally with our true interests, and prevented
the growth of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up
the kindred tie ! — and there are feelings dearer than 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-judged. I speak not of a prompt
and spirited vindication of our country, nor the keenest castiga-
tion of her slanderers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 47

in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which seems
to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard par-
ticularly against such a temper ; for it would double the evil,
instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and in-
viting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry
and unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid
mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indigna-
tion. If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies of
trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the
integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opin-
ion, 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 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 retalia-
tion ; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never repub-
lished in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but
they foster a querulous 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. Governed, as we are, entirely
by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve
the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth
is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly 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 enabled
to come to all questions of national concern with calm and un-
biassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations
with England, we must have more frequent questions of a difficult
and delicate character with her, than with any other nation; ques-
tions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings : and as,
in the adjusting of these, our national measures must ultimately
be determined by popular 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 impartiality.
It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at
least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising, not

48 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 and
ignorant ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and
looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust 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 indefatigably 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 feelings,
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 na-
tions of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our
study than England. The spirit of her constitution is most
analogous to ours. The manners of her people — their intellec-
tual activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of think-
ing on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and
most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the
American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excel-
lent : 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 tow-
ered 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 illiberal-
ity of British authors, to speak of the English nation without
prejudice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the
indiscriminating bigotry with 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 per-
petual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc-
tions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors
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.

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 49

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.

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

THE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng-
lish character, must not confine his observations to the metrop-
olis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in
villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses,
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 inhabited 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 devote 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 con-
genial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are
therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and
the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different
ranks.

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel-
ing. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of na-
ture, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments 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 rural habits, and
evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug
retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often dis-
plays 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 traffic, contrive to have some-
thing 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 frequently a bank of flowers; every

50 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot 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 engage-
ments 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, he is on the
point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talking on
one subject, his mind is wandering to another ; and while pay-
ing a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize
time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An
immense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meet-
ings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present
but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial qual-
ities 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 formal-
ities and negative civilities of town, throws off his habits of shy
reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to
collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite
life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds
with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful
gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses,
dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He
puts no constraint, either upon his guests 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 laud, and in
what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have
studied Nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of
her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those
charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild soli-
tudes, 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 Eng-
lish park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid
green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up
rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and wood-
land glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them ;
the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, sud'

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 51

denly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in
natural meanderings, or expand into a glass}' lake — the seques-
tered 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 seclusion.

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 por-
tion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes
a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating 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 flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the intro-
duction of a green slope of velvet turf ; the partial opening to a
peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water — all these are
managed with a delicate tact, a pervading 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 laborer,
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 window ; 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 pervading the lowest levels of the public
mind. If 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 effeminacy which
characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit
a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and

52 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to
their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly
the invigorating recreations of the country. These hardy exer-
cises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a
manliness and simplicity of manners, 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 approach more freely, to be more disposed to
blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions
between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable,
as in the cities. The manner in which property has been dis-
tributed 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 cas-
ual 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 beau-
ty ; 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, heart-felt
enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the very amusements of
the country bring men more and more together ; and the sound
of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmon}7. 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 litera-
ture ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those
incomparable descriptions of Nature, that abound in the British

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 53

poets — that have continued down from "the 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 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 minutest 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 ex-
hale 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 occupa-
tions, 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 farm-house and
moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are continu-
ally winding, and the view is shut in b}* 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 princi-
ples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing 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 preservation — its stately monu-
ments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of
the present lords of the soil — its tombstones, recording suc-
cessive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still
plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the par-
sonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired
and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the
stile and footpath leading from the church-yard, across pleasant
fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemora-
ble right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable
its public green, sheltered by trees, under which the

54 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 surrounding scene —
all these common features of English landscape evince a calm
and settled security, an hereditary transmission of home-bred
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 even-
ings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to
exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their
own hands have spread around them.

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affection
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, from 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 cottaged 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 fry for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoy'd ; 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.1

1 From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann
Kennedy, A.M.

THE BROKEN HEART. 55

THE BROKEN HEART.

I never heard

Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose. — MIDDLETON.

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 character 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 im-
petuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed,
I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent
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 for hidden treasures. She sends
forth her sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole
soul in the traffic of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is
hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy 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 occupation, or may
plunge into the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappoint-
ment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode
at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can
" fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest,"

56 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medi-
tative life. She ie 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 fortunate, 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 refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melan-
choly dreams — " dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her en-
feebled 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
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 indisposi-
tion, 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 withering,
when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it droop-
Ing 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 smit-
ten 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

THE BROKEN HEART. 57

fancied that I could trace their deaths through the various de-
clensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy,
until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But
an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circum-
stances 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 im-
pression on public sympathy.. He was so young — so intelli-
gent — so generous — so brave — so every thing 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 re-
pelled 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.

But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi-
ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had
won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daugh-
ter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the
disinterested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When
every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted
in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name,
she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If,
then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes,
what must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was
occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had the portals
of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they
most loved on earth — who have sat at its threshold, as one
shut out in a cold and lonely wrorld, whence all that was most
lovely and loving had departed.

But then the horrors of such a grave ! — so frightful, so dis-
honored ! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that
could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender,
though melancholy circumstances, which endear the parting scene
— nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like
the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of
anguish.

To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had
incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach-

58 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

ment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the
sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so
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 delicate and cherishing atten-
tions were paid her, by families of wealth and distinction.
She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupa-
tion and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from
the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There
are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the soul —
which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it,
never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected
to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there,
as in the depths of solitude; walking about in a sad reverie,
apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried
with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments
of friendship, 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 wretchedness
more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To
find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all
around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth,
and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to
cheat the poor heart into a momentary 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

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 59

on the kkidness 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
was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a
happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring
melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted
away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into
the grave, the victim of a broken heart.

It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com-
posed the following lines :

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

And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,

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

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !

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 ! 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 !

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.

"If that severe doom of Synesius be true — 'it is a greater offence to steal dead
men's labors than their clothes,' — what shall become of most writers?" — BURTON'S
Anatomy of Melancholy.

I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecunditj- of the press,
and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature
seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, 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

60 THE ^KETCH-BOOK.

great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregri-
nations 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 loll-
ing over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the
hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying,
with nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paint-
ings 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 objects.
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 with which the por-
tals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-
errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with
great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just
under the cornice, were arranged a great number of black-
looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were
placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at
which sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently
over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts,
and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed still-
ness reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting
that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or,
occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted
his position to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless
arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned
research.

Now and then one of these personages would write something
on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar
would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of
the room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes,
upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished
voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a
body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences.
The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philoso-
pher, shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a

f

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 61

mountain, which opened only once a year ; where he made the
spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark
knowledge, so that at the end of the year, whem the
magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued
forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar
above the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of
Nature.

My curiosity being now fully aroused, 1 whispered to one of
the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged
an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words
were sufficient for the purpose : — I found that these mysterious
personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally
authors, and in the very act of manufacturing 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 of these sequestered pools of obsolete literature,
to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of
classic lore, or "pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell
their own scanty rills of thought.

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner,
and watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed
one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most
worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently
constructing some work of profound erudition, 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 endeavor-
ing 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 countenance
who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with
his bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recognized
in him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bus-
tled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he man-
ufactured his wares- He made more stir and show of business
than any of the others ; dipping into various books, fluttering
over the leaves of manuscripts, 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

62 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' caldron
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."

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be im-
planted 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 corn-field, 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 metempsy-
chosis, 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 mat-
ter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also,
that their elements shall never perish. Generation after gen-
eration, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the
vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species con-
tinue 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 had 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 im-

ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 63

proper 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 por-
traits 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, Monmouth-street-
Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongru-
ities common to dreams, methought 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 observed
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 common-
place of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wis-
dom. 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 manuscript,
had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from " The Paradise
of Daintie Devices," 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 bol-
stered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure
tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but
he was lamentably tattered 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 im-
bibe 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

64 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

gaiters, and an Arcadian 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 walls became animated ! 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 rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub
that ensued baffles 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 modern
professor ; on another, there was sad devastation carried into the
ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher,
side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and
sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volun-
teer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little com-
piler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed
himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, and
there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as
about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many
men, to whom I had been accustomed 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 gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling
away in sore affright 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 moments, from his domineering
pomp, he shrunk into a little pursy, " chopped bald shot," and
made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his
back.

A ROYAL POET. 65

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, I found
myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage
of bookworms «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 " pre-
serve," 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 precipitate 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 soft 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
proucl 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 vernal
kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's tem-
perament, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to
quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the
magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle,
I passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of war-

66 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

riors 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 his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days,
when enamoured of the Lady Geraldine —

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

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibilit}', I visited the
ancient keep of the castle, where James the First of Scotland,
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
apartments 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.

The 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 mon-
arch, 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 ex-
isted 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," we are told, "was brought to him while at
supper, and did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost
ready to give up the ghost into the hands of the servants that

A EOYAL POET. 67

attended him. But being carried to his bed-chamber, he ab-
stained from all food, and in three days died of hunger and
grief, at Rothesay."1

James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but
though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the
respect due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all
the branches of useful knowledge cultivated 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 advantage, 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 capti-
vating, 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 tournay, 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 expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." 2

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 spring-time 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 irritable ; 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.8

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it
is irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut

1 Buchanan. - Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. 3 Roger L'Estrange.

68 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

out, it can create a world for itself, and, with 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 con-
ceived the splendid scenes of his Jerusalem ; and we may con-
sider the "King's Quair,"1 composed by James during his
captivity at Windsor, 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 Beau-
fort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of fehe
blood-royal of England, of whom he became enamoured 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 feel-
ings, 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 mon-
arch 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 intellectual 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 learnt 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 situation,
or which are connected with the apartment in the Tower. They
have thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such
circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the cap-
tive in his prison, and the companion of his meditations.

Such is the account which he gives of his 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 ;

1 Quair, an old terra for Book-

A ROYAL POET. 69

the stars, he says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault
of heaven, and "Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aqua-
rius" —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 proto-
type 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 suc-
cessors 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 deter-
mines to comply with this intimation ; he therefore takes pen
in hand, makes with it a sign of the cross, to implore a bene-
diction, and sallies forth into the fairy land of poetry. There
is something 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.

In the course of his poem, he more than once bewails the
peculiar hardness of his fate, thus doomed to lonely and inac-
tive life, and shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the
world, in which the meanest animal indulges unrestrained.
There is a sweetness, however, in his very complaints ; they
are the lamentations of an amiable and social spirit, at being-
denied the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities ;
there is nothing in them harsh or exaggerated ; 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 repinings 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 unoffending world. James speaks of his privations with

70 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 romantic, active, and
accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all
the enterprise, the noble uses and vigorous 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 lamenta-
tions 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 brightest scene of
his story, and to contrast with that refulgence of light and love-
liness, 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 s'ays, at day-break, according to cus-
tom, 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 wo-begone," he had
wandered to the window, to indulge the captive's miserable
solace, of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is ex-
cluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden which
lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered 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 corners set,
An arbour green with wandis long and small

Railed about, and so with leaves beset
Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet,

That lyf 1 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 there 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.

person.

A ROYAL POET. 71

And on the small green twistis ' set

The lytel swete uyghtingales, and sung,
So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate

Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the garden and the wallis rung

Ryght of their song —

NOTE. — The language of the quotations is generally modernized.

It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloon\v
and he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language
of his enamoured 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 undefin-
able reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious
season. He wonders what this love may be, of which* he has
so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the
quickening breath of May, and melting 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 cut off from its enjoyments ?

Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be,

That love is of such noble rayght and kyude?
Loving his folke, and such prosperltee,

Is it of him, as we in books do find;
May he oure hertes setten 2 and unbynd :
Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye?
Or is all this but feynit fantasye?
For giff he be of so grete excellence

That he of every wight hath care and charge,
What have I gilt3 to him, or done offence,

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 freshest young floure " that ever he
had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to
enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking
thus suddenly upon his sight in the moment of loneliness and
excited susceptibility, sfre at once captivates the fancy of the

1 Twistis, small boughs or twigs. 2 Setten, incline.

3 Gilt, what injury have I done, etc.

72 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

romantic prince, and becomes the object of bis wandering
wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world.

There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance to
the early part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon and
Arcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the
garden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual
fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer, may have
induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of
the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner
of his master, and being, doubtless, taken from the life, is a
perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells with the
fondness of a lover on every article of her apparel, from the net
of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that confined
her golden hair, even to the " goodly chaine of small orfev-
erye " 1 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 and 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,
God better knows than my pen can report,

Wisdom, largesse,2 estate,3 and cunning4 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 loneliness, now ren-
dered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of unat-
tainable beauty. Through the long and weary day he repines
at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches and Phoebus,
as he beautifully expresses 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

1 Wrought gold. 2 Largesse, bounty, s Estate, dignity. * Cunning, discretion.

A ROYAL POET. 73

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 pil-
low, and pacing his apartment full of dreary reflections, ques-
tions his spirit whither it has been wandering ; 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 gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written in
letters of gold, the following sentence :

Awake ! 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 suc-
ceeding 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 determined according
to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by
intimating that the promise conveyed 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 ad-
ventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact,
and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to con-
jecture; let us not, however, reject any romantic incident
as incompatible with real life, but let us sometimes 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 allegorical vein, so
much cultivated at 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 Nature, too, with which it is embellished.

74 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy
of the most cultivated periods of the arts.

As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser
thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy
which pervade it, banishing every gross thought, or immodest
expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed in all its
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace.

James nourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower,
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings.
Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his
masters, and in some parts of his poem we find traces of simi-
larity to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer.
There are always, however, general features of resemblance in
the works of contemporary authors, which are not so much bor-
rowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees,
toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their
own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts current in society,
and thus each generation has some features in common,
characteristic of the age in which it lived. James belongs
to one of the most brilliant erns of our literary history,
and establishes the claims of his country to a participation in
its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English writers
are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of
their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ;
but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little con-
stellation of remote, but never-failing luminaries, who shine in
the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars,
sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy.

Such of my readers as may not Ije familiar with Scottish his-
tory, (though the manner in which it has of late been woven
with captivating fiction has made it a universal study,) may be
curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James,
and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane,
as it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release,
it being imagined by the Court, that a connection with the
blood-royal of England would attach him to its own interests.
He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having
previously espoused 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 feudal chief-
tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities
of a long interregnum to strengthen themselves in their pos-
sessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws.
James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections

A ROYAL POET. 75

of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the
reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administra-
tion of justice, the encouragement 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 disguise ;
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 dangerous 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, instigated his
grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham,
and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into
his bed-chamber at the Dominican convent near Perth, where
he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated
wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body
between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffec-
tual attempt to shield him from the assassin ; and it was not
until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder
was accomplished.

It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times,
and of the golden little poem, which had its birth-place in this
tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than common
interest. The suit of armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt
and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the
image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly before my
imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had
composed his poem ; I leaned upon the window, and endeav-
ored to persuade myself it was the very one where he had
been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where
he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and
joyous month : the birds were again vying with each other in
strains of liquid melody : every thing was bursting into vegeta-
tion, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time,

76 'JLHE SKETCH-BOOK.

which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human
pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of
poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand.
Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes
at the foot of the tower. It occupies what was once the moat
of the keep, and though some parts have been separated by
dividing walls, yet others have still their arbors and shaded
walks, as in the days of James ; and the whole is sheltered,
blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot thr.t
has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and con^
secrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened,
rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the
gift of poetiy, to hallow every place in which it moves ; to
breathe round nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume
of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the
blush of morning.

Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war-
rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as
the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human
heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the 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 been so prolific of the most wholesome and
highly flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner re-
gions of the north, all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement.
He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the
gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which soften and refine the
character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the loftiness
of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which,
unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the
world ; one, which is still preserved, called " Christ's Kirk of
the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself ac-
quainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute
such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish peas-
antry ; 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 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 endear-
ing in the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in
song, and floated his name down 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 imprison-

THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 77

ment. I have visited Vaticluse with as much enthusiasm as a
pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto ; but I have never felt
more poetical 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.

THE COUNTRY CHURCH.

A gentleman !

What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest?
Or lists of velvet? which is't, pound, or yard,
You vend your gentry by ?— BEGGAR'S BUSH.

THERE are few places more favorable to the study of char-
acter than an English country church. I was once passing a
few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity
of one, the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy.
It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which give
such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the
midst of a county filled with ancient families, and contained,
within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many
noble generations. The interior walls were encrusted with
monuments of every age 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 effigies 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 decorated 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 b}' a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who
had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged
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 any thing more than ride to see
the hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner.

78 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Under the ministry of such a pastor. I found it impossible to
get into the train of* thought suitable to the time and place ; so
having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with
my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at
another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making obser-
vations 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
there was the least pretension where there was the most ac-
knowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for
instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consist-
ing of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more
simple and unassuming than their appearance. They generally
came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot.
'The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest man-
ner 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 engaging affability.
Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were
dressed fashionably, but simply ; with strict neatness and pro-
priety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole
demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and
noble frankness, which bespeak free-born 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 converse with the peasantry about those rural con-
cerns and field sports, in which the gentlemen of this country
so much delight. In these conversations, there was neither
haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other ; and you
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 neighborhood,
was endeavoring to assume all the style and dignity of an heredi-
tary lord of the soil. The family always came to church en
prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage embla-
zoned 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

THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 79

wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box,
with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous
liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled be-
hind. The carriage rose and sunk on« its long springs with a
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 ordi-
nary.

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 turning of an angle of the
wall ; — a great smacking of the whip ; straining and scram-
bling of horses ; glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels
through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain-
glory 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 precipi-
tately to the right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On
reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness
that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on
their haunches.

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight,
pull down the steps, and prepare every thing for the de-
scent on earth of this august family. The old citizen
first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking
about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule
on 'change, and shake the stock-market with a nod. His con-
sort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable clame, 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, every thing
was fine about her : it was nothing but driving about, and visit-
ing and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was
one long Lord Mayor's day.

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer-
tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious 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

80 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 imme-
diately 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, eying every one askance
that came near them, as if measuring his claims to respecta-
bility ; yet they were without conversation, except the exchange
of an occasional cant phrase. They even moved artificially,
for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had
been disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art
had done every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion,
but 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 assumption 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 respect 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

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 81

a l6ud 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 con-
sider 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 religious ; as I
have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of
charity soup, smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pro-
nouncing it ;t excellent food for the poor."

When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the
several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their
sisters, as the day was fine, 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 regain the
smacking of whips, the clattering 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 whirlwind.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd.

MARLOWE'S TAMBURLAINE.

THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have
noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape 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 sus-
pended. The very farmdogs 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 country church, amid the
beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else ; and

8 2 THE SKE TCH-B 0 OK.

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 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 ;
but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of
fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary, and I felt myself continu-
ally 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 the falter-
ing voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses
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 gener-
ally 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 graves
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
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach
of the funeral. They were the obsequies 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 vil-
lagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indiffer-
ence. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected
woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 83

the corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased — the poor
old woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar.
She was supported by an 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 service, how-
ever, was a mere act of charity. The deceased had been desti-
! tute, and the survivor was penniless. It was shuffled 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 touching ceremony, turned
into such a frigid mummer^v of words.

I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the
ground. 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 per-
ceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion
of the 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 gravel ;
which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most
withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from
a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked
about with a faint wildness. 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 whisper 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 one not to be comforted.

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

84 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

I could see no more — my heart swelled into my throat — my
eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I were acting a barbarous
part in standing b}' and gazing idly on this scene of maternal
anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, 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 destitution, my heart
ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich?
They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world
to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of
the young? Their growing minds soon close above the wound

— their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure — their
green and ductile affections soon twine around 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 aftergrowth 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 consolation.

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

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 assistance of a small
garden, had supported 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 every one around him, so dutiful to
his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday,
drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting
his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning
on George's arm than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she
might well 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 entrapped by a press-
gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of

THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 85

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 of 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 gar-
den, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her.
It was but a few days before the time at which these circum-
stances 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 sea-
men's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the
air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and
hastened toward 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 wandering 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 home-
ward, 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 suf-
ficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his wid
owed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never
rose from it again.

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had re-
turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assist-
ance 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 unwilling 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 feel-

86 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

ings 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 foreign land ; but
has thought on the mother " that 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 a
son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is
neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She
will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she will surrren-
der every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame,
and exult 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 off, 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 him, when he would take her hand, lay
it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child.
In this way he died.

My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was
to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary
assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on
inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted
them to do every thing that the case admitted ; and as the poor
know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not ven-
ture 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 mourning
for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a black
ribbon 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 de-
parted pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down Dy

THE HOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 87

age and sorrow at the altar of her God, and offering 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 the
congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them-
selves to render her situation 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 satisfaction, 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.

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH.

" A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have heard
ray great-grandfather tell, how his great-great-grandfather should say, that it was an old
proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that ' it was a good wind that blew a
man to the wine.' " — MOTHER 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 beati-
fied father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge
luminary of wax ; the eager zealot, his seven-branched candle-
stick ; 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 Shakspeare.
Ever}* writer considers it his bounden duty, to light up some
portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit
from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces
vast tomes of dissertations ; the common herd of editors send

88 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each
page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rush-light
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 enlivened 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 valuable
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 hare-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity
nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff ! — kind
Jack Falstaff ! — sweet Jack Falstaff ! has enlarged the bound-
aries 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 pilgrimage
to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, " and see if the old
Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 89

upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ;
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 execution.
I forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I en-
countered in my travels, of the haunted regions 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 East-
cheap, 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 Sto we, " 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 Falstaff and old Stowe ! 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 Billingsgate,
chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel.

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly.
The only relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief in stone,
which formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built 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,

90 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless,
in her opinion, to be acquainted wiMi the history of the uni-
verse. 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.

Her 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 un-
fortunately 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, Crooked-lane, toward the sup-
porting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were
regularly held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar
never held up his head under church government. He gradu-
ally declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years
since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she in-
formed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael's
church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this
picture was now nry 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 corner of a small court, surrounded 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 bowing,
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 church wardens, and other mighty men of
the earth. I found him in company with the deputy organist,
seated apart, like Milton's angels ; discoursing, no doubt, on
high doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.' 91

over a friendly pot of ale ; for the lower classes of English
seldom deliberate on an}' weighty matter without the assist-
ance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I arrived
at the moment when they had finished their ale and their argu-
ment, and were about to repair to the church to put il^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 profession has its galaxy
of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the
monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is re-
garded with as much reverence by succeeding generations of
the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil,
or soldiers the monument 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 Walworth,
Knight, who so manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat
Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honorable 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 potentates.1

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

1 The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy,
n'hich, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration.

Hereunder lyth a man of fame,
William Walworth callyvd by name;
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare;
Who, with courage stout and manly myght,
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight,
For which act done, and trew entent,
The Kyng made him Knyght incontinent;
And gave him armes, as here you see,
To declare his fact and chivaldrie :
He left this lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd.

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 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 Tyler, as the first matt;
the second was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc." — STOWK'S London.

92 • THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 night, when the wind
was unruly, howling and whistling, banging about doors and
windows, and twirling weathercocks, 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 hap-
pened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by
the well-known call of u 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 veracit}' 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.1 The worthy dignitaries
of the church, however, 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

1 As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admo-
nition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirit
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 defied
The charms of wine, and every one beside.
O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined,
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 93

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 dis-
appointed 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's. "Marry and amen! " said I, "here
endeth my research!" So I was giving the matter up, with
the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, per-
ceiving me to be curious in eVery thing relative to the old tav-
ern, 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 club-room, which had been transferred, on the
decline 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 Honey ball, the "bully-rook" of the establish-
ment. It is one of those little taverns, which abound in the
heart of the city, and form 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 glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock
ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this
medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to
earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble,
but every thing had that look of order and neatness which be-
speaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A
group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fish-
ermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes.
As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered
into a little misshapen 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

94 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 hurry-
ing up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious
vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling
and courtesy ing with them in her bands.

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 immemorial ; 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, pic-
tured 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.

On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliter-
ated, 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 beautified 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 sangreal with more exultation.

While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame
Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited,
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 gentleman with the red nose, and
oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal
descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly roused

THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 95

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 modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me ; but
there is nothing sharpens the apprehensions so much as anti-
quarian research ; for I immediate!}' 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 testimony of that solemn con-
tract.1

Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet
had been handed down from generation to generation. She also
entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the
stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare.
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as
curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neigh-
bors, 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 hair-dresser, 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 meditation. 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 steal-
ing 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 recondite
investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner.

1 Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin-chamber, at
the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday in Whitsun-week, when the Prince
broke thy head for likening his father to a singing-man at Windsor; thou didst ewear to
me then, as 1 was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make me my Jady thy wife.
Canst thou deny it? — Henry IV. part 2.

96 THE SKETCH-BOOR.

My bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand
a small token of my gratitude and good-will, I departed with a
hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the parish
club of Crooked-lane — not forgetting my shabby, but senten-
tious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose.

Thus have I given a " tedious brief " account of this interest-
ing 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 skilful illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled
the materials I have 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 ;
private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter,
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 com-
mentators ; 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 fruitful 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 time's great period shall return to nought.

I know that all the muses' 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.

DRUMMOND OP HAWTHORNDEIT.

THERE are certain half dreaming moods of mind, in which
we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some
quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries, and build our

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 97

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 mad-
cap 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 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 difficulty, as if seldom used. We now
ascended a dark narrow staircase, and passing through a sec-
ond door, entered the library.

I found nryself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported
by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted lay
a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the
floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the clois-
ters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the
church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall
and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved
oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical
writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the
centre of the library was a solitary table, with two or three
books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched
by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive
walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world.
I could only hear now and then the shouts of the schoolboys
faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell toll-
ing for prayers, echoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey.
By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter,
and at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a pro-
found silence reigned through the dusky hall.

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in
a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I was
beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the
place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves.

98 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

and apparently never disturbed in their repose, I could not but
consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors,
like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and
moulder in dusty oblivion.

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust
aside with such indifference, cost some aching head — how
many weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have
their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and
cloisters ; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the
still more blessed face of nature ; 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 transiently in
echo — and then passing away, like a thing that was not !

While I sat half -murmuring, half- meditating these unprofita-
ble speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was
thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, until I acci-
dentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment,
the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking 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 trou-
bled 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, how-
ever, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed-
ingly 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 en-
deavor, 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 somewhat choleric, tk what a plague do
they mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 99

here, and watched 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 West-
minster 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 off than most books of your genera-
tion. 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 chapels ; 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 bookworms
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 ven-
geance 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 contemporaries 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 compared to those infirmaries attached to
religious establishments, 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 Groteste of
Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder than he for immor-
tality. He is said to have written nearl}- two hundred 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 l>y the antiquarian. What do we hear
of Giraidus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher.

100 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

theologian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he
might shut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity
never inquires after his labors. What of Henry of Hunting-
don, 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 classical composition ? Of his three
great heroic poems, one is lost forever, excepting a mere frag-
ment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in
literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have
entirely disappeared. 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 Hauvill 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 themselves, and deserved to
be forgotten ; 1 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."

[I should observe that these remarks were couched in such
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty
in rendering them into modern phraseology.]

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it
matters little ; almost all the writers of your time have likewise
passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde 's publications are
mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and
stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to
perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of
every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of
Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.2
Even now, many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English unde-
filed,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or fountain-

1 In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to eudite, and
have many noble things fulfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in
French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearing
of Frenchmen's Englishe. — CHAUCER'S Testament of Love.

2 Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by diligent travell of
Geffry Chaucer and John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of
John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an
excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection until the
time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, ami sundrie
learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their
great praise and immortal commendation."

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 101

head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues,
perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this
which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and
the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can
be committed to something more permanent and unchangeable
than such a medium, even thought must share the fate of every
thing else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check
upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He
finds the language in which he has embarked his fame gradually
altering, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice
of fashion. He looks back, and beholds the early authors of
his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted by
modern writers : a few short ages have covered them with ob-
scurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint
taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the
fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its
day, and held up as a model of purity, will, in the course of
years, grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become al-
most as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk,
or one of those Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the 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 all the splendor of military array, and reflected
that in one hundred years not one of them would be in exist-
ence !"

"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 now-a-days 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,1 and which, in truth, was full
of noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of lan-

1 " Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden 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 the intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the
tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excel-
lency in print." — HARVEY Pierce' s Supererogation.

102 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

guage, is now scarcely ever mentioned. 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 industri-
ous diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for
the gratification of the curious.

kt For my part," I continued, u 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 reason from
analogy : we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vege-
tables springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short
time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their success-
ors. 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 litera-
ture. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive
multiplication : works had to be transcribed by hand, which
was a slow and laborious operation ; they were written either
on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was
often erased to make way for another ; or on papyrus, which
was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was a lim-
ited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the
leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of
manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely
to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some meas-
ure, be owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect
of antiquity ; that the fountains of thoughts 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 consequences are alarming.
The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — augmented
into a river — expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five

THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 103

or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but
what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, contain-
ing three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions of authors
at the same time busy ; and a press going on with fearfully in-
creasing activity, to double and quadruple the number? 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 in-
crease of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks
on population spoken of by economists. All possible encour-
agement, 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 emplo}Tment of a lifetime merely to learn their
names. Many a man of passable information at the present
day reads scarcely any thing but reviews, and before long a
man of erudition will be little better than a mere walking cata-
logue."

" My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most
drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I per-
ceive 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-edu-
cated 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 Shakspeare. 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 mutability
of language, because they have rooted themselves in the un-
changing 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 sur-
face, and laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, pre-
serve 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
Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments of
time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his

104 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 clamber-
ing 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 into a plethoric fit of laughter that
had well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu-
lency. " Mighty well ! " cried he, as soon as he could recover
breath, "mighty well! and so you would persuade me that
the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond
deer-stealer ! by a man without learning! by a poet! for-
sooth— a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of
laughter.

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

" Yes," resumed I positively, u 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 alwaj's the same, and always interesting. Prose
writers are voluminous and unwieldy ; their pages are crowded
with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tedious-
ness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching,
or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest lan-
guage. He illustrates them by every thing 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,
therefore, 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 portable
form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be 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 dulness, filled with
monkish legends and academical controversies ! What bogs of
theological speculations ! What dreary wastes of metaphysics !
Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illuminated
bards, elevated like beacons on their widely-separate heights, to

RURAL FUNERALS. 105

transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age to

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the
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 con-
versation, 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.

RURAL FUNERALS.

Here's a few flowers! but about midnight more:
The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night

Are strewings fitt'st for graves

You were as flowers now withered : even so

These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. — CYMBELINE.

AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life
which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strew-
ing 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 spontaneous 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,

1 Thorow earth, and waters deepe,

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

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

Of every wight alyve;
The honey combe that bee doth make,

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

That drops from poet's head ;
Which doth surmount our common talke,

As farro as dross doth lead. — CHURCHYARD.

106 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

and trample out all the curious and interesting 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 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 generally 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 parts 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 finished
their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am
informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, par-
ticularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though
melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, 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 thus, we compass round
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground,
And as we sing thy dirge, we will

The Daffodill

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

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 approaches, he pauses, uncov-
ered, to let it go by ; he then follows silently in the rear ; some-
times 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.

RURAL FUNERALS. 107

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 for an honored 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," observes, "thus lives she, and
all her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store
of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet.". The poets, too,
who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert
to this fond solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid's
Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful in-
stance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a
broken-hearted girl.

When she sees a bank

Stucfc 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 preva-
lent ; osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf un-
injured, 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 Scriptures to those fading
beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonor, rise again in
glory." This usage 1ms now become extremely rare in Eng-
land ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of re-
tired villages, among the Welsh mountains ; 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 present 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 drooping, others quite
perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly,
rosemary, and other evergreens ; which on some graves had
grown to great luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones.

108 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange-
ment 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 accom-
panied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive,
umbratile, anxious, and transitory 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 " Corydon's
Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to
use:

A garland shall be framed

Bjr Art and Nature's skill,
Of sundry -coloured flowers,

In token of good will.

And sundry-coloured ribands

On ill will bestow;
But chiefly blacke and yellowe

With her to grave shall go.

I'll deck her tomb with flowers

The rarest ever seen ;
And with my tears as showers

I'll keep them fresh and green.

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a
virgin ; her chaplet was tied with whit-e 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 general 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 the maidens yearly planted
and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-
bushes." And Camden likewise 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 this church-
yard is now full of them."

When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems
of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and

RURAL FUNERALS. 109

cj-press ; 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's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced,
illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females
who have been disappointed in love.

Lay a garland on my hearse

Of the dismal yew,
Maidens willow branches wear,

Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm,

From my hour of birth,
Upon my buried body lie

Lightly, gentle earth.

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and
elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of
sentiment, and the unaffected elegance of thought, which per-
vaded 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 beguile the mind
from brooding over the disgraces of perishing 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," saj's 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 fra-
grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner
embalms the dead in the recollections of the living.

110 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all Paradise.

May sweets grow here : 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 burn
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 prevalent, and de-
lighted frequently to allude to them ; but I have already quoted
more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving
a passage from Shakspeare, 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 appositeness of imagery for which he stands
pre-eminent.

With fairest flowers,

Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shall not lack
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,
Outsweetened not thy breath.

There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt
and spontaneous offerings of nature, 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 elegant
and touching hap 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 societj- .
In proportion as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical.
They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free im-
pulses, to distrust its sallying emotions, and to supply its most
affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous
ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than

RURAL FUNERALS. HI

an English 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 mourn-
ing, and a great talk in the neighbourhood, 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 for-
gotten ; the hurrying succession of new intimates 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 melan-
choly over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape.

The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, per-
petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed
them ; who was the companion of our 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 mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased
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 Sabbath, 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 Sundays after the interment ; and where
the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practised,

112 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festi-
vals, 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 em-
ployed, and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would be deemed
an insult to offer 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 the instinctive
impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be con-
tinually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ;
but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem-
brance. 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 affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it
a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over
in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget
the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though
every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would
willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember
be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would for-
get 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 por-
tal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forget-
fulness ? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the
noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise
its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed
into the gentle tear of recollection — when the sudden anguish
and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that
we most loved, 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 ex-
change it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry?
No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There

RURAL FUNERALS. 113

is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the
charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave ! — It buries
every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resent-
ment ! 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 medita-
tion ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole
history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments
lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse 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 ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling, oh ! how thrilling ! press-
ure 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, ever}*- 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 throng-
ing back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul
— then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repent-
ant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the
unavailing tear — more deep, more bitter, because unheard and
unavailing.

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

114 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

warning by the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction ovel
the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate 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 insensi-
bly 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 investigated in other works.

I must observe, also, that 1 am well aware that this custom
of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries be-
sides 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 retirement, with seats
placed among bowers of green-house 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 can-
not but describe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to
illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When I was at Ber-
lin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland 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 strik-
ing than the most costly work of art."

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 Luzerne, at the foot of Mount Kigi. 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 footpaths.
The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred
fighting men ; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out,
as it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its
territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the

THE INN KITCHEN. 115

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
attempts 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 peas-
ant of the place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chap-
let 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.

DURING a journey that I once made through the Netherlands,
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 lat-
ter, reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now
and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to pro-
ceed 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 ;
particularly in that equivocal kind of weather when a fire be-
comes agreeable toward evening. 1 threw aside the news-

116 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

paper, 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 wor-
shipping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of re-
splendent brightness ; among which steamed and hissed a huge
copper tea-kettle. 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. I 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 laugh-
ter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an
inn.

As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blus-
tering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to
a variety of traveller's tales, some very extravagant, and most
very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treach-
erous 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 trav-
elling-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, rubicund 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.

THE SPECTEE XRIDEGROOM. 117

I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a
huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously
twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mer, deco-
rated 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 TRAVELLER'S TALE.1

He that supper for is dight,

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night !

Yestreen to chamber I him led,

This night Gray-steel has made his bed !

SIR EGER, 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,
many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It
is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech
trees and dark firs ; above which, however, 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 a neigh-
boring country.

The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzen-
ellenbogen,2 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 possessions, yet
the Baron still endeavored to keep up some show of former
state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in
general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched
like eagle's 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 heredi-
tary inveteracy all the old family feuds ; so that he was on ill

1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that the
above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote,
a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris.

2 i.e., CAT'S ELBOW — the name of a family of those parts, very powerful in former
times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame
of the family, celebrated for a fine arm.

118 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes
that had happened 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, assured 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 earty 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 ac-
complishments. By the time she was eighteen she could em-
broider 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 purga-
tory. She could read without great difficult}', and had spelled
her way through several church legends, and almost all the
chivalric wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made
considerable proficiency in writing, 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 knickknacks 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 Minnie-lieders by heart.

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guard-
ians 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 suffered out of their
sight ; never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well
attended, or rather well watched ; had continual lectures read
to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to
the men — pah ! she was taught to hold them at such a distance
and in such absolute 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 apparent.
The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness.
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 woman-

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 119

hood under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, like
a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts
looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that
though all the other young ladies in the world might go astray,
yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to 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 abundance of poor
relations. They, one and all, possessed the affectionate dispo-
sition common to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached
to the Baron, and took every possible occasion to come in
swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals were com-
memorated 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 meet-
ings, 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 stark 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 even exceeded his own : they
listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth,
and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated for
the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort,
the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little terri-
tory, and happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he
was the wisest 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 im-
portance: — it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the
Baron's daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between
the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity
of their houses by the marriage of their children. The prelimi-
naries 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 pur-
pose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's to receive
his bride. Missives had even been received from him, from

120 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Wurtzburg, 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 morning 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 expectation 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 ex-
pected 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 from top to bottom of the
castle, with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the
servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent, and
buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and im-
portunate as a blue-bottle fly of a warm summer's day.

In the mean time, the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests
had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was
crowded with good cheer ; the cellars had yielded up whole
oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne-wein, and even the great Hei-
delberg tun had been laid under contribution. Every thing
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with /Saus und
Braus 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 forests
of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the
mountains. 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, prolonged by the moun-
tain echoes : a number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly
advancing along the road ; but when they had nearly reached
the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 121

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 per-
plexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different
part of the Odenwald.

The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his
route in that sober jog-trot way in which a man travels toward
matrimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and un-
certainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for
him, as certainly as a dinner, at the end of his journey. He
had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion in arms,
with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman
Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest
hearts of German chivalry, who was now returning from the
army. His father's castle was not far distant from the old
fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary feud rendered the
families 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 whole 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 directions 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 mountains of the
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and
thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of
Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as
its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were par-
ticularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wan-
dering 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 them-
selves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the
Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them

122 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received a mortal
wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city
of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring con-
Vent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul
and body. But half of his skill was superfluous ; the moments
of the unfortunate Count were numbered.

With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair in-
stantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal 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 executed. " Unless this is
done," said he, " I shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He
repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request,
at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starken-
faust endeavored to soothe him to calmness ; promised faith-
fully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn
pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but
soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — his engage-
ments^— 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.

Starkeufaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear on the un-
timely fate of his comrade ; 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 Katzen-
ellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a
passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccen-
tricity and enterprise in his character, that made him fond of all
singular adventure.

Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with
the hoi}- 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 relatives ; and the mourning retinue
of the Count took charge of his remains.

It is now high time that we should return to the ancient fam-
ily 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 de-
scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 123

been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed.
The meats were already overdone ; the cook in an agony ; and
the whole household had the look of a garrison 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 im-
portant occasion, and the important family with which he was
to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the con-
clusion 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 compliments
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 appearance of the female part of the
family, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He
uazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if
his whole soul beamed forth in the 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
timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger,
and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but
there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dim-
pling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been un-
satisfactory. 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.

124 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time
for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all par-
ticular 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
walls hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house
of Katzenelleubogen, and the trophies which they had gained
in the field and in the chase. Hacked corselets, splintered
jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled 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 bridegroom.

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 attention. 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 enamoured. The aunts,
who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, de-
clared 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 attend upon
light purses 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 any thing marvellous, his
auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if any thing 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 Hockheimer; 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

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 125

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 restless wan-
dering 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 bride-
groom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were
interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the
head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent ;
there were dreary pauses in the conversation, 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 story, which ha s since been
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the
world.

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention.
He kept his eyes 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 fin-
ished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the
company. They were all amazement. The Baron was per-
fectly thunderstruck.

"What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, every
thing 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 this 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

126 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 portal,
whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stran-
ger paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone of voice,
which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. " Now
that we are alone," said he,. " I will impart to you the reason of
my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement —

" Why," said the Baron, ." cannot you send some one in your
place ? ' '

" It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — 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."

"No! no!" replied the stranger, with ten-fold 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 drawbridge,
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 consternation,
and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright;
others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre.
It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild hunts-
man famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain
sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings,
with which the good people of Germany have been so griev-
ously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor rela
tions ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion
of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the ca-
price seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This,
however, drew on him the indignation of the whole company, and
especially of the 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 reg-
ular 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

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGftOOM. 12T

shut himself up in his chamber. The guests who had come to
rejoice with him could not think of abandoning him in his dis-
tress. 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 embraced him — and such 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 re-
counting 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 told 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 ! 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 affections 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.

128 THE SKETCH-IS OOK.

How long the good old lady would have observed this prom-
ise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous,
and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ;
it is, however, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memora-
ble instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a
whole week ; when she was suddenly 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 intelligence
was received, can only be imagined by those who have wit-
nessed 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 goblin! the goblin! she's car-
ried away by the goblin ! "

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden,
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 probability ; for events of the kind are
extremely common in Germany, as many well-authenticated his-
tories bear witness.

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron !
What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a mem-
ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daugh-
ter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have
some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of
goblin grand-children. As usual, he was completely bewil-
dered, 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. §? he 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. A lady was seen approaching the
castle, mounted on a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horse-
back. 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

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 129

Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The
latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance, 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 countenance was flushed with
the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.

The mysterj 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 Starkenfaust. He re-
lated his adventure with the young Count. He told how he
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 com-
pletely 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 be-
neath the young lady's window — had wooed — had won —
had borne away in triumph — 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 de-
voutly 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 hostile 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 the wars, assured him that every stratagem was
excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial
privilege, having lately served as a trooper.

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron par-
doned the young couple on the spot. The revels- at the castle
were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem-
ber 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 exemplified, 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

130 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at hav-
ing found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story
ends.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. '

When I behold, wijth deep astonishment,
To famous Westminster how there resorte,
Living in brasse or stony monument,
The princes and the worthies of all sorte;
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation,
And looke upon offenselesse 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.

Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B., 1598.

ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the
latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and even-
ing almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline
of the year, I passed several hours in rambling about Westmin-
ster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in
the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and as I passed its
threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiq-
uity, 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 an 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
cloister still retains something 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 inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the
death's heads, and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches
of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches ; the

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 131

roses which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty ;
every thing bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time,
which yet has something touching and pleasing 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 sky, or a passing cloud ; and
beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the
azure heaven.

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this min-
gled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring 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
footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three
of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the
names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later
times ; (Vitalis Abbas. 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Ab-
bas. 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 beings had been and had perished ; teaching no
moral but the futility 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 look-
ing down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of
the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and
echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this
warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and tell-
ing 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 handi-
work. 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

132 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the walls, and chat-
ters 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 pro-
vokes 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 scant}7 nook — a gloomy corner — a
little portion of earth to those whom, when alive, kingdoms
could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, and arti-
fices, 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
admiration.

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end
of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monu-
ments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford
no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison
have statues erected to their memories ; but the greater part
have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Not-
withstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have always
observed that the visitors to the abbey remain 'ongest about
them. A kinder and fonder feeling takes place of that cold
curiosity or vague admiration with which the}' 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 author and
his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has
lived for them more than for himself ; he has sacrificed sur-
rounding 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 purchased, not b}- 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 treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden
veins of language.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 133

From Poet's Corner I continued ray stroll towards that part
of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. 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 effigies : 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 ; prel-
ates, with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and coro-
nets, 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 transmuted into
stone.

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 hoi}' war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those
military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and ro-
mance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between
fact and fiction — between the history and the fairy tale. There
is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these
adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bear-
ings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated
chapels in which they are generally found ; and in considering
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 Sep*
ulchre 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 fanci-
ful 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 iuscrip-

134 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

tions. 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 consciousness 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 monument
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern
art ; but which, to me, appears horrible rather than sublime.
It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. 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 terrible 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 sur-
rounded by every thing that might inspire tenderness and ven-
eration 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 summoning 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 Seventies chapel. A flight of
steps leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy, but magnifi-
cent 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.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 135

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architec-
ture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very
walls are wrought into universal ornament, encrusted 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 gro-
tesque decorations of Gothic architecture. On the pinnacles 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 crimson, 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 sumptuous tomb, and the whole
surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.

There is a sad dreariness 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 gor-
geous banners that were once borne before them, my imagina-
tion 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 deser-
tion. When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they
were those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; 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 touch-
ing instance of the equality of the grave, which brings down

136 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles 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 oppressor. The walls of Eliza-
beth'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, bearing her national emblem
— the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down
to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the
chequered 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 still-
ness, the desertion and obscurity that were gradually prevail-
ing 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 father's counsel — nothing's heard,
For nothing is, but all oblivion,
Dust, and an endless darkness.

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon 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 this mighty building ! 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 ac-
clamation, 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 peal-
ing 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

WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 137

and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and seems
to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses are over-
whelmed. 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 buikling, my
eye was 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 queens. From this
eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral tro-
phies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs ;
where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie moulder-
ing in their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great
chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous
taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost
as if contrived, 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 together 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 multitude? 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 hal-
lowed things ; and there are base minds, which delight to re-
venge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling
servility which they pay to the living. The coffin of P^dward
the Confessor has J3een broken open, and his remains despoiled
of their funeral 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

138 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

are plundered ; some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry
and insult — all more or less outraged and dishonored !

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, travers-
ing 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 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
falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions,
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though
I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What,
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury
of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti-
ness of renown, and the certainty 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 forgetfuluess 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 b}'
the story of the present, to think of the characters and anec-
dotes 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 recollection ; and will,
in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. "Our
fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, k' 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 controversy ; 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
the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment? The remains
of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and
his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum.,
t; The Egyptian mummies which Cambyses or time hath spared,

CHRISTMAS. 139

avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh
is sold for balsams." 1

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 so loftily,
shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead 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 garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy man-
sions of death ; and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and
the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in
mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name per-
ishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that
is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.2

CHRISTMAS.

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but 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 AFTER CHRISTMAS.

A man might then behold

At Christmas, in each hull,
Good fires to curb tho cold,

Aud 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 SONG.

Nothing 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 believed 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 home-
bred, social, and jo}rous than at present. 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

! Sir Thoma< Brown.
- Appendix, I\(;le -4,

140 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 cherishing 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 mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by
clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, em-
balming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens
the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone
of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with out conviviality,
and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy-
ment. The services of the church about this season are ex-
tremely tender and inspiring : they dwell on the beautiful storey
of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accom-
panied its announcement : they gradually increase in fervor and
pathos during the season of Advent, until the}T break forth in
full jubilee on the morning 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 per-
forming 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 announcement
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 pleas-
ures and sorrows of the world are continually operating to
cast loose ; of calling back the children of a family, who have
launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more
to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of
the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the
endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year, that gives
a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we de-
rive 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 voluptuousness of summer, the
golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing
green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy
magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and

CHRISTMAS. 141

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 circum-
scribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling
abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures
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 domestic 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 countenance into a kind-
lier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality ex-
pand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy
glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fire-
side ? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through
the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement,
and rumbles down the chimney, 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 habits
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 particu-
larly observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas.
It is inspiring to read even the dry details which some anti-
quaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants,
the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fellowship, with
which this festival was celebrated. 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 gen-
erous 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

142 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

its rays through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the
latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, be-
guiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told
Christmas tales.

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. 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 ceremonials of Christmas
have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Fal-
staff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among
commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lusti-
hood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigor-
ously : times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry
witli its richest materials, and the drama with its most attrac-
tive 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 shallower
stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet chan-
nels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domes-
tic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and elegant
tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its
homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The tradition-
ary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities,
and lordly wassailings, 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 galleiy,
and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted to the light showy
saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors,
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England.
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 producing fond associations, and kin-
dling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude
as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a
winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have
been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour " when

CHRISTMAS. 143

deep sleep falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed
delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occa-
sion, 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 every thing to melody and beauty ! The very crowing of
the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the coun-
try, "telling the nightwatches.to his feathery dames," was
thought by the common people to announce the approach of this
sacred festival :

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long :
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time."

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits,
and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what
bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season 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 mem-
ory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home,
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates
the drooping spirit — as the Arabian breeze will sometimes
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 beaming 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 lone-
liness 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.

144 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE STAGE-COACH.

Omne benfe

Sine poena
Tempus est ludendi

Venit hora

Absque mora
Librob deponendi.

OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL SONG.

IN the preceding paper, I have made some general observa-
tions on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted
to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed
in the country ; in perusing which, I would most courteously
invite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to
put on that genuine holiday spirit, which 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 preced-
ing 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 delicacies ; 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 enjoyment.
It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little
rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform dur-
ing their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom
of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of antici-
pations 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 for-
ward with the greatest impatience 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

THE STAGE-COACH.- 145

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 coach-
man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad-
dressed 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 importance of the
Coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat.
He is always a personage full of mighty care and business ;
but he is particularly so during 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 untravelled 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 fra-
ternity ; 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 dimensions by fre-
quent 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 hand-
kerchief about his neck, knowingly 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 enamoured
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, not-
withstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is
still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which
is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse-
quence and consideration along the road ; has frequent con-
ferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a
man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a
good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The
moment he arrives 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

146 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 lordliness.
Here he is generally .surrounded by an admiring throng of hos-
tlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers-on,
that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind
of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening 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 rag-
amuffin 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 the world
in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the en-
trance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten
forth to meet friends ; some with bundles and band-boxes to
secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take
leave of the group that accompanies them. In the mean time,
the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute.
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; 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
billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles
through the village, every one runs to the window, and you
have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and bloom-
ing giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of vil-
lage 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 hammers,
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 sul-
phureous 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

THE STAGE-COACH. 147

everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poul-
try, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation 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 holl}', with their bright-red berries, began to appear at the
windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account
of Christmas preparations. " Now capons and hens, besides
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 plums and spice, sugar, and honey, square
it among pies and broth. Now or never must music 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 Christmas 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, recog-
nizing 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 a lane, there was an old sober-looking servant
in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied by a super-
annuated 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 dreaming of the
bustling times that awaited him.

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fel-
lows 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 difficult}' 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 bounding
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

148 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a
holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few
moments afterwards, to water the horses ; and on resuming our
route, a turn of the road brought us 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.
I leaned out of the coach-window, in hopes of witnessing the
happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.

In the evening we reached a village where I had determined
to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the
inn, I saw, on one side, the light of a rousing kitchen fire
beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, 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 fire-place, and a clock ticked in one corner.

A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of the kit-
chen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands, upon
it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting
guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack
this stout repast, whilst 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
comforts of mid-winter :

Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter's silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal fire,
Are things this season doth require.1

I had not been long at the inn, when a post-chaise drove up
to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light
of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I
thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when

1 Poor Robin's Almanack, 1684.

CHRISTMAS EVE. 149

his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Brace-
bridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I
had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting was ex-
tremely 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 a* tour of
observation, he insisted that I sho.uld 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 invitation ;
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 Saint Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight;
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is bight good fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits,
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets :

From curfew-time

To the next prime. — CARTWKIGHT.

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. u 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 something of old English
hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely
meet with now-a-days in its purity, — the old English country
gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time
in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that

150 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost
polished away. My father, however, from early years, took
honest Peacham l for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he
determined in his own mind, that there was no condition more
truly honorable and enviable than that of a country gentle-
man on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole
of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the
revival o'f 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 the authors who flourished at least two centuries
since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Eng-
lishmen than any of their successors. He 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 ten-
ants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is known simply
by the appellation of ' The 'Squire ; ' a title which has been
accorded 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 eccentricittes that might other-
wise 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 columns that
supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close
adjoining was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees ,
and almost buried in shrubbery.

The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded
through the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant
barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garri-
soned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As
the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a lit-
tle 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 courtesy ing fo'rth

Peacham'B Complete Gentleman, 1622.

CHRISTMAS EVE. 151

with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young mas-
ter. Her husband, it see'med, 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 house-
hold.

My friend proposed that we should alight, and walk through
the park to the Hall, which was at no great distance, while the
chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble
avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon
glittered as she rolled 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 trans-
parent vapor, stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening
gradually to shroud the landscape.

My companion looked round him with transport : — ' ' How
often," said he, " have I scampered up this avenue, on return-
ing home on school vacations ! 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 child-
hood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holi-
days, and having us around him on family festivals. He used
to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that
some parents 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. It 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, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me! "

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the
bark was changed into a }7elp of delight, and in a moment he
was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the
faithful animals.

We had now come in full view of the old family mansion,

152 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 different 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 diamond-shaped panes of glass glit-
tered with the moon-beams. 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 arti-
ficial 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 ori-
ginal 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 modern republican notions, but
did not suit a monarchical government — it smacked of the lev-
elling 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 rather 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 pol-
itics ; and he believed 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 modern landscape gardeners.

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 ser-
vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and
even encouraged, by the 'Squire, throughout the twelve days of
Christmas, provided every thing was done conformably to an-
cient 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 house-maids.1

1 The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens, at Christmas; and the
young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry
from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases.

CHRISTMAS EVE. 153

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 absence ; the other an Oxonian,
just from the university. The 'Squire was a fine healthy-look-
ing 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 dis-
cover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence.

The family meeting was warm and affectionate ; as the even-
ing 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 were the usual proportion of old
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated
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
round the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the
young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender
and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro-
fusion 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.

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 project-
ing 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 implements. 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 car-
peted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor
and hall.

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming

154 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

fire-place, 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 understood was the yule
clog, which the 'Squire was particular in having brought in and
illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.1

It was really delightful to see the old 'Squire, seated in his
hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ances-
tors, 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 master's face, wag his
tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, con-
fident 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 cavalier, 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 por-
traits decorated with holly and ivy. Beside the accustomed
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 with sub-
stantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of frumenty, 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 of the feast ;
and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not
be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the

1 The yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the
house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the
brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling
of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages, the
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yule clog was to burn all
night : if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill luck.

Herrick mentions it in one of his songs :

Come bring with a noise,
My merrie, merrte boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;

While my good dame she

Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts desiring.

The yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in England, partic-
ularly in the north; and there are several superstitious connected with it among the
peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or a person
barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the yule clog is
carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire.

CHRISTMAS EVE, 155

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. Braccbridg al-
ways addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon.
He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of an arrant old
bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot, his
face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual
bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye
of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking
waggery of expression that was irresistable. He was evidently
the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innu-
endoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment by harp-
ing 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
to 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 every thing 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 re-
volved 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 ac-
quiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old
bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and
intermarriages 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
u more popular being in the sphere in which he moved, than

156 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost
entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he had become a factotum,
and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his hu-
mor 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 falsetto,
like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old
ditty :

Now Christmas is come,

Let us beat up the drum,
And call all 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 had disposed every one to gayety, and an old
harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had
been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comfort-
ing himself with some of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was
a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and
though ostensibly a resident of the village, was oftener to be
found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own home ; the old gen-
tleman 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 connect-
ing 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 Tier wild
vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all
his sober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-assorted
matches to which antique gentlemen 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

CHRISTMAS EVE. 157

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 continent — 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?
The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and
Jolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which I
am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French
air of the Troubadour. The 'Squire, however, exclaimed
against having any thing 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 mislightthee;
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee ;

But on, on thy way,

Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee.

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,
Thus, thus to come unto me :

And when I shall meet

Thy silvery feet,
My soul I'll pour into thee.

The song might or might not have been intended in compli-
ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called ;

158 THE SKETCH-HOOK.

she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such applica-
tion ; for she. nevef looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast
upon the floor ; her face was suffused, it is true, with a beauti-
ful 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 bouquet of hot-house flowers, and
by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins en
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 ponder-
ous 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 grotesque 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, and found it proceeded from a baud, 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, par-
tially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as
they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord
with quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — they be-
came more and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually
died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep.

CHRISTMAS DAT. 159

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Dark and dull night flie hence away,
And give the honour to this day
That sees December turn'd to May.

Why does the chilling winter's morne

Smile like a field beset with corn?

Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,

Thus on the sudden? — come and see

The cause, why things thus fragrant be. — HERRICK.

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 born
On Christmas day in the morning.

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly,
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 bashful-
ness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with
their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from
under their eyebrows, until, 'as if by one impulse, they scam-
pered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard
them laughing in triumph at their escape.

Every thing 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
relief against the clear cold sk}7. The house was surrounded
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which would

160 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

have given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morning
was extremely frosty ; the light vapor of the preceding evening
had been precipitated 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 princi-
pal part of the family already assembled in a kind of galleiy,
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 favor-
ite author Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old church
melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices
among the household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I was
particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden
sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy 'Squire delivered
one stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of
all the bounds of time and tune :

" Tis thou that crown'st my 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 family. It was once
almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gen-

CHRISTMAS DAT. 161

try 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 exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the
morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the
day, and attunes every spirit to harmony.

Our breakfast consisted of what the 'Squire denominated true
old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations
over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as
among the causes of modern effeminacy 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 gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about the estab-
lishment ; 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 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 terraces, heavily
moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them
an air of proud aristocracy.

There appeared 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 trea-
tise on hunting, I must say 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 Fitz-
herbert, 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 mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come
again as it was."

162 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on
so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were
birds of some consequence at the Hall ; for Frank Bracebridge
informed me that they were great favorites 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 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 appointment
at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to
perform some music of his selection. There was something
extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal 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 every-day 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 even-
ing. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Husbandry ; Mark-
ham's Country Contentments ; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir
Thomas Cockayne, Knight ; Izaak Walton's Angler, and two
or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his stand-
ard 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
practical 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 neighbor-
hood.

While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the village
bell, and I was told that the 'Squire was a little particular in
having his household at church on a Christmas morning ; con-
sidering 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.'

CHRISTMAS DAY, 163

" If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Brace-
bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's
musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ,
he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and estab-
lished 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 Jervaise Markham, in his Country Content-
ments ; for the bass he has sought out all the ' deep, solemn
mouths,' and for the tenor the ' loud ringing mouths,' am on n;
the country bumpkins ; and for ' sweet mouths,' he has culled
with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighbor-
hood ; 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 village, 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 pa-
tron'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, deco-
rated 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 editions 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 Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diligent inves-
tigations into the festive rites and holiday customs of former

164 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 wis-
dom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had
pored over these old volumes 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 ob-
served, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the
Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be in-
nocently 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 tena-
cious 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«nter 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 workmanship, 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 himself 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 re-
peated the responses very audibly ; evincing that kind of cere-
monious 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 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 intently
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 I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale

CHRISTMAS DAY. 165

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 morning had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentlemen
choristers 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 instrumen-
tal, 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 pre-.
pared 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 ; every thing 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 became discord and confusion ; each shifted for himself, and
got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could ; except-
ing one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding
and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who, happening to stand a
little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on
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 observing 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 soon found that the
good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ;
having, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ-
mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of

166 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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.1 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 Revolution was
mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had
elapsed since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie through-
out the laud; when plum porridge was denounced as "mere
popery," and roast beef as anti-Christian; and that Christmas
had been brought in again 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 affecting
manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers,
and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the
church.

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with
more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church, the congre-
gation seemed 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,2 which the parson, who had joined us, in-
formed 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

1 From the "Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 24th, 1652 —
" The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for settling
the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance
against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14,
17; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1.
Rev. i. 10. Psalms, cxviii. 24. Lev. xxiii. 7, 11. Mark, xv. 8. Psalms, Ixxxiv. 10; in
which Christmas is called Anti Christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists
who observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in consul-
tation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and re-
solved to sit on the following day which was commonly called Christmas day."
2 "Ule! Ule!

Three puddings in a pule;
Craek nuts and cry ule! "

CHRISTMAS DAY. 167

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 overflowing with
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising-
ground which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds
of rustic merriment 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
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frosti-
ness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had ac-
quired sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow
from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green
which adorns an English landscape 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 cere-
mony 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 farm-houses, 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 despatch him,
May they with old Duke Humphry dine,
Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him."

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

168 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

and make merry.1 " Our old games and local customs," said
he, "had 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 thcust 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 inter-
ests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin
to read newspapers, listen to alehouse 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 dis-
content : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine
in practice, and a few years before he had kept open house
during the holidays in the old st}Tle. The country people, how-
ever, did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of
hospitality ; many uncouth circumstances occurred ; the manor
was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beg-
gars 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 peas-
antry 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, their hats deco-
rated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advan-
cing up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and
peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music

1 "An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i.e. on Christmas day in
the morning, had all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by day break. 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
day-break, or else two young men must take the maiden (i.e. the cook) by the arms and
run her round the market place till she is shamed of her laziness." — Round about our
Sea-Coal Fire.

CHRISTMAS DAY. 169

struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and
intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs
together, keeping exact time to the music ; while one, whimsi-
calry crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down
his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and
rattling a Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations.

The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest
and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he
traced to the times when the Romans held possession of the
island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the
sword-dance of the ancients. u 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 rough cudgel-play,
and broken heads, in the evening."

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter-
tained 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 exceedingly demure. With Master
Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His varied
occupations and amusements had made him well known through-
out the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farm-house
and cottage ; gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; romped
with their daughters ; and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor
the humble-bee, 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 affection-
ate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the
bounty and familiarity of those above 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 dependant 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.

170 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment:
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 baud of wandering musicians, with
pandean pipes and tambourine ; 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 color-
ing up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.

Lo, now is come our joyful'st 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,
Wee Me bury 't in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry. — WITHERS' Juvenilia.

I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace-
bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound,
which he informed me was a signal for the serving 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 knock'd 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.1

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 flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-

1 Sir-John Suckling.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 171

mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader and his
white horse had been profusely 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 under-
stood 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 certainly
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 ele-
vated to its present situation by the 'Squire, who at once deter-
mined 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
displa}T 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 ewers ; " 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 con-
sider an old English family as well worth studying as a collec-
tion of Holbein's portraits, or Albert Durer's prints. There
is much antiquarian - lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of
the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from
having continually before their eyes those rows of old family
portraits, with which the mansions of this country are stocked ;
certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often
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 generation, 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 generations ; and there was one little girlj

172 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 Henrx VIII.

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one,
such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremo-
nious days ; but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient
school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected ;
when suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree of
bustle ; he was attended by a servant 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 flourish; at the conclusion of which the young
Oxonian, on receiving 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 boar's head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
I pray you all synge merrily

Qui estis in couvivio.

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentrici-
ties, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ;
yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was intro-
duced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the con-
versation of the 'Squire and the parson, that it was meant to
represent the bringing in of the boar's head — a dish formerly
served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrels}1
and song, at great tables on Christmas day. "I like the old
custom," said the 'Squire, " not merel}' because it is stately
and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col-
lege at Oxford, at which I was educated. 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 fel-
low-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 version of the

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 173

carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at col-
lege. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commenta-
tor, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry annota-
tions ; addressing himself at first to the company 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 remarks in an under voice,
to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently en-
gaged in the discussion of a huge plate-full of turkey.1

The table was literally 16aded with good cheer, and presented
an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing
larders. A distinguished post was. allotted to "ancient sir-
loin," as mine host termed it ; being, as he added. " the stand-
ard of old English hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence,
and full of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly
decorated, and which had evidently something traditional in
their embellishments ; but 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 peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that
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.2

1 The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day, is still observed
in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson with a copy of the
carol as 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 defero,

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
Let us servire cantico.
Caput apri defero, etc.

Our steward hath provided this
In honour of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero,
etc., etc., etc

2 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 above the crust in all its

174 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 endeavor-
ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint cus-
toms of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect
shown to his whims by his children and relatives ; who, in-
deed, 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 and other servants executed the
duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old-
fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in
the household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated man-
sion, and the humors of its lord ; and most probably looked
upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of
honorable housekeeping.

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge
silver vessel, of rare and curious workmanship, which he
placed before the 'Squire. Its appearance was hailed with
acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christ-
mas 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 that it was too ab-
struse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary ser-
vant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the
heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the rich-
est and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted
apples bobbing about the surface.1

plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end th'e tail was displayed. Such pies
were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when Knights-errant pledged them-
selves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Jus-
tice Shallow, " by cock and pie."

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast, and Massinger, in
his City Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well 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 carps' tongues :
Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris; the carcases of three fat wethers bruised

for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock !

1 The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with nut-
meg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still
prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of substantial farmers at
Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick ia Ms Twelfth
Night :

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 CHRISTMAS DINNER. 175

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 feeling,
where all hearts met together." l

There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest 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 companion, struck up
an old Wassail Chanson :

The brown bowle,

The merry browii 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.2

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family
topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great
deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with
whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was
commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the
dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman 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 gave Master Simon what he considered a
home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased

1 " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his cup.
When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times,
Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplain) was to answer with a
song."— Archce.ologia.

2 From Poor Robin's Almanack.

176 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be ; and he took
occasion to inform me, in an under- tone, 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 doubt whether it
ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy
it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him ;
and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making
every thing in its vicinity to freshen into smiles ! The joyous
disposition of the worthy 'Squire was perfectly contagious; he
was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ;
and the little eccentricities of his humor did but season, in a
manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy.

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be-
came still more animated : many good things were broached
which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not
exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively
affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly
heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter.
Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much
too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good-humor is the oil
and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companion-
ship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small and the
laughter abundant.

The 'Squire told several long stories of early college pranks
and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer ;
though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagi-
nation to figure such a little dark anatomy 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 sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and
florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on the contrary, had
dried and withered 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 soul ; and, as the 'Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson
and a pretty milk-maid whom the}' once met on the banks of
the Isis, the old gentleman made an " alphabet of faces," which,
as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was
indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 177

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 entitled " Cupid's 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 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 sum-
moned to the drawing-room, and I suspect, at the private insti-
gation 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. I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff.
Master 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,1 was blinded in the midst of the hall. The
little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about
Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and
tickling him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thir-

1 At Christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a
lorde of misrule, or may ster of merie disporles, and the like had ye in the house of
every nobleman of honour; or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall. — STOWE.

178 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

teen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful 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 shy-
ness with which Master 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 company
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 vener-
able piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and
dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing out
strange accounts of the popular 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 tinc-
tured 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 effigy 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 coun-
try, it had always been regarded with feelings of superstition
by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from
the tomb and walk the rounds of 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 pa-
cing 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 restless-
ness. 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 pavement. 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.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 179

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader
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 born and brought
up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid-ser-
vants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say,
that on Midsummer eve, 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 civilly 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 dairy-maids 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 coun-
tenanced by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious him-
self, was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every
goblin tale of the neighboring gossips writh 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 Fairy. That in-
defatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of
his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a
Christmas mummery, or masking ; and having called in to
his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were-
equally ripe for any thing that should occasion romping and
merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old
housekeeper had been consulted ; the antique clothes-presses
and wardrobes rummaged, 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

180 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out,
into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.1

Master Simon led the van as " Ancient Christmas," 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 indubi-
tably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under
this, his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 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 Pie," in the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade,
long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes.

The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, 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
Marian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in
various ways. The girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient
belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings be whiskered
with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging
sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the characters of
Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in
ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of the
Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I ob-
served that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his
wand over the smaller personages of the pageant.

The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac-
cording to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar
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 por-
traits 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

1 Maskings or mummeries, were favorite sports at Christmas, in old times; and
the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribution to furnish
dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the
idea of his from Ben Jousou's Masque of Christmas.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 181

this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of
childish delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands,
and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding
that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the an-
cient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, from which
he conceived the minuet to be derived.1 For nry part I was in
a continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and in-
nocent 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 con-
sideration 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 were 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. Methiuks 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 to
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 de-
ductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But in
writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappoint-
ment. 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.2

1 Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a pea-
cock, says, "It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently
was by 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 with long trains,
the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." — History of Music.

2 Appendix, Note 3,

182 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

[The following modicum of local history was lately put into
my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown
wig and snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted in
the course of one of my tours of observation through the centre
of that great wilderness, the City. I confess that 1 was a little
dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal
tales often passed off upon inquiring travellers like myself;
and which have brought our general character for veracity into
such unmerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, how-
ever, 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
considered merely as a foretaste.]

[In the author's revised edition the article entitled " London Antiques " has been in-
serted here, and the above note has been replaced by that on page 293.]

LITTLE BRITAIN.

"What I write is most true ... I have a whole b'ooke of cases lying by me, which It
I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be
out of charity with me. — NASHE.

In the centre of the great City of London lies a small neigh-
borhood, 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. Bar-
tholomew'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 Bull-and-Mouth-street separates it from Butcher lane,
and the regions of New-Gate. Over this little territory, thus
bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling
above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen. Cor-
ner, and Ave-Maria lane, looks down with an air of motherly
protection .

This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in
ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As Lon-
don increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west,
and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their
deserted abodes. For some time, Little Britain became the
great mart of learning, and was peopled by the busy and pro-
lific 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 Church-yard ;

LITTLE BRITAIN. 183

where they continue to increase and multiply, even at the pres-
ent day.

But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears
traces of its former splendor. There are several 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 fire-places. 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 an-
tiquity. These have their gable-ends to the street ; great bow-
windows, with diamond panes set in lead ; grotesque carvings ;
and low-arched doorways.1

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed
several quiet }'ears 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 doubtless 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 sitting-room
is taken up with a bow- window ; on the panes of which are
recorded the names of previous occupants for many genera-
tions ; mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like
poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher ;
and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain,
who has long, long 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

1 It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included in his
general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immedi-
ately to Cloth Fair,

184 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

only independent gentleman of the neighborhood ; and being
curious 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 strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of Lon-
don as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and
fashions. Here flourish in great preservation 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 Da}T ; burn the Pope on the Fifth of No-
vember, 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 out-
landish 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 detecting stolen goods, and promising
the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom-
fortable 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 moonlight
nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient pro-
prietors 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 gentleman,
of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop.
He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projec-
tions ; 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 shop, and several snakes in

LITTLE BRITAIN.

185

bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers,
and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, con-
spiracies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions ; which last
phenomena he considers as signs of the times. He has always
some dismal 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 predic-
tions, 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 tail 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 prophecy, on which he has been
unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among
the ancient Sibyls, who treasure 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 repairs 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, u may go
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here
is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own
eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrolo-
gers." Since these portentous weathercocks 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 kingdom ; 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 re-
counted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look, and a dismal
shake of the head ; and being taken with his drugs, and asso-
ciated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-monsters,
bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of
tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds
of the people in Little Britain. They shake their heads when-
ever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never
expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which,

186 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 cheesemon-
ger, 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
Huggin 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 Magazine, 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 any thing can shake her : and
he has much to say on the subject of the national debt ; which,
somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark
and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the
purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having be-
come rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he
begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has there-
fore made several excursions to Hampstead, 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 Bull-and-Mouth-street but touches his hat
as he passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach-
office of the Goose 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
undertake 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 Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by
the cheesemonger ; the other at the Cock and Crown, 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 church-
yards ; 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

LITTLE BRITAIN. 187

durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have hap-
pily died of late; but they were for a long time prevailing
themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being ex-
tremely solicitous of funereal honors, and of lying comfortably
in their graves.

Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third of quite
a different cast, 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 way-
farer; such as "Truman, Hanbury & Co.'s Entire," "Wine,
Rum, and Brandy Vaults," " Old Tom, 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 Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They
abound in old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tradi-
tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of
the metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker, who is inimi-
table 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 generation 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
opening of every club night, he is called in to sing his " Con-
fession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from
Gammer Gurton's needle. 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

188 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

gentry at Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all
its glory.1

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 voices, which issue
from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined
with listeners, who enjo}' a delight equal to that of gazing into
a confectioner's window, or snuffing 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

1 As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be familiar to the
majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I sub-
join it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the whole club always join in
the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots.

I cannot eate but lytle meate,

My stomacke is not good,
But sure 1 thinke that I can driuke

With him that weares a hood.
Though I go bare take ye no care,

I nothing am a colde,
1 stuff my skyn so full within,

Of joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare,

Both foote 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 brawne toste

And a crab laid in the f yre ;
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 wrapt 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 may Bee

The teares run downe her cheeke.
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle,

Even as a mault-worme eholde,
And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte

Of this joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,

Even as goode fellowes sholde doe,
They shall not inysse to have the blisse,

Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poore eoules that have scowred bowles,

Or have them lustily trolde,
God save the lyves of them and their wives,

Whether they be yonge or olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

LITTLE BRITAIN.

189

is held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing
going on but gossiping and gadding about. 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 fiddle and the song are heard from the tap-room, morning,
noon, and night ; and at each window may be seen some group
of boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe
in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling and prosing, and sing-
ing maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum
of private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other
times among my neighbors, is no proof against this Saturnalia.
There is no such thing as keeping 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 Liliputian din of drums,
trumpets, and penny whistles.

But the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversar}-. 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 permission 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 the window of the state coach and holds the city sword,
as lon^ 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 internal foes ; and as to foreign in-
vasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the
Tower, call in the train bands, and put the 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

190 TEE SKETCH-BOOK.

sturdy John Bullism 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 pre-
vailed throughout it ; for though there might now and then be
a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheese-
monger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between
the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and
soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted
with a sliake 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 year also the
neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy party to
Epping Forest. It would have done any man Is 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
blindman'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 news-
paper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They
would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument ;
but their disputes were alwaj's adjusted by reference to a wor-
thy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, who, never exactly
comprehending the subject, 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 innova-
tion creep in ; factious arise ; and families now and then spring
up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into
confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little
Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of
manners threatened with total subversion, by the aspiring fam-
ily 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 hatt made money enough to shut up shop, and

LITTLE BRITAIN. 191

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 towering ostrich feathers on
her head. The family never got over it ; they were immedi-
ately 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 blindman'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 confounded the worthy
folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, and the
Edinburgh Review.

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 Theobald's Road,
Red-lion Square, and other parts toward 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 daughters. This was not to be forgotten or
forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar with the smack-
ing of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the rattling
and jingling of hackney-coaches. The gossips of the neigh-
borhood 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 the 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 acquaintance, would give little
humdrum tea junketings to some of her old crouies, "quite,"
as she would say, " in a friendly way ; " and it is equally true
that her invitations were always accepted, in spite of all pre-
vious vows to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit
and be delighted with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would
condescend to thrum 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 Portsokenward,

192 TIIE SKETCH-BOOK.

and the Miss Timber-lakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars ;
but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the re-
proaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gos-
siping convocation every thing that had passed, and pulling the
Lambs and their rout all to pieces.

The only one of the family that could not be made fashion-
able, 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 head 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 gentle-
man," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite softness,
and endeavored to coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers,
and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, there was
no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would break
through all their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-hu-
mor, 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 k' some people," and a hint
about "quality binding." This both nettled and perplexed
the honest butcher ; and his wife and daughters, with the con-
summate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the
circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give up his
afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's ; 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 fire 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

LITTLE BRITAIN. 193

their horror of innovation ; and I applauded the silent con-
tempt they were so vociferous in expressing for upstart pride,
French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to sa}',
that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; and that rcy
neighbors, after condemning, were beginning to follow their ex-
ample. I overheard my landlady importuning her husband to
let their daughters have 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 five French bonnets,
precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little
Britain.

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die
away ; that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood ;
might die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices ; and
that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the com-
munity. But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oil-
man 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 parsimony 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. Jt 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 acquaint-
ances, but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the
Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trot-
ters 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 fash-
ionable factions, under the banners of these two families. 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 indignantly 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.

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dis-
sensions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what

194 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all
his talent at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend
that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John
Bullism.

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Be-
ing a single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high
favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet coun-
cils and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree
with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most
horribly with both parties, by abusing their opponents. I might
manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly ac-
commodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension — if the
Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and com-
pare notes, I am ruined !

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and
am actually looking out for some other nest in this great city,
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 tradesmen. 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.

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream;

The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,

For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. — GARRICK.

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which
he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of some-
thing like independence and territorial consequence, 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

STRA TFOED-ON-A VON. 1 95

feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of cer-
tainty, 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 ex-
istence, knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and
moments 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 Horse, at Stratforcl-on-Avon.

The words of sweet Shakspeare 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, with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under-
stood 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, and putting
the Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow companion,
I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, 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 suddenly
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 fra-
grance and beauty.

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first
visit was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where,
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft
of wool-cornbing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood
and plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to de-
light 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 condi-
tions, 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 bine anxious eye, and garnished with
artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceed-
ingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the
relics with which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds.
There was the shattered stock of the very matchlock with which

196 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There,
too, was his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival
smoker of Sir Walter Ealeigh ; the sword also with which he
played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar Law-
rence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was an
ample supply also of Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, which seems
to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication 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 Shak-
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 my hostess
privately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, such was
the fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new-bot-
tomed at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also,
in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes some-
thing 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 will-
ing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs noth-
ing. 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 persuade 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, luckily for
my faith, she put into my hands a plaj' of her own composition,
which set all belief in her consanguinity at defiance.

From the birthplace of Shakspeare a few paces brought me
to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church,
a large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna-

STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 197

merited. It stands on the banks of the 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 inter-
laced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads
up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. The graces
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 1 met with the gray-headed sex-
ton 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 white-washed 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 polished, 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 gossip knot within its
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sewing,
a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite corner was a
superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John
Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from child-
hood. They had plaj^ed together in infancy ; they had worked
together in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gos-
siping away the evening of life ; and in a short time they will
probably be buried together 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
fct bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with.

198 THE SKETCU-BOOK.

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the
bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new
to impart. The long interval, during which Shakspeare's writ-
ings lay in comparative neglect, has spread its shadow over his-
tory ; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely any thing
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures.

The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen-
ters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee,
and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sex-
ton, was " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John
Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakspeare's mulbeny-
tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt
a sovereign quickener of literary conception.

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare
house. John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her val-
uable collection of relics, particularly her remains of the mul-
berry-tree ; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to
Shakspeare having been born in her house. I soon discov-
ered that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye.
as a rival to the poet's tomb; the latter having compara-
tively 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 carved doors
of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture
and embellishments superior to those of most country churches.
There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry,
over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners
dropping piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare 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 distance 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 written by himself,
and which have in them something extremely awful. If they
are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of
the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thought-
ful minds :

Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare
To dig the dust inclosed here.
Blessed be he that spares these stones,
Arid curst be he that moves my bones.

S TEA TFO R D- ON- A VON. 199

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shak-
speare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a re-
semblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely
arched forehead ; and I thought I could read in it clear indi-
cations of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was
as much characterized among his contemporaries 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 vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sun-
shine 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 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 curi-
ous, 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 dust of Shakspeare.

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daugh-
ter 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 ludi-
crous epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the
mind refuses to dwell on any thing that is not connected with
Shakspeare. 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 him may be false or dubious, but here is palpa-
ble evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding
pavement, there was something intense and thrilling in the
idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare 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 plucked a branch from one of the
yew-trees, the only relic that I have brought from Stratford.

200 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion,
but I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare,
in company with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed
his youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this harebrained ex-
ploit we are told that he was taken prisoner, and carried to
the keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful cap-
tivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy,
his treatment must have been galling and humiliating ; for it
so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade,
which was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.1

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so in-
censed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the
severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker.
Shakspeare 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 im-
mortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of
the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged
himself in his writings ; 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 2 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. Shakspeare, 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

1 The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon :

A parliament member, a justice of peace,
At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse,
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it,
Then Lucy 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.

2 The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon, about Charlecot.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 201

itself, it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in every thing
eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn-up of a die, in the
gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn
out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not Shakspeare's
mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as dar-
ingly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws.

I have little doubt, that, in early life, when running, like an
unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to
be found in the company of all kinds of odd and anomalous
characters ; that he associated with all the madcaps of the
place, and was one of those unlucky urchins, at mention of
whom old men shake their heads, and predict that they will
one day come to the gallows. To him the poaching in Sir
Thomas Lucy's park was doubtless like a foray to a Scottish
Knight, and struck his eager, and as }-et untamed, imagination,
as something delightfully adventurous.1

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 event-
ful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the
house stood but little more than three miles' distance from Strat-
ford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll
leisurely through some of those scenes from which Shakspeare
must have derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery.

The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery
is always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature

1 A proof of Shakspeare's random habits and associates in his youthful days may
be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and
mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon,"

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford,
famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the
appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the
neighboring villages, to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Strat-
ford were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the number
of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the proverb, that " they who
drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The
chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while
they had yet legs to carry them off 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 standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare's
tree.

In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning to
Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drunk with

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,
Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton,
Budging Exhiiil, Papist Wicksford,
Beggarly Broom, and drunken Bedford.

" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epithets thus given
them: the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor;
Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough; and Grafton is famous for the
poverty of its soil."

202 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

of the weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon
the landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this
first awakening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing
over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to
put forth the green sprout and the tender blade ; and the trees
and shrubs, and their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving
the promise of returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-
drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be
seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before
the cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly
heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the
thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a livelier
note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the lark, spring-
ing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away
into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody.
As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and
higher, until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom
of the cloud, while the ear was still filled with his music, it
called to mind Shakspeare's exquisite little song in Cymbeline :

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings,

And Phoebus '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 every thing that pretty bin,

My lady sweet, arise !

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : every
thing is associated witli the idea of Shakspeare. Every old
cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood,
where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and
manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions
which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in
his. time, we are told, it was a popular 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." l

1 Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside
fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull- beggars, spirits, witches, urchins,
elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, cen-
taurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurers, nymphes, changelings, incubus,
Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne. the mare, the man in the oke, the hellwaine, the fier
drake, the puckle, Tom Thorobe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other
bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowee,"

STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 203

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon,
which made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and wind-
ings through a wide and fertile valley : sometimes glittering
from among willows, which fringed its borders ; sometimes dis-
appearing among groves, or beneath green banks ; and some-
times 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 undulat-
ing blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst all the soft inter-
vening 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 foot-path, which led along the borders of fields and under
hedge-rows to a private gate of 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 foot-path is concerned. It in some measure recon-
ciles 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. He 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 paying for it.
and keeping it in order.

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 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 interrupt the
view but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking 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 sump-
tuous 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,

204 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

•

and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Full-
broke, which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some
of Shakspeare's commentators have supposed he derived his
noble forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting wood-
land 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
reverie and rapture ; vague but exquisite images and ideas keep
breaking upon it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incom-
municable 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,

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 building
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 ma;y
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 court-yard in front of the house, orna-
mented with a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gate-
way is in imitation of the ancient barbican ; being a kind of
outpost, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere or-
nament, instead of defence. The front of the house is com-
pletely in the old style ; with stone shafted casements, a great
bow-window of heavy stonework, and a portal with armorial
bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of the build-
ing 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

8 TRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 205

upon its bosom. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion,
I called to mind Falstaff's 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, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John : — marry, good
air."

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion
in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-
yard was locked ; there was no show of servants bustling about
the place ; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no
longer harried by the moss-troopers 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
abhorrence 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 entrance to
the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old
housekeeper, who, with the civility and communicativeness 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 Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty ;
and at one end is a galley, 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
portraits. 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 court-yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the
armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many generations,
some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to observe in the
quarterings the three white luces by which the character of Sir
Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They

206 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Wind-
sor, 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 offences of himself and his comrades
in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and
vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of
the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas.

" Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it; if
he were twenty John Falstaffe, he shall not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq.

" Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram.

" Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.

"Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master parson; who
writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armigero.

" Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time 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 their 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 fear of Got in a riot :
the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take
your vizameuts 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 beauty of the
time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her
head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this
lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away
a great portion of the family estate, among which was that
part of the park where Shakspeare 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 Shakspeare 's lifetime. I at first thought that it
was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured
me that it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former
being an effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighbor-
ing hamlet of Charlecot.1 The picture gives a lively idea of the
costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in
ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in them ; and has a
peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, "a cane-
colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side of the

1 Appendix, Note 4.

STRA TFOED-ON-A VON. 207

picture in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children have
a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds
and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated
on his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a
bow ; — all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking,
and archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman
in those days.1

I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had
disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-
chair of carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of former
days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural
domains ; and in which it might be presumed the redoubted
Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant
Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky
bard's examination on the morning 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 chopfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, hunts-
men, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country
clowns. I fancied bright faces of curious house-maids 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 woman-
hood."— Who would have 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
princes ; the theme of all tongues and ages ; the dictator to the
human mind ; and was to confer immortality 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 caraways ; " but I

1 Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, "his house-
keeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving-men attendant on
their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk
he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted
with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description
of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, " he kept all sorts of hounds that run, buck, fox, hare, otter,
and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was
commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, and
terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds,
and spaniels."

208 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

had already spent so much of the day in my ramblings, that
I was obliged to give up any further investigations. When
about to take my leave, I was gratified by the civil entreaties
of the housekeeper and butler, that I would take some refresh-
ment — an instance of good old hospitality, which I grieve to
say we castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative
of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shakspeare, even
in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this
respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff.

" By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night ... I will not excuse you ;
you Bhall not be excused ; excuses shall not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ;
you shall not be excused . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged hens; a
joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William Cook."

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind
had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes
and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually
living among them. Every thing brought them as it were be-
fore my eyes ; and as the door of the dining-room opened, I
almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence
quavering forth his favorite ditty :

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,
And welcome merry Shrove-tide ! "

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singu-
lar 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 " work-
ing-day world " into a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true
enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon
the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence of
Shakspeare I had been walking all day in a complete delusion.
I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of poetry,
which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow. I had
been surrounded with fancied jbeings ; with mere airy nothings,
conjured up by poetic power ; yet which, to me, had all the
charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his
oak ; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventur-
ing through the woodlands : and, above all, had been once more
present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff, and his contemporaries,
from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master
Slender, and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and

8TRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 209

blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of
life with innocent illusions ; who has spread exquisite and un-
bought pleasures in my checquered path ; and beguiled my spirit
in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympa-
thies of social life !

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused
to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried,
and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his
ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What
honor could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty
companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal
eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner
in Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend
pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole
mausoleum ! The solicitude about the grave may be but the
offspring of an overwrought sensibility ; but human nature is
made up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and tenderest
affections are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who
has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full har-
vest of worldly favor, will find, after all, that there is no love,
no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be
gathered in peace and honor, among his kindred and his early
friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to
warn him that 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 become the boast and glory
of his native place ; that his ashes should be religiously guarded
as its most precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on
which his eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one
day become the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape,
to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb !

210 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 naked, and he clothed him not." — Speech of
an Indian Chief.

THERE is something 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 sublime. He is formed for the
wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern,
simple, and enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to
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 through that proud stoicism and habit-
ual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual obser-
vation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of civilized
life by more of those sympathies and affections 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 heredi-
tary possessions, by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare ;
and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and inter-
ested writers. The colonists often treated them like beasts
of the forest ; and the author has endeavored to justify him in
his outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than
to civilize — the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The ap-
pellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanc-
tion the hostilities of both ; and thus the poor wanderers of the
forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were
guilty, but because they were ignorant.

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appre-
ciated or respected by the white man. In peace, he has too
often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war, he has been re-
garded 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.

TRAITS. OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 211

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 government, too, has wisely and
humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing
spirit towards them, and to protect them from fraud and injus-
tice.1 The current opinion 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 commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and
enfeebled 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 de-
based by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed
and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their
enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like
one of those withering airs that will sometimes breathe desola-
tion over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their
strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their
original barbarity the 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 ani-
mals 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
remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the
vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vaga-
bond 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 natures. They
become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillanimous.
They loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among spacious
dwellings, replete with elaborate comforts, which only render
them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their own
condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before their eyes ;
but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over

1 The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the
situation of the Indians, and to introduce among 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 individuals is permitted; nor is any person allowed to
receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of government
These precautions are strictly enforced.

212 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance ;
the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they
feel as reptiles that infest it.

How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords
of the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratifi-
cation within their reach. They saw every one around them
sharing the same lot, enduring the same hardships, 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 England, " their life is so void of care,
and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things
they enjoy as common 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 resemble
those wild plants which thrive best in the shades of the forest,
but shrink from the hand of cultivation, 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 exaggera-
tion, instead of the candid temper of true philosoph}-. They
have not- sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances 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 regu-
lated according to some general maxims 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 wantonness with
which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians,
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and in-
sulting. 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 hos-
tility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitary

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 213-

savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not
diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but
the}7 run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affec-
tions, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects ;
but the wounds inflicted on them are proper tionably 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 senti-
ment of vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One
council-fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of
a plan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages
assemble. Eloquence and superstition 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 travelling in the vicinit}7, have been
known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonder-
fully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to
some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of
their tribe 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 vio-
lated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the
following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious
specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial
piety in a savage :

" When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath
this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my cus-
tom 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

214 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 common people, defaced by an
ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid
against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on out
iand. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlast-
ing habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a
sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength,
and recollect 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 at-
tributed 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 particu-
larly the case when they had been frequently engaged in war-
fare ; 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 fighting men. There was a strong temptation, there-
fore, 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 manes
of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed 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 alternative 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 cannot but
be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient
dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual de-
stroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 215

injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered,
and they are driven to madness and despair b}' the wide-spread-
ing desolation, and the overwhelming 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 subsistence ; and yet they wonder that savages do not show
moderation and magnanimity towards those who have left them
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness.

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous,
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 early taught 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 naturally more prone to
subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in
comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natu-
ral weapons of defence : with horns, with tusks, with hoofs,
and talons : but man has to depend on his superior sagacity.
In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts
to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against
his fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle 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 courage which
induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush
in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society-, and
produced by education. It is honorable, 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 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 stimu-
lated 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 forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and
broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Tri-
umphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monu-
ments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its
treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation's gratitude

216 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to
an extraordinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and, arrayed
in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance of war," this turbu-
lent quality 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 Hfe of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it.
He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and
adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem neces-
sary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his exist-
ence. Surrounded by hostile tribes whose mode of warfare is
by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, 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 and storms, and wings its way, a mere
speck, across the pathless fields of air ; so the Indian holds his
course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the boundless
bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 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 pining
famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obsta-
cles 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. His very sub-
sistence 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 cruelest infliction. Indeed, we here behold him
rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar
education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's
mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and tri-
umphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of surround-
ing foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a
pride in taunting his persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity
of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals,
and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of
triumph, breathing the defiance of an uncouquered heart, and
invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies with-

TEA1TS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. • 217

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians
have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives,
some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a
degree of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa-
sionally to be met with in the rude annals of the eastern prov-
inces, which, though recorded with the coloring of prejudice
and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dvvelt on
with applause and sympathy, 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 similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the histo-
rian piously 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 despair ;
with hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe,
and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insult-
ing foe, and preferred death to submission.

As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dismal
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 m 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-
willed ness 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 sit-
ting close together, upon whom the}* 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

218 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 ad-
miring 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 robes and seated with
stern tranquillity in their curule chairs ; in this manner they
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such
conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous —
in the hapless Indians, it was reviled as obstinate and sullen.
How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How
different 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 east-
ern tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that shel-
tered them have been laid low, and scarce airy 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 mingle in the wars of white men. In a
little while, and they will go 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 Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes 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 forget-
fuluess ; 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, cor-
rupted, despoiled ; driven from their native abodes and the

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 219

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 blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their
forefathers. "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 extinguished — a
little longer and the white man will cease to persecute us — for
we shall cease to exist."

PHILIP OF POKANOKET.

AN INDIAN MEMOIR.

As monumental bronze unchanged his look :

A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook;

Train'd, from his tree-rock'd 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 remarkable charac-
ters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which
have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; they fur-
nish 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 witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral
sentiment ; and perceiving those generous and romantic quali-
ties which have 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 purposes of popu-
larity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his arti-

220 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

ficial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the
restraints and refinements of polished life, and, in a great
degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses
of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus the
attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly
great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every rough-
ness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye
is delighted b}' 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 torrent, and dare the precipice.

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume
of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bit-
terness, 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 footsteps of civilization may
be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colo-
nists were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest; how
merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The imagina-
tion 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 war-
rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts
and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number
of contemporary Sachems, who reigned over the Pequods, the
Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes,
at the time of the first settlement of New-England : a band of
native untaught heroes ; who made the most generous struggle
of which human nature is capable ; 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 sub-
jects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely
any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gi-
gantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.1

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by
their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New
World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situa-
tion was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in
number, and that number rapidly perishing away through sick-

1 While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed, that a
celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the story of Philip of
Pokanoket.

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 221

ness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and
savage tribes ; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic win-
ter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their minds
were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved
them from sinking into despondency but the strong excitement
of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were
visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a
powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country.
Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the stran-
gers, and expelling them from his territories into which they had
intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous
friendship, and extended towards them the rights of primitive
hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement
of New-Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers ;
entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them a
portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good-
will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of Indian
perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Mas-
sasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and
magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to ex-
tend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the
land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and
prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once more to
New-Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of
renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his pos-
terity.

At this conference, he endeavored to protect the religion of
his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ;
and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw
off his people from their ancient faith ; but, finding the English
obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly relin-
quished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to
bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been
named by the English) to the residence of a principal settler,
recommending mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreating
that the same love and amity which had existed between the
white men and himself, 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
children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white
men.

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick
and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary
rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial con-

222 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

duct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he beheld
with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboring
tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being
accused of plotting with the Narragansets to rise against the
English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say
whether this accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded
on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, by the violent and
overbearing measures of the 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 their treatment of the
natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alex-
ander, and to bring him before their courts. He was traced 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 out-
rage offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irasci-
ble feelings of this proud savage, 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 au object of great
jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having always
cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the whites.
Such ma}* 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 ex-
tending an influence 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 purchases, in the early
periods of colonization? The Europeans always made thrifty
bargains, through their superior adroitness in traffic ; and they
gained vast accessions of territory, by easily-provoked hostili-
ties. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the
refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and
legall}r 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

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 223

that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their
fathers.

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility,
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 years at Pokano-
ket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,1 the an-
cient 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 at-
tempting to instigate the various eastern tribes to rise at once,
and, by a simultaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their
oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the
proper credit due to these early accusations against the Indians.
There was 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 tale-
bearing 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 natural
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 counsellor, and had enjoyed
his bounty and protection. Finding, 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, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of
his tribe. Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsel-

1 Xow Bristol, Rhode Island.

224 THE SKETCH-ROOK.

lor 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 punishment
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 of the Narragansets, who, after
manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists,
exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving
assurances of amity, had been perfidiously despatched at their in-
stigation. 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 wher-
ever he appeared, was continually surrounded 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 wild-
ness of their situation, among trackless forests and savage
tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious 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 troubles with Philip and his Indians
were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn-
ings 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 Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in
their neighborhood, u was heard the report of a great piece of
ordnance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable
echo."1 Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning, by

1 The Rev. Increase Mather's History.

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 225

the discharge of guns and muskets ; bullets seemed to whistle
past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seem
ing 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, filled the
superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. 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 falling 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 soli-
tudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations,
may have been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and
listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever
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 disre-
gard of the natural rights of their antagonists : 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 hu-
miliation, dependence, and decay.

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy
clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indignation
on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, 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-born 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 de-
liver 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 mind, and, had
it not been prematurely discovered, might have been over-
whelming in its consequences. The war that actually broke
out was but a war of detail ; a mere succession of casual ex-
ploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the
military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in

226 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 expedients ; a contempt of suffer-
ing and hardship ; and an unconquerable resolution, that com-
mand our sympathy and applause.

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw
himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that
skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to any
thing but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered to-
gether his forces, like the storm accumulating its stores of mis-
chief 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 colo-
nists 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 forest, and suddenly disappearing ; as the
lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge
of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest.

Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the
settlers, 3Tet 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 dis-
tant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strong-
holds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in
some parts of New-E)ngland ; composed of loose bogs of deep
black mud ; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds,
the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, over-
shadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and
the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost
impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could
thrid their labyrinths with the agility o*f a deer. Into one of
these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once
driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare
to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and frightful
recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be
shot down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the en-
trance to the neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought
of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted
themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of
night, leaving the women and children behind ; and escaped

PHILIP OF POKANOEET. 227

away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the
tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmnck country, and threat-
ening the colony -of Connecticut.

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehen-
sion. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated
his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose
coming none could foresee, and against which none knew
when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded with
rumors and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiq-
uity ; for, in whatever part of the widely extended frontier
an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was said to be
its leader. Many superstitious notions also were circulated
concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to
be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he
consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incanta-
tions. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs ;
either through their own credulit}', or to act upon that of their
followers : and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer
over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent
instances of savage warfare.

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset,
his fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had
been thinned by repeated fights, 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 Narra-
gansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great
Sachem, who, as already mentioned, after an honorable ac-
quital of the charge of conspiracy, had been privately 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;" he
certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the
legitimate avenger of his murder. 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 countenance and support. This at once drew
upon him the hostility 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
together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and
was sent into the Narraganset country in the depth of winter,
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.

228 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 impregnable, was situated
upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in
the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed 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 renegade Indian, the English penetrated, through
December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garri-
son by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. 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 lodgement 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
and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, retreated
from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the surround-
ing 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 re-
sounded with the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugi-
tive 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 yell-
ing of the warriors, 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 afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their ene-
mies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevo-
lent principles of the gospel." 1

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 de-

i MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles.

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 229

feat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he
had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on con-
dition of betiding 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 coun-
try harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ;
he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecti-
cut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of
western Indians, and laid waste several of the English settle-
ments.

Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedition,
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 adventurers
had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the
centre of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near Paw-
tucket river, when an alarm 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 rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past
their chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger.
Canonchet sent another scout, wrho 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, first 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 upon
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

230 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Df elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one
of the English who first came up with him, and who had not
attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior,
looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, re-
plied, "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 con-
dition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he
rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals
of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; saying, that he
knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with his
breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he would not
deliver up a Wampanoag, nor the parings of a Wampanoag's
nail ; and his threat that he would burn the English alive in
their houses, he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answer-
ing 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 being towards
whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com-
passion — he was condemned to die. The last words of his that
are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sen-
tence 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 any thing 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 of the Narraganset fortress, and the death of
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip.
He made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stir-
ring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed 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 neigh-
boring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily
stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him.
Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hun-
ger 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 wife
and only son to the mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says

PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 231

the historian, " being thus gradually carried on, his misery was
not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made ac-
quainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the cap-
tivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects,
bereavement of all family relations, 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 followers
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might
purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery, a number
of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, 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 attempted to make her escape
by crossing a neighboring river : either exhausted by swimming,
or starved by cold and hunger, she wafe 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 com-
monly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast
female, whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kins-
man 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 recognized
the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at
this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into
the " most horrid and diabolical lamentations."

However Philip had borne up against the complicated mis-
eries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his
followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despond-
ency. 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 ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked 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 war-
rior whom he reviles. " Philip," he saj^s, " like a savage wild
beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the

232 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 execute vengeance upon him."

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our-
selves seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence
over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity
from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. De-
feated, but not disma}-ed — crushed to the earth,, but not
humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disas-
ter, and to experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the last
dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued bjT
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 followers, 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 was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and
made a headlong attempt at escape, but was shot through the
heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King
Philip ; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when
dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of
amiable and lofty character, sufficient 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 connubial love and
paternal tenderness, and to the generous sentiment of friend-
ship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" is
mentioned with exultation, 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 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

JOHN BULL. 233

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 submission, and live dependent and de-
spised 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 historian, 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 rate,

And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.

With an old study filled full of learned old books,

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,

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 Song.

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 characteristic 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 waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken
cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting
their most private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and
have been so successful in their delineations, that there is

234 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 com-
mon orders of English seem 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 or grossness ; and this I have
especially noticed 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 insensibility to foreign
refinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain
John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knick-knacks. His
very proneuess to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extrava-
gantly 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 himself 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 peculiarities, 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 differ-
ent aspects from different points of view ; and, often as he has
been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight
sketch of him, such as he has met my eye.

John Bull, to all appearance, 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 than in wit ;

JOHN BULL. 235

is jolly rather than gay ; melancholy rather than morose ; can
easily be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad
laugh ; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for light pleas-
antry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have his
humor, and to talk about himself ; and he will stand by a friend
in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be
cu,dgelled.

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 everybody's cham-
pion. He is continually volunteering his services to settle his
neighbors' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage
in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; though
he seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without fin-
ishing 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
perfect 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 his 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
BO 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 con-
tention. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only
relishes the beginning of an affray ; he always goes into a fight
with alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victo-
rious ; and though no one fights 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 quarrelling about. It is not, therefore,
fighting that he ought so much to be on his guard against, as

236 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing 5
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 monej7 bravely about at boxing-
matches, horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high head
among " gentlemen of the fancy ; " but immediately 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 altercation. 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 beef-
steak 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 con-
sumption of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of fol-
lowers he feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay
hugely for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent
master, and, provided his servants humor his peculiarities, flat-
ter his vanity a little now and then, and do not peculate grossly
on him before his face, they may manage him to perfection.
Every thing 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 housebreaker.

His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray
with age, and of a most venerable, though weather-beaten, ap-
pearance. 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 architecture, and is as
solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can make it.

JOHN BULL. 237

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 modern 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 imagin-
able. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel ; a
reverend 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 family 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 stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the cir-
cumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in
his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has
had quarrels, are strong Papists.

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 opinions, 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, some-
what 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 hos-
pitality 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 turrets that are tottering to decay ; so that in high winds
there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house-
hold.

238 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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. He
swears the house is an excellent house — that it is tight and
weather-proof, and not to be shaken by 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 inconveniences, and would not be comfort-
able 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 family, 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 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 disposition
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 dependants ; arid so,
partly from pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes
it a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his super-
annuated 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.
His 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, are 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 supernumeraries 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

JOHN BULL. 239

outcry, at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a
worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's
honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man who has faith-
fully 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 example of
grateful recollection, which if some of his neighbors were to
imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, 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 encumbrances, 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 dove-cote, but the}T are hered-
itary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly
choked up every chimney with their nests ; martins build in
every frieze and cornice ; crows nutter about the towers, and
perch on every weathercock ; and old gray-headed rats may be
seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of their
holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such
a reverence for every thing 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 wofully to drain
the old gentleman's purse ; and as he prides himself on punctu-
ality 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 heartburnings which are continually taking
place in his family. His children have been brought up to dif-
ferent 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

240 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

kept up in all its state, whatever may be the cost; others, who
are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman
to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of house-
keeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome
advice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous con-
duct 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 practices ; ridicules his tastes and pur-
suits ; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors ;
give the broken-down horses to the hounds ; send the fat chap-
lain 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 rails
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 thwarting 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 is 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 wrong ; likes nothing so much as a racket-
ing roystering life ; and is ready, at a wink or nod, to out sabre,
and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array him-
self 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 so bad with

JOHN BULL. 241

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 contin-
ually 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 fine one, and has been in the family a
long while ; but for all that, they have known many finer es-
tates come to the hammer."

What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary em-
barrassments 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 frostbitten apple. His scarlet gold-
laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosper-
ous 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-cor-
nered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing 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 cud-
gel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom
of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty.

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 concern, he takes
fire in an instant ; swears that he is the richest 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 quarterstaff.

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this,
yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong
feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate
prejudices he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He ma}^ 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 very

242 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extrava-
gance 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. He 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 fearful
groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very
magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the ap-
pearance of his old family mansion, that is extremely poetical
and picturesque ; and, as long as it can be rendered comforta-
bly 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 pru-
dence in future ; that he may cease to distress his mind about
other people's affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt
to promote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happi-
ness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain
quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate
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 : no screech-owle stir

A wing about thy sepulchre!

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither,

To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing. — HERRICK.

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

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 243

stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation 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 an 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 vil-
lage. Indeed, it was an 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 verdant 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 ; and though
sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of
golden sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed
through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature with a melan-
choly smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Chris-
tian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving,
in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise
again in glory.

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 melan-
choly 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 feel-
ings ; 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 reappeared
through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place
where I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls,
dressed in white ; and another, about the age of seventeen,
walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowers : a token that
the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The corpse
was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple, of
the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress
his feelings ; but his 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.

244 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 — u Earth to
earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust ! " the tears of the youth-
ful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The
father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort
himself with the 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 her children,
and would not be comforted."

On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the
deceased. It was a simple one, and such as has often been
told. She had been the beauty and pride of the village. Her
father had once been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in
circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up en-
tirely at home, in the simplicity of rural 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 pater-
nal 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 tender-
ness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from
all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and deli-
cacy of character that accorded with the fragile loveliness of
her form. She appeared like some tender plant of the gar-
den, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the
fields.

The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by
her companions, 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
Ran on the greensward : nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;
Too noble for this place."

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 245

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still
retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural
festivals and holyday pastimes, and still kept up some faint
observance of the once popular ri^es of May. These, indeed,
had been promoted by its present pastor ; who was a lover of
old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their
mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among
mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year
to year in the centre of the village 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
situation of the village, and the fancifuluess of its rustic fetes,
would often 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 the queen of May. It was
the village favorite, who was crowned with flowers, and blush-
ing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffi-
dence 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 unthink-
ing 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 making it,
more eloquent than language, and which convey it subtilely and
irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of
voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every
word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence of
love, and can always be felt and understood, but never de-
scribed. Can we wonder that they should readily win a heart,
young, guileless, and susceptible ? As to her, she loved almost
unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired what was the growing pas-
sion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were
to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the future.
When present, his looks and words occupied her whole atten-
tion ; 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 witch-
eries of romance and poetry.

246 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the
sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. The gallant figure
of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire,
might at first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that
had captivated her heart. Her attachment had something in it
of idolatry ; she looked up to him as to a being of a superior
order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm of a mind natu-
rally delicate and poetical, and now first awakened to a keen
perception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinc-
tions of rank and fortune, she thought nothing ; it was the
difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those
of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that
elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with
charmed ear 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.

Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was
mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the
connection in levity ; for he had often heard his brother officers
boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of
the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But
he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been
rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a wandering and a dis-
sipated life : it caught fire from the very flame it sought to
kindle ; and before he was aware of the nature of his situation,
he became really in love.

What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so
incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in
life — the prejudices of titled connections — his dependence
upon a proud and unyielding father — all forbade him to think
of matrimony : — but when he looked down upon this innocent
being, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her man-
ners, a blamelessness in her life, and a beseeching modesty in
her looks, that awed down every licentious feeling. In 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 cold derisive levity with which he had heard them talk
of female virtue ; whenever he came into her presence, she was
still surrounded by that mysterious, but impassive charm of
virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can
live.

The ^uddeu arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 247

the continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He re-
mained for a short time in a state of the most painful irresolu-
tion ; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day
for marching was at hand; when he gave her the intelligence
in the course of an evening ramble.

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

He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered
at his own baseness ; but, so innocent of mind was his intended
victim, that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his mean-
ing; — and why she should leave her native village, and the
humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his
proposals flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was wither-
ing. She did not weep — she did not break forth into re-
proaches — she said not a word — but she shrunk back aghast
as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced to his
very soul, and clasping her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge,
to her father's cottage.

The officer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant.
It is uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict
of his feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the
bustle of departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new
companions, soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his
tenderness. Yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries of
garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his
thoughts would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural
quiet and village simplicity — the white cottage — the footpath
along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and the
little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm and
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious affection.

The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruc-
tion of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Paintings
and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were
succeeded by a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld

248 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

from her window the march of the departing troops. She had
seen her faithless lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the
sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp of arms. She
strained a last aching gaze after him, as the morning sun glit-
tered about his figure, and his plume waved 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 avoided
society, and wandered out alone in the walks she had most
frequented with her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer,
to weep in silence and loneliness, and brood over the barbed
sorrow that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be seen
late of an evening sitting in the porch of a village church ;
and the milk-maids, returning from the fields, would now and
then overbear her, singing some plaintive ditty in the haw-
thorn 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, and that hallowed air which melancholy
diffuses round the form, they would make way for her, as for
something spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their
heads in gloomy foreboding.

She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that
had bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be
no more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had
entertained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished.
She was incapable of angry passions, and in a moment of sad-
dened tenderness she penned him a farewell letter. It was
couched 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 conduct was the cause. She even
depicted the sufferings which she had experienced ; but con-
cluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, until she
had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing.

By degrees her strength declined, and 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 com-
plaint, nor imparted to any one the malady that was preying
on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name ;
but 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 themselves that it

THE PRIUE OF THE VILLAGE. 249

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 after-
noon ; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown
open, and the soft air that stole in, brought with it the fra-
grance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own hands
had trained round the window.

Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible ; it
spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven ;
it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her
bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church — the
bell had tolled for 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 sor-
row, 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 ?

Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard — a horseman galloped
to the cottage — he dismounted before the window — the poor
girl gave a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair : — it
was her repentant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew
to clasp her to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her death-like
countenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation — smote
him to the soul, and he threw himself in agony at her feet.
She was too faint to rise — she attempted to extend her trem-
bling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was
articulated — she looked down upon him with a smile of unut-
terable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever.

Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village
story. 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 appear
trite and insignificant, but they interested me strongly at the
time ; and, taken in connection with the affecting ceremony
which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my
mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I
have passed through the place since, and visited the church
again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a
wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage ; the
churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled

I

250 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been
planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were
bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. The church-door was
open, and I stepped in. — There hung the chaplet of flowers
and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the flowers 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 spectator ; but I have met with none that spoke more
touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but delicate memento
of departed innocence.

THE ANGLER.

This day dame Nature seemed 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 fly.

There stood my friend, with patient skill,

Attending of his trembling quill. — SIB II. 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 suspect
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 seduc-
tive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his
"Complete Angler" several years since, in company 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 that
the spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod
in hand, and sallied into the country, 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-a-pie for the enterprise. He
wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hun-
dred 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

THE ANGLER. 251

true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as
great a matter of stare and wonderment among the country
folk, who had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad
hero of La Mancha among the goat-herds of the Sierra Morena.

Our first 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 one
of those wild streams that lavish, among our romantic soli-
tudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the sketch-book of a
hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down
rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which the trees
threw their broad balancing sprays ; and long nameless weeds
hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with dia-
mond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine
in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and
after this termagant career, would steal forth into open day
with the most placid demure face imaginable ; as I have seen
some pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with
uproar and ill-humor, come dimpling out of doors, swimming,
and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world.

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times,
through some bosom of green meadow land, among the moun-
tains ; where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional
tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the
sound of a wood-cutter's axe from the neighboring forest !

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled
above half an hour, before I had completely " satisfied the sen-
timent," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's
opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be
born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my
line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up
the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees,
reading old Izaak : satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of
honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and
not the passion for angling. My companions, however, were
more persevering in their delusion. I have them at this mo-
ment 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 kingfisher
watching them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs
the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise

252 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 through-
out the watery world around.

I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and creep-
ing about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any suc-
cess, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly 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 believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile
earth-worm — and in half an hour caught more fish than we had
nibbles throughout the day.

But above all, I recollect the " good, honest, wholesome,
hungiy " 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 agree-
able scene which I witnessed not long since.

In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beauti-
ful little stream which flows down from the 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 weather ; its furrows had
been worn into an habitual smile ; his iron-gray locks hung
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of
a constitutional philosopher, who was disposed to take the
world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight,
with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant
could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neigh-
borhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward,
country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of
a rustic beau. The old man was busy examining the maw of
a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents
what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lecturing on the
subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite
deference. I have a kind feeling toward all '* brothers of

THE ANGLER. 253

the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men,
he affirms, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ; " and my
esteem for them has been increased since I met with an old
" Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth
many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. "Take
goode hecle," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going
about your disportes ye open no man's gates, but that ye shet
them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for
no covetousness to the increasing and sparing of your money
only, but principally for your solace and to cause the helth of
your body and specyally of your soule." l

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before
me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a
cheerful contentedness in his looks, that quite drew me towards
him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he
stumped from one part of the brook to another ; waving his
rod in the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, or
catching among the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he
would throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim-
ming 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 mean-
while, 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 inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from
among fresh-smelling meadows. The day, too, like that re-
corded in his work, was mild and sunshiny ; with now and then
a soft dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with dia-
monds.

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

1 From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industrious and
devout employment than it is generally considered. " For when ye purpose to go on
your disportes in fishynge, ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which
might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also
avoyde many yic*es, as ydleness, which is principall cause to induce man to many other
vices, as it ia right well known."

254 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy garru-
lity 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 America, particularly in Savannah,
where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the
indiscretion of a partner. He had afterward 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 Camper-
down. 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 fort}* pounds. On this he retired to his 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 he
seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent
good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the
world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and
beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different
countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and
thicket, yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness,
appearing to look only on the good side of things : and above
all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with, who had
been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had honesty
and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his own door, and
not to curse the country.

The lad that was receiving his instructions I 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 much
courted by the idle, gentleman-like personages of the place. In
taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had probably
an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional
cup of cheerful ale free of expense.

There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget,
which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted
on worms and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of
spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As the English are me-
thodical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of
sportsmen, it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and
system. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapted to the
mild and highly cultivated scenery of England, where every
roughness has been softened away from the landscape. It is de-

THE ANGLER. 255

lightf ill to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like
veins of silver, through the bosom of this beautiful country ; lead-
ing one through a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes
winding through ornamented grounds ; sometimes brimming along
through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled with
sweet-smelling flowers, sometimes venturing in sight of villages
and hamlets ; and then running capriciously away into shady
retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the;
quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant fitw
of musing ; which are now and then agreeably interrupted by
the song of a bird ; the distant whistle of the peasant ; or per-
haps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water,
and skimming transiently about its glassj- surface. "When I
would beget content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase con-
fidence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty
Go,d, I will walk the meadows b}7 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 :

While 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 fresh rivers walk at will
Among the daisies and the violets blue,

Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.1

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, containing only one

1 J. Davors.

256 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 with a honeysuckle. On the
top was a ship for a weathercock. 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 day-time 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 prin-
cipal movables. About the wall were stuck up naval ballads,
such as Admiral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom
Bowling, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among which
the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The
mantelpiece was decorated with seashells ; 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, containing 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 rattling tone of a veteran boat-
swain. The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned
Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept in neat order, every thing 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
pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly
on the threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolu-
tions in an iron ring, that swung in the centre of his cage. He
had been angling all day, and gave me a histoiy of his sport
with as much minuteness as a general would talk over a cam-
paign ; being particularly animated in relating the manner in
which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked
all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to
mine hostess of the inn.

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age ;
and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost

THE ANGLER. 257

through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the
evening of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from
within himself, and was independent of external circumstances ;
for he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most
precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the trou-
bled sea of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable
in the roughest weather.

On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a uni-
versal favorite in the village, and the oracle of the tap-room ;
where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad,
astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and ship-
wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen
sportsmen of the neighborhood ; had taught several of them the
art of angling j and was a privileged 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 season were favorable ; and at other times he
employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the
next campaign, or manufacturing 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, u and upon all that are
true lovers of virtue ; and dare trust in his providence ; and be
quiet ; and go a angling."

258 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.
(FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH

KNICKERBOCKER.)

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half -shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,

Forever flushing round a summer sky. — Castle of Indolence.

IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent
the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of
the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the
Tappan Zee, arid where they always prudently shortened sail,
and implored the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed,
there lies a small market town or rural port, which by some is
called Greensburgh, but which is more generally and properly
known by the name of Tarry Town. This name was given
we are told, in former days, by the good housewives of the
adjacent country, from the inveterate propensity of their hus-
bands to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be
that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert
to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not far
from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little
valley or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of
the quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides
through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose ; and
the occasional whistle of a quail, or 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 squirrel-
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades 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, and was
prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I
should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world
and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little
valley.

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar char-
acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original
Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 259

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

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

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

It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have men-
tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley,

260 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who resides there
for a time. However wide awake they may have been before
they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time,
to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow
imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions.

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

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

His school-house was a low building of one large room,
rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and
partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It was most in-
geniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the
handle of the door, and stakes set against the window-shutters ;

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 261

so that though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he would
find some embarrassment in getting out : — an idea most proba-
bly borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the
mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood in a rather
lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill,
with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his
pupil's voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in
a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive ; interrupted
now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the
tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appall-
ing sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along
the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a con-
scientious man, that and bore in mind the golden maxim,
"spare the rod and spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars
certainly were not spoiled.

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

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

262 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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

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

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in
the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered a
kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste
and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, in-
deed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance,
therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a
farm-house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes
or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot.
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles
of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them
in the churchyard, between services on Sundays! gathering
grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun the surround-
ing trees ; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 263

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 travelling
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house
to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satis-
faction. 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 spell-bound region.
No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow.
It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the
afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, border-
ing the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and
there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering
dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his
eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream
and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to
be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour,
fluttered his excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor-
will * from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that
harbinger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl ; or
the sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from
their roosjt. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in
the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of un-
common brightness would stream across his path ; and if, by
chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blunder-
ing 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, either to drown thought,
or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes ; — and the
good 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 sweetness long drawn out," floating from
the distant hill, or along the dusky road.

1 The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its name
from its note, which is thought to resemble those words.

264 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 haunted fields and haunted brooks, and haunted
bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless
horseman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some-
times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec-
dotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and portentous
sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier
times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully with
speculations 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 !

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling
in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy
glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no
spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly purchased by the
terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful
shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly
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 window ! — How often was he appalled by
some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted spectre
beset his very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath
his feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should
behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! — and
how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush-
ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the
galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings !

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms
of the mind, that walk in darkness : and though he had seen
many spectres .in his time, and been more than once beset by
Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet day-
light put an end to all these evils ; and he would have passed
a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works,
if his path had not been crossed by a being that causes more
perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, goblins, and the whole
race of witches put together; and that was — a woman.

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening
in each week to receive his instructions in psalmod}', was
Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substan-
tial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ;

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 265

plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as
one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely
for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a
little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress,
which was a mixture of ancient and modern fashions, as most
suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure
yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought
over from Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time,
and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest
foot and ankle in the country round.

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward 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 thoughts beyond
the boundaries of his own farm ; but within those, every thing
was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with
his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the
hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His
stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of
those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farm-
ers are so fond of nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad
branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring 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 farm-house was a vast barn, that might
have served for a church ; every window and crevice of which
seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the flail
was busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swal-
lows and martens 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, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and
abundance of their pens, whence sallied forth, now and then,
troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squad-
ron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoy-
ing whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling
through the farm-yard, 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

266 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his bur-
nished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his
heart — sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then
generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and chil-
dren 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 devouring
mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig running
about, with a pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ;
the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and
tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming
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 relishing ham ; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily
trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure,
a necklace of savory sausages ; and even bright chanticleer
himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted
claws, as if craving that quarter which his chivalrous spirit dis-
dained 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 corn, and the or-
chards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm
tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel
who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination ex-
panded 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 presented 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 beneath ; and he beheld himself bestriding a
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels 5 setting out for Kentucky,
Tennessee — or the Lord knows where !

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was
complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, with high-
ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down
from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves form-
ing a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad
weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, various utensils
of husbandly, 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 LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 267

the various uses to which this important porch might be de-
voted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod entered the
hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of
usual 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, just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, 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
chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like mirrors ; and-
irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened
from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch
shells decorated the mantelpiece ; strings of various colored
birds' eggs were suspended 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 hi*
only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless
daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had
more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight-
errant of yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchant-
ers, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered 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 contrary, had to win his
way to the heart of a country coquette beset with a labyrinth
of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new
difficulties and impediments, and he had to encounter a host of
fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic
admirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watch-
ful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the
common cause against any new competitor.

Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring,
roystering blade of the name of Abraham, or according to
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the
country round, which rang with his feats of strength and har-
dihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with
short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant coun-

268 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

tenance, 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, setting his hat on one side,
and giving his decisions with an air and 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 overbearing roughness there
was a strong dash of waggish good-humor at 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 farm-houses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like
a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, 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 neighbors looked upon him with a mix-
ture of awe, admiration, and good-will ; 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 bloom-
ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and
though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle
caresses and endearments of a bear, j*et 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, 4t sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in
despair, and 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 plia-

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 269

bility 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, an}' more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod,
therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating
manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he
made frequent visits at the farm-house ; not that he had any
thing 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 ex-
cellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable
little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping
and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely observed, ducks
and geese are foolish things, and must be looked after, but
girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame
bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end
of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe
at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden war-
rior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly
fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean
time, Ichabod would carry on his suit with the daughter by the
side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in
the twilight, that hour so favorable to the lover's eloquence.

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and
won. To me they have always been matters of riddle and ad-
miration. 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 general-
ship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle
for his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a
thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown ;
but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette,
is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the
redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment Ichabod Crane
made his advances, the interests of the former evidently de-
clined : 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 Sleep}- Hollow.

270 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 su-
perior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him ;
he had overheard a boast of Bones, that he would u double the
schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ;"
and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was some-
thing extremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system ; it left
Brom no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic wag-
gery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes
upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical perse-
cution 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 school-house at
night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and win-
dow stakes, and turned every thing 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 opportunities of turning him into ridicule in pres-
ence 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 this way, matters went on for some time, without pro-
ducing any material effect on the relative situations of the con-
tending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in
pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usu-
ally watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. Jn
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 sundry contraband articles and prohibited weap-
ons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half-
munched apples, popguns, 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 throughout the school- room.
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

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 271

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 Tas-
sel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of impor-
tance, 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.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room.
The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stop-
ping at trifles ; those who were nimble, skipped over half with
impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application
now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them
over a tall word. Books were flung aside, without being put
away on the shelves ; inkstands 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 locks by a bit of broken
looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he
might make his appearance before his mistress 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 spirit 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 outlived almost every thing but his viciousness. He
was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a
hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted
with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and
spectral, 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
judge from his name, which was 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 lurking devil in him
than in any young filly in the country.

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with

272 TflE SKETCH-BOOK.

short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pom-
mel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshop-
pers' ; 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 flut-
tered 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 abundance. The
forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, 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 hickor3*-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 twittering 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 underclothes,
screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing,
and pretending 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, ranged with delight
over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld
vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on
the trees ; some gathered into baskets and barrels 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 holding out
the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding ; and the 3'ellow

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 273

pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round
bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects 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 slap-
jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by
the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and
u 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
Tappaii 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 uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflec-
tion of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if
the vessel was suspended in the air.

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of
the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride
and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare
leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue
stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their
brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-
waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and
pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside.
Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except-
ing where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock,
gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square-
skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their
hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially
if they could procure an eelskin 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

274 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for
preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which
kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tract-
able well-broken horse as unworthy 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 display 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 experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty
dough-nut, the tenderer oly-koek, and the crisp and 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
preserved 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 — - Heaven bless the
mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 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 proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose
spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He
could 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 splen-
dor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the
old school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itin-
erant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him
comrade !

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a
face dilated with content and good-humor, round and jolly as
the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but
expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on
the shoulder, aloud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall
to, and help themselves."

And now the sound of the music from the common room, or

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 275

hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-
headed negro, 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 two or three strings, accompanying every
movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost
to the ground, and stamping with his foot whenever a fresh
couple were to start.

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon
his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ;
and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and
clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus
himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before
you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who,
having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the
neighborhood, stood 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
drawling 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 chroni-
cle 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 fic-
tion, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make hire-
self the hero of every exploit.

There was the story pf 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 excel-
lent master of defence, parried a musket-ball with a small-
sword, insomuch that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade,

276 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 happ3r termination.

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari-
tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary
treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive
best in these sheltered, long-settled retreats ; but are trampled
under foot, by the shifting throng that forms the population
of most of our country places. Besides, there is no encourage-
ment for ghosts in most of our villages, for they have scarcely
had time to finish their first nap. and turn themselves in their
graves, before their surviving friends have travelled away from
the neighborhood : 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 except
in our long-established Dutch communities.

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super-
natural stones in these parts, was doubtless owing to the
vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very
air that blew from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an
atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Sev-
eral 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 were told about funeral trains, and mourn-
ing cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree
where the unfortunate Major Andre" 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 Rock,
and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm,
having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the
stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleepy
Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several
times of late, patrolling the country ; and it was said, tethered
his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard.

The sequestered situation of this church seems always to
have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands
on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from
among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly
forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of
retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet
of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may
be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 277

grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams 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 encoun-
tered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical
disbeliever 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 marvellous
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping
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 van-
ished 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 farmers gathered
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for
some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant
hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their
favorite swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with
the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sound-
ing fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away — and
the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.

278 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the custom of coun-
try lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress ; fully con-
vinced that he was now on the high road to success. What
passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, for in fact I
do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone
wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great inter-
val, with an air quite desolate and chopfallen — Oh, these
women ! these women ! Could that girl have been playing off
anjT 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, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to
the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he
had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with
several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncour-
teously 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 Ichabod, heavy-
hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along
the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and
which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour
was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee
spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and
there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under
the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the
barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hud-
son ; 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 long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally
awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm-house,
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 sleeping uncomfort-
ably, 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

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 279

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 Andre, who had been
taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the
name of Major Andrews 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
fa-om the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told
concerning it.

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle ;
he thought his whistle was answered : it was but a blast sweep-
ing 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 his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing
of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils
lay before him.

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 grape-
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge,
was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the
unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of
those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed
who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of a 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 forward, 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

280 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

the 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 school-
master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling
ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards, snuffling and
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sud-
denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge
caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of
the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something
huge, 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 escaping ghost or
goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of
the wind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he
demanded in stammering accents — "Who are you?" He
received no reply. He repeated his demand 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 involuntary 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 waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com-
panion, 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 compan-
ion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 281

the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky,
gigantic 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 his 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 through thick and thin ; stones flying and sparks flash-
ing 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 his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns 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 through 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 green knoll on which stands the white-
washed church.

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider
an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got
half-way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave
way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He seized it by
the pommel, and endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and
had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard
it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the
terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for
it was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty
fears : the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider
that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's back-bone, with a vio-
lence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that
the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a
silver star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not
mistaken. He saw the walls of trie church dimly glaring
under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom
Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach
that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he
heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him ;

282 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convul-
sive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the
bridge ; he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained
the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to
see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash
of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin 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
— he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder,
the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirl-
wind.

The next morning the old horse was found without his
saddle, and witli the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the
grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear-
ance at breakfast — dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The
boys assembled at the school-house, 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 Icha-
bod, 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 which, on the bank of a broad part of the
brook, where the water. ran deep and black, was found the hat
of the unfortunate Ichabod, and cFose beside it a shattered
pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster
was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, 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 dog's ears ; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the
books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the
community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft,
a New-England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-
telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled
and blotted, in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of
verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the
flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who, from that time forward,
determined to send his children no more to school ; observing

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 283

that he never knew any good come of this same reading and
writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and
he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he
must have had about his person at the time of his disappear-
ance.

The mysterious 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 years after, and from whom this account of
the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intelli-
gence 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 having 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 admitted to the bar ; turned politi-
cian ; 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, con-
ducted 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 than he chose to tell.

The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of
these matters, maintain 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 school-house, being deserted, soon fell to
decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the

284 THE SKETCH BOOK.

unfortunate pedagogue ; and the plough-boy, loitering home-
ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at
a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tran-
quil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.

POSTSCRIPT,

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER

THE preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in
which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the an-
cient city of Manhattoes,1 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 entertain-
ing. When his story was concluded there was much laughter
and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy alder-
men, 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 a-kimbo, 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, paused for a moment,
looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and
lowering the glass slowly to the table, observed that the story
was intended most logically to prove : —

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages
and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it :

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, is
likely to have rough riding of it :

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of

i New-York.

V ENVOY. 285

a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the
state."

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after
this 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 the
story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points
on which he had his doubts :

" P^aith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I
don't believe one-half of it myself."

D. K.

L'ENVOY. '

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage,
And specially let this be thy prayere,
Unto them all that thee will read or hear,
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call,
Thee to correct, in any part or all.

— CHAUCER'S Belle Dame sans Mercie.

IN concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the
Author cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence
with which his first has been received, and of the liberal dis-
position that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a
stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by
others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured
race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or
two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the
aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of
his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that
what one has particularly censured, another has as particu-
larly praised : and thus, the encomiums being set off against
the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended
far beyond its deserts.

He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this
kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally
bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice
is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go
astray. He can only say, in his vindication, that he faithfully
determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume

1 Closing the second volume of the London edition.

286 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

by the opinions passed upon his first ; but he was soon brought
to a stand by the contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly
advised him to avoid the ludicrous ; another, to shun the
pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at descrip-
tion, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth
declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story,
and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was
grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit
of humor.

Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn
closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside
to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in
fact, be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embar-
rassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on
as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and writ-
ten 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 abomina-
tion ; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and
wild fowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks
with sovereign contempt on those knickknacks, 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 and 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 some-
thing to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly
for intelligent readers like himself, but entreating him, should
he find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those
articles which the Author has been obliged to write for readers
of a less refined taste.

To be serious. — The Author is conscious of the numerous
faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little
he is disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship.
His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from
his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange
land, and appearing before a public which he has been accus-
tomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of
awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their

VENVOY. 287

approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embar-
rassing his powers, and depriving Him of that ease and confi-
dence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the
kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on,
hoping that in ti:ne 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.

A SUNDAY IN LONDON.1

IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in
the country and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape ;
but where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent
than i'n the very heart of that great Babel, London ? 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 pedestrians we meet, instead of hurry-
ing forward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along ;
their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and
care ; they have put on their Sunday looks and Sunday man-
ners 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 tradesman, the small
children in the 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 house-maid 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.

1 Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.

288 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of carriages
has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the flocks
are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and
corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps
watch, like the shepherd's dog, round the threshold of the
sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed, but soon is heard
the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating
through the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of
the choir, making them resound with melody and praise.
Never have I been more sensible 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 congregations returning to their homes, but
soon again relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday
dinner, which to the city tradesman is a meal of some impor-
tance. 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
schoolboy may be permitted on that day to come to the
paternal 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 me
there is something delightful in beholding the poor prisoner
of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus to come forth
once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of
Nature. He is like a child restored to the mother's breast,
and they who first spread out these noble parks and magnifi-
cent 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 cost in Hospitals, prisons,
and penitentiaries.

LONDON ANTIQUES. 289

LONDON ANTIQUES.

I do walk

Methinks like Guide Vaux, with my dark lanthorn,
Stealing to set the town o' fire; i' th' country
I should be taken for William o' the Wisp,
Or Robin Goodfellow.

FLETCHER.

I AM somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, and am fond of ex-
ploring London in quest of the relics of old times. These
are principally to be found in the depths of the city, swal-
lowed up and almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar,
but deriving poetical and romantic interest from the common-
place, prosaic world around them. I was struck with an in-
stance 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 come upon an oasis
amid the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the
quiet and coolness of the place soothed my nerves and re-
freshed 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

290 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 forgetfulness.

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
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 and
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, 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 yel-
low sunshine, checkered here and there by tints from panes
of colored glass, while an open casement let in the soft sum-
mer 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 evi-
dently been of monastic origin ; perhaps one of those colle-
giate 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

LONDON ANTIQUES. 291

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
arid 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 mantles, sometimes sauntering alone, sometimes
conversing in groups ; they appeared to be the pervading
genii of the place. I now called to, mind what I had read of
certain colleges in old times, where judicial astrology, geo-
mancy, 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 warfare, strange
idols, and stuffed alligators ; bottled serpents and monsters
decorated the mantelpiece ; 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 chamber,
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 re-
garded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb, and the

292 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

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 magical 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 metamorphose me into
some strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles
on his mantelpiece ? He proved, however, to be anything but
a conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the
magic and mystery with which I had enveloped this anti-
quated 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 decayed
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 retained 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, turned out to be the pen-
sioners 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 simple 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 Halluin was profoundly ignorant, and a broken-
do wri gentleman who had run through a fortune of forty thou-
sand 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 tne 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 munifi-
cence, and kept up with the quaintness and sanctity of

LONDON ANTIQUES. 293

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, clothing, fuel,
and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine to-
gether, as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been
the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the estab-
lishment is a school for forty-four boys.

Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking
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 Stow, "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 a snuff-colored coat, with whom I . became acquainted
shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was
a little dubious at first whether it was not one of those apoc-
ryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring 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 considered merely as a foretaste.1

1 This refers to the article entitled " Little Britain." See page 182.

APPENDIX.

NOTE 1.- POSTSCRIPT TO RIP VAN WINKLE.

following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr.
Knickerbocker:

The Kaatsberg, or Catskjill Mountains, have always been a region full
of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who in-
fluenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape
and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old
squaw spirit, said to be 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 pro-
pitiated, 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 dis-
pleased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the
midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and
when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys!

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 bear, 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 neigh-
borhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of
it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes
basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies, which lie on the sur-
face. 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 beheld 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 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 Kaaterskill.

295

296 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

NOTE 2. — NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the domin-
ion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope Gregory
the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths exposed
fdr sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the race, and
determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among these comely
but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by learning that
Ethelbert, king of Kent and the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes,
had married Bertha, 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 forty
associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect the conver-
sion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the island.

Ethelbert 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;
the conversion of the king of course produced the conversion of his loyal
subjects. The zeal and success 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 Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of which
Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with Augustine,
was made bishop.

Sebert in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river-
side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in
fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. Great prepa-
rations were made for the consecration of the church, which was to be
dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day Mellitus,
the bishop, proceeded with great pomp and solemnity to perform the
ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who
informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over.
The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate
that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter
appeared to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church
himself that very night. The apostle accordingly 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 fisherman 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 confirmation 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 lingering doubts,
they were completely removed 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-

APPENDIX. 297

secrated by St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from proceed-
ing 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 recon-
struction, by Henry III. in 1220, and began to assume its present
appearance.

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch
turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues.

RELICS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.

A curious 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 officiated
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
King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin which was indis-
tinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None
of the abbey gossips, 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, being secured by bands of iron.

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the coro-
nation 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 circumstance came to the knowledge
of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the abbey in com-
pany with two friends of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspect-
ing the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and
found, as had been represented, a hole in the lia 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 crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed to a gold chain
twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive 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 mewed 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 there-
to showed it was wellnigh perished. There were all his bones, and much
dust likewise, which I left as I found."

298 THE SKETCH-BOOK.

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than
the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its
coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him
through a hole in the lid.

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain
back again into the coffin, and sought the dean to apprise him of his dis-
covery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that the
" holy treasure " might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother-
chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or three hours after-
wards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These he after-
wards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subsequently had
the old coffin enclosed in a new one of great strength, " each plank being
two inches thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where it
now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might
be offered to the sacred ashes therein reposited."

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description of
it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British
writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. 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." — MALCOLM,
Lond. rediv.

INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN
THE SKETCH.

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Dutchess his second
wife, by whom he 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 virtuous. This Dutchess 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 after-
noon 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 tran-
septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of the
choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the oaken 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 sepulchral 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

APPENDIX. 299

shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim sepulchral mon-
uments," and leaving all behind in darkness.

On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's Yard,
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.

The cloisters are well worth visiting by moonlight when the moon is in
the full.

NOTE 3, PAGE 181. — THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.

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 customs 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.

NOTE 4, PAGE 206.- STRATFORD ON AVON.

This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete
armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the fol-
lowing inscription ; which, if really composed by her husband, places
him quite above the intellectual level of Master Shallow :

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charle-
cot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas
Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out
of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February
in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60 and three. All the time
of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never detected
of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband
most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust
was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In govern-
ing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did con-
verse with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospi-
tality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the
envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished
with virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any.
As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by
him yt best did knowe what hath byn written, to be true.

Thomas Lucye.

THE

CRAYON PAPERS.

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING.

NEW YORK: 46 EAST HTH STKEET.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & COMPANY.

BOSTON : 100 PURCHASE STREET.

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

MOUNT.IOY 3

THE GR'EAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE 38

DON JUAN 65

BKOEK 73

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 182» 78

AMERICAN RESEARCHES IN ITALY 96

THE TAKING OP THE VEIL 100

THE EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGAVOOD 110

THE SEMINOLES 137

THE CONSPIRACY OP NEAMATHLA 142

LETTER FROM GRANADA 148

ABDERAHMAN 153

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL 171

THE CREOLE VILLAGE . 181

A CONTENTED MAN , 188

THE CEAYON PAPERS.

BY

GEOFFEEY CRAYON, GENT.

MOUNT JOY :

OR SOME PASSAGES OUT OP THE LIFE OF A CASTLE-BUILDER.

I WAS born among romantic scenery, in one of the wildest
parts of the Hudson, which at that time was not so thickly set-
tled as at present. My father was descended from one of the
old Huguenot families, that came over to this country on the
revocation of the edict of Nantz. He lived in a style of easy,
rural independence, on a patrimonial estate that had been for
two or three generations in the family. He was an indolent,
good-natured man, who took the world as it went, and had a
kind of laughing philosophy, that parried all rubs and mishaps,
and served him in the place of wisdom. This was the part of
his character least to my taste ; for I was of an enthusiastic,
excitable temperament, prone to kindle up with new schemes
and projects, and he was apt to dash my sallying enthusiasm by
some unlucky joke ; so that whenever I was in a glow with any
sudden excitement, I stood in mortal dread of his good-humor.

Yet he indulged me in every vagary ; for I was an only son,
and of course a personage of importance in the household. I
had two sisters older than myself, and one younger. The former
were educated at New York, under the eye of a maiden aunt ;
the latter remained at home, and was my cherished playmate,
the companion of my thoughts. We were two imaginative little
beings, of quick susceptibility, and prone to see wonders and
mysteries in everything around us. Scarce had we learned to
read, when our mother made us holiday presents of all the
nursery literature of the day ; which at that time consisted of

3

4 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

little books covered with gilt paper, adorned with " cuts," and
filled with tales of fairies, giants, and enchanters. What
draughts of delightful fiction did we then inhale ! My sister
Sophy was of a soft and tender nature. She would weep over
the woes of the Children in the Wood, or quake at the dark
romance of Blue-Beard, and the terrible mysteries of the blue
chamber. But I was all for enterprise and adventure. I burned
to emulate the deeds of that heroic .prince who delivered the
white cat from her enchantment ; or he of no less royal blood>
and doughty emprise, who broke the charmed slumber of the
Beauty in the Wood !

The house in which we lived was just the kind of place to
foster such propensities. It was a venerable mansion, half villa,
half farmhouse. The oldest part was of stone, with loop-holes
for musketry, having served as a family fortress in the time of
the Indians. To this there had been made various additions,
some of brick, some of wood, according to the exigencies of
the moment ; so that it was full of nooks and crooks, and cham-
bers of all sorts and sizes. It was buried among willows, elms,
and cherry trees, and surrounded with roses and hollyhocks, with
honeysuckle and sweet-brier clambering about every window. A
brood of hereditary pigeons sunned themselves upon the roof ;
hereditary swallows and martins built about the eaves and chim-
neys ; and hereditary bees hummed about the flower-beds.

Under the influence of our story-books every object around
us now assumed a new character, and a charmed interest. The
wild flowers were no longer the mere ornaments of the fields, or
the resorts of the toilful bee ; they were the lurking places of
fairies. We would watch the humming-bird, as it hovered
around the trumpet creeper at our porch, and the butterfly as it
flitted up into the blue air, above the sunny tree tops, and fancy
them some of the tiny beings from fairyland. I would call to
mind all that I had read of Robin Goodfellow and his power of
transformation. Oh, how I envied him that power ! How I
longed to be able to compress my form into utter littleness.; to
ride the bold dragon-fly ; swing on the tall bearded grass ; follow
the ant into his subterraneous habitation, or dive into the caver-
nous depths of the honeysuckle !

While I was yet a mere child I was sent to a daily school,
about two miles distant. The schoolhouse was on the edge of
a wood, close by a brook overhung with birches, alders, and
dwarf willows. We of the school who lived at some distance
came with our dinners put up in little baskets. In the intervals
of school hours we would gather round a spring, under a tuft

MOUNT JOY. 5

of hazel-bushes, and have a kind of picnic ; interchanging the
rustic dainties with which our provident mothers had fitted us
out. Then when our joyous repast was over, and my compan-
ions were disposed for play, I would draw forth one of my cher-
ished story-books, stretch myself on the greensward, and soon
lose myself in its bewitching contents.

I became an oracle among my schoolmates on account of my
superior erudition, and soon imparted to them the contagion of
my infected fancy. Often in the evening, after school hours,
we would sit on the trunk of some fallen tree in the woods, and
vie with each other in telling extravagant stories, until the whip-
poor-will began his nightly moaning, and the fire-Hies sparkled
in the gloom. Then came the perilous journey homeward.
What delight we would take in getting up wanton panics in some
dusky part of the wood ; scampering like frightened deer ; paus-
ing to take breath ; renewing the panic, and scampering off
again, wild with fictitious terror !

Our greatest trial was to pass a dark, lonely pool, covered
with pond-lilies, peopled with bull- frogs and water snakes, and
haunted by two white cranes. Oh ! the terrors of that pond !
How our little hearts would beat as we approached it ; what
fearful glances we would throw around ! And if by chance a
plash of a wild duck, or the guttural twang of a bull-frog,
struck our ears, as we stole quietly by — away we sped, nor
paused until completely out of the woods. Then, when I reached
home, what a world of adventures and imaginary terrors would
I have to relate to my sister Sophy !

As I advanced in years, this turn of mind increased upon me,
and became more confirmed. I abandoned myself to the im-
pulses of a romantic imagination, which controlled my studies,
and gave a bias to all my habits. My father observed me con-
tinually with a book in my hand, and satisfied himself that I
was a profound student ; but what were my studies ? Works of
fiction ; tales of chivalry ; voyages of discovery ; travels in the
East ; everything, in short, that partook of adventure and
romance. I well remember with what zest I entered upon that
part of my studies which treated of the heathen mythology, and
particularly of the sylvan deities. Then indeed my school books
became dear to me. The neighborhood was well calculated to
foster the reveries of a mind like mine. It abounded with soli-
tary retreats, wild streams, solemn forests, and silent valleys.
I would ramble about for a whole day with a volume of Ovid's
Metamorphoses in my pocket, and work myself into a kind of
self-delusion, so as to identify the surrounding scenes with those

6 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

of which I had just been reading. I would loiter about a brook
that glided through the shadowy depths of the forest, picturing
it to" myself the haunt of Naiads. I would steal round some
bushy copse that opened upon a glade, as if I expected to come
suddenly upon Diana and her nymphs, or to behold Pan and his
satyrs bounding, with whoop and halloo, through the woodland.
I would throw myself, during the panting heats of a summer
noon, under the shade of some wide-spreading tree, and muse
and dream away the hours, in a state of mental intoxication. I
drank in the very light of day, as nectar, and my soul seemed
to bathe with ecstasy in the deep blue of a summer sky.

In these wanderings, nothing occurred to jar my feelings, or
bring me back to the realities of life. There is a repose in our
mighty forests that gives full scope to the imagination. Now
and then I would hear the distant sound of the wood-cutter's
axe, or the crash of some tree which he had laid low ; but these
noises, echoing along the quiet landscape, could easily be wrought
by fancy into harmony with its illusions. In general, however,
the woody recesses of the neighborhood were peculiarly wild and
unfrequented. I could ramble for a whole day, without coming
upon any traces of cultivation. The partridge of the wood
scarcely seemed to shun my path, and the squirrel, from his nut-
tree, would gaze at me for an instant, with sparkling eye, as if
wondering at the unwonted intrusion.

I cannot help dwelling on this delicious period of my life ;
when as yet I had known no sorrow, nor experienced any world-
ly care. I have since studied much, both of books and men,
and of course have grown too wise to be so easily pleased ; yet
with all my wisdom, I must confess I look back with a secret
feeling of regret to the days of happy ignorance, before I had
begun to be a philosopher.

It must be evident that I was in a hopeful training for one
who was to descend into the arena of life, and wrestle with the
world. The tutor, also, who superintended my studies in the
more advanced stage of my education was just fitted to complete
the fata morgana which was forming in my mind. His name
was Glencoe. He was a pale, melancholy-looking man, about
forty years of age ; a native of Scotland, liberally educated,
and who had devoted himself to the instruction of youth from
taste rather than necessity ; for, as he said, he loved the human
heart, and delighted to study it in its earlier impulses. My two
elder sisters, having returned home from a city boarding-school,

MOUNT JOT. 7

were likewise placed under his care, to direct their reading in
history and belles-lettres.

We all soon became attached to Glencoe. It is true, we were
at first somewhat prepossessed against him. His meagre, pallid
countenance, his broad pronunciation, his inattention to the little
forms of society, and an awkward and embarrassed manner, on
first acquaintance, were much against him ; but we soon discov-
ered that under this unpromising exterior existed the kindest
urbanity of temper ; the warmest sympathies ; the most enthu-
siastic benev61ence. His mind was ingenious and acute. His
reading had been various, but more abstruse than profound ; his
memory was stored, on all subjects, with facts, theories, and
quotations, and crowded with crude materials for thinking.
These, in a moment of excitement, would be, as it were, melted
down, and poured forth in the lava of a heated imagination. At
such moments, the change in the whole man was wonderful. His
meagre form would acquire a dignity and grace ; his long, pale
visage wo'uld flash with a hectic glow ; his eyes would beam with
intense speculation ; and there would be pathetic tones and deep
modulations in his voice, that delighted the ear, and spoke mov-
ingly to the heart.

But what most endeared him to us was the kindness and sym-
pathy with which he entered into all our interests and wishes.
Instead of curbing and checking our young imaginations with
the reins of sober reason, he was a little too apt to catch the
impulse and be hurried away with us. He could not withstand
the excitement of any sally of feeling or fancy, and was prone
to lend heightening tints to the illusive coloring of youthful
anticipations.

Under his guidance my sisters and myself soon entered upon
a more extended range of studies ; but while they wandered,
with delighted minds, through the wide field of history and
belles-lettres, a nobler walk was opened to my superior intel-
lect.

The mind of Glencoe presented a singular mixture of philoso-
phy and poetry. He was fond of metaphysics and prone to
indulge in abstract speculations, though his metaphysics were
somewhat fine spun and fanciful, and his speculations were apt
to partake of what my father most irreverently termed " hum-
bug." For my part, I delighted in them, and the more espe-
cially because they set my father to sleep and completely con-
founded my sisters. I entered with my accustomed eagerness
into this new branch of study. Metaphysics were now my
passion. My sisters attempted to accompany me, but they soon

8 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

faltered, and gave out before they had got half way through
Smith's Theory of the Moral Sentiments. I, however, went on,
exulting in my strength. Glencoe supplied me with books, and
I devoured them with appetite, if not digestion. We walked
and talked together under the trees before the house, or sat
apart, like Milton's angels, and held high converse upon themes
beyond the grasp of ordinary intellects. Glencoe possessed a
kind of philosophic chivalry, in imitation of the old peripatetic
sages, and was continually dreaming of romantic enterprises in
morals, and splendid systems for the improvement of society.
He had a fanciful mode of illustrating abstract subjects, pecul-
iarly to my taste ; clothing them with the language of poetry,
and throwing round them almost the magic hues of fiction.
"How charming," thought I, "is divine philosophy;" not
harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,

" But a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,
Where no crude surfeit reigns."

I felt a wonderful self-complacency at being on such excel-
lent terms with a man whom I considered on a parallel with the
sages of antiquity, and looked down with a sentiment of pity on
the feebler intellects of my sisters, who could comprehend noth-
ing of metaphysics. It is true, when I attempted to study them
by myself, I was apt to get in a fog ; but when Glencoe came
to my aid, every thing was soon as clear to me as day. My ear
drank in the beauty of his words ; my imagination was dazzled
with the splendor of his illustrations. It caught up the spar-
kling sands of poetry that glittered through his speculations, and
mistook them for the golden ore of wisdom. Struck with the
facility with which I seemed to imbibe and relish the most
abstract doctrines, I conceived a still higher opinion of my
mental powers, and was convinced that I also was a philosopher,

I was now verging toward man's estate, and though my edu-
cation had been extremely irregular — following the caprices of
my humor, which I mistook for the impulses of my genius —
yet I was regarded with wonder and delight by my mother and
sisters, who considered me almost as wise and infallible as I
consider myself. This high opinion of me was strengthened
by a declamatory habit, which made me an oracle and orator at
the domestic board. The time was now at hand, however, that
was to put my philosophy to the test.

We had passed through a long winter, and the spring at length
opened upon us with unusual sweetness. The soft serenity of

MOUNT JOY. 9

the weather ; the beauty of the surrounding country ; the joyous
notes of the birds ; the balmy breath of flower and blossom, all
combined to fill my bosom with indistinct sensations, and name-
less wishes. Amid the soft seductions of the season, I lapsed
into a state of utter indolence, both of body and mind.

Philosophy had lost its charms for me. Metaphysics — faugh !
I tried to study ; took down volume after volume, ran my eye
vacantly over a few pages, and threw them by with distaste. I
loitered about the house, with my hands in my pockets, and an
air of complete vacancy. Something was necessary to make me
happy ; but what was that something ? I sauntered to the apart-
ments of my sisters, hoping their conversation might amuse me.
They had walked out, and the room was vacant. On the table
lay a volume which they had been reading. It was a novel. I had
never read a novel, having conceived a contempt for works of
the kind, from hearing them universally condemned. It is true,
I had remarked they were universally read ; but I considered
them beneath the attention of a philosopher, and never would
venture to read them, lest I should lessen my mental superi-
ority in the eyes of my sisters. Nay, I had taken up a
work of the kind now and then, when I knew my sisters were
observing me, looked into it for a moment, and then laid it
down, with a slight supercilious smile. On the present occasion,
out of mere listlessness, I took up the volume and turned over
a few of the first pages. I thought I heard some one coming,
and laid it down. 1 was mistaken ; no one was near, and what
I had read, tempted my curiosity to read a little further. I
leaned against a window-frame, and in a few minutes was com-
pletely lost in the story. How long I stood there reading I know
not, but I believe for nearly two hours. Suddenly I heard my
sisters on the stairs, when I thrust the book into my bosom, and
the two other volumes which lay near into my pockets, and
hurried out of the house to my beloved woods. Here I remained
all day beneath the trees, bewildered, bewitched, devouring the
contents of these delicious volumes, and only returned to the
house when it was too dark to peruse their pages.

This novel finished, I replaced it in my sisters' apartment, and
looked for others. Their stock was ample, for they had brought
home all that were current in the city ; but my appetite demand-
ed an immense supply. All this course of reading was carried
on clandestinely, for I was a little ashamed of it, and fearful
that my wisdom might be called in question ; but this very pri-
vacy gave it additional zest. It was " bread eaten in secret ; "
it had the charm of a private amour.

10 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

But think what must have been the effect of such a course of
reading on a youth of my temperament and turn of mind ; in-
dulged, too, amid romantic scenery and in the romantic season
of the year. It seemed as if I had entered upon a new scene
of existence. A train of combustible feelings were lighted up
in me, and my soul was all tenderness and passion. Never was
youth more completely love-sick, though as yet it was a mere
general sentiment, and wanted a definite object. Unfortunately,
our neighborhood was particularly deficient in female society,
and I languished in vain for some divinity to whom I might offer
up this most uneasy burden of affections. I was at one time
seriously enamoured of a lady whom I saw occasionally in my
rides, reading at the window of a country-seat; and actually
serenaded her with my flute ; when, to my confusion, I discov-
ered that she was old enough to be my mother. It was a sad
damper to my romance ; especially as my father heard of it, and
made it the subject of one of those household jokes which he
was apt to serve up at every meal-time.

I soon recovered from this check, however, but it was only to
relapse into a state of amorous excitement. I passed whole
days in the fields, and along the brooks ; for there is something
in the tender passion that makes us alive to the beauties of
nature. A soft sunshiny morning infused a sort of rapture into
my breast. I flung open my arms, like the Grecian youth in
Ovid, as if I would take in and embrace the balmy atmosphere.1
The song of the birds melted me to tenderness. I would lie by
the side of some rivulet for hours, and form garlands of the
flowers on its banks, and muse on ideal beauties, and sigh from
the crowd of undefined emotions that swelled my bosom.

In this state of amorous delirium, I was strolling one morn-
ing along a beautiful wild brook, which I had discovered in a
glen. There was one place where a small waterfall, leaping
from among rocks into a natural basin, made a scene such as a
poet might have chosen as the haunt of some shy Naiad. It
was here I usually retired to banquet on my novels. In visiting
the place this morning I traced distinctly, on the margin of the
basin, which was of fine clear sand, the prints of a female foot
of the most slender and delicate proportions. This was suffi-
cient for an imagination like mine. Robinson Crusoe himself,
when he discovered the print of a savage foot on the beach of
his lonely island, could not have been more suddenly assailed
with thick-coming fancies.

1 Ovid's Metamorphoses, Book VII.

MOUNTJOT.

11

I endeavored to track the steps, but they only passed for a
few paces along the fine sand, and then were lost among the
herbage. I remained gazing in revery upon this passing trace
of loveliness. It evidently was not made by any of my sisters,
for they knew nothing of this haunt ; beside, the foot was
smaller than theirs ; it was remarkable for its beautiful deli-
cacy.

My eye accidentally caught two or three half -withered wild
flowers lying on the ground. The unknown nymph had
doubtless dropped them from her bosom ! Here was a new
document of taste and sentiment. I treasured them up as
invaluable relics. The place, too, where I found them, was
remarkably picturesque, and the most beautiful part of the
brook. It was overhung with a fine elm, intwined with grape-
vines. She who could select such a spot, who could delight in
wild brooks, and wild flowers, and silent solitudes, must have
fancy, and feeling, and tenderness ; and with all these qualities,
she must be beautiful !

But who could be this Unknown, that had thus passed by, as
in a morning dream, leaving merely flowers and fairy footsteps
to tell of her loveliness ? There was a mystery in it that be-
wildered me. It was so vague and disembodied, like those
" airy tongues that syllable men's names " in solitude. Every
attempt to solve the mystery was vain. I could hear of no
being in the neighborhood to whom this trace could be ascribed.
I haunted the spot, and became daily more and more enamoured.
Never, surely, was passion more pure and spiritual, and never
lover in more dubious situation. My case could be compared
only to that of the amorous prince in the fairy tale of Cinder-
ella ; but he had a glass slipper on which to lavish his tender-
ness. I, alas ! was in love with a footstep !

The imagination is alternately a cheat and a dupe ; nay,
more, it is the most subtle of cheats, for it cheats itself and
becomes the dupe of its own delusions. It conjures up " airy
nothings," gives to them a " local habitation and a name," and
then bows to their control as implicitly as though they were
realities. Such was now my case. The good Numa could not
more thoroughly have persuaded himself that the nymph
Egeria hovered about her sacred fountain and communed with
him in spirit, than I had deceived myself into a kind of vision-
ary intercourse with the airy phantom fabricated in my brain.

12 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

I constructed a rustic seat at the foot of the tree where I had
discovered the footsteps. I made a kind of bower ther,e, where
I used to pass my mornings reading poetry and romances. I
carved hearts and darts on the tree, and hung it with garlands.
My heart was full to overflowing, and wanted some faithful
bosom into which it might relieve itself. What is a lover
without a confidante ? I thought at once of my sister Sophy,
my early playmate, the sister of my affections. She was so
reasonable, too, and of such correct feelings, always listening
to my words as oracular sayings, and admiring my scraps of
poetry as the very inspirations of the muse. From such a de-
voted, such a rational being, what secrets could I have?

I accordingly took her one morning to my favorite retreat.
She looked around, with delighted surprise, upon the rustic
seat, the bower, the tree carved with emblems of the tender
passion. She turned her eyes upon me to inquire the mean-
ing.

" Oh, Sophy," exclaimed I, clasping both her hands in mine,
and looking earnestly in her face, " I am in love."

She started with surprise.

44 Sit down," said I, 44 and I will tell you all."

She seated herself upon the rustic bench, and I went into a
full history of the footstep, with all the associations of idea
that had been conjured up by my imagination.

Sophy was enchanted ; it was like a fairy tale ; she had read
of such mysterious visitations in books, and the loves thus con-
ceived were always for beings of superior order, and were
always happy. She caught the illusion in all its force ; her
cheek glowed ; her eye brightened.

44 1 dare say she's pretty," said Sophy.

44 Pretty ! " echoed I, " she is beautiful ! " I went through
all the reasoning by which I had logically proved the fact to my
own satisfaction. I dwelt upon the evidences of her taste, her
sensibility to the beauties of nature ; her soft meditative habit,
that delighted in solitude. 4'Oh," said I, clasping my hands,
6 ' to have such a companion to wander through these scenes ;
to sit with her by this murmuring stream ; to wreathe garlands
round her brows ; to hear the music of her voice mingling with
the whisperings of these groves ; — "

"Delightful! delightful!" cried Sophy; "what a swe'et
creature she must be ! She is just the friend I want. How
I shall dote upon her ! Oh, my dear brother ! you must not
keep her all to yourself. You must let me have some share of
her!"

MOUNT JOT. 13

I caught her to my bosom : " You shall — you shall ! " cried
I, " my dear Sophy ; we will all live for each other ! "

The conversation with Sophy heightened the illusions of my
mind ; and the manner in which she had treated my day-dream
identified it with facts and persons and gave it still more the
stamp of reality. I walked about as one in a trance, heedless
of the world around, and lapped in an elysium of the fancy.

In this mood I met one morning with Glencoe. He accosted
me with his usual smile, and was proceeding with some general
observations, but paused and fixed on me an inquiring eye.

"What is the matter with you?" said he, "you seem agi-
tated ; has anything in particular happened? "

" Nothing," said I, hesitating ; " at least nothing worth com-
municating to you."

'"Nay, my dear young friend," said he, "whatever is of
sufficient importance to agitate you is worthy of being com-
municated to me."

"Well; but my thoughts are running on what you would
think a frivolous subject."

" No subject is frivolous that has the power to awaken strong
feelings."

"What think you," said I, hesitating, "what think you of
love?"

Glencoe almost started at the question. "Do you call that
a frivolous subject?" replied he. "Believe me, there is none
fraught with such deep, such vital interest. If you talk,
indeed, of the capricious inclination awakened by the mere
charm of perishable beauty, I grant it to be idle in the extreme ;
but that love which springs from the concordant sympathies of
virtuous hearts ; that love which is awakened by the perception
of moral excellence, and fed by meditation on intellectual as
well as personal beauty ; that is a passion which refines and en-
nobles the human heart. Oh, where is there a sight more nearly
approaching to the intercourse of angels, than that of two
young beings, free from the sins and follies of the world, min-
gling pure thoughts, and looks, and feelings, and becoming as it
were soul of one soul and heart of one heart ! How exquisite
the silent converse that they hold ; the soft devotion of the eye,
that needs no words to make it eloquent ! Yes, my friend, if
there be any thing in this weary world worthy of heaven, it is
the pure bliss of such a mutual affection ! "

14 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

The words of my worthy tutor overcame all further reserve.
" Mr. Glencoe," cried I, blushing still deeper, "I am in love."

" And is that what you were ashamed to tell me? Oh, never
seek to conceal from your friend so important a secret. If your
passion be unworthy, it is for the steady hand of friendship
to pluck it forth ; if honorable, none but an enemy would seek to
stifle it. On nothing does the character and happiness so much
depend as on the first affection of the heart. Were you caught
by some fleeting and superficial charm — a bright eye, a bloom-
ing cheek, a soft voice, or a voluptuous form — I would warn
you to beware ; I would tell you that beauty is but a passing
gleam of the morning, a perishable flower ; that accident may
becloud and blight it, and that at best it must soon pass away.
But were you in love with such a one as I could describe ; young
in years, but still younger in feelings ; lovely in person, but as
a type of the mind's beauty ; soft in voice, in token of gentle-
ness of spirit ; blooming in countenance, like the rosy tints of
morning kindling with the promise of a genial day ; an eye
beaming with the benignity of a happy heart ; a cheerful temper,
alive to all kind impulses, and frankly diffusing its own felicity ;
a self -poised mind, that needs not lean on others for support ;
an elegant taste, that can embellish solitude, and furnish out its
own enjoyments — ' '

"My dear sir," cried I, for I could contain myself no
longer, "• you have described the very person ! "

"Why, then, my dear young friend," said he, affectionately
pressing my hand, " in God's name, love on ! "

For the remainder of the day I was in some such state of
dreamy beatitude as a Turk is said to enjoy when under the
influence of opium. It must be already manifest how prone I
was to bewilder myself with picturings of the fancy, so as to
confound them with existing realities. In the present instance,
Sophy and Glencoe had contributed to promote the transient
delusion. Sophy, dear girl, had as usual joined with me in my
castle-building, and indulged in the same train of imaginings,
while Glencoe, duped by my enthusiasm, firmly believed that I
spoke of a being I had seen and known. By their sympathy
with my feelings they in a manner became associated with the
Unknown in my mind, and thus linked her with the circle of my
intimacy.

In the evening, our family party was assembled in the hall, to

MOUNT JOY. 15

enjoy the refreshing breeze. Sophy was playing some favorite
Scotch airs on the piano, while Glencoe, seated apart, with his
forehead resting on his hand, was buried in one of those pensive
reveries that made him so interesting to me.

" What a fortunate being I am ! " thought I, " blessed with
such a sister and such a friend ! I have only to find out this
amiable Unknown, to wed her, and be happy ! What a paradise
will be my home, graced with a partner of such exquisite refine-
ment ! It will be a perfect fairy bower, buried among sweets
and roses. Sophy shall live with us, and be the companion of
all our enjoyments. Glencoe, too, shall no more be the solitary
being that he now appears. He shall have a home with us. He
shall have his study, where, when he pleases, he may shut him-
self up from the world, and bury himself in his own reflections.
His retreat shall be sacred ; no one shall intrude there ; no one
but myself, who will visit him now and then, in his seclusion,
where we will devise grand schemes together for the improve-
ment of mankind. How delightfully our days will pass, in a
round of rational pleasures and elegant employments ! Some-
times we will have music ; sometimes we will read ; sometimes
we will wander through the flower garden, when I will smile with
complacency on every flower my wife has planted ; while in the
long winter evenings the ladies will sit at their work, and listen
with hushed attention to Glencoe and myself, as we discuss the
abstruse doctrines of metaphysics."

From this delectable revery, I was startled by my father's
slapping me on the shoulder : " What possesses the lad ? " cried
he ; " here have I been speaking to you half a dozen tfmes, with-
out receiving an answer."

"Pardon me, sir," replied I; "I was so completely lost in
thought, that I did not hear you."

"Lost in thought! And pray what were you thinking of?
Some of your philosophy, I suppose."

"Upon my word," said my sister Charlotte, with an arch
laugh, " I suspect Harry's in love again."

"And if I were in love, Charlotte," said I, somewhat net-
tled, and recollecting Glencoe's enthusiastic eulogy of the pas-
sion, " if I were in love, is that a matter of jest and laughter?
Is the tenderest and most fervid affection that can animate the
human breast, to be made a matter of cold-hearted ridicule?"

My sister colored. "Certainly not, brother ! — nor did I mean
to make it so, nor to pny anything that should wound youi feel-
ings. Had I really suspected you had formed some genuine
attachment, it would have been sacred in my eyes ; but — but,"

16 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

said she, smiling, as if at some, whimsical recollection, " I thought
that you — you might be indulging in another little freak of the
imagination."

"I'll wager any money," cried my father, " he has fallen in
love again with some old lady at a window ! ' '

" Oh no ! " cried my dear sister Sophy, with the most gracious
warmth ; " she is young and beautiful."

"From what I understand," said Glencoe, rousing himself,
" she must be lovely in mind as in person."

I found my friends were getting me into a fine scrape. I began
to perspire at every pore, and felt my ears tingle.

"Well, but," cried my father, "who is she? — what is she?
Let us hear something about her."

This was no time to explain so delicate a matter. I caught
up my hat, and vanished out of the house.

The moment I was in the open air, and alone, my heart up-
braided me. Was this respectful treatment to my" father — to
such a father, too — who had always regarded me as the pride
of his age — the staff of his hopes? It is true, he was apt some-
times to laugh at my enthusiastic flights, and did not treat my
philosophy with due respect ; but when had he ever thwarted a
wish of my heart? Was I then to act with reserve toward him,
in a matter which might affect the whole current of my future
life? " I have done wrong," thought I ; " but it is not too late
to remedy it. I will hasten back and open my whole heart to
my father ! ' '

I returned accordingly, and was just on the point of entering
the house/with my heart full of filial piety, and a contrite speech
upon my lips, when I heard a burst of obstreperous laughter
from my father, and a loud titter from my two elder sisters.

" A footstep ! " shouted he, as soon as he could recover him-
self; "in love with a footstep! Why, this beats the old lady
at the window ! " And then there was another appalling burst
of laughter. Had it been a clap of thunder, it could hardly have
astounded me more completely. Sophy, in the simplicity of her
heart, had told all, and had set my father's risible propensities
in full action.

Never was poor mortal so thoroughly crestfallen as myself.
The whole delusion was at an end. I drew off silently from the
house, shrinking smaller and smaller at every fresh peal of
laughter ; and wandering about until the family had retired,
stole quietly to my bed. Scarce any sleep, however, visited my
eyes that night ! I lay overwhelmed with mortification, and
meditating how I might meet the family in the morning. The

MOUNT JOY. 17

idea of ridicule was always intolerable to me ; but to endure it
on a subject by which my feelings had been so much excited,
seemed worse than death. I almost determined, at one time, to
get up, saddle my horse, and ride off, I knew not whither.

At length I came to a resolution. Before going down to break-
fast, I sent for Sophy, and employed her as ambassador to treat
formally in the matter. I insisted that the subject should be
buried in oblivion ; otherwise I would not show my face at table.
It was readily agreed to ; for not one of the family would have
given me pain for the world. They faithfully kept their promise.
Not a word was said of the matter ; but there were wry faces,
and suppressed titters, that went to my soul ; and whenever my
father looked me in the face, it was with such a tragic-comical
leer — such an attempt to pull down a serious brow upon a
whimsical mouth — that I had a thousand times rather he had
laughed outright.

For a day or two after the mortifying occurrence just related,
I kept as much as possible out of the way of the family, and
wandered about the fields and woods by myself. I was sadly
out of tune ; my feelings were all jarred and unstrung. The
birds sang from every grove, but I took no pleasure in their
melody ; and the flowers of the field bloomed unheeded around
me. To be crossed in love, is bad enough ; but then one can
fly to poetry for relief, and turn one's woes to account in soul-
subduing stanzas. But to have one's whole passion, object and
all, annihilated, dispelled, proved to be such stuff as dreams are
made of — or, worse than all, to be turned into a proverb and a
jest — what consolation is there in such a case ?

I avoided the fatal brook where I had seen the footstep. My
favorite resort was now the banks of the Hudson, where I sat
upon the rocks and mused upon the current that dimpled by, or
the waves that laved the shore ; or watched the bright mutations
of the clouds, and the shifting lights and shadows of the distant
mountain. By degrees a returning serenity stole over my feel-
ings ; and a sigh now and then, gentle and easy, and unattended
by pain, showed that my heart was recovering its susceptibility.

As I was sitting in this musing mood my eye became gradually
fixed upon an object that was borne along by the'tide. It proved
to be a little pinnace, beautifully modelled, and gayly painted
and decorated. It was an unusual sight in this neighborhood,
which was rather lonely ; indeed, it was rare to see any pleas-
ure-barks in this part of the river. As it drew nearer, I per-

18 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

ceived that there was no one on board ; it had apparently drifted
from its anchorage. There was not a breath of air ; the little
bark came floating along on the glassy stream, wheeling about
with the eddies. At length it ran aground, almost at the foot
of the rock on which I was seated. I descended to the margin
of the river, and drawing the bark to shore, admired its light
and elegant proportions and the taste with which it was fitted
up. The benches were covered with cushions, and its long
streamer was of silk. On one of the cushions lay a lady's glove,
of delicate size and shape, with beautifully tapered fingers. I
instantly seized it and thrust it in my bosom ; it seemed a match
for the fairy footstep that had so fascinated me.

In a moment all the romance of my bosom was again in a
glow. Here was one of the very incidents of fairy tale ; a bark
sent by some invisible power, some good genius, or benevolent
fairy, to waft me to some delectable adventure. I recollected
something of an enchanted bark, drawn by white swans, that
conveyed a knight down the current of the Rhine, on some
enterprise connected with love and beauty. The glove, too,
showed that there was a lady fair concerned in the present
adventure. It might be a gauntlet of defiance, to dare me to
the enterprise.

In the spirit of romance and the whim of the moment, I
sprang on board, hoisted the light sail, and pushed from shore.
As if breathed by some presiding power, a light breeze at that
moment sprang up, swelled out the sail, and dallied with the
silken streamer. For a time I glided along under steep umbra-
geous banks, or across deep sequestered bays ; and then stood
out over a wide expansion of the river toward a high rocky
promontory. It was a lovely evening ; the sun was setting in
a congregation of clouds that threw the whole heavens in a glow,
and were reflected in the river. I delighted myself with all
kinds of fantastic fancies, as to what enchanted island, or mystic
bower, or necromantic palace, I was to be conveyed by the
fairy bark.

In the revel of my fancy I had not noticed that the gorgeous
congregation of clouds which had so much delighted me was in
fact a gathering thunder-gust. I perceived the truth too late.
The clouds came hurrying on, darkening as they advanced.
The whole face of nature was suddenly changed, and assumed
that baleful and livid tint predictive of a storm. I tried to
gain the shore, but before I could reach it a blast of wind struck
the water and lashed it at once into foam. The next moment it
overtook the boat. Alas ! I was nothing of a sailor ; and my

MOUNT JOY. 19

protecting fairy forsook me in the moment of peril. I endeav-
ored to lower the sail ; but in so doing I had to quit the helm ;
the bark was overturned in a instant, and I was thrown into the
water. I endeavored to cling to the wreck, but missed my hold ;
being a poor swimmer, I soon found myself sinking, but grasped
a light oar that was floating by me. It was not sufficient for
my support ; I again sank beneath the surface ; there was a
rushing and bubbling sound in my ears, and all sense forsook
me.

How long I remained insensible, I know not. I had a con-
fused notion of being moved and tossed about, and of hearing-
strange beings and strange voices around me ; but all was like
a hideous dream. When I at length recovered full conscious-
ness and perception, I found myself in bed in a spacious cham-
ber, furnished with more taste than I had been accustomed to.
The bright rays of a morning sun were intercepted by curtains of
a delicate rose color, that gave a soft, voluptuous tinge to every
object. Not far from my bed, on a classic tripod, was a basket
of beautiful exotic flowers, breathing the sweetest fragrance.

" Where am I? How came I here? "

I tasked my mind to catch at some previous event, from
which I might trace up the thread of existence to the present
moment. By degrees I called to mind the fairy pinnace, my
daring embarkation, my adventurous voyage, and my disas-
trous shipwreck. Beyond that, all was chaos. How came I
here ? What unknown region had I landed upon ? The people
that inhabited it must be gentle and amiable, and of elegant
tastes, for they loved downy beds, fragrant flowers, and rose-
colored curtains.

While I lay thus musing, the tones of a harp reached my ear.
Presently they were accompanied by a female voice. It came
from the room below ; but in the profound stillness of my
chamber not a modulation was lost. My sisters were all con-
sidered good musicians, and sang very tolerably ; but I had
never heard a voice like this. There was no attempt at diffi-
cult execution, or striking effect ; but there were exquisite
inflections, and tender turns, which art could not reach.
Nothing but feeling and sentiment could produce them. It
was soul breathed forth in sound. I was always alive to the
influence of music ; indeed, I was susceptible of voluptuous
influences of every kind — sounds, colors, shapes, and fragrant
odors. I was the very slave of sensation.

20 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

I lay mute and breathless, and drank in every note of this
siren strain. It thrilled through my whole frame, and tilled
my soul with melody and love. I pictured to myself, with
curious logic, the form of the unseen musician. Such melodi-
ous sounds and exquisite inflections could only be produced by
organs of the most delicate flexibility. Such organs do not
belong to coarse, vulgar forms ; they are the harmonious results
of fair proportions and admirable symmetry. A being so
organized must be lovely.

Again my busy imagination was at work. I called to mind
the Arabian story of a prince, borne away during sleep by a
good genius, to the distant abode of a princess of ravishing
beauty. I do not pretend to say that I believed in having
experienced a similar transportation ; but it was my inveterate
habit to cheat myself with fancies of the kind, and to give the
tinge of illusion to surrounding realities.

The witching sound had ceased, but its vibrations still played
round my heart, and filled it with a tumult of soft emotions.
At this moment, a self-upbraiding pang shot through my bosom.
"Ah, recreant!" a voice seemed to exclaim, "is this the
stability of thine affections ? What ! hast thou so soon forgot-
ten the nymph of the fountain? Has one song, idly piped in
thine ear, been sufficient to charm away the cherished tenderness
of a whole summer? "

The wise may smile — but I am in a confiding mood, and
must confess my weakness. I felt a degree of compunction at
this sudden infidelity, yet I could not resist the power of present
fascination. My peace of mind was destroyed by conflicting
claims. The nymph of the fountain came over my memory,
with all the associations of fairy footsteps, shad}7 groves, soft
echoes, and wild streamlets ; but this new passion was produced
by a strain of soul-subduing melody, still lingering in my ear,
aided by a downy bed, fragrant flowers, and rose-colored cur-
tains. "Unhappy youth!" sighed I to myself, "distracted
by such rival passions, and the empire of thy heart thus vio-
lently contested by the sound of a voice, and the print of a
footstep ! ' '

I had not remained long in this mood, when I heard the door
of the room gently opened. I turned my head to see what
inhabitant of this enchanted palace should appear ; whether
page in green, hideous dwarf, or haggard fairy. It was my
own man Scipio. He advanced with cautious step, and was

MOUNT JOY. 21

delighted, as he said, to find me so much myself again. My
first questions were as to where I was and how I came there ?
Scipio told me a long story of his having been fishing in a
canoe at the time of my hare-brained cruise ; of his noticing
the gathering squall, and my impending danger ; of his has-
tening to join me, but arriving just in time to snatch me from
a watery grave ; of the great difficulty in restoring me to ani-
mation ; and of my being subsequently conveyed, in a state of
insensibility, to this mansion.

" But where am I? " was the reiterated demand.

" In the house of Mr. Somerville."

" Somerville — Somerville!" I recollected to have heard
that a gentleman of that name had recently taken up his resi-
dence at some distance from my father's abode, on the opposite
side of the Hudson. He was commonly known by the name
of " French Somerville," from having passed part of his early
life in France, and from his exhibiting traces of French taste in
his mode of living, and the arrangements of his house. In
fact, it was in his pleasure-boat, which had got adrift, that I
had made my fanciful and disastrous cruise. All this was sim-
ple, straightforward matter of fact, and threatened to demolish
all the cobweb romance I had been spinning, when fortunately
I again heard the tinkling -of a harp. I raised myself in bed,
and listened.

" Scipio," said I, with some little hesitation, " I heard some
one singing just now. Who was it? "

" Oh, that was Miss Julia."

"Julia! Julia! Delightful! what a name ! And, Scipio —
is she — is she pretty ? ' '

Scipio grinned from ear to ear. "Except Miss Sophy, she
was the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen."

I should observe, that my sister Sophia was considered by
all the servants a paragon of perfection.

Scipio now offered to remove the basket of flowers ; he was
afraid their odor might be too powerful ; but Miss Julia had
given them that morning to be placed in my room.

These flowers, then, had been gathered by the fairy fingers
of my unseen beauty ; that sweet breath which had filled my
ear with melody had passed over them. I made Scipio hand
them to me, culled several of the most delicate, and laid them
on my bosom.

Mr. Somerville paid me a visit not long afterward. He was
an interesting study for me, for he was the father of my unseen
beauty, and probably resembled her. I scanned him closely.

22 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

He was a tall and elegant man, with an open, affable manner,
and an erect and graceful carriage. His eyes were bluish-gray,
and though not dark, yet at times were sparkling and expres-
sive. His hair was dressed and powdered, and being lightly
combed up from his forehead, added to the loftiness of his
aspect. He was fluent in discourse, but his conversation had
the quiet tone of polished society, without any of those bold
flights of thought, and picturings of fancy, which I so much
admired.

My imagination was a little puzzled, at first, to make out of
this assemblage of personal and mental qualities, a picture that
should harmonize with my previous idea of the fair unseen.
By dint, however, of selecting what it liked, and giving a touch
here and a touch there, it soon finished out a satisfactory
portrait.

" Julia must be tall," thought I, " and of exquisite grace and
dignity. She is not quite so courtly as her father, for she has
been brought up in the retirement of the country. Neither is
she of such vivacious deportment ; for the tones of her voice
are soft and plaintive, and she loves pathetic music. She is
rather pensive — yet not too pensive ; just what is called inter-
esting. Her eyes are like her father's, except that they are of
a purer blue, and more tender and languishing. She has light
hair — not exactly flaxen, for I do not like flaxen hair, but
between that and auburn. In a word, she is a tall, elegant,
imposing, languishing, blue-eyed, romantic-looking beauty."
And having thus finished her picture, I felt ten times more in
love with her than ever.

I felt so much recovered that I would at once have left my
room, but Mr. Somerville objected to it. He had sent early
word to my family of my safety ; and my father arrived in the
course of the morning. He was shocked at learning the risk
I had run, but rejoiced to find me so much restored, and was
warm in his thanks to Mr. Somerville for his kindness. The
other only required, in return, that I might remain two or three
days as his guest, to give time for my recovery, and for our
forming a closer acquaintance ; a request which my father
readily granted. Scipio accordingly accompanied my father
home, and returned with a supply of clothes, and with affec-
tionate letters from my mother and sisters.

The next morning, aided by Scipio, I made my toilet with
rather more care than usual, and descended the stairs with some

MOUNT JOY. 23

trepidation, eager to see the original of the portrait which had
been so completely pictured in my imagination.

On entering the parlor, I found it deserted. Like the rest of
the house, it was furnished in a foreign style. The curtains
were of French silk ; there were Grecian couches, marble tables,
pier-glasses, and chandeliers. What chiefly attracted my eye,
were documents of female taste that I saw around me ; a piano,
with an ample stock of Italian music ; a book of poetry lying
on the sofa ; a vase of fresh flowers on a table, and a portfolio
open with a skilful and half-finished sketch of them. In the
window was a canary bird, in a gilt cage, and near by, the harp
thatJiad been in Julia's arms. Happy harp! But where was
the being that reigned in this little empire of delicacies ? — that
breathed poetry and song, and dwelt among birds and flowers,
and rose-colored curtains?

Suddenly I heard the hall door fly open, the quick pattering
of light steps, a wild, capricious strain of music, and the shrill
barking of a dog. A light, frolic nymph of fifteen came trip-
ping into the room, playing on a flageolet, with a little spaniel
romping after her. Her gypsy hat had fallen back upon her
shoulders ; a profusion of glossy brown hair was blown in rich
ringlets about her face, which beamed through them with the
brightness of smiles and dimples.

At sight of me she stopped short, in the most beautiful con-
fusion, stammered out a word or two about looking for her
father, glided out of the door, and I heard her bounding up
the staircase, like a frightened fawn, with the little dog barking
after her.

When Miss Somerville returned to the parlor, she was quite
a different being. She entered, stealing along by her mother's
side with noiseless step, and sweet timidity : her hair was
prettily adjusted, and a soft blush mantled on her damask
cheek. Mr. Somerville accompanied the ladies, and introduced
me regularly to them. There were many kind inquiries and
much sympathy expressed, on the subject of my nautical acci-
dent, and some remarks upon the wild scenery of the neighbor-
hood, with which the ladies seemed perfectly acquainted.

" You must know," said Mr. Somerville, " that we are great
navigators, and delight in exploring every nook and corner of
the river. My daughter, too, is a great hunter of the pictur-
esque, and transfers every rock and glen to her portfolio. By
the way, my dear, show Mr. Mountjoy that pretty scene you
have lately sketched." Julia complied, blushing, and drew
from her portfolio a colored sketch. I almost started at the

24 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

sight. It was my favorite brook. A sudden thought darted
across my mind. I glanced down my eye, and beheld the
divinest little foot in the world. Oh, blissful conviction ! The
struggle of my affections was at an end. The voice and
the footstep were no longer at variance. Julia Somerville was
the nymph of the fountain !

What conversation passed during breakfast I do not recollect,
and hardly was conscious of at the time, for my thoughts were
in complete confusion. I wished to gaze on Miss Somerville,
but did not dare. Once, indeed, I ventured a glance. She was
at that moment darting a similar one from under a covert of
ringlets. Our eyes seemed shocked by the rencontre, and fell ;
hers through the natural modesty of her sex, mine through a
bashfulness produced by the previous workings of my imagina-
tion. That glance, however, went like a sunbeam to my heart.

A convenient mirror favored my diffidence, and gave me the
reflection of Miss Somerville's form. It is true it only presented
the back of her head, but she had the merit of an ancient
statue ; contemplate her from any point of view, she was beauti-
ful. And yet she was totally different from every thing I had
before conceived of beauty. She was not the serene, medita-
tive maid that I had pictured the nymph of the fountain ; nor
the tall, soft, languishing, blue-eyed, dignified being that I had
fancied the minstrel of the harp. There was nothing of dignity
about her : she was girlish in her appearance, and scarcely of
the middle size ; but then there was the tenderness of budding
youth ; the sweetness of the half-blown rose, when not a tint
or perfume has been withered or exhaled ; there were smiles
and dimples, and all the soft witcheries of ever-varying expres-
sion. I wondered that I could ever have admired any other
style of beauty.

After breakfast, Mr. Somerville departed to attend to the
concerns of his estate, and gave me in charge of the ladies.
Mrs. Somerville also was called away by household cares, and
I was left alone with Julia ! Here, then, was the situation
which of all others I had most coveted. I was in the presence
of the lovely being that had so long been the desire of my
heart. We were alone ; propitious opportunity for a lover !
Did I seize upon it? Did I break out in one of my accustomed
rhapsodies ? No such thing ! Never was being more awkwardly
embarrassed.

" What can be the cause of this? " thought I. tk Surely, I

MOUNTJOT. 25

cannot stand in awe of this young girl. I am of course her
superior in intellect, and am never embarrassed in company with
my tutor, notwithstanding all his wisdom."

It was passing strange. I felt that if she were an old woman,
I should be quite at my ease ; if she were even an ugly woman,
I should make out very well : it was her beauty that overpowered
me. How little do lovely women know what awful beings they
are, in the eyes of inexperienced youth ! Young men brought
up in the fashionable circles of our cities will smile at all this.
Accustomed to mingle incessantly in female society, and to have
the romance of the heart deadened by a thousand frivolous flirta-
tions, women are nothing but women in their eyes ; but to a
susceptible youth like myself, brought up in the country, they
are perfect divinities.

Miss Somerville was at first a little embarrassed herself ; but,
somehow or other, women have a natural adroitness in recov-
ering their self-possession ; they are more alert in their minds,
and graceful in their manners. Beside, I was but an ordinary
personage in Miss Somerville 's eyes ; she was not under the
influence of such a singular course of imaginings as had sur-
rounded her, in my eyes, with the illusions of romance. Per-
haps, too, she saw the confusion in the opposite camp and
gained courage from the discovery. At any rate she was the
first to take the field.

Her conversation, however, was only on common-place topics,
and in an easy, well-bred style. I endeavored to respond in
the same manner ; but I was strangely incompetent to the task.
My ideas were frozen up ; even words seemed to fail me. I
was excessively vexed at myself, for I wished to be uncommonly
elegant. I tried two or three times to turn a pretty thought,
or to utter a fine sentiment ; but it would come forth so trite,
so forced, so mawkish, that I was ashamed of it. My very
voice sounded discordantly, though I sought to modulate it into
the softest tones. "The truth is," thought I to myself,
44 I cannot bring my mind down to the small talk necessary
for young girls ; it is too masculine and robust for the mincing
measure of parlor gossip. I am a philosopher — and that
accounts foi1 it."

The entrance of Mrs. Somerville at length gave me relief. I
at once breathed freely, and felt a vast deal of confidence come
over me. " This is strange," thought I, " that the appearance
of another woman should revive my courage ; that I should be
a better match for two women than one. However, since it is
so, I will take advantage of the circumstance, and let this young

26 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

lady see that I am not so great a simpleton as she probably
thinks me."

I accordingly took up the book of poetry which lay upon the
sofa. It was Milton's " Paradise Lost." Nothing could have
been more fortunate ; it afforded a fine scope for my favorite
vein of grandiloquence. I went largely into a discussion of its
merits, or rather an enthusiastic eulogy of them. My observa-
tions were addressed to Mrs. Somerville, for I found I could
talk to her with more ease than to her daughter. She appeared
alive to the beauties of the poet, and disposed to meet me in the
discussion ; but it was not my object to hear her talk ; it was
to talk myself. I anticipated all she had to say, overpowered
her with the copiousness of my ideas, and supported and illus-
trated them by long citations from the author.

While thus holding forth, I cast a side glance to see how Miss
Somerville was affected. She had some embroidery stretched
on a frame before' her, but had paused in her labor, and was
looking down as if lost in mute attention. I felt a glow of self-
satisfaction, but I recollected, at the same time, with a kind of
pique, the advantage she had enjoyed over me in our tete-a-tete.
I determined to push my triumph, and accordingly kept on with
redoubled ardor, until I had fairly exhausted my subject, or
rather my thoughts.

I had scarce come to a full stop, when Miss Somerville raised
her eyes from the work on which they had been fixed, and turn-
ing to her mother, observed : " I have been considering, mamma,
whether to work these flowers plain, or in colors."

Had an ice-bolt shot to my heart, it could not have chilled me
more effectually. "What a fool," thought I, "have I been
making myself — squandering away fine thoughts, and fine lan-
guage, upon a light mind, and an ignorant ear ! This girl knows
nothing of poetry. She has no soul, I fear, for its beauties.
Can any one have real sensibility of heart, and not be alive to
poetry ? However, she is young ; this part of her education has
been neglected : there is time enough to remedy it. I will be
her preceptor. I will kindle in her mind the sacred flame, and
lead her through the fairy land of song. But after all, it is
rather unfortunate that I should have fallen in love with a woman
who knows nothing of poetry."

I passed a day not altogether satisfactory. I was a little dis-
appointed that Miss Somerville did not show any poetical feel-

MOUNTJOY. 27

ing. " I am afraid, after all," said I to myself, " she is light
and girlish, and more fitted to pluck wild flowers, play on the
flageolet, and romp with little dogs, than to converse with a man
of my turn."

I believe, however, to tell the truth, I was more out of humor
with myself. I thought I had made the worst first appearance
that ever hero made, either in novel or fairy tale. I was out of
all patience, when I called, to mind my awkward attempts at
ease and elegance in the tete-a-tete. And then my intolerable
long lecture about poetry to catch the applause of a heedless
auditor ! But there 1 was not to blame. I had certainly been
eloquent : it was her fault that the eloquence was wasted. To
meditate upon the embroidery of a flower, when I was expatiat-
ing on the beauties of Milton ! She might at least have admired
the poetry, if she did not relish the manner in which it was de-
livered : though that was not despicable, for I had recited pas-
sages in my best style, which my mother and sisters had always
considered equal to a play. "Oh, it is evident," thought I,
4 ' Miss Somerville has very little soul ! " '

Such were my fancies and cogitations during the day, the
greater part of which was spent in my chamber, for I was still
languid. My evening was passed in the drawing-room, where I
overlooked Miss Somerville's portfolio of sketches.

They were executed with great taste, and showed a nice ob-
servation of the peculiarities of nature. They were all her own,
and free from those cunning tints and touches of "the drawing-
master, by which young ladies' drawings, like their heads, are
dressed up for company. There was no garish and vulgar trick
of colors, either ; all was executed with singular truth and sim-
plicity.

''And yet," thought I, " this little being, who has so pure an
eye to take in, as in a limpid brook, all the graceful forms and
magic tints of nature, has no soul for poetry ! "

Mr. Somerville, toward the latter part of the evening, observ-
ing my eye to wander occasionally to the harp, interpreted and
met my wishes with his accustomed civility.

" Julia, my dear," said he, " Mr. Mountjoy would like to hear
a little music from your harp ; let us hear, too, the sound of
your voice."

Julia immediately complied, without any of that hesitation
and difficulty, by which young ladies are apt to make company
pay dear for bad music. She sang a sprightly strain, in a bril-
liant style, that came trilling playfully over the ear ; and the
bright eye and dimpling smile showed that her little heart danced

28 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

with the song. Her pet canary bird, who hung close by, was
wakened by the music, and burst forth into an emulating strain.
Julia smiled with a pretty air of defiance, and played louder.

After some time, the music changed, and ran into a plaintive
strain, in a minor key. Then it was. that all the former witch-
ery of her voice came over me ; then it was that she seemed to
sing from the heart and to the heart. Her fingers moved about
the chords as if they scarcely touched them. Her whole manner
and appearance changed ; her eyes beamed with the softest
expression ; her countenance, her frame, all seemed subdued
into tenderness. She rose from the harp, leaving it still vibrat-
ing with sweet sounds, and moved toward her father to bid him
good night.

His eyes had been fixed on her intently, during her perform-
ance. As she came before him he parted her shining ringlets
with both his hands, and looked down with the fondness of a
father on her innocent face. The music seemed still lingering
in its lineaments, and the action of her father brought a moist
gleam in her eye. He kissed her fair forehead, after the French
mode of parental caressing : " Good night, and God bless 3Tou,"
said he, " my good little girl ! "

Julia tripped away, with a tear in her eye, a dimple in her
cheek, and a light heart in her bosom. I thought it the prettiest
picture of paternal and filial affection I had ever seen.

When I retired to bed, a new train of thoughts crowded into
my brain. cf After all," said I to myself, " it is clear this girl
has a soul, though she was not moved by my eloquence. She
has all the outward signs and evidences of poetic feeling. She
paints well, and has an eye for nature. She is a fine musician,
and enters into the very soul of song. What a pity that she
knows nothing of poetry ! But we will see what is to be done.
I am irretrievably in love with her ; what then am I to do ?
Come down to the level of her mind, or endeavor to raise her
to some kind of intellectual equality with myself ? That is the
most generous course. She will look up to me as a benefactor.
I shall become associated in her mind with the lofty thoughts
and harmonious graces of poetry. She is apparently docile :
beside, the difference of our ages will give me an ascendency
over her. She cannot be above sixteen years of age, and I am
full turned of twenty." So, having built this most delectable of
air-castles, I fell asleep.

The next morning I was quite a different being. I no longer
felt fearful of stealing a glance at Julia ; on the contrary, I

MOUNT JOT. 29

contemplated her steadily, with the benignant eye of a benefac-
tor. Shortly after breakfast I found myself alone with her, as
I had on the preceding morning ; but I felt nothing of the awk-
wardness of our previous tete-a-tete. I was elevated by the
consciousness of my intellectual superiority, and should almost
have felt a sentiment of pity for the ignorance of the lovely little
being, if I had not felt also the assurance that I should be able
to dispel it. " But it is time," thought I, "to open school."

Julia was occupied in arranging some music on her piano.
I looked over two or three songs ; they were Moore's Irish
melodies.

'l-1 These are pretty things! " said I, flirting the leaves over
lightly, and giving a slight shrug, by way of qualifying the
opinion.

"Oh, I love them of all things," said Julia, "they're so
touching ! ' '

" Then you like them for the poetry," said I with an encour-
aging smile.

" Oh yes ; she thought them charmingly written."

Now was my time. "Poetry," said I, assuming a didactic
attitude and air, " poetry is one of the most pleasing studies
that can occupy a youthful mind. It renders us susceptible of
the gentle impulses of humanity, and cherishes a delicate per-
ception of all that is virtuous and elevated in morals, and grace-
ful and beautiful in physics. It "

I was going on in a style that would have graced a professor
of rhetoric, when I saw a light smile playing about Miss Somer-
ville's mouth, and that she began to turn over the leaves of a
music-book. I recollected her inattention to my discourse of
the preceding morning. "There is no fixing her light mind,"
thought I, "by abstract theory; we will proceed practically."
As it happened, the identical volume of Milton's Paradise Lost
was lying at hand.

"Let me recommend to you, my young friend," said I, in
one of those tones of persuasive admonition, which I had so
often loved in Glencoe, " let me recommend to you this admir-
able poem ; you will find in it sources of intellectual enjoyment
far superior to those songs which have delighted you." Julia
looked at the book, and then at me, with a whimsically dubious
air. "Milton's Paradise Lost ?" said she; "oh, I know the
greater part of that by heart."

I had not expected to find my pupil so far advanced ; how-
ever, the Paradise Lost is a kind of school-book, and its finest
passages are given to young ladies as tasks.

30 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" 1 find," said I to myself, " I must not treat her as so com-
plete a novice ; her inattention yesterday could not have pro-
ceeded from absolute ignorance, but merely from a want of
poetic feeling. I'll try her again."

I now determined to dazzle her with my own erudition, and
launched into a harangue that would have done honor to an
institute. Pope, Spenser, Chaucer, and the old dramatic writ-
ers were all dipped into, with the excursive flight of a swallow.
I did not confine myself to English poets, but gave a glance at
the French and Italian schools ; I passed over Ariosto in full
wing, but paused on Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. I dwelt
on the character of Clorinda : "There's a character," said 1,
" that you will find well worthy a woman's study. It shows to
what exalted heights of heroism the sex can rise, how glori-
ously they may share even in the stern concerns of men."

"For my part," said Julia, gently taking advantage of a
pause, " for my part, I prefer the character of Sophronia."

I was thunderstruck. She then had read Tasso ! This girl
that I had been treating as an ignoramus in poetry ! She pro-
ceeded with a slight glow of the cheek, summoned up perhaps
by a casual glow of feeling :

" I do not admire those masculine heroines," said she, " who
aim at the bold qualities of the opposite sex. Now Sophro-
nia only exhibits the real qualities of a woman, wrought up to
their highest excitement. She is modest, gentle, and retiring,
as it becomes a woman to be ; but she has all the strength of
affection proper to a woman. She cannot fight for her people
as Clorinda does, but she can offer herself up, and die to serve
them. You may admire Clorinda, but you surely would be
more apt to love Sophronia; at least," added she, suddenly
appearing to recollect herself, and blushing at having launched
into such a discussion, " at least that is what papa observed
when we read the poem together."

" Indeed," said I, dryly, for I felt disconcerted and nettled at
being unexpectedly lectured by my pupil; "indeed, I do not
exactly recollect the passage."

"Oh," said Julia, "I can repeat it to you;" and she im-
mediately gave it in Italian.

Heavens and earth ! — here was a situation ! I knew no more
of Italian than I did of the language of Psalmanazar. What a
dilemma for a would-be-wise man to be placed in ! I saw
Julia waited for my opinion.

"In fact," said I, hesitating, "I — I do not exactly under-
stand Italian."

MOUNT JOT. 31

" Oh," said Julia, with the utmost naivete, " I have no doubt
it is very beautiful in the translation."

I was glad to break up school, and get back to my chamber,
full of the mortification which a wise man in love experiences
on finding his mistress wiser than himself. "Translation!
translation!" muttered I to myself, as I jerked the door shut
behind me : "I am surprised my father has never had me
instructed in the modern languages. They are all-important.
What is the use of Latin and Greek ? No one speaks them ;
but here, the moment I make my appearance in the world, a
little girl slaps Italian in my face. However, thank heaven,
a language is easily learned. The moment I return home, I'll
set about studying Italian ; and to prevent future surprise, I
will study Spanish and German at the same time ; and if any
young lady attempts to quote Italian upon me again, I'll bury
her under a heap of High Dutch poetry ! "

I felt now like some mighty chieftain, who has carried the
war into a weak country, with full confidence of success, and
been repulsed and obliged to draw off his forces from before
some inconsiderable fortress.

"However," thought I, " I have as yet brought only my
light artillery into action : we shall see what is to be done with
my heavy ordnance. Julia is evidently well versed in poetry ;
but it is natural she should be so ; it is allied to painting and
music, and is congenial to the light graces of the female char-
acter. We will try her on graver themes."

I felt all my pride awakened ; it even for a time swelled
higher than my love. I was determined completely to establish
my mental superiority, and subdue the intellect of this little
being ; it would then be time to sway the sceptre of gentle
empire, and win the affections of her heart.

Accordingly, at dinner I again took the field, en potence. I
now addressed myself to Mr. Somerville, for I was about to
enter upon topics in which a young girl like her could not be
well versed. I led, or rather forced, the conversation into a
vein of historical erudition, discussing several of the most
prominent facts of ancient history, and accompanying them
with sound, indisputable apothegms.

Mr. Somerville listened to me with the air of a man receiv-
ing information. I was encouraged, and went on gloriously
from theme to theme of school declamation. I sat with Harms

32 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

on the ruins of Carthage ; I defended the bridge with Horatius
Codes ; thrust my hand into the flame with Martius Scsevola,
and plunged with Curtius into the yawning gulf ; I fought
side by side with Leonidas, at the straits of Thermopylae ;
and was going full drive into the battle of Plataea, when my
memory, which is the worst in the world, failed me, just as
I wanted the name of the Lacedaemonian commander.

"Julia, my dear," said Mr. Somerville, " perhaps you may
recollect the name of which Mr. Mountjoy is in quest? "

Julia colored slightly. " I believe," said she, in a low voice,
" I believe it was Pausanias."

This unexpected sally, instead of re-enforcing me. threw my
whole scheme of battle into confusion, and the Athenians re-
mained unmolested in the field.

I am half inclined, since, to think Mr. Somerville meant this
as a sly hit at my schoolboy pedantry ; but he was too well bred
not to seek to relieve me from my mortification. " Oh ! " said
he, " Julia is our family book of reference for names, dates,
and distances, and has an excellent memory for history and
geography."

I now became desperate ; as a last resource I turned to meta-
physics. "If she is a philosopher in petticoats," thought I,
"it is all over with me." Here, however, I had the field to
myself. I gave chapter and verse of my tutor's lectures,
heightened by all his poetical illustrations ; I even went further
than he had ever ventured, and plunged into such depths of
metaphysics, that I was in danger of sticking in the mire at the
bottom. Fortunately, I had auditors who apparently could not
detect my flounderings. Neither Mr. Somerville nor his
daughter offered the least interruption.

When the ladies had retired, Mr. Somerville sat some time
with me ; and as I was no longer anxious to astonish, I per-
mitted myself to listen, and found that he was really agreeable.
He was quite communicative, and from his conversation I was
enabled to form a juster idea of his daughter's character, and
the mode in which she had been brought up. Mr. Somerville
had mingled much with the world, and with what is termed
fashionable society. He had experienced its cold elegancies
and gay insincerities ; its dissipation of the spirits and squander-
ings of the heart. Like many men of the world, though he had
wandered too far from nature ever to return to it, yet he had
the good taste and good feeling to look back fondly to its simple
delights, and to determine that his child, if possible, should
never leave them. He had superintended her education with

MOUNT JOY. 33

scrupulous care, storing her mind with the graces of polite
literature, and with such knowledge as would enable it to fur-
nish its own amusement and occupation, and giving her all the
accomplishments that sweeten and enliven the circle of domestic
life. He had been particularly sedulous to exclude all fashion-
able affectations ; all false sentiment, false sensibility, and false
romance. "Whatever advantages she may possess," said he,
" she is quite unconscious of them. She is a capricious little
being, in every thing but her affections ; she is, however, free
from art ; simple, ingenuous, amiable, and, I thank God !
happy."

Such was the eulogy of a fond father, delivered with a tender-
ness that touched me. I could not help making a casual in-
quiry, whether, among the graces of polite literature, he had
included a slight tincture of metaphysics. He smiled, and told
me he had not.

On the whole, when, as usual, that night, I summed up the
day's observations on my pillow, I was not altogether dissatis-
fied. " Miss Somerville," said I, " loves poetry, and I like her
the better for it. She has the advantage of me in Italian ;
agreed ; what is it to know a variety of languages, but merely
to have a variety of sounds to express the same idea? Original
thought is the ore of the mind ; language is but the accidental
stamp and coinage by which it is put into circulation. If I
can furnish an original idea, what care J how many languages
she can translate it into? She may be able also to quote
names, and dates, and latitudes better than I ; but that is a
mere effort of the memory. I admit she is more accurate in
history and geography than I ; but then she knows nothing of
metaphysics."

I had now sufficiently recovered to return home ; yet I could
not think of leaving Mr. Somerville 's without having a little
further conversation with him on the subject of his daughter's
education.

" This Mr. Somerville," thought I, " is a very accomplished,
elegant man ; he has seen a good deal of the world, and, upon
the whole, has profited by what he has seen. He is not without
information, and, as far as he thinks, appears to think cor-
rectly ; but after all, he is rather superficial, and does not think
profoundly. He seems to take no delight in those metaphysi-
cal abstractions that are the proper aliment of masculine
minds." I called to mind various occasions' in which I had
indulged largely in metaphysical discussions, but could recollect
no instance where I had been able to draw him out. He had

34 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

listened, it is true, with attention, and smiled as if in acquies-
cence, but had always appeared to avoid reply. Beside, I had
made several sad blunders in the glow of eloquent declamation ;
but he had never interrupted me, to notice and correct them, as
he would have done had he been versed in the theme.

" Now, it is really a great pity," resumed I, "• that he should
have the entire management of Miss Somerville's education.
What a vast advantage it would be, if she could be put for a
little time under the superintendence of Glencoe. He would
throw some deeper shades of thought into her mind, which at
present is all sunshine ; not but that Mr. Somerville has done
very well, as far as he has gone ; but then he has merely pre-
pared the soil for the strong plants of useful knowledge. She
is well versed in the leading facts of history, and the general
course of belles-lettres," said I; "a little more philosophy
would do wonders."

I accordingly took occasion to ask Mr. Somerville for a few
moments' conversation in his study, the morning I was to
depart. When we were alone I opened the matter fully to
him. I commenced with the warmest eulogium of Glencoe's
powers of mind, and vast acquirements, and ascribed to him
all my proficiency in the higher branches of knowledge. I
begged, therefore, to recommend him as a friend calculated to
direct the studies of Miss Somerville ; to lead her mind, by
degrees, to the contemplation of abstract principles, and to
produce habits of philosophical analysis; "which," added I,
gently smiling, u are not often cultivated by young ladies." I
ventured to hint, in addition, that he would find Mr. Glencoe
a most valuable and interesting acquaintance for himself ; one
who would stimulate and evolve the powers of his mind ; and
who might open to him tracts of inquiry and speculation, to
which perhaps he had hitherto been a stranger.

Mr. Somerville listened with grave attention. When I had
finished, he thanked me in the politest manner for the interest
I took in the welfare of his daughter and himself. He ob-
served that, as regarded himself, he was afraid he was too old
to benefit by the instruction of Mr. Glencoe, and that as to
his daughter, he was afraid her mind was but little fitted for
the study of metaphysics. " I do not wish," continued he,
"to strain her intellects with subjects they cannot grasp, but
to make her familiarly acquainted with those that are within
the limits of her* capacity. I do not pretend to prescribe the
boundaries of female genius, and am far from indulging the vul-
gar opinion, that women are unfitted by nature for the highest

MOUNT JOY. 35

intellectual pursuits. I speak only with reference to my
daughter's tastes and talents. She will never make a learned
woman ; nor, in truth, do I desire it ; for such is the jealousy
of our sex, as to mental as well as physical ascendency,
that a learned woman is not always the happiest. I do
not wish my daughter to excite envy, nor to battle with the
prejudices of the world ; but to glide peaceably through life,
on the good will and kind opinion of her friends. She has
ample employment for her little head, in the course I have
marked out for her ; and is busy at present with some branches
of natural history, calculated to awaken her perceptions to the
beauties and wonders of nature, and to the inexhaustible vol-
ume of wisdom constantly spread open before her eyes. I
consider that woman most likely to make an agreeable com-
panion, who can draw topics of pleasing remark from every
natural object ; and most likely to be cheerful and contented,
who is continually sensible of the order, the harmony, and the
invariable beneficence, that reign throughout the beautiful
world we inhabit."

"But," added he, smiling, "I am betraying myself into a
lecture, instead of merely giving a reply to your kind offer.
Permit me to take the liberty, in return, of inquiring a little
about your own pursuits. You speak of having finished your
education ; but of course you have a line of private study and
mental occupation marked out ; for you must know the impor-
tance, both in point of interest and happiness, of keeping the
mind employed. May I ask what system you observe in your
intellectual exercises?"

" Oh, as to system," I observed, " I could never bring myself
into any thing of the kind. I thought it best to let my genius
take its own course, as it always acted the most vigorously when
stimulated by inclination."

Mr. Somerville shook his head. "This same genius," said
he, " is a wild quality, that runs away with our most promising
young men. It has become so much the fashion, too, to give it
the reins, that it is now thought an animal of too noble and
generous a nature to be brought to harness. But it is all a mis-
take. Nature never designed these high endowments to run riot
through society, and throw the whole system into confusion.
No, my dear sir, genius, unless it acts upon system, is very apt
to be a useless quality to society ; sometimes an injurious, and
certainly a very uncomfortable one, to its possessor. I have
had many opportunities, of seeing the progress through life of
young men who were accounted geniuses, and have found it too

36 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

often end in early exhaustion and bitter disappointment ; and
have as often noticed that these effects might be traced to a
total want of system. There were no habits of business, of
steady purpose, and regular application, superinduced upon the
mind ; every thing was left to chance and impulse, and native
luxuriance, and every thing of course ran to waste and wild en-
tanglement. Excuse me if I am tedious on this point, for I feel
solicitous to impress it upon you, being an error extremely prev-
alent in our country and one into which too many of our youth
have fallen. I am happy, however, to observe the zeal which
still appears to actuate you for the acquisition of knowledge,
and augur every good from the elevated bent of your ambition.
May 1 ask what has been your course of study for the last six
months?"

Never was question more unluckily timed. For the last six
months I had been absolutely buried in novels and romances.

Mr. Somerville perceived that the question was embarrass-
ing, and with his invariable good breeding, immediately re-
sumed the conversation, without waiting for a reply. He took
care, however, to turn it in such a way as to draw from me an
account of the whole manner in which I had been educated,
and the various currents of reading into which my mind had
run. He then went on to discuss, briefly but impressively, the
different branches of knowledge most important to a young
man in my situation ; and to my surprise 1 found him a complete
master of those studies on which I had supposed him ignorant,
and on which I had been descanting so confidently.

He complimented me, however, very graciously, upon the
progress I had made, but advised me for the present to turn
my attention to the physical rather than the moral sciences.
"These studies," said he, "store a man's mind with valuable
facts, and at the same time repress self-confidence, by letting
him know how boundless are the realms of knowledge, and how
little we can possibly know. Whereas metaphysical studies,
though of an ingenious order of intellectual employment, are apt
to bewilder some minds with vague speculations. They never
know how far they have advanced, or what may be the correct-
ness of their favorite theory. They render many of our young
men verbose and declamatory, and prone to mistake the aberra-
tions of their fancy for the inspirations of divine philosophy."

I could not but interrupt him, to assent to the truth of these
remarks, and to say that it had been my lot, in the course of
my limited experience, to encounter young men of the kind,
who had overwhelmed me by their verbosity.

MOUNT JOT. 87

Mr. Somerville smiled. "I trust," said he, kindly, "that
you will guard against these errors. Avoid the eagerness with
which a young man is apt to hurry into conversation, and to
utter the crude and ill-digested notions which he has picked up
in his recent studies. Be assured that extensive and accurate
knowledge is the slow acquisition of a studious lifetime ; that a
young man, however pregnant his wit, and prompt his talent,
can have mastered but the rudiments of learning, and, in a
manner, attained the implements of study. Whatever may
have been your past assiduity, you must be sensible that as yet
you have but reached the threshold of true knowledge ; but at
the same time, you have the advantage that you are still very
young, and have ample time to learn."

Here our conference ended. I walked out of the study, a very
different being from what I was on entering it. I had gone in
with the air of a professor about to deliver a lecture ; I came
out like a student who had failed in his examination, and been
degraded in his class.

"Very young," and "on the threshold of knowledge"!
This was extremely flattering, to one who had considered him-
self an accomplished scholar, and profound philosopher.

"It is singular," thought I ; "there seems to have been a
spell upon my faculties, ever since I have been in this house.
I certainly have not been able to do myself justice. Whenever
I have undertaken to advise, I have had the tables turned upon
me. It must be that I am strange and diffident among people
I am not accustomed to. I wish they could hear me talk at
home ! ' '

"After all," added I, on further reflection, " after all, there
is a great deal of force in what Mr. Somerville has said. 'Some-
how or other, these men of the world do now and then hit
upon remarks that would do credit to a philosopher. Some of
his general observations came so home, that I almost thought
they were meant for myself. His advice about adopting a
system of study is very judicious. I will immediately put it
in practice. My mind shall operate henceforward with the
regularity of clock-work."

How far I succeeded in adopting this plan, how I fared in
the further pursuit of knowledge, and how I succeeded in my
suit to Julia Somerville, may afford matter for a further com-
munication to the public, if this simple record of my early life
is fortunate enough to excite any curiosity.

38 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE.

tkA TIME OF UNEXAMPLED PROSPERITY."

IN the course of a voyage from England, I once fell in with
a convoy of merchant ships bound for the West Indies. The
weather was uncommonly bland ; and the ships vied with each
other in spreading sail to catch a light, favoring breeze, until
their hulls were almost hidden beneath a cloud of canvas.
The breeze went down with the sun, and his last yellow rays
shone upon a thousand sails, idly flapping against the masts.

I exulted in the beauty of the scene, and augured a pros-
perous voyage ; but the veteran master of the ship shook his
head, and pronounced this halcyon calm a " weather breeder."
And so it proved. A storm burst forth in the night ; the sea
roared and raged ; and when the day broke, I beheld the late
gallant convoy scattered in every direction ; some dismasted,
others scudding under bare poles, and many firing signals of
distress.

I have since been occasionally reminded of this scene, by
those calm, sunny seasons in the commercial world, which are
known by the name of "times of unexampled prosperity."
They are the sure weather-breeders of traffic. Every now and
then the world is visited by one of these delusive seasons, when
" the credit system," as it is called, expands to full luxuriance,
everybody trusts everybody ; a bad debt is a thing unheard of ;
the broad way to certain and sudden wealth lies plain and
open ; and men are tempted to dash forward boldly, from the
facility of borrowing.

Promissory notes, interchanged between scheming indi-
viduals, are liberally discounted at the banks, which become
so many mints to coin words into cash ; and as the supply of
words is inexhaustible, it may readily be supposed what a vast
amount of promissory capital is soon in circulation. Every one
now talks in thousands ; nothing is heard but gigantic opera-
tions in trade ; great purchases and sales of real property, and
immense sums made at every transfer. All, to be sure, as yet
exists in promise ; but the believer in promises calculates the
aggregate as solid capital, and falls back in amazement at the
amount of public wealth, the "unexampled state of public
prosperity."

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 39

Now is the time for speculative and dreaming or designing
men. They relate their dreams and projects to the ignorant
and credulous, dazzle them with golden visions, and set them
madding after shadows. The example of one stimulates an-
other ; speculation rises on speculation ; bubble rises on bubble ;
every one helps with his breath to swell the windy superstruc-
ture, and admires and wonders at the magnitude of the inflation
he has contributed to produce.

Speculation is the romance of trade, and casts contempt upon
all its sober realities. It renders the stock-jobber a magician,
an.d the exchange a region of enchantment. It elevates the
merchant into a kind of knight-errant, or rather a commercial
Quixote. The slow but sure gains of snug percentage become
despicable in his eyes ; no " operation ' ' is thought worthy of
attention, that does not double or treble the investment. No
businesses worth following, that does not promise an immediate
fortune. As he sits musing over his ledger, with pen behind
his ear,' he is like La Mancha's hero in his study, dreaming
over his books of chivalry. His dusty counting-house fades
before his eyes, or changes into a Spanish mine ; he gropes
after diamonds, or dives after pearls. The subterranean garden
of Aladdin is nothing to the realms of wealth that break upon
his imagination.

Could this delusion always last, the life of a merchant would
indeed be a golden dream ; but it is as short as it is brilliant.
Let but a doubt enter, and the " season of unexampled pros-
perity " is at end. The coinage of words is suddenly curtailed ;
the promissory capital begins to vanish into smoke ; a panic
succeeds, and the whole superstructure, built upon credit, and
reared by speculation, crumbles to the ground, leaving scarce
a wreck behind :

"It is such stuff as dreams are made of."

When a man of business, therefore, hears on eveiy side rumors
of fortunes suddenly acquired ; when he finds banks liberal, and
brokers busy; when he sees adventurers flush of paper capital,
and full of scheme and enterprise ; when he perceives a greater
disposition to buy than to sell ; when trade overflows its accus-
tomed channels and deluges the country ; when he hears of new
regions of commercial adventure ; of distant marts and distant
mines, swallowing merchandise and disgorging gold ; when he
finds joint stock companies of all kinds forming ; railroads,
canals, and locomotive engines, springing up on every side ;
when idlers suddenly become men of business, and dash into the

40 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

game of commerce as they would into the hazards of the faro
table ; when he beholds the streets glittering with new equipages,
palaces conjured up by the magic of speculation ; tradesmen
flushed with sudden success, and vying with each other in osten-
tatious expense ; in a word, "when he hears the whole community
joining in the theme of " unexampled prosperity," let him look
upon the whole as a "weather-breeder," and prepare for the
impending storm.

The foregoing remarks are intended merely as a prelude to a
narrative I am about to lay before the public, of one of the
most memorable instances of the infatuation of gain, to be found
in the whole history of commerce. I allude to the famous Mis-
sissippi bubble. It is a matter that has passed into a proverb,
and become a phrase in every one's mouth, yet of which not one
merchant in ten has probably a distinct idea. I have therefore
thought that an authentic account of it would be interesting and
salutary, at the present moment, when we are suffering under
the effects of a severe access of the credit system, and just
recovering from one of its ruinous delusions.

Before entering into the story of this famous chimera, it is
proper to give a few particulars concerning the individual who
engendered it. John Law was born in Edinburgh in 1671. His
father, William Law, was a rich goldsmith, and left his son an
estate of considerable value, called Lauriston, situated about
four miles from Edinburgh. Goldsmiths, in those days, acted
occasionally as bankers, and his father's operations, under this
character, may have originally turned the thoughts of the youth
to the science of calculation, in which he became an adept ; so
that at an early age he excelled in playing at all games of com-
bination.

In 1694 he appeared in London, where a handsome person,
and an easy and insinuating address, gained him currency in the
first circles, and the nick-name of "Beau Law." The same
personal advantages gave him success in the world of gallantry,
until he became involved in a quarrel with Beau Wilson, his
rival in fashion, whom he killed in a duel, and then fled to France,
to avoid prosecution.

He returned to Edinburgh in 1700, and remained there sev-
eral years ; during which time he first broached his great credit
system, offering to supply the deficiency of coin by the estab-
lishment of a bank, which, according to his views, might emit

THE GEE AT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 41

a paper currency, equivalent to the whole landed estate of the
kingdom.

His scheme excited great astonishment in Edinburgh ; but,
though the government was not sufficiently advanced in finan-
cial knowledge to detect the fallacies upon which it was founded,
Scottish caution and suspicion served in the place of wisdom,
and the project was rejected. Law met with no better success
with the English Parliament ; and the fatal affair of the death
of Wilson still hanging over him, for which he had never been
able to procure a pardon, he again went to France.

The financial affairs of France were at this time in a deplor-
able condition. The wars, the pomp and profusion, of Louis
XIV., and his religious persecutions of whole classes of the most
industrious of his subjects, had exhausted his treasury, and over-
whelmed the nation with debt. The old monarch clung to his
selfish magnificence, and could not be induced to diminish his
enormous expenditure ; and his minister of finance was driven
to his wits' end to devise all kinds of disastrous expedients to
keep up the royal state, and to extricate the nation from its em-
barrassments.

In this state of things. Law ventured to bring forward his
financial project. It was founded on the plan of the Bank of
England, which had already been in successful operation several
years. He met with immediate patronage, and a congenial
spirit, in the Duke of Orleans, who had married a natural daugh-
ter of the king. The duke had been astonished at the facility
with which England had supported the burden of a public debt,
created by the wars of Anne and William, and which exceeded
in amount that under which France was groaning. The whole
matter was soon explained by Law to his satisfaction. The
latter maintained that England had stopped at the mere thresh-
old of an art capable of creating unlimited sources of national
wealth. The duke was dazzled with his splendid views and
specious reasonings, and thought he clearly comprehended his
system. Demarets, the Comptroller General of Finance, was
not so easily deceived. He pronounced the plan of Law more
pernicious than any of the disastrous expedients that the gov-
ernment had yet been driven to. The old king also, Louis XIV.,
detested all innovations, especially those which came from a
rival nation ; the project of a bank, therefore, was utterly re-
jected.

Law remained for a while in Paris, leading a gay and affluent
existence, owing to his handsome person, easy manners, flexi-
ble temper, and a faro-bank which he had set up. His agree-

42 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

able career was interrupted by a message from D'Argenson,
Lieutenant General of Police, ordering him to quit Paris, alle-
ging that he was " rather too skilful at the game which he had
introduced. ' '

For several succeeding years he shifted his residence from
state to state of Italy and Germany ; offering his scheme of
finance to every court that he visited, but without success. The
Duke of Savoy, Victor Amadeus, afterward King of Sardinia,
was much struck with his project ; but after considering it for a
time, replied, " I am not sufficiently powerful to ruin myself."

The shifting, adventurous life of Law, and the equivocal
means by which he appeared to live, playing high, and always
with great success, threw a cloud of suspicion over him, wher-
ever he went, and caused him to be expelled by the magistracy
from the semi-commercial, semi-aristocratical cities of Venice
and Genoa.

The events of 1715 brought Law back again to Paris. Louis
XIV. was dead. Louis XV. was a mere child, and during his
minority the Duke of Orleans held the reins of government as
Regent. Law had at length found his man.

The Duke of Orleans has been differently represented by
different contemporaries. He appears to have had excellent
natural qualities, perverted by a bad education. He was of
the middle size, easy and graceful, with an agreeable counte-
nance, and open, affable demeanor. His mind was quick and
sagacious, rather than profound ; and his quickness of intel-
lect, and excellence of memory, supplied the lack of studious
application. His wit was prompt and pungent ; he expressed
himself with vivacity and precision ; his imagination was vivid,
his temperament sanguine and joyous ; his courage daring.
His mother, the Duchess of Orleans, expressed his character in
a jeu d' esprit. "The fairies," said she, "were invited to be
present at his birth, and each one conferred a talent on my son ,
he possesses them all. Unfortunately, we had forgotten to invite
an old fairy, who, arriving after all the others, exclaimed, ' He
shall have all the talents, excepting that to make a good use of
them.' '

Under proper tuition, the Duke might have risen to real great-
ness ; but in his early years, he was put under the tutelage of the
Abbe Dubois, one of the subtlest and basest spirits that ever
intrigued its way into eminent place and power. The Abb6 was
of low origin, and despicable exterior, totally destitute of morals,
and perfidious' in the extreme ; but with a supple, insinuating
address, and an accommodating spirit, tolerant of all kinds of

THE GEE AT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 43

profligacy in others. Conscious of his own inherent baseness,
he sought to secure an influence over his pupil, by corrupting
his principles and fostering his vices ; he debased him, to keep
himself from being despised. Unfortunately he succeeded. To
the early precepts of this infamous pander have been attributed
those excesses that disgraced the manhood of the Regent, and
gave a licentious character to his whole course of government.
His love of pleasure, quickened and indulged by those who
should have restrained it, led him into all kinds of sensual indul-
gence. He had been taught to think lightly of the most serious
duties and sacred ties ; to turn virtue into a jest, and consider
religion mere hypocrisy. He was a gay misanthrope, that had a
sovereign but sportive contempt for mankind ; believed that his
most devoted servant would be his enemy, if interest prompted ;
and maintained that an honest man was he who had the art to
conceal that he was the contrary.

He surrounded himself with a set of dissolute men like him-
self; who, let loose from the restraint under which they had
been held, during the latter hypocritical days of Louis XIV.,
now gave way to every kind of debauchery. With these men
the Regent used to shut himself up, after the hours of business,
and excluding all graver persons and graver concerns, celebrate
the most drunken and disgusting orgies ; where obscenity and
blasphemy formed the seasoning of conversation. For the prof-
ligate companions of these revels, he invented the appellation
of his roues, the literal meaning of which is men broken on the
wheel ; intended, no doubt, to express their broken-down charac-
ters and dislocated fortunes ; although a contemporary asserts
that it designated the punishment that most of them merited.
Madame de Labran, who was present at one of the Regent's
suppers, was disgusted by the conduct and conversation of the
host and his guests, and observed at table, that God, after he
had created man, took the refuse clay that was left, and made
of it the souls of lackeys and princes.

Such was the man that now ruled the destinies of France.
Law found him full of perplexities, from the disastrous state
of the finances. He had already tampered with the coinage,
calling in the coin of the nation, re-stamping it, and issuing it
at a nominal increase of one fifth ; thus defrauding the nation
out of twenty per cent of its capital. He was not likely, there-
fore, to be scrupulous about any means likely to relieve him
from financial difficulties ; he had even been led to listen to the
cruel alternative of a national bankruptcy.

Under these circumstances, Law confidently brought forward

44 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

his scheme of a bank, that was to pay off the national debt, in-
crease the revenue, and at the .same time diminish the taxes.
The following is stated as the theory by which he recommended
his system to the Regent. The credit enjoyed by a banker or
a merchant, he observed, increases his capital tenfold ; that is
to say, he who has a capital of one hundred thousand livres,
may, if he possess sufficient credit, extend his operations to a
million, and reap profits to that amount. In like manner, a
state that can collect into a bank all the current coin of the
kingdom, would be as powerful as if its capital were increased
tenfold. The specie must be drawn into the bank, not by way
of loan, or by taxations, but in the way of deposit. This might
be effected in different modes, either by inspiring confidence,
or by exerting authority. One mode, he observed, had already
been in use. Each time that a state makes a re-coinage, it
becomes momentarily the depository of all the money called in,
belonging to the subjects of that state. His bank was to effect
the same purpose ; that is to say, to receive in deposit all the
coin of the kingdom, but to give in exchange its bills, which,
being of an invariable value, bearing an interest, and being pay-
able on demand, would not only supply the place of coin, but
prove a better and more profitable currency.

The Regent caught with avidity at the scheme. It suited his
bold, reckless spirit, and his grasping extravagance. Not that
he was altogether the dupe of Law's specious projects ; still he
was apt, like many other men, unskilled in the arcana of finance,
to mistake the multiplication of money for the multiplication
of wealth ; not understanding that it was a mere agent or
instrument in the interchange of traffic, to represent the value
of the various productions of industry ; and that an increased
circulation of coin or bank bills, in the shape of currency,
only adds a proportion ably increased and fictitious value to
such productions. Law enlisted the vanity of the Regent in
his cause. He persuaded him that he saw more clearly than
others into sublime theories of finance, which were quite above
the ordinary apprehension. He used to declare that, except-
ing the Regent and the Duke of Savoy, no one had thoroughly
comprehended his system.

It is certain that it met with strong opposition from the
Regent's ministers, the Duke de Noailles and the Chancellor
d'Anguesseau ; and it was no less strenuously opposed by the
Parliament of Paris. Law, however, had a potent though
secret coadjutor in the Abb6 Dubois, now rising, during the
regency, into great political power, and who retained a baneful

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 45

influence over the mind- of the Regent. This wily priest, as
avaricious as he was ambitious, drew large sums from Law as
subsidies, and aided him greatly in many of his most pernicious
operations. He aided him, in the present instance, to fortify
the mind of the Regent against all the remonstrances of his
ministers and the parliament.

Accordingly, on the 2d of May, 1716, letters patent were
granted to Law, to establish a bank of deposit, discount, and
circulation, under the firm of " Law and Company," to con-
tinue for twenty years. The capital was fixed at six millions
of livres, divided into shares of five hundred livres each, which
were to be sold for twenty-five per cent of the regent's de-
based coin, and seventy-five per cent of the public securities ;
which were then at a great reduction from their nominal value,
and which then amounted to nineteen hundred millions. The
ostensible object of the bank, as set forth in the patent, was to
encourage the commerce and manufactures of France. The
louis-d'ors and crowns of the bank were always to retain the
same standard of value, and its bills to be payable in them on
demand.

At the outset, while the bank was limited in its operations,
and while its paper really represented the specie in its vaults,
it seemed to realize all that had been promised from it. It
rapidly acquired public confidence, and an extended circula-
tion, and produced an activity in commerce, unknown under the
baneful government of Louis XIV. As the bills of the bank
bore an interest, and as it was stipulated they would be of
invariable value, and as hints had been artfully circulated that
the coin would experience successive diminution, everybody
hastened to the bank to exchange gold and silver for paper.
So great became the throng of depositors, and so intense their
eagerness, that there was quite a press and struggle at the bank
door, and a ludicrous panic was awakened, as if there was dan-
ger of their not being admitted. An anecdote of the time re-
lates that one of the clerks, with an ominous smile, called out to
the struggling multitude, " Have a little patience, my friends;
we mean to take all your money ; " an assertion disastrously
verified in the sequel.

Thus, by the simple establishment of a bank, Law and the
Regent obtained pledges of confidence for the consummation of
further and more complicated schemes, as yet hidden from the
public. In a little while, the bank shares rose enormously, and
the amount of its notes in circulation exceeded one hundred and
ten millions of livres. A subtle stroke of policy had rendered

46 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

:t popular with the aristocracy. Louis XIV. had several years
previously imposed an income tax of a tenth, giving his royal
word that it should cease in 1717. This tax had been exceed-
ingly irksome to the privileged orders ; and in the present dis-
astrous times they had dreaded an augmentation of it. In
consequence of the successful operation of Law's scheme, how-
ever, the tax was abolished, and now nothing was to be heard
among the nobility and clergy, but praises of the Regent and the
bank.

Hitherto all had gone well, and all might have continued to
go well, had not the paper system been further expanded.
But Law had yet the grandest part of his scheme to develop.
He had to open his ideal world of speculation, his El Dorado
of unbounded wealth. The English had brought the vast im-
aginary commerce of the South Seas in aid of their banking
operations. Law sought to bring, as an immense auxiliary of
his bank, the whole trade of the Mississippi. Under this name
was included not merely the river so called, but the vast region
known as Louisiana, extending from north latitude 29° up to
Canada in north latitude 40°. This country had been granted
by Louis XIV. to the Sieur Crozat, but he had been induced to
resign his patent. In conformity to the plea of Mr. Law, letters
patent were granted in August, 1717, for the creation of a com-
mercial company, which was to have the colonizing of this
country, and the monopoly of its trade and resources, and of
the beaver or fur trade with Canada. It was called the West-
ern, but became better known as the Mississippi Company.
The capital was fixed at one hundred millions of livres, divided
into shares, bearing an interest of four per cent, which were
subscribed for in the public securities. As the bank was to
co-operate with the company, the Regent ordered that its bills
should be received the same as coin, in all payments of the
public revenue. Law was appointed chief director of this com-
pany, which was an exact copy of the Earl of Oxford's South
Sea Company, set on foot in 1711, and which distracted all
England with the frenzy of speculation. In like manner with
the delusive picturings given in that memorable scheme of the
sources of rich trade to be opened in the South Sea countries,
Law held forth magnificent prospects of the fortunes to be
made in colonizing Louisiana, which was represented as a veri-
table land of promise, capable of yielding every variety of the
most precious produce. Reports, too, were artfully circulated,
with great mystery, as if to the " chosen few," of mines of
gold and silver recently discovered in Louisiana, and which

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 47

would insure instant wealth to the early purchasers. These
confidential whispers of course soon became public ; and were
confirmed by travellers fresh from the Mississippi, and doubt-
less bribed, who had seen the mines in question, and declared
them superior in richness to those of Mexico and Peru. Nay,
more, ocular proof was furnished to public credulity, in ingots
of gold conveyed to the mint, as if just brought from the mines
of Louisiana.

Extraordinary measures were adopted to force a colonization.
An edict was issued to collect and transport settlers to the
Mississippi. The police lent its aid. The streets and prisons
of Paris, and of the provincial cities, were swept of mendicants
and vagabonds of all kinds, who were conveyed to Havre de
Grace. About six thousand were crowded into ships, where no
precautions had been taken for their health or accommodation.
Instruments of all kinds proper for the working of mines were
ostentatiously paraded in public, and put on board the vessels ;
and the whole set sail for this fabled El Dorado, which was to
prove the grave of the greater part of its wretched colonists.

D'Anguesseau, the chancellor, a man of probity and integ-
rity, still lifted his voice against the paper system of Law, and
his project of colonization, and was eloquent and prophetic in
picturing the evils they were calculated to produce ; the private
distress and public degradation ; the corruption of morals and
manners ; the triumph of knaves and schemers ; the ruin of for-
tunes, and downfall of families. He was incited more and
more to this opposition by the Duke de Noailles, the Minister
of Finance, who was jealous of the growing ascendency of Law
over the mind of the Regent, but was less honest than the
chancellor in his opposition. The Regent was excessively an-
noyed by the difficulties they conjured up in the way of his
darling schemes of finance, and the countenance they gave to
the opposition of parliament ; which body, disgusted more and
more with the abuses of the regency, and the system of Law,
had gone so far as to carry its remonstrances to the very foot of
the throne.

He determined to relieve himself from these two ministers,
who, either through honesty or policy, interfered with all his
plans. Accordingly, on the 28th of January, 1718, he dis-
missed the chancellor from office, and exiled him to his estate
in the country ; and shortly afterward removed the Duke de
Noailles from the administration of the finances.

The opposition of parliament to the Regent and his measures
was carried on with increasing violence.* That body aspired

48 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

to an equal authority with the Regent in the administration of
affairs, and pretended, by its decree, to suspend an edict of the
regency, ordering a new coinage and altering the value of the
currency. But its chief hostility was levelled against Law, a
foreigner and a heretic, and one who was considered by a ma-
jority of the members in the light of a malefactor. In fact, so
far was this hostility carried, that secret measures were taken to
investigate his malversations, and to collect evidence against
him ; and it was resolved in parliament that, should the testi-
mony collected justify their suspicions, they would have him
seized and brought before them ; would give him a brief trial,
and if convicted, would hang him in the courtyard of the palace,
and throw open the gates after the execution, that the public
might behold his corpse !

Law received intimation of the danger hanging over him, and
was in terrible trepidation. He took refuge in the Palais Royal,
the residence of the Regent, and implored his protection. The
Regent himself was embarrassed by the sturdy opposition of
parliament, which contemplated nothing less than a decree re-
versing most of his public measures, especially those of finance.
His indecision kept Law for a time in an agony of terror and sus-
pense. Finally, by assembling a board of justice, and bringing
to his aid the absolute authority of the King, he triumphed over
parliament and relieved Law from his dread of being hanged.

The system now went on with flowing sail. The Western or
Mississippi Company, being identified with the bank, rapidly
increased in power and privileges. One monopoly after an-
other was granted to it ; the trade of the Indian seas ; the slave
trade with Senegal and Guinea ; the farming of tobacco ; the
national coinage, etc. Each new privilege was made a pretext
for issuing more bills, and caused an immense advance in the
price of stock. At length, on the 4th of December, 1718, the
Regent gave the establishment the imposing title of THE ROYAL
BANK, and proclaimed that he had effected the purchase of all
the shares, the proceeds of which he had added to its capital.
This measure seemed to shock the public feeling more than any
other connected with the system, and roused the indignation of
parliament. The French nation had been so accustomed to
attach an idea of every thing noble, lofty, and magnificent, to
the royal name and person, especially during the stately and
sumptuous reign of Louis XIV., that they could not at first
tolerate the idea of royalty being in any degree mingled with
matters of traffic and finance, and the king being in a manner a
banker. It was one of the downward steps, however, by which

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BU&BLE. 49

royalty lost its illusive splendor in France, and became grad-
ually cheapened in the public mind.

Arbitrar}' measures now began to be taken to force the bills
of the bank into artificial currency. On the 27th of December
appeared an order in council, forbidding, under severe penal-
ties, the payment, of any sum above six hundred livres in gold
or silver. This decree rendered bank bills necessary in all
transactions of purchase and sale, and called for a new emis-
sion. The prohibition was occasionally evaded or opposed :
confiscations were the consequence ; informers were rewarded,
and spies and traitors began to spring up in all the domestic
walks of life.

The worst effect of this illusive system was the mania for
gain, or rather for gambling in stocks, that now seized upon the
whole nation. Under the exciting effects of lying reports, and
the forcing effects of government decrees, the shares of the
company went on rising in value until they reached thirteen
hundred per cent. Nothing was now spoken of but the price
of shares, and the immense fortunes suddenly made by lucky
speculators. Those whom Law had deluded used every means
to delude others. The most extravagant dreams were indulged,
concerning the wealth to flow in upon the company from its
colonies, its trade, and its various monopolies. It is true, noth-
ing as yet had been realized, nor could in some time be realized,
from these distant sources, even if productive ; but the imagi-
nations of speculators are ever in the advance, and their con-
jectures are immediately converted into facts. Lying reports
now flew from mouth to mouth, of sure avenues to fortune
suddenly thrown open. The more extravagant the fable, the
more readily was it believed. To doubt was to awaken anger,
or incur ridicule. In a time of public infatuation, it requires
no small exercise of courage to doubt a popular fallacy.

Paris now became the centre of attraction for the adventur-
ous and the avaricious, who flocked to it, not merely from the
provinces, but from neighboring countries. A stock exchange
was established in a house in the Rue Quincampoix, and be-
came immediately the gathering place of stock-jobbers. The
exchange opened at seven o'clock, with the beat of drum and
sound of bell, and closed at night with the same signals.
Guards were stationed at each end of the street, to maintain
order, and exclude carriages and horses. The whole street
swarmed throughout the day like a bee-hive. Bargains of all
kinds were seized upon with avidity. Shares of stock passed
from hand to hand, mounting in value, one knew not why.

50 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Fortunes were made in a moment, as if by magic ; and every
lucky bargain prompted those around to a more desperate
throw of the die. The fever went on, increasing in intensity as
the day declined ; and when the drum beat, and the bell rang,
at night, to close the exchange, there were exclamations of im-
patience and despair, as if the wheel of fortune had suddenly
been stopped when about to make its luckiest evolution.

To ingulf all classes in this ruinous vortex, Law now split
the shares of fifty millions of stock each into one hundred
shares : thus, as in the splitting of lottery tickets, accommo-
dating the venture to the humblest purse. Society was thus
stirred up to its very dregs, and adventurers of the lowest order
hurried to the stock market. All honest, industrious pursuits,
and modest gains, were now despised. Wealth was to be ob-
tained instantly, without labor, and without stint. The upper
classes were as base in their venality as the lower. The highest
and most powerful nobles, abandoning all generous pursuits and
lofty aims, engaged in the vile scuffle for gain. They were even
baser than the lower classes ; for some of them, who were mem-
bers of the council of the regency, abused their station and their
influence, and promoted measures by which shares arose while
in their hands, and they made immense profits.

The Duke de Bourbon, the Prince of Conti, the Dukes de la
Force and D' Antin were among the foremost of these illustrious
stock-jobbers. They were nicknamed the Mississippi Lords,
and they smiled at the sneering title. In fact, the usual distinc-
tions o'f society had lost their consequence, under the reign
of this new passion. Rank, talent, military fame, no longer
inspired deference. All respect for others, all self-respect,
were forgotten in the mercenary struggle of the stock-market.
Even prelates and ecclesiastical corporations, forgetting their
true objects of devotion, mingled among the votaries of Mam-
mon. They were not behind those who wielded the civil
power in fabricating ordinances suited to their avaricious pur-
poses. Theological decisions forthwith appeared, in which the
anathema launched by the Church against usury, was con-
veniently construed as not extending to the traffic in bank
shares !

The Abbe Dubois entered into the mysteries of stock-jobbing
with all the zeal of an apostle, and enriched himself by the
spoils of the credulous ; and he continually drew large sums
from Law, as considerations for his political influence. Faith-
less to his country, in the course of his gambling speculations
he transferred to England a great amount of specie, which had

THE GEE AT MISSISSIPPI HUBBLE. 51

been paid into the royal treasury ; thus contributing to the sub-
sequent dearth of the precious metals.

The female sex participated in this sordid frenzy. Princesses
of the blood, and ladies of the highest nobility, were among
the most rapacious of stock-jobbers. The Regent seemed to
have the riches of Croesus at his command, and lavished money
by hundreds of thousands upon his female relatives and favor-
ites, as well as upon his roues, the dissolute companions of his
debauches. "My son," writes the Regent's mother, in her
correspondence, "gave me shares to the amount of two mil-
lions, which I distributed among my household. The King also
took several millions for his own household. All the royal
family have had them ; all the children and grandchildren of
France, and the princes of the blood."

Luxury and extravagance kept pace with this sudden infla-
tion of fancied wealth. The hereditary palaces of nobles were
pulled clown, and rebuilt on a scale of augmented splendor.
Entertainments were given, of incredible cost and magnificence.
Never before had been such display in houses, furniture, equi-
pages, and amusements. This was particularly the case among
persons of the lower ranks, who had suddenly become possessed
of millions. Ludicrous anecdotes are related of some of these
upstarts. One, who had just launched a splendid carriage,
when about to use it for the first time, instead of getting in at
the door, mounted, through habitude, to his accustomed place
behind. Some ladies of quality, seeing a well-dressed woman
covered with diamonds, but whom nobody knew, alight from a
very handsome carriage, inquired who she was of the footman.
He replied, with a sneer : " It is a lady who has recently tum-
bled from a garret into this carriage." Mr. Law's domestics
were said to become in like manner suddenly enriched by the
crumbs that fell from his table. His coachman, having made
his fortune, retired from his service. Mr. Law requested him
to procure a coachman in his place. He appeared the next day
with two, whom he pronounced equally good, and told Mr. Law :
" Take which of them you choose, and I will take the other !"

Nor were these novi homini treated with the distance and
disdain they would formerly have experienced from the haughty
aristocracy of France. The pride of the old noblesse had been
stifled by the stronger instinct of avarice. They rather sought
the intimacy and confidence of these lucky upstarts ; and it has
been observed that a nobleman would gladly take his seat at
the table of the fortunate lackey of yesterday, in hopes of
learning from him the secret of growing rich !

52 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Law now went about with a countenance radiant with success
and apparently dispensing wealth on every side. "He is ad-
mirably skilled in all that relates to finance," writes the Duchess
of Orleans, the Regent's mother, " and has put the affairs of
the state in such good order that all the king's debts have been
paid. He is so much run after that he has no repose night or
day. A duchess even kissed his hand publicly. If a duchess
can do this, what will other ladies do? "

Wherever he went, his path, we are told, was beset by a
sordid throng, who waited to see him pass, and sought to obtain
the favor of a word, a nod, or smile, as if a mere glance from
him would bestow fortune. When at home, his house was ab-
solutely besieged by furious candidates for fortune. " They
forced the doors," says the Duke de St. Simon; " they scaled
his windows from the garden ; they made their way into his
cabinet down the chimney ! "

The same venal court was paid by all classes to his family.
The highest ladies of the court vied with each other in mean-
nesses to purchase the lucrative friendship of Mrs. Law and her
daughter. They waited upon them with as much assiduity and
adulation as if they had been princesses of the blood. The
Regent one day expressed a desire that some duchess should
accompany his daughter to Genoa. "My Lord," said some
one present, "if you would have a choice from among the
duchesses, you need but send to Mrs. Law's ; you will find them
all assembled there."

The wealth of Law rapidly increased with the expansion of
the bubble. In the course of a few months he purchased four-
teen titled estates, paying for them in paper ; and the public
hailed these sudden and vast acquisitions of landed property as
so many proofs of the soundness' of his system. In one in-
stance he met with a shrewd bargainer, who had not the general
faith in his paper money. The President de Novion insisted on
being paid for an estate in hard coin. Law accordingly brought
the amount, four hundred thousand livres, in specie, saying,
with a sarcastic smile, that he preferred paying in money as its
weight rendered it a mere incumbrarice. As it happened, the
president could give no clear title to the land, and the money
had to be refunded. He paid it back in paper, which Law
dared not refuse, lest he should depreciate it in the market.

The course of illusory credit went on triumphantly for eigh-
teen months. Law had nearly fulfilled one of his promises, for
the greater part of the public debt had been paid off ; but how
paid? In bank shares, which had been trumped up several

THE GEE AT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 53

hundred per cent above their value, and which were to vanish
like smoke in the hands of the holders.

One of the most striking attributes of Law was the imper-
turbable assurance and self-possession with which he replied to
every objection, and found a solution for every problem. He
had the dexterity of a juggler in evading difficulties ; and what
was peculiar, made figures themselves, which are the very ele-
ments of exact demonstration, the means to dazzle and be-
wilder.

Toward the latter end of 1719 the Mississippi scheme had
reached its highest point of glory. Half a million of strangers
had crowded into Paris, in quest of fortune. The hotels and
lodging-houses were overflowing ; lodgings were procured with
excessive difficulty; granaries were turned into bedrooms;
provisions had risen enormously in price ; splendid houses
were multiplying on every side ; the streets were crowded with
carriages,; above a thousand new equipages had been launched.

On the eleventh of December, Law obtained another prohibi-
tory decree, for the purpose of sweeping all the remaining specie
in circulation into the bank. By this it was forbidden to make
any payment in silver above ten livres, or in gold above three
hundred.

The repeated decrees of this nature, the object of which was
to depreciate the value of gold, and increase the illusive credit
of paper, began to awaken doubts of a system which required
such bolstering. Capitalists gradually awoke from their bewil-
derment. Sound and able financiers consulted together, and
agreed to make common cause against this continual expansion
of a paper system. The shares of the bank and of the company
began to decline in value. Wary men took the alarm, and began
to realize, a word now first brought into use, to express the con-
version of ideal property into something real.

The Prince of Couti, one of the most prominent and grasping
of the Mississippi lords, was the first to give a blow to the credit
of the bank. There was a mixture of ingratitude in his conduct
that characterized the venal baseness of the times. He had
received from time to time enormous sums from Law, as the
price of his influence and patronage. His avarice had increased
with every acquisition, until Law was compelled to refuse one
of his exactions. In revenge the prince immediately sent such
an amount of paper to the bank to be cashed, that it required
four wagons to bring away the silver, and he had the meanness
to loll out of the window of his hotel and jest and exult as it
was trundled into his port cochere.

54 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

This was the signal for other drains of like nature. The
English and Dutch merchants, who had purchased a great
amount of bank paper at low prices, cashed them at the bank,
and carried the money out of the country. Other strangers did
the like, thus draining the kingdom of its specie, and leaving
paper in its place.

The Regent, perceiving these symptoms of decay in the sys-
tem, sought to restore it to public confidence, by conferring
marks of confidence upon its author. He accordingly resolved
to make Law Comptroller General of the Finances of France.
There was a material obstacle in his way. Law was a Protes-
tant, and the Regent, unscrupulous as he was himself, did not
dare publicly to outrage the severe edicts which Louis XIV. , in
his bigot days, had fulminated against all heretics. Law soon
let him know that there would be no difficulty on that head. He
was ready at any moment to abjure his religion in the way of
business. For decency's sake, however, it was judged proper
he should previously be convinced and converted. A ghostly
instructor was soon found, ready to accomplish his conversion
in the shortest possible time. This was the Abbe Tencin, a
profligate creature of the profligate Dubois, and like him work-
ing his way to ecclesiastical promotion and temporal wealth, by
the basest means.

Under the instructions of the Abbe Tencin, Law soon mas-
tered the mysteries and dogmas of the Catholic doctrine ; and,
after a brief course of ghostly training, declared himself thor-
oughly convinced and converted. To avoid the sneers and jests
of the Parisian public, the ceremony of abjuration took place at
Melun. Law made a pious present of one hundred thousand
livres to the Church of St. Roque, and the Abbe Tencin was
rewarded for his edifying labors by sundry shares and bank
bills ; which he shrewdly took care to convert into cash, having
as little faith in the system as in the piety of his new convert.
A more grave and moral community might have been outraged
by this scandalous farce ; but the Parisians laughed at it with
their usual levity, and contented themselves with making it the
subject of a number of songs and epigrams.

Law now being orthodox in his faith, took out letters of nat-
uralization, and having thus surmounted the intervening obsta-
cles, was elevated by the Regent to the post of Comptroller
General. So accustomed had the community become to all
juggles and transmutations in this hero of finance, that no one
seemed shocked or astonished at his sudden elevation. On the
contrary, being now considered perfectly established in place

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 55

and power, he became more than ever the object of venal adora-
tion. Men of rank and dignity thronged his antechamber, wait-
ing patiently their turn for an audience ; and titled dames
demeaned themselves to take the front seats of the carriages of
his wife and daughter, as if they had been riding with princesses
of the royal blood. Law's head grew giddy with his elevation,
and he began to aspire after aristocratical distinction. There
was to be a court ball, at which several of the young noblemen
were to dance in a ballet with the youthful King. Law requested
that his son might be admitted into the ballet, and the Regent
consented. The young scions of nobility, however, were indig-
nant and scouted the "intruding upstart." Their more worldly
parents, fearful of displeasing the modern Midas, reprimanded
them in vain. The striplings had not yet imbibed the passion
for gain, and still held to their high blood. The son of the
banker received slights and annoyances on all sides, and the
public applauded them for their spirit. A fit of illness came
opportunely to relieve the youth from an honor which would
have cost him a world of vexatious and affronts.

In February, 1720, shortly after Law's instalment in office, a
decree came out uniting the bank to the India Company, by
which last name the whole establishment was now known. The
decree stated that as the bank was royal, the King was bound
to make good the value of its bills ; that he committed to the
company the government of the bank for fifty years, and sold
to it fifty millions of stock belonging to him, for nine hundred
millions ; a simple advance of eighteen hundred per cent. The
decree farther declared, in the King's name, that he would never
draw on the bank, until the value of his drafts had first been
lodged in it by his receivers general.

The bank, it was said, had by this time issued notes to the
amount of one thousand millions ; being more paper than all the
banks of Europe were able to circulate. To aid its credit, the re-
ceivers of the revenue were directed to take bank notes of the
sub-receivers. All payments, also, of one hundred livres and
upward were ordered to be made in bank notes. These com-
pulsory measures for a short time gave a false credit to the bank,
which proceeded to discount merchants' notes, to lend money
on jewels, plate, and other valuables, as well as on mortgages.

Still farther to force on the system an edict next appeared,
forbidding any individual, or any corporate body, civil or re-
ligious, to hold in possession more than five hundred livres in
current coin ; that is to say, about seven louis-d'ors ; the value
of the louis-d'or in paper being, at the time, seventy-two livres.

56 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

All the gold and silver they might have above this pittance was
to be brought to the royal bank, and exchanged either for shares
or bills.

As confiscation was the penalty of disobedience to this decree,
and informers were assured a share of the forfeitures, a bounty
was in a manner held out to domestic spies and traitors ; and
the most odious scrutiny was awakened into the pecuniary affairs
of families and individuals. The very confidence between friends
and relatives was impaired, and all the domestic ties and virtues
of society were threatened, until a general sentiment of indig-
nation broke forth, that compelled the Regent to rescind the
odious decree. Lord Stairs, the British ambassador, speaking
of the system of espionage encouraged by this edict, observed
that it was impossible to doubt that Law was a thorough Catho-
lic, since he had thus established the inquisition, after having
already proved tramubstantiation, by changing specie into paper.

Equal abuses had taken place under the colonizing project.
In his thousand expedients to amass capital, Law had sold
parcels of laud in Mississippi, at the rate of three thousand livres
for a league square. Many capitalists had purchased estates
large enough to constitute almost a principality ; the only evil
was, Law had sold a property which he could not deliver. The
agents of police, who aided in recruiting the ranks of the colo-
nists, had been guilty of scandalous impositions. Under pretence
of taking up mendicants and vagabonds, they had scoured the
streets at night, seizing upon honest mechanics, or their sons,
and hurrying them to their crimping-houses, for the sole purpose
of extorting money from them as a ransom. The populace was
roused to indignation by these abuses. The officers of police
were mobbed in the exercise of their odious functions, and sev-
eral of them were killed ; which put an end to this flagrant abuse
of power.

In March, a most extraordinary decree of the council fixed
the price of shares of the India Company at nine thousand
livres each. All ecclesiastical communities and hospitals were
now prohibited from investing money at interest, in any thing
but India stock. With all these props and stays, the system
continued to totter. How could it be otherwise, under a des-
potic government, that could alter the value of property at
every moment? The very compulsory measures that were
adopted to establish the credit of the bank hastened its fall ;
plainly showing there was a want of solid security. Law
caused pamphlets to be published, setting forth, in eloquent
language, the vast profits that must accrue to holders of the

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 57

stock, and the impossibility of the King's ever doing it any
harm. On the very back of these assertions came forth an
edict of the King, dated the 22d of May, wherein, under pre-
tence of having reduced the value of his coin, it was declared
necessary to reduce the value of his bank notes one half, and
of the India shares from nine thousand to five thousand livres.

This decree came like a clap of thunder upon shareholders.
They found one half of the pretended value of the paper in
their hands annihilated in an instant ; and what certainty had
they with respect to the other half? The rich considered them-
selves ruined ; those in humbler circumstances looked forward
to abject beggary.

The parliament seized the occasion to stand forth as the
protector of the public, and refused to register the decree. It
gained the credit of compelling the Regent to retrace his step,
though it is more probable he yielded to the universal burst of
public astonishment and reprobation. On the 27th of May the
edict was revoked, and bank-bills were restored to their pre-
vious value. But the fatal blow had been struck ; the delusion
was at an end. Government itself had lost all public confi-
dence, equally with the bank it had engendered, and which its
own arbitrary acts had brought into discredit. "All Paris,"
says the Regent's mother, in her letters, " has been mourning
at the cursed decree which Law has persuaded my son to make.
I have received anonymous letters, stating that I have nothing
to fear on my own account, but that my son shall be 'pursued
with fire and sword."

The Regent now endeavored to avert the odium of his ruin-
ous schemes from himself. He affected to have suddenly lost
confidence in Law, and on the 29th of May, discharged him
from his employ as Comptroller General, and stationed a Swiss
guard of sixteen men in his house. He even refused to see
him, when, on the following day, he applied at the portal of
the Palais Royal for admission : but having played off this
farce before the public, he admitted him secretly the same
night, by a private door, and continued as before to co-operate
with him in his financial schemes.

On the first of June, the Regent issued a decree, permitting
persons to have as much money as they pleased in their pos-
session. Few, however, were in a state to benefit by this
permission. There was a run upon the bank, but a royal
ordinance immediately suspended payment, until farther orders.
To relieve the public mind, a city stock was created, of twenty-
five millions, bearing an interest of two and a half per cent,

58 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

for which bank notes were taken in exchange. The bank notes
thus withdrawn from circulation, were publicly burned before
the Hotel de Ville. The public, however, had lost confidence
in everything and everybody, and suspected fraud and collusion
in those who pretended to burn the bills.

A general confusion now took place in the financial world.
Families who had lived in opulence, found themselves suddenly
reduced to indigence. Schemers who had been revelling in the
delusion of princely fortune, found their estates vanishing into
thin air. Those who had any property remaining, sought to
secure it against reverses. Cautious persons found there was
no safety for property in a country where the coin was continu-
ally shifting in value, and where a despotism was exercised
over public securities, and even over the private purses of indi-
viduals. They began to send their effects into other countries ;
when lo ! on the 20th of June a royal edict commanded them to
bring back their effects, under penalty of forfeiting twice their
value ; and forbade them, under like penalty, from investing
their money in foreign stocks. This was soon followed by
another decree, forbidding any one to retain precious stones in
his possession, or to sell them to foreigners ; all must be
deposited in the bank, in exchange for depreciating paper !

Execrations were now poured out on all sides, against Law,
and menaces of vengeance. What a contrast, in a short time,
to the venal incense that was offered up to him ! "This per-
son," writes the Regent's mother, "who was formerly wor-
shipped as a god, is now not sure of his life. It is astonishing
how greatly terrified he is. He is as a dead man ; he is pale as
a sheet, and it is said he can never get over it. My son is
not dismayed, though he is threatened on all sides ; and is very
much amused with Law's terrors."

About the middle of July the last grand attempt was made
by Law and the Regent, to keep up the system, and provide for
the immense emission of paper. A decree was fabricated, giv-
ing the India Company the entire monopoly of commerce, on
condition that it would, in the course of a year, reimburse six
hundred millions of livres of its bills, at the rate of fifty
millions per month.

On the 1 7th this decree was sent to parliament to be regis-
tered. It at once raised a storm of opposition in that assembly ;
and a vehement discussion took place. While that was going
on, a disastrous scene was passing out of doors.

The calamitous effects of the system had reached the hum-
blest concerns of human life. Provisions had risen to an enor-

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 59

mous price ; paper money was refused at all the shops ; the
people had not wherewithal to buy bread. It had been found
absolutely indispensable to relax a little from the suspension of
specie payments, and to allow small sums to be scantily ex-
changed for paper. The doors of the bank and the neighboring
streets were immediately thronged with a famishing multitude,
seeking cash for bank-notes of ten livres. So great was the
press and struggle that several persons were stifled and crushed
to death. The mob carried three of the bodies to the court-
yard of the Palais Royal. Some cried for the Regent to come
forth and behold the effect of his system ; others demanded the
death of Law, the impostor, who had brought this misery and
ruin upon the nation.

The moment was critical, the popular fury was rising to a
tempest, when Le Blanc, the Secretary of State, stepped forth.
He had previously sent for the military, and now only sought
to gain time. Singling out six or seven stout fellows, who
seemed to be the ringleaders of the mob : " My good fellows,"
said he, calmly, " carry away these bodies and place them in
some church, and then come back quickly to me for your pay."
They immediately obeyed ; a kind of funeral procession was
formed ; the arrival of troops dispersed those who lingered
behind ; and Paris was probably saved from an insurrection.

About ten o'clock in the morning, all being quiet, Law ven-
tured to go in his carriage to the Palais Royal. He was saluted
with cries and curses, as he passed along the streets ; and he
reached the Palais Royal in a terrible fright. The Regent
amused himself with his fears, but retained him with him, and
sent off his carriage, which was assailed by the mob, pelted with
stones, and the glasses shivered. The news of this outrage
was communicated to parliament in the midst of a furious dis-
cussion of the decree for the commercial monopoly. The first
president, who had been absent for a short time, re-entered,
and communicated the tidings in a whimsical couplet :

"Messieurs, Messieurs! bonne nouvelle!
Le carrosse de Law est reduite en carrelle ! "

"Gentlemen, Gentlemen! good news:
The carriage of Law is shivered to atoms ! "

The members sprang up with joy ; "And Law!" exclaimed
they, "has he been torn to pieces?" The president was igno-
rant of the result of the tumult ; whereupon the debate was cut
short, the decree rejected, and the house adjourned ; the mem-

60

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

bers hurrying to learn the particulars. Such was the levity with
which public affairs were treated at that dissolute and disastrous
period.

On the following day there was an ordinance from the king,
prohibiting all popular assemblages ; and troops were stationed
at various points, and in all public places. The regiment of
guards was ordered to hold itself in readiness ; and the musket-
eers to be at their hotels, with their horses ready saddled. A
number of small offices were opened, where people might cash
small notes, though with great delay and difficulty. An edict
was also issued declaring that whoever should refuse to take
bank-notes in the course of trade should forfeit double the
amount !

The continued and vehement opposition of parliament to the
whole delusive system of finance, had been a constant source
of annoyance to the Regent ; but this obstinate rejection of his
last grand expedient of a commercial monopoly, was riot to be
tolerated. He determined to punish that intractable body.
The Abbe Dubois and Law suggested a simple mode ; it was to
suppress the parliament altogether, being, as they observed, so
far from useful, that it was a constant impediment to the march
of public affairs. The Regent was half inclined to listen to
their advice ; but upon calmer consideration, and the advice of
friends, he adopted a more moderate course. On the 20th
of July, early in the morning, all the doors of the parliament-
house were taken possession of by troops. Others were sent to
surround the house of the first president, and others to the
houses of the various members ; who were all at first in great
alarm, until an order from the king was put into their hands,
to render themselves at Pontoise, in the course of two days, to
which place the parliament was thus suddenly and arbitrarily
transferred.

This despotic act, says Voltaire, would at any other time have
caused an insurrection ; but one half of the Parisians were oc-
cupied by their ruin, and the other half by their fancied riches,
which were soon to vanish. The president and members of
parliament acquiesced in the mandate without a murmur ; they
even went as if on a party of pleasure, and made every prep-
aration to lead a joyous life in their exile. The musketeers,
who held possession of the vacated parliament-house, a gay
corps of fashionable young fellows, amused themselves with
making songs and pasquinades, at the expense of the exiled
legislators ; and at length, to pass away time, formed them-
selves into a mock parliament ; elected their presidents, kings,

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE. 61

ministers, and advocates ; took their seats in due form, ar-
raigned a cat at their bar, in place of the Sieur Law, and after
giving it a "fair trial." condemned it to be hanged. In this
manner public affairs and public institutions were lightly turned
to jest.

As to the exiled parliament, it lived gayly and luxuriously at
Pontoise, at the public expense ; for the Regent had furnished
funds, as usual, with a lavish hand. The first president had
the mansion of the Duke de Bouillon put at his disposal, ready
furnished, with a vast and delightful garden on the borders of
a river. There he kept open house to all the members of par-
liament. Several tables were spread every day, all furnished
luxuriously and splendidly ; the most exquisite wines and
liquors, the choicest fruits and refreshments, of all kinds,
abounded. A number of small chariots for one and two horses
were always at hand, for such ladies and old gentlemen as
wished to take an airing after dinner, and card and billiard
tables for such as chose to amuse themselves in that way until
supper. The sister and the daughter of the first president did
the honors of the house, and he himself presided there with an
air of great ease, hospitality, and magnificence. It became a
party of pleasure to drive from Paris to Pontoise, which was
six leagues distant, and partake of the amusements and festivi-
ties of the place. Business was openly slighted ; nothing was
thought of but amusement. The Regent and his government were
laughed at, and made the subjects of continual pleasantries ;
while the enormous expenses incurred by this idle and lavish
course of life, more than doubled the liberal sums provided.
This was the way in which the parliament resented their exile.

During all this time, the system was getting more and more
involved. The stock exchange had some time previously been
removed to the Place Yendome ; but the tumult and noise be-
coming intolerable to the residents of that polite quarter, and
especially to the chancellor, whose hotel was there, the Prince
and Princess Carignan, both deep gamblers in Mississippi stock,
offered the extensive garden of the Hotel de Soissons as a
rallyiug-place for the worshippers of Mammon. The offer was
accepted. A number of barracks were immediately erected
in the garden, as offices for the stock-brokers, and an order
was obtained from the Regent, under pretext of police regula-
tions, that no bargain should be valid unless concluded in these
barracks. The rent of them immediately mounted to a hundred
livres a month for each, and the whole yieldeil these noble pro-
prietors an ignoble revenue of half a million of livres.

62 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

The mania for gain, however, was now at an end. A uni-
versal panic succeeded. " Sauve qui pent!" was the watch-
word. Every one was anxious to exchange falling paper for
something of intrinsic and permanent value. Since money
was not to be had, jewels, precious stones, plate, porcelain,
trinkets of gold and silver, all commanded any price in paper.
Land was bought at fifty years' purchase, and he esteemed
himself happy who could get it even at this price. Monopolies
now became the rage among the noble holders of paper. The
Duke de la Force bought up nearly all the tallow, grease, and
soap ; others the coffee and spices ; others hay and oats. For-
eign exchanges were almost impracticable. The debts of Dutch
and English merchants were paid in this fictitious money, all
the coin of the realm having disappeared. All the relations of
debtor anft creditor were confounded. With one thousand
crowns one might pay a debt of eighteen thousand livres !

The Regent's mother, who once exulted in the affluence of
bank paper, now wrote in a very different tone: "I have
often wished," said she in her letters, " that these bank notes
were in the depths of the infernal regions. They have given my
son more trouble than relief. Nobody in France has a penny.
. . . My son was once popular, but since the arrival of this
cursed Law, he is hated more and more. Not a week passes,
without my receiving letters filled with frightful threats, and
speaking of him as a tyrant. I have just received one threat-
ening him with poison. When I showed it to him, he did noth-
ing but laugh."

In the meantime, Law was dismayed by the increasing
troubles, and terrified at the tempest he had raised. He was
not a man of real courage ; and fearing for his personal safety,
from popular tumult, or the despair of ruined individuals, he
again took refuge in the palace of the Regent. The latter, as
usual, amused himself with his terrors, and turned every new
disaster into a jest ; but he too began to think of his own
security.

In pursuing the schemes of Law, he had no doubt calculated,
to carry through his term of government with ease and splendor ,;
and to enrich himself, his connections, and his favorites ; and
had hoped that the catastrophe of the system would not take
place until after the expiration of the regency.

He now saw his mistake ; that it was impossible much longer
to prevent an explosion ; and he determined at once to get Law
out of the way, and then to charge him with the whole tissue of
delusions of this paper alchemy. He accordingly took occasion

THE GREAT MISSISSIPPI RUBBLE. 63

of the recall of parliament in December, 1720, to suggest to
Law the policy of his avoiding an encounter with that hostile
and exasperated body. Law needed no urging to the measure.
His only desire was to escape from Paris and its tempestuous
populace. Two days before the. return of parliament he took
his sudden and secret departure. He travelled in a chaise bear-
ing the arms of the Regent, and was escorted by a kind of safe-
guard of servants, in the duke's livery. His first place of
refuge was an estate of the Regent's, about six leagues from
Paris, from whence he pushed forward to Bruxelles.

As soon as Law was fairly out of the way, the Duke of Or-
leans summoned a council of the regency, and informed them
that they were assembled to deliberate on the state of the
finances, and the affairs of the India Company. Accordingly
La Houssaye, Comptroller General, rendered a perfectly clear
statement, by which it appeared that there were bank bills in
circulation to the amount of two milliards, seven hundred mil-
lions of livres, without any evidence that this enormous sum
had been emitted in virtue of any ordinance from the general
assembly of the India Company, which alone had the right to
authorize such emissions.

The council was astonished at this disclosure, and looked to
the Regent for explanation. Pushed to the extreme, the Regent
avowed that Law had emitted bills to the amount of twelve
hundred millions beyond what had been fixed by ordinances,
and in contradiction to express prohibitions ; that the thing be-
ing done, he, the Regent, had legalized or rather covered the
transaction, by decrees ordering such emissions, which decrees
he had antedated.

A stormy scene ensued between the Regent and the Duke de
Bourbon, little to the credit of either, both having been deeply
implicated in the cabalistic operations of the system. In fact,-
the several members of the council had been among the most
venal " beneficiaries " of the scheme, and had interests at stake
which they were anxious to secure. From all the circumstances
of the case, I am inclined to think that others were more to
blame than Law, for the disastrous effects of his financial pro-
jects. His bank, had it been confined to its original limits, and
left to the control of its own internal regulations, might have
gone on prosperously, and been of .great benefit to the nation.
It was an institution fitted for a free country ; but unfortunately
it was subjected to the control of a despotic government, that
could, at its pleasure, alter the value of the specie within its
vaults, and compel the most extravagant expansions of its

64 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

paper circulation. The vital principle of a bank is security in
the regularity of its operations, and the immediate convertibility
of its paper into coin ; and what confidence could be reposed in
an institution or its paper promises, when the sovereign could
at any moment centuple those promises in the market, and seize
upon all the money in the bank? The compulsory measures
used, likewise, to force bank notes into currency, against the
judgment of the public, was fatal to the system ; for credit
must be free and uncontrolled as the common air. The Regent
was the evil spirit of the system, that forced Law on to an
expansion of his paper currency far beyond what he had ever
dreamed of. He it was that in a manner compelled the unlucky
projector to devise all kinds of collateral companies and mo-
nopolies, by which to raise funds to meet the constantly and enor-
mously increasing emissions of shares and notes. Law was but
like a poor conjurer in the hands of a potent spirit that he has
evoked, and that obliges him to go on, desperately and ruinously,
with his conjurations. He only thought at the outset to raise
the wind, but the Regent compelled him to raise the whirlwind.

The investigation of the affairs of the Company by the coun-
cil, resulted in nothing beneficial to the public. The princes
and nobles who had enriched themselves by all kinds of juggles
and extortions, escaped unpunished, and retained the greater
part of their spoils. Many of the ''suddenly rich," who had
risen from obscurity to a giddy height of imaginary prosperity,
and had indulged in all kinds of vulgar and ridiculous excesses,
awoke as out of a dream, in their original poverty, now made
more galling and humiliating by their transient elevation.

The weight of the evil, however, fell on more valuable classes
of society ; honest tradesmen and artisans, who had been se-
duced away from the safe pursuits of industry, to the specious
chances of speculation. Thousands of meritorious families
also, once opulent, had been reduced to indigence, by a too
great confidence in government. There was a general derange-
ment in the finances, that long exerted a baneful influence over
the national prosperity ; but the most disastrous effects of the
system were upon the morals and manners of the nation. The
faith of engagements, the sanctity of promises in affairs of
business, were at an end. Every expedient to grasp present
profit, or to evade present difficulty, was tolerated. While such
deplorable laxity of principle was generated in the busy classes,
the chivalry of France had soiled their pennons ; and honor and
glory, so long the idols of the Gallic nobility, had been tumbled
to the earth, and trampled in the dirt of the stock-market.

DON JUAN. 65

As to Law, the originator of the system, he appears eventu-
ally to have profited but little by his schemes. " He was a
quack," says Voltaire, "to whom the state was given to be
cured, but who poisoned it with his drugs, and who poisoned
himself." The effects which he left behind in France, were
sold at a low price, and the proceeds dissipated. His landed
estates were confiscated. He carried away with him barely
enough to maintain himself, his wife, and daughter, with de-
cency. The chief relic of his immense fortune was a great
diamond, which he was often obliged to pawn. He was in
England in 1721, and was presented to George the First. He
returned shortly afterwards to the continent ; shifting about
from place to place, and died in Venice, in 1729. His wife and
daughter, accustomed to live with the prodigality of princesses,
could not conform to their altered fortunes, but dissipated the
scanty means left to them, and sank into abject poverty. " I
saw his wife," says Voltaire, "at Bruxelles, as much humili-
ated as she had been haughty and triumphant at Paris." An
elder brother of Law remained in France, and was protected
by the Duchess of Bourbon. His descendants acquitted them-
selves honorably, in various public employments; and one of
them was the Marquis Lauriston, some time Lieutenant General
and Peer of France.

DON JUAN.

A SPECTRAL RESEARCH.

"I have heard of spirits walking with aerial bodies, and have been wondered at by
others j but I must only wonder at myself, for if they be not mad, I'nae come to my own
buriall." — SHIRLEY'S " WITTY FAIBIE ONE."

EVERYBODY has heard of the fate of Don Juan, the famous
libertine of Seville, who for his sins against the fair sex and
other minor peccadilloes was hurried away to the infernal re-
gions. His story has been illustrated in play, in pantomime,
and farce, on every stage in Christendom ; until at length it has
been rendered the theme of the opera of operas, and embalmed
to endless duration in the glorious music of Mozart. I well
recollect the effect of this story upon my feelings in my boy-
ish days, though represented in grotesque pantomime ; the awe
with which I contemplated the monumental statue on horseback
of the murdered commander, gleaming by pale moonlight in

66 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

the convent cemetery ; how my heart quaked as he bowed his
marble head, and accepted the impious invitation of Don Juan :
how each foot-fall of the statue smote upon my heart, as I
heard it approach, step by step, through the echoing corridor,
and beheld it enter, and advance, a moving figure of stone, to
the supper-table ! But then the convivial scene in the charnel-
house, where Don Juan returned the visit of the statue ; was
offered a banquet of skulls and bones, and on refusing to par-
take, was hurled into a yawning gulf, under a tremendous
shower of fire ! These were accumulated horrors enough to
shake the nerves of the most pantomime-loving school-boy.
Many have supposed the story of Don Juan a mere fable. I
myself thought so once; but "seeing is believing." I have
since beheld the very scene where it took place, and now to in-
dulge any doubt on the subject would be preposterous.

I was one night perambulating the streets of Seville, in com-
pany with a Spanish friend, a curious investigator of the popu-
lar traditions and other good-for-nothing lore of the city, and
who was kind enough to imagine he had met, in me, with a
congenial spirit. In the course of our rambles we were passing
by a heavy, dark gateway, opening into the court-yard of a
convent, when he laid his hand upon my arm : " Stop ! " said
he, " this is the convent of San Francisco ; there is a story con-
nected with it, which I am sure must be known to you. You
cannot but have heard of Don Juan and the marble statue."

"Undoubtedly," replied I, " it has been familiar to me from
childhood."

" Well, then, it was in the cemetery of this very convent that
the events took place."

" Why, you do not mean to say that the story is founded on
fact?"

" Undoubtedly it is. The circumstances of the case are said
to have occurred during the reign of Alfonso XI. Don Juan
was of the noble family of Tenorio, one of the most illustrious
houses of Andalusia. His father, Don Diego Tenorio, was a
favorite of the king, and his family ranked among the veinte-
cuatros, or magistrates, of the city. Presuming on his high de-
scent and powerful connections, Don Juan set no bounds to his
excesses : no female, high or low, was sacred from his pursuit :
and he soon became the scandal of Seville. One of his most
daring outrages was, to penetrate by night into the palace of
Don Gonzalo de Ulloa, commander of the order of Calatrava,
and attempt to carry off his daughter. The household was
alarmed ; a scuffle in the dark took place ; Don Juan escaped,

DON JUAN. 67

but the unfortunate commander was found weltering in his
blood, and expired without being able to name his murderer.
Suspicions attached to Don Juan ; he did not stop to meet the
investigations of justice, and the vengeance of the powerful
family of Ulloa, but fled from Seville, and took refuge with his
uncle, Don Pedro Tenorio, at that time ambassador at the court
of Naples. Here he remained until the agitation occasioned by
the murder of Don Gonzalo had time to subside ; and the scan-
dal which the affair might cause to both the families of Ulloa
and Tenorio had induced them to hush it up. Don Juan, how-
ever, continued his libertine career at Naples, until at length
his excesses forfeited the protection of his uncle, the ambassa-
dor, and obliged him again to flee. He had made his way back
to Seville, trusting that his past misdeeds were forgotten, or
rather trusting to his dare-devil spirit and the power of his
family, to carry him through all difficulties.

"It was shortly after his return, and while in the height of
his arrogance, that on visiting this very convent of Francisco,
he beheld on a monument the equestrian statue of the murdered
commander, who had been buried within the walls of this sacred
edifice, where the family of Ulloa had a chapel. It was on this
occasion that Don Juan, in a moment of impious levity, invited
the statue to the banquet, the awful catastrophe of which has
given such celebrity to his story."

"And pray how much of this story," said I, "is believed in
Seville?"

"The whole of it by the populace; with whom it has been
a favorite tradition since time immemorial, and who crowd to
the theatres to see it represented in dramas written long since
by Tyrso de Molina, and another of our popular writers. Many
in our higher ranks also, accustomed from childhood to this
story, would feel somewhat indignant at hearing it treated with
contempt. An attempt has been made to explain the whole,
by asserting that, to put an end to the extravagances of Don
Juan, and to pacify the family of Ulloa, without exposing the
delinquent to'the degrading penalties of justice, he was decoyed
into this convent under a false pretext, and either plunged into a
perpetual dungeon, or privately hurried out of existence ; while
the story of the statue was circulated by the monks, to account
for his sudden disappearance. The populace, however, are not
to be cajoled out of a ghost story by any of these plausible
explanations ; and the marble statue still strides the stage, and
Don Juan is still plunged into the infernal regions, as an awful
warning to all rake-helly youngsters, in like case offending."

68 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

While my companion was relating these anecdotes, we had
entered the gate-way, traversed the exterior court-yard of the
convent, and made our way into a great interior court ; partly
surrounded by cloisters and dormitories, partly by chapels, and
having a large fountain in the centre. The pile had evidently
once been extensive and magnificent ; but it was for the greater
part in ruins. By the light of the stars, and of twinkling lamps
placed here and there in the chapels and corridors, I could see
that many of the columns and arches were broken ; the walls
were rent and riven ; while burned beams and rafters showed the
destructive effects of fire. The whole place had a? desolate air;
the night breeze rustled through grass and weeds flaunting out
of the crevices of the walls, or from the shattered columns ; the
bat flitted about the vaulted passages, and the owl hooted from
the ruined belfry. Never was any scene more completely fitted
for a ghost story.

While I was indulging in picturings of the fancy, proper to
such a place, the deep chant of the monks from the convent
• church came swelling upon the ear. " It is the vesper service,"
said my companion ; " follow me."

Leading the way across the court of the cloisters, and
through one or two ruined passages, he reached the distant
portal of the church, and pushing open a wicket, cut in the
folding-doors, we found ourselves in the deep arched vestibule
of the sacred edifice. To our left was the choir, forming one
end of the church, and having a low vaulted ceiling, which gave
it the look of a cavern. About this were ranged the monks,
seated* on stools, and chanting from immense books placed on
music-stands, and having the notes scored in such gigantic
characters as to be legible from every part of the choir. A few
lights on these music-stands dimly illumined the choir, gleamed
on the shaven heads of the monks, and threw their shadows on
the walls. They were gross, blue-bearded, bullet-headed men,
with bass voices, of deep metallic tone, that reverberated out
of the cavernous choir.

To our right extended the great body of the church. It was
spacious and lofty ; some of the side chapels had gilded grates,
and were decorated with images and paintings, representing
the sufferings of our Saviour. Aloft was a great painting by
Murillo, but too much in the dark to be distinguished. The
gloom of the whole church was but faintly relieved by the re-
flected light from the choir, and the glimmering -here and there
of a votive lamp before the shrine of a saint.

As my eye roamed about the shadowy pile, it was struck

DON JUAN. 69

with the dimly seen figure of a man on horseback, near a dis-
tant altar. I touched my companion, and pointed to it : " The
spectre statue ! " said I.

" No," replied he ; " it is the statue of the blessed St. lago ;
the statue of the commander was in the cemetery of the con-
vent, and was destroyed at the time of the conflagration.
But," added he, " as I see you take a proper interest in these
kind of stories, come with me to the other end of the church,
where our whisperings will not disturb these holy fathers at
their devotions, and I will tell you another story, that has been
current for some generations in our city, by which you will find
that Don Juan is not the only libertine that has been the object
of supernatural castigation in Seville."

I accordingly followed him with noiseless tread to the farther
part of the church, where we took our seats on the steps of an
altar, opposite to the suspicious-looking figure on horseback,
and there, in a low, mysterious voice, he related to me the fol-
lowing narrative :

" There was once in Seville a gay young fellow, Don Manuel
de Manara by name, who having come to a great estate by the
death of his father, gave the reins to his passions, and plunged
into all kinds of dissipation. Like Don Juan, whom he seemed
to have taken for a model, he became famous for his enterprises
among the fair sex, and was the cause of doors being barred
and windows grated with more than usual strictness. All in
vain. No balcony was too high for him to scale ; no bolt nor
bar was proof against his efforts ; and his very name was a
word of terror to all the jealous husbands and cautious fathers
of Seville. His exploits extended to country as well as city ;
and in the village dependent on his castle, scarce a rural beauty
was safe from his arts and enterprises.

"As he was one day ranging the streets of Seville, with sev-
eral of his dissolute companions, he beheld a procession about
to enter the gate of a convent. In the centre was a young
female arrayed in the dress of a bride ; it was a novice, who,
having accomplished her year of probation, was about to take
the black veil, and consecrate herself to heaven. The com-
panions of Don Manuel drew back, out of respect to the sacred
pageant ; but he pressed forward, with his usual impetuosity,
to gain a near view of the novice. He almost jostled her, in
passing through the portal of the church, when, on her turning
round, he beheld the countenance of a beautiful village girl, who
had been the object of his ardent pursuit, but who had been spir-
ited secretly out of his reach by her relatives. She recognized

70 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

him at the same moment, and fainted ; but was borne within
the grate of the chapel. It was supposed the agitation of the
ceremony and the heat of the throng had overcome her. After
some time, the curtain which hung within the grate was drawn
up : there stood the novice, pale and trembling, surrounded by
the abbess and the nuns. The ceremony proceeded ; the crown
of flowers was taken from her head ; she was shorn of her silken
tresses, received the black veil, and went passively through the
remainder of the ceremony.

" Don Manuel de Manara, on the contrary, was roused to
fury at the sight of this sacrifice. His passion, which had al-
most faded away in the absence of the object, now glowed with
tenfold ardor, being inflamed by the difficulties placed in his
way, and piqued by the measures which had been taken to de-
feat him. Never had the object of his pursuit appeared so
lovely and desirable as when within the grate of the convent ;
and he swore to have her, in defiance of heaven and earth. By
dint of bribing a female servant of the convent he contrived to
convey letters to her, pleading his passion in the most eloquent
and seductive terms. How successful they were is only matter
of conjecture ; certain it is, he undertook one night to scale the
garden wall of the convent, either to carry off the nun, or gain
admission to her cell. Just as he was mounting the wall he was
suddenly plucked back, and a stranger, muffled in a cloak, stood
before him.

" ' Rash man, forbear ! ' cried he : 'is it not enough to have
violated all human ties? Wouldst thou steal a bride from
heaven ! '

" The sword of Don Manuel had been drawn on the instant,
and furious at this interruption, he passed it through the body
of the stranger, who fell dead at his feet. Hearing approach-
ing footsteps, he fled the fatal spot, and mounting his horse,
which was at hand, retreated to his estate in the country, at no
great distance from Seville. Here he remained throughout the
next day, full of horror and remorse ; dreading lest he should
be known as the murderer of the deceased, and fearing each
moment the arrival of the officers of justice.

" The day passed, however, without molestation ; and, as the
evening approached, unable any longer to endure this state of
uncertainty and apprehension, he ventured back to Seville.
Irresistibly his footsteps took the direction to the convent ; but
he paused and hovered at a distance from the scene of blood.
Several persons were gathered round the place, one of whom
was busy nailing something against the convent wall. After a

DON JUAN. 71

while they dispersed, and one passed near to Don Manuel.
The latter addressed him, with hesitating voice.

" * Senor,' said he, ' may I ask the reason of yonder throng? '

" ' A cavalier,' replied the other, ' has been murdered.'

" ' Murdered ! ' echoed Don Manuel ; ' and can you tell me
his name ? '

" ' Don Manuel de Manara, replied the stranger, and passed on,

" Don Manuel was startled at this mention of his own name ;
especially when applied to the murdered man. He ventured,
when it was entirely deserted, to approach the fatal spot. A
small cross had been nailed against the wall, as is customary in
Spain, to mark the place where a murder has been committed ;
and just below it he read, by the twinkling light of a lamp :
' Here was murdered Don Manuel de Manara. Pray to God
for his soul ! '

" Still more confounded and perplexed by this inscription, he
wandered about the streets until the night was far advanced, and
all was still and lonely. As he entered the principal square,
the light of torches suddenly broke on him, and he beheld a
grand funeral procession moving across it. There was a great
train of priests, and many persons of dignified appearance, in
ancient Spanish dresses, attending as mourners, none of whom
he knew. Accosting a servant who followed in the train, he
demanded the name of the defunct.

" ' Don Manuel de Manara,' was the reply ; and it went cold
to his heart. He looked, and indeed beheld the armorial bear-
ings of his family emblazoned on the funeral escutcheons. Yet
not one of his family was to be seen among the mourners. The
mystery was more and more incomprehensible.

" He followed the procession as it moved on to the cathedral.
The bier was deposited before the high altar ; the funeral ser-
vice was commenced, and the grand organ began to peal through
the vaulted aisles.

" Again the youth ventured to question this awful pageant.
'Father,' said he, with trembling voice, to one of the priests,
4 who is this you are about to inter ? '

" ' Don Manuel de Manara ! ' replied the priest.

" ' Father,' cried Don Manuel, impatiently, ' you are deceived.
This is some imposture. Know that Don Manuel de Manara is
alive and well, and now stands before you. I am Don Manuel
de Manara ! '

" 'Avaunt, rash youth ! ' cried the priest ; ' know that Don
Manuel de Manara is dead ! — is dead ! — is dead ! — and we
are all souls from purgatory, his deceased relatives and ances-

72 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

tors, and others that have been aided by masses of his family, who
are permitted to come here and pray for the repose of his soul ! '

u Don Manuel cast round a fearful glance upon the assem-
blage, in antiquated Spanish garbs, and recognized in their pale
and ghastly countenances the portraits of many an ancestor that
hung in the family picture-gallery. He now lost all self-com-
mand, rushed up to the bier, and beheld the counterpart of him-
self, but in the fixed and livid lineaments of death. Just at
that moment the whole choir burst forth with a ' Requiescat in
pace,' that shook the vaults of the cathedral. Don Manuel sank
senseless on the pavement. He was found there early the next
morning by the sacristan, and conveyed to his home. When
sufficiently recovered, he sent for a friar, and made a full con-
fession of all that had happened.

" ' My son,' said the friar, 'all this is a miracle and a mys-
tery, intended for thy conversion and salvation. The corpse
thou hast seen was a token that thou hadst died to sin and the
world ; take warning by it, and henceforth live to righteous-
ness and heaven ! '

" Don Manuel did take warning by it. Guided by the coun-
sels of the worthy friar, he disposed of all his temporal affairs ;
dedicated the greater part of his wealth to pious uses, espe-
cially to the performance of masses for souls in purgatory ; and
finally, entering a convent, became one of the most zealous and
exemplary monks in Seville."

While my companion was relating this story, my eyes wan-
dered, from time to time, about the dusky church. Methought
the burly countenances of the monks in their distant choir
assumed a pallid, ghastly hue, and their deep metallic voices had
a sepulchral sound. By the time the story was ended, they had
ended their chant ; and, extinguishing their lights, glided one
by one, like shadows, through a small door in the side of the
choir. A deeper gloom prevailed over the church ; the figure
opposite me on horseback grew more and more spectral ; and I
almost expected to see it bow its head.

"It is time to be off," said my companion, "unless we
intend to sup with the statue."

kt I have no relish for such fare or such company," replied I ;
and, following my companion, we groped our way through the
mouldering cloisters. As we passed by the ruined cemetery,
keeping up a casual conversation by way of dispelling the
loneliness of the scene, I called to mind the words of the poet ;

BROEK. 73

The tombs

And monumental caves of death look cold,
And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart!
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice;
Nay, speak — and let me hear thy voice;
Mine own affrights me with its echoes."

There wanted nothing but the marble statue of the commander
striding along the echoing cloisters to complete the haunted
scene.

Since that time I never fail to attend the theatre whenever the
story of Don Juan is represented, whether in pantomime or
opera. In the sepulchral scene, I feel myself quite at home ;
and when the statue makes his appearance, I greet him as an
old acquaintance. When the audience applaud, I look round
upon them with a degree of compassion. " Poor souls ! " I say
to myself, "they think they are pleased; they think they
enjoy this piece, and yet they consider the whole as a fiction !
How much more would they enjoy it, if like me they knew it to
be true — and had seen the very place ! ' '

BROEK :

OR THE DUTCH PARADISE.

IT has long been a matter of discussion and controversy
among the pious and the learned, as to the situation of the
terrestrial paradise whence our first parents were exiled. This
question has been put to rest by certain of the faithful in Hol-
land, who have decided in favor of the village of Broek, about
six miles from Amsterdam. It may not, they observe, corre-
spond in all respects to the description of the Garden of Eden,
handed down from days of yore, but it comes nearer to their
ideas of a perfect paradise than any other place on earth.

This eulogium induced me to make some inquiries as to this
favored spot in the course of a sojourn at the city of Amster-
dam, and the information I procured fully justified the enthu-
siastic praises I had heard. The village of Broek is situated in
Water-land, in the midst of the greenest and richest pastures of
Holland, I may say, of Europe. These pastures are the source
of its wealth, for it is famous for its dairies, and for those oval
cheeses which regale and perfume the whole civilized world.

74

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

The population consists of about six hundred persons, compris-
ing several families which have inhabited the place since time
immemorial, and have waxed rich on the products of their
meadows. They keep all their wealth among themselves, inter-
marrying, and keeping all strangers at a wary distance. They
are a "hard money" people, and remarkable for turning the
penny the right way. It is said to have been an old rule, estab-
lished by one of the primitive financiers and legislators of Broek,
that no one should leave the village with more than six guilders
in his pocket, or return with less than ten ; a shrewd regulation,
well worthy the attention of modern political economists, who
are so anxious to fix the balance of trade.

What, however, renders Broek so perfect an elysium in the
eyes of all true Hollanders, is the matchless height to which
the spirit of cleanliness is carried there. It amounts almost to a
religion among the inhabitants, who pass the greater part of
their time rubbing and scrubbing, and painting and varnishing ;
each housewife vies with her neighbor in her devotion to the
scrubbing-brush, as zealous Catholics do in their devotion to
the cross ; and it is said a notable housewife of the place in days
of yore is held in pious remembrance, and almost canonized as a
saint, for having died of pure exhaustion and chagrin in an
ineffectual attempt to scour a black man white.

These particulars awakened my ardent curiosity to see a
place which I pictured to myself the very fountain-head of
certain hereditary habits and customs prevalent among the
descendants of the original Dutch settlers of my native State.
I accordingly lost no time in performing a pilgrimage to Broek.

Before I reached the place I beheld symptoms of the tranquil
character of its inhabitants. A little clump-built boat was in
full sail along the lazy bosom of a canal, but its sail consisted
of the blades of two paddles stood on end, while the navigator
sat steering with a third paddle in the stern, crouched down
like a toad, with a slouched hat drawn over his eyes. I pre-
sumed him to be some nautical lover on the way to his mistress.
After proceeding a little farther I came in sight of the harbor
or port of destination of this drowsy navigator. This was the
Broeken-Meer, an artificial basin, or sheet of olive-green water,
tranquil as a mill-pond. On this the village of Broek is situ-
ated, and the borders are laboriously decorated with flower-
beds, box-trees clipped into all kinds of ingenious shapes and
fancies, and little " lust " houses or pavilions.

I alighted outside of the village, for no horse nor vehicle is
permitted to enter its precincts, lest it should cause defilement

BBOEK. 75

of the Well-scoured pavements. Shaking the dust off my feet,
therefore, I prepared to enter, with due reverence and circum-
spection, this sanctum sanctorum of Dutch cleanliness. I
entered by a narrow street, paved with yellow bricks, laid edge-
wise, so clean that one might eat from them. Indeed, they
were actually worn deep, not by the tread of feet, but by the
friction of the scrubbing-brush.

The houses were built of wood, and all appeared to have been
freshly painted, of green, yellow, and other bright colors. They
were separated from each other by gardens and orchards, and
stood at some little distance from the street, with wide areas or
courtyards, paved in mosaic, with variegated stones, polished
by frequent rubbing. The areas were divided from the street by
curiously-wrought railings, or balustrades, of iron, surmounted
with brass and copper balls, scoured into dazzling effulgence.
The very trunks of the trees in front of the houses were by the
same process made to look as if they had been varnished. The
porches, doors, and window-frames of the houses were of exotic
woods, curiously carved, and polished like costly furniture. The
front doors are never opened, excepting on christenings, mar-
riages, or funerals ; on all ordinary occasions, visitors enter by
the back door. In former times, persons when admitted had to
put on slippers, but this oriental ceremony is no longer insisted
upon.

A poor devil Frenchman who attended upon me as cicerone,
boasted with some degree of exultation, of a triumph of his
countrymen over the stern regulations of the ' place. During
the time that Holland was overrun by the armies of the French
Republic, a French general, surrounded by his whole e"tat-
major, who had come from Amsterdam to view the wonders of
Broek, applied for admission at one of these tabooed portals.
The reply was, that the owner never received any one who did
not come introduced by some friend. "Very well," said the
general, "take my compliments to your master, and tell him I
will return here to-morrow with a company of soldiers, ' pour
parler raison avec mon ami Hollandais.' ' Terrified at the
idea of having a company of soldiers billeted upon him, the
owner threw open his house, entertained the general and his
retinue with unwonted hospitality ; though it is said it cost the
family a month's scrubbing and scouring, to restore all things
to exact order, after this military invasion. My vagabond in-
formant seemed to consider this one of the greatest victories of
the republic.

I walked about the place in mute wonder and admiration.

76 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

A dead stilluess prevailed around, like that in the deserted
streets of Pompeii. No sign of life was to be seen, excepting
now and then a hand, and a long pipe, and an occasional puff
of smoke, out of the window of some " lust-haus " overhanging
a miniature canal ; and on approaching a little nearer, the periph-
ery in profile of some robustious burgher.

Among the grand houses pointed out to me were those of
Claes Bakker, and Cornelius Bakker, richly carved and gilded,
with flower gardens and clipped shrubberies ; and that of the
Great Ditmus, who, my poor devil cicerone informed me, in a
whisper, was worth two millions ; all these were mansions shut
up from the world, and only kept to be cleaned. After having
been conducted from one wonder to another of the village, I
was ushered by my guide into the grounds and gardens of
Mynheer Broekker, another mighty cheese-manufacturer, worth
eighty thousand guilders a year. I had repeatedly been struck
with the similarity of all that I had seen in this amphibious little
village, to the buildings and landscapes on Chinese platters and
tea-pots ; but here I found the similarity complete ; for I was
told that these gardens were modelled upon Van Bramm's de-
scription of those of Yuen min Yuen, in China. Here were
serpentine walks, with trellised borders ; winding canals, with
fanciful Chinese bridges ; flower-beds resembling huge baskets,
with the flower of ' ' love-lies-bleeding ' ' falling over to the
ground. But mostly had the fancy of Mynheer Broekker been
displayed about a stagnant little lake, on which a corpulent
little pinnace lay at anchor. On the border was a cottage,
within which were a wooden man and woman seated at table,
and a wooden clog beneath, all the size of life : on pressing a
spring, the woman commenced spinning, and the dog barked
furiously. On the lake were wooden swans, painted to the life ;
some floating, others on the nest among the rushes ; while a
wooden sportsman, crouched among the bushes, was preparing
his gun to take deadly aim. In another part of the garden
was a dominie in his clerical robes, with wig, pipe, and cocked
hat ; and mandarins with nodding heads, amid red lions, green
tigers, and blue hares. Last of all, the heathen deities, in wood
and plaster, male and female, naked and bare-faced as usual,
and seeming to stare with wonder at finding themselves in such
strange company.

My shabby French guide, while he pointed out all these
mechanical marvels of the garden, was anxious to let me see
that he had too polite a taste to be pleased with them. At
every new knick-knack he would screw down his mouth, shrug

BROEK. 77

up his shoulders, take a pinch of snuff, and exclaim : u Ma foi,
Monsieur, ces Hollandais sont forts pour ces betises Id, ! "

To attempt to gain admission to any of these stately abodes
was out of the question, having no company of soldiers to en-
force a solicitation. I was fortunate enough, however, through
the aid of my guide, to make my way into the kitchen of the
illustrious Ditmus, and I question whether the parlor would
have proved more worthy of observation. The cook, a little
wiry, hook-nosed woman, worn thin by incessant action and
friction, was bustling about among her kettles and saucepans,
with the scullion at her heels, both clattering in wooden shoes,
Which were as clean and white as the milk-pails ; rows of ves-
sels, of brass and copper, regiments of pewter dishes, and port-
ly porringers, gave resplendent evidence of the intensity of
their cleanliness ; the very trammels and hangers in the fire-
place were highly scoured, and the burnished face of the good
Saint Nicholas shone forth from the iron plate of the chimney-
.back. '

Among the decorations of the kitchen was a printed sheet
of woodcuts, representing the various holiday customs of Hol-
land, with explanatory rhymes. Here I was delighted to recog-
nize the jollities of New Year's Day; the festivities of Paas
and Pinkster, and all the other merry-makings handed down in
my native place from the earliest times of New Amsterdam,
and which had been such bright spots in the year in my child-
hood. I eagerly made myself master of this precious docu-
ment, for a trifling consideration, and bore it off as a memento
of the place ; though I question if, in so doing, I did not carry
off with me the whole current literature^ of Broek.

I must not omit to mention that this village is the paradise
of cows as well as men ; indeed you would almost suppose the
cow to be as much an object of worship here, as the bull was
among the ancient Egyptians ; and well does she merit it, for
she is in fact the patroness of the place. The same scrupulous
cleanliness, however, which pervades every thing else, is mani-
fested in the treatment of this venerated animal. She is not
permitted to perambulate the place, but in winter, when she
forsakes the rich pasture, a well-built house is provided for
her, well painted, and maintained in the most perfect order.
Her stall is of ample dimensions ; the floor is scrubbed and
polished ; her hide is daily curried and brushed and sponged to
her heart's content, and her tail is daintily tucked up to the
ceiling, and decorated with a ribbon !

On my way back through the village, I passed the house of

78 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

the prediger, or preacher ; a very comfortable mansion, which
led me to augur well of the state of religion in the village. On
inquiry, I was told that for a long time the inhabitants lived
in a great state of indifference as to religious matters : it was
in vain that their preachers endeavored to arouse their thoughts
as to a future state ; the joys of heaven, as commonly depicted,
were but little to their taste. At length a dominie appeared
among them who struck out in a different vein. He depicted
the New Jerusalem as a place all smooth and level ; with beau-
tiful dykes, and ditches, and canals ; and houses all shining
with paint and varnish, and glazed tiles ; and where there
should never come horse, or ass, or cat, or dog, or any thing
that could make noise or dirt ; buf there should be nothing but
rubbing and scrubbing, and washing and painting, and gilding
and varnishing, for ever and ever, amen ! Since that time, the
good housewives of Broek have all turned their faces Zion-ward.

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825.

FROM THE TRAVELLING NOTE-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

A PARISIAN hotel is a street set on end, the grand staircase
forming the highway, and every floor a separate habitation.
Let me describe the one in which I am lodged, which may serve
as a specimen of its class. It is a huge quadrangular pile of
stone, built round a spacious paved court. The ground floor is
occupied by shops, magazines, and domestic offices. Then
comes the entresol, with low ceilings, short windows, and dwarf
chambers ; then succeed a succession of floors, or stories, ris-
ing one above the other, to the number of Mahomet's heavens.
Each floor is like a distinct mansion, complete in itself, with
ante-chamber, saloons, dining and sleeping rooms, kitchen, and
other conveniences for the accommodation of a family. Some
floors are divided into two or more suites of apartments. Each
apartment has its main door of entrance, opening upon the
staircase, or landing-places, and locked like a street door.
Thus several families and numerous single persons live under
the same roof, totally independent of each other, and may live
so for years without holding more intercourse than is kept up
in other cities by residents in the same street.

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 79

Like the great world, this little microcosm has its gradations
of rank and style and importance. The Premier, or first floor,
with its grand saloons, lofty ceilings, and splendid furniture,
is decidedly the aristocratical part of the establishment. The
second floor is scarcely less aristocratical and magnificent ; the
other floors go on lessening in splendor as they gain in altitude,
and end with the attics, the region of petty tailors, clerks, and
sewing girls. To make the filling up of the mansion complete,
every odd nook and corner is fitted up as a joli petit apparte-
ment a garqon (a pretty little bachelor's apartment), that is to
say, some little dark inconvenient nestling-place for a poor
devil of a bachelor.

The whole domain is shot up from the street by a great
porte-cochere, or portal, calculated for the admission of car-
riages. This consists of two massy folding-doors, that swing
heavily open upon a spacious entrance, passing under the front
of the edifice into the court-yard. On one side is a spacious
staircase leading to the upper apartments. Immediately with-
out the portal is the porter's lodge, a small room with one or
two bedrooms adjacent, for the accommodation of the con-
cierge, or porter, and his family. This is one of the most im-
portant functionaries of the hotel. He is, in fact, the Cerberus
of the establishment, and no one can pass in or out without his
knowledge and consent. The porte-cochere in general is fas-
tened by a sliding bolt, from which a cord or wire passes into
the porter's lodge. Whoever wishes to go out must speak to
the porter, who draws the bolt. A visitor from without gives
a single rap with the massive knocker ; the bolt is immediately
drawn, as if by an invisible hand ; the door stands ajar, the
visitor pushes it open, and enters. A face presents itself at
the glass door of the porter's little chamber ; the stranger pro-
nounces the name of the person he comes to see. If the person
or family is of importance, occupying the first or second floor,
the porter sounds a bell once or twice, to give notice that a
visitor is at hand. The stranger in the mean time ascends tlie
great staircase, the highway common to all, and arrives at the
outer door, equivalent to a street door, of the suite of rooms
inhabited by his friends. Beside this hangs a bell-cord, with
which he rings for admittance.

When the family or person inquired for is of less importance,
or lives in some remote part of the mansion less easy to be
apprised, no signal is given. The applicant pronounces the
name at the porter's door, and is told, " Montez au troisieme,
ou quatrieme; sonnez a la porte d droite, on d. gauche; ("As-

80 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

cend to the third or fourth story ; ring the bell on the right or
left hand door,") as the case may be.

The porter and his wife act as domestics to such of the in-
mates of the mansion as do not keep servants ; making their
beds, arranging their rooms, lighting their fires, and doing
other menial offices, for which they receive a monthly stipend.
They are also in confidential intercourse with the servants of
the other inmates, and, having an eye on all the in-comers and
out-goers, are thus enabled, by hook and by crook, to learn the
secrets and domestic history of every member of the little terri-
tory within the porte-cochere.

The porter's lodge is accordingly a great scene of gossip,
where all the private affairs of this interior neighborhood are
discussed. The court-yard, also, is an assembling place in the
evenings for the servants of the different families, and a sister-
hood of sewing girls from the entresols and the attics, to play
at various games, and dance to the music of their own songs,
and the echoes of their feet, at which assemblages the porter's
daughter takes the lead ; a fresh, pretty, buxom girl, generally
called " La Petite," though almost as tall as a grenadier. These
little evening gatherings, so characteristic of this gay country,
are countenanced by the various families of the mansion, who
often look down from their windows and balconies, on moonlight
evenings, and enjoy the simple revels of their domestics. I
must observe, however, that the hotel I am describing is rather
a quiet, retired one, where most of the inmates are permanent
residents from year to year, so that there is more of the spirit
of neighborhood than in the bustling, fashionable hotels in the
gay parts of Paris, which are continually changing their inhabit-
ants.

MY FRENCH NEIGHBOR.

I OFTEN amuse myself by watching from my window (which,
by the by, is tolerably elevated) , the movements of the teem-
ing little world below me ; and as I am on sociable terms with
the porter and his wife, I gather from them, as they light my
fire, or serve my breakfast, anecdotes of all my fellow lodgers.
I have been somewhat curious in studying a little antique French-
man, who occupies one of the jolie chambres d gar$on already
mentioned. He is one of those superannuated veterans who
flourished before the revolution, and have weathered all the storms
of Paris, in consequence, very probably, of being fortunately
too insignificant to attract attention. He has a small income,
which he manages with the skill of a French economist ; appro-

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 182o. 81

priating so much for his lodgings, so much for his meals ; so
much for his visits to St. Cloud and Versailles, and so much for
his seat at the theatre. He has resided in the hotel for years,
and always in the same chamber, which he furnishes at his own
expense. The decorations of the room mark his various ages.
There are some gallant pictures which he hung up in his younger
days ; with a portrait of a lady of rank, whom he speaks ten-
derly of, dressed in the old French taste ; and a pretty opera
dancer, pirouetting in a hoop petticoat, who lately died at a good
old age. In a corner of this picture is stuck a prescription for
rheumatism, and below it stands an easy-chair. He has a small
parrot at the window, to amuse him when within doors, and a
pug dog to accompany him in his daily peregrinations. While
I am writing he is crossing the court to go out. He is attired
in his best coat, of sky-blue, and is doubtless bound for the
Tuileries. His hair is dressed in the old style, with powdered
ear-locks and a pig- tail. His little dog trips after him, some-
times on four legs, sometimes on three, and looking as if his
leather small-clothes were too tight for him. Now the old gen-
tleman stops to have a word with an old crony who lives in the
entresol, and is just returning from his promenade. Now they
take a pinch of snuff together ; now they pull out huge red cotton
handkerchiefs (those "flags of abomination," as they have well
been called) and blow their noses most sonorously. Now they
turn to make remarks upon their two little dogs, who are ex-
changing the morning's salutation ; now they part, and my old
gentleman stops to have a passing word with the porter's wife ;
and now he sallies forth, and is fairly launched upon the town
for the day.

No man is so methodical as a complete idler, and none so
scrupulous in measuring and portioning out his time as he whose
time is worth nothing. The old gentleman in question has his
exact hour for rising, and for shaving himself by a small mirror
hung against his casement. He sallies forth at a certain hour
every morning to take his cup of coffee and his roll at a certain
cafe, where he reads the papers. He has been a regular admirer
of the lady who presides at the bar, and always stops to have a
little badinage with her en passant. He has his regular walks
on the Boulevards and in the Palais Royal, where he sets his
watch by the petard fired off by the sun at mid-day. He has
his daily resort in the Garden of the Tuileries, to meet with a
knot of veteran idlers like himself, who talk on pretty much the
same subjects whenever they meet. He has been present at all
the sights and shows and rejoicings in Paris for the last fifty

82 THE CRAYON' PAPERS.

years ; has witnessed the great events of the revolution ; the
guillotining of the king and queen ; the coronation of Bonaparte ;
the capture of Paris, and the restoration of the Bourbons. All
these he speaks of with the coolness of a theatrical critic ; and
I question whether he has not been gratified by each in its turn ;
not from any inherent love of tumult, but from that insatiable
appetite for spectacle which prevails among the inhabitants of
this metropolis. I have been amused with a farce, in which one
of these systematic old triflers is represented. He sings a song
detailing his whole day's round of insignificant occupations, and
goes to bed delighted with the idea that his next day will be an
exact repetition of the same routine :

" Je me couche le soir,
Enchante de pouvoir
Recommencer mon train
Le lendemain
Matin."

THE ENGLISHMAN AT PARIS.

IN another part of the hotel a handsome suite of rooms is
occupied by an old English gentleman, of great probity, some
understanding, and very considerable crustiness, who has come
to France to live economically. He has a very fair property,
but his wife, being of that blessed kind compared in Scripture
to the fruitful vine, has overwhelmed him with a family of
buxom daughters, who hang clustering about him, ready to be
gathered by any hand. He is seldom to be seen in public with-
out one hanging on each arm, and smiling on all the world,
while his own mouth is drawn down at each corner like a mas-
tiff's with internal growling at every thing about him. He ad-
heres rigidly to English fashion in dress, and trudges about in
long gaiters and broad-brimmed hat ; while his daughters almost
overshadow him with feathers, flowers, and French bonnets.

He contrives to keep up an atmosphere of English habits,
opinions, and prejudices, and to carry a semblance of London
into the very heart of Paris. His mornings are spent at Gali-
gnani's news-rooms, where he forms one of a knot of inveterate
quidnuncs, who read the same articles over a dozen times in a
dozen different papers. He generally dines in company with
some of his own countrymen, and they have what is called a
"comfortable sitting" after dinner, in the English fashion,
drinking wine, discussing the news of the London papers, and
canvassing the French character, the French metropolis, and

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 83

the French revolution, ending with a unanimous admission of
English courage, English morality, English cookery, English
wealth, the magnitude of London, and the ingratitude of the
French.

His evenings are chiefly spent at a club of his countrymen,
where the London papers are taken. Sometimes his daughters
entice him to the theatres, but not often. He abuses French
tragedy, as all fustian and bombast, Talma as a ranter, and
Duchesnois as a mere termagant. It is true his ear is not suffi-
ciently familiar with the language to understand French verse,
and he generally goes to sleep during the performance. The
wit "of the French comedy is flat and pointless to him. He
would not give one of Munden's wry faces, or Liston's inex-
pressible looks, for the whole of it.

He will not admit that Paris has any advantage over London.
The Seine is a muddy rivulet in comparison with the Thames ;
the West End of London surpasses the finest parts of the French
capital ; 'and on some one's observing that there was a very thick
fog out of doors : " Pish ! " said he, crustily, " it's nothing to
the fogs we have in London."

He has infinite trouble in bringing his table into any thing like
conformity to English rule. With his liquors, it is true, he is
tolerably successful. He procures .London porter, and a stock of
port and sherry, at considerable expense ; for he observes that
he cannot stand those cursed thin French wines, they dilute his
blood so much as to give him the rheumatism. As to their white
wines, he stigmatizes them as mere substitutes for cider ; and
as to claret, why " it would be port if it could." He has con-
tinual quarrels with his French cook, whom he renders wretched
by insisting on his conforming to Mrs. Glass ; for it is easier to
convert a Frenchman from his religion than his cookery. The
poor fellow, by dint of repeated efforts, once brought himself to
serve up ros bif sufficiently raw to suit what he considered the
cannibal taste of his master ; but then he could not refrain, at
the last moment, adding some exquisite sauce, that put the old
gentleman in a fury.

He detests wood-fires, and has procured a quantity of coal ;
but not having a grate, he is obliged to burn it on the hearth.
Here he sits poking and stirring the fire with one end of a tongs,
while the room is as murky as a smithy ; railing at French chim-
neys, French masons, and French architects ; giving a poke at
the end of every sentence, as though he were stirring up the
Very bowels of the delinquents he is anathematizing. He lives
in a state militant with inanimate objects around him ; gets into

84 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

high dudgeon with doors and casements, because they will not
come under English law, and has implacable feuds with sundry
refractory pieces of furniture. Among these is one in particular
with which he is sure to have a high quarrel every time he goes
to dress. It is a commode, one of those smooth, polished, plaus-
ible pieces of French furniture, that have the perversity of five
hundred devils. Each drawer has a will of its own ; will open
or not, just as the whim takes it, and sets lock and key at de-
fiance. Sometimes a drawer will refuse to yield to either per-
suasion or force, and will part with both handles rather than
yield ; another will come out in the most coy and coquettish
manner imaginable ; elbowing along, zigzag ; one corner retreat-
ing as the other advances ; making a thousand difficulties and
objections at every move ; until the old gentleman, out of all
patience, gives a sudden jerk, and brings drawer and contents
into the middle of the floor. His hostility to this unlucky piece
of furniture increases every day, as if incensed that it does not
grow better. He is like the fretful invalid who cursed his bed,
that the longer he lay the harder it grew. The only benefit he
has derived from the quarrel is, that it has furnished him with a
crusty joke, which he utters on all occasions. He swears that
a French commode is the most incommodious thing in existence,
and that although the nation cannot make a joint-stool that will
stand steady, yet they are always talking of every thing's being
perfectionee.

His servants understand his humor, and avail themselves of
it. He was one day disturbed by a pertinacious rattling and
shaking at one of the doors, and bawled out in an angry tone
to know the cause of the disturbance. "Sir," said the foot-
man, testily, "it's this confounded French lock ! " "Ah ! " said
the old gentleman, pacified by this hit at the nation, " I thought
there was something French at the bottom of it ! "

ENGLISH AND FRENCH CHARACTER.

As I am a mere looker-on in Europe, and hold myself as
much as possible aloof from its quarrels and prejudices, I feel
something like one overlooking a game, who, without any great
skill of his own, can occasionally perceive the blunders of
much abler players. This neutrality of feeling enables me to
enjoy the contrasts of character presented in this time of gen-
eral peace, when the various people of Europe, who have so long
been sundered by wars, are brought together and placed side
by side in this great gathering-place of nations. No greatei

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 85

contrast, however, is exhibited than that of the French and
English. The peace has deluged this gay capital with English
visitors of all ranks and conditions. They throng every place
of curiosity and amusement ; fill the public gardens, the gal-
leries, the cafe's, saloons, theatres ; always herding together,
never associating with the French. The two nations are like
two threads of different colors, tangled together but never
blended.

In fact, they present a continual antithesis, and seem to value
themselves upon being unlike each other ; yet each have their
peculiar merits, which should entitle them to each other's esteem.
The French intellect is quick and active. It flashes its way into
a subject with the rapidity of lightning ; seizes upon remote
conclusions with a sudden bound, and its deductions are almost
intuitive. The English intellect is less rapid, but more perse-
vering ; less sudden, but more sure in its deductions. The
quickness and mobility of the French enable them to find en-
joyment in the multiplicity of sensations. They speak and act
more from immediate impressions than from reflection and med-
itation. They are therefore more social and communicative ;
more fond of society, and of places of public resort and amuse-
ment. An Englishman is more reflective in his habits. He
lives in the world of his own thoughts, and seems more self-
existent and self-dependent. He loves the quiet of his own
apartment ; even when abroad, he in a manner makes a little
solitude around him, by his silence and reserve ; he moves about
shy and solitary, and as it were buttoned up, body and soul.

The French are great optimists ; they seize upon every good
as it flies, and revel in the passing pleasure. The Englishman
is too apt to neglect the present good, in preparing against the
possible evil. However adversities may lower, let the sun shine
but for a moment, and forth sallies the mercurial Frenchman,
in holiday dress and holiday spirits, gay as a butterfly, as though
his sunshine were perpetual ; but let the sun beam never so
brightly, so there be but a cloud in the horizon, the wary Eng-
lishman ventures forth distrustfully, with his umbrella in his
hand.

The Frenchman has a wonderful facility at turning small
things to advantage. No one can be gay and luxurious on
smaller means ; no one requires less expense to be happy. He
practises a kind of gilding in his style of living, and hammers
out every guinea into gold leaf. The Englishman, on the con-
trary, is expensive in his habits, and expensive in his enjoy-
ments. He values every thing, whether useful or ornamental,

86 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

by what it costs. He has no satisfaction in show, unless it be
solid and complete. Every thing goes with him by the square
foot. Whatever display he makes, the depth is sure to equal
the surface.

The Frenchman's habitation, like himself, is open, cheerful,
bustling, and noisy. He lives in a part of a great hotel, with
wide portal, paved court, a spacious dirty stone staircase, and
a family on every floor. All is clatter and chatter. He is good-
humored and talkative with his servants, sociable with his neigh-
bors, and complaisant to all the world. Anybody has access
to himself and his apartments ; his very bedroom is open to
visitors, whatever may be its state of confusion ; and all this
not from any peculiarly hospitable feeling, but from that com-
municative habit which predominates over his character.

The Englishman, on the contrary, ensconces himself in a snug
brick mansion, which he has all to himself ; locks the front
door ; puts broken bottles along his walls, and spring-guns and
man-traps in his gardens ; shrouds himself with trees and window-
curtains ; exults in his quiet and privacy, and seems disposed to
keep out noise, daylight, and company. His house, like himself,
has a reserved, inhospitable exterior ; yet whoever gains admit-
tance is apt to find a warm heart and warm fireside within.

The French excel in wit, the English in humor ; the French
have gayer fancy, the English richer imagination. The former
are full of sensibility ; easily moved, and prone to sudden and
great excitement ; but their excitement is not durable ; the Eng-
lish are more phlegmatic ; not so readily affected, but capable
of being aroused to great enthusiasm. The faults of these
opposite temperaments are that the vivacity of the French is
apt to sparkle up and be frothy, the gravity of the English to
settle down and grow muddy. When the two characters canj
be fixed in a medium, the French kept from effervescence and ]
the English from stagnation, both will be found excellent.

This contrast of character may also be noticed in the great
concerns of the two nations. The ardent Frenchman is all for
military renown ; he fights for glory, that is to say for success
in arms. For, provided the national flag is victorious, he cares
little about the expense, the injustice, or the inutility of the
war. It is wonderful how the poorest Frenchman will revel on
a triumphant bulletin ; a great victory is meat and drink to him ;
and at the sight of a military sovereign, bringing home captured
cannon and captured standards, he throws up his greasy cap in
the air, and is ready to jump out of his wooden shoes for joy.

John Bull, on the contrary, is a reasoning, considerate per

SKETCHES IN PAEIS IN 1825. 87

son. If he does wrong, it is in the most rational way imagin-
able. He fights because the good of the world requires it. He
is a moral person, and makes war upon his neighbor for the
maintenance of peace and good order, and sound principles.
He is a money-making personage, and fights for the prosperity
of commerce and manufactures. Thus the two nations have
been fighting, time out of mind, for glory and good. The
French, in pursuit of glory, have had their capital twice taken ;
and John, in pursuit of good, has run himself over head and
ears in debt.

THE TUILERIES AND WINDSOR CASTLE.

I HAVE sometimes fancied I could discover national charac-
teristics in national edifices. In the Chateau of the Tuileries,
for instance, I perceive the same jumble of contrarieties that
marks the French character ; the same whimsical mixture of
the great and the little ; the splendid and the paltry, the sub-
lime and the grotesque. On visiting this famous pile, the first
thing that strikes both eye and ear is military display. The
courts glitter with steel-clad soldiery, and resound with the
tramp of horse, the roll of drum, and the bray of trumpet.
Dismounted guardsmen patrol its arcades, with loaded carbines,
jingling spurs, and clanking sabres. Gigantic grenadiers are
posted about its staircases ; young officers of the guards loll
from the balconies, or lounge in groups upon the terraces ; and
the gleam of bayonet from window to window, shows that sen-
tinels are pacing up and down the corridors and ante-chambers.
The first floor is brilliant with the splendors of a court. French
taste has tasked itself in adorning the sumptuous suites of
apartments ; nor are the gilded chapel and the splendid theatre
forgotten, where piety and pleasure are next-door neighbors,
and harmonize together with perfect French bienseance.

Mingled up with all this regal and military magnificence, is
a world of whimsical and makeshift detail. A great part of
the huge edifice is cut up into little chambers and nestling-
places for retainers of the .court, dependants on retainers, and
hangers-on of dependants. Some are squeezed into narrow
entresols, those low, dark, intermediate slices of apartments
between floors, the inhabitants of which seem shoved in edge-
ways, like books between narrow shelves ; others are perched
like swallows, under the eaves ; the high roofs, too, which are
as tall and steep as a French cocked-hat, have rows of little
dormer windows, tier above tier, just large enough to admit

88 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

light and air for some dormitory, and to enable its occupant
to peep out at the sky. Even to the very ridge of the roof,
may be seen here and there one of these air-holes, with a stove-
pipe beside it, to carry off the smoke from the handful of fuel
with which its weazen-faced tenant simmers his demi-tasse of
coffee.

On approaching the palace from the Pont Royal, you take in
at a glance all the various strata of inhabitants ; the garreteer
in the roof ; the retainer in the entresol ; the courtiers at the
casements of the royal apartments ; while on the ground-floor
a steam of savory odors and a score or two of cooks, in white
caps, bobbing their heads about the windows, betray that scien-
tific and all-important laboratory, the Royal Kitchen.

Go into the grand ante-chamber of the royal apartments on
Sunday and see the mixture of Old and New France ; the old
emigres, returned with the Bourbons ; little withered, spindle-
shanked old noblemen, clad in court dresses, that figured in
these saloons before the revolution, and have been carefully
treasured up during their exile : with the solitaires and ailes de
pigeon of former days ; and the court swords strutting out be-
hind, like pins stuck through dry beetles. See them haunting
the scenes of their former splendor, in hopes of a restitution of
estates, like ghosts haunting the vicinity of buried treasure ;
while around them you see the Young France, that have grown
up in the fighting school of Napoleon ; all equipped en militaire;
tall, hardy, frank, vigorous, sun-burned, fierce-whiskered ; with
tramping boots, towering crests, and glittering breast-plates.

It is incredible the number of ancient and hereditary feeders
on royalty said to be housed in this establishment. Indeed all
the royal palaces abound with noble families returned from
exile, and who have nestling- places allotted them while they
await the restoration of their estates, or the much-talked-of
law indemnity. Some of them have fine quarters, but poor
living. Some families have but five or six 'hundred francs a
year, and all their retinue consists of a servant woman. With
all this, they maintain all their old aristocratical hauteur, look
down with vast contempt upon the opulent families which have
risen since the revolution ; stigmatize them all as parvenus, or,
upstarts, and refuse to visit them.

In regarding the exterior of the Tuileries, with all its out-
ward signs of internal populousness, I have often thought what
a rare sight it would be to see it suddenly unroofed, and all its
nooks and corners laid open to the day. It would be like turn-
ing up the stump of an old tree, and dislodging the world of

SKETCHES IN PAEIS IN 1825. 89

grubs, and ants, and beetles lodged beneath. Indeed, there is
a scandalous anecdote current, that in the time of one of the
petty plots, when petards were exploded under the windows
of the Tuileries, the police made a sudden investigation of
the palace at four o'clock in the morning, when a scene of the
most whimsical confusion ensued. Hosts of supernumerary
inhabitants were found foisted into the huge edifice : every rat-
hole had its occupant ; and places which had been considered as
tenanted only by spiders, were found crowded with a surrepti-
tious population. It is added, that many ludicrous accidents
occurred ; great scampering and slamming of doors, and whisk-
ing away in night-gowns and slippers ; and several persons,
who were found by accident in their neighbors' chambers,
evinced indubitable astonishment at the circumstance.

As I have fancied I could read the French character in the
national palace of the Tuileries, so I have pictured to myself
some of the traits of John Bull in his royal abode of Windsor
Castle. The Tuileries, outwardly a peaceful palace, is in effect
a swaggering military hold ; while the old castle, on the con-
trary, in spite of its bullying look, is completely under petticoat
government. Every corner and nook is built up into some
snug, cosey nestling-place, some "procreant cradle," not ten-
anted by meagre expectants or whiskered warriors, but by sleek
placemen ; knowing realizers of present pay and present pud-
ding; who seem placed there not to kill and destroy, but to
breed and multiply. Nursery-maids and children shine with
rosy faces at the windows, and swarm about the courts and ter-
races. The very soldiers have a pacific look, and when off duty
may be seen loitering about the place with the nursery-maids ;
not making love to them in the gay gallant style of the French
soldiery, but with infinite bonhomie aiding them to take care of
the broods of children.

Though the old castle is in decay, every thing about it thrives ;
the very crevices of the walls are tenanted by swallows, rooks,
and pigeons, all sure of quiet lodgement ; the ivy strikes its
roots deep in the fissures, and flourishes about the mouldering
tower.1 Thus it is with honest John ; according to his own
account, he is ever going to ruin, yet every thing that lives on
him, thrives and waxes fat. He would fain be a soldier, and
swagger like his neighbors ; but his domestic, quiet-loving,
uxorious nature continually gets the upper hand ; and though

1 The above sketch was written before the thorough repairs and magnificent additions
that have been made of late years to Windsor Castle.

90 THE CBAYON PAPERS.

he may mount his helmet and gird on his sword, yet he is apt
to sink into the plodding, pains-taking father of a family ; with
a troop of children at his heels, and his women-kind hanging
on each arm.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

I HAVE spoken heretofore with some levity of the contrast
that exists between the English and French character; but it
deserves more serious consideration. They are two great
nations of modern times most diametrically opposed, and most
worthy of each other's rivalry ; essentially distinct in their
characters, excelling in opposite qualities, and reflecting lustre
on each other by their very opposition. In nothing is this con-
trast more strikingly evinced than in their military conduct.
For ages have they been contending, and for ages have they
crowded each other's history with acts of splendid heroism.
Take the battle of Waterloo, for instance, the last and most
memorable trial of their rival prowess. Nothing could surpass
the brilliant daring on the one side, and the steadfast enduring
on the other. The French cavalry broke like waves on the
compact squares of English infantry. They were seen gallop-
ing round those serried walls of men, seeking in vain for an
entrance ; tossing their arms in the air, in the heat of their
enthusiasm, and braving the whole front of battle. The
British troops, on the other hand, forbidden to move or fire,
stood firm and enduring. Their columns were ripped up by
cannonry ; whole rows were swept down at a shot ; the sur-
vivors closed their ranks, and stood firm. In this way many
columns stood through the pelting of the iron tempest without
firing a shot ; without any action to stir their blood, or excite
their spirits. Death thinned their ranks, but could not shake
their souls.

A beautiful instance of the quick and generous impulses to
which the French are prone, is given in the case of a French
cavalier, in the hottest of the action, charging furiously upon a
British officer, but perceiving in the moment of assault that his
adversary had lost his sword-arm, dropping the point of his
sabre, and courteously riding on. Peace be with that generous
warrior, whatever were his fate ! If he went down in the
storm of battle, with the foundering fortunes of his chieftain,
may the turf of Waterloo grow green above his grave ! and
happier far would be the fate of such a spirit, to sink amid the
tempest, unconscious of defeat, than to survive, and mourn
over the blighted laurels of his country.

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 91

In this way the two armies fought through a long and bloody
day. The French with enthusiastic valor, the English with
cool, inflexible courage, until Fate, as if to leave the question
of superiority still undecided between two such adversaries,
brought up the Prussians to decide the fortunes of the field.

It was several years afterward that I visited the field of
Waterloo. The ploughshare had been busy with its oblivious
labors, and the frequent harvest had nearly obliterated the
vestiges of war. Still the blackened ruins of Hoguemont stood,
a monumental pile, to mark the violence of this vehement
struggle. Its broken walls, pierced by bullets, and shattered
by explosions, showed the deadly strife that had taken place
within ; when Gaul and Briton, hemmed in between narrow
walls, hand to hand and foot to foot, fought from garden to
court-yard, from court-yard to chamber, with intense and con-
centrated rivalship. Columns of smoke towered from this vor-
tex of battle as from a volcano: u it was," said my guide,
" like a Mttle hell upon earth." Not far off, two or three broad
spots of rank, unwholesome green still marked the places where
these rival warriors, after their fierce and fitful struggle, slept
quietly together in the lap of their common mother earth.
Over all the rest of the field peace had resumed its sway. The
thoughtless whistle of the peasant floated on the air, instead of
the trumpet's clangor ; the team slowly labored up the hill-side,
once shaken by the hoofs of rushing squadrons ; and wide
fields of corn waved peacefully over the soldiers' graves, as
summer seas dimple over the place where many a tall ship lies
buried.

To the foregoing desultory notes on the French military
character, let me append a few traits which I picked up ver-
bally in one of the French provinces. They may have already
appeared in print, but I have never met with them.

At the breaking out of the revolution, when so many of the
old families emigrated, a descendant of the great Turenne, -by
the name of De Latour D'Auvergne, refused to accompany his
relations, and entered into the Republican army. He served in
all the campaigns of the revolution, distinguished himself by
his valor, his accomplishments, and his generous spirit, and
might have risen to fortune and to the highest honors. He
refused, however, all rank in the army, above that of captain,
and would receive no recompense for his achievements but a
sword of honor. Napoleon, in testimony of his merits, gave
him the title of Premier Grenadier de France (First Grenadier
of France) , which was the only title he would ever bear. He

92 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

was killed in Germany, in 1809 or '10. To honor his memory,
his place was always retained in his regiment, as if he .still
occupied it ; and whenever the regiment was mustered, and the
name of De Latour D'Auvergne was called out, the reply was,
" Dead on the field of honor ! "

PARIS AT THE RESTORATION.

PARIS presented a singular aspect just after the downfall of
Napoleon, and the restoration of the Bourbons. It was filled
with a restless, roaming population ; a dark, sallow race, with
fierce mustaches, black cravats, and feverish, menacing looks ;
men suddenly thrown out of employ by the return of peace ;
officers cut short in their career, and cast loose with scanty
means, many of them in utter indigence, upon the world ; the
broken elements of armies. They haunted the places of pub-,
lie resort, like restless, unhappy spirits, taking no pleasure ;
hanging about, like lowering clouds that linger after a storm,
and giving a singular air of gloom to this otherwise gay metrop-
olis.

The vaunted courtesy of the old school, the smooth urbanity
that prevailed in former days of settled government and long-
established aristocracy, had disappeared amid the savage re-
publicanism of the revolution and military furor of the empire ;
recent reverses had stung the national vanity to the quick ; and
English travellers, who crowded to Paris on the return of peace,
expecting to meet with a gay, good-humored, complaisant pop-
ulace, such as existed in the time of the " Sentimental Jour-
ney," were surprised at finding them irritable and fractious,
quick at fancying affronts, and not unapt to offer insults. They
accordingly inveighed with heat and bitterness at the rudeness
they experienced in the French metropolis ; yet what better
had they to expect? Had Charles II. been reinstated in his
kingdom by the valor of French troops ; had he been wheeled
triumphantly to London over the trampled bodies and trampled
standards of England's bravest sons ; had a French general
dictated to the English capital, and a French army been
quartered in Hyde-Park ; had Paris poured forth its motley
population, and the wealthy bourgeoisie of every French trad-
ing town swarmed to London ; crowding its squares ; filling its
streets with their equipages ; thronging its fashionable hotels,
and places of amusements ; elbowing its impoverished nobility
out of their palaces and opera-boxes, and looking down on the
humiliated inhabitants as a conquered people ; in such a reverse

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 93

of the case, what degree of courtesy would the populace of
London have been apt to exercise toward their visitors ? *

On the contrary, I have always admired the degree of mag-
nanimity exhibited by the French on the occupation of their
capital by the English. When we consider the military ambi-
tion of this nation, its love of glory ; the splendid height to
which its renown in arms had recently been carried, and with
these, the tremendous reverses it had just undergone ; its
armies shattered, annihilated ; its capital captured, garrisoned,
and overrun, and that too by its ancient rival, the English,
toward whom it had cherished for centuries a jealous and
almost religious hostility ; could we have wondered if the tiger
spirit of this fiery people had broken out in bloody feuds and
deadly quarrels ; and that they had sought to rid themselves
in any way of their invaders ? But it is cowardly nations only,
those who dare not wield the sword, that revenge themselves
with the lurking dagger. There were no assassinations in Paris.
The French had fought valiantly, desperately, in the field ; but,
when valor was no longer of avail, they submitted like gallant
men to a fate they could not withstand. Some instances of
insult from the populace were experienced by their English
visitors ; some personal rencontres, which led to duels, did take
place ; but these smacked of open and honorable hostility.
No instances of lurking and perfidious revenge occurred, and
the British soldier patrolled the streets of Paris safe from
treacherous assault.

If the English met with harshness and repulse in social inter-
course, it was in some degree a proof that the people are more
sincere than has been represented. The emigrants who had
just returned, were not yet reinstated. Society was constituted
of those who had flourished under the late regime ; the newly en-
nobled, the recently enriched, who felt their prosperity and their
consequence endangered by this change of things. The broken-
down officer, who saw His glory tarnished, his fortune ruined,
his occupation gone, could not be expected to look with compla-
cency upon the authors of his downfall. The English visitor,
flushed with health, and wealth, and victory, could little enter
into the feelings of the blighted warrior, scarred with a hundred
battles, an exile from the camp, broken in constitution by the
wars, impoverished by the peace, and cast back, a needy stranger
in the splendid but captured metropolis of his country.

1 The above remarks were suggested by a conversation with the late Mr. Canning,
whom the author met in Paris, and who expressed himself in the most liberal way con-
cerning the magnanimity of the French ou the occupation of their capital by strangers. /

94 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" Oh! who can tell what heroes feel,
When all but life and honor's lost! "

And here let me notice the conduct of the French soldiery
on the dismemberment of the army of the Loire, when two
hundred thousand men were suddenly thrown out of employ ;
men who had been brought up to the camp, and scarce knew
any other home. Few in civil, peaceful life, are aware of the
severe trial to the feelings that takes place on the dissolution of
a regiment. There is a fraternity in arms. The community of
dangers, hardships, enjoyments ; the participation in battles and
victories ; the companionship in adventures, at a time of life
when men's feelings are most fresh, susceptible, and ardent, all
these bind the members of a regiment strongly together. To
them the regiment is friends, family, home. They identify
themselves with its fortunes, its glories, its disgraces. Imagine
this romantic tie suddenly dissolved ; the regiment broken up ;
the occupation of its members gone ; their military pride morti-
fied ; the career of glory closed behind them ; that of obscurity,
dependence, want, neglect, perhaps beggary, before them.
Such was the case with the soldiers of the Army of the Loire.
They were sent off in squads, with officers, to the principal towns
where they were to be disarmed and discharged. In this way
they passed through the country with arms in their hands, often
exposed to slights and scoffs, to hunger and various hardships
and privations ; but they conducted themselves magnanimously,
without any of those outbreaks of violence and wrong that so
often attend the dismemberment of armies.

The few years that have elapsed since the time above alluded
to, have already had their effect. The proud and angry spirits
which then roamed about Paris unemployed have cooled down
and found occupation. The national character begins to re-
cover its old channels, though worn deeper by recent torrents.
The natural urbanity of the French begins to find its way, like
oil, to the surface, though there still remains a degree of rough-
ness and bluntness of manner, partly real, and partly affected,
by such as imagine it to indicate force and frankness. The
events of the last thirty years have rendered the French a more
reflecting people. They have acquired greater independence of
mind and strength of judgment, together with a portion of that
prudence which results from experiencing the dangerous conse-
quences of excesses. However that period may have been

SKETCHES IN PARIS IN 1825. 95

stained by crimes, and filled with extravagances, the French
have certainly come out of it a greater nation than before. One
of their own philosophers observes that in one or two generations
the nation will probably combine the ease and elegance of the
old character with force and solidity. They were light, he says,
before the revolution ; then wild and savage ; they have become
more thoughtful and reflective. It is only old Frenchmen,
now- a-days, that are gay and trivial ; the young are very serious
personages.

P.S. In the course of a morning's walk, about the time the
above remarks were written, I observed the Duke of Wellington,
who was on a brief visit to Paris. He was alone, simply attired
in a blue frock ; with an umbrella under his arm, and his hat
drawn over his eyes, and sauntering across the Place Vendome,
close by the Column of Napoleon. He gave a glance up at
the column as he passed, and continued his loitering way up the
Rue de la Paix ; stopping occasionally to gaze in at the shop-
windows ; elbowed now and then by other gazers, who little
suspected that the quiet, lounging individual they were jostling
so unceremoniously, was the conqueror who had twice entered
the capital victoriously ; had controlled the destinies of the na-
tion, and eclipsed the glory of the military idol, at the base of
whose column he was thus negligently sauntering.

Some years afterward I was at an evening's entertainment
given by the Duke at Apsley House, to William IV. The Duke
had manifested his admiration of his great adversary, by having
portraits of him in different parts of the house. At the bottom
of the grand staircase, stood the colossal statue of the Emperor,
by Canova. It was of marble, in the antique style, with one
arm partly extended, holding a figure of victory. Over this
arm the ladies, in tripping up stairs to the ball, had thrown their
shawls. It was a singular office for the statue of Napoleon to
perform in the mansion of the Duke of Wellington !

"Imperial Caesar dead, and turned to clay," etc., etc.

96

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

AMERICAN RESEARCHES IN ITALY.

LIFE OF TASSO : RECOVERY OF A LOST PORTRAIT OF DANTE.

To the Editor of the Knickerbocker :

SIR : Permit me through the pages of your magazine to call
the attention of the public to the learned and elegant researches
in Europe of one of our countrymen, Mr. R. H. Wilde, of
Georgia, formerly a member of the House of Representatives.
After leaving Congress, Mr. Wilde a few years since spent
about eighteen months in travelling through different parts of
Europe, until he became stationary for a time in Tuscany. Here
he occupied himself with researches concerning the private life
of Tasso, whose mysterious and romantic love for the Princess
Leonora, his madness and imprisonment, had recently become
the theme of a literary controversy, not yet ended ; curious in
itself, and rendered still more curious by some alleged manu-
scripts of the poet's brought forward by Count Alberti. Mr.
Wilde entered into the investigation with the enthusiasm of a
poet, and the patience and accuracy of a case-hunter ; and has
produced a work now in the press, in which the " vexed ques-
tions " concerning Tasso are most ably discussed, and lights
thrown upon them by his letters, and by various of his sonnets,
which last are rendered into English with rare felicity. While
Mr. Wilde was occupied upon this work, he became acquainted
with Signer Carlo Liverati, an artist of considerable merit, and
especially well versed in the antiquities of Florence. This gentle-
man mentioned incidentally one day, in the course of conversa-
tion, that there once and probably still existed in the Bargello,
anciently both the prison and the palace of the republic, an
authentic portrait of Dante. It was believed to be in fresco, on
a wall which afterward, by some strange neglect or inadvertency,
had been covered with whitewash. Signor Liverati mentioned
the circumstance merely to deplore the loss of so precious a por-
trait, and to regret the almost utter hopelessness of its recovery.

As Mr. Wilde had not as yet imbibed that enthusiastic admi-
ration for Dante which possesses all Italians, by whom the poet
is almost worshipped, this conversation made but a slight im-
pression on him at the time. Subsequently, however, his re-
searches concerning Tasso being ended, he began to amuse his
leisure hours with attempts to translate some specimens of

AMERICAN RESEARCHES IN ITALY. 97

Italian lyric poetry, and to compose very short biographical
sketches of the authors. In these specimens, which as yet exist
only in manuscript, he has shown the same critical knowledge of
the Italian language, and admirable command of the English,
that characterize his translations of Tasso. He had not ad-
vanced far in these exercises, when the obscure and contradictory
accounts of many incidents in the life of Dante caused him
much embarrassment, and sorely piqued his curiosity. About
the same time he received, through the courtesy of Don Neri dei
Principi Corsini, what he had long most fervently desired, a
permission from the Grand Duke to pursue his investigations
in the secret archives of Florence, with power to obtain copies
therefrom. This was a rich and almost unwrought mine of
literary research ; for to Italians themselves, as well as to for-
eigners, their archives for the most part have been long in-
accessible. For two years Mr. Wilde devoted himself with
indefatigable ardor to explore the records of the republic during
the time of Dante. These being written in barbarous Latin
and semi-Gothic characters, on parchment more or less discol-
ored and mutilated, with ink sometimes faded, were rendered
still more illegible by the arbitrary abbreviations of the notaries.
They require, in fact, an especial study ; few even of the
officers employed in the " Archivio delle Riformagione " can
read them currently and correctly.

Mr. Wilde however persevered in his laborious task with a
patience severely tried, but invincible. Being without an in-
dex, each file, each book, required to be examined page by
page, to ascertain whether any particular of the immortal poet's
political life had escaped the untiring industry of his country-
men. This toil was not wholly fruitless, and several interest-
ing facts obscurely known, and others utterly unknown by the
Italians themselves, are drawn forth by Mr. Wilde from the
oblivion of these archives.

While thus engaged, the circumstance of the lost portrait
of Dante was again brought to Mr. Wilde's mind, but now
excited intense interest. In perusing the~ notes of the late
learned Canonico Moreri on Filelfo's life of Dante, he found
it stated that a portrait of the poet by Giotto was formerly to
be seen in the Bargello. He learned also that Signer Scotti,
who has charge of the original drawings of the old masters in
the imperial and royal gallery, had made several years pre-
viously an ineffectual attempt to set on foot a project for the
recovery of the lost treasure. Here was a new vein of inquiry,
which Mr. Wilde followed up with his usual energy and saga-

98

THE CRAYON PAPEES.

city. He soon satisfied himself, by reference to Vasari, and to
the still more ancient and decisive authority of Filippo Villari,
who lived shortly after the poet, that Giotto, the friend and
contemporary of Dante, did undoubtedly paint his likeness in
the place indicated. Giotto died in 1336, but as Dante was
banished, and was even sentenced to be burned, in 1302, it was
obvious the work must have been executed before that time ;
since the portrait of one outlawed and capitally convicted as an
enemy to the commonwealth would never have been ordered or
tolerated in the chapel of the royal palace. It was clear, then,
that the portrait must have been painted between 1290 and 1302.

Mr. Wilde now revolved in his own mind the possibility that
this precious relic might remain undestroyed under its coat of
whitewash, and might yet be restored to the world. For a mo-
ment he felt an impulse to undertake the enterprise ; but feared
that, in a foreigner from a new world, any part of which is
unrepresented at the Tuscan court, it might appear like an in-
trusion. He soon however found a zealous coadjutor. This
was one Giovanni Aubrey Bezzi, a Piedmontese exile, who had
long been a resident in England, and was familiar with its lan-
guage and literature. He was now on a visit to Florence, which
liberal and hospitable city is always open to men of merit who
for political reasons have been excluded from other parts of
Italy. Signor Bezzi partook deeply of the enthusiasm of his
countrymen for the memory of Dante, and sympathized with
Mr. Wilde in his eagerness to retrieve if possible the lost por-
trait. They had several consultations as to the means to be
adopted to effect their purpose, without incurring the charge of
undue officiousness. To lessen any objections that might occur,
they resolved to ask for nothing but permission to search for
the fresco painting at their own expense ; and should any re-
mains of it be found, then to propose to the nobility and gentry
of Florence an association for the purpose of completing the
undertaking, and effectually recovering the lost portrait.

For the same reason the formal memorial addressed to the
Grand Duke was drawn up in the name of Florentines ; among
whom were the celebrated Bartolini, now President of the
School of Sculpture in the Imperial and Royal- Academy, Sig-
nor Paolo Ferroni, of the noble family of that name, who has
exhibited considerable talent for painting, and Signor Gaspa-
rini, also an artist. This petition was urged and supported
with indefatigable zeal by Signor Bezzi; and being warmly
countenanced by Count Nerli and other functionaries, met
with more prompt success than had been anticipated. Signor

AMERICAN RESEARCHES IN ITALY. 99

Marini, a skilful artist, who had succeeded in similar opera-
tions, was now employed to remove the whitewash by a process
of his own, by which any freseo painting that might exist be-
neath would be protected from injury. He set to work patiently
and cautiously. In a short time he met with evidence of the
existence of the fresco. From under the coat of whitewash
the head of an angel gradually made its appearance, and was
pronounced to be by the pencil of Giotto.

The enterprise was now prosecuted with increased ardor.
Several months were expended on the task, and three sides of
the chapel wall were uncovered ; they were all painted in fresco
by Giotto, with the history of the Magdalen, exhibiting her con-
version, her penance, and her beatification. The figures, how-
ever, were all those of saints and angels ; no historical portraits
had yet been discovered, and doubts began to be entertained
whether there were any. Still the recovery of an indisputable
work of Giotto's was considered an ample reward for any toil ;
and the Ministers of the Grand Duke, acting under his direc-
tions, assumed on his behalf the past charges and future man-
agement of the enterprise.

At length, on the uncovering of the fourth wall, the under-
taking was crowned with complete success. A number of
historical figures were brought to light, and among them the
undoubted likeness of Dante. He was represented in full
length, in the garb of the time, with a book under his arm,
designed most probably to represent the " Vita Nuova," for
the kt Comedia " was not yet composed, and to all appearance
from thirty to thirty-five years of age. The face was in pro-
file, and in excellent preservation, excepting that at some former
period a nail had unfortunately been driven into the eye. The
outline of the eyelid was perfect, so that the injury could easily
be remedied. The countenance was extremely handsome, yet
bore a strong resemblance to the portraits of the poet taken
later in life.

It is not easy to appreciate the delight of Mr. Wilde and his
coadjutors at this triumphant result of their researches ; nor
the sensation produced, not merely in Florence but throughout
Italy, by this discovery of a veritable portrait of Dante, in the
prime of his days. It was some such sensation as would be pro-
duced in England by the sudden discovery of a perfectly well
authenticated likeness of Shakspeare ; with a difference in in-
tensity proportioned to the superior sensitiveness of the Italians.

The recovery of this portrait of the " divine poet" has occa-
sioned fresh inquiry into the origin of the masks said to have

100

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

been made from a cast of his face taken after death. One of
these masks, in the possession of the Marquess of Torrigiani,
has been pronounced as certainly the original. Several artists
of high talent have concurred in this opinion ; among these
may be named Jesi, the first engraver in Florence ; Seymour
Kirkup, Esq., a painter and antiquary; and our own country-
man Powers, whose genius, by the way, is very highly appre-
ciated by the Italians.

We may expect from the accomplished pen of Carlo Torri-
giani, son of the Marquess, and who is advantageously known
in this country, from having travelled here, an account of this
curious and valuable relic, which has been upward of a century
in the possession of his family.

Should Mr. Wilde finish his biographical work concerning
Dante, which promises to be a proud achievement in American
literature, he intends, I understand, to apply for permission to
have both likenesses copied, and should circumstances warrant
the expense, to have them engraved by eminent artists. We
shall then have the features of Dante while in the prime of life
as well as at the moment of his death. G. C.

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL.

ONE of the most remarkable personages in Parisian society
during the last century was Renee Charlotte Victoire de Frou-
lay De Tesse, Marchioness De Crequi. She sprang from the
highest and proudest of the old French nobility, and ever main-
tained the most exalted notions of the purity and antiquity of
blood, looking upon all families that could not date back further
than three or four hundred years as mere upstarts. When a
beautiful girl, fourteen years of age, she was presented to Louis
XIV., at Versailles, and the ancient monarch kissed her hand
with great gallantry ; after an interval of about eighty-five
years, when nearly a hundred years old, the same testimonial
of respect was paid her at the Tuileries by Bonaparte, then
First Consul, who promised her the restitution of the confiscated
forests formerly belonging to her family. She was one of the
most celebrated women of her time for intellectual grace and
superiority, and had the courage to remain at Paris and brave
all the horrors of the revolution, which laid waste the aris-
tocratical world around her.

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL. 101

The memoirs she has left behind abound with curious anec-
dotes and vivid pictures of Parisian life during the latter days
of Louis XIV., the regency of the Duke of Orleans, and the
residue of the last century ; and are highly illustrative of the
pride, splendor, and licentiousness of the French nobility on
the very eve of their tremendous downfall.

I shall draw forth a few scenes from her memoirs, taken
almost at random, and which, though given as actual and well-
known circumstances, have quite the air of romance.

All the great world of Paris were invited to be present at a
grand ceremonial, to take place in the church of the Abbey
Royal of Pauthemont. Henrietta de Lenoncour, a young girl,
of a noble family, of great beauty, and heiress to immense
estates, was to take the black veil. Invitations had been issued
in grand form, by her aunt and guardian, the Countess Brigitte
de Rupelmonde, canoness of Mauberge. The circumstance
caused great talk and wonder in the fashionable circles of Paris ;
everybody was at a loss to imagine why a young girl, beautiful
and rich, in the very springtime of her charms, should renounce
a world which she was so eminently qualified to embellish and
enjoy.

A lady of high rank, who visited the beautiful novice at the
grate of her convent-parlor, got a clew to the mystery. She
found her in great agitation ; for a time she evidently repressed
her feelings, but they at length broke forth in passionate ex-
clamations. " Heaven grant me grace," said she, "some day
or other to pardon my cousin Gondrecourt the sorrows he has
caused me ! "

" What do you mean? — what sorrows, my child? " inquired
her visitor. " What has your cousin done to affect you? "

44 He is married !" cried she in accents of despair, but en-
deavoring to repress her sobs.

"Married ! I have heard nothing of the kind, my dear. Are
you perfectly sure of it? "

" Alas ! nothing is more certain ; my aunt de Rupelmonde in-
formed me of it."

The lady retired, full of surprise and commiseration. She
related tfre scene in a circle of the highest nobility, in the saloon
of the Marshal Prince of Beauvau, where the unaccountable self-
sacrifice of the beautiful novice was under discussion.

" Alas ! " said she, " the poor girl is crossed in love ; she is

102 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

about to renounce the world in despair, at the marriage of her
cousin De Gondrecourt. "

"What!" cried a gentleman present, "the Viscount de
Gondrecourt married ! Never was there a greater falsehood.
And ' her aunt told her so ! ' Oh ! I understand the plot. The
countess is passionately fond of Gondrecourt, and jealous of her
beautiful niece ; but her schemes are vain ; the Viscount holds
her in perfect detestation."

There was a mingled expression of ridicule, disgust, and
indignation at the thought of such a rivalry. The Countess
Rupelmonde was old enough to be the grandmother of the Vis-
count. She was a woman of violent passions, and imperious
temper; robust in person, with a masculine voice, a dusky com-
plexion, green eyes, and powerful eyebrows.

"It is impossible," cried one of the company, " that a woman
of the countess' age and appearance can be guilty of such folly.
No, no ; you mistake the aim of this detestable woman. She is
managing to get possession of the estate of her lovely niece."

This was admitted to be the most probable ; and all concurred
in believing the countess to be at the bottom of the intended
sacrifice ; for although a canoness, a dignitary of a religious
order, she was pronounced little better than a devil incarnate.

The Princess de Beauvau, a woman of generous spirit and
intrepid zeal, suddenly rose from the chair in which she had
been reclining. " My prince," said she, addressing her hus-
band, " if you approve of it, I will go immediately and have a
conversation on this subject with the archbishop. There is not
a moment to spare. It is now past midnight ; the ceremony is
to take place in the morning. A few hours and the irrevocable
vows will be pronounced."

The prince inclined his head in respectful assent. The
princess set about her generous enterprise with a woman's
promptness. Within a short time her carriage was at the iron
gate of the archiepiscopal palace, and her servants rang for
admission. Two Switzers, who had charge of the gate, were
fast asleep in the porter's lodge, for it was half-past two in the
morning. It was some time before they could be awakened,
and longer before they could be made to come forth.

' ' The Princess de Beauvau is at the gate ! ' '

Such a personage was not to be received in deshabille. Her
dignity and the dignity of the archbishop demanded that the
gate should be served in full costume. For half an hour, there-
fore, had the princess to wait, in feverish impatience, until the
two dignitaries of the porter's lodge arrayed themselves ; and

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL. 103

three o'clock sounded from the tower of Notre Dame before
they came forth. They were in grand livery, of a buff color,
with amaranth galloons, plaited with silver, and fringed sword-
belts reaching to their knees, in which were suspended long
rapiers. They had small three-cornered hats, surmounted with
plumes ; and each bore in his hand a halbert. Thus equipped at
all points, they planted themselves before the door of the car-
riage ; struck the ends of their halberts on the ground with em-
phasis ; and stood waiting with official importance, but profound
respect, to know the pleasure of the princess.

She demanded to speak with the archbishop. A most rever-
ential bow and shrug accompanied the reply, that "His Gran-
deur was not at home." .

Not at home ! AVhere was he to be found ? Another bow
and shrug ; " His Grandeur either was, or ought to be, in retire-
ment in the seminary of St. Magloire ; unless he had gone to
pass the Fete of St. Bruno with the reverend Carthusian Fathers
of the Rue d'Enfer ; or perhaps he might have gone to repose
himself in his castle of Conflans-sur-Seine. Though, on further
thought, it was not unlikely he might have gone to sleep at St.
Cyr, where the Bishop of Chartres never failed to invite him for
the anniversary soiree of Madame de Main tenon.

The princess was in despair at this multiplicity of cross-
roads pointed out for the chase ; the brief interval of time was
rapidly elapsing ; day already began to dawn ; she saw there
was no hope of finding the archbishop before the moment of
..his entrance into the church for the morning's ceremony ; so
she returned home quite distressed.

At seven o'clock in the morning the princess was in the
parlor of the monastery of De Panthemont, and sent in an
urgent request for a moment's conversation with the Lady
Abbess. The reply brought was, that the Abbess could not
come to the parlor, being obliged to attend in the choir, at the
canonical hours. The princess entreated permission to enter
the convent, to reveal to the Lady Abbess in two words some-
thing of the greatest importance. The Abbess sent word in
reply, that the thing was impossible, until she had obtained
permission from the Archbishop of Paris. The princess retired
once more to her carriage, and now, as a forlorn hope, took her
station at the door of the church, to watch for the arrival of the
prelate.

After a while the splendid company invited to this great
ceremony began to arrive. The beauty, rank, and wealth of
the novice had excited great attention ; and, as everybody was

104 THE CEAYON PAPERS.

expected to be present on the occasion, everybody pressed to
secure a place. The street reverberated with the continual roll
of gilded carriages and chariots ; coaches of princes and dukes,
designated by imperials of crimson velvet, and magnificent
equipages of six horses, decked out with nodding plumes and
sumptuous harnessing. At length the equipages ceased to
arrive , empty vehicles filled the street ; and, with a noisy and
parti-colored crowd of lackeys in rich liveries, obstructed all
the entrances to De Panthemont.

Eleven o'clock had struck ; the last auditor had entered the
church ; the deep tones of the organ began to swell through the
sacred pile, yet still the archbishop came not ! The heart of
the princess beat quicker and quicker with vague apprehension ;
when a valet, dressed in cloth of silver, trimmed with crimson
velvet, approached her carriage precipitately. "Madame,"
said he, " the archbishop is in the church; he entered by the
portal of the cloister ; he is already in the sanctuary ; the cere-
mony is about to commence ! ' '

What was to be done? To speak with the archbishop was
now impossible, and yet on the revelation she was to make
to him depended the fate of the lovely novice. The princess
drew forth her tablets of enamelled gold, wrote a few lines
therein with a pencil, and ordered her lackey to make way for
her through the crowd, and conduct her with all speed to the
sacristy.

The description given of the church and the assemblage on
this occasion presents an idea of the aristocratical state of the
times, and of the high interest awakened by the affecting
sacrifice about to take place. The church was hung with
superb tapestry, above which extended a band of white damask,
fringed with gold, and covered with armorial escutcheons. A
large pennon, emblazoned with the arms and alliances of the
high-born damsel, was suspended, according to custom, in place
of the lamp of the sanctuary. The lustres, girandoles, and
candelabras of the king had been furnished in profusion, to deco-
rate the sacred edifice, and the pavements were all covered with
rich carpets.

The sanctuary presented a reverend and august assemblage of
bishops, canons, and monks of various orders, Benedictines,
Bernadines, Raccollets, Capuchins, and others, all in their
appropriate robes and dresses. In the midst presided the Arch-
bishop of Paris, Christopher de Beaumont ; surrounded by his
four arch priests and his vicars-general. -He was seated with
his back against the altar. When his eyes were cast down, his

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL. 105

countenance, pale and severe, is represented as having been
somewhat sepulchral and death-like ; but the moment he raised
his large, dark, sparkling eyes, the whole became animated ;
beaming with ardor, and expressive of energy, penetration, and
firmness.

The audience that crowded the church was no less illustrious.
Excepting the royal family, all that was elevated in rank and
title was there ; never had a ceremonial of the kind attracted
an equal concourse of the high aristocracy of Paris.

At length the grated gates of the choir creaked on their
hinges, and Madame de Richelieu, the high and noble Abbess
of D^ Panthemont, advanced to resign the novice into the hands
of her aunt, the Countess Canoness de Rupelmonde. Every
eye was turned with intense curiosity to gain a sight of the beau-
tiful victim. She was sumptuously dressed, but her paleness
and languor accorded but little with her brilliant attire. The
Canoness De Rupelmonde conducted her niece to her praying-
desk, where, as soon as the poor girl knelt down, she sank
as if exhausted. Just then a sort of murmur was heard at the
lower end of the church, where the servants in livery were
gathered. A young man was borne forth, struggling in con-
vulsions. He was in the uniform of an officer of the guards
of King Stanislaus, Duke of Lorraine. A whisper circulated
that it was the young Viscount de Gondrecourt, and that he was
a lover of the novice. Almost all the young nobles present
hurried forth to proffer him sympathy and assistance.

The Archbishop of Paris remained all this time seated before
the altar ; his eyes cast down, his pallid countenance giving no
signs of interest or participation in the scene around him. It
was noticed that in one of his hands, which was covered with
a violet glove, he grasped firmly a pair of tablets, of enamelled
gold.

The Canoness De Rupelmonde conducted her niece to the
prelate, to make her profession of self-devotion, and to utter
the irrevocable vow. As the lovely novice knelt at his feet, the
archbishop fixed on her his dark, beaming eyes, with a kind but
earnest expression. " Sister ! " said he, in the softest and most
benevolent tone of voice, " what is your age? "

" Nineteen years, Monseigneur," eagerly interposed the Coun-
tess de Rupelmonde.

" You will reply to me by and by, Madame," said the arch-
bishop, dryly. He then repeated his question to the novice
who replied in a faltering voice, " Seventeen years."

4 ' In what diocese did you take the white veil ? ' '

106

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" In the diocese of Toul."

" How !" exclaimed the archbishop, vehemently. "In the
diocese of Toul ? The chair of Toul is vacant ! The Bishop
of Toul died fifteen months since ; and those who officiate in
the chapter are not authorized to receive novices. Your novi-
tiate, Mademoiselle, is null and void, and we cannot receive
your profession."

The archbishop rose from his chair, resumed his mitre, and
took the crozier from the hands of an attendant.

" My dear brethren," said he, addressing the assembly, "there
is no necessity for our examining and interrogating Mademoi-
selle de Lenoncour on the sincerity of her religious vocation.
There is a canonical impediment to her professing for the pres-
ent ; and, as to the future, we reserve to ourselves the con-
sideration of the matter ; interdicting to all other ecclesiastical
persons the power of accepting her vows, under penalty of in-
terdiction, of suspension, and of nullification; all which is in
virtue of our metropolitan rights, contained in the terms of the
bull cum proximis : " " Adjutorium nostrum, in nomine Dom-
ini!" pursued he, chanting in a grave and solemn voice, and
turning toward the altar to give the benediction of the holy sac-
rament.

The noble auditory had that habitude of reserve, that empire,
or rather tyranny, over all outward manifestations of internal
emotions, which belongs to high aristocratical breeding. The
declaration of the archbishop, therefore, was received as one
of the most natural and ordinary things in the world, and all
knelt clown and received the pontifical benediction with perfect
decorum. As soon, however, as they were released from the
self-restraint imposed by etiquette, they amply indemnified
themselves ; and nothing was talked of for a month, in the
fashionable saloons of Paris, but the loves of the handsome
Viscount and the charming Henrietta ; the wickedness of the
canoness ; the active benevolence and admirable address of the
Princess de Beauvau ; and the great wisdom of the arQhbishop,
who was particularly extolled for his delicacy in defeating this
manoeuvre without any scandal to the aristocracy, or public
stigma on the name of De Rupelmonde, and without any de-
parture from pastoral gentleness, by adroitly seizing upon an
informality, and turning it to beneficial account, with as much
authority as charitable circumspection.

As to the Canoness de Rupelmonde, she was defeated at all
points in her wicked plans against her beautiful niece. In con-
sequence of the caveat of the archbishop, her superior ecclesias-

TUE TAKING OF THE VEIL. 107

tic, the Abbess de Panthemont, formally forbade Mademoiselle
de Lenoncour to resume the white veil and the dress of a novi-
tiate, and instead of a novice's cell, established her in a beau-
tiful apartment as a boarder. The next morning the Canoness
de Rupelmonde called at the convent to take away her niece ; but,
to her confusion, the abbess produced a lettre-de-cachet, which
she had just received, and which forbade Mademoiselle to leave
the convent with any other person save the Prince de Beauvau.

Under the auspices and the vigilant attention of the prince,
the whole affair was wound up in the most technical and cir-
cumstantial manner. The Countess de Rupelmonde, by a
decree of the Grand Council, was divested of the guardianship
of her niece. All the arrears of revenues accumulated during
Mademoiselle de Lenoncour's minority were rigorously col-
lected, the accounts scrutinized and adjusted, and her noble
fortune placed safely and entirely in her hands.

In a little while the noble personages who had been invited
to the ceremony of taking the veil received another invitation,
on the part of the Countess dowager de Gondrecourt, and the
Marshal Prince de Beauvau, to attend the marriage of Adrien
de Gondrecourt, Viscount of Jean-sur-Moselle, and Henrietta de
Lenoncour, Countess deHevouwal, etc., which duly took place
in the chapel of the archiepiscopal palace at Paris.

So much for the beautiful Henrietta de Lenoncour. We will
now draw forth a companion picture of a handsome young
cavalier, who figured in the gay world of Paris about the same
time, and concerning whom the ancient Marchioness writes
with the lingering feeling of youthful romance.

THE CHARMING LETORIERES.

"A GOOD face is a letter of recommendation," says an old
proverb ; and it was never more verified than in the case of
the Chevalier Letorieres. He was a young gentleman of good
family, but who, according to the Spanish phrase, had nothing
but his cloak and sword (capa y espada), that is to say, his
gentle blood and gallant bearing, to help him forward in the
world. Through the interest of an uncle, who was an abbe", he
received a gratuitous education at a fashionable college, but
finding the terms of study too long, and the vacations too
short, for his gay and indolent temper, he left college without

108

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

saying a word, and launched himself upon Paris, with a light
heart, and still lighter pocket. Here he led a life to his humor.
It is true he had to make scanty meals, and to lodge in a garret ;
but what of that? He was his own master ; free from all task
or restraint. When cold or hungry, he sallied forth, like others
of the chameleon order, and banqueted on pure air and warm
sunshine in the public walks and gardens ; drove off the thoughts
of a dinner by amusing himself with the gay and grotesque
throngs of the metropolis ; and if one of the poorest was one
of the merriest gentlemen upon town. Wherever he went,
his good looks and frank, graceful demeanor, had an instant
and magical effect in securing favor. There was but one word
to express his fascinating powers — he was " charming."

Instances are given of the effect of his winning qualities upon
minds of coarse, ordinary mould. He had once taken shelter
from a heavy shower uncfer a gateway. A hackney coachman,
who was passing by, pulled up, and asked him if he wished a
cast in his carriage. Letorieres declined, with a melancholy
and dubious shake of the head. The coachman regarded him
wistfully, repeated his solicitations, and wished to know what
place he was going to. " To the Palace of Justice, to walk in
the galleries ; but I will wait here until the rain is over."

"And why so? " inquired the coachman, pertinaciously.

" Because I've no money ; do let me be quiet."

The coachman jumped down, and opening the door of his
carriage, "It shall never be said," cried he, "that I left so
charming a young gentleman to weary himself, and catch cold,
merely for the sake of twenty- four sous."

Arrived at the Palace of Justice, he stopped before the saloon
of a famous restaurateur, opened the door of the carriage,
and taking off his hat very respectfully, begged the youth to
accept of a Louis-d'or. " You will meet with some young gen-
tlemen within," said he, " with whom you may wish to take a
hand at cards. The number of my coach is 144. You can find
me out, and repay me whenever you please."

The worthy Jehu was some years afterward made coachman
to the Princess Sophia, of France, through the recommendation
of the handsome youth he had so generously obliged.

Another instance in point is given with respect to his tailor, to
whom he owed four hundred livres. The tailor had repeatedly
dunned him, but was always put off with the best grace in the
world. The wife of the tailor urged her husband to assume a
harsher tone. He replied that he could not find it in his heart
to speak roughly to so charming a young gentleman.

THE TAKING OF THE VEIL. 109

" I've no patience with such want of spirit ! " cried the wife •,
" you have not the courage to show your teeth : but I'm going
out to get change for this note of a hundred crowns ; before
1 come home, I'll seek this ' charming ' youth myself, and see
whether he has the power to charm me. I'll warrant he won't
be able to put me off with fine looks and fine speeches."

With these and many more vaunts, the good dame sallied
forth. When she returned home, however, she wore quite a
different aspect.

"Well," said her husband, "how much have you received
from the ' charming ' young man ? ' '

-" Let me alone," replied the wife ; " I found him playing on
the guitar, and he looked so handsome, and was so amiable and
genteel, that I had not the heart to trouble him."

"And the change for the hundred-crown note?" said the
tailor.

The wife hesitated a moment: "Faith," cried she, "you'll
have to add the amount to your next bill against him. The
poor young gentleman had such a melancholy air, that — I know
not how it was, but — I left the hundred crowns on his mantel-
piece in spite of him ! ' '

The captivating looks and manners of Letorieres made his
way with equal facility in the great world. His high connec-
tions entitled him to presentation at court, but some questions
arose about the sufficiency of his proofs of nobility ; whereupon
the king, who had seen him walking in the gardens of Versailles,
and been charmed with his appearance, put an end to all de-
murs of etiquette by making him a viscount.

The same kind of fascination is said to have attended him
throughout his career. He succeeded in various difficult family
suits on questions of honors and privileges ; he had merely to
appear in court to dispose the judges in his favor. He at length
became so popular, that on one occasion, when he appeared at
the theatre on recovering from a wound received in a duel, the
audience applauded him on his entrance. Nothing, it is said,
could have been in more perfect good taste and high breeding
than his conduct on this occasion. When he heard the applause,
he rose in his box. stepped forward, and surveyed both sides of
the house, as if he could not believe that it was himself they
were treating like a favorite actor, or a prince of the blood.

His success with the fair sex may easily be presumed ; but
he had too much honor and sensibility to render his intercourse
with them a series of cold gallantries and heartless triumphs.
In the course of his attendance upon court, where he held a post

110

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

of honor about the king, he fell deeply in love with the beautiful
Princess Julia, of Savoy Carignan. She was young, tender, and
simple-hearted, and returned his love with equal fervor. Her
family took the alarm at this attachment, and procured an order
that she should inhabit the Abbey of Montmartre, where she
was treated with all befitting delicacy and distinction, but not
permitted to go beyond the convent walls. The lovers found
means to correspond. One of their letters was intercepted, and
it is even hinted that a plan of elopement was discovered. A
duel was the consequence, with one of the fiery relations of the
princess. Letorieres received two sword-thrusts in his right
side. His wounds were serious, -yet after two or three days'
confinement he could not resist his impatience to see the princess.
He succeeded in scaling the walls of the abbey, and obtaining
an interview in an arcade leading to the cloister of the cemetery.
The interview of the lovers was long and tender. They ex-
changed vows of eternal fidelity, and flattered themselves with
hopes of future happiness, which they were never to realize.
After repeated farewells, the princess re-entered the convent,
never again to behold the charming Letorieres. On the follow-
ing morning his corpse was found stiff and cold on the pave-
ment of the cloister !

It would seem that the wounds of the unfortunate youth had
been reopened by his efforts to get over the wall ; that he had
refrained from calling assistance, lest he should expose the
princess, and that he had bled to death, without any one to aid
him, or to close his dying eyes.

THE EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD.1

NOTED DOWN FROM HIS CONVERSATIONS BY GEOFFREY
CRAYON, GENT.

" I AM a Kentuckian by residence and choice, but a Virginian
by birth. The cause of my first leaving the ' Ancient Domin-
ion,' and emigrating to Kentucky, was a jackass ! You stare,
but have a little patience, and I'll soon show you how it came

inal
his

1 Ralph Ringwood, though a fictitious name, is a real personage : the worthy orig
is now living and flourishing in honorable station. I have given some anecdotes of
early and eccentric career in, as nearly as I can recollect, the very words in which he
related them. They certainly afforded strong temptations to the embellishments of
fiction; but I thought them so strikingly characteristic of the individual, and of the
scenes and society into which his peculiar humors carried him, that I preferred giving
them in their original simplicity. — G. C.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. Ill

to pass. My father, who was of one of the old Virginian fami-
lies, resided in Richmond. He was a widower, and his domestic
affairs were managed by a housekeeper of the old school, such
as used to administer the concerns of opulent Virginian house-
holds. She was a dignitary that almost rivalled my father in
importance, and seemed to think every thing belonged to her ;
in fact, she was so considerate in her economy, and so careful
of expense, as sometimes to vex my father, who would swear
she was disgracing him by her meanness. She always appeared
with that ancient insignia of housekeeping trust and authority,
a great bunch of keys jingling at her girdle. She superintended
the arrangements of the table at every meal, and saw that the
dishes were all placed according to her primitive notions of
symmetry. In the evening she took her stand and served out
tea with a mingled respectfulness and pride of station, truly
exemplary. Her great ambition was to have every thing in
order, a^nd that the establishment under her sway should be cited
as a model of good housekeeping. If any thing went wrong,
poor old Barbara would take it to heart, and sit in her room
and cry ; until a few chapters in the Bible would quiet her
spirits, and make all calm again. The Bible, in fact, was her
constant resort in time of trouble. She opened it indiscrimi-
nately, and whether she chanced among the lamentations of Jere-
miah, the Canticles of Solomon, or the rough enumeration of
the tribes in Deuteronomy, a chapter was a chapter, and oper-
ated like balm to her soul. Such was our good old housekeeper
Barbara, who was destined, unwittingly, to have a most impor-
tant effect upon my destiny.

" It came to pass, during the days of my juvenility, while I
was yet what is termed ' an unlucky boy, ' that a gentleman of
our neighborhood, a great advocate for experiments and im-
provements of all kinds, took it into his head that it would be
an immense public advantage to introduce a breed of mules, and
accordingly imported three jacks to stock the neighborhood.
This in a part of the country where the people cared for nothing
but blood horses ! Why, sir ! they would have considered their
mares disgraced and their whole stud dishonored by such a mis-
alliance. The whole matter was a town talk and a town scandal.
The worthy amalgamator of quadrupeds found himself in a
dismal scrape ; so he backed out in time, abjured the whole
doctrine of amalgamation, and turned his jacks loose to shift
for themselves upon the town common. There they used to
run about and lead an idle, good-for-nothing, holiday life, the
happiest animals in the country.

112 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

"It so happened that my way to school lay across this com-
mon. The first time that I saw one of these animals it set up a
braying and frightened me confoundedly. However, I soon got
over my fright, and seeing that it had something of a horse look,
my Virginian love for any thing of the equestrian species pre-
dominated, and I determined to back it. I accordingly applied
at a grocer's shop, procured a cord that had been round a loaf
of sugar, and made a kind of halter ; then summoning some of
my school-fellows, we drove master Jack about the common
until we hemmed him in an angle of a 'worm fence.' After
some difficulty, we fixed the halter round his muzzle, and I
mounted. Up flew his heels, away I went over his head, and
off he scampered. However, I was on my legs in a twinkling,
gave chase, caught him, and remounted. By dint of repeated
tumbles I soon learned to stick to his back, so that he could no
more cast me than he could his own skin. From that time,
master Jack and his companions had a scampering life of it, for
we all rode them between school hours, and on holiday after-
noons ; and you may be sure school-boys' nags are never per-
mitted to suffer the grass to grow under their feet. They soon
became so knowing that they took to their heels at the very
sight of a school-boy ; and we were generally much longer in
chasing than we were in riding them.

"Sunday approached, on which I projected an equestrian
excursion on one of these long-eared steeds. As I knew the
jacks would be in great demand on Sunday morning, I secured
one over night, and conducted him home, to be ready for an
early outset. But where was I to quarter him for the night?
I could not put him in the stable ; our old black groom George
was as absolute in that domain as Barbara was within doors,
and would have thought his stable, his horses, and himself dis-
graced, by the introduction of a jackass. I recollected the
smoke-house ; an out-building appended to all Virginian estab-
lishments for the smoking of hams, and other kinds of meat.
So I got the key, put master Jack in, locked the door, returned
the key to its place, and went to bed, intending to release my
prisoner at an early hour, before any of the family were awake.
I was so tired, however, by the exertions I had made in catch-
ing the donkey, that I fell into a sound sleep, and the morning
broke without my awaking.

" Not so with dame Barbara, the housekeeper. As usual, to
use her own phrase, ' she was up before the crow put his shoes
on,' and bustled about to get things in order for breakfast.
Her first resort was to the smoke-house. Scarce had she opened

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 113

the door, when master Jack, tired of his confinement, and glad
to be released from darkness, gave a loud bray, and rushed
forth. Down dropped old Barbara ; the animal trampled over
her, and made off for the common. Poor Barbara ! She had
never before seen a donkey, and having read in the Bible that the
devil went about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he might
devour, she took it for granted that this was Beelzebub himself.
The kitchen was soon in a hubbub ; the servants hurried to the
spot. There lay old Barbara in fits ; as fast as she got out of
one, the thoughts of the devil came over her, and she fell into
another, for the good soul was devoutly superstitious.

'^As ill luck would have it, among those attracted by the
noise was a little, cursed, fidgety, crabbed uncle of mine ; one
of those uneasy spirits that cannot rest quietly in their beds in
the morning, but must be up early, to bother the household.
He was only a kind of half-uncle, after all, for he had married
my father's sister ; yet he assumed great authority on the
strength of his left-handed relationship, and was a universal
intermeddler and family pest. This prying little busy-body
soon ferreted out the truth of the story, and discovered, by
hook and by crook, that I was at the bottom of the affair, and
had locked up the donkey in the smoke-house. He stopped to
inquire no further, for he was one of those testy curmudgeons
with whom unlucky boys are always in the wrong. Leaving
old Barbara to wrestle in imagination with the devil, he made
for my bed-chamber, where I still lay wrapped in rosy slum-
bers, little dreaming of the mischief I had done, and the storm
about to break over me.

"In an instant I was awakened by a shower of thwacks, and
started up in wild amazement. I demanded the meaning of
lihis attack, but received no other reply than that I had mur-
dered the housekeeper ; while my uncle continued whacking
away during my confusion. I seized a poker, and put myself
on the defensive. I was a stout boy for my years, while my
uncle was a little wiffet of a man ; one that in Kentucky
we would not call even an ' individual ; ' nothing more than
a ' remote circumstance.' I soon, therefore, brought him to a
parley, and learned the whole extent of the charge brought
against me. I confessed to the donkey and the smoke-house,
but pleaded not guilty of the murder of the housekeeper. I
Boon found out that old Barbara was still alive. She continued
under the doctor's hands, however, for several days ; and when-
ever she had an ill turn my uncle would seek to give me
another flogging. I appealed to my father, but got no redress.

114

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

I was considered an ' unlucky boy, ' prone to all kinds of mis-
chief ; so that prepossessions were against me in all cases of
appeal.

" I felt stung to the soul at all this. I had been beaten,
degraded, and treated with slighting when I complained. I
lost my usual good spirits and good humor ; and being out of
temper with everybody, fancied everybody out of temper with
me. A certain wild, roving spirit of freedom, which I believe
is as inherent in me as it is in the partridge, was brought into
sudden activity by the checks and restraints I suffered. l I'll
go from home,' thought I, 'and shift for myself.' Perhaps
this notion was quickened by the rage for emigrating to Ken-
tucky, which was at that time prevalent in Virginia. I had
heard such stories of the romantic beauties of the country ; of
the abundance of game of all kinds, and of the glorious inde-
pendent life of the hunters who ranged its noble forests, and
lived by the rifle ; that I was as much agog to get there as boys
who live in seaports are to launch themselves among the won-
ders and adventures of the ocean.

"After a time old Barbara got better in mind and body, and
matters were explained to her ; and she became gradually con-
vinced that it was not the devil she had encountered. When she
heard how harshly I had been treated on her account, the good
old soul was extremely grieved, and spoke warmly to my father
in my behalf. He had himself remarked the change in my
behavior, and thought punishment might have been carried too
far. He sought, therefore, to have some conversation with
me, and to soothe my feelings ; but it was too late. I frankly
told him the course of mortification that I had experienced,
and the fixed determination I had made to go from home.

' ' ' And where do you mean to go ? '

'"To Kentucky.'

" "To Kentucky ! Why, you know nobody there.'

" ' No matter : I can soon make acquaintances.'

" ' And what will you do when you get there? '

"'Hunt!'

" My father gave a long, low whistle, and looked in my face
with a serio-comic expression. I was not far in my teens, and
to talk of setting off alone for Kentucky, to turn hunter,
seemed doubtless the idle prattle of a boy. He was little aware
of the dogged resolution of my character ; and his smile of in-
credulity but fixed me more obstinately in my purpose. I assured
him I was serious in what I said, and would certainly set off for
Kentucky in the spring.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD. 115

"Month after month passed away. My father now and then
adverted slightly to what had passed between us ; doubtless for
the purpose of sounding me. I always expressed the same grave
and fixed determination. By degrees he spoke to me more
directly on the subject, endeavoring earnestly but kindly to dis-
suade me. My only reply was, ' I had made up my mind.'

"Accordingly, as soon as the spring had fairly opened, I
sought him one day in his study, and informed him I was about
to set out for Kentucky, and had come to take my leave. He
made no objection, for he had exhausted persuasion and remon-
strance, and doubtless thought it best to give way to my humor,
trusting that a little rough experience would soon bring me
home again. I asked money for my journey. He went to a
chest, took out a long green silk purse, well filled, and laid it on
the table. 1 now asked for a horse and servant.

" ' A horse ! ' said my father, sneeringly : ' why, you would
not go a mile without racing him, and breaking your neck ; and
as to a servant, you cannot take care of yourself, much less of
him.'

" ' How am I to travel, then? '

" ' Why, I suppose you are man enough to travel on foot.'

"He spoke jestingly, little thinking I would take him at his
word ; but I was thoroughly piqued in respect to my enterprise ;
so I pocketed the purse, went to my room, tied up three or four
shirts in a pocket-handkerchief, put a dirk in my bosom, girt a
couple of pistols round my waist, and felt like a knight-errant
armed cap-a-pie, and ready to rove the world in quest of adven-
tures.

" My sister (I had but one) hung round me and wept, and
entreated me to stay. I felt my heart swell in my throat ; but
I gulped it back to its place, and straightened myself up : I
would not suffer myself to cry. J at length disengaged myself
from her, and got to the door.

" ' When will you come back?' cried she.

" ' Never, by heavens ! ' cried I, * until I come back a member
of Congress from Kentucky. J am determined to show that I
am not the tail-end of the family. '

" Such was my first outset from home. You may suppose
what a greenhorn I was, and how little I knew of the world I
was launching into.

" I do not recollect any incident of importance, until I reached
the borders of Pennsylvania. I had stopped at an inn to get
some refreshment; and as I was eating in the back room, I
overheard two men in the bar-room conjecture who and what I

116

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

could be. One determined, at length, that I was a runaway ap-
prentice, and ought to be stopped, to which the other assented.
When I had finished my meal, and paid for it, I went out at the
back door, lest I should be stopped by my supervisors. Scorn-
ing, however, to steal off like a culprit, I walked round to the
front of the house. One of the men advanced to the front door.
He wore his hat on one side, and had a consequential air that
nettled me.

44 ' Where are you going, youngster? ' demanded he.

44 ' That's none of your business ! ' replied I, rather pertly.

44 ' Yes, but it is, though ! You have run away from home,
and must give an account of yourself.'

44 He advanced to seize me, when I drew forth a pistol. ' If
you advance another step, I'll shoot you ! '

44 He sprang back as if he had trodden upon a rattlesnake,
and his hat fell off in the movement.

" ' Let him alone ! ' cried his companion ; ' he's a foolish,
mad-headed boy, and don't know what he's about. He'll shoot
you, you may rely on it.'

4' He did not need any caution in the matter ; he was afraid
even to pick up his hat : so I pushed forward on my way, with-
out molestation. This incident, however, had its effect upon
me. I became fearful of sleeping in any house at night, lest I
should be stopped. I took my meals in the houses, in the
course of the day, but would turn aside at night into some wood
or ravine, make a fire, and sleep before it. This I considered
was true hunter's style, and I wished to inure myself to it.

"At length I arrived at Brownsville, leg- weary and way-
worn, and in a shabby plight, as you may suppose, having been
4 camping out ' for some nights past. I applied at some of the
inferior inns, but could gain no admission. I was regarded for
a moment with a dubious eye, and then informed they did not
receive foot-passengers. At last I went boldly to the principal
inn. The landlord appeared as unwilling as the rest to receive
a vagrant boy beneath his roof ; but his wife interfered in the
midst of his excuses, and half elbowing him aside :

44 ' Where are you going, my lad? ' said she.

44 ' To Kentucky.'

' ' ' What are you going there for ? '

" 'To hunt.'

" She looked earnestly at me for a moment or two. ' Have
you a mother living? ' said she at length.

44 4 No, madam . she has been dead for some time.'

44 ' I thought so ! ' cried she, warmly. ' I knew if you had a

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD. 117

mother living, you would not be here.' From that moment the
good woman treated me with a mother's kindness.

"I remained several days beneath her roof, recovering from
the fatigue of my journey. While here I purchased a rifle and
practised daily at a mark to prepare myself for a hunter's life.
When sufficiently recruited in strength I took leave of my kind
host and hostess and resumed my journey.

"At Wheeling I embarked in a flat- bottomed family boat,
technically called a broad-horn, a prime river conveyance in
those days. In this ark for two weeks I floated down the Ohio.
The river was as yet in all its wild beauty. Its loftiest trees
had not been thinned out. The forest overhung the water's
edge, and was occasionally skirted by immense cane-brakes.
Wild animals of all kinds abounded. We heard them rushing
through the thickets and plashing in the water. Deer and
bears would frequently swim across the river ; others would
come down to the bank and gaze at the boat as it passed. I
was incessantly on the alert with my rifle ; but somehow or other
the game was never within shot. Sometimes I got a chance to
land and try my skill on shore. I shot squirrels and small birds
and even wild turkeys ; but though I caught glimpses of deer
bounding away through the woods, I never could get a fair shot
at them.

" In this way we glided in our broad-horn past Cincinnati, the
' Queen of the West,' as she is now called, then a mere group
of log cabins ; and the site of the bustling city of Louisville,
then designated by a solitary house. As I said before, the
Ohio was as yet *a wild river ; all was forest, forest, forest !
Near the confluence of Green River with the Ohio, I landed,
bade adieu to the broad-horn, and struck for the interior of
Kentucky. I had no precise plan ; my only idea was to make
for one of the wildest parts of the country. I had relatives in
Lexington and other settled places, to whom I thought it prob-
able my father would write concerning me : so as I was full of
manhood and independence, and resolutely bent on making my
way in the world without assistance or control, I resolved to
keep clear of them all.

"In the course of my first day's trudge, I shot a wild turkey,
and slung it on my back for provisions. The forest was open
and clear from underwood. I saw deer in abundance, but
always running, running. It seemed to me as if these animals
never stood still.

"At length I came to where a gang of half -starved wolves
were feasting on the carcass of a deer which they had run

118

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

down ; and snarling and snapping and fighting like so many
dogs. They were all so ravenous and intent upon their prey
that they did not notice me, and I had time to make my obser-
vations. One, larger and fiercer than the rest, seemed to claim
the larger share, and to keep the others in awe. If any one
came too near him while eating, he would fly off, seize and
shake him, and then return to his repast. 'This,' thought I,
' must be the captain ; if I can kill him, I shall defeat the whole
army.' I accordingly took aim, fired, and down dropped the old
fellow. He might be only shamming dead ; so I loaded and
put a second ball through him. He never budged ; all the rest
ran off, and my victory was complete.

"It would not be easy to describe my triumphant feelings
on this great achievement. I marched on with renovated spirit,
regarding myself as absolute lord of the forest. As night drew
near, I prepared for camping. My first care was to collect dry
wood and make a roaring fire to cook and sleep by, and to
frighten off wolves, and bears, and panthers. I then began to
pluck my turkey for supper. I had camped out several times
in the early part of my expedition ; but that was in compara-
tively more settled and civilized regions, where there were no
wild animals of consequence in the forest. This was my first
camping out in the real wilderness ; and I was soon made sen-
sible of the loneliness and wildness of my situation.

"In a little while a concert of wolves commenced: there
might have been a dozen or two, but it seemed to me as if there
were thousands. I never heard such howling and whining.
Having prepared my turkey, I divided it into* two parts, thrust
two sticks into one of the halves, and planted them on end
before the fire, the hunter's mode of roasting. The smell of
roast meat quickened the appetites of the wolves, and their
concert became truly infernal. They seemed to be all around
me, but I could only now and then get a glimpse of one of
them, as he came within the glare of the light.

" I did not much care for the wolves, who I knew to be a
cowardly race, but I had heard terrible stories of panthers, and
began to fear their stealthy prowlings in the surrounding dark-
ness. I was thirsty, and heard a brook bubbling and tinkling
along at no great distance, but absolutely dared not go there,
lest some panther might lie in wait, and spring upon me. By
and by a deer whistled. I had never heard one before, and
thought it must be a panther. I now felt uneasy lest he might
climb the trees, crawl along the branches overhead, and plump
clown upon me ; so I kept my eyes fixed on the branches, until

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH EINGWOOD. 119

my head ached. I more than once thought I saw fiery eyes
glaring down from among the leaves. At length I thought of
my supper and turned to see if my half-turkey was cooked.
In crowding so near the fire I had pressed the meat into the
flames, and it was consumed. I had nothing to do but toast
the other half, and take better care of it. On that half I made
my supper, without salt or bread. I was still so possessed
with the dread of panthers, that I could not close my eyes all
night, but lay watching the trees until daybreak, when all my
fears were dispelled with the darkness ; and as I saw the morn-
ing sun sparkling down through the branches of the trees, I
smiled to think how I had suffered myself to be dismayed by
sounds and shadows : but I was a young woodsman, and a
stranger in Kentucky.

"Having breakfasted on the remainder of my turkey, and
llaked my thirst at the bubbling stream, without further dread
of panthers, I resumed my wayfaring with buoyant feelings.
I again saw deer, but as usual running, running ! I tried in
vain to get a shot at them, and began to fear I never should.
I was gazing with vexation after a herd in full scamper, when I
was startled by a human voice. Turning round, I saw a man
at a short distance from me, in a hunting dress.

" ' What are you after, my lad? ' cried he.

" ' Those deer,' replied I, pettishly ; ' but it seems as if they
never stand still.'

" Upon that he burst out laughing. ' Where are you from? '
said he.

" ' From Richmond.'

* ' ' What ! In old Virginny ? '

" 'The same.'

" ' And how on earth did you get here? '

" ' I landed at Green River from a broad-horn.

" ' And where are your companions? '

" ' I have none.'

'"What? — all alone!'

"'Yes.'

" ' Where are you going? '

" ' Anywhere.'

" ' And what have you come here for? '

" ' To hunt.'

"'Well,' said he, laughingly, 'you'll make a real hunter;
there's no mistaking that ! Have you killed any thing? '

" ' Nothing but a turkey ; I can't get within shot of a deer:
they are always running.'

120 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" ' Oh, I'll tell you the secret of that. You're always pushing
forward, and starting the deer at a distance, and gazing at
those that are scampering ; but you must step as slow, and
silent, and cautious as a cat, and keep your eyes close around
you, and lurk from tree to tree, if you wish to get a chance at
deer. But come, go home with me. My name is Bill Smithers ;
I live not far off : stay with me a little while, and I'll teach you
how to hunt.'

" I gladly accepted the invitation of honest Bill Smithers.
We soon reached his habitation ; a mere log hut, with a square
hole for a window, and a chimney made of sticks and clay.
Here he lived, with a wife and child. He had ' girdled ' the
trees for an acre or two around, preparatory to clearing a
space for corn and potatoes. In the mean time he maintained
his family entirely by his rifle, and I soon found him to be a
first-rate huntsman. Under his tutelage I received my first
effective lessons in ' woodcraft. '

" The more I knew of a hunter's life, the more I relished it.
The country, too, which had been the promised laud of my
boyhood, did not, like most promised lands, disappoint me.
No wilderness could be more beautiful than this part of Ken-
tucky, in those times. The forests were open and spacious,
with noble trees, some of which looked as if they had stood for
centuries. There were beautiful prairies, too, diversified with
groves and clumps of trees, which looked like vast parks, and
in which you could see the deer running, at a great distance.
In the proper season these prairies would be covered in many
places with wild strawberries, where your horse's hoofs would
be dyed to the fetlock. I thought there could not be another
place in the world equal to Kentucky — and I think so still.

"After I had passed ten or twelve days with Bill Smithers,
I thought it time to shift my quarters, for his house was scarce :
large enough for his own family, and I had no idea of being an
incumbrance to any one. I accordingly made up my bundle, j
shouldered my rifle, took a friendly leave of Smithers and his ;
wife, and set out in quest of a Nimrod of the wilderness, one]
John Miller, who lived alone, nearly forty miles off, and who I|
hoped would be well pleased to have a hunting companion.

" I soon found out that one of the most important items in
woodcraft in a new country was the skill to find one's way in
the wilderness. There were no regular roads in the forests,
but they were cut up and perplexed by paths leading in all
directions. Some of these were made by the cattle of the set-
biers, and were called - stock-tracks,' but others had been made

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD. 121

by the immense droves of buffaloes which roamed about the
country, from the flood until recent times. These were called
buffalo- tracks, and traversed Kentucky from end to end, like
highways. Traces of them may still be seen in uncultivated
parts, or deeply worn in the rocks where they crossed the
mountains. I was a young woodsman, and sorely puzzled to
distinguish one kind of track from the other, or to make out
my course through this tangled labyrinth. While thus per-
plexed, I heard a distant roaring and rushing sound ; a gloom
stole over the forest : on looking up, when I could catch a stray
glimpse of the sky, I beheld the clouds rolled up like balls, the
lower parts as black as ink. There was now and then an ex-
plosion, like a burst of cannonry afar off, and the crash of a
falling tree. I had heard of hurricanes in the woods, and sur-
mised that one was at hand. It soon came crashing its way ;
the forest writhing, and twisting, and groaning before it. The
'hurricane did not extend far on either side, but in a manner
ploughed a furrow through the woodland ; snapping off or up-
rooting trees that had stood for centuries, and filling the air
with whirling branches. I was directly in its course, and took
my stand behind an immense poplar, six feet in diameter. It
bore for a time the full fury of the blast, but at length began
to yield. Seeing it falling, I scrambled nimbly round the trunk
like a squirrel. Down it went, bearing down another tree with
it. I crept under the trunk as a shelter, and was protected
I from other trees which fell around me, but was sore all over
from the twigs and branches driven against me by the blast.

" This was the only incident of consequence that occurred
, on my way to John Miller's, where I arrived on the following
I day, and was received by the veteran with the rough kindness
of a backwoodsman. He was a gray-haired man, hardy and
weather-beaten, with a blue wart, like a great bead, over one
eye, whence he was nicknamed by the hunters ' Blue-bead Mil-
ler.' He had been in these parts from the earliest settlements,
and had signalized himself in the hard conflicts with the In-
dians, which gained Kentucky the appellation of ' the Bloody
Ground.' In one of these fights he had had an arm broken;
in another he had narrowly escaped, when hotly pursued, by
jumping from a precipice thirty feet high into a river.

" Miller willingly received me into his house as an inmate,
and seemed pleased with the idea of making a hunter of me.
His dwelling was a small log house, with a loft or garret of
boards, so that there was ample room for both of us. Under
his instruction I soon made a tolerable proficiency in hunting.

122 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

My first exploit, of any consequence, was killing a bear. I
was hunting in company with two brothers, when we came
upon the track of Bruin, in a wood where there was an under-
growth of canes and grape-vines. He was scrambling up a tree,
when I shot him through the breast : he fell to the ground and
lay motionless. The brothers sent in their dog, who seized the
bear by the throat. Bruin raised one arm, and gave the dog a
hug that crushed his ribs. One yell, and all was over. I don't
know which was first dead, the dog or the bear. The two
brothers sat down and cried like children over their unfortunate
dog. Yet they were mere rough huntsmen, almost as wild and
untamable as Indians : but they were fine fellows.

"By degrees I became known, and somewhat of a favorite
among the hunters of the neighborhood ; that is to say, men
who lived within a circle of thirty or forty miles, and came
occasionally to see John Miller, who was a patriarch among
them. They lived widely apart, in log huts and wigwams,
almost with the simplicity of Indians, and well-nigh as destitute
of the comforts and inventions of civilized life. They seldom
saw each other ; weeks, and even months would elapse, without
their visiting. When they did meet, it was very much after the
manner of Indians ; loitering about all day, without having
much to say, but becoming communicative as evening advanced,
and sitting up half the night before the fire, telling hunting
stories, and terrible tales of the fights of the Bloody Ground.

" Sometimes several would join in a distant hunting expe-
dition, or rather campaign. Expeditions of this kind lasted
from November until April ; during which we laid up our stock
of summer provisions. We shifted our hunting camps from
place to place, according as we found the game. They were
generally pitched near a run of water, and close by a cane-
brake, to screen us from the wind. One side of our lodge was
open toward the fire. Our horses- were hoppled and turned
loose in the cane-brakes, with bells round their necks. One of
the party staid at home to watch the camp, prepare the meals,
and keep off the wolves ; the others hunted. When a hunter
killed a deer at a distance from the camp, he would open it and
take out the entrails ; then climbing a sapling, he would bend
it. down, tie the deer to the top, and let it spring up again, so
as to suspend the carcass out of reach of the wolves. At night
he would return to the camp, and give an account of his luck.
The next morning early he would get a horse out of the cane-
brake, and bring home his game. That day he would stay at
home to cut up the carcass, while the others hunted.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 123

" Our days were thus spent in silent and lonely occupations.
It was only at night that we would gather together before the
fire, and be sociable. I was a novice, and used to listen with
open eyes and ears to the strange and wild stories told by the
old hunters, and believed every thing I heard. Some of their
stories bordered upon the supernatural. They believed that
their rifles might be spell-bound, so as not to be able to kill a
buffalo, even at arm's length. This superstition they had de-
rived from the Indians, who often think the white hunters have
laid a spell upon their rifles. Miller partook of this super-
stition, and used to tell of his rifle's having a spell upon it ; but
it often seemed to me to be a shuffling way of accounting for a
bad shot. If a hunter grossly missed his aim he would ask,
4 Who shot last with this rifle ? ' — and hint that he must have
charmed it. The sure mode to disenchant the gun was to shoot
a silver bullet out of it.

" By the opening of spring we would generally have quanti-
ties of be'ar's-meat and venison salted, dried, and smoked, and
numerous packs of skins. We would then make the best of our
way home from our distant hunting-grounds ; transporting our
spoils, sometimes in canoes along the rivers, sometimes on horse-
back over land, and our return would often be celebrated by
feasting and dancing, in true backwoods style. I have given
you some idea of our hunting ; let me now give you a sketch of
our frolicking.

" It was on our return from a winter's hunting in the neigh-
borhood of Green River, when we received notice that there
was to be a grand frolic at Bob Mosely's, to greet the hunters.
This Bob Mosely was a prime fellow throughout the country.
He was an indifferent hunter, it is true, and rather lazy to boot ;
but then he could play the fiddle, and that was enough to make
him of consequence. There was no other man within a hundred
miles that could play the fiddle, so there was no having a regu-
lar frolic without Bob Mosely. The hunters, therefore, were
always ready to give him a share of their game in exchange for
his music, and Bob was always ready to get up a carousal,
whenever there was a party returning from a hunting expedi-
tion. The present frolic was to take place at Bob Mosely's
own house, which was on the Pigeon Roost Fork of the Muddy,
which is a branch of Rough Creek, which is a branch of Green
River.

" Everybody was agog for the revel at Bob Mosely's ; and as
all the fashion of the neighborhood was to be there, I thought
I must brush up for the occasion. My leathern hunting-dress,

124 * THE CRAYON PAPERS.

which was the only one I had, was somewhat the worse for
wear, it is true, and considerably japanned with blood and
grease ; but I was up to hunting expedients. Getting into a
periogue, I paddled off to a part of the Green River where
there was sand and clay, that might serve for soap ; then taking
off my dress, I scrubbed and scoured it, until I thought it looked
very well. I then put it on the end of a stick, and hung it out
of the periogue to dry, while I stretched myself very comfort-
ably on the green bank of the river. Unluckily a flaw struck
the periogue, and tipped over the stick : down went my dress
to the bottom of the river, and I never saw it more. Here was
I, left almost in a state of nature. I managed to make a kind
of Robinson Crusoe garb of undressed skins, with the hair on,
which enabled me to get home with decency ; but my dream of
gayety and fashion was at an end ; for how could I think of
figuring in high life at the Pigeon Roost, equipped like a mere
Orson ?

" Old Miller, who really began to take some pride in me, was
confounded when he understood that I did not intend to go to
Bob Mosely's ; but when 1 told him my misfortune, and that I
had no dress : ' By the powers,' cried he, 4 but you shall go, and
you shall be the best dressed and the best mounted lad there ! '

" He immediately set to work to cut out and make up a hunt-
ing-shirt of dressed 'deer-skin, gayly fringed at the shoulders,
with leggings of the same, fringed from hip to heel. He then
made me a rakish raccoon-cap, with a flaunting tail to it ;
mounted me on his best horse ; and I may say, without vanity,
that I was one of the smartest fellows that figured on that occa-
sion, at the Pigeon Roost Fork of the Muddy.

"It was no small occasion, either, let me tell you. Bob
Mosely's house was a tolerably large bark shanty, with a clap-
board roof ; and there were assembled all the young hunters and
pretty girls of the country, for many a mile round. The young
men were in their best hunting-dresses, but not one could com-
pare with mine ; and my raccoon-cap, with its flowing tail, was
the admiration of everybody. The girls were mostly in doe-skin
dresses ; for there was no spinning and weaving as yet in the
woods ; nor any need of it. I never saw girls that seemed to
me better dressed ; and I was somewhat of a judge, having seen
fashions at Richmond. We had a hearty dinner, and a merry
one ; for there was Jemmy Kiel, famous for raccoon-hunting,
and Bob Tarleton, and Wesley Pigman, and Joe Taylor, and
several other prime fellows for a frolic, that made all ring again,
and laughed, that you might have heard them a mile.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 125

" After dinner we began dancing, and were hard at it, when,
about three o'clock in the afternoon, there was a new arrival —
the two daughters of old Simon Schultz ; two young ladies that
affected fashion and late hours. Their arrival had nearly put
an end to all our merriment. I must go a little roundabout in
my story to explain to you how that happened.

" As old Schultz, the father, was one day looking in the cane-
brakes for his cattle, he came upon the track of horses. He knew
they were none of his, and that none of his neighbors had horses
about that place. They must be stray horses ; or must belong
to some traveller who had lost his way, as the track led nowhere.
He 'accordingly followed it up, until he came to an unlucky ped-
ler, with two or three pack-horses, who had been bewildered
among the cattle-tracks, and had wandered for two or three days
among woods and cane-brakes, until he was almost famished.

" Old Schultz brought him to his house ; fed him on venison,
bear's meat, and hominy, and at the end of a week put him in
prime condition. The pedler could not sufficiently express his
thankfulness ; and when about to depart, inquired what he had
to pay? Old Schultz stepped back with surprise. 'Stranger,'
said he, 'you have been welcome under my roof . I've given
you nothing but wild meat and hominy, because I had no better,
but have been glad of your company. You are welcome to stay
as long as you please ; but, by Zounds ! if any one offers to pay
Simon Schultz for food he affronts him ! ' So saying, he walked
out in a huff.

"The pedler admired the hospitality of his host, but could
not reconcile it to his conscience to go away without making
some recompense. There were honest Simon's two daughters,
two strapping, red-haired girls. He opened his packs and dis-
played riches before them of which they had no conception ; for
in those days there were no country stores in those parts, with
their artificial finery and trinketry ; and this was the first pedler
that had wandered into that part of the wilderness. The girls
were for a time completely dazzled, and knew not what to
choose : but what caught their eyes most were two looking-
glasses, about the size of a dollar, set in gilt tin. They had
never seen the like before, having used no other mirror than a
pail of water. The pedler presented them these jewels, with-
out the least hesitation; nay, he gallantly hung them round
their necks by red ribbons, almost as fine as the glasses them-
selves. This done, he took his departure, leaving them as
much astonished as two princesses in a fairy tale, that have re-
ceived a magic gift from an enchanter.

126 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

"It was with these looking-glasses, hung round their necks
as lockets, by red ribbons, that old Schultz's daughters made
their appearance at three o'clock in the afternoon, at the frolic
at Bob Mosely's, on the Pigeon Roost Fork of the Muddy.

"By the powers, but it was an event! Such a thing had
never before been seen in Kentucky. Bob Tarleton, a strapping
fellow, with a head like a chestnut-burr, and a look like a boar
in an apple orchard, stepped up, caught hold of the looking-
glass of one of the girls, and gazing at it for a moment, cried
out : ' Joe Taylor, come here ! come here ! I'll be darn'd if
Patty Schultz ain't got a locket that you can see your face in,
as clear as in a spring of water ! '

" In a twinkling all the young hunters gathered round old
Schultz's daughters. I, who knew what looking-glasses were,
did not budge. Some of the girls who sat near me were exces-
sively mortified at finding themselves thus deserted. I heard
Peggy Pugh say to Sally Pigman, ' Goodness knows, it's well
Schultz's daughters is got them things round their necks, for
it's the first time the young men crowded round them ! '

" I saw immediately the danger of the case. We were a
small community, and could not afford to be split up by feuds.
So I stepped up to, the girls, and whispered to them : ' Polly,'
said I, ' those lockets are powerful fine, and become you amaz-
ingly ; but you don't consider that the country is not advanced
enough in these parts for such things. You and I understand
these matters, but these people don't. Fine things like these
may do very well in the old settlements, but they won't an-
swer at the Pigeon Roost Fork of the Muddy. You had better
lay them aside for the present, or we shall have no peace.'

"Polly and her sister luckily saw their error; they took off
the lockets, laid them aside, and harmony was restored : other-
wise, I verily believe there would have been an end of our
community. Indeed, notwithstanding the great sacrifice they
made on this occasion, I do not think old Schultz's daughters
were ever much liked afterward among the young women.

" This was the first time that looking-glasses were ever seen
in the Green River part of Kentucky.

" I had now lived some time with old Miller, and had become
a tolerably expert hunter. Game, however, began to grow
scarce. The buffalo had gathered together, as if by universal
understanding, and had crossed the Mississippi, never to re-
turn. Strangers kept pouring into the country, clearing away
the forests, and building in all directions. The hunters began
to grow restive. Jemmy Kiel, the same of whom I have

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 127

already spoken for his skill in raccoon catching, came to me
one day: 'I can't stand this any longer,' said he; 'we're
getting too thick here. Simon Schultz crowds me so, that I
have no comfort of my life.'

"'Why, how you talk!' said I; 'Simon Schultz lives
twelve miles off.'

" ' No matter ; his cattle run with mine, and I've no idea of
living where another man's cattle can run with mine. That's too
close neighborhood ; I want elbow-room. This country, too,
is growing too poor to live in ; there's no game ; so two or
three of us have made up our minds to follow the buffalo to
the "Missouri, and we should like to have you of the party.'
Other hunters of my acquaintance talked in the same manner.
This set me thinking ; but the more I thought the more I was
perplexed. I had no one to advise with ; old Miller and his
associates knew but of one mode of life, and I had had no expe-
rience in any other : but 1 had a wider scope of thought. When
out hunting alone I used to forget the sport, and sit for hours
together on the trunk of a tree, with rifle in hand, buried in
thought, and debating with myself : ' Shall I go with Jemmy
Kiel and his company, or shall I remain here? If I remain
here there will soon be nothing left to hunt ; but am I to be a
hunter all my life ? Have not I something more in me than to
be carrying a rifle on my shoulder, day after day, and dodging
about after bears, and deer, and other brute beasts ? ' My
vanity told me I had ; and I called to mind my boyish boast
to my sister, that I would never return home, until I returned
a member of Congress from Kentucky ; but was this the way
to fit myself for such a station ?

" Various plans passed through my mind, but they were
abandoned almost as soon as formed. At length I determined
on becoming a lawyer. True it is, I knew almost nothing. I
had left school before I had learned beyond the ' rule of three.'
4 Never mind,' said I to myself, resolutely ; ' I am a terrible
fellow for hanging on to any thing when I've once made up my
mind ; and if a man has but ordinary capacity, and will set to
work with heart and soul, and stick to it, he can do almost
any thing.' With this maxim, which has been pretty much my
main-stay throughout life, I fortified myself in my determina-
tion to attempt the law. But how was I to set about it? I
must quit this forest life, and go to one or other of the towns,
where I might be able to study, and to attend the courts. This
too required funds. I examined into the state of my finances.
The purse given me by my father had remained untouched, in

128

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

the bottom of an old chest up in the loft, for money was
scarcely needed in these parts. I had bargained away the
skins acquired in hunting, for a horse and various other mat-
ters, on which, in case of need, I could raise funds. I there-
fore thought I could make shift to maintain myself until I was
fitted for the bar.

" I informed my worthy host and patron, old Miller, of my
plan. He shook his head at my turning my back upon the
woods, when I was in a fair way of making a first-rate hunter ;
but he made no effort to dissuade me. I accordingly set off
in September, on horseback, intending to visit Lexington,
Frankfort, and other of the principal towns, in search of a
favorable place to prosecute my studies. My choice was made
sooner than I expected. I had put up one night at Bardstown,
and found, on inquiry, that I could get comfortable board and
accommodation in a private family for a dollar and a half a
week. I liked the place, and resolved to look no farther. So
the next morning I prepared to turn my face homeward, and
take my final leave of forest life.

"I had taken my breakfast, and was waiting for my horse,
when, in pacing up and down the piazza, I saw a young girl
seated near a window, evidently a visitor. She was very pretty ;
with auburn hair and blue eyes, and was dressed in white. I
had seen nothing of the kind since I had left Richmond ; and
at that time I was too much of a boy to be much struck by
female charms. She was so delicate and dainty-looking, so dif-
ferent from the hale, buxom, brown girls of the woods ; and
then her white dress ! — it was perfectly dazzling ! Never was
poor youth more taken by surprise, and suddenly bewitched. My
heart yearned to know her ; but how was I to accost her ? I had
grown wild in the woods, and had none of the habitudes of polite
life. Had she been like Peggy Pugh or Sally Pigman, or any
other of my leathern-dressed belles of the Pigeon Roost, I should
have approached her without dread ; nay, had she been as fair
as Schultz's daughters, with their looking-glass lockets, I should
not have hesitated ; but that white dress, and those auburn ring-
lets, and blue eyes, and delicate looks, quite daunted, while they
fascinated me. I don't know what put it into my head, but I
thought, all at once, that I would kiss her ! It would take a long
acquaintance to arrive at such a boon, but I might seize upon it
by sheer robbery. Nobody knew me here. I would just step
in, snatch a kiss, mount my horse, and ride off. She would not
be the worse for it, and that kiss — oh ! I should die if I did
not set it !

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 129

" I gave no time for the thought to cool, but entered the house,
and stepped lightly into the room. She was seated with her
back to the door, looking out at the window, and did not hear
my approach. I tapped her chair, and as she turned and looked
up, I snatched as sweet a kiss as ever was stolen, and vanished
in a twinkling. The next moment I was on horseback, galloping
homeward ; my very ears tingling at what I had done.

" On my return home I sold my horse, and turned every thing
to cash ; and found, with the remains of the paternal purse, that
I had nearly four hundred dollars ; a little capital which I re-
solved to manage with the strictest economy.

4 '"It was hard parting with old Miller, who had been like a
father to me ; it cost me, too, something of a struggle to give
up the free, independent wild-wood life I had hitherto led ; but
I had marked out my course, and had never been one to flinch
or turn back.

' ' I footed it sturdily to Bardstown ; took possession of the
quarters' for which I had bargained, shut myself up, and set to
work with might and main to study. But what a task I had
before me ! I had every thing to learn ; not merely law, but all
the elementary branches of knowledge. I read and read, for
sixteen hours out of the four-and-twenty ; but the more I read
the more I became aware of my own ignorance, and shed bitter
tears over my deficiency. It seemed as if the wilderness of
knowledge expanded and grew more perplexed as I advanced.
Every height gained only revealed a wider region to be trav-
ersed, and nearly filled me with despair. I grew moody, silent,
and unsocial, but studied on doggedly and incessantly. The
only person with whom I held any conversation was the worthy
man in whose house I was quartered. He was lionest and well-
meaning, but perfectly ignorant, and I believe would have liked
me much better if I had not been so much addicted to reading.
He considered all books filled with lies and impositions, and
seldom could look into one without finding something to rouse
his spleen. Nothing put him into a greater passion than the
assertion that the world turned on its own axis every four-and
twenty hours. He swore it was an outrage upon common sense.
' Why, if it did,' said he, ' there would not be a drop of water
in the well by morning, and all the milk and cream in the dairy
would be turned topsy-turvy ! And then to talk of the earth
going round the sun! How do they know it? I've seen the
sun rise every morning, and set every evening, for more than
thirty years. They must not talk to me about the earth's going
round the sun ! '

130 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

"At another time he was in a perfect fret at being told the
distance between the sun and moon. ' How can any one tell
the distance?' cried he. 'Who surveyed it? who carried the
chain ? By Jupiter ! they only talk this way before me to annoy
me. But then there's some people of sense who give in to this
cursed humbug ! There's Judge Broadnax, now, one of the best
lawyers we have ; isn't it surprising he should believe in such
stuff ? Why, sir, the other day I heard him talk of the distance
from a star he called Mars to the sun ! He must have got it
out of one or other of those confounded books he's so fond of
reading ; a book some impudent fellow has written, who knew
nobody could swear the distance was more or less.'

"For my own part, feeling my own deficiency in scientific
lore, I never ventured to unsettle his conviction that the sun
made his daily circuit round the earth ; and for aught I said to
the contrary, he lived and died in that belief.

" I had been about a year at Bardstown, living thus studiously
and reclusely, when, as I was one day walking the street, I met
two young girls, in one of whom I immediate!}7 recalled the little
beauty whom I had kissed so impudently. She blushed up to
the eyes, and so did I ; but we both passed on without further
sign of recognition. This second glimpse of her, however,
caused an odd fluttering about my heart. I could not get her
out of my thoughts for days. She quite interfered with my
studies. I tried to think of her as a mere child, but it would
not do ; she had improved in beauty, and was tending toward
womanhood ; and then I myself was but little better than a
stripling. However, I did not attempt to seek after her, or even
to find out who she was, but returned doggedly to my books.
By degrees she faded from my thoughts, or if she did cross them
occasionally, it was only to increase my despondency ; for I
feared that with all my exertions, I should never be able to fit
myself for the bar, or enable myself to support a wife.

"One cold stormy evening I was seated, in dumpish mood,
in the bar-room of the inn, looking into the fire, and turning
over uncomfortable thoughts, when I was accosted by some
one who had entered the room without my perceiving it. I
looked up, and saw before me a tall and, as I thought, pom-
pous-looking man, arrayed in small-clothes and knee-buckles,
with powdered head, and shoes nicely blacked and polished ; a
style of dress unparalleled in those days, in that rough country.
I took a pique against him from the very portliness of his
appearance, and stateliness of his manner, and bristled up as
he accosted me. He demanded if my name was not Ringwood.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 131

" I was startled, for I supposed myself perfectly incog. ; but
I answered in the affirmative.

" ' Your family, I believe, lives in Richmond? '

" My gorge began to rise. * Yes, sir,' replied I, sulkily, ' my
family does live in Richmond.'

" 'And what, may I ask, has brought you into this part of
the country ? '

"'Zounds, sir!' cried I, starting on my feet, 'what busi-
ness is it of yours ? How dare you to question me in this man-
ner? '

"The entrance of some persons prevented a reply; but I
walked up and down the bar-room, fuming with conscious in-
dependence and insulted dignity, while the pompous-looking
personage, who had thus trespassed upon my spleen, retired
without proffering another word.

" The next day, while seated in my room, some one tapped at
the door, and, on being bid to enter, the stranger in the pow-
dered head, small-clothes, and shining shoes and buckles, walked
in with ceremonious courtesy.

" My boyish pride was again in arms; but he subdued me.
He was formal, but kind and friendly. He knew my family
and understood my situation, and the dogged struggle I was
making. A little conversation, when my jealous pride was
once put to rest, drew every thing from me. He was a lawyer
of experience and of extensive practice, and offered at once to
take me with him, and direct my studies. The offer was too
advantageous and gratifying not to be immediately accepted.
From that time I began to look up. I was put into a proper
track, and was enabled to study to a proper purpose. I made
acquaintance, too, with some of the young men of the place,
who were in the same pursuit, and was encouraged at finding
that I could ' hold my own ' in argument with them. We insti-
tuted a debating club, in which I soon became prominent and
popular. Men of talents, engaged in other pursuits, joined it,
and this diversified our subjects, and put me on various tracks
of inquiry. Ladies, too, attended some of our discussions, and
this gave them a polite tone, and had an influence on the man-
ners of the debaters. My legal patron also may have had a
favorable effect in correcting any roughness contracted in my
hunter's life. He was calculated to bend me in an opposite
direction, for he was of the old school ; quoted Chesterfield on
all occasions, and talked of Sir Charles Graudison, who was
his beau ideal. It was Sir Charles Grandison, however, Ken-
tuckyized.

132 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" I had always been fond of female society. My experience,
however, had hitherto been among the rough daughters of the
backwoodsmen ; and I felt an awe of young ladies in ' store
clothes,' and delicately brought up. Two or three of the mar-
ried ladies of Bardstown, who had heard me at the debating club,
determined that I was a genius, and undertook; to bring me out.
I believe I really improved under their hands ; became quiet where
I had been shy or sulky, and easy where I had been impudent.

"I called to take tea one evening with one of these ladies,
when to my surprise, and somewhat to my confusion, I found
with her the identical blue-eyed little beauty whom I had so
audaciously kissed. I was formally introduced to her, but
neither of us betrayed any sign of previous acquaintance, except
by blushing to the eyes. While tea was getting ready, the lady
of the house went out of the room to give some directions, and
left us alone.

" Heavens and earth, what a situation ! I would have given
all the pittance I was worth to have been in the deepest dell of
the forest. I felt the necessity of saying something in excuse
of my former rudeness, but I could not conjure up an idea, nor
utter a word. Every moment matters were growing worse. I
felt at one time tempted to do as I had done when I robbed her
of the kiss: bolt from the room, and take to flight; but I was
chained to the spot, for I really longed to gain her good-will.

"At length I plucked up courage, on seeing that she was
equally confused with myself, and walking desperately up to
her, I exclaimed :

" ' I have been trying to muster up something to say to you,
but I cannot. I feel that I am in a horrible scrape. Do have
pity on me, and help me out of it.'

"A smile dimpled about her mouth, and played among the
blushes of her cheek. She looked up with a shy, but arch
glance of the eye, that expressed a volume of comic recollec-
tion ; we both broke into a laugh, and from that moment all
went on well.

"A few evenings afterward I met her at a dance, and pros-
ecuted the acquaintance. I soon became deeply attached to
her ; paid my court regularly ; and before I was nineteen years
of age, had engaged myself to marry her. I spoke to her
mother, a widow lady, to ask her consent. She seemed to
demur ; upon which, with my customary haste, I told her there
would be no use in opposing the match, for if her daughter
chose to have me, I would take her, in defiance of her family,
and the whole world.

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RINGWOOD. 133

" She laughed, and told me I need not give myself any un-
easiness ; there would be no unreasonable opposition. She
knew my family and all about me. The only obstacle was,
that I had no means of supporting a wife, and she had nothing
to give with her daughter.

"No matter; at that moment every thing was bright before
me. I was in one of my sanguine moods. I feared nothing,
doubted nothing. So it was agreed that I should prosecute my
studies, obtain a license, and as soon as I should be fairly
launched in business, we would be married.

" I now prosecuted my studies with redoubled ardor, and
was up to my ears in law, when I received a letter from my
father, who had heard of me and my whereabouts. He ap-
plauded the course I had taken, but advised me to lay a foun-
dation of general knowledge, and offered to defray my expenses,
if I would go to college. I felt the want of a general education,
and was staggered with this offer. It militated somewhat
against the self-dependent course I had so proudly, or rather
conceitedly, marked out for myself, but it would enable me to
enter more advantageously upon my legal career. I talked
over the matter with the lovely girl to whom I was engaged.
She sided in opinion with my father, and talked so disinter-
estedly, yet tenderly, that if possible, I loved her more than
ever. I reluctantly, therefore, agreed to go to college for a
couple of years, though it must necessarily postpone our union.

"• Scarcely had I formed this resolution, when her mother
was taken ill, and died, leaving her without a protector. This
again altered all my plans. I felt as if I could protect her. I
gave up all idea of collegiate studies ; persuaded myself that
by dint of industry and application I might overcome the
deficiencies of education, and resolved to take out a license as
soon as possible.

" That very autumn I was admitted to the bar, and within a
month afterward was married. We were a young couple, she
not much above sixteen, I not quite twenty ; and both almost
without a dollar in the world. The establishment which we
set up was suited to our circumstances : a log house, with two
small rooms ; a bed, a table, a half dozen chairs, a half dozen
knives and forks, a half dozen spoons ; every thing by half
dozens ; a little delft ware ; every thing in a small way : we were
so poor, but then so happy !

" We had not been married many days, when court was held
at a county town, about twenty-five miles distant. It was
necessary for me to go there, and put myself in the way of

134 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

business ; but how was I to go ? I had expended all my means
on our establishment ; and then it was hard parting with my
wife so soon after marriage. However, go I must. Money
must be made, or we should soon have the wolf at the door.
I accordingly borrowed a horse, and borrowed a little cash, and
rode off from my door, leaving my wife standing at it, and
waving her hand after me. Her last look, so sweet and beam-
ing, went to my heart. I felt as if I could go through fire and
water for her.

"I arrived at the county town on a cool October evening.
The inn was crowded, for the court was to commence on the
following day. I knew no one, and wondered how I, a stranger,
and a mere youngster, was to make my way in such a crowd,
and to get business. The public room was thronged with the
idlers of the country, who gather together on such occasions.
There was some drinking going forward, with much noise, and
a little altercation. Just as I entered the room I saw a rough
bully of a fellow, who was partly intoxicated, strike an old man.
He came swaggering by me and elbowed me as he passed.
I immediately knocked him down, anjj kicked him into the
street. I needed no better introduction. In a moment I had a
dozen rough shakes of the hand, and invitations to drink, and
found myself quite a personage in this rough assembly.

"The next morning the court opened. I took rny seat
among the lawyers, but felt as a mere spectator, not having a
suit in progress or prospect, nor having any idea where business
was to come from. In the course of the morning a man was
put at the bar, charged with passing counterfeit money, and was
asked if he was ready for trial. He answered in the negative.
He had been confined in a place where there were no lawyers,
and had not had an opportunity of consulting any. He was
told to choose counsel from the lawyers present, and to be ready
for trial on the following day. He looked round the court and
selected me. I was thunder-struck. I could not tell why he
should make such a choice. I, a beardless youngster ; unprac-
tised at the bar; perfectly unknown. I felt diffident yet de-
lighted, and could have hugged the rascal.

" Before leaving the court he gave me one hundred dollars in
a bag as a retaining fee. I could scarcely believe my senses ;
it seemed like a dream. The heaviness of the fee spoke but
lightly in favor of his innocence, but that was no affair of mine.
I was to be advocate, not judge nor jury. I followed him to
jail, and learned from him all the particulars of his case ; from
thence I went to the clerk's office and took minutes of the

EARLY EXPERIENCES OF RALPH RING WOOD. 135

indictment. I then examined the law on the subject, and pre-
pared my brief in my room. All this occupied me until mid-
night, when I went to bed and tried to sleep. It was all hr
vain. Never in my life was I more wide-awake. A host of
thoughts and fancies kept rushing through my mind ; the shower
of gold that had so unexpectedly fallen into my lap ; the idea of
my poor little wife at home, that I was to astonish with my
good fortune ! But then the awful responsibility I had under-
taken ! — to speak for the first time in a strange court ; the
expectations the culprit had evidently formed of my talents ;
all these, and a crowd of similar notions, kept whirling through
my mind. I tossed about all night, fearing the morning would
find me exhausted and incompetent ; in a word, the day dawned
on me, a miserable fellow !

" I got up feverish and nervous. I walked out before break-
fast, striving to collect my thoughts, and tranquillize my feel-
ings. It was a bright morning ; the air was pure and frosty.
I bathed my forehead and my hands in a beautiful running
stream ; but I could not allay the fever heat that raged within.
I returned to breakfast, but could not eat. A single cup of
coffee formed my repast. It was time to go to court, and I
went there with a throbbing heart. I believe if it had not been
for the thoughts of my little wife, in her lonely log house, I
should have given back to the man his hundred dollars, and
relinquished the cause. I took my seat^ looking, I am con-
vinced, more like a culprit than the rogue I was to defend.

u When the time came for me to speak, my heart died within
me. I rose embarrassed an$ dismayed, and stammered in
opening my cause. I went on from bad to worse, and felt as
if I was going down hill. Just then the public prosecutor, a
man of talents, but somewhat rough in his practice, made a
sarcastic remark on something I had said. It was like an elec-
tric spark, and ran tingling through every vein in my body.
In an instant my diffidence was gone. My whole spirit was in
arms. I answered with promptness and bitterness, for I felt
the cruelty of such an attack upon a novice in my situation.
The public prosecutor made a kind of apology ; this, from a
man of his redoubted powers, was a vast concession. I re-
newed my argument with a fearless glow ; carried the case
through triumphantly, and the man was acquitted.

"This was the making of me. Everybody was curious to
know who this new lawyer was, that had thus suddenly risen
among them, and bearded the attorney-general at the very
outset. The story of my debut at the inn on the preceding even-

136

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

ing, when I had knocked down a bully, and kicked him out of
doors for striking an old man, was circulated with favorable
-exaggerations. Even my very beardless chin and juvenile
countenance were in my favor, for people gave me far more
credit than I really deserved. The chance business which oc-
curs in our country courts came thronging upon me. I was
repeatedly employed in other causes ; and by Saturday night,
when the court closed, and I had paid my bill at the inn, I found
myself with a hundred and fifty dollars in silver, three hundred
dollars in notes, and a horse that I afterwards sold for two hun-
dred dollars more.

"• Never did miser gloat on his money with more delight. I
locked the door of my room ; piled the money in a heap upon the
table ; walked round it ; sat with my elbows on the table, and
my chin upon my hands, and gazed upon it. Was I thinking of
the money? No! I was thinking of my little wife at home.
Another sleepless night ensued ; but what a night of golden fan-
cies, and splendid air-castles ! As soon as morning dawned, I
was up, mounted the borrowed horse with which I had come to
court, and led the other which I had received as a fee. All the
way I was delighting myself with the thoughts of the surprise I
had in store for my little wife, for both of us had expected
nothing but that I should spend all the money I had borrowed,
and should return in debt.

" Our meeting was joyous, as you may suppose : but I played
the part of the Indian hunter, who, when he returns from the
chase, never for a time speaks of his success. She had pre-
pared a snug little rustic meal for me, and while it was getting
ready I seated myself at an old-fashioned desk in one corner,
and began to count over my money, and put it away. She came
to me before I had finished, and asked who I had collected the
money for.

" 'For myself, to be sure,' replied I, with affected coolness;
' I made it at court. '

" She looked me for a moment in the face, incredulously. I
tried to keep my countenance, and to play Indian, but it would
not do. My muscles began to twitch ; my feelings all at once
gave way. I caught her in my arms ; laughed, cried, and danced
about the room, like a crazy man. From that time forward, we
never wanted for money.

" I had not been long in successful practice, when I was sur-
prised one day by a visit from my woodland patron, old Miller.
The tidings of my prosperity had reached him in the wilderness,
and he had walked one hundred and fifty miles on foot to see

THE SEMINOLES. 137

me. By that time I had improved my domestic establishment,
and had all things comfortable about me. He looked around
him with a wondering eye, at what he considered luxuries and
superfluities ; but supposed they were all right in my altered
circumstances. He said he did not know, upon the whole, but
that I had acted for the best. It is true, if game had continued
plenty, it would have been a folly for me to quit a hunter's life ;
but hunting was pretty nigh done up in Kentucky. The buffalo
had gone to Missouri ; the elk were nearly gone also ; deer, too,
were growing scarce ; they might last out his time, as he was
growing old, but they were not worth setting up life upon. He
had once lived on the borders of Virginia. Game grew scarce
there ; he followed it up across Kentucky, and now it was
again giving him the slip ; but he was too old to follow it
farther.

t; He remained with us three days. My wife did every thing
in her power to make him comfortable ; but at the end of that
time he said he must be off again to the woods. He was tired
of the village, and of having so many people about him. He
accordingly returned to the wilderness and to hunting life.
But I fear he did not make a good end of it ; for I understand
that a few years before his death he married Sukey Thomas,
who lived at the White Oak Run."

THE SEMINOLES.

FROM the time of the chimerical cruisings of Old Ponce de
Leon in search of the Fountain of Youth, the avaricious expe-
dition of Pamphilo de Narvaez in quest of gold, and the chival-
rous enterprise of Hernando de Soto, to discover and conquer
a second Mexico, the natives of Florida have been continually
subjected to the invasions and encroachments of white men.
They have resisted them perse veringly but fruitlessly, and are
now battling amid swamps and morasses for the last foothold
of their native soil, with all the ferocity of despair. Can we
wonder at the bitterness of a hostility that has been handed
down from father to son, for upward of three centuries, and
exasperated by the wrongs and miseries of each succeeding
generation ! The very name of the savages with whom we are
fighting betokens their fallen and homeless condition. Formed
of the wrecks of once powerful tribes, and driven from their

138 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

ancient seats of prosperity and dominion, they are known by
the name of the Seminoles, or " Wanderers."

Bartram, who travelled through Florida in the latter part of
the last century, speaks of passing through a great extent of
ancient Indian fields, now silent and deserted, overgrown with
forests, orange groves, and rank vegetation, the site of the
ancient Alachua, the capital of a famous and powerful tribe,
who in days of old could assemble thousands at bull-play and
other athletic exercises " over these then happy fields and
green plains." "Almost every step we take," adds he, "over
these fertile heights, discovers the remains and traces of
ancient human habitations and cultivation."

About the year 1763, when Florida was ceded by the Span-
iards to the English, we are told that the Indians generally
retired from the towns and the neighborhood of the whites,
and burying themselves in the deep forests, intricate swamps
and hommocks, and vast savannas of the interior, devoted
themselves to a pastoral life, and the rearing of horses and
cattle. These are the people that received the name of the
Seminoles, or Wanderers, which they still retain.

Bartram gives a pleasing picture of them at the time he vis-
ited them in their wilderness ; where their distance from the
abodes of the white man gave them a transient quiet and
security. "This handful of people," says he, "possesses a
vast territory, all East and the greatest part of West Florida,
which being naturally cut and divided into thousands of islets,
knolls, and eminences, by the innumerable rivers, lakes, swamps,
vast savannas, and ponds, form so many secure retreats and
temporary dwelling places that effectually guard them from any
sudden invasions or attacks from their enemies ; and being such
a swampy, hommocky country, furnishes such a plenty and
variety of supplies for the nourishment of varieties of animals,
that I can venture to assert that no part of the globe so
abounds with wild game, or creatures fit for the food of man.

"Thus they enjoy a superabundance of the necessaries and
conveniences of life, with the security of person and property,
the two great concerns of mankind. The hides of deer, bears,
tigers, and wolves, together with honey, wax, and other pro-
ductions of the country, purchase their clothing, equipage, and
domestic utensils from the whites. They seem to be free from
want or desires. No cruel enemy to dread ; nothing to give
them disquietude, but the gradual encroachments of the white
people. Thus contented and undisturbed, they appear as blithe
and free as the birds of the air, and like them as volatile and

THE SEMINOLES. 139

active, tuneful and vociferous. The visage, action, and deport-
ment of the Seminoles form the most striking picture of hap-
piness in this life ; joy, contentment, love, and friendship,
without guile or affectation, seem inherent in them, or predom-
inant in their vital principle, for it leaves them with but the last
breath of life. . . . They are fond of games and gambling,
and amuse themselves like children, in relating extravagant
stories, to cause surprise and mirth." l

The same writer gives an engaging picture of his treatment
by these savages :

" Soon after entering the forests, we were met in the path by
a small company of Indians, smiling and beckoning to us long
before we joined them. This was a family of Talahasochte,
who had been out on a hunt and were returning home loaded
with barbecued meat, hides, and honey. Their company con
sisted of the man, his wife and children, well mounted on fine
horses, with a number of pack-horses. The man offered us a
fawn skin of honey, which I accepted, and at parting presented
him with some fish-hooks, sewing-needles, etc.

" On our return to camp in the evening, we were saluted by a
party of young Indian warriors, who had pitched their tents on
a green eminence near the lake, at a small distance from our
camp, under a little grove of oaks and palms. This company
consisted of seven young Seminoles, under the conduct of a
young prince or chief of Talahasochte, a town southward in the
isthmus. They were all dressed and painted with singular
elegance, and richly ornamented with silver plates, chains, etc.,
after the Seminole mode, with waving plumes of feathers on
their crests. On our coming up to them, they arose and shook
hands ; we alighted and sat awhile with them by their cheerful
fire.

" The young prince informed our chief that he was in pursuit
of a young fellow who had fled from the town, carrying off with
him one of his favorite young wives. He said, merrily, he
would have the ears of both of them before he returned. He'
was rather above the middle stature, and the most perfect
human figure I ever saw ; of an amiable, engaging countenance,
air, and deportment; free and familiar in conversation, yet
retaining a becoming gracefulness and dignity. We arose, took
leave of them, and crossed a little vale, covered with a charm-
ing green turf, already illuminated by the soft light of the full
moon.

1 Bartram'« Travels in North America.

140

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

" Soon after joining our companions at camp, our neighbors,
the prince and his associates, paid us a visit. We treated them
with the best fare we had, having till this time preserved our
spirituous liquors. They left us with perfect cordiality and
cheerfulness, wishing us a good repose, and retired to their own
camp. Having a band of music with them, consisting of a
drum, flutes, and a rattle-gourd, they entertained us during the
night with their music, vocal and instrumental.

There is a languishing softness and melancholy air in the
Indian convivial songs, especially of the amorous class, irresisti-
bly moving attention, and exquisitely pleasing, especially in their
solitary recesses, when all nature is silent."

Travellers who have been among them, in more recent times,
before they had embarked in their present desperate struggle,
represent them in much the same light ; as leading a pleasant,
indolent life, in a climate that required little shelter or clothing,
and where the spontaneous fruits of the earth furnished subsist-
ence without toil. A cleanly race, delighting in bathing, pass-
ing much of their time under the shade of their trees, with heaps
of oranges and other fine fruits for their refreshment ; talking,
laughing, dancing and sleeping. Every chief had a fan hanging
to his side, made of feathers of the wild turkey, the beautiful
pink-colored crane or the scarlet flamingo. With this he would
sit and fan himself with great stateliness, while the young people
danced before him. The women joined in the dances with the
men, excepting the war-dances. They wore strings of tortoise-
shells and pebbles round their legs, which rattled in cadence to
the music. They were treated with more attention among the
Seiniuoles than among most Indian tribes.

ORIGIN OF THE WHITE, THE RED, AND THE BLACK MEN.
A SEMINOLE TRADITION.

WHEN the Floridas were erected into a territory of the United
States, one of the earliest cares of the Governor, William P.
Duval, was directed to the instruction and civilization of the
natives. For this purpose he called a meeting of the chiefs, in
which he informed them of the wish of their Great Father at
Washington that they should have schools and teachers among
them, and that their children should be instructed like the chil-
dren of white men. The chiefs listened with their customary
silence and decorum to a long speech, setting forth the advan-
tages that would accrue to them from this measure, and when he
bad concluded, begged the interval of a day to deliberate on it.

THE SEMINOLES. 141

On the following day a solemn convocation was held, at which
one of the chiefs addressed the governor in the name of all the
rest. "My brother," said he, "we have been thinking over
the proposition of our Great Father at Washington, to send
teachers and set up schools among us. We are very thankful
for the interest he takes ic our welfare ; but after much deliber-
ation, have concluded to decline his offer. What will do very
well for white men, will not do for red men. I know you white
men say we all come from the same father and mother, but you
are mistaken. We have a tradition handed down from our fore-
fathers, and we believe it, that the Great Spirit when he under-
took to make men, made the black man ; it was his first at-
tempt, and pretty well for a beginning ; but he soon saw he had
bungled ; so he determined to try his hand again. He did so,
and made the red man. He liked him much better than the
black man. but still he was not exactly what he wanted. So he
tried once more, and made the white man ; and then he was
satisfied. You see, therefore, that you were made last, and that
is the reason I call you my youngest brother.

" When the Great Spirit had made the three men, he called
them together and showed -them three boxes. The first was
filled with books, and maps, and papers ; the second with bows
and arrows, knives and tomahawks ; the third with spades, axes,
hoes, and hammers. 'These, my sons,' said he, 'are the means
by which you are to live : choose among them according to your
fancy.'

"The white man, being the favorite, had the first choice.
He passed by the box of working-tools without notice ; but when
he came to the weapons for war and hunting, he stopped and
looked hard at them. The red man trembled, for he had set
his heart upon that box. The white man, however, after look-
ing upon it for a moment, passed on, and chose the box of books
and papers. The red man's turn came next ; and you may be
sure he seized with joy upon the bows and arrows and toma-
hawks. As to the black man, he had no choice left but to put
up with the box of tools.

" From this it is clear that the Great Spirit intended the white
man should learn to read and write ; to understand all about
the moon and stars ; and to make every thing, even rum and
whiskey. That the red man should be a first-rate hunter, and
a mighty warrior, but he was not to learn any thing from books,
as the Great Spirit had not given him any : nor was he to make
rum and whiskey, lest he should kill himself with drinking. As
to the black man, as he had nothing but working-tools, it was

142 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

clear he was to work for the white and red man, which he has
continued to do.

" We must go according to the wishes of the Great Spirit, or
we shall get into trouble. To know how to read and write is
very good for white men, but very bad for red men. It makefe
white men better, but red men worse. Some of the Creeks and
Cherokees learned to read and write, and they are the greatest
rascals among all the Indians. They went on to Washington,
and said they were going to see their Great Father, to talk
about the good of the nation. And when they got there, they
all wrote upon a little piece of paper, without the nation at home
knowing any thing about it. And the first thing the nation at
home knew of the matter, they were called together by the
Indian agent, who showed them a little piece of paper, which
he told them was a treaty, which their brethren had made in
their name, with their Great Father at Washington. And as
they knew not what a treaty was, he held up the little piece of
paper, and they looked under it, and lo ! it covered a great ex-
tent of country, and they found that their brethren, by knowing
how to read and write, had sold their houses and their lands and
the graves of thek fathers ; and that the white man, by knowing
how to read and write, had gained them. Tell our Great Father
at Washington, therefore, that we are very sorry we cannot
receive teachers among us ; for reading and writing, though very
good for white men, is very bad for Indians."

THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA.

AN AUTHENTIC SKETCH.

IN the autumn of 1823, Governor Duval, and other commis-
sioners on the part of the United States, concluded a treaty with
the chiefs and warriors of the Florida Indians, by which the
latter, for certain considerations, ceded all claims to the whole
territory, excepting a district in the eastern part, to which they
were to remove, and within which they were to reside for twenty
years. Several of the chiefs signed the treaty with great reluc-
tance ; but none opposed it more strongly than Neamathla, prin-
cipal chief of the Mickasookies, a fierce and warlike people,
many of them Creeks by origin, who lived about the Mickasookie
lake. Neamathla had always been active in those depredations

THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA. 143

on the frontiers of Georgia, which had brought vengeance and
ruin on the Seminoles. He was a remarkable man ; upward of
sixty years of age, about six feet high, with a fine eye, and a
strongly marked countenance, over which he possessed great
command. His hatred of the white men appeared to be mixed
with contempt : on the common people he looked down with
infinite scorn. He seemed unwilling to acknowledge any superi-
ority of rank or dignity in Governor Duval, claiming to associate
with him on terms of equality, as two great chieftains. Though
he had been prevailed upon to sign the treaty, his heart revolted
at it. In one of his frank conversations with Governor Duval,
he observed : " This country belongs to the red man ; and if I
had the number of warriors at my command that this nation
once had, I would not leave a white man on my lands. I would
exterminate the whole. I can say this to you, for you can
understand me ; you are a man ; but I would not say it to your
people. , They'd cry out I was a savage, and would take my
life. They cannot appreciate the feelings of a man that loves
his country."

As Florida had but recently been erected into a territory,
every thing as yet was in rude and simple style. The governor,
to make himself acquainted with the Indians, and to be near at
hand to keep an eye upon them, fixed his residence at Tallahas-
see, near the Fowel towns, inhabited by the Mickasookies. His
government palace for a time was a mere log house, and he
lived on hunters' fare. The village of Neamathla was but about
three miles off, and thither the governor occasionally rode, to
visit the old chieftain. In one of these visits he found Nea-
mathla seated in his wigwam, in the centre of the village, sur-
rounded by his warriors. The governor had brought him some
liquor as a present, but it mounted quickly into his brain, and
rendered him quite boastful and belligerent; The theme ever
uppermost in his mind, was the treaty with the whites. "It
was true," he said, " the red men had made such a treaty, but
the white men had not acted up to it. The red men had re-
ceived none of the money and the cattle that had been promised
them : the treaty, therefore, was at an end, and they did not
mean to be bound by it."

Governor Duval calmly represented to him that the time
appointed in the treaty for the payment and delivery of the
money a.nd the cattle had not yet arrived. This the old chief-
tain knew full well, but he chose, for the moment, to pretend
ignorance. He kept on drinking and talking, his voice grow-
ing louder and louder, until it resounded all over the village.

144 TEE CRAYON PAPERS.

He held in his hand a long knife, with which he had been rasp-
ing tobacco ; this he kept flourishing backward and forward, as
he talked, by way of giving effect to his words, brandishing it
at times within an inch of the governor's throat. He concluded
his tirade by repeating, that the country belonged to the red
men, and that sooner than give it up, his bones and the bones
of his people should bleach upon its soil.

Duval saw that the object of all this bluster was to see
whether he could be intimidated. He kept his eye, therefore,
fixed steadily on the chief, and the moment he concluded with
his menace, seized him by the bosom of his hunting-shirt, and
clinching his other fist :

"I've heard what you have said," replied he. "You have
made a treaty, yet you say your bones shall bleach before you
comply with it. As sure as there is a sun in heaven, your bones
shall bleach, if you do not fulfil every article of that treaty !
I'll let you know that I am first here, and will see that you do
your duty ! ' '

Upon this, the old chieftain threw himself back, burst into a
fit of laughing, and declared that all he had said was in joke.
The governor suspected, however, that there was a grave mean-
ing at the bottom of this jocularity.

For two months, every thing went on smoothly : the Indians
repaired daily to the log-cabin palace of the governor, at Talla-
hassee, and appeared perfectly contented. All at once they
ceased their visits, and for three or four days not one was to
be seen. Governor Duval began to apprehend that some mis-
chief was brewing. On the evening of the fourth day a chief
named Yellow-Hair, a resolute, intelligent fellow, who had
always evinced an attachment for the governor, entered his
cabin about twelve o'clock at night, and informed him that
between four and five hundred warriors, painted and decorated,
were assembled to hold a secret war- talk at Neamathla's town.
He had slipped off to give intelligence, at the risk of his life,
and hastened back lest his absence should be discovered.

Governor Duval passed an anxious night after this intelli-
gence. He knew the talent and the daring character of Nea-
mathla ; he recollected the threats he had thrown out ; he re-
flected that about eighty white families were scattered widely
apart, over a great extent of country, and might be swept away
at once, should the Indians, as he feared, determine to clear the
country. That he did not exaggerate the dangers of the case,
has been proved by the horrid scenes of Indian warfare that
have since desolated that devoted region. After a nioht of

THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA. 145

sleepless cogitation, Duval determined on a measure suited to
his prompt and resolute character. Knowing the admiration of
the savages for personal courage, he determined, by a sudden
surprise, to endeavor to overawe and check them. It was haz-
arding much ; but where so many lives were in jeopardy, he felt
bound to incur the hazard.

Accordingly, on the next morning, he set off on horseback,
attended merely by a white man, who had been reared among
the Seminoles, and understood their language and manners, and
who acted as interpreter. They struck into an Indian ;t trail,"
leading to Neamathla's village. After proceeding about half
a mile, Governor Duval informed the interpreter of the object
of his expedition. The latter, though a bold man, paused and
remonstrated. The Indians among whom they were going were
among the most desperate and discontented of the nation. Many
of them were veteran warriors, impoverished and exasperated
by defeat, and ready to set their lives at any hazard. He said
that if they were holding a war council, it must be with desperate
intent, and it would be certain death to intrude among them.

Duval made light of his apprehensions : he said he was per-
fectly well acquainted with the Indian character, and should
certainly proceed. So saying, he rode on. When within half a
mile of the village, the interpreter addressed him again, in such
a tremulous tone that Duval turned and looked him in the face.
He was deadly pale, and once more urged the governor to return,
as they would certainly be massacred if they proceeded.

Duval repeated his determination to go on, but advised the
other to return, lest his pale face should betray fear to the In-
dians, and they might take advantage of it. The interpreter
replied that he would rather die a thousand deaths than have it
said he had deserted his leader when in peril.

Duval then told him he must translate faithfully all he should
say to the Indians, without softening a word. The interpreter
promised faithfully to do so, adding that he well knew, when
they were once in the town, nothing but boldness could save them.

They now rode into the village, and advanced to the council-
house. This was rather a group of four houses, forming a
square, in the centre of which was a great council-fire. The
houses were open in front, toward the fire, and closed in the
rear. At each corner of the square there was an interval be-
tween the houses, for ingress and egress. In these houses sat
the old men and the chiefs ; the young men were gathered round
the fire. Neamathla presided at the council, elevated on a
higher seat than the rest.

146 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Governor Duval entered by one of the corner intervals, and
rode boldly into the centre of the square. The young men made
way for him ; an old man who was speaking, paused in the
midst of his harangue. In an instant thirty or forty rifles were
cocked and levelled. Never had Duval heard so loud a click of
triggers : it seemed to strike to his heart. He gave one glance
at the Indians, and turned off with an air of contempt. He did
not dare, he says, to look again, lest it might affect his nerves ;
and on the firmness of his nerves every thing depended.

The chief threw up his arm. The rifles were lowered. Duval
breathed more freely : he felt disposed to leap from his horse,
but restrained himself, and dismounted leisurely. He then
walked deliberately up to Neamathla, and demanded, in an
authoritative tone, what were his motives for holding that coun-
cil. The moment he made this demand, the orator sat down.
The chief made no reply, but hung his head in apparent confu-
sion. After a moment's pause, Duval proceeded :

" I am well aware of the meaning of this war-council ; and
deem it my duty to warn you against prosecuting the schemes
you have been devising. If a single hair of a white man in this
country falls to the ground, I will hang you and your chiefs on
the trees around your council-house ! You cannot pretend to
withstand the power of the white men. You are in the palm of
the hand of your Great Father at Washington, who can crush
you like an egg-shell. You may kill me : I am but one man ;
but recollect, white men are numerous as the leaves on the trees.
Remember the fate of your warriors whose bones are whitening
in battle-fields. Remember your wives and children who per-
ished in swamps. Do you want to provoke more hostilities?
Another war with the white men, and there will not be a Sern-
inole left to tell the story of his race."

Seeing the effect of his words, he concluded by appointing a
day for the Indians to meet him at St. Marks, and give an ac-
count of their conduct. He then rode off, without giving them
time to recover from their surprise. That night he rode forty
miles to Appalachicola River, to the tribe of the same name, who
were in feud with the Seminoles. They promptly put two hun-
dred and fifty warriors at his disposal, whom he ordered to be at
St. Marks at the appointed day. He sent out runners, also,
and mustered one hundred of the militia to fepair to the same
place, together with a number of regulars from the army. All
his arrangements were successful.

Having taken these measures, he returned to Tallahassee, to
the neighborhood of the conspirators, to show them that he was

THE CONSPIRACY OF NEAMATHLA. 147

not afraid. Here he ascertained, through Yellow-Hair, that
nine towns were disaffected, and had been concerned in the
conspiracy. He was careful to inform himself, from the same
source, of the names of the warriors in each of those towns who
were most popular, though poor, and destitute of rank and
command.

When the appointed day was at hand for the meeting at St=
Marks, Governor Duval set off with Neamathla, who was at the
head of eight or nine hundred warriors, but who feared to ven-
ture into the fort without him. As they entered the fort, and
saw troops and militia drawn up there, and a force of Appalachi-
cola soldiers stationed on the opposite bank of the river, they
thought they were betrayed, and were about to fly ; but Duval
assured them they were safe, and that when the talk was over,
they might go home unmolested.

A grand talk was now held, in which the late conspiracy was
discussed. , As he had foreseen, Neamathla and the other old
chiefs threw all the blame upon the young men. " Well," re-
plied Duval, " with us white men, when we find a man incom-
petent to govern those under him, we put him down, and appoint
another in his place. Now, as you all acknowledge you cannot
manage your young men, we must put chiefs over them who
can."

So saying, he deposed Neamathla first ; appointing another
in his place ; and so on with all the rest : taking care to sub-
stitute the warriors who had been pointed out to him as poor
and popular ; putting medals round their necks, and investing
them with great ceremony. The Indians were surprised and
delighted at finding the appointments fall upon the very men
they would themselves have chosen, and hailed them with ac-
clamations. The warriors thus unexpectedly elevated to com-
mand, and clothed with dignity, were secured to the interests
of the governor, and sure to keep an eye on the disaffected.
"As to the great chief Neamathla, he left the country in dis-
gust, and returned to the Creek nation, who elected him a chief
of one of their towns. Thus by the resolute spirit and prompt
sagacity of one man, a dangerous conspiracy was completely
defeated. Governor Duval was afterward enabled to remove
the whole nation, through his own personal influence, without
the aid of the general government.

148 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

To the Editor of the Knickerbocker.

SIR : The following letter was scribbled to a friend during
my sojourn in the Alhambra, in 1828. As it presents scenes
and impressions noted down at the time, I venture to offer it
for the consideration of your readers. Should it prove accept-
able, I may from time to time give other letters, written in the
course of my various ramblings, and which have been kindly
restored to me by my friends. Yours, G. C.

LETTER FROM GRANADA.

GRANADA, 1828.

MY DEAR — — : Religious festivals furnish, in all Catholic
countries, occasions of popular pageant and recreation ; but in
none more so than in Spain, where the great end of religion
seems to be to create holidays and ceremonials. For two days
past, Granada has been in a gay turmoil with the great annual
fete of Corpus Chris ti. This most eventful and romantic city,
as you well know, has ever been the rallying point of a moun-
tainous region, studded with small towns and villages. Hither,
during the time that Granada was the splendid capital of a
Moorish kingdom, the Moslem youth repaired from all points,
to participate in chivalrous festivities ; and hither the Spanish
populace at the present day throng from all parts of the sur-
rounding country to attend the festivals of the church.

As the populace like to enjoy things from the very com-
mencement, the stir of Corpus Christi began in Granada on
the preceding evening. Before dark the gates of the city were
thronged with the picturesque peasantry from the mountain
villages, and the brown laborers from the Vega, or vast fertile
plain. As the evening advanced, the Vivarambla thickened
and swarmed with a motley multitude. This is the great
square in the centre of the city, famous for tilts and tourneys
during the time of Moorish domination, and incessantly men-
tioned in all the old Moorish ballads of love and chivalry.
For several days the hammer had resounded throughout this
square. A gallery of wood had been erected all round it, form-
ing a covered way for the grand procession of Corpus Christi.
On this eve of the ceremonial this gallery was a fashionable
promenade. It was brilliantly illuminated, bands of music were
stationed in balconies on the four sides of the square, and all
the fashion and beauty of Granada, and all its population that

LETTER FROM GRANADA. 149

could boast a little finery of apparel, together with the majos
and majas, the beaux and belles of the villages, in their gay
Andalusian costumes, thronged this covered walk, anxious to
see and to be seen. As to the sturdy peasantry of the Vega,
and such of the mountaineers as did not pretend to display, but
were content with hearty enjoyment, they swarmed in the cen-
tre of the square ; some in groups listening to the guitar and
the traditional ballad ; some dancing their favorite bolero :
some seated on the ground making a merry though frugal
supper ; and some stretched out for their night's repose.

The gay crowd of the gallery dispersed gradually toward
midnight ; but the centre of the square resembled the bivouac
of an army ; for hundreds of the peasantry, men, women, and
children, passed the night there, sleeping soundly on the bare
^arth, under the open canopy of heaven. A summer's night re-
quires no shelter in this genial climate ; and with a great
part of the hardy peasantry of Spain, a bed is a superfluity
which many of them never enjoy, and which they affect to
despise. The common Spaniard spreads out his manta, or
mule-cloth, or wraps himself in his cloak, and lies on the
ground, with his saddle for a pillow.

The next morning I revisited the square at sunrise. It was
still strewed with groups of sleepers ; some were reposing from
the dance and revel of the evening ; others had left their vil-
lages after work, on the preceding day, and having trudged on
foot the greater part of the night, were taking a sound sleep to
freshen them for the festivities of the day. Numbers from the
mountains, and the remote villages of the plain, who had set
out in the night, continued to arrive, with their wives and
children. All were in high spirits ; greeting each other, and
exchanging jokes and pleasantries. The gay tumult thickened
as the day advanced. Now came pouring in at the city gates,
and parading through the streets, the deputations from the
various villages, destined to swell the grand procession. These
village deputations were headed by their priests, bearing their
respective crosses and banners, and images of the Blessed Vir-
gin and of patron saints ; all which were matters of great
rivalship and jealousy among the peasantry. It was like the
chivalrous gatherings of ancient days, when each town and
village sent its chiefs, and warriors, and standards, to defend
the capital, or grace its festivities.

At length, all these various detachments congregated into
one grand pageant, which slowly paraded round the Viva-
rambla, and through the principal streets, where every window

150 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

and balcony was hung with • tapestry. In this procession were
all the religious orders, the civil and military authorities, and
the chief people of the parishes and villages ; every church and
convent had contributed its banners, its images, its relics,
and poured forth its wealth, for the occasion. In the centre
of the procession walked the archbishop, under a damask can-
opy, and surrounded by inferior dignitaries and their depend-
ants. The whole moved to the swell and cadence of numerous
bands of music, and, passing through the midst of a countless
yet silent multitude, proceeded onward to the cathedral.

I could not but be struck with the changes of times and cus-
toms, as I saw this monkish pageant passing through the
Vivarambla, the ancient seat of modern pomp and chivalry.
The contrast was indeed forced upon the mind by the decora-
tions of the square. The whole front of the wooden gallery
erected for the procession, extending several hundred feet, was
faced with canvas, on which some humble though patriotic
artist had painted, by contract, a series of the principal scenes
and exploits of the conquest, as recorded in chronicle and
romance. It is thus the romantic legends of Granada mingle
themselves with every thing, and are kept fresh in the public
mind. Another great festival at Granada, answering in its
popular character to our Fourth of July, is El Dia de la Toma ;
" The Day of the Capture ; " that is to say, the anniversary of
the capture of the city by Ferdinand and Isabella. On this clay
all Granada is abandoned to revelry. The alarm bell on the
Terre de la Campana, or watch-tower of the Alhambra, keeps
up a clangor from morn till night ; and happy is the damsel
that can ring that bell ; it is a charm to secure a husband in
the course of the year.

The sound, which can be heard over the whole Vega, and to
the top of the mountains, summons the peasantry to the festivi-
ties. Throughout the day the Alhambra is thrown open to the
public. The halls and courts of the Moorish monarchs re-
sound with the guitar and castanet, and gay groups, in the
fanciful dresses of Andalusia, perform those popular dances
which they have inherited from the Moors.

In the mean time a grand procession moves through the city.
The banner of Ferdinand and Isabella, that precious relic of
the conquest, is brought forth from its depository, and borne by
the Alferez Mayor, or grand standard-bearer, through the prin-
cipal streets. The portable camp-altar, which was carried
about with them in all their campaigns, is transported into the
chapel royal, and placed before their sepulchre, where their

LETTER FROM GRANADA. 151

effigies lie in monumental marble. The procession fills the
chapel. High mass is performed in memory of the conquest ;
and at a certain part of the ceremony the Alferez Mayor puts
on his hat, and waves the standard above the tomb of the con-
querors.

A more whimsical memorial of the conquest is exhibited on
the same evening at the theatre, where a popular drama is
performed, entitled Ave Maria. This turns on the oft-sung
achievement of Hernando del Pulgar, surnamed El de las
Hazanas, " He of the Exploits," the favorite hero of the popu-
lace of Granada.

During the time that Ferdinand and Isabella besieged the
city, the young Moorish and Spanish knights vied with each
other in extravagant bravados. On one occasion Hernando del
Pulgar, at the head of a handful of youthful followers, made a
dash into Granada at the dead of night, nailed the inscription
of Ave Maria, with his dagger, to the gate of the principal
mosque, as a token of having consecrated it to the virgin, and
effected his retreat in safety.

While the Moorish cavaliers admired this daring exploit, they
felt bound to revenge it. On the following day, therefore, Tarfe,
one of the stoutest of the infidel warriors, paraded in front of
the Christian army, dragging the sacred inscription of Ave
Maria at his horse's tail. The cause of the Virgin was eagerly
vindicated by Garcilaso de la Vega, who slew the Moor in single
combat, and elevated the inscription of Ave Maria, in devotion
and triumph, at the end of his lance.

The drama founded on this exploit is prodigiously popular
with the common people. Although it has been acted time out
of mind, and the people have seen it repeatedly, it never fails
[to draw crowds, and so completely to engross the feelings of
the audience, as to have almost the effect on them of reality.
When their favorite Pulgar strides about with many a mouthy
speech, in the very midst of the Moorish capital, he is cheered
with enthusiastic bravos ; and when he nails the tablet of Ave
Maria to the door of the mosque, the theatre absolutely shakes
with shouts and thunders of applause. On the other hand, the
actors who play the part of the Moors, have to bear the brunt
of the temporary indignation of their auditors ; and when the
infidel Tarfe plucks down the tablet to tie- it to his horse's tail,
many of the people absolutely rise in fury, and are ready to
jump upon the stage to revenge this insult to the Virgin.

Beside this annual festival at the capital, almost every village
of the Vega and the mountains has its own anniversary, wherein

152 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

its own deliverance from the Moorish yoke is celebrated with
uncouth ceremony and rustic pomp.

On these occasions a kind of resurrection takes place of
ancient Spanish dresses and armor ; great two-handed swords,
ponderous arquebuses, with match-locks, and other weapons and
accoutrements, once the equipments of the village chivalry, and
treasured up from generation to generation, since the time of
the conquest. In these hereditary and historical garbs some of
the most sturdy of the villagers array themselves as champions
of the faith, while its ancient opponents are represented by
another band of villagers, dressed up as Moorish warriors. A
tent is pitched in the public square of the village, within which
is an altar, and an image of the Virgin. The Spanish warriors
approach to perform their devotions at this shrine, but are op-
posed by the infidel Moslems, who surround the tent. A mock
fight succeeds, in the course of which the combatants sometimes
forget that they are merely playing a part, and exchange dry
blows of grievous weight ; the fictitious Moors especially are'
apt to bear away pretty evident marks of the pious zeal of their
antagonists. The contest, however, invariably terminates in
favor of the good cause. The Moors are defeated and taken
prisoners. The image of the Virgin, rescued from thraldom, is
elevated in triumph ; and a grand procession succeeds, in which
the Spanish conquerors figure with great vainglory and ap-
plause, and their captives are led in chains, to the infinite delight
and edification of the populace. These annual festivals are the
delight of the villagers, who expend considerable sums in their
celebration. In some villages they are occasionally obliged to
suspend them for want of funds ; but when times grow better,
or they have been enabled to save money for the purpose, they
are revived with all their grotesque pomp and extravagance.

To recur to the exploit of Hernando del Pulgar. However
extravagant and fabulous it may seem, it is authenticated by
certain traditional usages, and shows the vain-glorious daring
that prevailed between the youthful warriors of both nations, in
that romantic war. The mosque thus consecrated to the Virgin
was made the cathedral of the city after the conquest ; and there
is a painting of the Virgin beside the royal chapel, which was
put there by Hernando del Pulgar. The lineal representative of
the hare-brained cavalier has the right to this day to enter the
church, on certain occasions, on horseback, to sit within the
choir, and to put on his hat at the elevation of the host, though
these privileges have often been obstinately contested by the
clergy.

ABDEEAHMAN. 153

The present lineal representative of Hernando del Pulgar is
the Marquis de Salar, whom I have met occasionally in society.
He is a young man of agreeable appearance and manners, and
his bright black eyes would give indication of his inheriting the
fire of his ancestor. When the paintings were put up in the
Vivarambla, illustrating the scenes of the conquest, an old gray-
headed family servant of the Pulgars was so delighted with
those which related to the family hero, that he absolutely shed
tears, and hurrying home to the Marquis, urged him to hasten
and behold the family trophies. The sudden zeal of the old
man provoked the mirth of his young master ; upon which turn-
ing to the brother of the Marquis, with that freedom allowed to
family servants in Spain, "Come, Senor,*' cried Ije, " you are
more grave and considerate than your brother ; come and see
your ancestor in all his glory ! "

Within two or three years after the above letter was written,
the Marquis de Salar was married to the beautiful daughter of

the Count , mentioned by the author in his anecdotes of the

Alhambra. The match was very agreeable to all parties, and
the nuptials were celebrated with great festivity.

ABDERAHMAN :

FOUNDER OF THE DYNASTY OF THE OMMIADES IN SPAIN.

To the Editor of the Knickerbocker.

SIR : In the following memoir I have conformed to the facts
furnished by the Arabian chroniclers, as cited by the learned
Conde. The story of Abderahman has almost the charm of
romance ; but it derives a higher interest from the heroic yet
gentle virtues which it illustrates, and from recording the for-
tunes of the founder of that splendid dynasty, which shed such
a lustre upon Spain during the domination of the Arabs. Ab-
derahman may, in some respects, be compared to our own
Washington. He achieved the independence of Moslem Spain,
freeing it from subjection to the caliphs ; he united its jarring
parts under one government ; he ruled over it with justice,
clemency, and moderation ; his whole course of conduct was

154 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

distinguished by wonderful forbearance and magnanimity ; and
when Tie died he left a legacy of good example and good coun-
sel to his successors. G. C.

"BLESSED be God!" exclaims an Arabian historian; " in
His hands alone is the destiny of princes. He overthrows the
mighty, and humbles the haughty to the dust ; and he raises up
the persecuted and afflicted from the very depths of despair ! ' '

The illustrious house of Omeya had swayed the sceptre at
Damascus for nearly a century, when a rebellion broke out,
headed by Aboul Abbas Safah, who aspired to the throne of
the caliphs, as being descended from Abbas, the uncle of the
prophet. The rebellion was successful. Marvau, the last
caliph of the house of Omeya, was defeated and slain. A gen-
eral proscription of the Ommiades took place. Many of them
fell in battle; many were treacherously slain, in places where
they had taken refuge ; above seventy most noble and distin-
guished were murdered at a banquet to which they had been
invited, and their dead bodies covered with cloths, and made to
serve as tables for the horrible festivity. Others were driven j
forth, forlorn and desolate wanderers in various parts of the
earth, and pursued with relentless hatred ; for it was the de- ]
termination of the usurper that not one of the persecuted fam-
ily should escape. Aboul Abbas took possession of three
stately palaces, and delicious gardens, and founded the power-
ful dynasty of the Abbassides, which, for several centuries,
maintained dominion in the east.

" Blessed be God !" again exclaims the Arabian historian;
' ' it was written in His eternal decrees that, notwithstanding the
fury of the Abbassides, the noble stock of Omeya should not be
destroyed. One fruitful branch remained to flourish with glory
and greatness in another land."

When the sanguinary proscription of the Ommiades took
place, two young princes of that line, brothers, by the names
of Solyman and Abderahman, were spared for a time. Their
personal graces, noble demeanor, and winning affability, had
made them many friends, while their extreme youth rendered
them objects of but little dread to the usurper. Their safety,
however, was but transient. In a little while the suspicions of
Aboul Abbas were aroused. The unfortunate Solyman fell
beneath the scimitar of the executioner. His brother Abderah-
man was warned of his danger in time. Several of his friends
hastened to him, bringing him jewels, a disguise, and a fleet

ABDERAHMAN. 155

horse, " The emissaries of the caliph," said they, " are in search
of thee ; thy brother lies weltering- in his blood ; fly to the des-
ert ! There is no safety for thee in the habitations of man ! ' '

Abderahman took the jewels, clad himself in the disguise,
and mounting the steed, fled for his life. As he passed, a lone-
ly fugitive, by the palaces of his ancestors, in which his family
had long held sway, their very walls seemed disposed to betray
him, as they echoed the swift clattering of his steed.

Abandoning his native country, Syria, where he was liable
at each moment to be recognized and taken, he took refuge
among the Bedouin Arabs, a half -savage race of shepherds.
His'youth, his inborn majesty and grace, and the sweetness and
affability that shone forth in his azure eyes, won the hearts of
these wandering men. He was but twenty years of age, and
had been reared in the soft luxury of a palace ; but he was tall
and vigorous, and in a little while hardened himself so com-
pletely to the rustic life of the fields that it seemed as though
he had pussed all his days in the rude simplicity of a shepherd's
cabin.

His enemies, however, were upon his traces, and gave him
but little rest. By day he scoured the plains with the Bedouins,
hearing in every blast the sound of pursuit, and fancying in
every distant cloud of dust a troop of the caliph's horsemen.
His night was passed in broken sleep and frequent watchings,
and at the earliest dawn he was the first to put the bridle to his
steed.

Wearied by these perpetual alarms, he bade farewell to his
friendly Bedouins, and leaving Egypt behind, sought a safer
refuge in Western Africa. The province of Barea was at that
time governed by Aben Habib, who had risen to rank and for-
tune under the fostering favor of the Ommiades. " Surely,"
thought the unhappy prince, " I shall receive kindness and pro-
tection from this man ; he will rejoice to show his gratitude for
the benefits showered upon him by my kindred."

Abderahman was young, and as yet knew little of mankind.
None are so hostile to the victim of power as those whom he
has befriended. They fear being suspected of gratitude by his
persecutors, and involved in his misfortunes.

The unfortunate Abderahman had halted for a few days to
repose himself among a horde of Bedouins, who had received
him with their characteristic hospitality. They would gather
round him in the evenings, to listen to his conversation, regard-
ing with wonder this gently-spoken stranger from the more re-
fined country of Egypt. The old men marvelled to find so much

156 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

knowledge and wisdom in such early youth, and the young men,
won by his frank and manly carriage, entreated him to remain
among them.

One night, when all were buried in sleep, they were roused
by the tramp of horsemen. The Wall Aben Habib, who, like
all the governors of distant posts, had received orders from the
caliph to be on the watch for the fugitive prince, had heard
that a young man, answering the description, had entered the
province alone, from the frontiers of Egypt, on a steed worn
down by travel. He had immediately sent forth horsemen in
his pursuit, with orders to bring him to him dead or alive. The
emissaries of the Wali had traced him to his resting-place, and
demanded of the Arabs whether a young man, a stranger from
Syria, did not sojourn among their tribe. The Bedouins knew
by the description that the stranger must be their guest, and
feared some evil was intended him. "Such a youth," said
they, " has indeed sojourned among us ; but he has gone, with
some of our young men, to a distant valley, to hunt the lion."
The emissaries inquired the way to the place, and hastened on
to surprise their expected prey.

The Bedouins repaired to Abderahman, who was still sleep-
ing. u If thou hast aught to fear from man in power," said
they, " arise and fly ; for the horsemen of the Wali are in quest
of thee ! We have sent them off for a time on a wrong errand,
but they will soon return."

" Alas ! whither shall I fly ! " cried the unhappy prince ; " my
enemies hunt me like the ostrich of the desert. They follow
me like the wind, and allow me neither safety nor repose ! "

Six of the bravest youths of the tribe stepped forward. " We
have steeds," said they, " that can outstrip the wind, and hands
that can hurl the javelin. We will accompany thee in thy flight,
and will fight by thy side while life lasts, and we have weapons
to wield."

Abderahman embraced them with tears of gratitude. They
mounted their steeds, and made for the most lonely parts of
the desert. By the faint light of the stars, they passed through
dreary wastes, and over hills of sand. The lion roared, and
the hyena howled unheeded, for they fled from man, more cruel
and relentless, when in pursuit of blood, than the savage beasts
of the desert.

At sunrise they paused to refresh themselves beside a scanty
well, surrounded by a few palm-trees. One of the young Arabs
climbed a tree, and looked in every direction, but not a horse-
in an was to be seen.

ABDERAHMAN. 157

" We have outstripped pursuit," said the Bedouins ; " whither
shall we conduct thee ? Where is thy home and the land of thy
people ? ' '

"Home have I none!" replied Abderahman, mournfully,
" nor family, nor kindred ! My native land is to me a land of
destruction, and my people seek my life ! "

The hearts of the youthful Bedouins were touched with com-
passion at these words, and they marvelled that one so young and
gentle should have suffered such great sorrow and persecution.

Abderahman sat by the well, and mused for a time. At
length, breaking silence, "In the midst of Mauritania," said
he,' " dwells the tribe of Zeneta. My mother was of that tribe ;
and perhaps when her son presents himself, a persecuted wan-
derer, at their door, they will not turn him from the threshold."

" The Zenetes," replied the Bedouins, " are among the bravest
and most hospitable of the people of Africa. Never did the
unfortunate seek refuge among them in vain, nor was the
stranger repulsed from their door." So they mounted their
steeds with renewed spirits, and journeyed with all speed to
Tahart, the capital of the Zenetes.

When Abderahmau entered the place, followed by his six
rustic Arabs, all wayworn and travel-stained, his noble and
majestic demeanor shone through the simple garb of a Bedouin.
A crowd gathered around him, as he alighted from his weary
steed. Confiding in the well-known character of the tribe, he
no longer attempted concealment.

"You behold before you," said he, " one of the proscribed
house of Omeya. I am that Abderahman upon whose head a
price has been set, and who has been driven from land to land.
I come to you as my kindred. My mother was of your tribe,
and she told me with her dying breath that in all time of need
I would find a home and friends among the Zenetes."

The words of Abderahman went straight to the hearts of his
hearers. They pitied his youth and his great misfortunes, while
they were charmed by his frankness, and by the manly graces
of his person. The tribe was of a bold and generous spirit,
and not to be awed by the frown of power. ' ' Evil be upon us
and upon our children," said they, "if we deceive the trust
thou hast placed in us ! "

Then one of the noblest Xeques took Abderahman to his
house, and treated him as his own child ; and the principal peo-
ple of the tribe strove who most should cherish him. and do him
honor ; endeavoring to obliterate by their kindness the recollec-
tion of his past misfortunes.

158 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Abderahman bad resided some time among the hospitable
Zenetes, when one day two strangers, of venerable appearance,
attended by a small retinue, arrived at Tahart. They gave
themselves out as merchants, and from the simple style in which
they travelled, excited no attention. In a little while they
sought out Abderahman, and, taking him apart: "Hearken,"
said they, "Abderahman, of the royal line of Omeya ; we are
ambassadors sent on the part of the principal Moslems of Spain,
to offer thee, not merely an asylum, for that thou hast already
among these brave Zenetes, but an empire ! Spain is a prey to
distracting factions, and can no longer exist as a dependence
upon a throne too remote to watch over its welfare. It needs
to be independent of Asia and Africa, and to be under the gov-
ernment of a good prince, who shall reside within it, and devote
himself entirely to its prosperity ; a prince with sufficient title to
silence all rival claims, and bring the warring parties into unity
and peace ; and at the same time with sufficient ability and vir-
tue to insure the welfare of his dominions. For this purpose
the eyes of all the honorable leaders in Spain have been turned
to thee, as a descendant of the royal line of Omeya, and an off-
set from the same stock as our holy prophet. They have heard
of thy virtues, and of thy admirable constancy under misfor-
tunes ; and invite thee to accept the sovereignty of one of the
noblest countries in the world. Thou wilt have some difficulties
to encounter from hostile men ; but thou wilt have on thy side
the bravest captains that have signalized themselves in the con-
quest of the unbelievers."

The ambassadors ceased, and Abderahman remained for a
time lost in wonder and admiration. "God is great!" ex-
claimed he, at length ; " there is but one God, who is God, and
Mahomet is his prophet ! Illustrious ambassadors, you have put
new life into my soul, for you have shown me something to live
for. In the few years that I have lived, troubles and sorrows
have been heaped upon my head, and I have become inured to
hardships and alarms. Since it is the wish of the valiant Mos-
lems of Spain, I am willing to become their leader and defender,
and devote myself to their cause, be it happy or disastrous."

The ambassadors now cautioned him to be silent as to their
errand, and to depart secretly for Spain. "The sea-board of
Africa," said they, "swarms with your enemies, and a power-
ful faction in Spain would intercept you on landing, did they
know your name and rank, and the object of your coming."

But Abderahman replied : "I have been cherished in adversity
by these brave Zenetes ; I have been protected and honored

ABDERAHMAN. 159

by them, when a price was set upon my head, and to harbor me
was great peril. How can I keep my good fortune from my
benefactors, and desert their hospitable roofs in silence? He
is unworthy of friendship, who withholds confidence from his
friend."

Charmed with the generosity of his feelings, the ambassadors
<nade no opposition to his wishes. The Zenetes proved them-
selves worthy of his confidence. They hailed with joy the
great change in his fortunes. The warriors and the young
men pressed forward to follow, and aid them with horse and
weapon; "for the honor of a noble house and family," said
they, " can be maintained only by lances and horsemen." In
a few days he set forth, with the ambassadors, at the head of
nearly a thousand horsemen, skilled in war, and exercised in
the desert, and a large body of infantry, armed with lances.
The venerable Xeque, with whom he had resided, blessed him,
and shed tears over him at parting, as though he had been his
own child ; and when the youth passed over the threshold, the
house was filled with lamentations.

Abderahman reached Spain in safety, and landed at Almane-
car, with his little band of warlike Zenetes. Spain was at that
time in a state of great confusion. Upward of forty years
had elapsed since the conquest. The civil wars in Syria and
Egypt had prevented the main government at Damascus from
exercising control over this distant and recently acquired ter-
ritory. Every Moslem commander considered the town or
province committed to his charge, an absolute property ; and
accordingly exercised the most arbitrary extortions. These
excesses at length became insupportable, and, at a convocation
of many of the principal leaders, it was determined, as a means
to end these dissensions, to unite all the Moslem provinces of
Spain under one Emir, or General Governor. Yusuf el Fehri,
an ancient man, of honorable lineage, was chosen for this
station. He began his reign with policy, and endeavored to
conciliate all parties ; but the distribution of offices soon
created powerful enemies among the disappointed leaders. A
civil war was the consequence, and Spain was deluged with
blood. The troops of both parties burned and ravaged and
laid every thing waste, to distress their antagonists ; the vil-
lages were abandoned by their inhabitants, who fled to the
cities for refuge ; and flourishing towns disappeared from the
face of the earth, or remained mere heaps of rubbish and
ashes. At the time of the landing of Abderahmau in Spain, the
old Emir Yusuf had obtained a signal victory. He had cap-

160 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

tured Saragossa, in which was Amer ben Amru, his principal
enemy, together with his son and secretary. Loading his pris-
oners with chains, and putting them on camels, he set out in
triumph for Cordova, considering himself secure in the abso-
lute domination of Spain.

He had halted one day in a valley called Wadarambla, and
was reposing with his family in his pavilion, while his people
and the prisoners made a repast in the open air. In the midst
of his repose, his confidential adherent and general, the Wali
Samael, galloped into the camp covered with dust, and ex-
hausted with fatigue. He brought tidings of the arrival of
Abderahman, and that the whole sea- board was flocking to his
standard. Messenger after messenger came hurrying into the
camp, confirming the fearful tidings, and adding that this
descendant of the Omeyas had secretly been invited to Spain
by Amru and his followers. Yusuf waited not to ascertain the
truth of this accusation. Giving way to a transport of fury,
he ordered that Amru, his son and secretary, should be cut to
pieces. His commands were instantly executed. "And this
cruelty, ' ' says the Arabian chronicler, ' ' lost him the favor of
Allah; for from that time, success deserted his standard."

Abderahman had indeed been hailed with joy on his landing
in Spain. The old people hoped to find tranquillity under the
sway of one supreme chieftain, descended from their ancient
caliphs ; the young men were rejoiced to have a youthful warrior
to lead them on to victories ; and the populace, charmed with
his freshness and manly beauty, his majestic yet gracious and
affable demeanor, shouted: "Long live Abderahman ben
Moavia Meramamolin of Spain ! "

In a few days the youthful sovereign saw himself at the head
of more than twenty thousand men, from the neighborhood of
Elvira, Almeria, Malaga, Xeres, and Sidonia. Fair Seville
threw open its gates at his approach, and celebrated his arrival
with public rejoicings. He continued his march into the coun-
try, vanquished one of the sons of Yusuf before the gates of
Cordova, and obliged him to take refuge within its walls, where
he held him in close siege. Hearing, however, of the approach
of Yusuf, the father, with a powerful army, he divided his
forces, and leaving ten thousand men to press the siege, he
hastened with the other ten to meet the coming foe.

Yusuf had indeed mustered a formidable force, from the east
and south of Spain, and accompanied by his veteran general,
Samael, came with confident boasting to drive this intruder
from the land. His confidence increased on beholding the small

ABDEBAHMAN. 161

army of Abdefahman. Turning to Samael, he repeated, with
a scornful sneer, a verse from an Arabian poetess, which says :

"How hard is our lot! We come, a thirsty multitude, and
lo ! but this cup of water to share among us ! "

There was indeed a fearful odds. On the one side were two
veteran generals, grown gray in victory, with a mighty host of
warriors, seasoned in the wars of Spain. On the other side was
a mere youth, scarce attained to manhood, with a hasty levy of
half-disciplined troops ; but the youth was a prince, flushed with
hope, and aspiring after fame and empire ; and surrounded by a
devoted band of warriors from Africa, whose example infused
desperate zeal into the little army.

The encounter took place at daybreak. The impetuous valor
of the Zenetes carried every thing before it. The cavalry of
Yusuf was broken, and driven back upon the infantry, and be-
fore noon the whole host was put to headlong flight. Yusuf and
Samael were borne along in the torrent of the fugitives, raging
and storming, and making ineffectual efforts to rally them.
They were separated widely in the confusion of the flight, one
taking refuge in the Algarves, the other in the kingdom of
Murcia. They afterward rallied, reunited their forces, and made
another desperate stand near to Almunecar. The battle was ob-
stinate and bloody, but they were again defeated, and driven,
with a handful of followers, to take refuge in the rugged moun-
tains adjacent to Elvira.

The spirit of the veteran Samael gave way before these fear-
ful reverses. " In vain, O Yusuf ! " said he, "do we contend
with the prosperous star of this youthful conqueror : the will of
Allah be done ! Let us submit to our fate, and sue for favor-
able terms, while we have yet the means of capitulation."

It was a hard trial for the proud spirit of Yusuf, that had
once aspired to uncontrolled sway ; but he was compelled to
capitulate. Abderahman was as generous as brave. He granted
the two gray-headed generals the most honorable conditions,
and even took the veteran Samael into favor, employing him, as
a mark of confidence, to visit the eastern provinces of Spain,
and restore them to tranquillity. Yusuf, having delivered up
Elvira and Granada, and complied with other articles of his
capitulation, was permitted to retire to Murcia, and rejoin his
son Muhamad. A general amnesty to all chiefs and soldiers
who should yield up their strongholds, and lay down their arms,
completed the triumph of Abderahman, and brought all hearts
into obedience.

Thus terminated this severe struggle for the domination of

162 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Spain ; and thus the illustrious family of Omeya, after having
been cast down and almost exterminated in the East, took new
root, arid sprang forth prosperously in the West.

Wherever Abderahman appeared, he was received with rap-
turous acclamations. As he rode through the cities, the popu-
lace rent the air with shouts of joy ; the stately palaces were
crowded with spectators, eager to gain a sight of his graceful
form and beaming countenance ; and when they beheld the
mingled majesty and benignity of their new monarch, and the
sweetness and gentleness of his whole conduct, they extolled
him as something more than mortal ; as a beneficent genius, sent
for the happiness of Spain.

In the interval of peace which now succeeded, Abderahman
occupied himself in promoting the useful and elegant arts, and
in introducing into Spain the refinements of the East. Con-
sidering the building and ornamenting of cities as among the
noblest employments of the tranquil hours of princes, he be-
stowed great pains upon beautifying the city of Cordova and
its environs. He reconstructed banks and dykes, to keep the
Guadalquiver from overflowing its borders, and on the vast ter-
races thus formed, he planted delightful gardens. In the midst
of these, he erected a lofty tower, commanding a view of the
vast and fruitful valley, enlivened by the windings of the river.
In this tower would he pass hours of meditation, gazing on the
soft and varied landscape, and inhaling the bland and balmy
airs of that delightful region. At such times, his thoughts
would recur to the past, and the misfortunes of his youth ; the
massacre of his family would rise to view, mingled with tender
recollections of his native country, from which he was exiled.
In these melancholy musings he would sit with his eyes fixed
upon a palm-tree which he had planted in the midst of his gar-
den. It is said to have been the first ever planted in Spain, and
to have been the parent-stock of all the palm-trees which grace
the southern provinces of the peninsula. The heart of Abder-
ahman yearned toward this tree ; it was the offspring of his
native country, and like him, an exile. In one of his moods of
tenderness, he composed verses upon it, which have since be-
come famous throughout the world. The following is a rude
but literal translation :

4 ' Beauteous Palm ! thou also wert hither brought a stranger :
but thy roots have found a kindly soil, thy head is lifted to the
skies, and the sweet airs of Algarve fondle and kiss thy branches.

"Thou hast known, like me, the storms of adverse fortune.
Bitter tears wouldst thou shed, couldst thou feel my woes.

ABDEEAHMAN. 163

Eepeated griefs have overwhelmed me. With early tears I be-
dewed the palms on the banks of the Euphrates ; but neither
tree nor river heeded my sorrows, when driven by cruel fate,
and the ferocious Aboul Abbas, from the scenes of my child-
hood and the sweet objects of my affection.

"To thee no remembrance remains of my beloved country;
I, unhappy ! can never recall it without tears."

The generosity of Abderahman to his vanquished foes was
destined to be abused. The veteran Yusuf, in visiting certain
of the cities which he had surrendered, found himself surrounded
by zealous partisans, ready to peril life in his service. The love
of command revived in his bosom, and he repented the facility
with which he had suffered himself to be persuaded to submis-
sion. Flushed with new hopes of success, he caused arms to
be secretly collected, and deposited in various villages, most
zealous in their professions of devotion, and raising a considera-
ble body of troops, seized upon the castle of Almodovar. The
rash rebellion was short-lived. At the first appearance of an
army sent by Abderahman, and commanded by Abdelmelee,
governor of Seville, the villages which had so recently professed
loyalty to Yusuf, hastened to declare their attachment to the
monarch, and to give up the concealed arms. Almodovar was
soon retaken, and Yusuf, driven to the environs of Lorea, was
surrounded by the cavalry of Abdelmelee. The veteran endeav-
ored to cut a passage through the enemy, but after fighting with
desperate fury, and with a force of arm incredible in one of his
age, he fell beneath blows from weapons of all kinds, so that
after the battle his body could scarcely be recognized, so numer-
ous were the wounds. His head was cut off and sent to Cor-
dova, where it was placed in an iron cage, over the gate of the
city.

The old lion was dead, but his whelps survived. Yusuf had
left three sons, who inherited his warlike spirit, and were eager
to revenge his death. Collecting a number of the scattered
adherents of their house, they surprised and seized upon Toledo,
during the absence of Temam, its Wali or commander. In this
old warrior city, built upon a rock, and almost surrounded by
the Tagus, they set up a kind of robber hold, scouring the sur-
rounding country, levying tribute, seizing upon horses, and
compelling the peasantry to join their standard. Every day
cavalcades of horses and mules, laden with spoil, with flocks of
sheep and droves of cattle, came pouring over the bridges on
either side of the city, and thronging in at the gates, the plunder
of the surrounding country. Those of the inhabitants who were

164 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

still loyal to Abderahman dared not lift up their voices, for men
of the sword bore sway. At length one day, when the sons of
Yusuf, with their choicest troops, were out on a maraud, the
watchmen on the towers gave the alarm. A troop of scattered
horsemen were spurring wildly toward the gates. The banners
of the sons of Yusuf were descried. Two of them spurred into
the city, followed by a handful of warriors, covered with con-
fusion and dismay. They had been encountered and defeated
by the Wali Temam, and one of the brothers had been slain.

The gates were secured in all haste, and the walls were
scarcely manned, when Temam appeared before them with his
troops, and summoned the city to surrender. A great internal
commotion ensued between the loyalists and the insurgents ;
the latter, however, had weapons in their hands, and prevailed ;
and for several days, trusting to the strength of their rock-built
fortress, they set the Wali at defiance. At length some of the
loyal inhabitants of Toledo, who knew all its secret and subter-
raneous passages, some of which, if chroniclers may be believed,
have existed since the days of Hercules, if not of Tubal Cain,
introduced Temam and a chosen band of his warriors into the
very centre of the city, where they suddenly appeared as if by
magic. A panic seized upon the insurgents. Some sought
safety in submission, some in concealment, some in flight.
Casim, one of the sons of Yusuf, escaped in disguise ; the
youngest, unharmed, was taken, and was sent captive to the
king, accompanied by the head of his brother, who had been
slain in battle.

When Abderahman beheld the youth laden with chains, he
remembered his own sufferings in his early days, and had com-
passion on him ; but, to prevent him from doing further mis-
chief, he imprisoned him in a tower of the wall of Cordova.

In the mean time Casim, who had escaped, managed to raise
another band of warriors. Spain, in all ages a guerilla country,
prone to partisan warfare and petty maraud, was at that time
infested by bands of licentious troops, who had sprung up in
the civil contests ; their only object pillage, their only depend-
ence the sword, and ready to flock to any new and desperate
standard, that promised the greatest license. With a ruffian
force thus levied, Casim scoured the country, took Sidonia by
storm, and surprised Seville while in a state of unsuspecting
security.

Abderahman put himself at the head of his faithful Zenetes
and took the field in person. By the rapidity of his movements,
the rebels were defeated, Sidonia and Seville speedily retaken,

ABDERAHMAN. 165

and Casim was made prisoner. The generosity of Abderahman
was again exhibited toward this unfortunate son of Yusuf. He
spared his life, and sent him to be confined in a tower at Toledo.
The veteran Samael had taken no part in these insurrections,
but had attended faithfully to the affairs intrusted to him by
Abderahman. The death of his old friend and colleague, Yusuf,
however, and the subsequent disasters of his family, filled him
with despondency. Fearing the inconstancy of fortune, and the
dangers incident to public employ, he entreated the king to be
permitted to retire to his house in Seguenza, and indulge a
privacy and repose suited to his advanced age. His prayer was
granted. The veteran laid by his arms, battered in a thousand
conflicts ; hung his sword and lance against the wall, and, sur-
rounded by a few friends, gave himself up apparently to the
sweets of quiet and unambitious leisure.

Who can count, however, upon the tranquil content of a heart
nurtured amid the storms of war and ambition ! Under the
I ashes of this outward humility were glowing the coals of faction.
In his seemingly philosophical retirement, Samael was concert-
ing with his friends new treason against Abderahman. His
plot was discovered ; his house was suddenly surrounded by
troops ; -and he was conveyed to a tower at Toledo, where, in
• the course of a few months, he died in captivity.

The magnanimity of Abderahman was again put to the proof,

by a new insurrection at Toledo. Hixem ben Adra, a relation

of Yusuf, seized upon the Alcazar, or citadel, slew several of

the royal adherents of the king, liberated Casim from his tower,

I and, summoning all the banditti of the country, soon mustered

a force of ten thousand men. Abderahman was quickly before

I the walls of Toledo, with the troops of Cordova and his devoted

, Zenetes. The rebels were brought to terms, and surrendered

I the city on promise of general pardon, which was extended

even to Hixem and Casim. When the chieftains saw Hixem

and his principal confederates in the power of Abderahman,

they advised him to put them all to death. "A promise given

to traitors and rebels," said they, "is not binding, when it is

to the interest of the starte that it»should be broken."

"No!" replied Abderahman, "if the safety of my throne
were at stake, I would not break my word." So saying, he
confirmed the amnesty, and granted Hixem ben Adra a worth-
less life, to be employed in farther treason.

Scarcely had Abderahmau returned from this expedition, when
a powerful army, sent by the caliph, landed from Africa on the
coast of the Algarves. The commander, Aly ben Mogueth,

166 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Emir of Cairvan, elevated a rich banner which he had received
from the hands of the caliph. Wherever he went, he ordered
the caliph of the East to be proclaimed by sound of trumpet,
denouncing Abderahman as a usurper, the vagrant member of a
family proscribed and execrated in all the mosques of the East.

One of the first to join his standard was Hixem ben Adra, so
recently pardoned by Abderahman. He seized upon the citadel
of Toledo, and repairing to the camp of Aly, offered to deliver
the city into his hands.

Abderahman, as bold in war as he was gentle in peace, took
the field with his wonted promptness ; overthrew his enemies,
with great slaughter, drove some to the sea-coast to regain their
ships, and others to the mountains. The body of Aly was
found on the field of battle. Abderahman caused the head to
be struck off, and conveyed to Cairvan, where it was affixed at
night to a column in the public square, with this inscription :
"Thus Abderahman, the descendant of the Omeyas, punishes
the rash and arrogant." Hixem ben Adra escaped from the
field of battle, and excited farther troubles, but was eventually
captured by Abdel melee, who ordered his head to be struck off
on the spot, lest he should again be spared, through the wonted
clemency of Abderahman.

Notwithstanding these signal triumphs, the reign of Abderah-
man was disturbed by further insurrections, and by another
descent from Africa, but he was victorious over them all ;
striking the roots of his power deeper and deeper into the land.
Under his sway, the government of Spain became more regular
and consolidated, and acquired an independence of the empire of
the East. The caliph continued to be considered as first pontiff
and chief of the religion, but he ceased to have any temporal
power over Spain.

Having again an interval of peace, Abderahman devoted him-
self to the education of his children. Suleiman, the eldest, he
appointed Wall, or governor, of Toledo ; Abdallah, the second,
was intrusted with the command of Merida ; but the third son,
Hixem, was the delight of his heart, the son of Howara, his
favorite sultana, whom he loved throughout life with the utmost
tenderness. With this youth, who was full of promise, he re-
laxed from the fatigues of government ; joining in his youthful
sports amid the delightful gardens of Cordova, and teaching
him the gentle art of falconry, of which the king was so fond
that he received the name of the Falcon of Coraixi.

While Abderahman was thus indulging in the gentle propen-
sities of his nature, mischief was secretly at work. Muhamad,

ABDEEAHMAN. 167

the youngest son of Yusuf , had been for many years a prisoner
in the tower of Cordova. Being passive and resigned, his
keepers relaxed their vigilance, and brought him forth from his
dungeon. He went groping about, however, in broad daylight,
as if still in the darkness of his tower. His guards watched
him narrowly, lest this should be a deception, but were at length
convinced that the long absence of light had rendered him blind.
They now permitted him to descend frequently to the lower
chambers of the tower, and to sleep there occasionally, during
the heats of summer. They even allowed him to grope his way
to the cistern, in quest of water for his ablutions.

A year passed in this way without any thing to excite sus-
picion. During all this time, however, the blindness of Muha-
mad was entirely a deception ; and he was concerting a plan of
escape, through the aid of some friends of his father, who found
means to visit him occasionally. One sultry evening in mid-
summer, the guards had gone to bathe in the Guadalquiver,
leaving Muhamad alone, in the lower chambers of the tower.
No sooner were they out of sight and hearing, than he hastened
to a window of the staircase, leading down to the cistern, low-
ered himself as far as his arms would reach, and dropped with-
out injury to the ground. Plunging into the Guadalquiver, he
swam across to a thick grove on the opposite side, where his
friends were waiting to receive him. Here, mounting a horse
which they had provided for an event of the kind, he fled
across the country, by solitary roads, and made good his escape
to the mountains of Jaen.

The guardians of the tower dreaded for some time to make
known his flight to Abderahman. When at length it was told
to him, he exclaimed : "All is the work of eternal wisdom ; it
is intended to teach us that we cannot benefit the wicked with-
out injuring the good. The flight of that blind man will cause
much trouble and bloodshed."

His predictions were verified. ' Muhamad reared the standard
of rebellion on the mountains ; the seditious and discontented of
all kinds hastened to join it, together with soldiers of fortune,
or rather wandering banditti, and he had soon six thousand
men, well armed, hardy in habits, and desperate in character.
His brother Casim also reappeared about the same time in the
mountains of Ronda, at the head of a daring band that laid all
the neighboring valleys under contribution.

Abderahman summoned his alcaydes from their various mili-
tary posts, to assist in driving the rebels from their mountain
fastnesses into the plains. It was a dangerous and protracted

168

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

toil, for the mountains were frightfully wild and rugged. He
entered them with a powerful host, driving the rebels from
height to height and valley to valley, and harassing them by a
galling fire from thousands of cross-bows. At length a decisive
battle took place near the river Guadalemar. The rebels were
signally defeated ; four thousand fell in action, many were
drowned in the river, and Muhamad, with a few horsemen,
escaped to the mountains of the Algarves. Here he was hunted
by the alcaydes from one desolate retreat to another ; his few
followers grew tired of sharing the disastrous fortunes of a
fated man ; one by one deserted him, and he himself deserted
the remainder, fearing they might give him up, to purchase their
own pardon.

Lonely and disguised, he plunged into the depths of the for-
ests, or lurked in dens and caverns, like a famished wolf, often
casting back his thoughts with regret to the time of his captivity
in the gloomy tower of Cordova. Hunger at length drove him
to Alarcon, at the risk of being discovered. Famine and
misery, however, had so wasted and changed him, that he was
not recognized. He remained nearly a year in Alarcon, un-
noticed and unknown, yet constantly tormenting himself with
the dread of discovery, and with groundless fears of the ven-
geance of Abderahman. Death at length put an end to his
wretchedness.

A milder fate attended his brother Casim. Being defeated in
the mountains of Murcia, he was conducted in chains to Cor-
dova. On coming into the presence of Abderahman, his once
fierce and haughty spirit, broken by distress, gave way ; he
threw himself on the earth, kissed the dust beneath the feet of
the king, and implored his clemency. The benignant heart of
Abderahman was filled with melanchoty, rather than exultation,
at beholding this wreck of the once haughty family of Yusuf a
suppliant at his feet, and suing for mere existence. He thought
upon the mutability of fortune, and felt how insecure are all her
favors. He raised the unhappy Casim from the earth, ordered
his irons to be taken off, and, not content with mere forgiveness,
treated him with honor, and gave him possessions in Seville,
where he might live in state conformable to the ancient dignity
of his family. Won by this great and persevering magnanim-
ity, Casim ever after remained one of the most devoted of his
subjects.

All the enemies of Abderahman were at length subdued ; he
reigned undisputed sovereign of the Moslems of Spain ; and so
benign was his government, that every one blessed the revival

ABDERAHMAN. 169

of the illustrious line of Omeya. He was at all times accessible
to the humblest of his subjects : the poor man ever found in
him a friend, and the oppressed a protector. He improved the
administration of justice ; established schools for public instruc-
tion ; encouraged poets and men of letters, and cultivated the
sciences. He built mosques in every city that he visited ; in-
culcated religion by example as well as by precept ; and cele-
brated all the festivals prescribed by the Koran, with the utmost
magnificence.

As a monument of gratitude to God for the prosperity with
which he had been favored, he undertook to erect a mosque in
his favorite city of Cordova, that should rival in splendor the
great mosque of Damascus, and excel the one recently erected
in Bagdad by the Abbassides, the supplanters of his family.

It is said that he himself furnished the plan for this famous
edifice, and even worked on it, with his own hands, one hour
in each day, to testify his zeal and humility in the service of
God, and to animate his workmen. He did not live to see it
completed, but it was finished according to his plans by his son
Hixem. When finished, it surpassed the most splendid mosques
of the East. It was six hundred feet in length, and two hun-
dred and fifty in breadth. Within were twenty-eight aisles,
crossed by nineteen, supported by a thousand and ninety-three
columns of marble. There were nineteen portals, covered with
plates of bronze of rare workmanship. The principal portal
was covered with plates of gold. On the summit of the grand
cupola were three gilt balls surmounted by a golden pomegranate.
At night, the mosque was illuminated with four thousand seven
hundred lamps, and great sums were expended in amber and
aloes, which were burned as perfumes. The mosque remains
to this day, shorn of its ancient splendor, yet still one of the
grandest Moslem monuments in Spain.

Finding himself advancing in years, Abderahman assembled
in his capital of Cordova the principal governors and com-
manders of his kingdom, and in presence of them all, with
great solemnity, nominated his son Hixem as the successor to
the throne. All present made an oath of fealty to Abderah-
man during his life, and to Hixem after his death. The prince
was younger than his brothers, Suleiman and Abdallah ; but
he was the son of Howara, the tenderly beloved sultana of
Abderahman, and her influence, it is said, gained him this
preference.

Within a few months afterward, Abderahman fell grievously
sick at Merida. Finding his end approaching, he summoned

170

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

Hixem to his bedside : " My son," said he, u the angel of death
is hovering over me ; treasure up, therefore, in thy heart this
dying counsel, which I give through the great love I bear thee.
Remember that all empire is from God, who gives and takes it
away, according to his pleasure. Since God, through his divine
goodness, has given us regal power and authority, let us do his
holy will, which is nothing else than to do good to all men, and
especially to those committed to our protection. Render equal
justice, my son, to the rich and the poor, and never suffer injus-
tice to be done within thy dominion, for it is the road to perdi-
tion. Be merciful and benignant to those dependent upon thee.
Confide the government of thy cities and provinces to men of
worth and experience ; punish without compassion those minis-
ters who oppress thy people with exorbitant exactions. Pay thy
troops punctually ; teach them to feel a certainty in thy prom-
ises ; command them with gentleness but firmness, and make
them in truth the defenders of the state, not its destroyers.
Cultivate unceasingly the affections of thy people, for in their
good-will consists the security of the state, in their distrust its
peril, in their hatred its certain ruin. Protect the husbandmen
who cultivate the earth, and yield us necessary sustenance ;
never permit their fields, and groves, and gardens to be dis-
turbed. In a word, act in such wise that thy people may bless
thee, and may enjoy, under the shadow of thy wing, a secure
and tranquil life. In this consists good government ; if thou
dost practise it, thou wilt be happy among thy people, and re-
nowned throughout the world."

Having given this excellent counsel, the good king Abderah-
man blessed his son Hixem, and shortly after died ; being but
in the sixtieth year of his age. He was interred with great
pomp ; but the highest honors that distinguished his funeral
were the tears of real sorrow shed upon his grave. He left
behind him a name for valor, justice, and magnanimity, and
forever famous as being the founder of the glorious line of the
Ommiades in Spain.

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. 171

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL,

OR A JUDICIAL TRIAL BY COMBAT.

THE world is daily growing older and wiser. Its institutions
vary with its years, and mark its growing wisdom ; and none
more so than its modes of investigating truth, and ascertaining
guilt or innocence. In its nonage, when man was yet a fallible
being, and doubted the accuracy of his own intellect, appeals
were made to heaven in dark and doubtful cases of atrocious
accusation.

The accused was required to plunge his hand in boiling oil,
or to walk across red-hot ploughshares, or to maintain his inno-
cence in armed fight and listed field, in person or by champion.
If he passed these ordeals unscathed, he stood acquitted, and
the result was regarded as a verdict from on high.

It is somewhat remarkable that, in the gallant age of chiv-
alry, the gentler sex should have been most frequently the sub-
jects of these rude trials and perilous ordeals ; and that, too,
when assailed in their most delicate and vulnerable part — their
honor.

In the present very old and enlightened age of the world,
when the human intellect is perfectly competent to the manage-
ment of its own concerns, and needs no special interposition of
heaven in its affairs, the trial by jury has superseded these super-
human ordeals ; and the unanimity of twelve discordant minds
is necessary to constitute a verdict. Such a unanimity would,
at first sight, appear also to require a miracle from heaven ; but
it is produced by a simple device of human ingenuity. The
twelve jurors are locked up in their box, there to fast until
abstinence shall have so clarified their intellects that the whole
jarring panel can discern the truth, and concur in a unanimous
decision. One point is certain, that truth is one, and is immut-
able— until the jurors all agree, they cannot all be right.

It is not our intention, however, to discuss this great judicial
point, or to question the avowed superiority of the mode of
investigating truth adopted in this antiquated and very saga-
cious era. It is our object merely to exhibit to the curious reader
one of the most memorable cases of judicial combat we find m
the annals of Spain. It occurred at the bright commencement
of the reign, and in the youthful, and, as yet, glorious days of
Roderick the Goth ; who subsequently tarnished his fame at

172

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

home by his misdeeds, and, finally, lost his kingdom and his life
on the banks of the Guadalete, in that disastrous battle which
gave up Spain a conquest to the Moors. The following is the
story :

There was once upon a time a certain duke of Lorraine, who
was acknowledged throughout his domains to be one of the wisest
princes that ever lived. In fact, there was no one measure
adopted by him that did not astonish his privy counsellors and
gentlemen in attendance ; and he said such witty things, and
made such sensible speeches, that the jaws of his high chamber-
lain were well-nigh dislocated from laughing with delight at one,
and gaping with wonder at the other.

This very witty and exceedingly wise potentate lived for half
a century in single-blessedness ; at length his courtiers began to
think it a great pity so wise and wealthy a prince should not have
a child after his own likeness, to inherit his talents and domains ;
so they urged him most respectfully to marry, for the good of
his estate, and the welfare of his subjects.

He turned their advice over in his mind some four or five
years, and then sent forth emissaries to summon to his court all
the beautiful maidens in the land who were ambitious of sharing
a ducal crown. The court was soon crowded with beauties of
all styles and complexions, from among whom he chose one in
the earliest budding of her charms, and acknowledged by all
the gentlemen to be unparalleled for grace and loveliness. The
courtiers extolled the duke to the skies for making such a choice,
and considered it another proof of his great wisdom. u The
duke," said they, "is waxing a little too old, the damsel, on
the other hand, is a little too young ; if one is lacking in years,
the other has a superabundance ; thus a want on one side is
balanced by the excess on the other, and the result is a well-
assorted marriage.

The duke, as is often the case with wise men who marry
rather late, and take damsels rather youthful to their bosoms,
became dotiugly fond of his wife, and very properly indulged
her in all things. He was, consequently, cried up by his sub-
jects in general, and by the ladies in particular, as a pattern for
husbands ; and, in the end, from the wonderful docility with
which he submitted to be reined and checked, acquired the
amiable and enviable appellation of Duke Philibert the wife-
ridden.

There was only one thing that disturbed the conjugal felicity
of this paragon of husbands — though a considerable time
elapsed after his marriage, there was still no prospect of an

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. 173

heir. The good duke left no means untried to propitiate
Heaven. He made vows and pilgrimages, he fasted and he
prayed, but all to no purpose. The courtiers were all aston-
ished at the circumstance. They could not account for it.
While the meanest peasant in the country had sturdy brats by
dozens, without putting up a prayer, the duke wore himself to
skin and bone with penances and fastings, yet seemed farther
off from his object than ever.

At length, the worthy prince fell dangerously ill, and felt his
end approaching. He looked sorrowfully and dubiously upon
his young and tender spouse, who hung over him with tears and
sobbings. " Alas ! " said he, "• tears are soon dried from youth-
ful eyes, and sorrow lies lightly on a youthful heart. In a little
while thou wilt forget in the arms of another husband him who
has loved thee so tenderly."

" Never ! never ! " cried the duchess. "• Never will I cleave
to another ! Alas, that my lord should think me capable of
such inconstancy ! "

The worthy and wife-ridden duke was soothed by her assur-
ances ; for he could not brook the thought of giving her up even
after he should be dead. Still he wished to have some pledge
of her enduring constancy :

" Far be it from me, my dearest wife," said, he, " to control
thee through a long life. A year and a day of strict fidelity
will appease my troubled spirit. Promise to remain faithful to
my memory for a year and a day, and I will die in peace. "

The duchess made a solemn vow to that effect, but the uxori-
ous feelings of the duke were not yet satisfied. '* Safe bind,
safe find," thought he ; so he made a will, bequeathing to her all
his domains, on condition of her remaining true to him for a
year and a day after his decease ; but, should it appear that,
within that time, she had in any wise lapsed from her fidelity,
the inheritance should go to his nephew, the lord of a neighbor-
ing territory.

Having made his will, the good duke died and was buried.
Scarcely was he in his tomb, when his nephew came to take
possession, thinking, as his uncle had died without issue, the
domains would be devised to him of course. He was in a furi-
ous passion, when the will was produced, and the young widow
declared inheritor of the dukedom. As he was a violent, high-
handed man, and one of the sturdiest knights in the land, fears
were entertained that he might attempt to seize on the terri-
tories by force. He had, however, two bachelor uncles for
bosom counsellors, swaggering, rakehelly old cavaliers, who,

174

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

having led loose and riotous lives, prided themselves upon
knowing the world, and being deeply experienced in human
nature. "Prithee, man. be of good cheer," said they, "the
duchess is a young and buxom widow. She has just buried our
brother, who, God rest his soul ! was somewhat too much given
to praying and fasting, and kept his pretty wife always tied to
his girdle. She is now like a bird from a cage. Think you she
will keep her vow ? Pooh, pooh — impossible ! Take our words
for it — we know mankind, and, above all, womankind. She
cannot hold out for such a length of time ; it is not in woman-
hood — it is not in widowhood — we know it, and that's enough.
Keep a sharp look-out upon the widow, therefore, and within
the twelvemonth you will catch her tripping — and then the
dukedom is your own."

The nephew was pleased with this counsel, and immediately
placed spies round the duchess, and bribed several of her ser-
vants to keep watch upon her, so that she could not take a
single step, even from one apartment of her palace to another,
without being observed. Never was young and beautiful widow
exposed to so terrible an ordeal.

The duchess was aware of the watch thus kept upon her.
Though confident of her own rectitude, she knew that it is not
enough for a woman to.be virtuous — she must be above the
reach of slander. For the whole term of her probation, there-
fore, she proclaimed a strict non-intercourse with the other sex.
She had females for cabinet ministers and chamberlains, through
whom she transacted all her public and private concerns ; and it
is said that never were the affairs of the dukedom so adroitly
administered.

All males were rigorously excluded from the palace ; she
never went out of its precincts, and whenever she moved about
its courts and gardens, she surrounded herself with a body-guard
of young maids of honor, commanded by dames renowned for
discretion. She slept in a bed without curtains, placed in the
centre of a room illuminated by innumerable wax tapers. Four
ancient spinsters, virtuous as Virginia, perfect dragons of watch-
fulness, who only slept during the daytime, kept vigils through-
out the night, seated in the four corners of the room on stools
without backs or arms, and with seats cut in checkers of the
hardest wood, to keep them from dozing.

Thus wisely and warily did the young duchess conduct her-
self for twelve long months, and slander almost bit her tongue
on" in despair, at finding no room even for a surmise. Never
was ordeal more burdensome, or more euduriugly sustained.

THE WIDOWS ORDEAL. 175

The year passed away. The last, odd day arrived, and a
long, long day it was. It was the twenty-first of June, the
longest day in the year. It seemed as if it would never come to
an end. A thousand times did the duchess and her ladies watch
the sun from the windows of the palace, as he slowly climbed
the vault of heaven, and seemed still more slowly to roll down.
They could not help expressing their wonder, now and then, why
.he duke should have tagged this supernumerary day to the
end of the year, as if three hundred and sixty-five days were
not sufficient to try and task the fidelity of any woman. It is
the last grain that turns the scale — the last drop that overflows
the goblet — and the last moment of delay that exhausts the
patience. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, the
duchess was in a fidget that passed all bounds, and, though
several hours were yet to pass before the day regularly expired,
she could not have remained those hours in durance to gain a
royal crown, much less a ducal coronet. So she gave orders,
and her palfrey, magnificently caparisoned, was brought into
the court-yard of the castle, with palfreys for all her ladies in
attendance. In this way she sallied forth, just as the sun had
gone down. It was a mission of piety — a pilgrim cavalcade to
a convent at the foot of a neighboring mountain — to return
thanks to the blessed Virgin, for having sustained her through
this fearful ordeal.

The orisons performed, the duchess and her ladies returned,
ambling gently along the border of a forest. It was about that
mellow hour of twilight when night and day are mingled, and
all objects are indistinct. Suddenly, some monstrous animal
sprang from out a thicket, with fearful howlings. The female
body-guard was thrown into confusion, and fled different ways.
It was some time before they recovered from their panic, and
gathered once more together ; but the duchess was not to be
found. The greatest anxiety was felt for her safety. The
hazy mist of twilight had prevented their distinguishing per-
fectly the animal which had affrighted them. Some thought it
a wolf, others a bear, others a wild man of the woods. For
upwards of an hour did they beleaguer the forest, without dar-
ing to venture in, and were on the point of giving up the duch-
ess as torn to pieces and devoured, when, to their great joy,
they beheld her advancing in the gloom, supported by a stately
cavalier.

He was a stranger knight, whom nobody knew. It was im-
possible to distinguish his countenance in the dark ; but all the
ladies agreed that he was of noble presence and captivating

176

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

address. He had rescued the duchess from the very fangs of
the monster, which, he assured the ladies, was neither a wolf,
nor a bear, nor yet a wild man of the woods, but a veritable
fiery dragon, a species of monster peculiarly hostile to beautiful
females in the days of chivalry, and which all the efforts of
knight-errantry had not been able to extirpate.

The ladies crossed themselves when they heard of the danger
from which they had escaped, and could not enough admire
the gallantry of the cavalier. The duchess would fain have
prevailed on her deliverer to accompany her to her court ; but
he had no time to spare, being a knight-errant, who had many
adventures on hand, and many distressed damsels and afflicted
widows to rescue and relieve in various parts of the country.
Taking a respectful leave, therefore, he pursued his wayfaring,
and the duchess and her train returned to the palace. Through-
out the whole way, the ladies were unwearied in chanting the
praises of the stranger knight, nay, many of them would will-
ingly Dave incurred the danger of the dragon to have enjoyed
the happy deliverance of the duchess. As to the latter, she
rode pensively along, but said nothing.

No sooner was the adventure of the wood made public, than
a whirlwind was raised about the ears of the beautiful duchess.
The blustering nephew of the deceased duke went about, armed
to the teeth, with a swaggering uncle at each shoulder, ready
to back him, and swore the duchess had forfeited her domain.
It was in vain that she called all the saints, and angels, and her
ladies in attendance into the bargain, to witness that she had
passed a year and a day of immaculate fidelity. One fatal hour
remained to be accounted for ; and into the space of one little
hour sins enough may be conjured up by evil tongues, to blast
the fame of a whole life of virtue.

The two graceless uncles, who had seen the world, were ever
ready to bolster the matter through, and as they were brawny,
broad-shouldered warriors, and veterans in brawl as well as
debauch, they had great sway with the multitude. If any one
pretended to assert the innocence of the duchess, they inter'
rupted him with a loud ha! ha! of derision. t4 A pretty story,
truly," would they cry, '• about a wolf and a dragon, and a
young widow rescued in the dark by a sturdy varlet who dares
not show his face in the daylight. You may tell that to those
who do not know human nature, for our parts we know th« sex,
and that's enough."

If, however, the other repeated his assertion, they would sud-
denly knit their brows, swell, look big, and put their hands

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. 177

upon their swords. As few people like to fight in a cause that
does not touch their own interests, the nephew and the uncles
were suffered to have their way, and swagger uncontradicted.

The matter was at length referred to a tribunal, composed of
all the dignitaries of the dukedom, and many and repeated con-
sultations were held. The character of the duchess through-
out the year was as bright and spotless as the moon in a cloud-
less night ; one fatal hour of darkness alone intervened to
eclipse its brightness. Finding human sagacity incapable of
dispelling the mystery, it was determined to leave the question
to heaven ; or in other words, to decide it by the ordeal of the
sword — a sage tribunal in the age of chivalry. The nephew
and two bully uncles were to maintain their accusation in listed
combat, and six months were allowed to the duchess to provide
herself with three champions, to meet them in the field. Should
she fail in this, or should her champions be vanquished, her
honor would be considered as attainted, her fidelity as forfeited,
and her dukedom would go to the nephew, as a matter of
right.

With this determination the duchess was fain to comply.
Proclamations were accordingly made, and heralds sent to vari-
ous parts ; but day after day, week after week, and month
after month, elapsed, without any champion appearing to assert
her loyalty throughout that darksome hour. The fair widow
was reduced to despair, when tidings reached her of grand
tournaments to be held at Toledo, in celebration of the nup-
tials of Don Roderick, the last of the Gothic kings, with the
Morisco princess Exilona. As a last resort, the duchess re-
paired to the Spanish court, to implore the gallantry of its
assembled chivalry.

The ancient city of Toledo was a scene of gorgeous revelry
on the event of the royal nuptials. The youthful king, brave,
ardent, and magnificent, and his lovely bride, beaming with all
the radiant beauty of the East, were hailed with shouts and
acclamations whenever they appeared.

Their nobles vied with each other in the luxury of their
attire, their prancing steeds, and splendid retinues ; and the
haughty dames of the court appeared in a blaze of jewels.

In the midst of all this pageantry, the beautiful, but afflicted
Duchess of Lorraine made her approach to the throne. She
was dressed in black, and closely veiled ; four duennas of the
most staid and severe aspect, and six beautiful demoiselles,
formed her female attendants. She was guarded by several
very ancient, withered, and gray-headed cavaliers ; and her

178 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

train was borne by one of the most deformed and diminutive
dwarfs in existence.

Advancing to the foot of the throne, she knelt down, and,
throwing up her veil, revealed a countenance so beautiful that
half the courtiers present were ready to renounce wives and
mistresses, and devote themselves to her service ; but when
she made known that she came in quest of champions to de-
fend her fame, every cavalier pressed forward to offer his arm
and sword, without inquiring into the merits of the case ; for it
seemed clear that so beauteous a lady could have done nothing but
what was right ; and that, at any rate, she ought to be championed
in following the bent of her humors, whether right or wrong.

Encouraged by such gallant zeal, the duchess suffered her-
self to be raised from the ground, and related the whole story
of her distress. When she concluded, the king remained for
some time silent, charmed by the music of her voice. At
length: "As I hope for salvation, most beautiful duchess,"
said he, "were I not a sovereign king, and bound in duty to
my kingdom, I myself would put lance in rest to vindicate
your cause ; as it is, I here give full permission to my knights,
and promise lists and a fair field, and that the contest shall
take place before the walls of Toledo, in presence of my assem-
bled court."

As soon as the pleasure of the king was known, there was a
strife among the cavaliers present, for the honor of the contest.
It was decided by lot, and the successful candidates were
objects of great envy, for every one was ambitious of finding
favor in the eyes of the beautiful widow.

Missives were sent, summoning the nephew and his two
uncles to Toledo, to maintain their accusation, and a day was
appointed for the combat. When the day arrived, all Toledo
was in commotion at an early hour. The lists had been pre-
pared in the usual place, just without the walls, at the foot of
the rugged rocks on which the city is built, and on that beauti-
ful meadow along the Tagus, known by the name of the king's
garden. The populace had already assembled, each one eager
to secure a favorable place ; the balconies were filled with the
ladies of the court, clad in their richest attire, and bands of
youthful knights, splendidly armed and decorated with their
ladies' devices, were managing their superbly caparisoned steeds
about the field. The king at length came forth in state, ac-
companied by the queen Exilona. They took their seats in a
raised balcony, under a canopy of rich damask ; and, at sight
of them, the people rent the air with acclamations.

THE WIDOW'S ORDEAL. Il9

The nephew and his uncles now rode into the field, armed
cap-cl-pie, and followed by a train of cavaliers of their own
roystering cast, great swearers and carousers, arrant swash-
bucklers, with clanking armor and jingling spurs. When the
people of Toledo beheld the vaunting and discourteous appear-
ance of these knights, they were more anxious than ever for
the success of the gentle duchess ; but, at the same time, the
sturdy and stalwart frames of these warriors, showed that
whoever won the victory from them, must do it at the cost of
many a bitter blow.

As the nephew and his riotous crew rode in at one side of the
field", the fair widow appeared at the other, with her suite of
grave gray-headed courtiers, her ancient duennas and dainty
demoiselles, and the little dwarf toiling along under the weight
of her train. Every one made way for her as she passed, and
blessed her beautiful face, and prayed for success to her cause.
She took her seat in a lower balcony, not far from the sover-
eigns ; arid her pale face, set off by her mourning weeds, was as
the moon shining forth from among the clouds of night.

The trumpets sounded for the combat. The warriors were
just entering the lists, when a stranger knight, armed in pano-
ply, and followed by two pages and an esquire, came galloping
into the field, and, riding up to the royal balcony, claimed the
combat as a matter of right.

" In me," cried he, fct behold the cavalier who had the happi-
ness to rescue the beautiful duchess from the peril of the forest,
and the misfortune to bring on her this grievous calumny. It
was but recently, in the course of my errantry, that tidings of
her wrongs have reached my ears, and I have urged hither at
all speed, to stand forth in her vindication."

No sooner did the duchess hear the accents of the knight
than she recognized his voice, and joined her prayers with his
that he might enter the lists. The difficulty was, to determine
which of the three champions already appointed should yield
his place, each insisting on the honor of the combat. The
stranger knight woukf have settled the point, by taking the
whole contest upon himself ; but this the other knights would
not permit. It was at length determined, as before, by lot, and
the cavalier who lost the chance retired murmuring and dis-
consolate.

The trumpets again sounded — the lists were opened. The
arrogant nephew and his two drawcansir uncles appeared so
completely cased in steel, that they and their steeds were like
moving masses of iron. When they understood the stranger

180

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

knight to be the same that had rescued the duchess from her
peril, they greeted him with the most boisterous derision :

VkOho! sir Knight of the Dragon," said they, "you who
pretend to champion fair widows in the dark, come on, and
vindicate your deeds of darkness in the open day."

The only reply of the cavalier was to put lance in rest, and
brace himself for the encounter. Needless is it to relate the
particulars of a battle, which was like so many hundred com-
bats that have been said and sung in prose and verse. Who is
there but must have foreseen the event of a contest, where
Heaven had to decide on the guilt or innocence of the most
beautiful and immaculate of widows ?

The sagacious reader, deeply read in this kind of judicial
combats, can imagine the encounter of the graceless nephew
and the stranger knight. He sees their concussion, man to
man, and horse to horse, in mid career, and sir Graceless
hurled to the ground, and slain. He will not wonder that the
assailants of the brawny uncles were less successful in their
rude encounter ; but he will picture to himself the stout stranger
spurring to their rescue, in the very critical moment ; he will
see him transfixing one with his lance, and cleaving the other
to the chine with a back stroke of his sword, thus leaving the
trio of accusers dead upon the field, and establishing the im-
maculate fidelity of the duchess, and her title to the dukedom,
beyond the shadow of a doubt.

The air rang with acclamations; nothing was heard but
praises of the beauty and virtue of the duchess, and of the
prowess of the stranger knight ; but the public joy was still
more increased when the champion raised his visor, and re-
vealed the countenance of one of the bravest cavaliers of Spain,
renowned for his gallantry in the service of the sex, and who
had been round the world in quest of similar adventures.

That worthy knight, however, was severely wounded, and
remained for a long time ill of his wounds. The lovely duch-
ess, grateful for having twice owed her protection to his arm,
attended him daily during his illness ; and finally rewarded his
gallantry with her hand.

The king would fain have had the knight establish his title
to such high advancement by farther deeds of arms ; but his
courtiers declared that he already merited the lady, by thus
vindicating her fame and fortune in a deadly combat to ou-
trance ; and the lady herself hinted that she was perfectly sat-
isfied of his prowess in arms, from the proofs she had received
in his achievement in the forest.

THE CREOLE VILLAGE. 181

Their nuptials were celebrated with great magnificence. The
present husband of the duchess did not pray and fast like his
predecessor, Philibert the wife-ridden ; yet he found greater
favor in the eyes of Heaven, for their union was blessed with
a numerous progeny — the daughters chaste and beauteous as
their mother ; the sons stout and valiant as their sire, and re-
nowned, like him, for relieving disconsolate damsels and deso-
lated widows.

, THE CREOLE VILLAGE:

A SKETCH FROM A STEAMBOAT.
First Published in 1837.

IN travelling about our motley country, I am often reminded
of Ariosto's account of the moon, in which the good paladin
Astolpho found every thing garnered up that had been lost on
earth. So I am apt to imagine, that many things lost in the
old world, are treasured up in the new ; having been handed
down from generation to generation, since the early days of
the colonies. A European antiquary, therefore, curious in his
researches after the ancient and almost obliterated customs
and usages of his country, would do well to put himself upon
the track of some early band of emigrants, follow them across
the Atlantic, and rummage among their descendants on our
shores.

In the phraseology of New England might be found many an
old English provincial phrase, long since obsolete in the parent
country ; with some quaint relics of the Roundheads ; while
Virginia cherishes peculiarities charactistic of the days of
Elizabeth and Sir Walter Raleigh.

In the same way .the sturdy yeomanry of New Jersey and
Pennsylvania keep up many usages fading away in ancient
Germany ; while many an honest, broad-bottomed custom,
nearly extinct in venerable Holland, may be found flourishing
in pristine vigor and luxuriance in Dutch villages, on the banks
of the Mohawk and the Hudson.

In no part of our country, however, are the customs and
peculiarities, imported from the old world by the earlier set-
tlers, kept up with more fidelity than in the little, poverty-
stricken villages of Spanish and French origin, which border

182 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

the rivers of ancient Louisiana. Their population is generally
made up of the descendants of those nations, married and
interwoven together, and occasionally crossed with a slight
dash of the Indian. The French character, however, floats "on
top, as, from its buoyant qualities, it is sure to do, whenever it
forms a particle, however small, of an intermixture.

In these serene and dilapidated villages, art and nature stand
still, and the world forgets to turn round. The revolutions
that distract other parts of this mutable planet, reach not here,
or pass over without leaving any trace. The fortunate inhabit-
ants have none of that public spirit which extends its cares
beyond its horizon, and imports trouble and perplexity from
all quarters in newspapers. In fact, newspapers are almost
unknown in these villages, and as French is the current lan-
guage, the inhabitants have little community of opinion with
their republican neighbors. They retain, therefore, their old
habits of passive obedience to the decrees of government, as
though they still lived under the absolute sway of colonial
commandants, instead of being part and parcel of the sover*
eign people, and having a voice in public legislation.

A few aged men, who have grown gray on their hereditary
acres, and are of the good old colonial stock, exert a patriar-
chal sway in all matters of public and private import ; their
opinions are considered oracular, and their word is law.

The inhabitants, moreover, have none of that eagerness for
gain and rage for improvement which keep our people continu-
ally on the move, and our country towns incessantly in a state
•of transition. There the magic phrases, ''town lots," "water
privileges," " railroads," and other comprehensive and soul-
stirring words from the speculator's vocabulary, are never heard.
The residents dwell in the houses built by their forefathers,
without thinking of enlarging or modernizing them, or pulling
them down and turning them into granite stores. The trees,
under which they have been born and have played in infancy,
flourish undisturbed ; though, by cutting them down, they might
open new streets, and put money in their pockets. In a word,
the almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion
throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these
peculiar villages ; and unless some of its missionaries penetrate
there, and erect banking houses and other pious shrines, there is
no knowing how long the inhabitants may remain in their pres-
ent state of contented poverty.

In descending one of our great Western rivers in a steam-
boat, I met with two worthies from one of these villages, who

THE CREOLE VILLAGE. 183

had been on A distant excursion, the longest they had ever
made, as they seldom ventured far from home. One was the
great man, or Grand Seigneur, of the village ; not that he en-
joyed any legal privileges or power there, every thing of the
kind having been done away when the province was ceded by
France to the United States. His sway over his neighbors was
merely one of custom and convention, out of deference to his
family. Beside, he was worth full fifty thousand dollars, an
amount almost equal, in the imaginations of the villagers, to
the treasures of King Solomon.

This very substantial old gentleman, though of the fourth or
.fifth generation in this country, retained the true Gallic feature
and deportment, and reminded me of one of those provincial
potentates that are to be met with in the remote parts of France.
He was of a large frame, a ginger-bread complexion, strong
features, eyes that stood out like glass knobs, and a prominent
nose, which he frequently regaled from a gold snuff-box, and
occasionally blew, with a colored handkerchief, until it sounded
like a trumpet.

He was attended by an old negro, as black as ebony, with a
huge mouth, in a continual grin ; evidently a privileged and
favorite servant, who had grown up and grown old with him.
He was dressed in Creole style — with white jacket and trou-
sers, a stiff shirt collar, that threatened to cut off his ears, a
bright Madras handkerchief tied round his head, and large gold
ear-rings. He was the politest negro I met with in a Western
tour ; and that is saying a great deal, for, excepting the In-
dians, the negroes are the most gentlemanlike personages to be
met with in those parts. It is true, they differ from the In-
dians in being a little extra polite and complimentary. He was
also one of the merriest ; and here, too, the negroes, however
we may deplore their unhappy condition, have the advantage of
their masters. The whites are, in general, too free and prosper-
ous to be merry. The cares of maintaining their rights and lib-
erties, adding to their wealth, and making presidents, engross
all their thoughts, and dry up all the moisture of their souls.
If you hear a broad, hearty, devil-may-care laugh, be assured it
is a negro's.

Beside this African domestic, the seigneur of the village had
another no less cherished and privileged attendant. This was
a huge dog, of the mastiff breed, with a deep, hanging mouth,
and a look of surly gravity. He walked about the cabin with
the air of a dog perfectly at home, and who had paid for his
passage. At dinner time he took his seat beside his master,

184 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

giving him a glance now and then out of a corner of his eye,
which bespoke perfect confidence that lie would not be forgot-
ten. Nor was he — every now and then a huge morsel would
be thrown to him, peradventure the half-picked leg of a fowl,
which he would receive with a snap like the springing of a steel-
trap — one gulp, and all was down ; and a glance of the eye
told his master that he was ready for another consignment.

The other village worthy, travelling in company with the
seigneur, was of a totally different stamp. Small, thin., and
weazen-faced, as Frenchmen are apt to be represented in cari-
cature, with a bright, squirrel-like eye, and a gold ring in his
ear. His dress was flimsy, and sat loosely on his frame, and he
had altogether the look of one with but little coin in his pocket.
Yet, though one of the poorest, I was assured he was one of the
merriest and most popular personages in his native village.

Compere Martin, as he was commonly called, was the facto-
tum of the place — sportsman, schoolmaster, and land-sur-
veyor. He could sing, dance, and, above all, play on the fiddle,
an invaluable accomplishment in an old French Creole village,
for the inhabitants have a hereditary love for balls and fetes ; if
they work but little, they dance a great deal, and a fiddle is the
joy of their heart.

What had sent Compere Martin travelling with the Grand
Seigneur I could not learn ; he evidently looked up to him with
great deference, and was assiduous in rendering him petty at-
tentions ; from which I concluded that he lived at home upon
the crumbs which fell from his table. He was gayest when out
of his sight ; and had his song and his joke when forward, among
the deck passengers ; but altogether Compere Martin was out
of his element on board of a steamboat. He was quite another
being, I am told, when at home in his own village.

Like his opulent fellow-traveller, he too had his canine fol-
lower and retainer — and one suited to his different fortunes —
one of the civilest, most unoffending little dogs in the world.
Unlike the lordly mastiff, he seemed to think he had no right
on board of the steamboat ; if you did but look hard at him, he
would throw himself upon his back, and lift up his legs, as if
imploring mercy.

At table he took his seat a little distance from his master ;
not with the bluff, confident air of the mastiff, but quietly and
diffidently, his head on one side, with one ear dubiously
slouched, the other hopefully cocked up ; his under teeth
projecting beyond his black nose, and his eye wistfully fol-
lowing each morsel that went into his master's mouth.

THE CREOLE VILLAGE. 185

If Compere Martin now and then should venture to abstract
a morsel from his plate to give to his humble companion, it was
edifying to see with what diffidence* the exemplary little animal
would take hold of it, with the very tip of his teeth, as if he
would almost rather not, or was fearful of taking too great a
liberty. And then with what decorum would he eat it ! How
many efforts would he make in swallowing it, as if it stuck in
his throat ; with what daintiness would he lick his lips ; and
then with what an air of thankfulness would he resume his
seat, with his teeth once more projecting beyond his nose, and
an eye of humble expectation fixed upon his master.

It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat stopped at
the village which was the residence of these worthies. It stood
on the high bank of the river, and bore traces of having been a
frontier trading post. There were the remains of stockades
that once protected it from the Indians, and the houses were
in the ancient Spanish and French colonial taste, the place
having been successively under the domination of both those
nations prior to the cession of Louisiana to the United States.

The arrival of the seigneur of fifty thousand dollars, and
his humble companion, Compere Martin, had evidently been
looked forward to as an event in the village. Numbers of men,
women, and children, white, yellow, and black, were collected
on the river bank ; most of them clad in old-fashioned French
garments, and their heads decorated with colored handkerchiefs,
or white night-caps. The moment the steamboat came within
sight and hearing, there was a waving of handkerchiefs, and a
screaming and bawling of salutations, and felicitations, that
baffle all description.

The old gentleman of fifty thousand dollars was received by
a train of relatives, and friends, and children, and grandchildren,
whom he kissed on each cheek, and who formed a procession in.
his rear, with a legion of domestics, of all ages, following him
to a large, old-fashioned French house, that domineered over the
village.

His black valet-de-chambre, in white jacket and trousers, and
gold ear-rings, was met on the shore by a boon, though rustic
companion, a tall negro fellow, with a long, good-humored face,
and the profile of a horse, which stood out from beneath a nar-
row-rimmed straw hat, stuck on the back of his head. The
explosions of laughter of these two varlets, on meeting and
exchanging compliments, were enough to electrify the country
round.

The most hearty reception, however, was that given to Com-

186 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

pere Martin. Everybody, young and old, hailed him before he
got to land. Everybody had a joke for Compere Martin, and
Compere Martin had a joke for everybody. Even his little dog
appeared, to partake of his popularity, and to be caressed by
every hand. Indeed, he was quite a different animal the mo-
ment he touched the land. Here he was at home : here he was
of consequence. He barked, he leaped, he frisked about his ok1
friends, and then would skim round the place in a wide circle,
as if mad.

I traced Compere Martin and his little dog to their homec
It was an old ruinous Spanish house, of large dimensions,
with verandas overshadowed by ancient elms. The house had
probably been the residence, in old times, of the Spanish com-
mandant. In one wing of this crazy, but aristocratical abode,
was nestled the family of my fellow-traveller ; for poor devils
are apt to be magnificently clad and lodged, in the cast-off
clothes and abandoned palaces of the great and wealthy.

The arrival of Compere Martin was welcomed by a legion of
women, children, and mongrel curs ; and, as poverty and gay-
ety generally go hand in hand among the French and their de-
scendants, the crazy mansion soon resounded with loud gossip
and light-hearted laughter.

As the steamboat paused a short time at the village, I took
occasion to stroll about the place. Most of the houses were in
the French taste, with casements and rickety verandas, but most
of them in flimsy and ruinous condition. All the wagons, ploughs,
and other utensils about the place were of ancient and incon-
venient Gallic construction, such as had been brought from
France in the primitive days of the colony. The very looks of
the people reminded me of the villages of France.

From one of the houses came the hum of a spinning wheel,
accompanied by a scrap of an old French chanson, which I have
heard many a time among the peasantry of Languedoc, doubt-
less a traditional song, brought over by the first French emi-
grants, and handed down from generation to generation.

Half a dozen young lasses emerged from the adjacent dwell-
ings, reminding me, by their light step and gay costume, of scenes
in ancient France, where taste in dress comes natural to every
class of females. The trim bodice and colored petticoat, and
little apron, with its pockets to receive the hands when in an
attitude for conversation ; the colored kerchief wound tastefully
round the head, with a coquettish knot perking above one ear:
and the neat slipper and tight drawn stocking, with its braid of
narrow ribbon embracing the ankle where it peeps from its rn*-

THE CREOLE VILLAGE. 187

terious curtain. It is from this ambush that Cupid sends his
most inciting arrows.

While I was musing upon the recollections thus accidentally
summoned up, I heard the sound of a fiddle from the mansion
of Compere Martin, the signal, no doubt, for a joyous gather-
ing. I was disposed to turn my steps thither, and witness the
festivities of one of the very few villages I had met with in my
wide tour, that was yet poor enough to be merry ; but the bell
of the steamboat summoned me to re-embark.

As we swept away from the shore, I cast back a wistful eye
upon the moss-grown roofs and ancient elms of the village, and
prayed that the inhabitants might long retain their happy igno-
rance, their absence of all enterprise and improvement, their
respect for the fiddle, and their contempt for the almighty
dollar.1 I fear, however, my prayer is doomed to be of no avail.
In a little while the steamboat whirled me to an American town,
just springing into bustling and prosperous existence.

The surrounding forest had been laid out in town lots ; frames
of wooden buildings were rising from among stumps and burnt
trees. The place already boasted a court-house, a jail, and two
banks, all built of pine boards, on the model of Grecian temples.
There were rival hotels, rival churches, and rival newspapers ;
together with the usual number of judges, and generals, and
governors ; not to speak of doctors by the dozen, and lawyers
by the score.

The place, I was told, was in an astonishing career of im-
provement, with a canal and two railroads in embryo. Lots
doubled in price every week ; everybody was speculating in
land ; everybody was rich ; and everybody was growing richer.
The community, however, was torn to pieces by new doctrines
in religion and in political economy ; there were camp meet-
ings, and agrarian meetings ; and an election was at hand,
which, it was expected, would throw the whole country into a
paroxysm.

Alas ! with such an enterprising neighbor, what is to become
of the poor little Creole village !

1 This phrase, used for the first time in this sketch, has since passed into current
circulation, and by some has been questioned as savoring of irreverence. The author,
therefore, owes it to his orthodoxy to doclare that no irreverence was intended even to
the dollar itself; which he its aware is daily becoming more and more an object of wor-
ship.

188 THE CRAYON PAPERS.

A CONTENTED MAN.

IN the garden of the Tuileries there is a sunny corner under
the wall of a terrace which fronts the south. Along the wall is
a range of benches commanding a view of the walks and avenues
of the garden. This genial nook is a place of great resort in
the latter part of autumn, and in fine days in winter, as it seems
to retain the flavor of departed summer. On a calm, bright
morning it is quite alive with nursery-maids and their playful
little charges. Hither also resort a number of ancient ladies
and gentlemen, who, with the laudable thrift in small pleasures
and small expenses for which the French are to be noted, come
here to enjoy sunshine and save firewood. Here may often be
seen some cavalier of the old school, when the sunbeams have
warmed his blood into something like a glow, fluttering about
like a frost-bitten moth before the fire, putting forth a feeble
show of gallantry among the antiquated dames, and now and
then eying the buxom nursery-maids with what might almost
be mistaken for an air of libertinism.

Among the habitual frequenters of this place I had often
remarked an old gentleman, whose dress was decidedly anti-
revolutional. He wore the three-cornered cocked hat ef the
ancien regime ; his hair was frizzed over each ear into ailes de
pigeon, a style strongly savoring of Bourbonism ; and a queue
stuck out behind, the loyalty of which was not to be disputed.
His dress, though ancient, had an air of decayed gentility, and
I observed that he took his snuff out of an elegant though old-
fashioned gold box. He appeared to be the most popular man
on the walk. He had a compliment for every old lady, he kissed
every child, and he patted every little dog on the head ; for chil-
dren and little dogs are very important members of society in
France. I must observe, however, that he seldom kissed a
child without, at the same time, pinching the nursery-maid's
cheek ; a Frenchman of the old school never forgets his devoirs
to the sex.

I had taken a liking to this old gentleman. There was an
habitual expression of benevolence in his face which I have very
frequently remarked in these relics of the politer days of France.
The constant interchange. of those thousand little courtesies
which imperceptibly sweeten life have a happy effect upon the
features, and spread a mellow evening charm over the wrinkles
of old age.

A CONTENTED MAN. 189

Where there is a favorable predisposition one soon forms a
kind of tacit intimacy by often meeting on the same walks.
Once or twice I accommodated him with a bench, after which
we touched hats on passing each other ; at length we got so far
as to take a pinch of snuff together out of his box, which is
equivalent to eating salt together in the East ; from that time
our acquaintance was established.

I now became his frequent companion in his morning prome-
nades, and derived much amusement from his good-humored
remarks on men and manners. One morning, as we were stroll-
ing through an alley of the Tuileries, with the autumnal breeze
whirling the yellow leaves about our path, my companion fell
into a peculiarly communicative vein, and gave me several
particulars of his history. He had once been wealthy, and
possessed of a fine estate in the country and a noble hotel in
Paris ; but the revolution, which effected so many disastrous
changes, stripped him of every thing. He was secretly de-
nounced by his own steward during a sanguinary period of the
revolution, and a number of the bloodhounds of the Convention
were sent to arrest him. He received private intelligence of
their approach in time to effect his escape. He landed in Eng-
land without money or friends, but considered himself singu-
larly fortunate in having his head upon his shoulders ; several
of his neighbors having been guillotined as a punishment for
being rich.

When he reached London he had but a louis in his pocket,
and no prospect of getting another. He ate a solitary dinner
of beefsteak, and was almost poisoned by port wine, which
from its color he had mistaken for claret. The dingy look of
the chop-house, and of the little mahogany-colored box in which
he ate his dinner, contrasted sadly with the gay saloons of
Paris. Every thing looked gloomy and disheartening. Poverty
stared him in the face ; he turned over the few shillings he had
of change ; did not know what was to become of him ; and —
went to the theatre !

He took his seat in the pit, listened attentively to a tragedy
of which he did not understand a word, and which seemed made
up of fighting, and stabbing, and scene-shifting, and began to
feel his spirits sinking within him ; when, casting his eyes into
the orchestra, what was his surprise to recognize an old friend
and neighbor in the very act of extorting music from a huge
violoncello.

As soon as the evening's performance was over he tapped his
friend on the shoulder ; they kissed each other on each cheek,

190 TUE CRAYON PAPERS.

and the musician took him home, and shared his lodgings with
him. He had learned music as an accomplishment ; by his
friend's advice he now turned to it as a means of support. He
procured a violin, offered himself for the orchestra, was received,
and again considered himself one of the most fortunate men
upon earth.

Here therefore he lived for many years during the ascend-
ency of the terrible Napoleon. He found several emigrants
living, like himself, by the exercise of their talents. They
associated together, talked of France and of old times, and
endeavored to keep up a semblance of Parisian life in the cen-
tre of London.

They dined at a miserable cheap French restaurant in the
neighborhood of Leicester-square, where they were served with
a caricature of French cookery. They took their promenade in
St. James's Park, and endeavored to fancy it the Tuileries ; in
short, they made shift to accommodate themselves to every thing
but an English Sunday. Indeed the old gentleman seemed to
have nothing to say against the English, whom he affirmed to be
braves gens; and he mingled so much among them that at the
end of twenty years he could speak their language almost well
enough to be understood.

The downfall of Napoleon was another epoch in his life. He
had considered himself a fortunate man to make his escape pen-
niless out of France, and he considered himself fortunate to be
able to return penniless into it. It is true that he found his
Parisian hotel had passed through several hands during the
vicissitudes of the times, so as to be beyond the reach of re-
covery ; but then he had been noticed benignantly by govern-
ment, and had a pension of several hundred francs, upon which,
with careful management, he lived independently, and, as far
as I could judge, happily.

As his once splendid hotel was now occupied as a lidtel garni,
he hired a small chamber in the attic ; it was but, as he said,
changing his bedroom up two pair of stairs — he was still in his
own house. His room was decorated with pictures of several
beauties of former times, with whom he professed to have been
on favorable terms : among them was a favorite opera-dancer ;
who had been the admiration of Paris at the breaking out of the
revolution. She had been a protegee of my friend, and one of
the few of his youthful favorites who had survived the lapse
of time and its various vicissitudes. They had renewed their
acquaintance, and she now and then visited him ; but the beauti-
ful Psyche, once the fashion of the day and the idol of the par-

A CONTENTED MAN. 191

terre, was now a shrivelled, little old woman, warped in the back,
and with a hooked nose.

The old gentleman was a devout attendant upon levees ; he
was most zealous in his loyalty, and could not speak of the
royal family without a burst of enthusiasm, for he still felt to-
wards them as his companions in exile. As to his poverty he
made light of it, and indeed had a good-humored way of consol-
ing himself for every cross and privation. Jf he had lost his
chateau in the country, he had half a dozen royal palaces, as it
were, at his command. He had Versailles and .St. Cloud for his
country resorts, and the shady alleys of the Tuileries, and the
Luxembourg for his town recreation. Thus all his promenades
and relaxations were magnificent, yet cost nothing.

When I walk through these tine gardens, said he, I have only
to fancy myself the owner of them, and they are mine. All
these gay crowds. are my visitors, and I defy the grand seigneur
himself tp display a greater variety of beauty. Nay, what is
better, I have not the trouble of entertaining them. My estate
is a perfect Sans Souci, where every one does as he pleases, and
no one troubles the owner. All Paris is my theatre, and pre-
sents me with a continual spectacle. I have a table spread for
me in every street, and thousands of waiters ready to fly at my
bidding. When my servants have waited upon me I pay them,
discharge them, and there's an end ; I have no fears of their
wronging or pilfering me when my back is turned. Upon the
whole, said the old gentleman, with a smile of infinite good-
humor, when I think upon the various risks I have run, and the
manner in which 1 have escaped them ; when I recollect all that
I have suffered, and consider all that I at present enjoy, I can-
not but look upon myself as a man of singular good fortune.

Such was the brief history of this practical philosopher, and
it is a picture of many a Frenchman ruined by the revolution.
The French appear to have a greater facility than most men in
accommodating themselves to the reverses of life, and of ex-
tracting honey out of the bitter things of this world. The first
shock of calamity is apt to overwhelm them, but when it is once
past, their natural buoyancy of feeling soon brings them to the
surface. This may be called the result of levity of character,
but it answers the end of reconciling us to misfortune, and if it
be not true philosophy, it is something almost as efficacious.
Ever since I have heard the stor}' of my little Frenchman, I have
treasured it up in my heart ; and I thank my stars I have at
length found what I had long considered as not to be found on
earth — a contented man.

192

THE CRAYON PAPERS.

P.S. There is no calculating on human happiness. Since
writing the foregoing, the law of indemnity has been passed,
and my friend restored to a great part of his fortune. I was
absent from Paris at the time, but on my return hastened to
congratulate him. I found him magnificently lodged on the first
floor of his hotel. I was ushered, by a servant in livery,
through splendid saloons, to a cabinet richly furnished, when
I found my little Frenchman reclining on a couch. He received
me with his usual cordiality ; but I saw»the gayety and benevo-
lence of .his countenance had fled ; he had an eye full of care
and anxiety.

1 congratulated him on his good fortune. "Good fortune?"
echoed he ; " bah ! I have been plundered of a princely fortune,
and they give me a pittance as an indemnity."

Alas ! I found my late poor and contented friend one of the
richest and most miserable men in Paris. Instead of rejoicing
in the ample competency restored to him, he is daity repining
at the superfluity withheld. He no longer wanders in happy
idleness about Paris, but is a repining attendant in the ante-
chambers of ministers. His loyalty has evaporated with his
gayety ; he screws his mouth when the Bourbons are mentioned,
and even shrugs his shoulders when he hears the praises of the
king. In a word, he is one of the many philosophers undone
by the law of indemnity, and his case is desperate, for I doubt
whether even another reverse of fortune, which should restore
him to poverty, could make him again a happy mail.

WOLFEKT'S BOOST,

AND

MISCELLANIES.

BY

WASHINGTON IRVING.

NEW YORK: 46 EAST 14TH STREET.

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

BOSTON : 100 PURCHASE STREET.

WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

A CHRONICLE OP WOLFERT'S ROOST „ 11

SLEEPY HOLLOW " 24

BIRDS OF &PRING 34

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA 38

ABENCERRAGE "... 41

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND 51

THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES 53

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE 67

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM 72

SPANISH ROMANCE 75

LEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA. 78

COMMUNIPAW 83

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS 89

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW 95

THE BERMUDAS 105

THE THREE KINGS OF BERMUDA Ill

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER 115

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA 123

THE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA 125

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT 137

COUNT VAN HORN 142

3

WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir : I have observed that as a man advances in life, he is
subject to a kind of plethora of the mind, doubtless occasioned
by the vast accumulation of wisdom and experience upon the
brain. Hence he is apt to become narrative and admonitory,
that is to say, fond of telling long stories, and of doling out
advice, to the small profit and great annoyance of his friends.
As I have a great horror of becoming the oracle, or, more
technically speaking, the "bore," of the domestic circle, and
would much rather bestow my wisdom and tediousness upon
the world at large, I have always sought to ease off this sur-
charge of the intellect by means of my pen, and hence have
inflicted divers gossiping volumes upon the patience of the pub-
lic. I am tired, however, of writing volumes ; they do not
afford exactly the relief I require ; there is too much prepara-
tion, arrangement, and parade, in this set form of coming before
the public. I am growing too indolent and unambitious for any
thing that requires labor or display. I have thought, therefore,
of securing to myself a snug corner in some periodical work
where I might, as it were, loll at my ease in my elbow-chair,
and chat sociably with the public, as with an old friend, on
any chance subject that might pop into my brain.

In looking around, for this purpose, upon the various excel-
lent periodicals with which our country abounds, my eye was
struck by the title of your work — "THE KNICKERBOCKER."
My heart leaped at the sight.

DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, Sir, was one of my earliest and
most valued friends, and the recollection of him is associated
with some of the pleasantest scenes of my youthful days. To
explain this, and to show how I came into possession of sundry
of his posthumous works, which I have from time to time given

6 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

to the world, permit me to relate a few particulars of our early
intercourse. I give them with the more confidence, as I know
the interest you take in that departed worthy, whose name and
effigy are stamped upon your title-page, and as they will be
found important to the better understanding and relishing divers
communications I may have to make to you.

My first acquaintance with that great and good man, for
such I may venture to call him, now that the lapse of some
thirty years has shrouded his name with venerable antiquity,
and the popular voice has elevated him to the rank of the
classic historians of yore, my first acquaintance with him was
formed on the banks of the Hudson, not far from the wizard
region of Sleepy Hollow. He had come there in the course of
his researches among the Dutch neighborhoods for materials
for his immortal history. For this purpose, he was ransacking
the archives of one of the most ancient and historical man-
sions in the country. It was a lowly edifice, built in the time
of the Dutch dynasty, and stood on a green bank, overshad-
owed by trees, from which it peeped forth upon the Great
Tappaau Zee, so famous among early Dutch navigators. A
bright pure spring welled up at the foot of the green bank ; a
wild brook came babbling down a neighboring ravine, and
threw itself into a little woody cove, in front of the mansion.
It was indeed as quiet and sheltered a nook as the heart of man
could require, in which to take refuge from the cares and
troubles of the world ; and as such, it had been chosen in old
times, by Wolfert Acker, one of the privy councillors of the re-
nowned Peter Stuyvesant.

This worthy but ill-starred man had led a weary and worried
life, throughout the stormy reign of the chivalric Peter, being
one of those unlucky wights with whom the world is ever at
variance, and who are kept in a continual fume and fret, by
the wickedness of mankind. At the time of the subjugation
of the province by the English, he retired hither in high dud-
geon ; with the bitter determination to bury himself from the
world, and live here in peace and quietness for the remainder
of his days. In token of this fixed resolution, he inscribed
over his door the favorite Dutch motto, " Lust in Rust," (pleas-
ure in repose.) The mansion was thence called "Wolfert's
Rust " — Woifert's Rest; but in process of time, the name
was vitiated into Wolfert's Roost, probably from its quaint
cock-loft look, or from its having a weather-cock perched on
every gable. This name it continued to bear, long after the
unlucky Wolfert was driven forth once more upon a wrangling-

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFE RT^S ROOST. 1

world, by the tongue of a termagant wife ; for it passed into a
proverb through the neighborhood, and has been handed down
by tradition, that the cock of the Roost was the most hen-
pecked bird in the country.

This primitive and historical mansion has since passed through
many changes and trials, which it may be my lot hereafter to
notice. At the time of the sojourn of Diedrich Knickerbocker it
was in possession of the gallant family of the Van Tassels, who
have figured so conspicuously in his writings. What appears to
have given it peculiar value, in his eyes, was the rich treasury
of historical facts here secretly hoarded up, like buried gold ;
for it is said that Wolfert Acker, when he retreated from New
Amsterdam, carried off with him many of the records and jour-
nals of the province, pertaining to the Dutch dynasty ; swearing
that they should never fall into the hands of the English. These,
like the lost books of Livy, had baffled the research of former
historians ; but these did I find the indefatigable Diedrich dili-
gently deciphering. He was already a sage in years and expe-
rience, I but an idle stripling ; yet he did not despise my youth
and ignorance, but took me kindly by the hand, and led me
gently into those paths of local and traditional lore which he
was so fond of exploring. I sat with him in his little chamber
at the Roost, and watched the antiquarian patience and perse-
verance with which he deciphered those venerable Dutch docu-
ments, worse than Herculanean manuscripts. I sat with him
by the spring, at the foot of the green bank, and listened to
his heroic tales about the worthies of the olden time, the pala-
dins of New Amsterdam. I accompanied him in his legendary
researches about Tarrytown and Sing-Sing, and explored with
him the spell-bound recesses of Sleepy Hollow. I was present
at many of his conferences with the good old Dutch burghers
and their wives, from whom he derived many of those marvel-
lous facts not laid down in books or records, and which give
such superior value and authenticity to his history, over all
others that have been written concerning the New Netherlands.

But let me check my proneness to dilate upon this favorite
theme ; I may recur to it hereafter. Suffice it to say, the inti-
macy thus formed, continued for a considerable time ; and in
company with the worthy Diedrich, I visited many of the places
celebrated by his pen. The currents of our lives at length
diverged. He remained at home to complete his mighty work,
while a vagrant fancy led me to wander about the world. Many,
many years elapsed, before I returned to the parent soil. Jn
the interim, the venerable historian of the New Netherlands

8 WO L FEET'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

nad been gathered to his fathers, but his name had risen to re-
nown. His native city, that city in which he so much delighted,
had decreed all manner of costly honors to his memory. I found
his effigy imprinted upon new-year cakes, and devoured with
eager relish by holiday urchins ; a great oyster-house bore the
name of " Knickerbocker Hall ;" and I narrowly escaped the
pleasure of being run over by a Knickerbocker omnibus !

Proud of having associated with a man who had achieved
such greatness, J now recalled our early intimacy with tenfold
pleasure, and sought to revisit the scenes we had trodden to-
gether. The most important of these was the mansion of the
Van Tassels, the Roost of the unfortunate Wolfert. Time,
which changes all things, is but slow in its operations upon a
Dutchman's dwelling. I found the venerable and quaint little
edifice much as I had seen it during the sojourn of Diedrich.
There stood his elbow-chair in the corner of the room he had
occupied ; the old-fashioned Dutch writing-desk at which he
had pored over the chronicles of the Manhattoes ; there was
the old wooden chest, with the archives left by Wolfert Acker,
many of which, however, had been fired off as wadding from
the long duck gun of the Van Tassels. The scene around the
mansion was still the same ; the green bank ; the spring beside
which I had listened to the legendary narratives of the histo-
rian ; the wild brook babbling down to the woody cove, and the
overshadowing locust trees, half shutting out the ^prospect of
the great Tappaan Zee.

As I looked round upon the scene, my heart yearned at the
recollection of my departed friend, and I wistfully eyed the
mansion which he had inhabited, and which was fast moulder-
ing to decay. The thought struck me to arrest the desolating
hand of Time ; to rescue the historic pile from utter ruin, and
to make it the closing scene of my wanderings ; a quiet home,
where I might enjoy "lust in rust" for the remainder of my
days. It is true, the fate of the unlucky Wolfert passed across
my mind ; but I consoled myself with the reflection that I was
a bachelor, and that I had no termagant wife to dispute the
sovereignty of the Roost with me.

I have become possessor of the Roost. I have repaired and
renovated it with religious care, in the genuine Dutch style,
and have adorned and illustrated it with sundry relics of the
glorious days of the New Netherlands. A venerable weather-
cock, of portly Dutch dimensions, which once battled with the
wind on the top of the Stadt-House of New Amsterdam, in the
time of Peter Stuyvesant, now erects its crest on the gable end

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT' S ROOST. 9

of my edifice ; a gilded horse in full gallop, once the weather-
cock of the great Vander Heyden Palace of Albany, now glit-
ters in the sunshine, and veers with every breeze, on the peaked
turret over my portal ; my sanctum sanctorum is the chamber
once honored by the illustrious Diedrich, and it is from his
elbow-chair, and his identical old Dutch writing-desk, that I
pen this rambling epistle.

Here, then, have I set up my rest, surrounded by the recol-
lections of early days, and the mementoes of the historian of
the Manhattoes, with that glorious river before me, which flows
with such majesty through his works, and which has ever been
to me a river of delight.

I thank God I was born on the banks of the Hudson ! I
think it an invaluable advantage to be born and brought up in
the neighborhood of some grand and noble object in nature ; a
river, a lake, or a mountain. We make a friendship with it,
we in a manner ally ourselves to it for life. It remains an
object of 'our pride and affections, a rallying point, to call us
home again after all our wanderings. uThe things which we
have learned in our childhood," says an old writer, " grow up
with our souls, and unite themselves to it." So it is with the
scenes among which we have passed our early days ; they in-
fluence the whole course of our thoughts and feelings ; and I
fancy I can trace much of what is good and pleasant in my
own heterogeneous compound to my early companionship with
this glorious river. In the warmth of my youthful enthusiasm,
I used to clothe it with moral attributes, and almost to give it
a soul. I admired its frank, bold, honest character ; its noble
sincerity and perfect truth. Here was no specious, smiling
surface, covering the dangerous sand-bar or perfidious rock ;
but a stream deep as it was broad, and bearing with honorable
faith the bark that trusted to its waves. I gloried in its simple,
quiet, majestic, epic flow ; ever straight forward. Once, in-
deed, it turns aside for a moment, forced from its course by
opposing mountains, but it struggles bravely through them,
and immediately resumes its straightforward march. Behold,
thought I, an emblem of a good man's course through life ;
ever simple, open, and direct ; or if, overpowered by adverse
circumstances, he deviate into error, it is but momentary; he
soon recovers his onward and honorable career, and continues it
to the end of his pilgrimage.

Excuse this rhapsody, into which I have been betrayed by a
revival of early feelings. The Hudson is, in a manner, my first
and last love ; and after all my wanderings and seeming infi-

10 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

delities, I return to it with a heart-felt preference over all the
other rivers in the world. I seem to catch new life as I bathe
in its ample billows and inhale the pure breezes of its hills. It
is true, the romance of youth is past, that once spread illusions
over every scene. I can no longer picture an Arcadia in every
green valley ; nor a fairy land among the distant mountains ;
nor a peerless beauty in every villa gleaming among the trees ;
but though the illusions of youth have faded from the land-
scape, the recollections of departed years and departed pleasures
shed over it the mellow charm of evening sunshine.

Permit me, then, Mr. Editor, through the medium of your
work, to hold occasional discourse from my retreat with the
busy world I have abandoned. I have much to say about what
I have seen, heard, felt, and thought through the course of a
varied and rambling life, and some lucubrations that have long
been encumbering my portfolio ; together with divers remi-
niscences of the venerable historian of the New Netherlands,
that may not be unacceptable to those who have taken an
interest in his writings, and are desirous of any thing that may
cast a light back upon our early history. Let your readers rest
assured of one thing, that, though retired from the world, I am
not disgusted with it ; and that if in my communings with it I
do not prove very wise, I trust I shall at least prove very good-
natured.

Which is all at present, from

Yours, etc.,

GEOFFREY CRAYON,

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Worthy Sir: In a preceding communication, I have given yon
some brief notice of Wolfert's Roost, the mansion where I first
had the good fortune to become acquainted with the venerable
historian of the New Netherlands. As this ancient edifice is
likely to be the place whence I shall date many of my lucubra-
tions, and as it is really a very remarkable little pile, intimately
connected with all the great epochs of our local and national
history, I have thought it but right to give some farther par-
ticulars concerning it. Fortunately, in rummaging a ponderous
Dutch chest of drawers, which serves as the archives of the
Roost, and in which are preserved many inedited manuscripts
of Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, together with the precious records of
New Amsterdam, brought hither by Wolfert Acker at the down-
fall of the Dutch dynasty, as has been already mentioned, I

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 11

found in one corner, among dried pumpkin-seeds, bunches of
thyme, and pennyroyal, and crumbs of new-year cakes, a man-
uscript, carefully wrapped up in the fragments of an old parch-
ment deed, but much blotted, and the ink grown foxy by time,
which, on inspection, I discovered to be a faithful chronicle of
the Roost. The handwriting, and certain internal evidences,
leave no doubt in my mind, that it is a genuine production of
the venerable historian of the New Netherlands, written, very
probably, during his residence at the Roost, in gratitude for the
hospitality of its proprietor. As such, I submit it for publica-
tion. As the entire chronicle is too long for the pages of your
Magazine, and as it contains many minute particulars, which
might prove tedious to the general reader, 1 have abbreviated
and occasionally omitted some of its details ; but may hereafter
furnish them separately, should they seem to be required by the
curiosity of an enlightened and document-hunting public.
Respectfully yours,

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST.

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKER-
BOCKER.

ABOUT five-and-twenty miles from the ancient and renowned
city of Manhattan, formerly called New Amsterdam, and vul-
garly called New York, on the eastern bank of that expansion
of the Hudson, known among Dutch mariners of yore, as the
Tappaan Zee, bein^ in fact the great Mediterranean Sea of the
New Netherlands, stands a little old-fashioned stone mansion,
all .made up of gable-ends, and as full of angles and corners as
an old cocked hat. Though but of small dimensions, yet, like
many small people, it is of mighty spirit, and values itself
greatly on its antiquity, being one of the oldest edifices, for its
size, in the whole country. It claims to be an ancient seat of
empire, I may rather say an empire in itself, and like all em-
pires, great and small, has had its grand historical epochs. In
speaking of this doughty and valorous little pile, I shall call it
by its usual appellation of k ' The Roost ; ' ' though that is a
name given to it in modern days, since it became the abode of
the white man.

Its origin, in truth, dates far back in that remote region com-

12 WOLFE RT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

monly called the fabulous age, in which vulgar fact becomes
mystified, and tinted up with delectable fiction. The eastern
shore of the Tappaan Sea was inhabited, in those days by an
unsophisticated race, existing in all the simplicity of nature ;
that is to say, they lived by hunting and fishing, and recreated
themselves occasionally with a little tomahawking and scalping.
Each stream that flows down from the hills into the Hudson,
had its petty sachem, who ruled over a hand's-breadth of forest
on either side, and had his seat of government at its mouth.
The chieftain who ruled at the Roost, was not merely a great
warrior, but a medicine-man, or prophet, or conjurer, for they
all mean the same thing, in Indian parlance. Of his fighting
propensities, evidences still remain, in various arrow-heads of
flint, and stone battle-axes, occasionally digged up about the
Roost : of his wizard powers, we have a token in a spring which
wells up at the foot of the bank, on the very margin of the
river, which, it is said, was gifted by him with rejuvenating
powers, something like the renowned Fountain of Youth in the
Floridas, so anxiously but vainly sought after by the veteran
Ponce de Leon. This story, however, is stoutly contradicted
by an old Dutch matter-of-fact tradition, which declares that
the spring in question was smuggled over from Holland in a
churn, by Femmetie Van Slocum, wife of Goosen Garret Van
Slocum, one of the first settlers, and that she took it up by
night, unknown to her husband, from beside their farm-house
near Rotterdam ; being sure she should find no water equal to
it in the new country — and she was right.

The wizard sachem had a great passion for discussing terri-
torial questions, and settling boundary-lines ; this kept him in
continual feud with the neighboring sachems, each of whom
stood up stoutly for his hand-breadth of territory ; so that there
is not a petty stream nor ragged hill in the neighborhood, that
has not been the subject of long talks and hard battles. The
sachem, however, as has been observed, was a medicine-man,
as well as warrior, and vindicated his claims by arts as well as
arms ; so that, by dint of a little hard fighting here, and hocus-
pocus there, he managed to extend his boundary-line from field
to field and stream to stream, until he found himself in legiti-
mate possession of that region of hills and valleys, bright foun-
tains and limpid brooks, locked in by the mazy windings of the
Neperan and the Pocantico.1

1 As EVERY one may not recognize these boundaries by their original Indian names,
it may be well to observe, that "the Neperan is that beautiful stream, vulgarly called
the (Saw-Mill River, which, after winding gracefully for many miles through a lovely

A CHRONICLE OF WQLFERT' S ROOST. 13

This last-mentioned stream, or rather the valley through
which it flows, was the most difficult of all his acquisitions. Jt
lay half way to the stronghold of the redoubtable sachem of
Sing-Sing, and was claimed by him as an integral part of his
domains. Many were the sharp conflicts between the rival
chieftains for the sovereignty of this valley, and many the
ambuscades, surprisals, and deadly onslaughts that took place
among its fastnesses, of which it grieves me much that I can-
not furnish the details for the gratification of those gentle but
bloody-minded readers of both sexes, who delight in the romance
of the tomahawk and scalping-knife. Suffice it to say that the
wizard chieftain was at length victorious, though his victory is
attributed in Indian tradition to a great medicine or charm by
which he laid the sachem of Sing-Sing and his warriors asleep
among the rocks and recesses of the valley, where they remain
asleep to the present day with their bows and war-clubs beside
them. This was the origin of that potent and drowsy spell
which still prevails over the valley of the Pocantico, and which
has gained it the well-merited appellation of Sleepy Hollow.
Often, in secluded and quiet parts of that valley, where the
stream is overhung by dark woods and rocks, the ploughman,
on some calm and sunny day as he shouts to his oxen, is sur-
prised at hearing faint shouts from the hill-sides in reply ;
being, it is said, the spell-bound warriors, who half start from
their rocky couches and grasp their weapons, but sink to sleep
again.

The conquest of the Pocantico was the last triumph of the
wizard sachem. Notwithstanding all his medicine and charms,
he fell in battle in attempting to extend his boundary-line to
the east so as to take in the little wild valley of the Sprain,
and his grave is still shown near the banks of that pastoral
stream. He left, however, a great empire to his successors,
extending along the Tappaan Zee, from Yonkers quite to Sleepy
Hollow ; all which delectable region, if every one had his right,
would still acknowledge allegiance to the lord of the Roost —
whoever he might be.1

valley, shrouded by groves, and dotted by Dutch farm-houses, empties Itself into the
Hudson, at the ancient dorp of Yonkers. The Pocantico is that hitherto nameless
brook, that, rising among woody hills, winds in many a wizard maze through the
sequestered haunts of Sleepy Hollow. We owe it to the indefatigable researches of
Mr. KNICKERBOCKER, that those beautiful streams are rescued from modern common-
place, and reinvested with their ancient Indian names. The correctness of the vener-
able historian may be ascertained, by reference to the records of the original Indian
grants to the Herr Frederick Philipsen, preserved in the county clerk's office, at White
Plains.

1 In recording the contest for the sovereignty of Sleepy Hollow, I have called one
Bachem by the modern name of his castle or stronghold, viz. : Sing-Sing. This, 1 would

14 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

The wizard sachem was succeeded by a line of chiefs, of
whom nothing remarkable remains on record. The last who
makes any figure in history is the one who ruled here at the
time of the discovery of the country by the white man. This
sachem is said to have been a renowned trencherman, who
maintained almost as potent a sway by dint of good feeding as
his warlike predecessors had done by hard fighting. He dili-
gently cultivated the growth of oysters along the aquatic
borders of his territories, and founded those great oyster-beds
which yet exist along the shores of the Tappaan Zee. Did any
dispute occur between him and a neighboring sachem, he in-
vited him and all his principal sages and fighting-men to a
solemn banquet, and seldom failed of feeding them into terms.
Enormous heaps of oyster-shells, which encumber the lofty
banks of the river, remain as monuments of his gastronomical
victories, and have been occasionally adduced through mistake
by amateur geologists from town, as additional proofs of the
deluge. Modern investigators, who are making such indefati-
gable researches into our early history, have even affirmed that
this sachem was the very individual on whom Master Hendrick
Hudson and his mate, Robert Juet, made that sage and
astounding experiment so gravely recorded by the latter in his
narrative of the voyage: "Our master and his mate deter-
mined to try some of the cheefe men of the country whether
they had any treacherie in them. So they took them down
into the cabin and gave them so much wine and aqua vitse
that they were all very merrie ; one of them had his wife with
him, which sate so modestly as any of our countrywomen
would do in a strange place. In the end one of them was
clriinke ; and that was strange to them, for they could not tell
how to take it." 1

How far Master Hendrick Hudson and his worthy mate car-
ried their experiment with the sachem's wife is not recorded,
neither does the curious Robert Juet make any mention of the
after-consequences of this grand moral test ; tradition, how-
ever, affirms that the sachem on landing gave his modest
spouse a hearty rib-roasting, according to the connubial disci-
pline of the aboriginals ; it farther affirms that he remained a
hard drinker to the day of his death, trading away all his

observe for the sake of historical exactness, is a corruption of the old Indian name,
O-*in-sing, or rather O-sin-song; that is to say, a place where any thing may be had
fora song — a great recommendation for a market town. The modern and melodious
alteration of the name to Sing-Sing is said to have been made in compliment to
an eminent Methodist singing-master, who first introduced into the neighborhood the
art of singing through the nose. D. K.

1 See Juet's Journal, Purchas Pilgrim.

A CI1EONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 15

lands, acre by acre, for aqua \\tee ; by which means the Roost
and all its domains, from Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, came, in
the regular course of trade and by right of purchase, into the
possession of the Dutchmen.

Never has a territorial right in these new countries been
more legitimately and tradefully established ; yet, I grieve to
say, the worthy government of the New Netherlands was not
suffered to enjoy thistgrand acquisition unmolested ; for, in the
year 1G54, the losel Yankees of Connecticut — those swapping,
bargaining, squatting enemies of the Manhattoes — made a
daring inroad into this neighborhood and founded a colony
called Westchester, or, as the ancient Dutch records term it,
Vest Dorp, in the right of one Thomas Pell, who pretended to
have purchased the whole surrounding country of the Indians,
and stood ready to argue their claims before any tribunal of
Christendom.

This happened during the chivalrous reign of Peter Stuyve-
saut, ancl it roused the ire of that gunpowder old hero ; who,
without waiting to discuss claims and titles, pounced at once
upon the nest of nefarious squatters, carried off twenty-five of
them in chains to the Manhattoes, nor did he stay his hand,
nor give rest to his wooden leg, until he had driven every
Yankee back into the bounds of Connecticut, or obliged him
to acknowledge allegiance to their High Mightinesses. He
then established certain out-posts, far in the Indian country,
to keep an eye over these debatable lands ; one of these
border-holds was the Roost, being accessible from New Amster-
dam by water, and easily kept supplied. The Yankees, how"-
ever, had too great a hankering after this delectable region to
give it up entirely. Some remained and swore allegiance to the
Manhattoes ; but, while they kept this open semblance of fealty,
they went to work secretly and vigorously to intermarry and
multiply, and by these nefarious means, artfully propagated
themselves into possession of a wide tract of those open, arable
parts of Westchester county, lying along the Sound, where
their descendants may be found at the present day ; while the
mountainous regions along the Hudson, with the valleys of the
Neperan and the Pocantico, are tenaciously held by the lineal
descendants of the Copperheads.

THE chronicle of the venerable Diedrich here goes on to relnte
how that, shortly after the above-mentioned events, the whole
province of the New Netherlands was subjugated by the

16 WOLFERT'S EOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

British ; how that Wolfert Acker, one of the wrangling coun-
cillors of Peter Stuyvesant, retired in dudgeon to this fastness
in the wilderness, determining to enjoy t; lust in rust " for the
remainder of his days, whence the place first received its name
of Wolfert's Roost. As these and sundry other matters have
been laid before the public in a preceding article, 1 shall pass
them over, and resume the chronicle where it treats of matters
not hitherto recorded :

LIKE many men who retire from a worrying world, says
DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER, to enjoy quiet in tlie country, Wol-
fert Acker soon found himself up to the ears in trouble. He
had a termagant wife at home, and there was what is profanely
called " the deuce to pay," abroad. The recent irruption of
the Yankees into the bounds of the New Netherlands, had left
behind it a doleful pestilence, such as is apt to follow the steps
of invading armies. This was the deadly plague of witchcraft,
which had long been prevalent to the eastward. The malady
broke out at Vest Dorp, and threatened to spread throughout
the country. The Dutch burghers along the Hudson, from
Yonkers to Sleepy Hollow, hastened to nail horse-shoes to their
doors, which have ever been found of sovereign virtue to repel
this awful visitation. This is the origin of the horse-shoes
which may still be seen nailed to the doors of barns and farm-
houses, in various parts of this sage and sober-thoughted region.

The evil, however, bore hard upon the Roost ; partly, per-
haps, from its having in old times been subject to supernatural
ifTttuences, during the sway of the Wizard Sachem ; but it has
always, in fact, been considered a fated mansion. The unlucky
Wolfert had no rest day or night. When the weather was quiet
all over the country, the wind would howl and whistle round his
roof ; witches would ride and whirl upon his weathercocks,
and scream down his chimneys. His cows gave bloody milk,
and his horses broke bounds, and scampered into the woods.
There were not wanting evil tongues to whisper that Wolfert's
termagant wife had some tampering with the enemy ; and that
she even attended a witches' Sabbath in Sleepy Hollow ; nay, a
neighbor, who lived hard by, declared that he saw her harness-
ing a rampant broom-stick, and about to ride to the meeting ;
though others presume it was merely flourished in the course of
one of her curtain lectures, to give energy and emphasis to a
period. Certain it is, that Wolfert Acker nailed a horse-shoe
to the front door, during one of her nocturnal excursions, to*
prevent her return ; but as she re-entered the house without any

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT' S ROOST. 17

difficulty, it is probable she was not so much of a witch as she
was represented.1

After the time of AVolfert Acker, a long interval elapses,
about which but little is known. It is hoped, however, that the
antiquarian researches so diligently making in every part of
this new country, may yet throw some light upon what may be
termed the Dark Ages of the Roost.

The next period at which we find this venerable and eventful
pile rising to importance, and resuming its old belligerent char-
acter, is during the revolutionary war. It was at that time
owned by Jacob Van Tassel, or Van Texel, as the name was
originally spelled, after the place in Holland which gave birth
to this heroic line. He was strong-built, long-limbed, and as
stout in soul as in body ; a fit successor to the warrior sachem
of yore, and, like him, delighting in extravagant enterprises
and hardy deeds of arms. But, before I enter upon the exploits
of this worthy cock of the Roost, it is fitting I should throw
some light upon the state of the mansion, and of the surround-
ing country, at the time.

The situation of the Roost is in the very heart of what was
the debatable ground between the American and British lines,
during the war. The British held possession of the city of
New York, and the island of Manhattan on which it stands.
The Americans drew up toward the Highlands, holding their
headquarters at Peekskill. The intervening country, from
Crotoii River to Spiting Devil Creek, was the debatable land,
subject to be harried by friend and foe, like -the Scottish borders
of yore. It is a rugged country, with a line of rocky hills
extending through it, like a back bone, sending ribs on either
side ; but among these rude hills are beautiful winding valleys,
like' those watered by the Pocantico and the Neperan. In the
fastnesses of these hills, and along these valleys, exist a race
of hard-headed, hard-handed, stout-hearted Dutchmen, descend-
ants of the primitive Nederlanders. Most of these were strong
whigs throughout the war, and have ever remained obstinately

1 HISTORICAL NOTE. — The annexed extracts from the early colonial records, relate
to the irruption of witchcraft in Westchester county, as mentioned in the chronicle :

" JULY 7, 1670.— Katharine Harryson, accused of witchcraft on complaint of Thomas
Hunt and Edward Waters, in behalf of the town, who pray that she may be driven
from the town of Westchester. The woman appears before the council. . . . She was
a native of England, and had lived a year in Weathersfield, Connecticut, where she had
been tried for witchcraft, found guilty by the jury, acquitted by the bench, and released
out of prison, upon condition she would remove. Affair adjourned.

" AUGUST 24. — Affair taken up again, when, being heard at large, it was referred to
the general court of assize. Woman ordered to give security for good behavior," etc.

In another place is the following entry :

" Order given for Katharine Harry son, charged with witchcraft, to leave Westchester,
as the inhabitants are uneasy at her residing there, and she in ordered to go off."

18

WOLFSRT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

attached to the soil, and neither to be fought nor bought out of
their paternal acres. Others were tories, and adherents to the
old kingly rule ; some of whom took refuge within the British
lines, joined the royal bands of refugees, a name odious to the
American ear, and occasionally returned to harass their ancient
neighbors.

In a little while, this debatable land was overrun by preda-
tory bands from either side ; sacking hen-roosts, plundering
farm-houses, and driving off cattle. Hence arose those two
great orders of border chivalry, the Skinners and the Cowboys,
famous in the heroic annals of Westchester county. The former
fought, or rather marauded, under the American, the latter
under the British banner ; but both, in the hurry of their mili-
tary ardor, were apt to err on the safe side, and rob friend as
well as foe. Neither of them stopped to ask the politics of
horse or cow, which they drove into captivity ; nor, when they
wrung the neck of a rooster, did they trouble their heads to
ascertain whether he were crowing for Congress or King George.

While this marauding system prevailed on shore, the Great
Tappaan Sea, which washes this belligerent region, was domi-
neered over by British frigates and other vessels of war, an-
chored here and there, to keep an eye upon the river, and
maintain a communication between the various military posts.
Stout galleys, also, armed with eighteen-pounders, and navi-
gated with sails and oars, cruised about like hawks, ready to
pounce upon their prey.

All these were eyed with bitter hostility by the Dutch yeo-
manry along shore, who were indignant at seeing their great
Mediterranean ploughed by hostile prows; and would occasionally
throw up a mud breast-work on a point or promontory, mount
an old iron field-piece, and fire away at the enemy, though* the
greatest harm was apt to happen to themselves from the burst-'
ing of their ordnance ; nay, there was scarce a Dutchman along
the river that would hesitate to fire with his long duck gun at
any British cruiser that came within reach, as he had been accus-
tomed to fire at water-fowl.

I have been thus particular in my account of the times and
neighborhood, that the reader might the more readily com-
prehend the surrounding dangers in this the Heroic Age of the
Roost.

It was commanded at the time, as I have already observed,
by the ;stout Jacob Van Tassel. As I wish to be extremely
accurate in this part of my chronicle, I beg that this Jacob Van
Tassel of the Roost may not be confounded with another Jacob'

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 10

Van Tassel, commonly known in border story by the name of
"Clump-footed Jake," a noted tory, and one of the refugee
band of Spiting Devil. On the contrary, he of the Roost w;is
a patriot of the first water, and, if we may take his own word
for granted, a thorn in the side of the enemy. As the Roost,
from its lonely situation on the water's edge, might be liable
to attack, he took measures for defence. On a row of hooks
above his fireplace, reposed his great piece of ordnance, ready
charged and primed for action. This was a duck, or rather
goose-gun, of unparalleled longitude, with which it was said he
could kill a wild goose, though half-way across the Tappaan Sea.
Indeed, there are as many wonders told of this renowned gun,
as of the enchanted weapons of the heroes of classic story.

In different parts of the stone walls of his mansion, he had
made loop-holes, through which he might fire upon an assailant.
His wife was stout-hearted as himself, and could load as fast as
he could fire ; and then he had an ancient and redoubtable sister,
Nochie Van Wurmer, a match, as he said, for the stoutest man
in the country. Thus garrisoned, the little Roost was fit to
stand a siege, and Jacob Van Tassel was the man to defend it
to the last charge of powder.

He was, as I have already hinted, of pugnacious propensities ;
and, not content with being a patriot at home, and fighting for
the security of his own fireside, he extended his thoughts
abroad, and entered into a confederacy with certain of the
bold, hard-riding lads of Tarrytown, Petticoat Lane, and Sleepy
Hollow, who formed a kind of Holy Brotherhood, scouring tiie
country to clear it of Skinner and Cowboy, and all other bor-
der vermin. The Roost was one of their rallying points. Did
a band of marauders from Manhattan island come sweeping
through the neighborhood, and driving off cattle, the stout
Jacob and his compeers were soon clattering at their heels, and
fortunate did the rogues esteem themselves if they could but
get a part of their booty across the lines, or escape themselves
without a rough handling. Should the mosstroopers succeed
in passing with their cavalgada, with thundering tramp and
dusty whirlwind, across Kingsbridge, the Holy Brotherhood of
the Roost would rein up at that perilous pass, and, wheeling
about, would indemnify themselves by foraging the refugee
region of Morrisania.

When at home at the Roost, the stout Jacob was not idle ;
but was prone to carry on a petty warfare of his own, for his
private recreation and refreshment. Did he ever chance to
espy, from his look-out place, a hostile ship or galley anchored

20 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

or becalmed near shore, he would take down his long goose-gun
from the hooks over the fireplace, sally out alone, and lurk along
shore, dodging behind rocks and trees, and watching for hours
together, like a veteran mouser intent on a rat-hole. So sure
as a boat put off for shore, and carne within shot, bang ! went
the great goose-gun ; a shower of slugs and buck-shot whistled
about the ears of the enemy, and before the boat could reach
the shore, Jacob had scuttled up some woody ravine, and left
no trace behind.

About this time, the Roost experienced a vast accession of
warlike importance, in being made one of the stations of the
water-guard. This was a kind of aquatic corps of observation,
composed of long, sharp, canoe-shaped boats, technically called
whale-boats, that la}' lightly on the water, and could be rowtnl
with great rapidity. They were manned by resolute fellows,
skilled at pulling an oar, or handling a musket. These lurked
about in nooks and bays, and behind those long promontories
which run out into the Tappaan Sea, keeping a look-out, to give
notice of the approach or movements of hostile ships. They
roved about in pairs ; sometimes at night, with muffled oars,
gliding like spectres about frigates and guard-ships riding at
anchor, cutting off any boats that made for shore, and keeping
the enemy in constant uneasiness. These mosquito-cruisers
generally kept aloof by day, so that their harboring places might
not be discovered, but would pull quietly along, under shadow
of the shore, at night, to take up their quarters at the Roost.
Hither, at such time, would also repair the hard-riding lads
of the hills, to hold secret councils of war with the " ocean
chivalry;" and in these nocturnal meetings were concerted
many of those daring forays, by land and water, that resounded
throughout the border.

THE chronicle here goes on to recount divers wonderful
stories of the wars of the Roost, from which it would seem,
that this little warrior nest carried the terror of its arms into
every sea,* from Spiting Devil Creek to 'Antony's Nose ; that it
even bearded the stout island of Manhattan, invading it at
night, penetrating to its centre, and burning down the famous
Delancey house, the conflagration of which makes such a blaze
in revolutionary history. Nay more, in their extravagant dar-
ing, these cocks of the Roost meditated a nocturnal descent
upon New York itself, to swoop upon the British commanders,
Howe and Clinton, by surprise, bear them off captive, and per-
haps put a triumphant close to the war !

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 21

All these and many similar exploits are recorded by the
worthy Diedrich, with his usual minuteness and enthusiasm,
whenever the deeds in arms of his kindred Dutchmen are in
question ; but though most of these warlike stories rest upon
the best of all authority, that of the warriors themselves, and
though many of them are still current among the revolutionary
patriarchs of this heroic neighborhood, yet I dare not expose
them to the incredulity of a tamer and less chivalric age. Suf-
fice it to say, the frequent gatherings at the Roost, and the
hardy projects set on foot there, at length drew on it the fiery
indignation of the enemy ; and this was quickened by the con-
duct of the stout Jacob Van Tassel ; with whose valorous
achievements we resume the course of the chronicle.

THIS doughty Dutchman, continues the sage DIEDRICH KNICK-
ERBOCKERV was not content with taking a share in all the mag-
nanimous enterprises concocted at the Roost, but still continued
his petty warfare along shore. A series of exploits at length
raised his confidence in his prowess to such a height, that he
began to think himself and his goose-gun a match for any
thing. Unluckily, in the course of one of his prowlings, he
descried a British transport aground, not far from shore, with
her stern swung toward "the land, within point-blank shot.
The temptation was too great to be resisted ; bang ! as usual,
went the great goose-gun, shivering the cabin windows, and
driving all hands forward. Bang ! bang ! the shots were re-
peated. The reports brought several sharp-shooters of the
neighborhood to the spot ; before the transport could bring a
gun to bear, or land a boat, to take revenge, she was soundly pep-
pered, and the coast evacuated. This was the last of Jacob's
triumphs. He fared like some heroic spider, that has unwit-
tingly ensnared a hornet, to his immortal glory, perhaps, but
to the utter ruin of his web.

It was not long after this, during the absence of Jacob Van
Tassel on one of his forays, and when no one was in garrison
but his stout-hearted spouse, his redoubtable sister, Nochie Van
Wurmer, and a strapping negro wench, called Dinah, that an
armed vessel came to anchor off the Roost, and a boat full of
men pulled to shore. The garrison flew to arms, that is to say,
to mops, broom-sticks, shovels, tongs, and all kinds of domestic
weapons ; for, unluckily, the great piece of ordnance, the goose-
gun, was absent with its owner. Above all, a vigorous defence
was made with that most potent of female weapons, the tongue.

22 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Never did invaded henroost make a more .vociferous outcry.
It was all in vain. The house was sacked and plundered, fire
was set to each corner, and in a few moments its blaze shed a
baleful light far over the Tappaan Sea. The invaders then
pounced upon the blooming Lauey Van Tassel, the beauty of
the Roost, and endeavored to bear her off to the boat. But
here was the real tug of war. The mother, the aunt, and the
strapping negro wench, all flew to the rescue. The struggle
continued down to the very water's edge ; when a voice from
the armed vessel at anchor, ordered the spoilers to let go their
hold ; they relinquished their prize, jumped into their boats,
and pulled off, and the heroine of the Roost escaped with a
mere rumpling of the feathers.

THE fear of tiring my readers, who may not take such an
interest as myself in these heroic themes, induces me to close
here my extracts from this precious chronicle of the venerable
Diedrich. Suffice it briefly to say, that shortly after the -catas-
trophe of the Roost, Jacob Van Tassel, in the course of one of
his forays, fell into the hands of the British ; was sent prisoner
to New York, and was detained in captivity for the greater part
of the war. In the mean time, the Roost remained a melan-
choly ruin ; its stone walls and brick* chimneys alone standing,
blackened by fire, and the resort of bats and owlets. It was
not until the return of peace, when this belligerent neighbor-
hood once more resumed its quiet agricultural pursuits, that
the stout Jacob sought the scene of his triumphs and disas-
ters ; rebuilt the Roost, and reared again on high its glittering
weather-cocks.

Does any one want further particulars of the fortunes of
this eventful little pile? Let him go to the fountain-head, and
drink deep of historic truth. Reader ! the stout Jacob Van
Tassel still lives, a venerable, gray-headed patriarch of the
revolution, now in his ninety-fifth year ! He sits by his fire-
side, in the ancient city of the Manhattoes, and passes the long
winter evenings, surrounded by his children, and grand-chil-
dren, and great-grand-children, all listening to his tales of the
border wars, and the heroic days of the Roost. His great
goose-gun, too, is still in existence, having been preserved for
many years in a hollow tree, and passed from hand to hand
among the Dutch burghers, as a precious relic of the revolu-
tion. It is now actually in possession of a contemporary of
the stout Jacob, one almost his equal in years, who treasures

A CHRONICLE OF WOLFERT'S ROOST. 23

it up at his house in the Bowerie of New Amsterdam, hard
by the ancient rural retreat of the chivalric Peter Stuyvesant.
I am not without hopes of one day seeing this formidable piece
of ordnance restored to its proper station in the arsenal of the
Roost.

Before closing this historic document, I cannot but advert
to certain notions and traditions concerning the venerable pile
in question. Old-time edifices are apt to gather odd fancies
and superstitions about them, as they do moss and weather-
stains ; and this is in a neighborhood a little given to old-
fashioned notions, and who look upon the Roost as somewhat
of a fated mansion. A lonely, rambling, down-hill lane leads
to it, overhung with trees, with a wild brook dashing along,
and crossing and re-crossing it. This lane I found some of
the good people of the neighborhood shy of treading at night ;
why, I could not for a long time ascertain ; until I learned
that one or two of the rovers of the Tappaan Sea, shot by the
stout Jacob during the war, had been buried hereabout, in
unconsecrated ground.

Another local superstition is of a less gloomy kind, and one
which I confess I am somewhat disposed to cherish. The
Tappaan Sea, in front of the Roost, is about three miles wide,
bordered by a lofty line of waving and rocky hills. Often, in
the still twilight of a summer evening, when the sea is like
glass, with the opposite hills throwing their purple shadows
half across it, a low sound is heard, as of the steady, vigorous
pull of oars, far out in the middle of the stream, though not
a boat is to be descried. This I should have been apt to
ascribe to some boat rowed along under the shadows of the
western shore, for sounds are conveyed to a great distance
by water, at such quiet hours, and I can distinctly hear the
baying of the watch-dogs at night, from the farms on the- sides
of the opposite mountains. The ancient traditionists of the
neighborhood, however, religiously ascribed these sounds to a
judgment upon one Rumbout Van Dam, of Spiting Devil, who
danced and drank late one Saturday night, at a Dutch quilt-
ing frolic, at Kakiat, arid set off alone for home in his boat,
on the verge of Sunday morning ; swearing he would not land
till he reached Spiting Devil, if it took him a month of Sun-
days. He was never seen afterward, but is often heard ply-
ing his oars across the Tappaan Sea, a Flying Dutchman on
a small scale, suited to the size of his cruising-ground ; being
doomed to ply between Kakiat and Spiting Devil till the day
of judgment, but never to reach the laud.

24 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

There is one room in the mansion which almost overhang?
the river, and is reputed to be haunted by the ghost of a
young lady who died of love and green apples. I have been
awakened at night by the sound of oars and the tinkling of
guitars beneath the window ; and seeing a boat loitering in the
moonlight, have been tempted to believe it the Flying Dutch-
man of Spiting Devil, and to try whether a silver bullet might
not put an end to his unhappy cruisings ; but, happening to
recollect that there was a living young lady in the haunted
room, who might be terrified by the report of firearms, I have
refrained from pulling trigger.

As to the enchanted fountain, said to have been gifted by the
wizard sachem with supernatural powers, it still wells up at
the foot of the bank, on the margin of the river, and goes by the
name of the Indian spring ;. but I have my doubts as to its reju-
venating powers, for though I have drank oft and copiously of
it, I cannot boast that I find myself growing younger.

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

HAVING pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my
days, in the neighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to
give some *few particulars concerning that spell-bound region ;
especially as it has risen to historic importance under the pen
of my revered friend and master, the sage historian of the New
Netherlands. Beside, I find the very existence of the place
has been held in question by many; who, judging from its odd
name and from the odd stories current among the vulgar con-
cerning it^ have rashly deemed the whole to be a fanciful crea-
tion, like the Lubber Land of mariners. I must confess there
is some apparent cause for doubt, in consequence of the coloring
given by the worthy Diedrich to his descriptions of the Hollow ;
who, in this instance, has departed a little from his usually sober
if not severe style ; beguiled, very probably, by his predilection
for the haunts of his youth, and by a certain lurking taint of
romance whenever any thing connected with the Dutch was to
be described. I shall endeavor to make up for this amiable
error on the part of my venerable and venerated friend by pre-
senting the reader with a more precise and statistical account of

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 25

the Hollow ; though I am not sure that I shall not be prone to
lapse in the end into the very error 1 am speaking of, so potent
is the witchery of the theme.

I believe it was the very peculiarity of its name and the idea
of something mystic and dreamy connected with it that first led
me in my boyish rambliugs into Sleepy Hollow. The character
of the valley seemed to answer to the name ; the slumber of
past ages apparently reigned over it ; it had not awakened to
the stir of improvement which had put all the rest of the world
in a bustle. Here reigned good, old long-forgotten fashions ;
the men were in homespun garbs, evidently the product of their
own farms and the manufacture of their own wives ; the women
were in primitive short gowns and petticoats, with the venerable
sun-bonnets of Holland origin. The lower part of the valley
was cut up into small farms, each consisting of a little meadow
and corn-field ; an orchard of sprawling, gnarled apple-trees,
and a garden, where the rose, the marigold, and the hpllyhock
were permitted to skirt the domains of the capacious cabbage,
the aspiring pea, and the portly pumpkin. Each had its prolific
little mansion teeming with children ; with an old hat nailed
against the wall for the housekeeping wren ; a motherly hen,
under a coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep around her a
brood of vagrant chickens ; a cool, stone well, with the moss-
covered bucket suspended to the long balancing-pole, according
to the antediluvian idea of hydraulics ; and its spinning-wheel
humming within doors, the patriarchal music of home manufac-
ture.

The Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which
had existed there from the earliest times, and which, by fre-
quent intermarriage, had become so interwoven, as to make a
kind of natural commonwealth. As the families had grown
larger the farms had grown smaller ; every new generation
requiring a new subdivision, and few thinking of swarming
from the native hive. In this way that happy golden mean
had been produced, so much extolled by the poets, in which
there was no gold and very little silver. One thing which
doubtless contributed to keep up this amiable mean was a
general repugnance to sordid labor. The sage inhabitants of
Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the only
book they studied, that labor was originally inflicted upon man
as a punishment of sin ; they regarded it, therefore, with pious
abhorrence, and never humiliated themselves to it but in cases
of extremity. There seemed, in fact, to be a league and cove-
nant against it throughout the Hollow as against a common

26 WOLFERT'S BOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

enemy. Was any one compelled by dire necessity to repair
his house, mend his fences, build a barn, or get in a harvest,
he considered it a great evil that entitled him to call in the
assistance of his friends. He accordingly proclaimed a ' bee '
or rustic gathering, whereupon all his neighbors hurried to his
aid like faithful allies ; attacked the task with the desperate
energy of lazy men eager to overcome a job ; and, when it
was accomplished, fell to eating and drinking, fiddling and
dancing for very joy that so great an amount of labor had
been vanquished with so little sweating of the brow.

Yet, let it not be supposed that this worthy community was
without its periods of arduous activity. Let but a flock of wild
pigeons fly across the valley and all Sleepy Hollow was wide
awake in an instant. The pigeon season had arrived ! Every
gun and net was forthwith in requisition. The flail was thrown
down on the barn floor ; the spade rusted in the garden ; the
plough stood idle in the furrow ; every one was to the hill-side
and stubble-field at daybreak to shoot or entrap the pigeons in
their periodical migrations.

So, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were
ascending the Hudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were to
be seen launched in boats upon the river setting great stakes,
and stretching their nets like gigantic spider-webs half across
the stream to the great annoyance of navigators. Such are the
wise provisions of Nature, by which she equalizes rural affairs.
A laggard at the plough is often extremely industrious with the
fowling-piece and fishing-net ; 'and, whenever a man is an indif-
ferent farmer, he is apt to be a first-rate sportsman. For catch-
ing shad and wild pigeons there were none throughout the
country to compare with the lads of Sleepy Hollow.

As I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name
that first beguiled me in the holiday rovings of boyhood into
this sequestered region. I shunned, however, the populous
parts of the Hollow, and sought its retired haunts far in the
foldings of the hills, where the Pocantico u winds its wizard
stream " sometimes silently and darkly through solemn wood-
lands; sometimes sparkling between grassy borders in fresh,
green meadows ; sometimes stealing along the feet of rugged
heights under the balancing sprays of beech and chestnut trees.
A thousand crystal springs, with which this neighborhood
abounds, sent down from the hill-sides their whimpering rills,
as if to pay tribute to the Pocantico. In this stream I first
essayed my unskilful hand at angling. I loved to loiter along
it with rod in hand, watching my float as it whirled amid the

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 27

eddies or drifted into dark holes under twisted roots and
sunken logs, where the largest fish are apt to lurk. I de-
lighted to follow it into the brown recesses of the woods^; to
throw by my fishing-gear and sit upon rocks beneath towering
oaks and clambering grape-vines ; bathe my feet in the cool
current, and listen to the summer breeze playing among the
tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all nature around me with
ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy beings I had read
of in poetry and fable. Here it was I gave full scope to my
incipient habit of day-dreaming, and to a certain propensity, to
weave up and tint sober realities with my own whims and imagin-
ings, which has sometimes made life a little too much like an
Arabian tale to me, and this ''working-day world " rather like
a region of romance.

The great gathering-place of Sleepy Hollow in those days
was the church. Jt stood outside of the Hollow, near the great
highway, on a green bank shaded by trees, with the Pocantico
sweeping round it and emptying itself into a spacious mill-pond.
At that time the Sleepy Hollow church was the only place of
worship for a wide neighborhood. It was a venerable edifice,
partly of stone and partly of brick, the latter having been
brought from Holland in the early days of the province, before
the arts in the New Netherlands could aspire to such a fabrica-
tion. On a stone above the porch were inscribed the names of
the founders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty patroon of the olden
time, who reigned over a wide extent of this neighborhood and
held his seat of power at Yonkers ; and his wife, Katrina Van
Courtlandt, of the no less potent line of the Van Courtlaudts of
Croton, who lorded it over a great part of the Highlands.

The capacious pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding-board,
were likewise early importations from Holland ; as also the
communion-table, of massive form and curious fabric. The
same might be said of a weather-cock perched on top of the
belfry, and which was considered orthodox in all windy mat-
ters, until a small pragmatical rival was set up on the other end
;of the church above the chancel. This latter bore, and still
bears, the initials of Frederick Filipsen, and assumed great* airs
in consequence. The usual contradiction ensued that always
exists among church weather-cocks, which can never be brought
to agree as to the point from which the wind blows, having
doubtless acquired, from their position, the Christian propen-
sity to schism and controversy.

Behind the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its
capacious burying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of

28 WOLFEET'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

this rural neighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest
sculpture ; on which were inscribed, in Dutch, the names and
virtues of many of the first settlers, with their portraitures
curiously carved in similitude of cherubs. Long rows of grave-
stones, side by side, of similar names, but various dates,
showed that generation after generation of the same families
had followed each other and been garnered together in. this last
gathering-place of kindred.

Let me speak of this quiet grave-yard with all clue rever-
ence, for I owe it amends for the heedlessness of my boyish
days. I blush to acknowledge the thoughtless frolic with
which, in company with other whipsters, I have sported within
its sacred bounds during the intervals of worship ; chasing but-
terflies, plucking wild flowers, or vying with each other who
could leap over the tallest tomb-stones, until checked by the
stern voice of the sexton.

The congregation was, in those days, of a really rural char-
acter. City fashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, by
the country people of the neighborhood. Steamboats had not
as yet confounded town with country. A weekly market-boat
from Tarrytown, the "Farmers' Daughter," navigated by the
worthy Gabriel Requa, was the only communication between
all these parts and the metropolis. A rustic belle in those days
considered a visit to the city in much the same light as one of
our modern fashionable ladies regards a visit to Europe ; an
event that may possibly take place once in the course of a life-
time, but to be hoped for, rather than expected. Hence the
array of the congregation was chiefly after the primitive fash-
ions existing in Sleepy Hollow ; or if, by chance, there was a
departure from the Dutch sun-bonnet, or the apparition of a
bright gown of flowered calico, it caused quite a sensation
throughout the church. As the dominie generally preached
by the hour, a bucket of water was providently placed on a
bench near the door, in summer, with a tin cup beside it, for
the solace of those who might be athirst, either from the heat
of the weather, or the drought of the sermon.

Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the
elders of the church, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged
men, whom I regarded with awe, as so many apostles. They
were stern in their sanctity, kept a vigilant eye upon my gig-
gling companions and myself, and shook a rebuking finger at
any boyish device to relieve the tediotisness of compulsory
devotion. Vain, however, were all their efforts at vigilance.
Scarcely had the preacher held forth for half an hour, on one <

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 29

of his interminable sermons, than it seemed as if the drowsy
influence of Sleepy Hollow breathed into the place ; one by one
the congregation sank into slumber ; the sanctified elders leaned
back in their pews, spreading their handkerchiefs over their
faces, as if to keep off the flies ; while the locusts in the neigh-
boring trees would spin out their sultry summer notes, as if in
imitation of the sleep-provoking tones of the dominie.

I have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow and
its church, as I recollect them to have been in the clays of my
boyhood. It was in my stripling days, when a few years had
passed over my head, that I revisited them, in company with
the venerable Diedrich. 1 shall never forget the antiquarian
reverence with which that sage and excellent man contem-
plated the church. It seemed as if all his. pious enthusiasm for
the ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his bosom at the
sight. The tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the pulpit
and the communion-table ; even the very bricks that had come
from the mother country, seemed to touch a filial chord within
his bosom. He almost bowed in deference to the stone above
the porch, containing the names of Frederick Filipsen and
Katrina Van Courtlandt, regarding it as the linking together of
those patronymic names, once so famous along the banks of the
Hudson ; or rather as a keystone, binding that mighty Dutch
family connection of yore, one foot of which rested on Yonkers,
and the other on the Croton. Nor did he forbear to notice
with admiration, the' windy contest which had been carried on,
since time immemorial, and with real Dutch perseverance, be-
tween the two weather-cocks ; though I could easily perceive he
coincided with the one which had come from Holland.

Together we paced the ample church-yard. With deep ven-
eration would he turn down the weeds and brambles that ob-
scured the modest brown grave-stones, half sunk in earth, on
which were recorded, in Dutch, the names of the patriarchs of
ancient days, the Ackers, the Van Tassels, and the Van Warts.
As we sat on one of the tomb-stones, he recounted to me the
exploits of many of these worthies ; and my heart smote me,
when I heard of their great doings in days of yore, to think
how heedlessly I had once sported over their graves.

From the church, the venerable Diedrich proceeded in his
researches up the Hollow, The genius of the place seemed to
hail its future historian. All nature was alive with gratulation.
The quail whistled a greeting from the corn-field ; the robin
carolled a song of praise from the orchard ; the loquacious
catbird flew from bush to bush, with restless wing, proclaiming

30 WOLFERT'S ROOST AMD MISCELLANIES.

his approach in every variety of note, and anon would whisk
about, and perk inquisitively into his face, as if to get a knowl-
edge of his physiognomy ; the woodpecker, also, tapped a
tattoo on the hollow apple-tree, and then peered knowingly
round the trunk, to see how the great Diedrich relished his salu-
tation ; while the ground-squirrel scampered along the fence, and
occasionally whisked his tail over his head, by way of a huzza !

The worthy Diedrich pursued his researches in the valley
with characteristic, devotion ; entering familiarly into the vari-
ous cottages, and gossiping with the simple folk, in the style
of their own simplicity. I confess my heart yearned with
admiration, to see so great a man, in his eager quest after
knowledge, humbly demeaning himself to curry favor with the
humblest ; sitting patiently on a three-legged stool, patting the
children, and taking a purring grimalkin on his lap, while he
conciliated the good-will of the old Dutch housewife, and drew
from her long ghost stories, spun out to the humming accom-
paniment of her wheel.

His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was dis-
covered in an old goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and
waterfalls, with clanking wheels, and rushing streams, and all
kinds of uncouth noises. A horse-shoe, nailed to the door to
keep off witches and evil spirits, showed that this mill was
subject to awful visitations. As we approached it, an old negro
thrust his head, all dabbled with flour, out of a hole above the
water-wheel, and grinned, and rolled his eyes, and looked like
the very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious Diedrich fixed
upon him, at once, as the very one to give him that invaluable
kind of information never to be acquired from books. He
beckoned him from his nest, sat with him by the hour on a
broken mill-stone, by the side of the waterfall, heedless of the
noise of the water, and the clatter of the mill ; and I verily
believe it was to his conference with this African sage, and the
precious revelations of the good dame of the spinning-wheel,
that we are indebted for the surprising though true history of
Ichaborl Crane and the headless horseman, which has since
astounded and edified the world.

But I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful
days ; let me speak of the Hollow as I found it, after an ab-
sence of many years, when it was kindly given me once more
to revisit the haunts of my boyhood. It was a genial day, as I
approached that fated region. The warm sunshine was tem-
pered by a slight haze, so as to give a dreamy effect to the
landscape. Not a breath of air shook the foliage. The broad

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 31

Tappaan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops, with droop-
ing sails, slept on its glassy bosom. Columns of smoke, from
burning brushwood, rose lazily from the folds of the hills, on
the opposite side of the river, and slowly expanded in mid-air.
The distant lowing of a cow, or the noontide crowing of a cock,
coming faintly to the ear, seemed to illustrate, rather than dis-
turb, the drowsy quiet of the scene.

I entered the hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to my
apprehensions, I found it but little changed. The march of
intellect, which had made such rapid strides along every river
and highway, had not yet, apparently, turned down into this
favored valley. Perhaps the wizard spell of ancient days still
reigned over the place, binding up the faculties of the inhab-
itants in happy contentment with things as they had been
handed down to them from yore. There were the same little
farms and farmhouses, with their old hats for the housekeeping
wren ; their stone wells, moss-covered buckets and long balan-
cing poles. There were the same little rills, whimpering down
to pay their tributes to the Pocantico ; while that wizard stream
still kept on its course, as of old, through solemn woodlands
and fresh green meadows : nor were there wanting joyous holi-
day boys to loiter along its banks, as I have done ; throw
their pinhooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I
watched them with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering
whether they were under the same spell of the fancy that once
rendered this valley a fairy land to me. Alas ! alas ! to me
every thing now stood revealed in its simple reality. The
echoes no longer answered with wizard tongues ; the dream of
youth was at an end ; the spell of Sleepy Hollow was broken !

I sought the ancient church on the following Sunday. There
it stood, on its green bank, among the trees ; the Pocantico
swept by it in a deep dark stream, where I had so often
angled ; there expanded the mill-pond, as of old, with the cows
under the willows on the margin, knee-deep in water, chewing
the cud, and lashing the flies from their sides with their tails.
The hand of improvement, however, had been busy with the
venerable pile. The pulpit, fabricated in Holland, had been
superseded by one of modern construction, and the front of the
semi-Gothic edifice was decorated by a semi-Grecian portico.
Fortunately, the two weather-cocks remained undisturbed on
their perches at each end of the church, and still kept up a dia-
metrical opposition to each other on all points of windy doctrine.

On entering jthe church the changes of time continued to 1>«
apparent. The elders round the pulpit were men whom I had

32 WOLFERTS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

left in the gamesome frolic of their youth, but who had suc-
ceeded to the sanctity of station of which they once had stood
so much in awe. What most struck my eye was the change in
the female part of the congregation. Instead of the primitive
garbs of homespun manufacture and antique Dutch fashion, I
beheld French sleeves, French capes, and French collars, and a
fearful fluttering of French ribbons.

When the service was ended I sought the church -yard, in
which I had sported in my unthinking days of boyhood. Sev-
eral of the modest brown stones, on which were recorded in
Dutch the names and virtues of the patriarchs, had disappeared,
and had been succeeded by others of white marble, with urns
and wreaths, and scraps of English tomb-stone poetry, marking
the intrusion of taste and literature and the English language- in
this once unsophisticated Dutch neighborhood.

As I stumbled about among these silent yet eloquent memo-
rials of the dead, I came upon names familiar to me ; of those
who had paid the debt of nature during the long interval of my
absence. Some, I remembered, my companions in boyhood,
who had sported with me on the very sod under which they
were now mouldering ; others who in those days had been the
flower of the yeomanry, figuring in Sunday finery on the church
green ; others, the white-haired elders of the sanctuary, once
arrayed in awful sanctity around the pulpit, and ever ready to
rebuke the ill-timed mirth of the wanton stripling who, now
a man, sobered by yeaia and schooled by vicissitudes, looked
down pensively upon their graves. "Our fathers," thought I,
'• where are they ! — and the prophets, can they live forever ! "

I was disturbed in my meditations by the noise of a troop of
idle urchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had
so often gambolled. They were checked, as I and my play-
mates had often been, by the voice of the sexton, a man staid
in years and demeanor. I looked wistfully in his face ; if I had
met him anywhere else, 1 should probably have passed him
by without remark ; but here I was alive to the traces of for-
mer times, and detected in the demure features of this guardian
of the sanctuary the lurking lineaments of one of the very play-
mates I have alluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He
sat down beside me, on one of the tomb-stones over which we
had leaped in our juvenile sports, and we talked together about
our boyish days, and held edifying discourse on the instability
of all sublunary things, as instanced in the scene around us.
He was rich in historic lore, as to the events of the last thirty
years and the circumference of thirty miles, and from him I

SLEEPY HOLLOW. 33

learned the appalling revolution that was taking place through-
out the neighborhood. All this I clearly perceived he attributed
to the boasted march of intellect, or rather to the all-pervading
influence of steam. He bewailed the times when the only
communication with town was by the weekly market-boat, the
"•Farmers' Daughter," which, under the pilotage of the worthy
Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the Tappaan Sea. Alas !
Gabriel and the "Farmers' Daughter" slept in peace. Two
steamboats now splashed and paddled up daily to the little rural
port of Tarry town. The spirit of speculation and improvement
had. seized even upon that once quiet and unambitious little
dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid out into town lots.
Instead of the little tavern below the hill, where the farmers
used to loiter on market days and indulge in cider and ginger-
bread, an ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandas, now
crested the summit, among churches built in the Grecian and
Gothic styles, showing the great increase of piety and polite
taste in the neighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun- bon-
nets, they were no longer tolerated, or even thought of ; not
a farmer's daughter but now went to town for the fashions ;
nay, a city milliner had recently set up in the village, who
threatened to reform the heads of the whole neighborhood.

I had heard enough ! I thanked my old playmate for his
intelligence, and departed from the Sleepy Hollow church with
the sad conviction that I had beheld the last lingerings of the
good old Dutch times in this once favored region. If any thing
were wapting to confirm this impression, it would be the intel-
ligence which has just reached me, that a bank is about to be
established in the aspiring little port just mentioned. The fate
of the neighborhood is therefore sealed. I see no hope of
averting it. The golden mean is at an end. The country is
suddenly to be deluged with wealth. The late simple farmers
are to become bank directors and drink claret and champagne ;
and their wives and daughters to figure in French hats and
feathers ; for French wines and French fashions commonly keep
pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy
Hollow can escape the general inundation ? In a little while, I
fear the slumber of ages will be at an end ; the strum of the piano
will succeed to the hum of the spinning-wheel ; the trill of the
Italian opera to the nasal quaver of Ichabod Crane ; and the
antiquarian visitor to the Hollow, in the petulance of his disap-
pointment, may pronounce all that I have recorded of that once
favored region a fable. GEOFFKEY CKAYON.

34 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

THE BIRDS OF SPRING.

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

MY quiet residence in the country, aloof from fashion, poli-
tics, and the money market, leaves me rather at a loss for im-
portant occupation, and drives me to the study of nature, and
other low pursuits. Having few neighbors, also, on whom to
keep a watch, and exercise my habits of observation, I am fain
to amuse myself with prying into the domestic concerns and
peculiarities of the animals around me ; and, during the present
season, have derived considerable entertainment from certain
sociable little birds, almost the only visitors we have, during this
early part of the year.

Those who have passed the winter in the country, are sensible
of the delightful influences that accompany the earliest indica-
tions of spring ; and of these, none are more delightful than the
first notes of the birds. There is one modest little sad-colored
bird, much resembling a wren, which came about the house just
on the skirts of winter, when not a blade of grass was to be
seen, and when a few prematurely warm days had given a flat-
tering foretaste of soft weather. He sang early in the dawning,
long before sunrise, and late in the evening, just before the
closing in of night, his matin and his vesper hymns. It is true,
he sang occasionally throughout the clay ; but at these still
hours, his song was more remarked. He sat on a leafless tree,
just before the window, and warbled forth his notes, free and
simple, but singularly sweet, with something of a plaintive
tone, that heightened their effect.

The first morning that he was heard, was a joyous one among
the young folks of my household. The long, death-like sleep
of winter was at an end ; nature was once more awakening ;
they now promised themselves the immediate appearance of
buds and blossoms. I was reminded of the tempest-tossed crew
of Columbus, when, after their long dubious voyage, the field
birds came singing round the ship, though still far at sea,
rejoicing them with the belief of the immediate proximity of
land. A sharp return of winter almost silenced my little song-
ster, and dashed the hilarity of the household ; yet still he
poured forth, now and then, a few plaintive notes, between the
frosty pipings of the breeze, like gleams of sunshine between
wintry clouds.

THE BIRDS OF SPRING. 35

I have consulted my book of ornithology in vain, to find out
the name of this kindly little bird, who certainly deserves honor
and favor far beyond his modest pretensions. He comes like tae
lowly violet, the most unpretending, but welcomest of flowers,
breathing the sweet promise of the early year.

Another of our feathered visitors, who follows close upon the
steps of winter, is the Pe-wit, or Pe'-wee, or Phoebe-bird ; for
he is called by each of these names, from a fancied resemblance
to the sound of his monotonous note. He is a sociable little
being, and seeks the habitation of man. A pair of them have
built beneath my porch, and have reared several broods there
for two years past, their nest being never disturbed. They
arrive early in the spring, just when the crocus and the snow-
drop begin to peep forth. Their first chirp spreads gladness
through the house. "The Phoebe-birds have come! " is heard
on all sides; they are welcomed back like members of the
family, and speculations are made upon where they have been,
and what countries they have seen during their long absence.
Their arrival is the more cheering, as it is pronounced, by the
old weather-wise people of the country, the sure sign that the
severe frosts are at an end, and that the gardener may resume
his labors with confidence.

About this time, too, arrives the Bluebird, so poetically yet
truly described by Wilson. His appearance gladdens the whole
landscape. You hear his soft warble in every field. He sociably
approaches your habitation, and takes up his residence in your
vicinity. But why should I attempt to describe him, when I
have Wilson's own graphic verses to place him before the
reader ?

When winter's cold tempests and snows are no more,

Green meadows and brown furrowed fields re-appearing:
The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are a-steej-ing;
!-v When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing,

When red glow the maples, so fresh and so pleasing,
O then comes the Bluebird, the herald of spring,

And hails with his warblings the charms of the season.

The loud-piping frogs make the marshes to ring;

Then warm glows the sunshine, and warm glows the weather;
The blue woodland flowers just beginning to spring,

And spice- wood and sassafras budding together;
O then to your gardens, ye housewives, repair,

Your walks border up, sow and plant at your leisure;
The Bluebird will chant from his box such an air,

That all your hard toils will seem truly a pleasure!

33 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

He flits through the orchard, he visits each tree,

The red flowering peach, and the apple's sweet blossoms;
He snaps up destroyers, wherever they be,

And seizes the caitiffs that lurk in their bosoms;
He drags the vile grub from the corn it devours,

The worms from the webs where they riot and welter;
His song and his services freely are ours,

A ml all that he asks is, in summer a shelter.

The ploughman is pleased when he gleams in his train,

Now searching the furrows, now mounting to cheer him;
The gard'ner delights in his sweet simple strain,

And leans on his spade to survey and to bear him.
The slow lingering school-boys forget they'll be chid,

While gazing intent, as he warbles before them,
In mantle of sky-blue, and bosom so red,

That each little loiterer seems to adore him.

The happiest bird of our spring, however, and one that rivals
the European lark, in my estimation, is the Bobolincou, or Bobo-
link, as he is commonly called. He arrives at that choice por-
tion of our year, which, in this latitude, answers to the descrip-
tion of the month of May, so often given by the poets. With
us, it begins about the middle of May, and lasts until nearly
the middle of June. Earlier than this, winter is apt to return
on its traces, and to blight the opening beauties of the year ;
and later than this, begin the parching, and panting, and dis-
solving heats of stimmer. But in this genial interval, nature is
in all her freshness and fragrance: ktthe rains are over and
gone, the flowers appear upon the earth, the time of the sing-
ing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the
land." The trees are now in their fullest foliage and bright-
est verdure ; the woods are gay with the clustered flowers of
the laurel ; the air is perfumed by the sweet-briar and the wild
rose ; the meadows are enamelled with clover-blossoms ; while
the young apple, the peach, and the plum, begin to swell, and
the cherry to glow, among the green leaves.

This is the chosen season of revelry of the Bobolink. He
comes amidst the pomp and fragrance of the season ; his life
seems all sensibility and enjoyment, all song and sunshine.
He is found in the soft bosoms of the freshest and sweetest
meadows ; and is most in song when the clover is in blossom.
He perches on the topmost twig of a tree, or on some long
flaunting weed, and as he rises and sinks with the breeze, pours
forth a succession of rich tinkling notes ; crowding one upon
another, like the outpouring melody of the skylark, and pos-
sessing the same rapturous character. Sometimes he pitches

THE BIRDS OF SPRING. 37

from the summit of a tree, begins his song as soon as he gets
upon the wing, and flutters tremulously down to the earth, as
if overcome with ecstasy at his own music. Sometimes he is
in pursuit of his paramour ; always in full song, as if he would
win her by his melody ; and always with the same appearance
of intoxication and delight.

Of ail the birds of our groves and meadows, the Bobolink was
the envy of my boyhood. He crossed my path in the sweetest
weather, and the sweetest season of the year, when all nature
called to the fields, and the rural feeling throbbed in every
bosom ; but when I, luckless urchin ! was doomed to be mewed
up, during the livelong day, in that purgatory of boyhood, a
school-room. It seemed as if the little varlet mocked at me, as
he flew by in full song, and sought to taunt me with his happier
lot. Oh, how I envied him ! No lesson, no tasks, no hateful
school ; nothing but holiday, frolic, green fields, and fine weather.
Had I been then more versed in poetry, I might have addressed
him in the words of Logan to the Cuckoo :

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy note,

No winter in thy year.

Oh! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;

We'd make, on joyful wing,
Our annual visit round the globe,

Companions of the spring!

Farther observation and experience have given me a different
idea of this little feathered voluptuary, which I will venture to
impart, for the benefit of my schoolboy readers, who may
regard him with the same unqualified envy and admiration which
I once indulged. I have shown him only as I saw him at first,
in what I may call the poetical part of his career, when he in a
manner devoted himself to elegant pursuits and enjoyments,
and was a bird of music, and song, and taste, and sensibility,
and refinement. While this lasted, he was sacred from injury ;
the very schoolboy would not fling a stone at him, and the
merest rustic would pause to listen to his strain. But mark the
difference. As the year advances, as the clover-blossoms disap-
pear, and the spring fades into summer, his notes cease to
vibrate on the ear. He gradually gives up his elegant tastes
and habits, doffs his poetical and professional suit of black,,
assumes a russet or rather, dusty garb, and enters into the gross

38 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

enjoyments of common, vulgar birds. He becomes a bon-
vivant, a mere gourmand ; thinking of nothing but good cheer,
and gormandizing on the seeds of the long grasses on which he
lately swung and chanted so musically. He begins to think
there is nothing like "the joys of the table," if I may be
allowed to apply that convivial phrase to his indulgences. He
now grows discontented with plain, every-day fare, and sets
out on a gastronomical tour, in search of foreign luxuries. He
is to be found in myriads among the reeds of the Delaware,
banqueting on their seeds ; grows corpulent with good feeding,
and soon acquires the unlucky renown of the Ortolan. Where-
ever he goes, pop ! pop ! pop ! the rusty firelocks of the country
are cracking on every side ; he sees his companions falling by
thousands around him ; he is the Reed-bird, the much-sought-
for tidbit of the Pennsylvanian epicure.

Does he take warning and reform ? Not he ! He wings his
flight still farther south, in search of other luxuries. We hear
of him gorging himself in the rice swamps ; filling himself with
rice almost to bursting ; he can hardly fly for corpulency.
Last stage of his career, we hear of him spitted by dozens, and
served up on the table of the gourmand, the most vaunted of
southern dainties, the Rice-bird of the Carolinas.

Such is the story of the once musical and admired, but finally
setisual and persecuted Bobolink. It contains a moral, worthy
the attention of all little birds and little boys ; warning them to
keep to those refined and intellectual pursuits, which raised him
to so high a pitch of popularity, during the early part of his
career ; but to eschew all tendency to that gross and dissipated
indulgence, which brought this mistaken little bird to an untimely
end.

Which is all at present, from the well wisher of little boys
and little birds,

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALHAMBRA.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

DURING a summer's residence in the old Moorish palace of the
Alhambra, of which I have already given numerous anecdotes
to the public, I used to pass much of my time in the beautiful
hall of the Abencerrages, beside the fountain celebrated in the'

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE ALII AMR R A. 39

tragic story of that' devoted race. Here it was, that thirty-six
cavaliers of that heroic line were treacherously sacrificed, to
appease the jealousy or allay the fears of a tyrant. The foun-
tain "which now throws up its sparkling jet, and sheds a dewy
freshness around, ran red with the noblest blood of Granada,
and a deep stain on the marble pavement is still pointed out, by
the cicerones of the pile, as a sanguinary record of the massacre.
I have regarded it with the same determined faith with which I
have regarded the traditional stains of Rizzio's blood on the
floor of the chamber of the unfortunate Mary, at Holyrood. I
thank no one for endeavoring to enlighten my credulity, on such
points of popular belief. It is like breaking up the shrine of
the pilgrim ; it is robbing a poor traveller of half the reward
of his toils ; for, strip travelling of its historical illusions, and
what a mere fag you make of it !

For my part, I gave myself up, during my sojourn in the
Alhambra^ to all the romantic and fabulous traditions connected
with the pile. I lived in the midst of an Arabian tale, and shut
iny eyes, as much as possible, to every thing that called me back
to every-day life ; and if there is any country in Europe where
one can do so, it is in poor, wild, legendary, proud-spirited,
romantic Spain ; where the old magnilicent barbaric spirit still
contends against the utilitarianism of modern civilization.

In the silent and deserted halls of the Alhambra ; surrounded
with the insignia of regal sway, and the still vivid, though dilapi-
dated traces of oriental voluptuousness, I was in the stronghold
of Moorish story, and every thing spoke and breathed of the
glorious days of Granada, when under the dominion of the cres-
cent. When I sat in the hall of the Abencerrages, I suffered
my mind to conjure up all that I had read of that illustrious
line. In the proudest days of Moslem domination, the Aben-
cerrages were the soul of every thing noble and chivalrous.
The veterans of the family, who sat in the royal council, were
the foremost to devise those heroic enterprises, which carried
dismay into the territories of the Christians ; and what the sages
of the family devised, the young men of the name were the
foremost to execute. In all services of hazard ; in all adven-
turous forays, and hair-breadth hazards ; the Abencerrages were
sure to win the brightest laurels. In those noble recreations,
too, which bear so close an affinity to war ; in the tilt and tour-
ney, the riding at the ring, and the daring bull-fight ; still the
Abencerrages carried off the palm. None could equal them for
the splendor of their array, the gallantry of their devices ; for
their noble bearing, and glorious horsemanship. Their open-

40 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

handed munificence made them the idols of the populace, while
their lofty magnanimity, and perfect faith, gained them golden
opinions from the generous and high-minded. Never were they
known to decry the merits of a rival, or to betray the confidings
of a friend ; and the " word of an Abencerrage " was a guar-
anty that never admitted of a doubt.

And then their devotion to the fair ! Never did Moorish
beauty consider the fame of her charms established, until she
had an Abencerrage for a lover ; and never did an Abencerrage
prove recreant to his vows. Lovely Granada ! City of delights !
Who ever bore the favors of thy dames more proudly on their
casques, or championed them more gallantly in the chivalrous
tilts of the Vivarambla? Or who ever made thy moonlit
balconies, thy gardens of myrtles and roses, of oranges, citrons,
and pomegranates, respond to more tender serenades ?

1 speak with enthusiasm on this theme ; for it is connected
with the recollection of one of the sweetest evenings and
sweetest scenes that ever I enjoyed in Spain. One of the
greatest pleasures of the Spaniards is, to sit in the beautiful
summer evenings, and listen to traditional ballads, and tales
about the wars of the Moors and Christians, and the " buenas
andanzas " and "grandes hechos," the "good fortunes" and
"• great exploits " of the hardy warriors of yore. It is worthy
of remark, also, that many of these songs, or romances, as they
are called, celebrate the prowess and magnanimity in war, and
the tenderness and fidelity in love, of the Moorish cavaliers,
once their most formidable and hated foes. But centuries have
elapsed, to extinguish the bigotry of the zealot ; and the once
detested warriors of Granada are now held up by Spanish
poets, as the mirrors of chivalric virtue.

Such was the amusement of the evening in question. A
number of us were seated in the Hall of the Abencerrages,
listening to one of the most gifted and fascinating beings that I
had ever met with in my wanderings. She was young and
beautiful ; and light and ethereal ; full of fire, and spirit, and
pure enthusiasm. She wore the fanciful Andalusian dress ;
touched the guitar with speaking eloquence ; improvised with
wonderful facility ; and, as she became excited by her theme,
or by the rapt attention of her auditors, would pour forth, in
the richest and most melodious strains, a succession of couplets,
full of striking description, or stirring narration, and composed,
as I was assured, at the moment. Most of these were suggested
by the place, and related to the ancient glories of Granada,
and the prowess of her chivalry. The Abencerrages were her

THE ABENCEREAGE. 41

favorite heroes ; she felt a woman's admiration of their gallant
courtesy, and high-souled honor ; and it was touching and in-
spiring to hear the praises of that generous but devoted race,
chanted in this fated hall of their calamity, by the lips of
Spanish beauty.

Among the subjects of which she treated, was a tale of Mos-
lem honor, and old-fashioned Spanish courtesy, which made a
strong impression on me. She disclaimed all merit of inven-
tion, however, and said she had merely dilated into verse a
popular tradition ; and, indeed, I have since found the main
facts inserted at the end of Conde's History of the Domination
of the Arabs, and the story itself embodied in the form of an
episode in the Diana of Montemayor. From these sources I
have drawn it forth, and endeavored to shape it according to
my recollection of the version of the beautiful minstrel ; but,
alas! what can supply the want of that voice, that look, that
form, that action, which gave magical effect to her chant, and
held every one rapt in breathless admiration ! Should this
mere travesty of her inspired numbers ever meet her eye, in
her stately abode at Granada, may it meet with that indul-
gence which belongs to her • benignant nature. Happy should
J be, if it could awaken in her bosom one kind recollection of
the lonely stranger and sojourner, for whose gratification she
did not think it beneath her to exert those fascinating powers
which were the delight of brilliant circles ; and who will ever
recall with enthusiasm the happy evening passed in listening
to her strains, in the moonlit halls of the Alhambra.

GEOFFKEY CRAYON.

THE ABENCERRAGE.

A SPANISH TALE.

ON the summit of a craggy hill, a spur of the mountains of
Ronda, stands the castle of Allora, now a mere ruin, infested
by bats and owlets, but in old times one of the strong border
holds of the Christians, to keep watch upon the frontiers of the
warlike kingdom of Granada, and to hold the Moors in check.
It was a post always confided to some well-tried commander ;
and, at the time of which we treat, was held by Rodrigo de
Narvaez. a veteran, famed, both among Moors and Christians,
not only for his hardy feats of arms, but also for that magnani-

42 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

mous courtesy which should ever be intwined with the sterner
virtues of the soldier.

The castle of Allora was a mere part of his command ; he was
Alcayde, or military governor of Antiquera, but he passed most
of his time at this frontier post, because its situation on the
borders gave more frequent opportunity for those adventurous
exploits which were the delight of the Spanish chivalry. His
garrison consisted of fifty chosen cavaliers, all well mounted
and well appointed : with these he kept vigilant watch upon
the Moslems ; patrolling the roads, and paths, and defiles of
the mountains, so that nothing could escape his eye ; and now
and then signalizing himself by some dashing foray into the
very Vega of Granada.

On a fair and beautiful night in summer, when the freshness
of the evening breeze had tempered the heat of day, the
worthy Alcayde sallied forth, with nine of his cavaliers, to
patrol the neighborhood, and seek adventures. They rode
quietly and cautiously, lest they should be overheard by Moor-
ish scout or traveller ; and kept along ravines and hollow
ways, lest they should be betrayed by the glittering of the full
moon upon their armor. Coming to where the road divided,
the Alcayde directed five of his cavaliers to take one of the
branches, while he, with the remaining four, would take the
other. Should either party be in danger, the blast of a horn
was to be the signal to bring their comrades to their aid.

The party of five had not proceeded far, when, in passing
through a defile, overhung with trees, they heard the voice of
a man, singing. They immediately concealed themselves in
a grove, on the brow of a declivity, up which the stranger
would have to ascend. The moonlight, which left the grove in
deep shadow, lit up the whole person of the wayfarer, as he
advanced, and enabled them to distinguish his dress and appear-
ance with perfect accuracy. He was a Moorish cavalier, and
his noble demeanor, graceful carriage, and splendid attire
showed him to be of lofty rank. He was superbly mounted, on
a dapple-gray steed, of powerful frame, and generous spirit,
and magnificently caparisoned. His dress was a marlota, or
tunic, and an Albernoz of crimson damask, fringed with gold.
His Tunisian turban, of many folds, was of silk and cotton,
striped, and bordered with golden fringe. At his girdle hung
a cimeter of Damascus steel, with loops and tassels of silk and
gold. On his left arm he bore an ample target, and his right
hand grasped a long double-pointed lance. Thus equipped, he
sat negligently on his steed, as one who dreamed of no danger,

THE ABENCEUKAGE. 43

gazing on the moon, and singing, with a sweet and manly
voice, a Moorish love ditty.

Just opposite the place where the Spanish cavaliers were
concealed, was a small fountain in the rock, beside the road,
to which the horse turned to drink ; the rider threw the reins on
his neck, and continued his song.

The Spanish cavaliers conferred together ; they were all so
pleased with the gallant and gentle appearance of the Moor,
that they resolved not to harm, but to capture him, which, in
his negligent \iood, promised to be an easy task ; rushing,
thc;:^v>re, f^~*iu their concealment, they thought to surround
ana DCIAC .^m. Never were men more mistaken. To gather
up his reins, wheel round his steed, brace his buckler, and
couch his lance, was the work of an instant ; and there he sat,
fixed like a castle in his saddle, beside the fountain.

The Christian cavaliers checked their steeds and reconnoitred
him warily, loath to come to an encounter, which must end in
his destruction.

The Moor now held a parley : " If you be true knights," said
he, "and seek for honorable fame, come on, singly, and I am
ready to meet each in succession ; but if you be mere lurkers of
the road, intent on spoil, come all at once, and do your worst ! "

The cavaliers communed for a moment apart, when one, ad-
vancing singly, exclaimed: "Although no law of chivalry
obliges us to risk the loss of a prize, when clearly in our power,
yet we willingly grant, as a courtesy, what we might refuse as a
right. Valiant Moor ! defend thyself ! "

So saying, he wheeled, took proper distance, couched his
lance, and putting spurs to his horse, made at the stranger.
The latter met him in mid career, transpierced him with his
lance, and threw him headlong from his saddle. A second and
a third succeeded, but were unhorsed with equal facility, awl
thrown to the earth, severely wounded. The remaining two,
seeing their comrades thus roughly treated, forgot all compact
of courtesy, and charged both at once upon the Moor. He
parried the thrust of one, but was wounded by the other in the
thigh, and, in the shock and confusion, dropped his lance.
(Thus disarmed, and closely pressed, he pretended to fly, and
was hotly pursued. Having drawn the two cavaliers some dis-
tance from the spot, he suddenly wheeled short about, with one
of those dexterous movements for which the Moorish horsemen
are renowned ; passed swiftly between them, swung himself
down from his saddle, so as to catch up his lance, then, lightly
replacing himself, turned to renew the combat.

44 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Seeing him thus fresh for the encounter, as if just issued
from his tent, one of the cavaliers put his lips to his horn, and
blew a blast, that soon brought the A Icayde and his four com-
panions to the spot. "

The valiant Narvaez, seeing three of his cavaliers extended
on the earth, and two others hotly engaged with the Moor,
was struck with admiration, and coveted a contest with so ac-
complished a warrior. Interfering in the fight, he called upon
his followers to desist, and addressing the Moor, with courteous
words, invited him to a more equal combat. The latter readily
accepted the challenge. For some time, their contest was fierce
and doubtful, and the Alcayde had need of all his skill and
strength to ward off the blows of his antagonist. The Moor,
however, was exhausted by previous fighting, and by loss of
blood. He no longer sat his horse firmly, nor managed him
with his wonted skill. Collecting all his strength for a last
assault, he rose in his stirrups, and made a violent thrust with
his lance ; the Alcayde received it upon his shield, and at the
same time wounded the Moor in the right arm ; then closing, in
the shock, he grasped him in his arms, dragged him from his
saddle, and fell with him to the earth : when putting his knee
upon his breast, and his dagger to his throat, kt Cavalier," ex-
claimed he, " render thyself my prisoner, for thy life is in my
hands ! ' '

"Kill me, rather," replied the Moor, " for death would be
less grievous than loss of liberty."

The Alcayde, however, with the clemency of the truly brave,
assisted the Moor to rise, ministered to his wounds with his own
hands, and had him conveyed with great care to the castle of
Allora. ' His wounds were slight, and in a few days were nearly
cured ; but the deepest wound had been inflicted on his spirit.
He was constantly buried in a profound melancholy.

The Alcayde, who had conceived a great regard for him,
treated him more as a friend than a captive, and tried in every
way to cheer him, but in vain ; he was always sad and moody,
and, when on the battlements of the castle, would keep his eyes
turned to the south, with a fixed and wistful gaze.

" How is this? " exclaimed the Alcayde, reproachfully, " that
you, who were so hardy and fearless in the field, should lose all
spirit in prison? If any secret grief preys on your heart, con-
fide it to me, as to a friend, and I promise you, on the faith of a
cavalier, that you shall have no cause to repent the disclosure."

The Moorish knight kissed the hand of the Alcayde. kk Noble
cavalier," said he, " that I am cast down in spirit, is not from

THE AUENCERRAGE. 45

my wounds, which are slight, nor from my captivity, for your
kindness lias robbed it of all gloom ; nor from my defeat, for to
be conquered by so accomplished and renowned a cavalieii, is
no disgrace. But to explain to you the cause of my grief, it is
necessary to give you some particulars of my story ; and this I
am moved to do, by the great sympathy you have manifested
toward me, and the magnanimity that shines through all your
actions."

44 Know, then, that my name is Abendaraez. and that I am of
the noble but unfortunate line of the Abencerrages of Granada.
You have doubtless heard of the destruction that fell upon our
race. Charged with treasonable designs, of which they were
entirely innocent, many of them were beheaded, the rest ban-
ished ; so that not an Abencerrage was permitted to remain in
Granada, excepting my father and my uncle, whose innocence
was proved, even to the satisfaction of their persecutors. It
was decreed, however, that, should they have children, the sons
should be educated at a distance from Granada, and the daugh-
ters should be married out of the kingdom.

" Conformably to this decree, I was sent, while yet an infant,
to be reared in the fortress of Cartama, the worthy Alcayde of
which was an ancient friend of my father. He had no children,
and received me into his family as his own child, treating me
with the kindness and affection of a father ; and I grew up in
the belief that he really was such. A few years afterward, his
wife gave birth to a daughter, but his tenderness toward me con-
tinued uudiminished. I thus grew up with Xarisa, for so the
infant daughter of the Alcayde was called, as her own brother,
and thought the growing passion which I felt for her, was mere
fraternal affection. I beheld her charms unfolding, as it were,
leaf by leaf, like the morning rose, each moment disclosing
fresh beauty and sweetness.

"At this period, I overheard a conversation between the
Alcayde and his confidential domestic, and found myself to be
the subject. * It is time,' said he, k to apprise him of his parent-
age, that he may adopt a career in life. I have deferred the
communication as long as possible, through reluctance to inform
him that he is of a proscribed and an unlucky race.'

"This intelligence would have overwhelmed me at an earlier
period, but the intimation that Xarisa was not my sister, oper-
ated like magic, and in an instant transformed my brotherly
affection into ardent love.

" I sought Xarisa, to impart to her the secret I had learned.
1 found her in the garden, in a bower of jessamines, arranging

46 WOLFERTS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

her beautiful hair by the mirror of a crystal fountain. The
radiance of her beauty dazzled me. I ran to her with open
arms, and she received me with a sister's embraces. When we
had seated ourselves beside the fountain, she began to upbraid
me for leaving her so long alone.

" In reply, I informed her of the conversation I had over-
heard. The recital shocked and distressed her. ' Alas ! ' cried
she, ' then is our happiness at an end ! '

" ' How ! ' exclaimed I ; k wilt thou cease to love me, because
I am not thy brother? "

" ' Not so,' replied she ; ' but do you not know that when it is
once known we are not brother and sister, we can no longer be
permitted to be thus always together? "

" In fact, from that moment our intercourse took a new char-
acter. We met often at the fountain among the jessamines,
but Xarisa no longer advanced with open arms to meet me.
She became reserved and silent, and would blush, and cast
down her eyes, when I seated myself beside her. JVIy heart
became a prey to the thousand doubts and fears that ever
attend upon true love. I was restless and uneasy, and looked
back with regret to the unreserved intercourse that had existed
between us, when we supposed ourselves brother and sister ;
yet I would not have had the relationship true, for the world.

" While matters were in this state between us, an order came
from the King of Granada for the Alcayde to take command of
the fortress of Coyn, which lies directly on the Christian fron-
tier. He prepared to remove, with all his family, but signified
that I should remain at Cartama. I exclaimed against the
separation, and declared that I could not be parted from Xarisa.
'That is the very cause,' said he, 'why I leave thee behind.
It is time, Abendaraez, that thou shouldst know the secret of
thy birth ; that thou art no son of mine, neither is Xarisa thy
sister.' ' I know it all,' exclaimed I, ' and I love her with ten-
fold the affection of a brother. You have brought us up to-
gether ; you have made us necessary to each other's happiness ;
our hearts have intwined themselves with our growth ; do "not
now tear them asunder. Fill up the measure of your kindness ;
be indeed a father to me, by giving me Xarisa for my wife.'

" The brow of the Alcayde darkened as I spoke. ' Have I
then been deceived?" said he. 'Have those nurtured in my
very bosom been conspiring against me ? Is this your return
for my paternal tenderness ? — to beguile the affections of my
child, and teach her to deceive her father? It was cause enough
to refuse thee the hand of my daughter, that thou wert of a

THE ABENCERRAGE. 47

proscribed race, who can never approach the walls of Granada ;
this, however, I might have passed over ; hut never will I give
my daughter to a man who has endeavored to win her from me
by deception.'

" All my attempts to vindicate myself and Xarisa were un-
availing. I retired in anguish from his presence, and seeking
Xarisa,. told her of this blow, which was worse than death to
me. 'Xarisa,' said I, 'we part forever! I shall never see
thee more ! Thy father will guard thee rigidly. Thy beauty
and his wealth will soon attract some happier rival, and I shall
be forgotten ! '

"• Xarisa reproached me with my want of faith, and promised
me eternal constancy. I still doubted and desponded, until,
moved by my anguish and despair, she agreed to a secret
union. Our espousals made, we parted, with a promise on her
part to send me word from Coyn, should her father absent him-
self from the fortress. The very day after our secret nuptials,
I beheld the whole train of the Alcayde depart from Cartama,
nor would he admit me to his presence, or permit me to bid
farewell to Xarisa. I remained at Cartama, somewhat pacified
in spirit by this secret bond of union ; but every thing around
me fed my passion, and reminded me of Xarisa. I saw the
windows at which I had so often beheld her. I wandered
through the apartment she had inhabited ; the chamber in
which she had slept. I visited the bower of jessamines, and
lingered beside the fountain in which she had delighted. Every
thing recalled her to my imagination, and filled my heart with
tender melancholy.

•'At length, a confidential servant brought me word, that her
father was to depart that day for Granada, on a short absence,
inviting me to hasten to Coyn, describing a secret portal at
which I should apply, and the signal by which I would obtain
admittance.

"If ever you have loved, most valiant Alcayde, yon may
judge of the transport of my bosom. That very night I arrayed
myself in my most gallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride ;
and arming myself against any casual attack, issued forth pri-
vately from Cartama. You know the rest, and by what sad
fortune of war I found myself, instead of a happy bridegroom,
in the nuptial bovver of Coyn, vanquished, wounded, and a
prisoner, within the walls of Allora. The term of absence of
the father of Xarisa is nearly expired. Within three days he
will return to Coyn, and our meeting will no longer be possible.
Judge, then, whether I grieve without cause, and whether I

48 WOLFE RT' s ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

may not well be excused for showing impatience under confine-
ment."

Don Rodrigo de Narvaez was greatly moved by this recital ;
for, though more used to rugged war, than scenes of amorous
softness, he was of a kind and generous nature.

kk Abenderaez," said he, "1 did not seek thy confidence to
gratify an idle curiosity. It grieves me much that the good for-
tune which delivered thee into my hands, should have marred
so fair an enterprise. Give me thy faith, as a true knight, to
return prisoner to my castle, within three days, and 1 will grant
thee permission to accomplish thy nuptials."

The Abencerrage would have thrown himself at his feet, to
pour out protestations of eternal gratitude, but the Alcayde
prevented him. Calling in his cavaliers, he took the Abencer-
rage by the right hand, in their presence, exclaiming solemnly,
" You promise, on the faith of a cavalier, to return to my castle
of Allora within three days, and render yourself my prisoner?"
And the Abencerrage said, "I promise."

Then said the Alcayde, "Go! and may good fortune attend
you. If you require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are
ready to be your companions."

The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in grateful
acknowledgment. "Give me," said he, "my own armor,
and my steed, and I require no guard. It is not likely that I
shall again meet with so valorous a foe."

The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple-
gray steed sounded over the drawbridge, and immediately
afterward the light clatter of hoofs along the road, besooke the
fleetness with which the youthful lover 'hastened to hi? bride.
It was deep night when the Moor arrived at the castle of Coyn.
He silently and cautiously walked his panting steed under its
dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the
portal denoted by Xarisa He paused and looked around to
see that he was not observed, and then knocked three times
with the butt of his lance. In a little while the portal was
timidly unclosed by the duenna of Xarisa. "Alas! senor,"
said she, " what has detained you thus long? Every night have
I watched for you ; and my lady is sick at heart with doubt
and anxiety."

The Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and cimeter
against the wall, and then followed the duenna, with silent
steps, up a winding stair-case, to the apartment of Xarisa.
Vain would be the attempt to describe the raptures of that
meeting. Time flew too swiftly, and the ALvi.cerrage had

THE ABENCERRAGE. 49

nearly forgotten, until too late, his promise to return a prisoner
to the Alcayde of Allora. The recollection of it came to him
with a pang, and suddenly awoke him from his dream of bliss.
Xarisa saw his altered looks, and heard with alarm his stifled
sighs ; but her countenance brightened, when she heard the
cause, 44 Let not thy spirit be cast down," said she, throwing
her white arms around him. 44 I have the keys of my father's
treasures ; send ransom more than enough to satisfy the Chris-
tian, and remain with me."

44 No," said Abendaraez, 44 I have given my word to return in
person, and like a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After
that, fortune must do with me as it pleases."

44 Then," said Xarisa, 44 1 will accompany thee. Never shall
you return a prisoner, and I remain at liberty."

The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof
of devotion in his beautiful bride. All preparations were
speedily, made for their departure. Xarisa mounted behind the
Moor, on his powerful steed ; they left the castle walls before
daybreak, nor did they pause, until they arrived at the gate of
the castle of Allora, which was flung wide to receive them.

Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps of
his trembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the pres-
ence of Rodrigo de Narvaez. 4b Behold, valiant Alcayde!"
said he, 4k the way in which an Abencerrage keeps his word. I
promised to return to thee a prisoner, but I deliver two captives
into your power. Behold Xarjsa, and judge whether I grieved
without reason, over the loss of such a treasure. Receive us as
your own, for I confide my life and her honor to your hands."

The Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the lady,
and the noble spirit of the Moor. 44I know not," said he,

which of you surpasses the other ; but I know that my castle
is graced and honored by your presence. Enter into it, and
consider it your own, while you deign to reside with me."

For several days the lovers remained at Allora, happy in
each other's love, and in the friendship of the brave Alcayde.
The latter wrote a letter, full of courtesy, to the Moorish king
of Granada, relating the whole event, extolling the valor and
good faith of the Abencerrage, and craving for him the royal
countenance.

The king was moved by the story, and was pleased with an
opportunity of showing attention to the wishes of a gallant and
chivalrous enemy ; for though he had often suffered from the
prowess of Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, he admired the heroic
character he had gained throughout the land. Calling the

5)

WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the letter to
read. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with rage, on
the perusal. " Restrain thine anger," said the king; " there is
nothing that the Alcayde of Allora could ask, that I would not
grant, if in my power. Go thou to Allora ; pardon thy children ;
take them to thy home. I receive this Abencerrage into my
favor, and it will be my delight to heap benefits upon you all."

The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He
hastened to Allora ; and folded his children to his bosom, who
would have fallen at his feet. The gallant Rodrigo de Nar-
vaez gave liberty to his prisoner without ransom, demanding
merely a promise of his friendship. He accompanied the youth-
ful couple and their father to Coyn, where their nuptials were
celebrated with great rejoicings. When the festivities were
over, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez returned to his fortress of Allora.

After his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his
children: ktTo your hands," said he, "I confide the disposi-
tion of my wealth. One of the first things I charge you, is not
to forget the ransom you owe to the Alcayde of Allora. His
magnanimity you can never repay, but you can prevent it from
wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, your
entire friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different
faith."

The Abencerrage thanked him for his generous proposition,
which so truly accorded with his own wishes. He took a large
sum of gold, and enclosed it in a rich coffer ; and, on his own
part, sent six beautiful horses, superbly caparisoned ; with six
shields and lances, mounted and embossed with gold. The
beautiful Xarisa, at the same time, wrote a letter to the
Alcayde, filled with expressions of gratitude and friendship,
and sent him a box of fragrant cypress-wood, containing linen,
of the finest quality, for his person. The valiant Alcayde dis-
posed of the present in a characteristic manner. The horses
and armor he shared among the cavaliers who had accompanied
him on the night of the skirmish. The box of cypress-wood
and its contents he retained, for the sake of the beautiful
• Xarisa ; and sent her, by the hands of a messenger, the sum of
gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to receive it as a wedding
present. This courtesy and magnanimity raised the character
of the Alcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still higher in the estima-
tion of the Moors., who extolled him as a perfect mirror of chiv-
alric virtue ; and from that time forward, there was a continual
exchange of good offices between them.

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 51

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

Break, Fhautsie, from thy cave of cloud,

And wave thy purple wiugs,
Now all thy figures are allowed,

And various shapes of things.
Create of airy forms a stream ;

It must have blood and naught of phlegm;
And though it be a walking dream,

Yet let it like an odor rise
To all the senses here,

And fall like sleep upon their eyes,
Or music on their ear. — BEN JONSON.

u THERE are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in our philosophy," and among these may be
placed that marvel and mystery of the seas, the island of St.
Brand an. Every school-boy can enumerate and call by name
the Canaries, the Fortunate Islands of the ancients ; which,
according to some ingenious speculative minds, are mere wrecks
and remnants of the vast island of Atalantis, mentioned by
Plato, as having been swallowed up by the ocean. Whoever
has read the history of those isles, will remember the wonders
told of another island, still more beautiful, seen occasionally
from their shores, stretching away in the clear bright west,
with long shadowy promontories, and high, sun-gilt peaks.
Numerous expeditions, both in ancient and modern days, have
launched forth from the Canaries in quest of that island ; but,
on their approach, mountain and promontory have gradually
faded away, until nothing has remained but the blue sky above,
and the deep blue water below. Hence it was termed by the
geographers of old, Aprositus, or the Inaccessible ; while mod-
ern navigators have called its very existence in question, pro-
nouncing it a mere optical illusion, like the Fata Morgana of the
Straits of Messina ; or classing it with those unsubstantial re-
gions known to mariners as Cape Flyaway, and the Coast of
Cloud Land.

Let not, however, the doubts of the worldly-wise sceptics of
modern days rob us of all the glorious realms owned by happy
credulity in days of yore. Be assured, O reader of easy faith !
— thou for whom I delight to labor — be assured, that such an
island does actually exist, and has, from time to time, been

52 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

revealed to the gaze, and trodden by the feet, of favored mor-
tals Nay, though doubted by historians and philosophers, its
existence is fully attested by the poets, who, being an inspired
race, and gifted with a kind of second sight, can see into the
mysteries of nature, hidden from the eyes of ordinary mortals.
To this gifted race it has ever been a region of fancy and
romance, teeming with all kinds of wonders. Here once
bloomed, and perhaps still blooms, the famous garden of the
Hesperides, with its golden fruit. Here, too. was the enchanted
garden of Armida, in which that sorceress held the Christian
paladin, Rinaldo, in delicious but inglorious thraldom ; as is set
forth in the immortal lay of Tasso. It was on this island, also,
that Sycorax, the witch, held sway, when the good Prospero,
and his infant daughter Miranda, were wafted to its shores.
The isle was then

" full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not."

Who does not know the tale, as told in the magic page of
Shakspeare ?

In fact, the island appears to have been, at different times,
under the sway of different powers, genii of earth, and air, and
ocean ; who made it their shadowy abode ; or rather, it is the
retiring place of old worn-out deities and dynasties, that once
ruled the poetic world, but are now nearly shorn of all their
attributes. Here Neptune and Amphitrite hold a diminished
court, like sovereigns in exile. Their ocean-chariot lies bottom
upward, in a cave of the island, almost a perfect wreck, while
their pursy Tritons and haggard Nereids bask listlessly, like
seals about the rocks. Sometimes they assume a shadow of
their ancient pomp, and glide in state about the glassy sea ;
while the crew of some tall Indiaman, that lies becalmed with
flapping sails, hear with astonishment the mellow note of the
Triton's shell swelling upon the ear, as the invisible pageant
sweeps by. Sometimes the quondam monarch of the ocean is
permitted to make himself visible to mortal eyes, visiting the
ships that cross the line, to exact a tribute from new-comers ;
the only remnant of his ancient rule, and that, alas ! performed
with tattered state, and tarnished splendor.

On the shores of this wondrous island, the mighty kraken
heaves his bulk, and wallows many a rood ; here, too, the sea-
serpent lies coiled up, during the intervals of his much-con-
tested revelations to the eyes of true-believers ; and here, it is
said, even in the Flying Dutchman finds a port, and casts his

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 53

anchor, and furls his shadowy sail, and takes a short repose
from his eternal wanderings.

Here all the treasures losi in the deep are safely garnered.
The caverns of the shores are piled with golden ingots, boxes
of pearls, rich bales of oriental silks ; and their deep recesses
sparkle with diamonds, or flame with carbuncles. Here, in
deep bays and harbors, lies many a spell-bound ship, long
given up as lost by the ruined merchant. Here, too, its crew,
long bewailed as swallowed up in ocean, lie sleeping in mossy
grottos, from age to age, or wander about enchanted shores
and groves, in pleasing oblivion of all things.

Such are some of the marvels related of this island, and
which may serve to throw some light on the following legend,
of unquestionable truth, which I recommend to the entire belief
of the reader.

THE ADELANTADO OF THE SEVEN CITIES.
A LEGEND OP ST. BRANDAN.

IN the early part of the fifteenth century, when Prince
Henry of Portugal, of worthy memory, was pushing the career
of discovery along the western coast of Africa, and the world
was resounding with reports of golden regions on the main
land, and new-found islands in the ocean, there arrived at
Lisbon an old bewildered pilot of the seas, who had been
driven by tempests, he knew not whither ; and who raved
about an island far in the deep, on which he had landed, and
which he had found peopled with Christians, and adorned with
noble cities.

The inhabitants, he said, gathered round, and regarded him
with surprise, having never before been visited by a ship.
They told him they were descendants of a band of Christians,
who fled from Spain when that country was conquered by the
Moslems. They were curious about the state of their father-
land, and grieved to hear that the Moslems still held posses-
sion of the kingdom of Granada. They would have taken the
old navigator to church, to convince him of their orthodoxy ;
but, either through lack of devotion, or lack of faith in their
words, he declined their invitation, and preferred to return on
board of his ship. He was properly punished. A furious
storm arose, drove him from his anchorage, hurried him out
to sea, and he saw no more of the unknown island.

54 WOL FERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

This strange story caused great marvel in Lisbon and else-
where. Those versed in history, remembered to have read, in
an ancient chronicle, that, at the time of the conquest of Spain,
in the eighth century, when the blessed cross was cast down,
and the crescent erected in its place, and when Christian
churches were turned into Moslem mosques, seven bishops, at
the head of seven bands of pious exiles, had fled from the
peninsula, and embarked in quest of some ocean island, or dis-
tant land, where they might found seven Christian cities, and
enjoy their faith unmolested.

The fate of these pious saints errant had hitherto remained
a mystery, and their story had faded from memory ; the report
of the old tempest-tossed pilot, however, revived this long-for-
gotten theme ; and it was determined by the pious and enthusi-
astic, that the island thus accidentally discovered, was the
identical place of refuge, whither the wandering bishops had
been guided by a protecting Providence, and where they had
folded their flocks.

This most excitable of worlds has always some darling ob-
ject of chimerical enterprise : the " Island of the Seven Cities "
now awakened as much interest and longing among zealous
Christians, as has the renowned city of Timbuctoo among
adventurous travellers, or the North-east Passage among hardly
navigators ; and it was a frequent prayer of the devout, that
these scattered and lost portions of the Christian family might
be discovered, and reunited to the great body of Christen-
dom.

No one, however, entered into the matter with half the zeal
of Don Fernando de Ulmo, a young cavalier of high standing
in the Portuguese court, and of most sanguine and romantic
temperament. He had recently come to his estate, and had
run the round of all kinds of pleasures and excitements, when
this new theme of popular talk and wonder presented itself.
The Island of the Seven Cities became now the constant sub-
ject of his thoughts by day and his dreams by night ; it even
rivalled his passion for a beautiful girl, one of the greatest
belles of Lisbon, to whom he was betrothed. At length his
imagination became so inflamed on the subject, that he deter-
mined to fit out an expedition, at his own expense, and set
sail in quest of this sainted island. It could not be a cruise
of any great extent ; for according to the calculations of the
tern pest- tossed pilot, it must be somewhere in the latitude of
the Canaries ; which at that time, when the new world was as
yet undiscovered, formed the frontier of ocean enterprise. Dou

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 55

Fernando applied to the crown for countenance and protection.
As he was a favorite at court, the usual patronage was readily
extended to him ; that is to say, he received a commission
from the king, Don loam II., constituting him Adelantado, or
military governor, of any country he might discover, with the
single proviso, that he should bear all the expenses of the dis-
covery and pay a tenth of the profits to the crown.

Don Fernando now set to work in the true spirit of a pro-
jector. He sold acre after acre of solid land, and invested the
proceeds in ships, guns, ammunition, and sea-stores. Even his
old family mansion in Lisbon was mortgaged without scruple,
for he looked forward to a palace in one of the Seven Cities of
which he was to be Adelantado. This was the age of nautical
romance, when the thoughts of all speculative dreamers were
turned to the ocean. The scheme of Don Fernando, therefore,
drew adventurers of every kind. The merchant promised him-
self new marts of opulent traffic ; the soldier hoped to sack and
plunder some one or other of those Seven Cities ; even the fat
monk shook off the sleep and sloth of the cloister, to join in a
crusade which promised such increase to the possessions of the
church.

One person alone regarded the whole project with sovereign
contempt and growling hostility. This was Don Ramiro Al-
varez, the father of the beautiful Serafina, to whom Don P"er-
nando was betrothed. He was one of those perverse, matter-
of-fact old men who are prone to oppose every thing speculative
and romantic. He had no faith in the Island of the Seven
Cities ; regarded the projected cruise as a crack-brained freak ;
looked with angry eye and internal heart-burning on the con-
duct of his intended son-in-law, chaffering away solid lands for
lands in the moon, and scoffingly dubbed him Adelantado of
Lubberlaud, In fact, he had never really relished the intended
match, to which his consent had been slowly extorted by the
tears and entreaties of his daughter. It is true he could have
no reasonable objections to the youth, for Don Fernando was
the very flower of Portuguese chivalry. No one could excel
him at the tilting match, or the riding at the ring ; none was
more bold and dexterous in the bull-fight ; none composed more
gallant madrigals in praise of his lady's charms, or sang them
with sweeter tones to the accompaniment of her guitar ; nor
could any one handle the castanets and dance the bolero with
more captivating grace. All these admirable qualities and
endowments, however, though they had been sufficient to win
the heart of Serafina. were nothing in the eyes of her unreason-

56 WOLFERT'R ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

able father. O Cupid, god of Love ! why will fathers always
be so unreasonable !

The engagement to Serafina had threatened at first to throw
an obstacle in the way of the expedition of Don Fernando, and
for a time perplexed him in the extreme. He was passionately
attached to the young lady ; but he was also passionately bent
on this romantic enterprise. How should he reconcile the two
passionate inclinations ? A simple and obvious arrangement at
length presented itself : marry Serafina, enjoy a portion of the
honeymoon at once, and defer the rest until his return from the
discovery of the Seven Cities !

He hastened to make known this most excellent arrangement
to Don Ramiro, when the long-smothered wrath of the old cava-
lier burst forth in a storm about his ears. He reproached him
with being the dupe of wandering vagabonds and wild schemers,
and of squandering all his real possessions in pursuit of empty
bubbles. Don Fernando was too sanguine a projector, and too
young a man, to listen tamely to such language. He acted
with what is technically called "becoming spirit." .A high
quarrel ensued ; Don Ramiro pronounced him a madman, and
forbade all farther intercourse with his daughter, until he should
give proof of returning sanity by abandoning this mad-cap en-
terprise ; while Don Fernando flung out of the house, more bent
than ever on the expedition, from the idea of triumphing over
the incredulity of the gray beard when he should return suc-
cessful.

Don Ramiro repaired to his daughter's chamber the moment
the youth had departed. He represented to her the sanguine,
unsteady character of her lover and the chimerical nature of
his schemes ; showed her the propriety of suspending all inter-
course with him until he should recover from his present hal-
lucination ; folded her to his bosom with parental fondness,
kissed the tear that stole down her cheek, and, as he left the
chamber, gently locked the door ; for although he was a fond
father, and had a high opinion of the submissive temper of his
child, he had a still higher opinion of the conservative virtues
of lock and key. Whether the damsel had been in any wise
shaken in her faith as to the schemes of her lover, and the
existence of the Island of the Seven Cities, by the sage repre-
sentations of her father, tradition does not say ; but it is certain
that she became a firm believer the moment she heard him turn
the key in the lock.

Notwithstanding the interdict of Don Ramiro, therefore, and
his shrewd precautions, the intercourse of the lovers continued,

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 57

although clandestinely. Don Fernando toiled all day, hurrying
forward his nautical enterprise, while at night he would repair,
beneath the grated balcony of his mistress, to carry on at equal
pace the no less interesting enterprise of the heart. At length
the preparations for the expedition were completed. Two gal-
lant caravels lay anchored in the Tagus, ready to sail with the
morning dawn ; while late at night, by the pale light of a wan-
ing moon, Don Fernando sought the stately mansion of Alvarez
to take a last farewell of Seraiina. The customary signal of a
few low touches of a guitar brought her to the balcony. She
was. sad at heart and full of gloomy forebodings ; but her lover
strove to impart to her his own buoyant hvype and youthful con-
fidence. " A few short months," said he, "• find I shall return
in triumph. Thy father will then blush at his incredulity, and
will once more welcome me to his house, when I cross its thresh-
old a wealthy suitor and Adelantado of the Seven Cities.*'

The beautiful Seraiina shook her head mournfully. It was
not on those points that she felt doubt or dismay. She believed
most implicitly in the Island of the Seven Cities, and trusted
devoutly in the success of the enterprise ; but she had heard of
the inconstancy of the seas, and the inconstancy of those who
roam them. Now, let the truth be spoken, Don Fernando, if
he had any fault in the world, it was that he was a little too
inflammable ; that is to say, a little too subject to take fire from
the sparkle of every bright eye : he had been somewhat of a
rover among the sex on shore, what might he not be on sea?
Might he not meet with other loves in foreign ports ? Might he
not behold some peerless beauty in one or other of those seven
cities, who might efface the image of Serafina from his thoughts?

At length she ventured to hint her doubts ; but Don Fernando
spurned at the very idea. Never could his heart be false to
Serafina ! Never could another be ca'ptivating in his eyes ! —
never — never! Repeatedly did he bend his knee, and smite
his breast, and call upon the silver moon to witness the sincerity
of his vows. But might not Serafina, herself, be forgetful of
her plighted faith? Might not some wealthier rival present,
while he was tossing on the sea, and, backed by the authority
of her father, win the treasure of her hand ?

Alas, how little did he know Serafina's heart ! The more her
father should oppose, the more would she be fixed in her faith.
Though years should pass before his return, he would find her
true to her vows. Even should the salt seas swallow him up,
(and her eyes streamed with salt tears at the very thought,)
never would she be the wife of another — never — never ! hhe

58 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

raised her beautiful white arms between the iron bars of the
balcony, and invoked the moon as a testimonial of her faith.

Thus, according to immemorial usage, the lovers parted, with
many a vow of eternal constancy. But will they keep those
vows ? Perish the doubt ! Have they not called the constant
moon to witness ?

With the morning dawn the caravels dropped down the Tagus
and put to sea. They steered for the Canaries, in those days
the regions of nautical romance. Scarcely had they reached
those latitudes, when a violent tempest arose. Don Fernando
soon lost sight of the accompanj'ing caravel, and was driven out
of all reckoning by the fury of the storm. For several weary
days and nights he was tossed to and fro, at the mercy of
the elements, expecting each moment to be swallowed up. At
length, one day toward evening, the storm subsided ; the clouds
cleared up, as though a veil had suddenly been withdrawn from
the face of heaven, and the setting sun shone gloriously upon
a fair and mountainous island, that seemed close at hand. The
tempest-tossed mariners rubbed their eyes, and gazed almost
incredulously upon this land, that had emerged so suddenly from
the murky gloom ; yet there it lay, spread out in lovely laud-
scapes ; enlivened by villages, and towers, and spires, while the
late stormy sea rolled in peaceful billows to its shores. About
a league from the sea, on the banks of a river, stood a noble
city, with lofty walls and towers, and a protecting castle. Don
Fernando anchored off the mouth of the river, which appeared
to form a spacious harbor. In a little while a barge was seen
issuing from the river. It was evidently a barge of ceremony,
for it was richly though quaintly carved and gilt, and decorated
with a silken awning and fluttering streamers, while a banner,
bearing the sacred emblem of the cross, floated to the breeze.
The barge advanced slowly, impelled by sixteen oars, painted
of a bright crimson. The oarsmen were uncouth, or rather
antique, in their garb, and kept stroke to the regular cadence of
an old Spanish ditty. Beneath the awning sat a cavalier, in a
rich though old-fashioned doublet, with an enormous sombrero
and feather.

When the barge reached the caravel, the cavalier stepped
on board. He was tall and gaunt, with a long, Spanish visage,
and lack-lustre eyes, and an air of lofty and somewhat pompous
gravity. His mustaches were curled up to his ears, his beard
was forked and precise ; he wore gauntlets that reached to his
elbows, and a Toledo blade that strutted out behind, while,
in front, its huge basket-hilt might have served for a porringer-

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 59

Thrusting out a long spindle leg, and taking off his sombrero
with a grave and stately sweep, he saluted Don Fernando by
name, and welcomed him, in old Castiliau language, and in the
style of old Castilian courtesy.

Don Fernando was startled at hearing himself accosted by
natne, by an utter stranger, in a strange land. As soon as he
could recover from his surprise, he inquired what laud it was at
which he had arrived.

" The Island of the Seven Cities'! "

Could this be true? Had he indeed been thus tempest-driven
upon the very land of which he was in quest? It was even so.
The other caravel, from which he had been separated in the
storm,' had made a neighboring port of the island, and an-
nounced the tidings of this expedition, which came to restore
the country to the great community of Christendom. The
whole island, he was told, was given up. to rejoicings on the
happy eyent ; and they only awaited his arrival to acknowledge
allegiance to the crown of Portugal, and hail him as Adelantado
of the Seven Cities. A grand fete was to be solemnized that
Very night in the palace of the Alcayde or governor of the city ;
who, on beholding the most opportune arrival of the caravel,
had despatched his grand chamberlain, in his barge of state, to
conduct the future Adelantado to the ceremony.

Don Fernando could scarcely believe but that this was all a
dream. He fixed a scrutinizing gaze upon the grand chamber-
lain, who, having delivered his message, stood in buckram dig-
nity, drawn up to his full stature, curling his whiskers, stroking
his beard, and looking down upon him with inexpressible lofti-
ness through his lack-lustre eyes. There was no doubting the
word of so grave and ceremonious a hidalgo.

Don Fernando now arrayed himself in gala attire. He would
have launched his boat, and gone on shore with his own men,
but he was informed the barge of state was expressly provided
for his accommodation, and, after the fete, would bring him
back to his ship ; in which, on the following day, he might enter
the harbor in befitting style. He accordingly stepped into the
barge, and took his seat beneath the awning. The grand
chamberlain seated himself on the cushion opposite. The
rowers bent to their oars, and renewed their mournful old
ditty, and the gorgeous, but unwieldy barge moved slowly and
solemnly through the water.

The night closed in, before they entered the river. They swept
along, past rock and promontory, each guarded by its tower.
The sentinels at every post challenged them as they passed by.

60

WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

' ' Who goes there ? ' '

"The Adelautado of the Seven Cities."

" He is welcome. Pass on."

On entering the harbor, they rowed close along an armed
galley, of the most ancient form. Soldiers with cross-bows
were stationed on the deck.

" Who goes there? " was again demanded.

u The Adelantado of the Seven Cities."

" He is welcome. Pass on."

They landed at a broad flight of stone steps, leading up, be-
tween two massive towers, to the water-gate of the city, at
which they knocked for admission. A sentinel, in an ancient
steel casque, looked over the wall. " Who is there?"

" The Adelantado of the Seven Cities."

The gate swung slowly open, grating upon its rusty hinges.
They entered between two rows of iron-clad warriors, in bat-
tered armor, with cross-bows, battle-axes, and ancient maces,
and with faces as old-fashioned and rusty as their armor. They
saluted Don Fernando in military style, but with perfect silence,(
as he passed between their ranks. The city was illuminated,
but in such manner as to give a more shadowy and solemn
effect to its old-time architecture. There were bonfires in the
principal streets, with groups about them in such old-fashioned
garbs, that they looked like the fantastic figures that roam the
streets in carnival time. Even the stately dames who gazed
from the balconies, which they had hung with antique tapestry,
looked more like effigies dressed up for a quaint mummery,
than like ladies in their fashionable attire. Every thing, in
short, bore the stamp of former ages, as if the world had sud-
denly rolled back a few centuries. Nor was this to be wondered
at. Had not the Island of the Seven Cities been for several
hundred years cut off from all communication with the rest of
the world, and was it not natural that the inhabitants should
retain many of the modes and customs brought here by their
ancestors ?

One thing certainly they had conserved ; the old-fashioned
Spanish gravity and stateliness. Though this was a time of
public rejoicing, and though Don Fernando was the object of
their gratulations, every thing was conducted with the most
solemn ceremony, and wherever he appeared, instead of accla-
mations, he was received with profound silence, and the most
formal reverences and swayings of their sombreros.

Arrived at the palace of the Alcayde, the usual ceremonial
was repeated. The chamberlain knocked for admission.

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 61

" Who is there? " demanded the porter.

" The Adelantado of the Seven Cities."

"He is welcome. Pass on."

The grand portal was thrown open. The chamberlain led the
way up a vast but heavily moulded marble staircase, and so
through one of those interminable suites of apartments, that
are the pride of Spanish palaces. All were furnished in a style
of obsolete magnificence. As the.y passed through the cham-
bers, the title of Don P'ernando was forwarded on by servants
stationed at every door ; and everywhere produced the most
profound reverences and, Courtesies. At length they reached a
magnificent saloon, blazing with tapers, in which the Alcayde,
and the principal dignitaries of the city, were waiting to receive
their illustrious guest. The grand chamberlain presented Don
Fernando in due form, and falling back among the other
officers of the household, stood as usual curling his whiskers
and stroking his forked beard.

Don Fernando was received by the Alcayde and the other
dignitaries with the same stately and formal courtesy that he
had everywhere remarked. In fact, there was so much form
and ceremonial, that it seemed difficult to get at any thing
social or substantial. Nothing but bows, and compliments, and
old-fashioned courtesies. The Alcayde and his courtiers resem-
bled, in face and form, those quaint worthies to be seen in the
pictures of old illuminated manuscripts ; while the cavaliers
and dames who thronged the saloon, might have been taken
for the antique figures of gobelin tapestry suddenly vivified
and put in motion.

The banquet, which had been kept back until the arrival of
Don Fernando, was now announced ; and such a feast ! such
unknown dishes and obsolete dainties ; w.ith the peacock, that
bird of state and ceremony, served up in full plumage, in a
golden dish, at the head of the table. And then, as Don Fer-
nando cast his eyes over the glittering board, what a vista of
odd heads and head-dresses, of formal bearded dignitaries, and
stately dames, with castellated locks and towering plumes !

As fate would have it, on the other side of Don Fernando,
was seated the daughter of the Alcayde. She was arrayed, it
is true, in a dress that might have been worn before the flood ;
but then, she had a melting black Andalusian eye, that was
perfectly irresistible. Her voice, too, her manner, her move-
ments, all smacked of Andalusia, and showed how female fas-
cination may be transmitted from age to age, and clime to
clime, without ever lo§iug its power, or going out of fashion.

62 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Those who know the witchery of the sex, in that most amorous
region of old Spain, may judge what must have been the fasci-
nation to which Don Fernando was exposed, when seated beside
one of the most captivating of its descendants. He was, as has
already been hinted, of an inflammable temperament ; with a
heart ready to get in a light blaze at every instant. And then
he had been so wearied by pompous, tedious old cavaliers, with
their formal bows and speeches ; is it to be wondered at that he
turned with delight to the Alcayde's daughter, all smiles, and
dimples, and melting looks, and melting accents? Besides, for
I wish to give him every excuse in my power, he was in a par-
ticularly excitable mood, from the novelty of the scene before
him, and his head was almost turned with this sudden and
complete realization of all his hopes and fancies ; and then, in
the flurry of the moment, he had taken frequent draughts at
the wine-cup, presented him at every instant by officious pages,
and all the world knows the effect of such draughts in giving
potency to female charms. In a word, there is no concealing
the matter, the banquet was not half over, before Don Fernan-
do was making love, outright, to the Alcayde's daughter. It
was his old habitude, contracted long before his matrimonial
engagement. The young lady hung her head coyly ; her eye
rested upon a ruby heart, sparkling in a ring on the hand of
Don Fernando, a parting gage of love from Serafina. A blush
crimsoned her very temples. She darted a glance of doubt at
the ring, and then at Don Fernando. He read her doubt, and
in the giddy intoxication of tjie moment, drew off the pledge of
his affianced bride, and slipped it on the finger of the Alcayde's
daughter.

At this moment the banquet broke up. The chamberlain
with his lofty demeanor, and his lack-lustre eyes', stood before
him, and announced that the barge was waiting to conduct him
back to the caravel. Don Fernando took a formal leave of the
Alcayde and his dignitaries, and a tender farewell of the Al-
cayde's daughter, with a promise to throw himself at her feet
on the following day. He was rowed back to his vessel in the
same slow and stately manner, to the cadence of the same
mournful old ditty. He retired to his cabin, his brain whirling
with all that he had seen, and his heart now and then giving
him a twinge as he recollected his temporary infidelity to the
beautiful Seratina. He flung himself on his bed, and soon fell
into a feverish sleep. His dreams were wild and incoherent.
How long he slept he knew not, but when he awoke he found
himself in a strange cabin, with persons around him of whom

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 63

he had no knowledge. He rubbed his eyes to ascertain whether
he were really awake. In reply to his inquiries, he was in-
formed that he was on board of a Portuguese ship, bound to
Lisbon ; having been taken senseless from a wreck drifting
about the ocean.

Don Fernando was confounded and perplexed. He retraced
every thing distinctly that had happened to him in the Island
of the Seven Cities, and until he had retired to rest on board of
the caravel. Had his vessel been driven from her anchors, and
wrecked during his sleep? The people about him could give
him no information on the subject. He talked to them of the
Island of the Seven Cities, and of all that had befallen him there.
They regarded his words as the ravings of delirium, and in
their honest solicitude, administered such rough remedies, that
he was fain to drop the subject, and observe a cautious taci-
turnity.

At length they arrived in the Tagus, and anchored before the
famous city of Lisbon. Don Fernando sprang joyfully on
shore, and hastened to his ancestral mansion. To his surprise,
it was inhabited by strangers ; and when he asked about his
family, no one could give him any information concerning
them.

He now sought the mansion of Don Ramiro, for the tempo-
rary flame kindled by the bright eyes of the Alcayde's daughter
had long since burnt itself out, and his genuine passion for
Serafiua had revived with all its fervor. He approached the
balcony, beneath which he had so often serenaded her. Did
his eyes deceive him? No! There was Serafina herself at the
balcony. An exclamation of rapture burst from him, as he
raised his arms toward her. She cast upon him a look of indig-
nation, and hastily retiring, closed the casement. Could she
have heard of his flirtation with the Alcayde's daughter? He
would soon dispel every doubt of his constancy. The door was
open. He rushed up-stairs, and entering the room, threw him-
self at her feet. She shrank back with affright, and took
refuge in the arms of a youthful cavalier.

" What mean you, Sir," cried the latter, " by this intru-
sion?"

" What right have you," replied Don Fernando, "to ask
the question? "

" The right of an affianced suitor ! "

Don Fernando started, and turned pale. "Oh, Serafina!
Serafina! " cried he in a tone of agony, " is this thy plighted
constancy? "

64 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

"Serafina? — what mean you by Serafina? If it be this
young lady you intend, her name is Maria."

" Is not this Seratiua Alvarez, and is not that her portrait? "
cried Don Fernando, pointing to a picture of his mistress.

''Holy Virgin!" cried the young lady; "he is talking of
my great-grandmother ! "

An explanation ensued, if that could be called an explana-
tion, which plunged the unfortunate Fernando into tenfold
perplexity. If he might believe his eyes, he saw before him
his beloved Serafina ; if he might believe his ears, it was merely
her hereditary form and features, perpetuated in the person of
her great-granddaughter.

His brain began to spin. He sought the office of the Min-
ister of Marine, and made a report of his expedition, and of the
Island of the Seven Cities, which he had so fortunately discov-
ered. Nobody knew any thing of such an expedition, or such
an island. He declared that he had undertaken the enterprise
under a formal contract with the crown, and had received a
regular commission, constituting him Adelantado. This must
be matter of record, and he insisted loudly, that the books of
the department should be consulted. The wordy strife at length
attracted the attention of an old, gray-headed clerk, who sat
perched on a high stool, at a high desk, with iron-rimmed spec-
tacles on the top of a thin, pinched nose, copying records into
an enormous folio. He had wintered and summered in the
department for a great part of a century, until he had almost
grown to be a piece of the desk at which he sat ; his memory
was a mere index of official facts and documents, and his brain
was little better than red tape and parchment. After peering
down for a time from his lofty perch, and ascertaining the mat-
ter in controversy, he put his pen behind his ear, and de-
scended. He remembered to have heard something from his
predecessor about an expedition of the kind in question, but
then it had sailed during the reign of Don loam II., and he had
been dead at least a hundred years. To put the matter beyond
dispute, however, the archives of the Torve do Tombo, that
sepulchre of old Portuguese documents, were diligently searched,
and a record was found of a contract between the crown and
one Fernando de Ulmo, for the discovery of the Island of the
Seven Cities, and of a commission secured to him as Adelan-
tado of the country lie might discover.

"There!" cried Don Fernando, triumphantly, "there you
have proof, before your own eyes, of what I have said. I am
the Fernando de Ulmo specified in that record. I have disco v-

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 65

ered the Island of the Seven Cities, and am entitled to be
Adelantado, according to the contract."

The story of Don Fernando had certainly, what is pronounced
the best of historical foundation, documentary evidence ; but
when a man, in the bloom of youth, talked of events that had
taken place above a century previously, as having happened to
himself, it is no wonder that he was set down for a madman.

The old clerk looked at him from above and below his spec-
tacles, shrugged his shoulders, stroked his chin, reascended his
lofty stool, took the pen from behind his ear, and resumed his
daily and eternal task, copying records into the fiftieth volume
of a series of gigantic folios. The other clerks winked at each
other shrewdly, and dispersed to their several places, and poor
Don Fernando, thus left to himself, flung out of the office,
almost driven wild by these repeated perplexities.

In the confusion of his mind, he instinctively repaired to the
mansion of Alvarez, but it was barred against him. To break
the delusion under which the youth apparently labored, and to
convince him that the Serafina about whom he raved was
really dead, he was conducted to her tomb. There she lay, a
stately matron, cut out in alabaster ; and there lay her husband
beside her ; a portly cavalier, in armor ; and there knelt, on
each side, the effigies of a numerous progeny, proving that she
had been a fruitful vine. Even the very monument gave proof
of the lapse of time, for the hands of her husband, which were
folded as if in prayer, had lost their fingers, and the face of the
once lovely Serafina was noseless.

Don Fernando felt a transient glow of indignation at behold-
ing this monumental proof of the inconstancy of his mistress ;
but who could expect a mistress to remain constant during a
whole century of absence? And what right had he to rail
about constancy, after what had passed between him and the
Alcayde's daughter? The unfortunate cavalier performed one
pious act of tender devotion ; he had the alabaster nose of
Serafina restored by a skilful statuary, and then tore himself
from the tomb.

He could now no longer doubt the fact that, somehow or
other, he had skipped over a whole century, during the night
he had spent at the Island of the Seven Cities ; and he was now
as complete a stranger in his native city, as if he had never
been there. A thousand times did he wish himself back to
that wonderful island, with its antiquated banquet halls, where
he had been so courteously received ; and now that the once
young and beautiful Serafina was nothing but a great-grand-

66 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

mother in marble, with generations of descendants, a thousand
times would he recall the melting black eyes of the Alcayde's
daughter, who doubtless, like himself, was still flourishing in
fresh juvenility, and breathe a secret wish that he were seated
by her side.

He would at once have set on foot another expedition, at his
own expense, to cruise in search of the sainted island, but his
means were exhausted. He endeavored to rouse others to the
enterprise, setting forth the certainty of profitable results, of
which his own experience furnished such unquestionable proof.
Alas ! no one would give faith to his tale ; but looked upon it
as the feverish dream of a shipwrecked man. He persisted
in his efforts ; holding forth in all places and all companies,
until he became an object of jest and jeer to the light-minded,
who mistook his earnest enthusiasm for a proof of insanity ; and
the very children in the streets bantered him with the title of
" The Adelantado of the Seven Cities."

Finding all his efforts in vain, in his native city of Lisbon,
he took shipping for the Canaries, as being nearer the latitude
of his former cruise, and inhabited by people given to nautical
adventure. Here he found ready listeners to his story ; for the
old pilots and mariners of those parts were notorious island-
hunters and devout believers in all the wonders of the seas.
Indeed, one and all treated his adventure as a common occur-
rence, and turning to each other, with a sagacious nod of the
head, observed, " He has been at the Island of St. Brandan."

They then went on to inform him of that great marvel and
enigma of the ocean ; of its repeated appearance to the inhab-
itants of their islands ; and of the many but ineffectual expedi-
tions that had been made in search of it. They took him to
a promontory of the island of Palma, from whence the shadowy
St. Brandan had oftenest been descried, and they pointed out
the very tract in the west where its mountains had been seen.

Don Fernando listened with rapt attention. He had no longer
a doubt that this mysterious and fugacious island must be the
same with that of the Seven Cities ; and that there must be
some supernatural influence connected with it, that had operated
upon himself, and made the events of a night occupy the space
of a century.

He endeavored, but in vain, to rouse the islanders to another
attempt at discovery ; they had given up the phantom island as
indeed inaccessible. Fernando, however, was not to be dis-
couraged. The idea wore itself deeper and deeper in his mind,
until it became the engrossing subject of his thoughts and object

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 67

of his being. Every morning he would repair to t!:e promontory
of Palma, and sit there throughout the live-long day, in hopes of
seeing the fairy mountains of St. Bran dan peering above the
horizon ; every evening he returned to his home, a disappointed
man, but ready to resume his post on the following morning.

His assiduity was all in vain. He grew gray in his ineffec-
tual attempt ; and was at length found dead at his post. His
grave is still shown in the island of Palma, and a cross is erected
on the spot where he used to sit and look out upon the sea, in
hopes of the reappearance of the enchanted island.

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir : I am somewhat of the same way of thinking, in regard
to names, with that profound philosopher, Mr. Shandy, the
elder, who maintained that some inspired high thoughts and
heroic aims, while others entailed irretrievable meanness and
vulgarity : insomuch that a man might sink under the insig-
nificance of his name, and be absolutely kk Nicodemused into
nothing." I have ever, therefore, thought it a great hardship
for a man to be obliged to struggle through life with some ridic-
ulous or ignoble Christian name, as it is too often falsely called,
inflicted on him in infancy, when he could not choose for him-
self ; and would give him free liberty to change it for one more
to his taste, when he had arrived at years of discretion.

I have the same notion with respect to local names. Some at
once prepossess us in favor of a place ; others repel us, by un-
lucky associations of the mind ; and I have known scenes worthy
of being the very haunt of poetry and romance, yet doomed to
irretrievable vulgarity, by some ill-chosen name, which not even
the magic numbers of a HALLECK or a BRYANT could elevate into
poetical acceptation.

This is an evil unfortunately too prevalent throughout our
country. Nature has stamped the land with features of sub-
limity and beauty ; but some of our noblest mountains and love-
liest streams are in danger of remaining forever unhonored
and unsung, from bearing appellations totally abhorrent to the
Muse. In the first place, our country is deluged with names
taken from places in the old world, and applied to places having
no possible affinity or resemblance to their namesakes. This

68 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

\

betokens a forlorn poverty of invention, and a second-hand
spirit, content to cover its nakedness with borrowed or cast-off
clothes of Europe.

Then we have a shallow affectation of scholarship : the whole
catalogue of ancient worthies is shaken out from the back of
Lempriere's Classical Dictionary, and a wide region of wild
country sprinkled over with the names of the heroes, poets,
and sages of antiquity, jumbled into the most whimsical juxta-
position. Then we have our political god- fathers ; topographi-
cal engineers, perhaps, or persons employed by government to
survey and lay out townships. These, forsooth, glorify the
patrons that give them bread ; so we have the names of the
great official men of the day scattered over the land, as if they
were the real kk salt of the earth," with which it was to be sea-
soned. Well for us is it, when these official great men happen to
have names of fair acceptation ; but woe unto us, should a Tubbs
or a Potts be in power : we are sure, in a little while, to find
Tubbsvilles and Pottsylvanias springing up in every direction.

Under these melancholy dispensations of taste and loyalty,
therefore", Mr. Editor, it is with a feeling of dawning hope, that
I have lately perceived the attention of persons of intelligence
beginning to be awakened on this subject. 1 trust if the mat-
ter should once be taken up, it will not be readily abandoned.
We are yet young enough, as a country, to remedy and reform
much of what has been done, and to release many of our rising
towns and cities, and our noble streams, from names calculated
to vulgarize the land.

I have, on a former occasion, suggested the expediency of
searching out the original Indian names of places, and wherever
they are striking and euphonious, and those by which they have
been superseded are glaringly objectionable, to restore them.
They would have the merit of originality, and of belonging to
the country ; and they would remain as relics of the native lords
of the soil, when every other vestige had disappeared. Many
of these names may easily be regained, by reference to old title
deeds, and to the archives of states and counties. In my own
case, by examining the records of the county clerk's office, I
have discovered the Indian names of various places and objects
in the neighborhood, and have found them infinitely superior to
the trite, poverty-stricken names which had been given by the
settlers. A beautiful pastoral stream, for instance, which winds
for many a mile through one of the loveliest little valleys in the
state, has long been known by the common-place name of the
" Saw-mill River." In the old Indian grants, it is designated

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 69

as the Neperan. Another, a perfectly wizard stream, which
winds through the wildest recesses of Sleepy Hollow, bears the
humdrum name of Mill Creek ; in the Indian grants, it sustains
the euphonious title of the Pocantico.

Similar researches have released Long Island from many of
those paltry and vulgar names which fringed its beautiful shores ;
their Cow Bays, and Cow Necks, and Oyster Ponds, and Mos-
quito Coves, which spread a spell of vulgarity over the whole
island, and kept persons of taste and fancy at a distance.

It would be an object worthy the attention of the historical
societies, which are springing up in various parts of the Union,
to have maps executed of their respective states or neighbor-
hoods, in which all the Indian local names should, as far as
possible, be restored. In fact, it appears to me that the nomen-
clature of the country is almost of sufficient importance for the
foundation of a distinct society ; or rather, a corresponding
association of persons of taste and judgment, of all parts of the
Union. ' Such an association, if properly constituted and com-
posed, comprising especially all the literary talent of the coun-
try, though it might not have legislative power in its enactments,
yet would have the all- pervading power of the press ; and the
changes in nomenclature which it might dictate, being at once
adopted by elegant writers in prose and poetry, and interwoven
with the literature of the country, would ultimately pass into
popular currency.

Should such a reforming association arise, I beg to recommend
to its attention all those mongrel names that have the adjec-
tive New prefixed to them, and pray they may be one and all
kicked out of the country. I am for none of these second-hand
appellations, that stamp us a second-hand people, and that are
to perpetuate us a new country to the end of time. Odds my
life! Mr. Editor, I hope and trust we are to live to be an oi<l
nation, as well as our neighbors, and have no idea that our
cities, when they shall have attained to venerable antiquity,
shall still be dubbed New York, and New London, and new this
and new that, like the Pont-Neuf, (the New Bridge,) at Paris,
which is the oldest bridge in that capital, or like the vicar of
Wakefield's horse, which continued to be called " the colt,"
until he died of old age.

Speaking of New York, reminds me of some observations
which I met with some time since, in one of the public papers,
about the name of our state and city. The writer proposes to
substitute for the present names, those of the STATE OF ONTARIO,
and the CITY OF MANHATTAN. I concur in his suggestion most

70 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

heartily. Though born and brought up in the city of New
York, and though I love every stick and stone about it, yet I do
not, nor ever did, relish its name. I like neither its sound nor
its significance. As to its significance, the very adjective new
gives to our great commercial metropolis a second-hand char-
acter, as if referring to some older, more dignified, and impor-
tant place, of which it was a mere copy ; though in fact, if I
am rightly informed, the whole name commemorates a grant
by Charles II. to his brother, the Duke of York, made in the
spirit of royal munificence, of a tract of country which did not
belong to him. As to the sound, what can you make of it,
either in poetry or prose? New York ! Why, Sir, if it were to
share the fate of Troy itself ; to suffer a ten years' siege, and be
sacked and plundered ; no modern Homer would ever be able
to elevate the name to epic dignity.

Now, Sir, ONTARIO would be a name worthy of the empire
state. It bears with it the majesty of that internal sea which
washes our northwestern shore. Or, if any objection should be
made, from its not being completely embraced within our boun-
daries, there is the MOHEGAN, one of the Indian names for that
glorious river, the Hudson, which would furnish an excellent
state appellation. So also New York might be called Mauhatta,
as it is named in some of the early records, and Manhattan used
as the adjective. Manhattan, however, stands well as a sub-
stantive, and 4i Manhattanese," which I observe Mr. COOPER
has adopted in some of his writings, would be a very good
appellation for a citizen of the commercial metropolis.

A word or two more, Mr. Editor, and I have done. We
want a NATIONAL NAME. We want it poetically, and we want
it politically. With the poetical necessity of the case I shall
not trouble myself. I leave it to our poets to tell how they
manage to steer that collocation of words, " The United States
of North America," down the swelling tide o-f song, and to
float the whole raft out upon the sea of heroic poesy. I am
now speaking of the mere purposes of common life. How is
a citizen of this republic to designate himself? As an Ameri-
can? There are two Americas, each subdivided into various
empires, rapidly rising in importance. As a citizen of the
United States? It is a clumsy, lumbering title, yet still it is
not distinctive ; for we have now the United States of Central
America; and heaven knows how many "United States" may
spring up under the Proteus changes of Spanish America.

This may appear matter of small concernment ; but any one
that has travelled in foreign countries must be conscious of the

NATIONAL NOMENCLATURE. 71

embarrassment and circumlocution sometimes occasioned by the
want of a perfectly distinct and explicit national appellation.
In France, when I have announced myself as an American,
I have been supposed to belong to one of the French colonies ;
in Spain, to be from Mexico, or Peru, or some other Spanish-
American country. Repeatedly I have found myself involved in a
long geographical and political definition of my national identity.

Now, Sir, meaning no disrespect to any of our co-heirs of
this great quarter of the world, I am for none of this copar-
ceny in a name that is to mingle us up with the riff-raff colonies
and off-sets of every nation of Europe. The title of American
may serve to tell the quarter of the world to which I belong,
the same as a Frenchman or an Englishman .may call himself a
European ; but I want my own peculiar national name to rally
under. I want an appellation that shall tell at once, and in a
way not to be mistaken, that I belong to this very portion of
America, geographical and political, to which it is my pride
and happiness to belong ; that I am of the Anglo-Saxon race
which founded this Anglo-Saxon empire in the wilderness ; and
that I have no part or parcel with any other race or empire,
Spanish, French, or Portuguese, in either of the Americas.
Such an appellation, Sir, would have magic in it. It would
bind every part of the confederacy together as with a key-
stone ; it would be a passport to the citizen of our republic
throughout the world.

We have it in our power to furnish ourselves with such a
national appellation, from one of the grand and eternal fea-
tures of our country ; from that noble chain of mountains
which formed its back-bone, and ran through the " old con-
federacy," when it first declared our national independence.
I allude to the Appalachian or Alleghany mountains. We
might do this without any very inconvenient change in our
present titles. We might still use the phrase, "The United
States," substituting Appalachia, or Alleghania, (I should
prefer the latter,) in place of America. The title of Appa-
lachian, or Alleghanian, would still announce us as Americans,
but would specify us as citizens of the Great Republic. Even
our old national cipher of U. S. A. might remain unaltered,
designating the United States of Alleghania.

These are crude ideas, Mr. Editor, hastily thrown out to
elicit the ideas of others, and to call attention to a subject
of more national importance than may at first be supposed.
Very respectfully yours,

GEOFFREY CRAYON

72 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM.

" Let a man write never so well, there are now-a-days a sort of persons they call critics,
that, egad, have no more wit in them than so many hobby-horses: but they'll laugh at
you, Sir, and find fault, and censure things, that, egad, I'm sure they are uot able to
do themselves; a sort of envious persons, that emulate the glories of persons of parts,
and think to build their fame by calumniation of persons that, egad, to my knowledge,
or all persons in the world, are in nature the persons that do as much despise all that,
as — a — In fine, I'll say uo more of 'em ! " — REHEARSAL.

ALL the world knows the story of the tempest-tossed voy-
ager, who, coming upon a strange coast, and seeing a man
hanging in chains, hailed it with joy, as the sign of a civilized
country. In like manner we may hail, as a proof of the rapid
advancement of civilization and refinement in this country, the
increasing number of delinquent authors daily gibbeted for the
edification of the public.

In this respect, as in every other, we are " going ahead " with
accelerated velocity, and promising to outstrip the superannu-
ated countries of Europe. It is really astonishing to see the
number of tribunals incessantly springing up for the trial of
literary offences. Independent of the high courts of Oyer and
Terminer. the great quarterly reviews, we have innumerable
minor tribunals, monthly and weekly, down to the Pie-poudre
courts in the daily papers ; insomuch that no culprit stands so
little chance of escaping castigation, as an unlucky author,
guilty of an unsuccessful attempt to please the public.

Seriously speaking, however, it is questionable whether our
national literature is sufficiently advanced, to bear this excess
of criticism ; and whether it would not thrive better, if allowed
to spring up, for some time longer, in the freshness and vigor
of native vegetation. When the worthy Judge Coulter, of
Virginia, opened court for the first time in one of the upper
counties, he was for enforcing all the rules and regulations that
had grown into use in the old, long-settled counties. " This is
all very well," said a shrewd old farmer ; " but let me tell you,
Judge Coulter, you set your coulter too deep for a new soil."

For my part, I doubt whether either writer or reader is
benefited by what is commonly called criticism. The former
is rendered cautious and distrustful ; he fears to give way to
those kindling emotions, and brave sallies of thought, which
bear him up to excellence ; the latter is made fastidious and
cynical ; or rather, he surrenders his own independent taste and
judgment, and learns to like and dislike at second hand.

DESULTORY THOUGHTS ON CRITICISM. 73

Let us, for a moment, consider the nature of this thing called
criticism, which exerts such a sway over the literary world.
The pronoun ice, used by critics, has a most imposing and
delusive sound. The reader pictures to himself a conclave of
learned men, deliberating gravely and scrupulously on the merits
of the book in question ; examining it page by page, comparing
and balancing their opinions, and when they have united in a
conscientious verdict, publishing it for the benefit of the world :
whereas the criticism is generally the crude and hasty production
of an individual, scribbling to while away an idle hour, to oblige
a book-seller, or to defray current expenses. How often is it
the passing notion of the hour, affected by accidental circum-
stances ; by indisposition, by peevishness, by vapors or indiges-
tion ; by personal prejudice, or party feeling. Sometimes a
work is sacrificed, because the reviewer wishes a satirical article ;
sometimes because he wants a humorous one ; and sometimes
because the author reviewed has become offensively celebrated,
and offers high game to the literary marksman.

How often would the critic himself, if a conscientious man,
reverse his opinion, had he time to revise it iu a more sunny
moment ; but the press is waiting, the printer's devil is at his
elbow ; the article is wanted to make the requisite variety for
the number of the review, or the author has pressing occasion
for the sum he is to receive for the article, so it is sent off,
all blotted and blurred ; with a shrug of the shoulders, and the
consolatory ejaculation : tk Pshaw! curse it ! it's nothing but a
review ! ' '

The critic, too, who dictates thus oracularly to the world, is
perhaps some dingy, ill-favored, ill-mannered varlet, who, were
he to speak by word of mouth, would be disregarded, if not
••coffed at ; but such is the magic of types ; such the mystic
Deration of anonymous writing ; such the potential effect of
,.,e pronoun we, that his crude decisions, fulminated through
the press, become circulated far and wide, control the opinions
of the world, and give or destroy reputation.

Many readers have grown timorous in their judgments since
the all-pervading currency of criticism. They fear to express
a revised, frank opinion about any new work, and to relish it
honestly and heartily, lest it should be condemned in the next
review, and they stand convicted of bad taste. Hence they
hedge their opinions, like a gambler his bets, and leave an
opening to retract, and retreat, and qualify, and neutralize every
unguarded expression of delight, uutil their Very praise declines
into a faintness that is damning.

74 WOLFERT'S BOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Were every one, on the contrary, to judge for himself, and
speak his mind frankly and fearlessly, we should have more
true criticism in the world than at present. Whenever a person
is pleased with a work, he may be assured that it has good
qualities. An author who pleases a variety of readers, must
possess substantial powers of pleasing ; or, in other words, in-
trinsic merits ; for otherwise we acknowledge an effect, and
deny the cause. The reader, therefore, should not suffer him-
self to be readily shaken from the conviction of his own feelings,
by the sweeping censures of pseudo critics. The author he has
admired, may be chargeable with a thousand faults ; but it is
nevertheless beauties and excellences that have excited his
admiration ; and he should recollect that taste and judgment
are as much evinced in the perception of beauties among defects,
as in a detection of defects among beauties. For my part, I
honor the blessed and blessing spirit that is quick to discover
and extol all that is pleasing and meritorious. Give me the
honest bee, that extracts honey from the humblest weed, but
save me from the ingenuity of the spider, which traces its
venom, even in the midst of a flower-garden.

If the mere fact of being chargeable with faults and imper-
fections is to condemn an author, who is to escape? The great-
est writers of antiquity have, in this way, been obnoxious to
criticism. Aristotle himself has been accused of ignorance ;
Aristophanes of impiety and buffoonery ; Virgil of plagiarism,
and a want of invention ; Horace of obscurity ; Cicero has been
said to want vigor and connection, and Demosthenes to be
deficient in nature, and in purity of language. Yet these have
all survived the censures of the critic, and flourished on to a
glorious immortality. Every now and then the world is startled
by some new doctrines in matters of taste, some levelling attacks
oil established creeds ; some sweeping denunciations of whole
generations, or schools of writers, as they are called, who had
seemed to be embalmed and canonized in public opinion. Such
has been the case, for instance, with Pope, and Dryden, and
Addison, who for a time have almost been shaken from their
pedestals, and treated as false idols.

It is singular, also, to see the fickleness of the world with
respect to its favorites. Enthusiasm exhausts itself, and pre-
pares the way for dislike. The public is always for positive
sentiments, and new sensations. When wearied of admiring, it
delights to censure ; thus coining a double set of enjoyments out
of the same subject. Scott and Byron are scarce cold in their
graves, and already we find criticism beginning to call in ques-

SPANISH ROMANCE. 75

tion those powers which held the world in magic thraldom.
Even in our own country, one of its greatest geniuses has had
some rough passages with the censors of the press ; and in-
stantly criticism begins to unsay all that it had repeatedly said
in his praise ; and the public are almost led to believe that the
pen which has so often delighted them, is absolutely destitute
of the power to delight !

If, then, such reverses in opinion as to matters of taste can
be so readily brought about, when may an author feel himself
secure? Where is the anchoring-ground of popularity, when
he may thus be driven from his moorings, and foundered even
in harbor? The reader, too, when he is to consider himself
safe in admiring, when he sees long-established altars over-
thrown, and his household deities dashed to the ground !

There is one consolatory reflection. Every abuse carries with
it its own remedy or palliation. Thus tae excess of crude and
hasty criticism, which has of late prevailed throughout the
literary world, and threatened to overrun our country, begins
to produce its own antidote. Where there is a multiplicity of
contradictory paths, a man must make his choice ; in so doing,
he has to exercise his judgment, and that is one great step to
mental independence. He begins to doubt all, where all differ,
and but one can be in the right. He is driven to trust to his
own discernment, and his natural feelings ; and here he is most
likely to be safe. The author, too, finding that what is con-
demned at one tribunal, is applauded at another, though per-
plexed for a time, gives way at length to the spontaneous
impulse of his genius, and the dictates of his taste, and writes
in the way most natural to himself. It is thus that criticism,
which by its severity may have held the little world of writers
in check, may, by its very excess, disarm itself of its terrors,
and the hardihood of talent become restored.

G. C.

SPANISH ROMANCE.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir : I have already given you a legend or two drawn from
ancient Spanish sources, and may occasionally give you a few
more. I love these old Spanish themes, especially when they
have a dasli of the Morisco in them, and treat of the times

76 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

when the Moslems maintained a foothold in the peninsula.
They have a high, spic}*, oriental flavor, not to be found in any
other themes that are merely P^uropean. In fact, Spain is a
country that stands alone in the midst of Europe ; severed in
habits, manners, and modes of thinking, from all its continental
neighbors. It is a romantic country ; but its romance has none
of the sentimentality of modern European romance ; it is chiefly
derived from the brilliant regions of the East, and from the
high-minded school of Saracenic chivalry.

The Arab invasion and conquest brought a higher civilization
and a nobler style of thinking into Gothic Spain. The Arabs
were a quick-witted, sagacious, proud-spirited, and poetical
people, and were imbued with oriental science and literature.
Wherever they established a seat of power, it bec.-ime a rallying
place for the learned and ingenious ; and they softened and
refined the people whom they conquered. By degrees, occu-
pancy seemed to give them a hereditary right to their foothold
in the land ; they ceased to be looked upon as invaders, and
were regarded as rival neighbors. The peninsula, broken up
into a variety of states, both Christian and Moslem, became for
centuries a great campaigning ground, where the art of war
seemed to be the principal business of man, and was carried to
the highest pitch of romantic chivalry. The original ground
of hostility, a difference of faith, gradually lost its rancor.
Neighboring states, of opposite creeds, were occasionally linked
together in alliances, offensive and defensive ; so that the cross
and crescent were to be seen side by side fighting against some
common enemy. In times of peace, too, the noble youth of
either faith resorted to the same cities, Christian or Moslem, to
school themselves in military science. Even in the temporary
truces of sanguinary wars, the warriors who had recently striven
together in the deadly conflicts of the field, laid aside their ani-
mosity, met at tournaments, jousts, and other military festivi-
ties, and exchanged the courtesies of gentle and generous
spirits Thus the opposite races became frequently mingled
together in peaceful intercourse, or if any rivalry took place, it
was in those high courtesies and nobler acts which bespeak the
accomplished cavalier. Warriors of opposite creeds became
ambitious of transcending each other in magnanimity as well as
valor. Indeed, the chivalric virtues were refined upon to a de-
gree sometimes fastidious a:id constrained ; but at other times,
inexpressibly noble and affecting. The annals of the times
teem with illustrious instances of high-wrought courtesy, roman-
tic generosity, lofty disinterestedness, and punctilious honor,

SPANISH ROMANCE. 77

that warm the very soul to read them. These have furnished
themes for national pla}'S and poems, or have been celebrated in
those all-pervading ballads which are as the life-breath of the
people, and thus have continued to exercise an influence on
the national character which centuries of vicissitude and decline
have not been able to destroy ; so that, with all their faults,
and they are many, the Spaniards, even at the present day, are
on many points the most high-minded and proud-spirited peo-
ple of Europe. It is true, the romance of feeling derived from
the sources I have mentioned, has, like all other romance, its
affectations and extremes. It renders the Spaniard at times
pompous and grandiloquent; prone to carry the u pundonor,"
or point of honor, beyond the bounds of sober sense and sound
morality; disposed, in the midst of poverty, to affect the
"• grande caballero," and to look down with sovereign disdain
upon '• arts mechanical," and all the gainful pursuits of ple-
beian life ; but this very inflation of spirit, while it fills his brain
with vapors, lifts him above a thousand meannesses ; and
though it often keeps him in indigence, ever protects him from*
vulgarity.

ILI the present clay, when popular literature is running into
the low levels of life and luxuriating on the vices and follies of
mankind, and when the universal pursuit of gain is trampling
down the early growth of poetic feeling and wearing out the
verdure of the soul, I question whether it would not be of ser-
vice for the reader occasionally to turn to these records of
prouder times and loftier modes of thinking, and to steep him-
self to the very lips in old Spanish romance.

For my own part, I have a shelf or two of venerable, parch-
ment-bound tomes, picked up here and there about the pen-
insula, and filled with chronicles, plays, and ballads, about
Moors and Christians, which I keep by me as mental tonics, in
the same way that a provident housewife has her cupboard of
cordials. Whenever I find my mind brought below par by the
commonplace of every-day life, or jarred by the sordid collisions
of the world, or put out of tune by the shrewd selfishness of
modern utilitarianism, I resort to these venerable tomes, as did
the worthy hero of La Mancha to his books of chivalry, and re-
fresh and tone up my spirit by a deep draught of their contents.
They have some such effect upon me as Falstaff ascribes to a
good Sherris sack, " warming the blood and filling the brain
with fiery and delectable shapes."

I here subjoin, Mr. Editor, a small specimen of the cordials I
have mentioned, just drawn from my Spanish cupboard, which

78 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

I recommend to your palate. If you find it to your taste, you
may pass it on to your readers.

Your correspondent and well-wisher,

GEOFFREY CRAYON.

LEGEND OF DON MUNIO SANCHO DE HINOJOSA.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

IN the cloisters of the ancient Benedictine convent of San
Domingo, at Silos, in Castile, are the mouldering yet magnifi-
cent monuments of the once powerful and chivalrous family of
Hinojosa. Among these, reclines the marble figure of a knight,
in complete armor, with the hands pressed together, as if in
prayer. On one side of his tomb is sculptured in relief a band
of Christian cavaliers, capturing a cavalcade of male and female
Moors ; on the other side, the same cavaliers are represented
kneeling before an altar. The tomb, like most of the neighbor-
ing monuments, is almost in ruins, and the sculpture is nearly
unintelligible, excepting to the keen eye of the antiquary. The
story connected with the sepulchre, however, is still preserved
in the old Spanish chronicles, and is to the following purport.

IN olden times, several hundred years ago, there was a noble
Castilian cavalier, named Don Munio Sancho.de Hinojosa, lord
of a border castle, which had stood the brunt of many a Moor-
ish foray. He had seventy horsemen as his household troops,
all of the ancient Castilian proof ; stark warriors, hard riders,
and men of iron ; with these he scoured the Moorish lands, and
made his name terrible throughout the borders. His castle
hall was covered with banners, and cimeters, and Moslem
helms, the trophies of his prowess. Don Munio was, moreover,
a keen huntsman ; and rejoiced in hounds of all kinds, steeds
for the chase, and hawks for the towering sport of falconry.
When not engaged in warfare, his delight was to beat up the
neighboring forests ; and scarcely ever did he ride forth, with-
out hound and horn, a boar-spear in his hand, or a hawk upon
his fist, and an attendant train of huntsmen.

His wife, Donna Maria Palacin, was of a gentle and timid na-
ture, little fitted to be the spouse of so hardy and adventurous
a knight ; and many a tear did the poor lady shed, when he

SPANISH ROMANCE.

79

sallied forth upon his daring enterprises, aud many a prayer did
she offer up for his safety.

As this doughty cavalier was one day hunting, he stationed
himself in a thicket, on the borders of a green glade of the for-
est, and dispersed his followers to rouse the game, and drive it
toward his stand. He had not been here long, when a caval-
cade of Moors, of both sexes, came prankling over the forest
lawn. They were unarmed, and magnificently dressed in robes
of tissue and embroidery, rich shawls of India, bracelets and
anklets of gold, and jewels that sparkled in the sun.

At the head of this gay cavalcade, rode a youthful cavalier,
superior to the rest in dignity aud loftiness of demeanor, and in
splendor of attire ; beside him was a damsel, whose veil, blown
aside by the breeze, displayed a face of surpassing beauty, and
eyes cast down in maiden modesty, yet beaming with tenderness
aud joy.

Don Munio thanked his stars for sending him such a prize,
and exulted at the thought of bearing home to his wife the glit-
tering spoils of these infidels. Putting his hunting-horn to his
lips, he gave a blast that rung through the forest. His hunts-
men came running from all quarters, and the astonished Moors
were surrounded and made captives.

The beautiful Moor rung her hands in despair, and her female
attendants uttered the most piercing cries. The young Moor-
ish cavalier alone retained self-possession. He inquired the
name of the Christian knight who commanded this troop of
horsemen. When told it was Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa,
his countenance lighted up. Approaching that cavalier, aud
kissing his hand, tk Don Munio Sancho," said he, " I have
heard of your fame as a true and valiant knight, terrible in
arms, but schooled in the noble virtues of chivalry. Such do I
trust to find you. In me you behold Abadil, son of a Moorish
Alcayde. I am on the way to celebrate my nuptials with this
lady ; chance has thrown us in }'our power, but 1 confide in
your magnanimity. Take all our treasure and jewels ; demand
what ransom you think proper for our persons, but suffer us not
to be insulted or dishonored."

When the good knight heard this appeal, and beheld the
beauty of the youthful pair, his heart was touched with tender-
ness and courtesy. "-God forbid," said he, " that I should
disturb such happy nuptials. My prisoners in troth shall ye be,
for fifteen days, and immured within my castle, where I claim,
as conqueror, the right of celebrating your espousals."

So saying, he despatched one of his fleetest horsemen in ad'

80 WOLFEUT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

vance, to notify Donna Maria Palacin of the coming of this
bridal part}' ; while he and his huntsmen escorted the cavalcade,
not as captors, but as a guard of honor. As they drew near
to the castle, the banners were hung out, and the trumpets
sounded from the battlements ; and on their nearer approach,
the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria came forth to
meet them, attended by her ladies and knights, her pages and
her minstrels. She took the young bride, Allifra, in her arms,
kissed her' with the tenderness of a sister, and conducted her
into the castle. In the mean time, Don Munio sent forth mis-
sives in every direction, and had viands and dainties of all kinds
collected from the country round ; and the wedding of the Moor-
ish lovers was celebrated with ail possible state and festivity.
For lifU-en days, the castle was given up to joy and revelry.
There were tiltings and jousts at the ring, and bull-h'ghts, and
banquets, and dances to the sound of minstrelsy. When the
fifteen days were at an end, he made the bride and bridegroom
magnificent presents, and conducted them and their attendants
safely beyond the borders. Such, in old times, were the cour-
tesy and generosity of a Spanish cavalier.

Several years after this event, the King of Castile summoned
his nobles to assist him in a campaign against the Moors. Don
Munio Sancho was among the first to answer to the call, with
seventy horsemen, all stanch and well-tried warriors. His
wife, Donna Maria, hung about his neck. *• Alas, my lord ! "
exclaimed she, "• how often wilt thou tempt thy fate, and when
will thy thirst for glory be appeased ! "

kt One battle more," replied Don Munio, " one battle more, for
the honor of Castile, and I here make a vow, that when this is
over, I will lay by my sword, and repair with my cavaliers in
pilgrimage to the sepulchre of our Lord at Jerusalem." The
cavaliers all joined with him in the vow, and Donna Maria felt
in some degree soothed in spirit : still, she saw with a heavy
heart the departure of her husband, and watched his banner
with wistful eyes, until it disappeared among the trees of the
forest.

The King of Castile led his army to the plains of Almanara,
where they encountered the Moorish host, near to Ucles. The
battle was long and bloody ; the Christians repeatedly wavered,
and were as often rallied by the energy of their commanders.
Don Munio was covered with wounds, but refused to leave the
field. The Christians at length gave way, and the king was
hardly pressed, and in danger of being captured.

Don Munio called upon his cavaliers to follow him to the

SPANISH ROMANCE.

81

rescue. " Now is the time," cried he, u to prove your loyalty.
Fall to, like brave men ! We fight for the true faith, and if we
lose our lives here, we gain a better life hereafter."

Rushing with his men between the king and his pursuers, they
checked the latter in their career, and gave time for their mon-
arch to escape ; but they fell victims to their loyalty. They
all fought to the last gasp. Don Munio was singled out by a
powerful Moorish knight, but having been wounded in the right
arm, he fought to disadvantage, and was slain. The battle
being over, the Moor paused to possess himself of the spoils
of this redoubtable Christian warrior. When he unlaced the
helmet, however, and beheld the countenance of Don Munio,
he gave a great cry, and smote his breast. "Woe is me ! "
cried he ; "I have slain my benefactor ! The flower of knightly
virtue ! the most magnanimous of cavaliers ! "

WHILE the battle had been raging on the plain of Salmanara,
Donna Maria Palacin remained in her castle, a prey to the
keenest anxiety. Her eyes were ever fixed on the road that
led from the country of the Moors, and often she asked the
watchman of the tower, " What seest thou? "

One evening, at the shadowy hour of twilight, the warden
sounded his horn. " I see," cried he, " a numerous train wind-
ing up the valley. There are mingled Moors and Christians.
The banner of my lord is in the advance. Joyful tidings ! " ex-
claimed the old seneschal : "My lord returns in triumph, and
brings captives ! " Then the castle courts rang with shouts of
joy ; and the standard was displayed, and the trumpets were
sounded, and the draw-bridge was lowered, and Donna Maria
went forth with her ladies, and her knights, and her pages, and
her minstrels, to welcome her lord from the wars. But as
the train drew nigh, she beheld a sumptuous bier, covered with
black velvet, and on it lay a warrior, as if taking his repose :
he lay in his armor, with his helmet on his head, and his sword
in his hand, as one who had never been conquered, and around
the bier were the escutcheons of the house of Hinojosa.

A number of Moorish cavaliers attended. the bier, with em-
blems of mourning, and with dejected countenances : and their
leader cast himself at the feet of Donna Maria, and hid his face
in his hands. She beheld in him the gallant Abadil, whom she
had once welcomed with his bride to her castle, but who now
came with the body of her lord, whom he had unknowingly
slain in battle !

82 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

THE sepulchre erected in the cloisters of the Convent of San
Domingo was achieved at the expense of the Moor Abadil, as
a feeble testimony of his grief for the death of the good knight
Don Munio, and his reverence for his memory. The tender
and faithful Donna Maria soon followed her lord to the tomb.
On one of the stones of a small arch, beside his sepulchre, is
the following simple inscription : " Hie jacet Maria Palacin,
uxor Munonis Sancij de Finojosa:" Here lies Maria Palacin,
wife of Munio Sancho de Hinojosa.

The legend of Don Munio Sancho does not conclude with his
death. On the same day on which the battle took place on the
plain of Salmauara, a chaplain of the Holy Temple at Jerusa-
lem, while standing at the outer gate, beheld a train of Chris-
tian cavaliers advancing, as if in pilgrimage. The chaplain
was a native of Spain, and as the pilgrims approached, he
knew the foremost to be Don Munio Sancho de Hinojosa, with
whom he had been well acquainted in former times. Hasten-
ing to the patriarch, he told him of the honorable rank of the
pilgrims at the gate. The patriarch, therefore, went forth with
a grand procession of priests and monks, and received the
pilgrims with all due honor. There were seventy cavaliers,
beside their leader, all stark and lofty warriors. They carried
their helmets in their hands, and their faces were deadly pale.
They greeted no one, nor looked either to the right or to the
left, but entered the chapel, and kneeling before the Sepulchre
of our Saviour, performed their orisons in silence. When they
had concluded, they rose as if to depart, and the patriarch and
his attendants advanced to speak to them, but they were no
more to be seen. Every one marvelled what could be the
meaning of this prodigy. The patriarch carefully noted down
the day, and sent to Castile to learn tidings of Don Munio San-
cho de Hinojosa. He received for reply, that on the very day
specified, that worthy knight, with seventy of his followers, had
been slain in battle. These, therefore, must have been the
blessed spirits of those Christian warriors, come to fulfil their
vow of a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem. Such
was Castilian faith, in the olden time, which kept its word,
even beyond the grave.

If any one should doubt of the miraculous apparition of
these phantom knights, let him consult the History of the
Kings of Castile and Leon, by the learned and pious Fray Pru-
dencio de Sandoval, Bishop of Pamplona, where he will find
it recorded in the History of the King Don Alonzo VI., on the
hundred and second page. It is too precious a legend to be
lightly abandoned to the doubter.

COMMUNIPAW. 83

COMMUNIPAW.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir : I observe, with pleasure, that you are performing from
time to time a pious duty, imposed upon you, I may say, by
the name you have adopted as your titular standard, in follow-
ing in the footsteps of the venerable KNICKERBOCKER, and
gleaning every fact concerning the early times of the Manhat-
toes- which may have escaped his hand. I trust, therefore, a
few particulars, legendary and statistical, concerning a place
which figures conspicuously in the early pages of his history,
will not be unacceptable. I allude, Sir, to the ancient and
renowned village of Communipaw, which, according to the
veracious Diedrich, and to equally veracious tradition, was the
first spot where our ever-to-be-lamented Dutch progenitors
planted their standard and cast the seeds of empire, and from
whence subsequently sailed the memorable expedition under
Oloffe the Dreamer, which landed on the opposite island of
Manhatta, and founded the present city of New York, the city
of dreams and speculations.

Communipaw, therefore, may truly be called the parent of New
York ; yet it is an astonishing fact, that though immediately
opposite to the great city it has produced, from whence its red
roofs and tin weather-cocks can actually be descried peering
above the surrounding apple orchards, it should be almost as
rarely visited, and as little known by the inhabitants of the
metropolis, as if it had been locked up among the Rocky Moun-
tains. Sir, I think there is something unnatural in this, espe-
cially in these times of ramble and research, when our citizens
are antiquity-hunting in every part of the world. Curiosity,
like charity, should begin at home ; and I would enjoin it on
our worthy burghers, especially those of the real Knickerbocker
breed, before they send their sons abroad to wonder and grow
wise among the remains of Greece and Rome, to let them make
a tour of ancient Pavonia, from Weehawk even to the Kills,
and medtate, with filial reverence, on the moss-grown mansions
of Con.muuipaw.

Sir, I regard this much-neglected village as one of the most
remarkable places in the country. The intelligent traveller,
as he looks down upon it from the Bergen Heights, modestly
nestled among its cabbage-gardens, while the great flaunting
city it has begotten is stretching far and wide on the opposite

84 WOLFERTS HOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

side of the bay, the intelligent traveller, I say, will be filled with
astonishment ; not, Sir, at the village of Comraunipaw, which
in truth is a very small village, but at the almost incredible
fact that so small a village should have produced so great a
city. It looks to him, indeed, like some squat little dame,
with a tall grenadier of a son strutting by her side ; or some
simple-hearted hen that has unwittingly hatched out a Ion >
legged turkey.

But this is not all for which Cummunipaw is remarkable.
Sir, it is interesting on another account. It is to the ancient
province of the New Netherlands and the classic era of the
Dutch dynasty, what Herculaneum and Pompeii are to an-
cient Rome and the glorious days of the empire. Here every
thing remains in statu quo, as it was in the days of Oloffe the
Dreamer, Walter the Doubter, and the other worthies of the
golden age ; the same broad-brimmed hats and broad-bottomed
breeches ; the same knee-buckles and shoe-buckles ; the same
close-quilled caps and linsey-woolsey short-gowns and petti-
coats ; the same implements and utensils and forms and fash-
ions ; in a word, Communipaw at the present day is a picture
of what New Amsterdam was before the conquest. The t; in-
telligent traveller" aforesaid, as he treads its streets, is struck
with the primitive character of every thing around him. In-
stead of Grecian temples for dwelling-houses, with a great
column of pine boards in the way of every window, he beholds
high peaked roofs, gable ends to the street, with weather-cocks
at top, and windows of all sorts and sizes ; large ones for the
grown-up members of the family, and little ones for the little
folk. Instead of cold marble porches, with close-locked doors
and brass knockers,, he sees the doors hospitably open; Un-
worthy burgher smoking his pipe on the old-fashioned stoop
in front, with his " vrouw " knitting beside him; and the cat
and her kittens at their feet sleeping in the sunshine.

Astonished at the obsolete and "• old world " air of every thing
around him, the intelligent traveller demands how all this has
come to pass. Herculaneum and Pompeii remain, it is true,
unaffected by the varying fashions of centuries ; but they were
buried by a volcano and preserved in ashes. What charmed
spell has kept this wonderful little place unchanged, though in
sight of the most changeful city in the universe? Has it, too,
been buried under its cabbage-gardens, and only dug out in
modern days for the wonder and edification of the world? The
reply involves a point of history, worthy of notice and record,
and reflecting immortal honor on Communipaw.

COMMUNIPAW. 85

At the time when New Amsterdam was invaded and con*
quered by British foes, as has been related in the history of the
venerable Diedrich, a great dispersion took place among the
Dutch inhabitants. Many, like the illustrious Peter Stuyve-
sant, buried themselves in rural retreats in the Bowerie ; others,
like Wolfert Acker, took refuge in various remote parts of the
Hudson ; but there was one stanch, unconquerable band that
determined to keep together, and preserve themselves, like
seed corn, for the future fructification and perpetuity of the
Knickerbocker race. These were headed by one Garret Van
Home, a gigantic Dutchman, the Pelayo of the New Nether-
lands. Under his guidance, they retreated across the bay and
buried themselves among the marshes of ancient Pavonia, as
did the followers of Pelayo among the mountains of Asturias,
when Spain was overrun by its Arabian invaders.

The gallant Van -Home set up his standard at Communipaw,
and invited all those to rally under it, who were true Neder-
landers at heart, and determined to resist all foreign intermix-
ture or encroachment. A strict non-intercourse was observed
with the captured city ; not a boat ever crossed to it from
Communipaw, and the English language was rigorously tabooed
throughout the village and its dependencies. Every man was
sworn to wear his hat, cut his coat, build his house, and har-
ness his horses, exactly as his father had done before him ; and
to permit nothing but the Dutch language to be spoken in his
household.

As a citadel of the place, and a stronghold for the preserva-
tion and defence of every thing Dutch, the gallant Van Home
erected a lordly mansion, with a chimney perched at every
corner, which thence derived the aristocratical name of "The
House of the Four Chimneys." Hither he transferred many of
the precious relics of New Amsterdam ; the great round-crowned
hat that once covered the capacious head of Walter the Doubter,
and the identical shoe with which Peter the Headstrong kicked
his pusillanimous councillors down-stairs. St. Nicholas, it is
said, took this loyal house under his especial protection ; and a
Dutch soothsayer predicted, that as long as it should stand,
Communipaw would be safe from the intrusion either of Briton
or Yankee.

In this house would the gallant Van Home and his compeers
hold frequent councils of war, as to the possibility of re-conquer-
ing the province from the British ; and here would they sit
for hours, nay, days, together smoking their pipes and keeping
watch upon the growing city of New York ; groaning in spirit

86 WOLFtiRT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

whenever they saw a new house erected or ship launched, and
persuading themselves that Admiral Van Tromp would one day
or other arrive to sweep out the invaders with the broom which
he carried at his mast-head.

Years rolled by, but Van Tromp never arrived. The British
strengthened themselves in the land, and the captured city
flourished under their domination. Still, the worthies of Com-
munipaw would not despair ; something or other, they were
sure, would turn up to restore the power of the Hogen Mogens,
the Lord States-General ; so they kept smoking and smoking,
and watching and watching, and turning the same few thoughts
over and over in a perpetual circle, which is commonly called
deliberating. In the mean time, being hemmed up within a
narrow compass, between the broad bay and the Bergen hills,
they grew poorer and poorer, until they had scarce the where-
withal to maintain their pipes in fuel during their endless
deliberations.

And now must I relate a circumstance which will call for a
little exertion of faith on the part of the reader ; but I can only
say that if lie doubts it, he had better not utter his doubts in
Communipaw, as it is among the religious beliefs of the place.
It is, in fact, nothing more nor less than a miracle, worked by
the blessed St. Nicholas, for the relief and sustenance of this
loyal community.

It so happened, in this time of extremity, that in the course
of cleaning the House of the Four Chimneys, by an ignorant
housewife who knew nothing of the historic value of the relics
it contained, the old hat of Walter the Doubter and the execu-
tive shoe of Peter the Headstrong were thrown out of doors as
rubbish. But mark the consequence. The good St. Nicholas
kept watch over these precious relics, and wrought out of them
a wonderful providence.

The hat of Walter the Doubter falling on a stercoraceous
-heap of compost, in the rear of the house, began forthwith to
vegetate. Its broad brim spread forth grandly and exfoliated,
and its round crown swelled and crimped and consolidated
until the whole became a prodigious cabbage, rivalling in mag-
nitude the capacious head of the Doubter. In a word, it was
the origin of that renowned species of cabbage known, by all
Outch epicures, by the name of the Governor's Head/and
which is to this day the glory of Communipaw.

On the other hand, the shoe of Peter Stuyvesant being thrown
into the river, in front of the house, gradually hardened and
concreted, and became covered with barnacles, and at length

COMMUNIPA W. 87

turned into a gigantic oyster, being the progenitor of that illus-
trious species known throughout the gastronomical world by
the name of the Governor's Foot.

These miracles were the salvation of Communipaw. The
sages of the place immediately saw in them the hand of St.
Nicholas, and understood their mystic signification. They set
to work with all diligence to cultivate and multiply these great
blessings ; and so abundantly did the gubernatorial hat and
shoe fructify and increase, that in a little time great patches of
cabbages were to be seen extending from the village of Com-
munipaw quite to the Bergen Hills ; while the whole bottom of
the bay in front became a vast bed of oysters. Ever since that
time this excellent community has been divided into two great
classes : those who cultivate the land and those who cultivate the
water. The former have devoted themselves to the nurture
and edification of cabbages, rearing them in all their varieties ;
while the latter have formed parks and plantations, under
water, to which juvenile oysters are transplanted from foreign
parts, to finish their education.

As these great sources of profit multiplied upon their hands,
the worthy inhabitants of Communipaw began to long for a
market at which to dispose of their superabundance. This
gradually produced once more an intercourse with New York ;
but it was always carried on by the old people and the negroes ;
never would they permit the young folks, of either sex, to visit
the city, lest they should get tainted with foreign manners and
bring home foreign fashions. Even to this day, if you see an
old burgher in the market, with hat and garb of antique Dutch
fashion, you may be sure he is one of the old unconquered race
of the "• bitter blood," who maintain their stronghold at Com-
munipaw.

In modern days, the hereditary bitterness against the English
has lost much of its asperity, or rather has become merged in
a new source of jealousy and apprehension : I allude to the inces-
sant and wide-spreading irruptions from New England. Word
has been continually brought back to Communipaw, by those
of the community who return from their trading voyages in
cabbages and oysters, of the alarming power which the Yan-
kees are gaining in the ancient city of New Amsterdam ; elbow-
ing the genuine Knickerbockers out of all civic posts of honor
and profit ; bargaining them out of their hereditary homesteads ;
pulling down the venerable houses, with crow-step gables, which
have stood since the time of the Dutch rule, and erecting, in-
stead, granite stores, and marble banks ; in a word, evincing a

88 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

deadly determination to obliterate every vestige of the good old
Dutch times.

Jn consequence of the jealousy thus awakened, the worthy
traders from Communipaw confine their dealings, as much as
possible, to the genuine Dutch families. If they furnish the
Yankees at all, it is with inferior articles. Never can the latter
procure a real " Governor's Head," or " Governor's Foot,"
though they have offered extravagant prices for the same, to
grace their table on the annual festival of the New England
Society.

But what has carried this hostility to the Yankees to the
highest pitch, was an attempt made by that all-pervading race
to get possession of Communipaw itself. Yes, Sir ; during the
late mania for land speculation, a daring company of Yankee
projectors landed before the village ; stopped the honest burgh-
ers on the public highway, and endeavored to bargain them
out of their hereditary acres ; displayed lithographic maps, in
which their cabbage-gardens were laid out into town lots ; their
oyster-parks into docks and quays ; and even the House of the
Four Chimneys metamorphosed into a bank, which was to enrich
the whole neighborhood with paper mone}'.

Fortunately, the gallant Van Homes came to the rescue, just
as some of the worthy burghers were on the point of capitulat-
ing. The Yankees were put to the rout, with signal confusion,
and have never since dared to show their faces in the place.
The good people continue to cultivate their cabbages, and rear
their oysters ; they know nothing of banks, nor joint stock
companies, but treasure up their money in stocking-feet, at the
bottom of the family chest, or bury it m iron pots, as did their
fathers and grandfathers before them.

As to the House of the Four Chimneys, it still remains in the
great and tall family of the Van Homes. Here are to be seen
ancient Dutch corner cupboards, chests of drawers, and mas-
sive clothes-presses, quaintly carved, arid carefully waxed and
polished ; together with divers" thick, black-letter volumes, with
brass clasps, printed of yore in Leyclen and Amsterdam, and
handed down from generation to generation, in the family, but
never read. They are preserved in the archives, among sundry
old parchment deeds, in Dutch and English, bearing the seals of
the early governors of the province.

In this house, the primitive Dutch holidays of Paas and
Pinxter are faithfully kept up ; and New-Yrear celebrated with
cookies and cherry-bounce ; nor is the festival of the blessed
St. Nicholas forgotten, when all the children are sure to hang

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 89

up their stockings, and to have them filled according to ^their
deserts ; though, it is said, the good saint is occasionally per-
plexed in his nocturnal visits, which chimney to descend.

Of late, this portentous mansion has begun to give signs of
dilapidation and decay. Some have attributed this to the
visits made by the young people to the city, and their bringing
thence various modern fashions ; and to their neglect of the
Dutch language, which is gradually becoming confined to the
older persons in the community. The house, too, was greatly
shaken by high winds, during the prevalence of the speculation
mania, especially at the time of the landing of the Yankees.
Seeing how mysteriously the fate of Communinaw is identified
with this venerable mansion, we cannot wonder that the older
and wiser heads of the community should be filled with dismay,
whenever a brick is toppled down from one of the chimneys, or
a weather-cock is blown off from a gable-end.

The present lord of this historic pile, I am happy to say, is
calculated to maintain it in all its integrity. He is of patri-
archal age, and is worthy of the days of the patriarchs. He
has done his utmost to increase and multiply the true race in
the land. His wife has not been inferior to him in zeal, and
they are surrounded by a goodly progeny of children, and
grand-children, and great-grand-children, who promise to per-
petuate the name of Van Home, until time shall be no more.
So be it ! Long may the horn of the Van Homes continue to
be exalted in the land ! Tall as they are, may their shadows
never be less ! May the House of the Four Chimneys remain
for ages, the citadel of Commuuipaw, and the smoke of the
chimneys continue to ascend, a sweet-smelling incense in the
nose of St. Nicholas !

With great respect, Mr. Editor,

Your ob't servant,

HERMANTJS VANDERDOtfK.

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: I have read with great satisfaction the valuable paper
of your correspondent, Mr. HERMANUS VANDERDONK, (who, I
take it, is a descendant of the learned Adrian Vanderdonk, one
of the early historians of the Nieuw Nederlands,) giving sundry

90 WOLFERT'S R008T AND MISCELLANIES.

particulars, legendary and statistical, touching the venerable
village of Communipaw and its fate-bound citadel, the House
of the Four Chimneys. It goes to prove what I have repeatedly
maintained, that we live in the midst of history and mystery
and romance ; and that there is no spot in the world more rich
in themes for the writer of historic novels, heroic melodramas,
and rough-shod epics, than this same business-looking city of
the Manhattoes and its environs. He who would find these
elements, however, must not seek them among the modern im-
provements and modern people of this moneyed metropolis, but
must dig for them, as for Kidd the pirate's treasures, in out-of-
the-way places, and among the ruins of the past.

Poetry and romance received a fatal blow at the overthrow of
the ancient Dutch dynasty, and have ever since been gradually
withering under the growing domination of the Yankees. They
abandoned our hearths when the old Dutch tiles were superseded
by marble chimney-pieces ; when brass andirons made way for
polished grates, and the crackling and blazing fire of nut-wood
gave place to the smoke and stench of Liverpool coal ; and on
the downfall of the last gabel-end house, their requiem was
tolled from the tower of the Dutch church in Nassau-street by
the old bell that came from Holland. But poetry and romance
still live unseen among us, or seen only by the enlightened few,
who are able to contemplate this city and its environs through
the medium of tradition, and clothed with the associations of
foregone ages.

Would you seek these elements in the country, Mr. Editor,
avoid all turnpikes, railroads, and steamboats, those abomina-
ble inventions by which the usurping Yankees are strengthen-
ing themselves in the land, and subduing every thing to utility
and commonplace. Avoid all towns and cities of white clap-
board palaces and Grecian temples, studded with " Academies,"
"Seminaries," and "Institutes," which glisten along our bays
and rivers ; these are the strongholds of Yankee usurpation ;
but if haply you light upon some rough, rambling road, wind-
ing between stone fences, gray with moss, and overgrown with
elder, poke-berry, mullein, and sweet-briar, with here and there a
low, red-roofed, whitewashed farm-house, cowering among apple
and cherry trees ; an old stone church, with elms, willows, and
button-woods, as old-looking as itself, and tombstones almost
buried in their own graves ; and, peradventure, a small log
school-house at a cross-road, where the English is still taught
with a thickness of the tongue, instead of a twang of the nose ;
should you, 1 say, light upon such a neighborhood, Mr. Editor,

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 91

you may thank your stars that you have found one of the linger-
ing haunts of poetry and romance.

Your correspondent, Sir, has touched upon that sublime and
affecting feature in the history of Communipavv, the retreat of
the patriotic band of Nederlanders, led by Van Home, whom
he justly terms the Pelayo of the New Netherlands. He has
given you a picture of the manner in which they ensconced
themselves in the House of the Four Chimneys, and awaited
with heroic patience and perseverance the clay that should see
the flag of the Hogen Mogens once more floating on the fort of
New, Amsterdam.

Your correspondent, Sir, has but given you a glimpse over
the threshold ; I will now let you into the heart of the mystery
of this most mysterious and eventful village. Yres, sir, I will
now

" unclasp a secret book;

And to your quick conceiving discontents,
I'll read you matter deep and dangerous,
AH full of peril and adventurous spirit,
As to o'er walk a current, roaring loud,
On the uusteadfast footing of a spear."

Sir, it is one of the most beautiful and interesting facts con-
nected with the history of Communipaw, that the early feeling
of resistance to foreign rule, alluded to by your correspondent,"
is still kept up. Yes, sir, a settled, secret, and determined
conspiracy has been going on for generations among this indom-
itable people, the descendants of the refugees from New Am-
sterdam ; the object of which is to redeem their ancient seat of
empire, and to drive the losel Yankees out of the land.

Communipaw, it is true, has the glory of originating this
conspiracy ; and it was hatched and reared in the House of the
Four Chimneys ; but it has spread far and wide over ancient
Pavonia, surmounted the heights of Bergen, Hoboken, and
Weehawk, crept up along the banks of the Passaic and the
Hackensack, until it pervades the whole chivalry of the coun-
try from Tappaan Slote in the north to Piscataway in the south,
including the pugnacious village of Rahway, more heroically
denominated Spank-town.

Throughout all these regions a great " in-and-in confederacy "
prevails, that is to say, a confederacy among the Dutch fami-
lies, by dint of diligent and exclusive intermarriage, to keep
the race pure and to multiply. If ever, Mr. Editor, in the
course of your travels between Spank-town and Tappaan Slote,
you should see a cosey, low-eaved farm-house, teeming with

92 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

sturdy, broad-built little urchins, you may set it down as one
of the breeding places of this grand secret confederacy, stocked
with the embryo deliverers of New Amsterdam.

Another step in the progress of this patriotic conspiracy, is the
establishment, in various places within the ancient boundaries
of the Nieuw Nederlands, of secret, or rather mysterious asso-
ciations, composed of the genuine sons of the Nederlanders,
with the ostensible object of keeping up the memory of old
times and customs, but with the real object of promoting the
views of this dark and mighty plot, and extending its ramifi-
cations throughout the land.

Sir, I am descended from a long line of genuine Nederland-
ers, who, though they remained in the city of New Amsterdam
after the conquest, and throughout the usurpation, have never
in their hearts been able to tolerate the yoke imposed upon
them. My worthy father, who was one of the last of the
cocked hats, had a little knot of cronies, ot his own stamp,
who used to meet in our wainscoted parlor, round a nut-wood
fire, talk over old times, when the city was ruled by its native
burgomasters, and groan over the monopoly of all places of
power and profit by the Yankees. I well recollect the effect
upon this worthy little conclave, when the Yankees first insti-
tuted their New-England Society, held their ''national festi-
val," toasted their " father land," and sang their foreign songs
of triumph within the very precincts of our ancient metropolis.
Sir, from that day, my father held the smell of codfish and
potatoes, and the sight of pumpkin pie, in utter abomination ;
and whenever the annual dinner of the New England Society
came round, it was a sore anniversary for his children. He
got up in an ill humor, grumbled and growled throughout the
day, and not one of us went to bed that night, without having
had his jacket well trounced, to the tune of "The Pilgrim
Fathers."

You may judge, then, Mr. Editor, of the exaltation of all
true patriots of this stamp, when the Society of Saint Nich-
olas was set up among us, and intrepidly established, cheek
by jole, alongside of the society of the invaders. Never shall
I forget the effect upon my father and his little knot of brother
groaners, when tidings were brought them that the ancient
banner of the Manhattoes was actually floating from the win-
dow of the City Hotel. Sir, they nearly jumped out of their
silver-buckled shoes for joy. They took down their cocked
hats from the pegs on which they had hanged them, as the
Israelites of yore hung their harps upon the willows, in token

CONSPIRACY OF THE COCKED HATS. 93

of bondage, clapped them resolutely once more upon their
heads, and cocked them in the face of every Yankee they met
on the way to the banqueting- room.

The institution of this society was hailed with transport
throughout the whole extent of the New Netherlands ; being
considered a secret foothold gained in New Amsterdam, and
a flattering presage of future triumph. Whenever that society
holds its annual feast, a sympathetic hilarity prevails through-
oat the land ; ancient Pavonia sends over its contributions of
cabbages and oysters ; the House of the Four Chimneys is
splendidly illuminated, and the traditional song of St. Nich-
olas, the mystic bond of union and conspiracy, is chanted
with closed doors, in every genuine Dutch family.

I have thus, I trust, Mr. Editor, opened your eyes to some
of the grand moral, poetical, and political phenomena with
which you are surrounded. You will now be able to read the
"signs of the times." You will now understand what is
meant by those " Knickerbocker Halls," and "Knickerbocker
Hotels," and "Knickerbocker Lunches," that are daily spring-
ing up in our city and what all these " Knickerbocker Omni-
buses " are driving at. You will see in them so many clouds
before a storm ; so many mysterious but sublime intimations
of the gathering vengeance of a great though oppressed people.
Above all, you will now contemplate our bay and its porten-
tous borders, with proper feelings of awe and admiration.
Talk of the Bay of Naples, and its volcanic mountains ! Why,
Sir, little Communipaw, sleeping among its cabbage gardens,

quiet as gunpowder," yet with this tremendous conspiracy
brewing in its bosom, is an object ten times as sublime (in a
moral point of view, mark me) as Vesuvius in repose, though
charged with lava and brimstone, and ready for an eruption.

Let me advert to a circumstance connected with this theme,
which cannot but be appreciated by every heart of sensibility.
You must have remarked, Mr. Editor, on summer evenings,
and on Sunday afternoons, certain grave, primitive-looking per-
sonages, walking the Battery, in close confabulation, with their
canes behind their backs, and ever and anon turning a wistful
gaze toward the Jersey shore. These, sir, are the sons of
Saint Nicholas, the genuine Nederlanders ; who regard Com-
munipaw with pious reverence, not merely as the progenitor,
but the destined regenerator, of this great metropolis. Yes,
Sir ; they are looking with longing eyes to the green marshes
of ancient Pavonia, as did the poor conquered Spaniards of
yore toward the stern mountains of Asturias, wondering whether

94 WOLFERTS ROOKT AND MISCELLANIES.

the day of deliverance is at hand. Many is the time, when, in
my boyhood, I have walked with my father and his confidential
compeers on the Battery, and listened to their calculations and
conjectures, and observed the points of their sharp cocked hats
evermore turned toward Pavonia. Nay, Sir, I am convinced
that at this moment, if I were to take down the cocked hat of
my lamented father from the peg on which it has hung for
years, and were to carry it to the Battery, its centre point, true
as the needle to the pole, would turn to Communipaw.

Mr. Editor, the great historic drama of New Amsterdam is
hut half acted. The reigns of Walter the Doubter, William the
Testy, and Peter the Headstrong, with the rise, progress, and
decline of the Dutch dynasty, are but so many parts of the
main action, the triumphant catastrophe of which is yet to
come. Yes, Sir ! the deliverance of the New Nederlands from
Yankee domination will eclipse the far-famed redemption of
Spain from the Moors, and the oft-sung conquest of Granada
will fade before the chivalrous triumph of New Amsterdam.
Would that Peter Stuyvesant could rise from his grave to wit-
ness that day !

Y^our humble serVant,

ROLOFF VAN RIPPER

P.S. Just as I had concluded the foregoing epistle, I re-
ceived a piece of intelligence, which makes me tremble for the
fate of Communipaw. I fear, Mr. Editor, the grand conspiracy
is in danger of being countermined and counteracted, by those
all-pervading and indefatigable Yankees. Would you think it,
Sir ! one of them has actually effected an entry in the place by
covered way ; or in other words, under cover of the petticoats.
Finding every other mode ineffectual, he secretly laid siege to
a Dutch heiress, who owns a great cabbage-garden in her own
right. Being a smooth-tongued varlet, he easily prevailed on
her to elope with him, and they were privately married at Spank-
town ! The first notice' the good people of Communipaw had of
this awful event, was a lithographed map of the cabbage-garden
laid out in town lots, and advertised for sale ! On the night of
the wedding, the main weather-cock of the House of the Four
Chimneys was carried away in a whirlwind ! The greatest con-
sternation reigns throughout the village !

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER MAGAZINE.

Sir: I observed in your last mouth's periodical, a communi-
cation from a Mr. VANDERDONK, giving some information con-
cerning Communipaw. I herewith send you, Mr. Editor, a
legend connected with that place ; and am much surprised it
should have escaped the researches of your very authentic cor-
respondent, as it relates to an edifice scarcely less fated than
the House of the Four Chimneys. I give you the legend in its
crude and simple state, as I heard it related ; it is capable, how-
ever, of being dilated, inflated, and dressed up into very impos-
ing shape and dimensions. Should any of your ingenious con-
tributors in this line feel inclined to take it in hand, they
will find 'ample materials, collateral and illustrative, among the
papers of the late Reinier Skaats, many years since crier of the
court, and keeper of the City Hall, in the city of the Man hat-
toes ; or in the library of that important and utterly renowned
functionary, Mr. Jacob Hays, long time high constable, who, in
the course of his extensive researches, has amassed an amount
of valuable facts, to be rivalled only by that great historical col-
lection, "•The Newgate Calendar."

Your humble servant,

BAKENT VAX SCHAICK.

GUESTS FROM GIBBET ISLAND.

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW.

WHOEVER has visited the ancient and renowned village of
Communipaw, may 'have noticed an old stone building, of most
ruinous and sinister appearance. The doors and window-shut-
ters are ready to drop from their hinges ; old clothes are stuffed
in the broken panes of glass, while legions of half-starved dogs
prowl about the premises, and rush out and bark at every passer-
by ; for your beggarly house in a village is most apt to swarm
with profligate and ill-conditioned dogs. What adds to the
sinister appearance of this mansion, is a tall frame in front,
not a little resembling a gallows, and which looks as if waiting
to accommodate some of the inhabitants with a well-merited
airing. It is not a gallows, however, but an ancient sign-post.'

96 WOLFERT'8 ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

•

for this dwelling, in the golden days of Communipaw, was one
of the most orderly and peaceful of village taverns, where all
the public affairs of Communipaw were talked and smoked over.
In fact, it was in this very building that Oloffe the Dreamer,
and his companions, concerted that great voyage of discovery
and colonization, in which they explored Buttermilk Channel,
were nearly shipwrecked in the strait of Hell-gate, and finally
landed on the island of Manhattan, and founded the great city
of New Amsterdam.

Even after the province had been cruelly wrested from the
sway of their High Mightinesses, by the combined forces of the.
British and Yankees, this tavern continued its ancient loyalty.
It is true, the head of the Prince of Orange disappeared from
the sign ; a strange bird being painted over it, with the explan-
atory legend of tkDiK WILDE GANS," or The Wild Goose; but
this all the world knew to be a sly riddle of the landlord, the
worthy Tennis Van Gieson, a knowing man in a small way,
who laid his finger beside his nose and winked, when any one
studied the signification of his sign, and observed that his goose
was hatching, but would join the flock whenever they flew over
the water ; an enigma which was the perpetual recreation and
delight of the loyal but fat-headed burghers of Communipaw.

Under the sway of this patriotic, though discreet and quiet
publican, the tavern continued to flourish in primeval tran-
quillity, and was the resort of all true-hearted Netheiianders,
from all parts of Pavonia ; who met here quietly and secretly,
to smoke and drink the downfall of Briton and Yankee, and
success to Admiral Van Tromp.

The only drawback on the comfort of the establishment, was
a nephew of mine host, a sister's son, Yan Yost Vanderscamp
by name, and a real scamp by nature. This unlucky whipster
showed an early propensity to mischief, which he gratified in
a small way, by playing tricks upon the frequenters of the Wild
Goose ; putting gunpowder in their pipes, or squibs in their
pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, while they sat
nodding round the fireplace in the bar-room ; and if perchance
a worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia had lingered
until dark over his potation, it was odds but that young Van-
derscamp would slip a briar under his horse's tail, as he mounted,
and send him clattering along the road, in neck-or-nothiug style,
to his infinite astonishment and discomfiture.

It may be wondered at, that mine host of the Wild Goose did
not turn such a graceless varlet out of doors ; but Teunis Van
Gieson was an easy-tempered man, and, having no child of his

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW. 97

own, looked upon his nephew with almost parental indulgence.
His patience and good-nature were doomed to be tried by an-
other inmate of his mansion. This was a cross-grained cur-
mudgeon of a negro, named Pluto, wbo'was a kind of enigma
in Communipaw. Where he came from, nobody knew. He
was found one morning, after a storm, cast like a sea-monster
on the strand, in front of the Wild Goose, and lay there, more
dead than alive. The neighbors gathered round, and specu-
lated on this production of the deep ; whether it were fish or
flesh, or a compound of both, commonly yclept a merman. The
kind-hearted Teunis Van Gieson, seeing that he wore the human
form, took him into his house, and warmed him into life.
By degrees, he showed signs of intelligence, and even uttered
sounds very much like language, but which no one in Commu-
nipaw could understand. Some thought him a negro just from
Guinea, who had either fallen overboard, or escaped from a
slave-ship. Nothing, however, could ever draw from him any
account of his origin. When questioned on the subject, he
merely pointed to Gibbet Island, a small rocky islet, which lies
in the open bay, just opposite to Communipaw, as if that were
his native place, though everybody knew it had never been
inhabited.

In the process of time, he acquired something of the Dutch
language, that is to say, he learnt all its vocabulary of oaths
and maledictions, with just words sufficient to string them to-
gether. kk Donder en blickseu ! " (thunder and lightning,) was
the gentlest of his ejaculations. For years he kept about the
Wild Goose, more like one of those familiar spirits, or house-
hold goblins, that we read of, than like a human being. He
acknowledged allegiance to no one, but performed various do-
mestic offices, when it suited his humor ; waiting occasionally
on the guests ; grooming the horses, cutting wood, drawing
water ; and all this without being ordered. Lay any command
on him, and the stubborn sea-urchin was sure to rebel. He was
never so much at home, however, as when on the water, plying
about in skiff or canoe, entirely alone, fishing, crabbing, or
grabbing for oysters, and would bring home quantities for the
larder of the Wild Goose, which he would throw down at the
kitchen door, with a growl. No wind nor weather deterred him
from launching forth on his favorite element : indeed, the wilder
the weather, the more he seemed to enjoy it. If a storm was
brewing, he was sure to put off from shore ; and would be seen
far out in the bay, his light skiff dancing like a feather on the
waves, when sea and sky were all in a turmoil, and the stoutest

98 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

ships were fain to lower their sails. Sometimes, on such occa-
sions, he would be absent for days together. How lie weathered
the tempest, and how and where he subsisted, no one could
divine, nor did any one venture to ask, for all had an almost
superstitious awe of him. Some of the Communipaw oystermen
declared that they had more than once seen him suddenly dis-
appear, canoe and all, as if they plunged beneath the waves,
and after a while come up again, in quite a different part of the
bay ; whence they concluded that he could live under water like
that notable species of wild duck, commonly called the Hell-
diver. All began to consider him in the light of a foul-weather
bird, like the Mother Carey's Chicken, or Stormy Petrel ; and
whenever they saw him putting far out in his skiff, in cloudy
weather, made up their minds for a storm.

The only being for whom he seemed to have any liking, was
Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and him he liked for his very wicked-
ness. He in a manner took the boy under his tutelage, prompted
him to all kinds of mischief, aided him in every wild, harum-
scarum freak, until the lad became the complete scapegrace of
the village ; a pest to his uncle, and to every one else. Nor
were his pranks confined to the land ; he soon learned to ac-
company old Pluto on the water. Together these worthies
would cruise about the broad bay, and all the neighboring
straits and rivers ; poking around in skiffs and canoes ; robbing
the set-nets of the fishermen ; landing on remote coasts, and
laying waste orchards and water-melon patches ; in short,
carrying on a complete system of piracy, on a small scale.
Piloted by Pluto, the youthful Vanderscamp soon became ac-
quainted with all the bays, rivers, creeks, and inlets of the watery
world around him ; could navigate from the Hook to Spiting-
devil on the darkest night, and learned to set even the terrors
of Hell-gate at defiance.

At length, negro and boy suddenly disappeared, and days
and weeks elapsed, but without tidings of them. Some said
they must have run away and gone to sea ; others jocosely
hinted, that old Pluto, being no other than his namesake in
disguise, had spirited away the boy to the nether regions. All,
however, agreed to one thing, that the village was well rid of
them.

In the process of time, the good Teunis Van Gieson slept
with his fathers, and the tavern remained shut up, waiting for
a claimant, for the next heir was Yan Yost Vanderscamp, and
he had not been heard of for years. At length, one clay, a
boat was seen pulling for the shore, from a long-, black, rakish-

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW. 09

looking schooner, that lay at anchor in the bay. The boat's
crew seemed worthy of the craft from which they debarked.
Never had such a set of noisy, roistering, swaggering varlets
landed in peaceful Communipaw. They were outlandish in
garb and demeanor, and were headed by a rough, burly, bully
ruffian, with fiery whiskers, a copper nose, a scar across his
face, and a great Flaunderish beaver slouched on one side of
his head, in whom, to their dismay, the quiet inhabitants were
made to recognize their early pest, Yan Yost Vanderscamp.
The rear of this hopeful gang was brought up by old Pluto,
who had lost an eye, grown' grizzly-headed, and looked more
like a devil than ever. Vanderscamp renewed his acquaint-
ance with the old burghers, much against their will, and in a
manner not at all to their taste. He slapped them familiarly
on the back, gave them an iron grip of the hand, and was hail
fellow well met. According to his own account, he had been
all the world over ; had made money by bags full ; had ships in
every 'sea, and now meant to turn the Wild Goose into a coun-
try seat, where he and his comrades, all rich merchants from
foreign parts, might enjoy themselves in the interval of their
voyages.

Sure enough, in a little while there was a complete metamor-
phose of the Wild Goose. From being a quiet, peaceful Dutch
public house, it became a most riotous, uproarious private
dwelling ; a complete rendezvous for boisterous men of the
seas, who came here to have what they called a tk blow out"
on dry land, and might be seen at all hours, lounging about the
door, or lolling out of the windows ; swearing among them-
selves, and cracking rough jokes on every passer-by. The house
was fitted up, too, in so strange a' manner : hammocks slung to
the walls, instead of bedsteads ; odd kinds of furniture, of
foreign fashion ; bamboo couches, Spanish chairs ; pistols, cut-
lasses, and blunderbusses, suspended on every peg ; silver cru-
cifixes on the mantel-pieces, silver candle-sticks and porringers
on the tables, contrasting oddly with the pewter and Delft ware
of the original establishment. And then the strange amuse-
ments of these sea-monsters ! Pitching Spanish dollars, instead
of quoits ; firing blunderbusses out of the window ; shooting at
a mark, or at any unhappy dog, or cat, o* pig, or barn-door
fowl, that might happen to come within reach.

The only being who seemed to relish their rough waggery,
was old Pluto ; and yet he lead but a dog's life of it ; for they
practised all kinds of manual jokes upon him ; kicked him
about like a foot-ball ; shook him by his grizzly mop of wool,

100 WOLFKHT'ti liOOXT AND MISCELLANIES.

and never spoke to him without coupling a curse by way of
adjective to his name, and consigning him to the infernal re-
gions. The old fellow, however, seemed to like them the bet-
ter, the more they cursed him, though his utmost expression of
pleasure never amounted to more than the growl of a petted
bear, when his ears are rubbed.

Old Pluto was the ministering spirit at the orgies of the Wild
Goose ; and such orgies as took place there ! Such drinking,
singing, whooping, swearing ; with an occasional interlude of
quarrelling and fighting. The noisier grew the revel, the more
old Pluto piled the potations, until the guests would become
frantic in their merriment, smashing every thing to pieces, and
throwing the house out of the windows. Sometimes, after a
drinking bout, they sallied forth and scoured the village, to
the dismay of the worthy burghers, who gathered their women
within doors, and would have shut up the house. Vanderscamp,
however, was not to be rebuffed. He insisted on renewing
acquaintance with his old neighbors, and on introducing his
friends, the merchants, to their families ; swore he was on the
look-out for a wife, and meant, before he stopped, to find hus-
bands for all their daughters. So, will-ye, nil-ye, sociable he
was ; swaggered about their best parlors, with his hat on one
side of his head ; sat on the good wife's nicely-waxed mahogany
table, kicking his heels against the carved and polished legs :
kissed and tousled the young vrouws ; and, if they frowned and
pouted, gave them a gold rosary, or a sparkling cross, to put
them in good humor again.

Sometimes nothing would satisfy him, but he must have some
of his old neighbors to dinner at the Wild Goose. There was
no refusing him, for he had got the complete upperhand of
the community, and the peaceful burghers all stood in awe of
him. But what a time would the quiet, worthy men have,
among these rake-hells, who would delight to astound them
with the most extravagant gunpowder tales, embroidered with
all kinds of foreign oaths ; clink the can with them ; pledge
them in deep potations ; bawl drinking songs in their ears ;
and occasionally fire pistols over their heads, or under the table,
and then laugh in their faces, and ask them how they liked the
smell of gunpowder.

Thus was the little village of Communipaw for a time like
the unfortunate wight possessed with devils ; until Vander-
scamp and his brother merchants would sail on another trading
voyage, when the Wild Goose would be shut up, and every thing
relapse into quiet, only to be disturbed by his next visitation.

A LEG EX D OF COMMUNIPAW. 101

The mystery of all these proceedings gradually dawned upon
the tardy intellects of Communipaw. These were the times of
the notorious Captain Kidd, when the American harbors were
the resorts of piratical adventurers of all kinds, who, under pre-
text of mercantile voyages, scoured the West Indies, made plun-
dering descents upon the Spanish Main, visited even the remote
Indian Seas, and then came to dispose of their booty, have their
revels, and fit out new expeditions, in the English colonies.

Vanderscamp had served in this hopeful school, and having
risen to importance among the buccaneers, had pitched upon his
native village and early home, as a quiet, out-of-the-way, un-
suspected place, where he and his comrades, while anchored at
New York, might have their feasts, and concert their plans,
without molestation.

At length the attention of the British government was called
to these piratical enterprises, that were becoming so frequent
and outrageous. Vigorous measures were taken to check and
punis-h them. Several of the most noted freebooters were
caught and executed, and three of Vanderscamp' s chosen com-
rades, the most riotous swash-bucklers of the Wild Goose, were
hanged in chains on Gibbet Island, in full sight of their favor-
ite resort. As to Vanderscamp himself, he and his man Pluto
again disappeared, and it was hoped by the people of Com-
munipaw that he had fallen in some foreign brawl, or been
swung on some foreign gallows.

For a time, therefore, the tranquillity of the village was re-
stored ; the worthy Dutchmen once more smoked their pipes in
peace, eying, with peculiar complacency, their old pests and
terrors, the pirates, dangling and drying in the sun, on Gibbet
Island.

This perfect calm was doomed at length to be ruffled. The
fiery persecution of the pirates gradually subsided. Justice
was satisfied with the examples that had been made, and there
was no more talk of Kidd, and the other heroes of like kidney.
On a calm summer evening, a boat, somewhat heavily laden,
was seen, pulling into Communipaw. What was the surprise
and disquiet of the inhabitants, to see Yan Yost Vanderscamp
seated at the helm, and his man Pluto tugging at the oars !
Vanderscamp, however, was apparently an altered man. He
brought home with him a wife, who seemed to be a shrew, and
to have the upper hand of him. He no longer was the swagger-
ing, bully ruffian, but affected the regular merchant, and talked
of retiring from business, and settling down quietly, to pass the
rest of his days in his native place.

102 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

The Wild Goose mansion was again opened, but with dimin-
ished splendor, and no riot. It is true, Vanderscamp had fre-
quent nautical visitors, and the sound of revelry was occasion-
ally overheard in his house ; but every thing seemed to be done
under the rose ; and old Pluto was the only servant that offi-
ciated at these orgies. The visitors, indeed, were by no means
of the turbulent stamp of their predecessors ; but quiet, mys-
terious traders, full of nods, and winks, and hieroglyphic
signs, with whom, to use their cant phrase, " every thing was
smug." Their ships came to anchor at night in the lower bay ;
and, on a private signal, Vanderscamp would launch his boat,
and accompanied solely by his man Pluto, would make them
mysterious visits. Sometimes boats pulled in at night, in
front of the Wild Goose, and various articles of merchandise
were landed in the dark, and spirited away, nobody knew
whither. One of the more curious of the inhabitants kept
watch, and caught a glimpse of the features of some of these
night visitors, by the casual glance of a lantern, and declared
that he recognized more than one of the freebooting frequent-
ers of the Wild Goose, in former times ; from whence he con-
cluded that Vanderscamp was at his old game, and that this
mysterious merchandise was nothing more nor less than pirati-
cal plunder. The more charitable opinion, however, was, that
Vanderscamp and his comrades, having been driven from their
old line of business, by the "oppressions of government," had
resorted to smuggling to make both ends meet.

Be that as it may : I come now to the extraordinary fact,
which is the but-end of this story, It happened late one
night, that Yan Yost Vanderscamp was returning across the
broad bay, in his light skiff, rowed by his man Pluto. He had
been carousing on board of a vessel, newly arrived, and was
somewhat obfuscated in intellect, by the liquor he had imbibed.
It was a still, sultry night ; a heavy mass of lurid clouds was
rising in the west, with the low muttering of distant thunder.
Vauderscamp called on Pluto to pull lustily, that they might get
home before the gathering storm. The old negro made no reply,
but shaped his course so as to skirt the rocky shores of Gibbet-
Island. A faint creaking overhead caused Vanderscamp to cast
up his eyes, when, to his horror, he beheld the bodies of his three
pot companions and brothers in iniquity dangling in the moon-
light, their rags fluttering, and their chains creaking, as they
were slowly swung backward and forward by the rising breeze.

44 What do you mean, you blockhead ! " cried Vauderscamp,
" by pulling so close to the island? "

A LEGEND OF COMMUNIPAW. 103

" I thought you'd be glad to see your old friends once more,"
growled the negro; "you were never afraid of a living man,
what do you fear from the dead? "

" Who's afraid?" hiccoughed Vanderscamp, partly heated by
liquor, partly nettled by the jeer of the negro ; " who's afraid !
Hang rne, but I would be glad to see them once more, alive or
dead, at the Wild Goose. Come, my lads in the wind ! " con-
tinued he, taking a draught, and flourishing the bottle above
his head, " here's fair weather to you in the other world ; and
if you should be walking the rounds to-night, odds fish ! but I'll
be happy if you wrill drop in to supper."

. - A dismal creaking was the only reply. The wind blew loud
and shrill, and as it whistled round the gallows, and among the
bones, sounded as if there were laughing and gibbering in the
air. Old Pluto chuckled to himself, and now pulled for home.
The storm burst over the voyagers, while they were yet far
from shore. The rain fell in torrents, the thunder crashed and
pealed, and the lightning kept up an incessant blaze. It was
stark midnight before they landed at Communipaw.

Dripping and shivering, Vanderscamp crawled homeward.
He was completely sobered by the storm; the water soaked
from without, having diluted and cooled the liquor within.
Arrived at the Wild Goose, he knocked timidly and dubiously
at the door, for he dreaded the reception he was to experience
from his wife. He had reason to do so. She met him at the
threshold, in a precious ill humor.

"Is this a time," said she, "to keep people out of their
beds, and to bring home company, to turn the house upside
down? "

" Company? " said Vanderscamp, meekly ; u I have brought
no company with me, wife."

" No, indeed! they have got here before you, but by your
invitation ; and blessed-looking company they are, truly ! "

Vanderscamp's knees smote together. "For the love of
heaven, where are they, wife?"

"Where? — whv, in the blue-room, up-stairs, making them-
selves as much at home as if the house were their own."

Vanderscamp made a desperate effort, scrambled up to the
room, and threw open the door. Sure enough, there at a table,
on which burned a light as blue as brimstone, sat the three
guests from Gibbet Island, with halters round their necks, and
bobbing their cups together, as if they were hob-or-nobbing,
and trolling the old Dutch freebooter's glee, since translated
into English :

104 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

" For three merry lads be we,
And three merry lads be we;
I on the land, and thou on the sand,
And Jack on the gallows-tree."

Vanderscamp saw and heard no more. Starting back with
horror, he missed his footing on the landing-place, and fell
from the top of the stairs to the bottom. He was taken up
speechless, and, either from the fall or the fright, was buried
in the yard of the little Dutch church at Bergen, on the fol-
lowing Sunday.

From that day forward, the fate of the Wild Goose was
sealed. It was pronounced a haunted house, and avoided ac-
cordingly. No one inhabited it but Vanderscamp's shrew of
a widow, and old Pluto, and they were considered but little
better than its hobgoblin visitors. Pluto grew more and more
haggard and morose, and looked more like an imp of darkness
than a human being. He spoke to no one, but went about mut-
tering to himself ; or, as some hinted, talking with the devil,
who, though unseen, was ever at his elbow. Now and then he
was seen pulling about the bay alone, in his skiff, in dark
weather, or at the approach of night-fall ; nobody could tell
why, unless on an errand to invite more guests from the gal-
lows. Indeed it was affirmed that the Wild Goose still con-
tinued to be a house of entertainment for such guests, and that
on stormy nights, the blue-chamber was occasionally illumi-
nated, and sounds of diabolical merriment were overheard,
mingling with the howling of the tempest. Some treated
these as idle stories, until on one such night, it was about the
time of the equinox, there was a horrible uproar in the Wild
Goose, that could not be mistaken. It was net so much the
sound of revelry, however, as strife, with two or three piercing
shrieks, that pervaded every part of the village. Nevertheless,
no one thought of hastening to the spot. On the contrary, the
honest burghers of Communipaw drew their night-caps over
their ears, and buried their heads under the bed-clothes, at the
thoughts of Vanderscamp and his gallows companions.

The next morning, some of the bolder and more curious
undertook to reconnoitre. All was quiet and lifeless at the
Wild Goose. The door yawned wide open, and had evidently
been open all night, for the storm had beaten into the house.
Gathering more courage from the silence and apparent deser-
tion, they gradually ventured over the threshold. The house
had indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. Every
thing was topsy-turvy ; trunks had been broken open, and

THE BERMUDAS. 105

chests of drawers and corner cupboards turned inside out, as
in a time of general sack and pillage ; but the most woful sight
was the widow of Yan .Yost Vanderscamp, extended a corpse
on the floor of the blue-chamber, with the marks of a deadly
gripe on the wind-pipe.

All now was conjecture and dismay at Communipaw ; and
the disappearance of old Pluto, who was nowhere to be found,
gave rise to all kinds of wild surmises. Some suggested that
the negro had betrayed the house to some of Vanderscamp's
buccaneering associates, and that they had decamped together
with the booty ; others surmised that the negro was nothing
more nor less than a devil incarnate, who had now accom-
plished his ends, and made off with his dues.

Events, however, vindicated the negro from this last imputa-
tion. His skiff was picked up, drifting about the bay, bottom
upward, as if wrecked in a tempest ; and his body was found,
shortly afterward, by some Communipaw fishermen, stranded
among the rocks of Gibbet Island, near the foot of the pirates'
gallows. The fishermen shook their heads, and observed that
old Pluto had ventured once too often to invite Guests from
Gibbet Island.

THE BERMUDAS.

A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH : BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-
BOOK.

" Who did not think, till within these foure yeares, but that these islands had been
rather a habitation for Divells, than fit for men to dwell in? Who did not hate the
name, when hee was on land, and shun the place when he was on the seas? But
behold the misprision and conceits of the world! For true and large experience hath
now told us, it is one of the sweetest paradises that be upon earth." — "A PLAINE
DESCRIPT. OF THE BARMUDAS:" 1613.

IN the course of a voyage home from England, our ship had
been struggling, for two or three weeks, with perverse head-
winds, and a stormy sea. It was in the month of May, yet
the weather had at times a wintry sharpness, and it was ap-
prehended that we were in the neighborhood of floating islands
of ice, which at that season of the year drift out of the Gulf of
Saint Lawrence, and sometimes occasion the wreck of noble
ships.

Wearied out by the continued opposition of the elements,
our captain at length bore away to the south, in hopes of
catching the expiring breath of the trade-winds, and making

106 WOLFERTS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

what is called the southern passage. A few days wrought, as
it were, a magical " sea change " in every thing around us.
We seemed to emerge into a different world. The late dark
and angry sea, lashed up into roaring and swashing surges,
became calm and sunny ; the rude winds died away ; and grad-
ually a light breeze sprang up directly aft, filling out every
sail, and wafting us smoothly along on an even keel. The air
softened into a bland and delightful temperature. Dolphins
began to play about us ; the nautilus came floating by, like a
fuiry ship, with its mimic sail and rainbow tints ; and flying-
fish, from time to time, made their short excursive flights, and
occasionally fell upon the deck. The cloaks and overcoats in
which we had hitherto wrapped ourselves, and moped about
the vessel, were thrown aside ; for a summer warmth had
succeeded to the late wintry chills. Sails were stretched as
awnings over the quarter-deck, to protect us from the mid-day
sun. Under these we lounged away the day, in luxurious
indolence, musing, with half-shut eyes, upon the quiet ocean.
The night was scarcely less beautiful than the day. The
rising moon sent a quivering column of silver along the undu-
lating surface of the deep, and, gradually climbing the heaven,
lit up our towering to, -sails and swelling main-sails, and spread
a pale, mysterious light around. As our ship made her whis-
pering way through this dreamy world of waters, every bois-
terous sound on board was charmed to silence ; and the low
whistle, or drowsy song of a sailor from the forecastle, or the
tinkling of a guitar, and the soft warbling of a female voice
from the quarter-deck, seemed to derive a witching melody
from the scene and hour. I was reminded of Oberon's exquis-
ite description of music and moonlight on the ocean :

" Thou rememberest

Since once I sat upon a promontory,

And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back,

Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,

That the rude sea grew civil at her song,

And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,

To hear the sea-maid's music."

Indeed, I was in the very mood to conjure up all the imagi-
nary beings with which poetry has peopled old ocean, and almost
ready to fancy I heard the distant song of the mermaid, or
the mellow shell of the triton, and to picture to myself Neptune
and Amphitrite with all their pageant sweeping along the dim
horizon.

THE BERMUDAS. 107

A day or two of such fanciful voyaging brought us in sight
of the Bermudas, which first looked like mere summer clouds,
peering above the quiet ocean. All day we glided along in
sight of them, with just wind enough to fill our sails ; and
never did land appear more lovely. They were clad in eme-
rald verdure, beneath the serenest of skies : not an angry wave
broke upon their quiet shores, and small fishing craft, riding
on the crystal waves, seemed as if hung in air. It was such
a scene that Fletcher pictured to himself, when he extolled
the halcyon lot of the fisherman :

" Ah! would thou knewest how much it better were

To bide among the simple fisher-swains :
No shrieking owl, no night-crow lodgeth here,

Nor is our simple pleasure mixed with pains.
Our sports begin with the beginning year;
In calms, to pull the leaping fish to land,
In roughs, to sing and dance along the yellow sand."

In contemplating these beautiful islands, and the peaceful
sea around them, I could hardly realize that these were the
"still vex'd Bermoothes " of Shakspeare, once the dread of
mariners, and infamous in the narratives of the early dis-
coverers, for the dangers and disasters which beset them.
Such, however, was the case ; and the islands derived additional
interest in my eyes, from fancying that I could trace in their
early history, and in the superstitious notions connected with
them, some of the elements of Shakspeare's wild and beautiful
drama of the Tempest. I shall take the liberty of citing a few
historical facts, in support of this idea, which may claim some
additional attention from the American reader, as being con-
nected with the first settlement of Virginia.

At the time when Shakspeare was in the fulness of his talent,
and seizing upon every thing that could furnish aliment to his
imagination, the colonization of Virginia was a favorite object
of enterprise among people of condition in England, and several
of the courtiers of the court of Queen Elizabeth were personally
engaged in it. In the year 1009 a noble armament of nine
ships and five hundred men sailed for the relief of the colony.
It was commanded by Sir George Somers, as admiral, a gallant
and generous gentleman, above sixty years of age, and pos-
sessed of an ample fortune, yet still bent upon hardy enter-
prise, and ambitious of signalizing himself in the service of his
country.

On board of his flag-ship, the Sea-Vulture, sailed also Sir

108 WOLFERTS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Thomas Gates, lieutenant-general of the colony. The voyage
was long and boisterous. On the twenty-fifth of July, the
admiral's ship was separated from the rest, in a hurricane. For
several clays she was driven about at the mercy of the elements,
and so strained and racked, that her seams yawned open, and
her hold was half filled with water. The storm subsided, but
left her a mere foundering wreck. The crew stood in the hold
to their waists in water, vainly endeavoring to bail her with
kettles, buckets, and other vessels. The leaks rapidly gained
on them, while their strength was as rapidly declining. They
lost all hope of keeping the ship afloat, until they should reach
the American coast ; and wearied with fruitless toil, determined,
in their despair, to give up all farther attempt, shut' down the
hatches, and abandon themselves to Providence. Some, who
had spirituous liquors, or 4k comfortable waters," as the old
record quaintly terms them, brought them forth, and shared
them with their comrades, and they all drank a sad farewell to
one another, as men who were soon to part company in this
world.

In this moment of extremity, the worthy admiral, who kept
sleepless watch from the high stern of the vessel, gave the
thrilling cry of Maud! " All rushed on deck, in a frenzy of
joy, and nothing now was to be seen or heard on board, but
the transports of men who felt as if rescued from the grave.
It is true the land in sight would not, in ordinary circumstances,
have inspired much self-gratulation. It could be nothing else
but the group of islands called after their discoverer, one Juan
Bermudas, a Spaniard, but stigmatized among the mariners of
those days as tk the islands of devils! " ki For the islands of
the Bermudas," says the old narrative of this voyage, kkas
every man kuoweth that hath heard or read of them, were never
inhabited by any Christian or heathen people, but were ever
esteemed and reputed a most prodigious and inchanted place,
affording nothing but gusts, stormes, and foul weather, which
made every navigator and mariner to avoide them, as Scylla and
Charybdis, or as they would shun the Divell himself." l

Sir George Somers and his tempest-tossed comrades, how-
ever, hailed them with rapture, as if they had been a terrestrial
paradise. Every sail was spread, and every exertion made to
urge the foundering ship to land. Before long, she struck upon
a rock. Fortunately, the late stormy winds had subsided, and
there was no surf. A swelling wave lifted her from off the

1 " A Plaine Description of the Barinudaa."

THE BERMUDAS. 103

rock, and bore her to another ; and thus she was borne on fro:n
rock to rock, until she remained wedged between two, as firmly
as if set upon the stocks. The boats were immediately lowered,
and, though the shore was above a mile distant, the whole crew
were landed in safety.

Every one had now his task assigned him. Some made all
haste to unload the ship, before she should go to pieces ; some
constructed wigwams of palmetto leaves, and others ranged the
island in quest of wood and water. To their surprise and joy,
they found it far different from the desolate and frightful place
they had been taught, by seamen's stories, to expect. It was
well-wooded and fertile ; there were birds of various kinds, and
herds of swine roaming about, the progeny of a number that
had swam ashore, in former years, from a Spanish wreck. The
island abounded with turtle, and great quantities of their eggs
were to be found among the rocks. The bays and inlets were
full of fish ; so tame, that if any one stepped into the water,
they would throng around him. Sir George Somers, in a little
while, caught enough with hook and line to furnish a meal to
his whole ship's company. Some of them were so large, that
two were as much as a man could carry. Crawfish, also, were
taken in abundance. The air was soft and salubrious, and the
sky beautifully serene. Waller, in his "• Summer Islands," has
given us a faithful picture of the climate :

" For the kind spring, (which but salutes us here,)
Inhabits these, and courts them all the year:
Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same trees live;
At once they promise, and at once they give :
So sweet the air, so moderate the clime,
None sickly livep, or dies before his time.
Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed,
To shew how all things were created first."

We may imagine the feelings of the shipwrecked manners, on
finding themselves cast by stormy seas upon so happy a coast ;
where abundance was to be had without labor ; where what in
other climes constituted the costly luxuries of the rich, were
within every man's reach ; and where life promised to be a mere
holiday. Many of the common sailors, especially, declared they
desired no better lot than to pass the rest of their lives oh this
favored island.

The commanders, however, were not so ready to console them-
selves with mere physical comforts, for the severance from the
enjoyment of cultivated life, and all the objects of honorable

110 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

ambition. Despairing of the arrival of any chance ship on
these shunned and dreaded islands, they fitted out the long-boat,
making a deck of the ship's hatches, and having manned her
with eight picked men, despatched her, under the command of
an able and hardy mariner, named Raven, to proceed to Vir-
ginia, and procure shipping to be sent to their relief.

While waiting in anxious idleness for the arrival of the looked-
for aid, dissensions arose between Sir George Somers and Sir
Thomas Gates, originating, very probably, in jealousy of the
lead which the nautical experience and professional station of
the admiral gave him in the present emergency. Each com-
mander, of course, had his adherents : these dissensions ripened
into a complete schism ; and this handful of shipwrecked men,
thus thrown together, on an uninhabited island, separated into
two parties, and lived asunder in bitter feud, as men rendered
fickle by prosperity instead of being brought into brotherhood
by a common calamity.

Weeks and months elapsed, without bringing the looked-for
aid from Virginia, though that colony was within but a few days '
sail. Fears were now entertained that the long-boat had been
either swallowed up in the sea, or wrecked on some savage
coast ; one or other of which most probably was the case, as
nothing was ever heard of Raven and his comrades.

Each party now set to work to build a vessel for itself out of
the cedar with which the island abounded. The wreck of the
Sea-Vulture furnished rigging, and various other articles ; but
they had no iron for bolts, and other fastenings'; and for want
of pitch and tar, they payed the seams of their vessels with
lime and turtle's oil, which soon dried, and became as hard as
stone.

On the tenth of May, 1610, they set sail, having been about
nine months on the island. They reached Virginia without
further accident, but found the colony in great distress for pro
visions. The account they gave of the abundance that reigned
in the Bermudas, and especially of the herds of swine that
roamed the island, determined Lord Delaware, the governor
of Virginia, to send thither for supplies. Sir George Somers,
with his wonted promptness and generosity, offered to under-
take what was still considered a dangerous voyage. Accord-
ingly,' on the nineteenth of June, he set sail, in his own cedar
vessel of thirty tons, accompanied by another small vessel, com-
manded by Captain Argall.

The gallant Somers was doomed again to be tempest-tossed.
His companion vessel was soon driven back to port, but he

THE BERMUDAS. Ill

kept the sea ; and. as usual, remained at his post on deck, in
all weathers. His voyage was long and boisterous, and the
fatigues and exposures which he underwent, were too much
for a frame impaired by age, and by previous hardships. He
arrived at Bermudas completely exhausted and broken down.

His nephew, Captain Mathew Somers, attended him in his
illness with affectionate assiduity. Finding his end approach-
ing, the veteran called his men together, and exhorted them to
be true to the interests of Virginia ; to procure provisions with
all possible despatch, and hasten back to the relief of the
colony.

- With this dying charge, he gave up the ghost, leaving his
nephew and crew overwhelmed with grief and consternation.
Their first thought was to pay honor to his remains. Opening
the body, they took out the heart and entrails, and buried them,
erecting a cross over the grave. They then embalmed the
body, and set sail witli it for England ; thus, while paying empty
honors to their deceased commander, neglecting his earnest
wish and dying injunction, that they should return with relief
to Virginia.

The little bark arrived safely at Whitechurch, in Dorsetshire,
with its melancholy freight. The body of the worthy Somers
was interred witli the military honors due to a brave soldier,
and many volleys were fired over his grave. The Bermudas
have since received the name of the Somer Islands, as a tribute
to his memory.

The accounts given by Captain Mathew Somers and his crew
of the delightful climate, and the great beauty, fertility, and
abundance of these' islands, excited the zeal of enthusiasts,
and the cupidity of speculators, and a plan was set on foot to
colonize them. The Virginia company sold their right to the
islands to one hundred and twenty of their own members, who
erected themselves into a distinct corporation, under the name of
the kw Somer Island Society ; " and Mr. Richard More was sent
out, in 1612, as governor, with sixty men, to found a colony:
and this leads me to the second branch of this research.

THE THREE KINGS OF BERMUDA.

AND THEIR TREASURE OF AMBERGRIS.

AT the time that Sir George Somers was preparing to launch
his cedar-built bark, and sail for Virginia, there were three cul-
prits among his men, who had been guilty of capital offences.

112 WOLFERT'S EOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

One of them was shot ; the others, named Christopher Carter
and Edward Waters, escaped. Waters, indeed, made a very
narrow escape, for he had actually been tied to a tree to be
executed, but cut the rope with a knife, which he had con-
cealed about his person, and fled to the woods, where he was
joined by Carter. These two worthies kept themselves con-
cealed in the secret parts of the island, until the departure of
the two vessels. When Sir George Somers revisited the island,
in quest of supplies for the Virginia colony, these culprits
hovered about the landing place, and succeeded in persuading
another seaman, named Edward Chard, to join them, giving
him the most seductive pictures of the ease and abundance in
which they revelled.

When the bark that bore Sir George's body to England had
faded from the watery horizon, these three vagabonds walked
forth in their majesty and might, the lords and sole inhabitants
of these islands. For a time their little commonwealth went on
prosperously and happily. They built a house, sowed corn,
and the seeds of various fruits : and having plenty of hogs,
wild fowl, and fish of all kinds, with turtle in abundance, car-
ried on their tripartite sovereignty with great harmony and much
feasting. All kingdoms, however, are doomed to revolution,
convulsion, or decay ; and so it fared with the empire of the
three kings of Bermuda, albeit they were monarchs without
subjects. In an evil hour, in their search after turtle, among
the fissures of the rocks, they came upon a great treasure of
ambergris, which had been cast on shore by the ocean. Beside
a number of pieces of smaller dimensions, there was one great
mass, the largest that had ever been known, weighing eighty
pounds, and which of itself, according to the market value of
ambergris in those days, was worth about nine or ten thou-
sand pounds !

From that moment, the happiness and harmony of the three
kings of Bermuda were gone forever. While poor devils, with
nothing to share but the common blessings of the island, which
administered to present enjoyment, but had nothing of convert-
ible value, they were loving and united ; but here was actual
wealth, which would make them rich men, whenever they could
transport it to a market.

Adieu the delights of the island ! They now became flat and
insipid. Each pictured to himself the consequence he might
now aspire to, in civilized life, could he once get there with
this mass of ambergris. No longer a poor Jack Tar, frolick-
ing in the low taverns of Wapping, he might roll through Lon-

, THE BERMUDAS. 113

don in his coach, and perchance arrive, like Whittington, at the
dignity of Lord Mayor.

With riches came envy and covetousness. Each was now
for assuming the supreme power, and getting the monopoly of
the ambergris. A civil war at length broke out : Chard and
Waters defied each other to mortal combat, and the kingdom
of the Bermudas was on the point of being deluged with royal
blood. Fortunately, Carter took no part in the bloody feud.
Ambition might have made him view it with secret exultation ; for
if either or both of the brother potentates were slain in the con-
flict, he would be a gainer in purse and ambergris. But he
dreaded to be left alone in this uninhabited island, and to find
himself the monarch of a solitude : so he secretly purloined and
hid the weapons of the belligerent rivals, who, having no means
of carrying on the war, gradually cooled down into a sullen
armistice.

The arrival of Governor More, with an overpowering force
of sixty men, put an end to the empire. He took possession of
the kingdom, in the name of the Somer Island Company, and
forthwith proceeded to make a settlement. The three kings
tacitly relinquished their sway, but stood up stoutly for their
treasure. It was determined, however, that they had been
fitted out at the expense, and employed in the service, of the
Virginia Company ; that they had found the ambergris while in
the service of that company, and on. that company's land ; that
the ambergris, therefore, belonged to that company, or rather
to the Somer Island company, in consequence of their recent
purchase of the island, and all their appurtenances. Having
thus legally established their right, and being moreover able to
back- it by might, the company laid the lion's paw upon the
spoil ; and nothing more remains on historic record of the
Three Kings of Bermuda, and their treasure of ambergris.

THE reader will now determine whether I am more extrava-
gant than most of the commentators on Shakspeare, in my sur-
mise that the story of Sir George Somers' shipwreck, and the
subsequent occurrences that took place on the uninhabited island,
may have furnished the bard with some of the elements of his
drama of the Tempest. The tidings of the shipwreck, and of
the incidents connected with it, reached England not long
before the production of this drama, and made a great sensa-
tion there. A narrative of the whole matter, from which most

114 WQLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

of the foregoing particulars are extracted, was published at the
time in London, in a pamphlet form, and could not fail to be
eagerly perused by Shakspeare, and to make a vivid impression
on his fancy. His expression, in the Tempest, of " the still
vex'd Bermoothes," accords exactly with the storm-beaten char-
acter of those islands. The enchantments, too, with which he
has clothed the island of Prospero, may they not be traced to
the wild and superstitious notions entertained about the Bermu-
das ? 1 have already cited two passages from a pamphlet pub-
lished at the time, showing that they were esteemed " a most
prodigious and inclianted place," and the t; habitation of
divells ; " and another pamphlet, published shortly afterward,
observes: "And whereas it is reported that this land of the
Barmudas, with the islands about, (which are many, at least
a hundred,) are inchanted and kept with evil and wicked spirits,
it is a most idle and false report." l

The description, too, given in the same pamphlets, of the
real beauty and fertility of the Bermudas, and of their serene
and happy climate, so opposite to the dangerous and inhospitable
character with which they had been stigmatized, accords with
the eulogium of Sebastian on the island of Prospero :

" Though this island seem to be desert, uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible, it
roust needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance. The air breathes upon us
here most sweetly. Here is every thing advantageous to life. How lush and lusty the
grass looks! how green! "

I think too, in the exulting consciousness of ease, security,
and abundance felt by the late tempest-tossed mariners, while
revelling in the plenteousness of the island, and their inclina-
tion to remain there, released from the labors, the cares, and
the artificial restrains of civilized life, I can see something of
the golden commonwealth of honest Gonzalo :

" Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,
And were the king of it, what would I do?
1' the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things : for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate:
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none:
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil :
No occupation; all men idle, all.

"Newes from the Barmudas;" 1612.

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 115

All things in common, nature should produce,
Without sweat or endeavor : Treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would 1 not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind, all foizon, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people."

But above all, in the three fugitive vagabonds who remained
in possession of the island of Bermuda, on the departure of
their comrades, and in their squabbles about supremacy, on the
finding of their treasure, I see typified Sebastian, Triuculo, and
their worthy companion Caliban :

" Trinculo, the king and all our company being drowned, we will inherit here."
" Monster, I will kill thin man ; his daughter and I will be king and queen, (save our
graces!) and Triuculo and thyself shall be viceroys."

I do not mean to hold up the incidents and characters in the
narrative and in the play as parallel, or as being strikingly
similar : neither would I insinuate that the narrative suggested
the play ; I would only suppose that Shakspeare, being occupied
about that time on the drama of the Tempest, the main story of
which, I believe, is of Italian origin, had many of the fanciful
ideas of it suggested to his mind by the shipwreck of Sir George
Somers on the " still vex'd Bermoothes," and by the popular
superstitions connected with these islands, and suddenly put
in circulation by that event.

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE SKETCH-BOOK.

IT is the common lamentation of Spanish historiographers,
that, for an obscure and melancholy space of time immediately
succeeding the conquest of their country by the Moslems, its
history is a mere wilderness of dubious facts, groundless fables,
and rash exaggerations. Learned men, in cells -and cloisters,
have worn out their lives in vainly endeavoring to connect in-
congruous events, and to account for startling improbabilities,
recorded of this period. The worthy Jesuit, Padre Abarca,
declares that, for more than forty years during which he had
been employed in theological controversies, he had never found
any so obscure and inexplicable as those which rise out of this

116 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

portion of Spanish history, and that the only fruit of an inde-
fatigable, prolix, and even prodigious study of the subject, was
a melancholy and mortifying state of indecision.1

During this apocryphal period, flourished PELAYO, the deliv-
erer of Spain, whose name, like that of William Wallace, will
ever be linked with the glory of his country, but linked, in like
manner, by a bond in which fact and fiction are inextricably
interwoven.

The quaint old chronicle of the Moor Rasis, which, though
wild and fanciful in the extreme, is frequently drawn upon for
early facts by Spanish historians, professes to give the birth,
parentage, and whole course of fortune of Pelayo, without the
least doubt or hesitation. It makes him a son of the Duke of
Cantabria, and descended, both by father and mother's side,
from the Gothic kings of Spain. 1 shall pass over the romantic
story of his childhood, and shall content myself with a scene of
his youth, which was spent in a castle among the Pyrenees,
under the eye of his widowed and noble-minded mother, who
caused him to be instructed in every thing befitting a cavalier of
gentle birth. While the sons of the nobility were revelling
amid the pleasures of a licentious court, and sunk in that vicious
and effeminate indulgence which led to the perdition of unhappy
Spain, the youthful Pelayo, in his rugged mountain school, was
steeled to all kinds of hardy exercise. A great part of his
time was* spent in hunting the bears, the wild boars, and the
wolves, with which the Pyrenees abounded ; and so purely and
chastely was he brought up, by his good lady mother, that, if
the ancient chronicle from which I draw my facts may be relied
on, he had attained his one-and-twentieth year, without having
once sighed for woman !

Nor were his hardy contests confined to the wild beasts of
the forest. Occasionally he had to contend with adversaries
of a more formidable character. The skirts and defiles of these
border mountains were often infested by marauders from the
Gallic plains of Gascony. The Gascons, says an old chronicler,
were a people who used smooth words when expedient, but
force when they had power, and were ready to lay their hands
on every thing they met. Though poor, they were proud ; for
there was not one who did not pride himself on being a hijo-
dalgo, or the son of somebody.

At the head of a band of these needy hijodalgos of Gascony,
was one Arnaud, a broken-down cavalier. He and four of his

1 PADRE PEDRO ABARCA. Anales de Aragoa, Anti Regno, § 2.

PEL AY -0 AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 117

followers were well armed and mounted ; the rest were a set of
scamper-grounds on foot, furnished with darts and javelins.
They were the terror of the border ; here to-day and gone to-
morrow ; sometimes in one pass, sometimes in another. They
would make sudden inroads into Spain, scour the roads, plunder
the country, and were over the mountains and far away before
a force could be collected to pursue them.

Now it happened one day, that a wealthy burgher of Bor-
deaux, who was a merchant, trading with Biscay, set out on a
journey for that province. As he intended to sojourn there
for a season, he took with him his wife, who was a goodly
dame, and his daughter, a gentle damsel, of marriageable age,
and exceeding fair to look upon. He was attended by a trusty
clerk from his comptoir, and a man servant ; while another
servant led a hackney, laden with bags of money, with which he
intended to purchase merchandise.

When the Gascons heard of this wealthy merchant and his
convoy passing through the mountains, they thanked their stars,
for they considered all peaceful men of traffic as lawful spoil,
sent by providence for the benefit of hidalgos like themselves,
of valor and gentle blood, who live by the sword. Placing
themselves in ambush, in a lonely defile, by which the travellers
had to pass, they silently awaited their coming. In a little
while they beheld them approaching. The merchant was a
fair, portly man, in a buff surcoat and velvet cap. His looks
bespoke the good cheer of his native city, and he was mounted
on a stately, well-fed steed, while his wife and daughter paced
gently on palfreys by his side.

The travellers had advanced some distance in the defile,
when the Bandoleros rushed forth and assailed them. The
merchant, though but little used to the exercise of arms, and
unwieldy in his form, yet made valiant defence, having his
wife and daughter and money-bags at hazard. He was wounded
in two places, and overpowered ; one of his servants was slain,
the other took to flight.

The freebooters then began to ransack for spoil, but were dis-
appointed at not finding the wealth they had expected. Put-
ting their swords to the breast of the trembling merchant, they
demanded where he had concealed his treasure, and learned
from him of the hackney that was following, laden with money.
Overjoyed at this intelligence, they bound their captives to
trees, and awaited the arrival of the golden spoil.

On this same day, Pelayo was out witli his huntsmen among
the mountains, and had taken his stand 011 a rock, at a narrow

118 WOLFERT'H ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

pass, to await the sallying forth of a wild boar. Close by him
was a page, conducting a horse, and at the saddle-bow hung
his armor, for he was always prepared for fight among these
border mountains. While thus posted, the servant of the mer-
chant came flying from the robbers. On beholding Pelayo, he
fell on his knees," and implored his life, for he supposed him to
be one of the band. It was some time before he could be
relieved from his terror, and made to tell his story. When
Pelayo heard of the robbers, he concluded they were the crew
of Gascon hidalgos, upon the scamper. Taking his armor from
the page, he put on his helmet, slung his buckler round his
neck, took lance in hand, and mounting his steed, compelled
the trembling servant to guide him to the scene of action. At
the same time he ordered the page to seek his huntsmen, and
summon them to his assistance.

When the robbers saw Pelayo advancing through the forest,
with a single attendant on foot, and beheld his rich armor
sparkling in the sun, they thought a new prize had fallen into
their hands, and Arnaud and two of his companions, mounting
their horses, advanced to meet him. As they approached,
Pelayo stationed himself in a narrow pass between two rocks,
where he could only be assailed in front, and bracing his buck-
ler, and lowering his lance, awaited their coming.

"Who and what are ye," cried he, "and what seek ye in
this land?"

4 'We are huntsmen," replied Arnaud, "and lo ! our game
runs into our toils ! "

"By my faith," replied Pelayo, " thou wilt find the game
more readily roused than taken : have at thee for a villain ! ' '

So saying, he put spurs to his horse, and ran full speed upon
him. The Gascon, not expecting so sudden an attack from a
single horseman, was taken by surprise. He hastily couched
his lance, but it merely glanced on the shield of Pelayo, who
sent his own through the middle of his breast, and threw him
out of his saddle to the earth. One of the other robbers made
at Pelayo, and wounded* him slightly in the side, but received a
blow from the sword of the latter, which cleft his skull-cap, and
sank into his brain. His companion, seeing him fall, put spurs
to his steed, and galloped off through the forest.

Beholding several other robbers on foot coming up, Pelayo
returned to his station between the rocks, where he was as-
sailed by them all at once. He received two of their darts on
his buckler, a javelin razed his cuirass, and glancing down,
wounded his horse. Pelayo then rushed forth, and struck out1

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 119

of the robbers dead : the others, beholding several huntsmen
advancing, took to flight, but were pursued, and several of them
taken.

The good merchant of Bordeaux and his family beheld this
scene with trembling and amazement, for never had they looked
upon such feats of arms. They considered Don Pelayo as a
leader of some rival band of robbers ; and when the bonds were
loosed by which they were tied to the trees, they fell at his feet
and implored mercy. The females were soonest undeceived,
especially the daughter ; for the damsel was struck with the
noble countenance and gentle demeanor of Pelayo, and said to
herself: "• Surely nothing evil can dwell in so goodly and gra-
cious a form."

Pelayo now sounded his horn, which echoed from rock to
rock, and was answered by shouts and horns from various
parts of the mountains. The merchant's heart misgave him at
these signals, and especially when he beheld more than forty
men gathering from glen and thicket. They were clad in hunt-
ers' dresses, and armed with boar-spears, darts, and hunting-
swords, and many of them led hounds in long leashes. All
this was a new and wild scene to the astonished merchant ; nor
were his fears abated, when he saw his servant approaching with
the hackney, laden with money-bags; "for of a certainty,"
said he to himself, " this will be too tempting a spoil for these
wild hunters of the mountains."

Pelayo, however, took no more notice of the gold than if it
had been so much dross ; at which the honest burgher mar-
velled exceedingly. He ordered that the wounds of the mer-
chant should be dressed, and his own examined. On taking
off his cuirass, his wound was found to be but slight ; but his
men were so exasperated at seeing his blood, that they would
have put the captive robbers to instant death, had he not for-
bidden them to do them any harm.

The huntsmen now made a great fire at the foot of a tree,
and bringing a boar, which they had killed, cut off portions
and roasted them, or broiled them on the coals. Then draw-
ing forth loaves of bread from their wallets, they devoured
their food half raw, with the hungry relish of huntsmen and
mountaineers. The merchant, his wife, and daughter, looked
at all this, and wondered, for they had never beheld so savage
a repast.

Pelayo then inquired of them if they did not desire to eat ;
they were too much in awe of him to decline, though they felt
a loathing at the thought of partaking of this hunter's fare;

120 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

but he ordered a linen cloth to be spread under the shade of a
great oak, on the grassy margin of a clear running stream ;
and to their astonishment, they were served, not with the flesh
of the boar, but with dainty cheer, such as the merchant had
scarcely hoped to find out of the walls of his native city of
Bordeaux.

The good burgher was of a community renowned for gastro-
nomic prowess : his fears having subsided, his appetite was now
awakened, and he addressed himself manfully to the viands
that were set before him. His daughter, however, could not
eat : her eyes were ever and anon stealing to gaze on Pelayo,
whom she regarded with gratitude for his protection, and admi-
ration for his valor ; and now that he had laid aside his helmet,
and she beheld his lofty countenance, glowing with manly beauty,
she thought him something more than mortal. The heart of the
gentle donzella, says the ancient chronicler, was kind and yield-
ing ; and had Pelayo thought fit to ask the greatest boon that
love and beauty could bestow -•— doubtless meaning her fair
hand — she could not have had the cruelty to say him nay.
Pelayo, however, had no such thoughts : the love of woman had
never yet entered his heart ; and though he regarded the damsel
as the fairest maiden he had ever beheld, her beauty caused no
perturbation in his breast.

When the repast was over, Pelayo offered to conduct the
merchant and his family through the defiles of the mountains,
lest they should be molested by any of the scattered band of
robbers. The bodies of the slain marauders were buried, and
the corpse of the servant was laid upon one of the horses cap-
tured in the battle. Having formed their cavalcade, they pur-
sued their way slowly up one of the steep and winding passes
of the Pyrenees.

Toward sunset, they arrived at the dwelling of a holy hermit.
It was hewn out of the living rock ; there was a cross over the
door, and before it was a great spreading oak, with a sweet
spring of water at its foot. The body of the faithful servant
who had fallen in the defence of his lord, was buried close by
the wall of this sacred retreat, and the hermit promised to per-
form masses for the repose of his soul. Then Pelayo obtained
from the holy father consent that the merchant's wife and
daughter should pass the night within his cell ; and the hermit
made beds of moss for them, and gave them his benediction ;
but the damsel found little rest, so much were her thoughts
occupied by the youthful champion who had rescued her from
death or dishonor.

PELAYO AND THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 121

Pelayo, however, was visited by no such wandering of the
mind ; but, wrapping himself in his mantle, slept soundly by
the fountain under the tree. At midnight, when every thing
was buried in deep repose, he was awakened from his sleep and
beheld the hermit before him. with the beams of the moon shin-
ing upon his silver hair and beard.

'•This is no time," said the latter, "to be sleeping; arise
and listen to my words, and hear of the great work for which
thou art chosen ! "

Then Pelayo' arose and seated himself on a rock, and the
hermit continued his discourse.

" Behold," said he, "the ruin of Spain is at hand ! It will
be delivered into the hands of strangers, and will become a prey
to the spoiler. Its children will be slain or carried into cap-
tivity ; or such as may escape these evils, will harbor with the
beasts of the forest or the eagles of the mountain. The thorn
and bramble will spring up where now are seen the corn-field,
the vine, and the olive ; and hungry wolves will roam in .place
of peaceful flocks and herds. But thou, my son ! tarry not
thou to see these things, for thou canst not prevent them.
Depart on a pilgrimage to the sepulchre of our blessed Lord in
Palestine ; purify thyself by prayer ; enroll thyself in the order
of chivalry, and prepare for the great work of the redemption
of thy country ; for to thee it will be given to raise it from the
depth of its affliction."

Pelayo would have inquired farther into the evils thus fore-
told, but the hermit rebuked his curiosity.

" Seek not to know more," said he, k(> than heaven is pleased
to reveal. Clouds and darkness cover its designs, and prophecy
is never permitted to lift up but in part the veil that rests upon
the future."

The hermit ceased to speak, and Pelayo laid himself down
again to take repose, but sleep was a stranger to his eyes.

When the first rays of the rising sun shone upon the tops
of the mountains, the travellers assembled round the fountain
beneath the tree and made their morning's repast. Then, having
received the benediction of the hermit, they departed in the
freshness of the day, and descended along the hollow defiles
leading into the interior of Spain. The good merchant was
refreshed by sleep and by his morning's meal ; and when he
beheld his wife and daughter thus secure by his side, and the
hackney laden with his treasure close behind him, his heart was
light in his bosorn, and he carolled a chanson as he went, and
the woodlands echoed to his song. But Pelayo rode in silence,

122 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

for he revolved in his mind the portentous words of the hermit ;
and the daughter of the merchant ever and anon stole looks at
him full of tenderness and admiration, and deep sighs betrayed
the agitation of her bosom.

At length they came to the foot of the mountains, where the
forests and the rocks terminated, and an open and secure coun-
try lay before the travellers. Here they halted, for their roads
were widely different. When they came to part, the merchant
and his wife were loud in thanks and benedictions, and the
good burgher would fain have given Pelayo the largest of his
sacks of gold: but the young man put it aside with a smile.
" Silver and gold," said he, "• need I not, but if I have deserved
aught at thy hands, give me thy prayers, for the prayers of a
good man are above all price."

In the mean time the daughter had spoken never a word. At
length she raised her eyes, which were filled with tears, and
looked timidly at Pelayo, and her bosom throbbed ; and after
a Violent struggle between strong affection and virgin modesty,
her heart relieved itself by words.

u Senor," said she, "1 know that I am unworthy of the
notice of so noble a cavalier ; but suffer me to place this ring
upon a finger of that hand which has so bravely rescued us from
death ; and when you regard it, you may consider it as a me-
morial of }7our own valor, and not of one who is too humble to
be remembered by you."

With these words, she drew a ring from her finger and put
it upon the finger of Pelayo ; and having done this, she blushed
and trembled at her own boldness, and stood as one abashed,
with her eyes cast down upon the earth.

Pelayo was moved at the words of the simple maiden, and at
the touch of her fair hand, and at her beauty, as she stood thus
trembling and in tears before him ; but as yet he knew nothing
of woman, and his heart was free from the snares of love.
u Amiga," (friend,) said he, " I accept thy present, and will
wear it in remembrance of thy goodness ; " so saying, he kissed
her on the cheek.

The damsel was cheered by these words, and hoped that she
had awakened some tenderness in his bosom ; but it was no
such thing, says the grave old chronicler, for his heart was
devoted to higher and more sacred matters ; yet certain it is,
that he always guarded well that ring.

When they parted, Pelayo remained with his huntsmen on a
cliff, watching that no evil befell them, until they were far beyond
the skirts of the mountain ; and the damsel often turned to look

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 123

at him, until she could no longer discern him, for the distance
and the tears that dimmed her eyes.

And for that he had accepted her ring, says the ancient
chronicler, she considered herself wedded to him in her heart,
and would never marry ; nor could she be brought to look with
eyes of affection upon any other man ; but for the true love
which she bore Pelayo, she lived and died a virgin. And she
composed a book which treated of love and chivalry, and the
temptations of this mortal life ; and one part discoursed of
celestial matters, and it was called tk The Contemplations of
Love ; " because at the time she wrote it, she thought of Pelayo,
and of his having accepted her jewel and called her by the
gentle appellation of kt Amiga." And often thinking of him in
tender sadness, and of her never having beheld him more, she
would take the book and would read it as if in his stead ; and
while she repeated the words of love which it contained, she
would endeavor to fancy them uttered by Pelayo, and that he
stood before her.

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA.

To THE EDITOR OF THE KNICKERBOCKER.

Sir: In the course of a tour which I made in Sicily, in the
days of my juvenility, I passed some little time at the ancient
city of Catania, at the foot of Mount .^Etna. Here I became

acquainted with the Chevalier L , an old Knight of Malta.

It was not many years after the time that Napoleon had dis-
lodged the knights from their island, and he still wore the
insignia of his order. He was not, however, one of those relics
of that once chivalrous body, who had been described as tk a
few worn-out old men, creeping about certain parts of Europe,
with the Maltese cross on their breasts;" on the contrary,
though advanced in life, his form was still light and vigorous ;
he had a pale, thin, intellectual visage, with a high forehead,
and a bright, visionary eye. He seemed to take a fancy to me,
as I certainly did to him, and we soon became intimate. I
visited him occasionally, at his apartments, in the wing of an
old palace, looking toward Mount ^tna. He was an antiquary,
a virtuoso, and a connoisseur. His rooms were decorated with
mutilated statues, dug up from Grecian and Roman ruins : old
vases, lachrymals, and sepulchral lamps. He had astronomical

124 WOLFE RT'S BOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

and chemical instruments, and black-letter books, in various
languages. I found that he had dipped a little in chimerical
studies^ and had a hankering after astrology and alchemy. He
affected to believe in dreams and visions, and delighted in the
fanciful Rosicrucian doctrines. I cannot persuade myself, how-
ever, that he really believed in all these : I rather think he loved
to let his imagination carry him away into the boundless fairy
land which they unfolded.

In company with the chevalier, I took several excursions on
horseback about the environs of Catania, and the picturesque
skirts of Mount vEtna. One of these led through a village,
which had sprung up on the very tract of an ancient eruption,
the houses being built of lava. At one time we passed, for
some distance, along a narrow lane, between two high dead
convent walls. It was a cut-throat-looking place, in a country
where assassinations are frequent; and just about midway
through it, we observed blood upon the pavement and the walls,
as if a murder had actually been committed there.

The chevalier spurred on his horse, until he had extricated
himself completely from this suspicious neighborhood. He
then observed, that it reminded him of a similar blind alley in
Malta, infamous on account of the many assassinations that
had taken place there ; concerning one of which, he related a
long and tragical story, that lasted until we reached Catania.
It involved various circumstances of a wild and supernatural
character, but which he assured me were handed down in irnrli-
tion, and generally credited by the old inhabitants of Malta.

As I like to pick up strange stories, and as I was particularly
struck with several parts of this, I made a minute of it, on my
return to my lodgings. The memorandum was lost, with several
others of my travelling papers, and the story had faded from
my mind, when recently, in perusing a French memoir, I came
suddenly upon it, dressed up, it is true, in a very different
manner, but agreeing in the leading facts, and given upon the
word of that famous adventurer, the Count Cagliostro.

I have amused myself, during a snowy day in the country,
by rendering it roughly into English, for the entertainment of
a youthful circle round the Christmas fire. It was well received
by my auditors, who, however, are rather easily pleased. One
proof of its merits is that it sent some of the youngest of them
quaking to their beds, and gave them very fearful dreams.
Hoping that it may have the same effect upon your ghost-hunt-
ing readers, I offer it, Mr. Editor, for insertion in your Maga-
zine. 1 would observe, that wherever I have modified the French

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 125

version of the story, it has been in conformity to some recollec-
tion of the narrative of my friend, the Knight of Malta.
Your obt. servt. ,

GEOFFREY CRAYOK

TUE GRAND PRIOR OF MINORCA.

A VERITABLE GHOST STORY.

" Keep my wits, heaven ! They Bay spirits appear
To melancholy mLids, and the graves opeu! " — FLETCHER.

ABOUT the middle of the last century, while the Knights of
Saint John of Jerusalem still maintained something of their
ancient state and sway in the Island of Malta, a tragical event
took place there, which is the groundwork of the following
narrative.

It may be as well to premise, that at the time we are treating
of, the order of Saint John of Jerusalem, grown excessively
wealthy, had degenerated from its originally devout and war-
like character. Instead of being a hardy body of " monk-
knights," sworn soldiers of the cross, fighting the Paynim in
the Holy Laud, or scouring the Mediterranean, and scourging
the Barbary coasts with their galleys, or feeding the poor, and
attending upon the sick at their hospitals, they led a life of
luxury and libertinism, and were to be found in the most vo-
luptuous courts of Europe. The order, in fact, had become
a mode of providing for the needy branches of the Catholic
aristocracy of Europe. " A commandery," we are told, was a
splendid provision for a younger brother ; and men of rank,
however dissolute, provided they belonged to the highest aris-
tocracy, became Knights of Malta, just as they did bishops, or
colonels of regiments, or court chamberlains. After a brief
residence at Malta, the knights passed the rest of their time in
their own countries, or only made a visit now and then to the
island. While there, having but little military duty to perform,
they beguiled their idleness by paying attentions to the fair.

There was one circle of society, however, into which they
could not obtain currency. This was composed of a few fami-
lies of the old Maltese nobility, natives of the island. These
families, not being permitted to enroll any of their members
in the order, affected to hold no intercourse with its cheva-
liers ; admitting none into their exclusive coteries but the

126 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Grand Master, whom they acknowledged as their sovereign,
and the members of the chapter which composed his council.

To indemnify themselves for this exclusion, the chevaliers
carried their gallantries into the next class of society, com-
posed of those who held civil, administrative, and judicial
situations. The ladies of this class were called honorate, or
honorables, to distinguish them from the inferior orders ; and
among them were many of superior grace, beauty, and fas-
cination.

Even in this more hospitable class, the chevaliers were not
all equally favored. Those of Germany had the decided pref-
erence, owing to their fair and fresh complexions, and the
kindliness of their manners : next to these came the Spanish
cavaliers, on account of their profound and courteous devotion,
and most discreet secrecy. Singular as it may seem, the chev-
aliers of France fared the worst. The Maltese ladies dreaded
their volatility, and their pi-oneness to boast of their amours,
and shunned all entanglement with them. They were forced,
therefore, to content themselves with conquests among females
of the lower orders. They revenged themselves, after the
gay French manner, by making the " honorate " the objects
of all kinds of jests and mystifications ; by prying into their
tender affairs with the more favored chevaliers, and making
them the theme of song and epigram.

About this time, a French vessel arrived at Malta, bringing
out a distinguished personage of the order of Saint John of
Jerusalem, the Commander de Foulquerre, who came to solicit
the post of commander-in-chief of the galleys. He was de-
scended from an old and warrior line of French nobility, his
ancestors having long been seneschals of Poitou, and claiming
descent from the first counts of Angouleme.

The arrival of the commander caused a little uneasiness,
among the peaceably inclined, for he bore the character, in the
island, of being fiery, arrogant, and quarrelsome. 'He had
already been three times at Malta, and on each visit had
signalized himself by some rash and deadly affray.

As he was now thirty-five years of age, however, it was
hoped that time might have taken off the fiery edge of his
spirit, and that he might prove more quiet and sedate than
formerly. The commander set up an establishment befitting
his rank and pretensions ; for he arrogated to himself an im-
portance greater even than that of the Grand Master. His
house immediately became the rallying place of all the young
French chevaliers. They informed him of all the slights they

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 127

had experienced or imagined, and indulged their petulant and
satirical vein at the expense of the honorate and their admirers.
The chevaliers of other nations soon found the topics and tone
of conversation at the commander's irksome and offensive, and
gradually ceased to visit there. The commander remained the
head of a national clique, who looked up to him as their model.
If he was not as boisterous and quarrelsome as formerly, he
had become haughty and overbearing. He was fond of talking
over his past affairs of punctilio and bloody duel. When walk-
ing the streets, he was generally attended by a ruffling train of
young French cavaliers, who caught his own air of assumption
and bravado. These he would conduct to the scenes of his
deadly encounters, point out the very spot where each fatal
longe had been given, and dwell vaiugloriously on every par-
ticular.

Under his tuition, the young French chevaliers began to add
bluster and arrogance to their former petulance and levity ;
they 'fired up on the most trivial occasions, particularly with
those who had been most successful with the fair ; and would
put on the most intolerable drawcansir airs. The other cheva-
liers conducted themselves with all possible forbearance and
reserve ; but they saw it would be impossible to keep on long,
in this manner, without coining to an open rupture.

Among the Spanish cavaliers was one named Don Luis de
Lima Vasconcellos. He was distantly related to the Grand
Master ; and had been enrolled at an early age among his
pages, but had been rapidly promoted by him, until, at the age
of twenty-six, he had been given the richest Spanish command-
ery in the order. He had, moreover, been fortunate with the
fair, with one of whom, the most -beautiful honorata of Malta,
he had long maintained the most tender correspondence.

The character, rank, and connections of Don Luis put him
on a par with the imperious Commander de Foulquerre, and
pointed him out as a leader and champion to his countrymen.
The Spanish chevaliers repaired to him, therefore, in a body ;
represented all the grievances they had sustained, and the evils
they apprehended, and urged him to use his influence with the
commander and his adherents to put a stop to the growing
abuses.

Don Luis was gratified by this mark of confidence and esteem
on the part of his countrymen, and promised to have an inter-
view with the Commander de Foulquerre on the subject. He
resolved to conduct himself with the utmost caution and deli-
cacy on the occasion ; to represent to the commander the evil

128 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

consequences which might result from the inconsiderate con-
duct of the young French chevaliers, and to entreat him to
exert the great influence he so deservedly possessed over them,
to restrain their excesses. Don Luis was aware, however, of
the peril that attended any interview of the kind with this im-
perious and fractious man, and apprehended, however it might
commence, that it would terminate in a duel. Still, it was an
affair of honor, in which Castilian dignity was concerned,
beside, he had a lurking disgust at the overbearing manners of
De P'oulquerre, and perhaps had been somewhat offended by
certain intrusive attentions which he had presumed to pay to
the beautiful honorata.

It was now Holy Week : a time too sacred for worldly feuds
and passions, especially in a community under the dominion of
a religious order ; it was agreed, therefore, that the dangerous
interview in question should not take place until after the Easter
holidays. It is probable, from subsequent circumstances, that
the Commander de Foulquerre had some information of this
arrangement among the Spanish chevaliers, and was determined
to be beforehand, and to mortify the pride of their champion,
who was thus preparing to read him a lecture. He chose Good
Friday for his purpose. On this sacred day, it is customary
in Catholic countries to make a tour of all the churches, offer-
ing up prayers in each. In every Catholic church, as is well
known, there is a vessel of holy water near the door. In this,
every one, on entering, dips his fingers, and makes therewith the
sign of the cross on his forehead and breast. An office of gal-
lantry, among the young Spaniards, is to stand near the door,
dip their hands in the holy vessel, and extend them courteously
and respectfully to any lady of their acquaintance who may enter ;
who thus receives the sacred water at second hand, on the tips
of her fingers, and proceeds to cross herself, with all due deco-
rum. The Spaniards, who are the most jealous of lovers, are
impatient when this piece of devotional gallantry is proffered
to the object of their affections by any other hand : on Good
Friday, therefore, when a lady makes a tour of the churches,
it is the usage among them for the inamorato to follow her from
church to church, so as to present her the holy water at the door
of each ; thus testifying his own devotion, and at the same time
preventing the officious services of a rival.

On the day in question, Don Luis followed the beautiful
honorata, to whom, as has already been observed, he had long
been devoted. At the very first church she visited, the Com-
mander de Foulquerre was stationed at the portal, with several

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 129

of the young French chevaliers about him. Before Don Luis
could offer her the holy water, he was anticipated by the com-
mander, who thrust himself between them, and, while he per-
formed the gallant office to the lady, rudely turned his back
upon her admirer, and trod upon his feet. The insult was
enjoyed by the young Frenchmen who were present : it was too
deep and grave to be forgiven by Spanish pride ; and at once
put an end to all Don Luis' plans of caution and forbearance.
He repressed his passion for the moment, however, and waited
until all the parties left the church ; then, accosting the com-
mander with an air of coolness and unconcern, he inquired after
-bis health, and asked to what church he proposed making his
second visit. "To the Magisterial Church of Saint John."
Don Luis offered to conduct him thither, by the shortest route.
His offer was accepted, apparently without suspicion, and they
proceeded together. After walking some distance, they entered
a long, narrow lane, without door or window opening upon it,
called the " Strada Stretta," or narrow street. It was a street
in which duels were tacitly permitted, or connived at, in Malta,
and were suffered to pass as accidental encounters. Everywhere
else they were prohibited. This restriction had been instituted
to diminish the number of duels, formerly so frequent in Malta.
As a farther precaution to render these encounters less fatal,
it was an offence, punishable with death, for any one to enter
this street armed with either poniard or pistol. It was a lonely,
dismal street, just wide enough for two men to stand upon their
guard, and cross their swords ; few persons ever traversed it,
unless with some sinister design ; and on any preconcerted
duello, the seconds posted themselves at each end, to stop all
passengers, and prevent interruption.

In the present instance, the parties had scarce entered the
street, when Don Luis drew his sword, and called upon the com-
mander to defend himself.

De Foulquerre was evidently taken by surprise : he drew
back, and attemped to expostulate ; but Don Luis persisted in
defying him to the combat.

After a second or two, he likewise drew his sword, but im-
mediately lowered the point.

"Good Friday!" ejaculated he, shaking his head: "one
word with you ; it is full six years since I have been in a con-
fessional : I am shocked at the state of my conscience ; but
within three days — that is to say, on Monday next "

Don Luis would listen to nothing. Though naturally of a
peaceable disposition, he had been stung to fury, and people

130 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

of that character, when once incensed, are deaf to reason. He
compelled the commander to put himself on his guard. The
latter, though a man accustomed to brawl in battle, was singu-
larly dismayed. Terror was visible in all his features. He
placed himself with his back to the wall, and the weapons were
crossed. The contest was brief and fatal. At the very first
thrust, the sword of Don Luis passed through the body of his
antagonist. The commander staggered to the wall, and leaned
against it.

kt On Good Friday!" ejaculated he again, with a failing
voice, and despairing accents. " Heaven pardon you ! " added
he; ''take my sword to Tetefoulques, and have a hundred
masses performed in the chapel of the castle, for the repose
of my soul ! " With these words he expired.

The fury of Don Luis was at an end. He stood aghast, gaz-
ing at the bleeding body of the commander. He called to mind
the prayer of the deceased for three days' respite, to make his
peace with heaven ; he had refused it : he had sent him to the
grave, with all his sins upon his head ! His conscience smote
him to the core ; he gathered up the sword of the commander,
which he had been enjoined to take to Tetefoulques, and hur-
ried from the fatal Strada Stretta.

The duel of course made a great noise in Malta, but had no
injurious effect upon the worldly fortunes of Don Luis. He
made a full declaration of the whole matter, before the proper
authorities ; the Chapter of the Order considered it one of those
casual encounters of the Strada Stretta, which were mourned
over, but tolerated ; the public, by whom the late commander
had been generally detested, declared that he had deserved his
fate. It was but three days after the event, that Don Luis was
advanced to one of the highest dignities of the Order, being in-
vested by the Grand Master with the priorship of the kingdom
of Minorca.

From that time forward, however, the whole character and
conduct of Don Luis underwent a change. He became a prey
to a dark melancholy, which nothing could assuage. The most
austere piety, the severest penances, had no effect in allaying
the horror which preyed upon his mind. He was absent for a
long time from Malta ; having gone, it was said, on remote pil-
grimages : when he returned, he was more haggard than ever.
There seemed something mysterious and inexplicable in this
disorder of his mind. The following is the revelation made by
himself, of the horrible visions, or chimeras, by which he was
haunted :

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 131

"When I had made my declaration before the Ch'apter," said
he, "and my provocations were publicly known, I had made
my peace with man ; but it was not so with God, nor with my
confessor, nor with my own conscience. My act was doubly
criminal, from the day on which it was committed, and from
my refusal to a delay of three days, for the victim of my resent-
ment to receive the sacraments. His despairing ejaculation,
' Good Friday ! Good Friday ! ' continually rang in my ears.
6 Why did I not grant the respite ! ' cried 1 to myself ; " was it
not enough to kill the body, but must 1 seek to kill the soul ! '

" On the night of the following Friday, I started suddenly
from my sleep. An unaccountable horror was upon me. I
looked wildly around. It seemed as if I were not in my apart-
ment, nor in my bed', but in the fatal Strada Stretta, lying on
the pavement. I again saw the commander leaning against
the wall ; I again heard his dying words : ' Take my sword to
Tetefoulques, and have a hundred masses performed in the
chapel of the castle, for the repose of my soul ! '

ktOn the following night, I caused one of my servants to sleep
in the same room with me. 1 saw and heard nothing, either
on that night, or any of the nights following, until the next
Friday ; when I had again the same vision, with this difference,
that my valet seemed to be lying at some distance from me on
the pavement of the Strada Stretta. The vision continued to
be repeated on every Friday night, the commander always
appearing in the same manner, and uttering the same words :
k Take my sword to Tetefoulques, and have a hundred masses
performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of my
soul ! '

"On questioning my servant on the subject, he stated, that
on these occasions he dreamed that he was lying in a very
narrow street, but he neither saw nor heard any thing of the
commander.

"I knew nothing of this Tetefoulques, whither the defunct
was so urgent I should carry his sword. I made inquiries,
therefore, concerning it among the French chevaliers. They
informed me that it was an old castle, situated about four
leagues from Poitiers, in the midst of a forest. It had been
built in old times, several centuries since, by Foulques Taille-
fer, (or Fulke Hackiron,) a redoubtable, hard-fighting Count
of Angouleme, who gave it to an illegitimate son, afterward
created Grand Seneschal of Poitou, which son became the pro-
genitor of the Foulquerres of Tetefoulques, hereditary Sen-
eschals of Poitou. They farther informed me, that strange

132 WOLFKRT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

stories were told of this old castle, in the surrounding country,
and that it contained many curious relics. Among these, were
the arms of Foulques Taillefer, together with all those of the
warriors he had slain ; and that it was an immemorial usage
with the Foulquerres to have the weapons deposited there which
they had wielded either in war or in single combat. This, then,
was the reason of the dying injunction of the commander re-
specting his sword. I carried this weapon with me, wherever
I went, but still I neglected to comply with his request.

" The visions still continued to harass me with undiminished
horror. I repaired to Rome, where I confessed myself to the
Grand Cardinal penitentiary, and informed him of the terrors
with which I was haunted. He promised me absolution, after
I should have performed certain acts of penance, the principal
of which was, to execute the dying request of the commander,
by carrying the sword to Tetefoulques, and having the hundred
masses performed in the chapel of the castle for the repose of
his soul.

'kl set out for France as speedily as possible, and made no
delay in my journey. On arriving at Poitiers, I found that the
tidings of the death of the commander had reached there, but
had caused no more affliction than among the people of Malta.
Leaving my equipage in the town, I put on the garb of a pilgrim,
and taking a guide, set out on foot for Tetefoulques. Indeed
the roads in this part of the country were impracticable for
carriages.

Ci I found the castle of Tetefoulques a grand but gloomy and
dilapidated pile. All the gates were closed, and there reigned
over the whole place an air of almost savage loneliness and
desertion. I had understood that its only inhabitants were the
concierge, or warder, and a kind of hermit who had charge of
the chapel. After ringing for some time at the gate, I at length
succeeded in bringing forth the warder, who bowed with rev-
erence to my pilgrim's garb. 1 begged him to conduct me to
the chapel, that being the end of my pilgrimage. We found
the hermit there, chanting the funeral service ; a dismal sound
to one who came to perform a penance for the death of a mem-
ber of the family. When he had ceased to chant, I informed
him that I came to accomplish an obligation of conscience, and
that I wished him to perform a hundred masses for the repose
of the soul of the commander. He replied that, not being in
orders, he was not authorized to peform mass, but that he would
willingly undertake to see that my debt of conscience was dis-
charged. I laid my offering on the altar, and would have placed

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 133

the sword of the commander there, likewise. ' Hold ! ' said the
hermit, with a melancholy shake of the head, ' this is no place
for so deadly a weapon, that has so often been bathed in Chris-
tian blood. Take it to the armory ; you will find there trophies
enough of like character. It is a place into which I never
enter. '

44 The warder here took up the theme abandoned by the peace-
ful man of God. He assured me that I would see in the armory
the swords of all the warrior race of Foulquerres, together with
those of the enemies over whom they had triumphed. This,
he observed, had been a usage kept up since the time of Mel-
hisine, and of her husband, Geoffrey a la Grand-dent, or Geof-
frey with the Great- tooth.

" 1 followed the gossiping warder to the armory. It was a
great dusty hall, hung round with Gothic-looking portraits, of
a stark line of warriors, each with his weapons, and the weap-
ons of those he had slain in battle, hung beside his picture.
The most conspicuous portrait was that of Foulques Taillefer,
(Fulke Hackiron,) Count of Augouleme, and founder of the
castle. He was represented at full length, armed cap-a-pie,
and grasping a huge buckler, on which were emblazoned three
lions passant. The figure was so striking, that it seemed ready
to start from the canvas : and I observed beneath this picture,
a trophy composed of many weapons, proofs of the numerous
triumphs of this hard-fighting old cavalier. Beside the weap-
ons connected with the portraits, there were swords of all
shapes, sizes, and centuries, hung round the hall ; with piles of
armor, placed as it were in effigy.

4t On each side of an immense chimney, were suspended the
portraits of the first seneschal of Poitou (the illegitimate sou of
Foulques Taillefer) and his wife Isabella de Lusignan ; the pro-
genitors of the grim race of Foulquerres that frowned around.
They had the look of being perfect likenesses ; and as I gazed on
them, I fancied I could trace in their antiquated features some
family resemblance to their unfortunate descendant, whom I
had slain ! This was a dismal neighborhood, yet the armory
was the only part of the castle that had a habitable air ; so I
asked the warder whether he could not make a fire, and give
me something for supper there, and prepare me a bed in one
corner.

44 ' A fire and a supper you shall have, and that cheerfully,
most worthy pilgrim,' said lie ; 4 but as to a bed, I advise you
to come and sleep in my chamber.'

44 4 Why so?' inquired I ; 4 why should I not sleep ill this
hall?'

134 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

" 4 I have my reasons ; I will make a bed for you close to
mine.'

"I made no objections, for I recollected that it was Friday,
and I dreaded the return of my vision. He brought in billets
of wood, kindled a fire in the great overhanging chimney, and
then went forth to prepare my supper. I drew a heavy chair
before the fire, and seating myself in it, gazed musingly round
upon the portraits of the Foulquerres, and the antiquated armor
and weapons, the mementoes of many a bloody deed. As the
day declined, the smoky draperies of the hall gradually became
confounded with the dark ground of the paintings, and the lurid
gleams of the chimney only enabled me to see visages staring
at me from the gathering darkness. All this was dismal in
the extreme, and somewhat appalling ; perhaps it was the state
of my conscience that rendered me peculiarly sensitive, and
prone to fearful imaginings.

vl At length the warder brought in my supper. It consisted
of a dish of trout, and some crawfish taken in the fosse of the
castle. He procured also a bottle of wine, which he informed
me was wine of Poitou. 1 requested him to invite the hermit
to join me in my repast ; but the holy man sent back word that
he allowed himself nothing but roots and herbs, cooked with
water. I took my meal, therefore, alone, but prolonged it as
much as possible, and sought to cheer my drooping spirits by
the wine of Poitou, which I found very tolerable.

"When supper was over, I prepared for my evening devo-
tions. I have always been very punctual in reciting my brevi-
ary ; it is the prescribed and bounden duty of all chevaliers of
the religious orders ; and I can answer for it, is faithfully per-
formed by those of Spain. I accordingly drew forth from my
pocket a small missal and a rosary, and told the warder he
need only designate to me the way to his chamber, where I
could come and rejoin him, when I had finished my prayers.

u He accordingly pointed out a winding staircase, opening
from the hall. "You will descend this staircase,' said he,
4 until you come to the fourth landing-place, where you enter a
vaulted passage, terminated by an arcade, with a statue of the
blessed Jeanne of France ; you cannot help finding my room,
the door of which I will leave open ; it is the sixth door from
the landing-place. I advise you not to remain in this hall after
midnight. Before that hour, you will hear the hermit ring the
bell, in going the rounds of the corridors. Do not linger here
after that signal.'

44 The warder retired, and I commenced my devotions. I

THE KNIGHT OF MALTA. 135

continued at them earnestly ; pausing from time to time to put
wood upon the fire. I did not dare to look much around me,
for I felt myself becoming a prey to fearful fancies. The pic-
tures appeared to become animated. If I regarded one atten-
tively, for any length of time, it seemed to move the eyes and
lips. Above all, the portraits of the Grand Seneschal and his
lady, which hung on each side of the great chimney, the pro-
genitors of the Foulquerres of Tetefoulque, regarded me, I
thought, with angry and baleful eyes : I even fancied they ex-
changed significant glances with each other. Just then a terri-
ble blast of wind shook all the casements, and, rushing through
the hall, made a fearful rattling and clashing among the armor.
To my startled fancy, it seemed something supernatural.

" At length I heard the bell of the hermit, and hastened to
quit the hall. Taking a solitary light, which stood on the sup-
per-table, I descended the winding staircase ; but before I had
reached the vaulted passage leading to the statue of the blessed
Jeanne of France, a blast of wind extinguished my taper. I
hastily remounted the stairs, to light it again at the chimney ;
but judge of my feelings, when, on arriving at the entrance to
the armory, I beheld the Seneschal and his lady, who had de-
scended from their frames, and seated themselves on each side
of the fireplace !

"• * Madam, my love,' said the Seneschal, with great formal-
ity, and in antiquated phrase, ' what think you of the presump-
tion of this Castilian, who comes to harbor himself and make
wassail in this our castle, after having slain our descendant,
the commander, and that without granting him time for con-
fession ? '

" ' Truly, my lord,' answered the female spectre, with no less
stateliness of manner, and with great aspersity of tone ; ' truly,
my lord, I opine that this Castilian did a grievous wrong in
this encounter ; and he should never be suffered to depart
hence, without your throwing him the gauntlet.' I paused to
hear no more, but rushed again down-stairs, to seek the cham-
ber of the warder. It was impossible to find it in the dark-
ness, and in the perturbation of my mind. After an hour and a
half of fruitless search., and mortal horror and anxieties, I en-
deavored to persuade myself that the day was about to break,
and listened impatiently for the crowing of the cock ; for I
thought if I could hear his cheerful note, I should be reassured ;
catching, in the disordered state of my nerves, at the popular
notion that ghosts never appear after the first crowing of the

136 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

"At length I rallied myself, and endeavored to shake off the
vague terrors which haunted me. I tried to persuade myself
that the two figures which I had seemed to see and hear, had
existed only in my. troubled imagination. I still had the end
of the candle in my hand, and determined to make another
effort to re-light it, and find my way to bed ; for I was ready to
sink with fatigue. I accordingly sprang up the staircase,
three steps at a time, stopped at the door of the armory, and
peeped cautiously in. The two Gothic figures were no longer
in the chimney corners, but I neglected to notice whether they
had reascended to their frames. I entered, and made desper-
ately for the fireplace, but scarce had I advanced three strides,
when Messire Foulques Taillefer stood before me, in the centre
of the hall, armed cap-a-pie, and standing in guard, with the
point of his sword silently presented to me. I would have
retreated to the staircase, but the door of it was occupied by
the phantom figure of an esquire, who rudely flung a gauntlet
in my face. Driven to fury, I snatched down a sword from the
wall : by chance, it was that of the commander which I had
placed there. I rushed upon my fantastic adversary, and
seemed to pierce him through and through; but at the same
time I felt as if something pierced my heart, burning like a red-
hot iron. My blood inundated the hall, and I fell senseless.

" WHEN T recovered consciousness, it was broad day, and I
found myself in a small chamber, attended by the warder and
the hermit. The former told me that on the previous night he
had awakened long after the midnight hour, and perceiving that
I had not come to his chamber, he had furnished himself with
a vase of holy water, and set out to seek me. He found me
stretched senseless on the pavement of the armory, and bore me
to this room. I spoke of my wound, and of the quantity of
blood that I had lost. He shook his head, and knew nothing
about it ; and to my surprise, on examination, I found myself
perfectly sound and unharmed. The wound and blood, there-
fore, had been all delusion. Neither the warder nor the hermit
put any questions to me, but advised me to leave the castle as
soon as possible. I lost no time in complying with their counsel,
and felt my heart relieved from an oppressive weight, as I left
the gloomy and fate-bound battlements of Tetefoulques behind
me.

"I arrived at Bayonne, on my way to Spain, on the follow-

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT. 137

ing Friday. At midnight I was startled from my sleep, as I
had formerly been ; but it was no longer by the vision of the
dying commander. It was old Foulques Taillefer who stood
before me, armed cap-a-pie, and presenting the point of his
sword. I made the sign of the cross, and the spectre vanished,
but I received the same red-hot thrust in the heart which I had
felt at the armory, and I seemed to be bathed in blood. I
would have called out, or have arisen from my bed and gone
in quest of succor, but I could neither speak nor stir. This
agony endured until the crowing of the cock, when I fell asleep
again ; but the next day 1 was ill, and in a most pitiable state.
1 have continued to be harassed by the same vision every Fri-
day night ; no acts of penitence and devotion have been able to
relieve me from it ; and it is only a lingering hope in divine
mercy, that sustains me, and enables me to support so lament-
able a visitation."

The Grand Prior of Minorca wasted gradually away under
this constant remorse of conscience, and this horrible incubus.
He died some time after having revealed the preceding particu-
lars of his case, evidently the victim of a diseased imagination.

The above relation has been rendered, in many parts literally,
from the French memoir, in which it is given as a true story :
if so, it is one of those instances in which truth is more romantic
than fiction.

G. C.

LEGEND OF THE EXGULPHED CONVENT.

BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

AT the dark and melancholy period when Don Roderick the
Goth and his chivalry were overthrown on the banks of the
<>".adalete, and all Spain was overrun by the Moors, great was
the devastation of churches and convents throughout that pious
kingdom. The miraculous fate- of one of those holy piles is
thus recorded in one of the authentic legends of those days.

On the summit of a hill, not very distant from the capital
city of Toledo, stood an ancient convent and chapel, dedicated
to the invocation of Saint Benedict, and inhabited by a sister-
hood of Benedictine nuns. This holy asylum was confined to

188 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

females of noble lineage. The younger sisters of the highest
families were here given in religious marriage to their Saviour,
in order that the portions of their elder sisters might be in-
creased, and they enabled to make suitable matches on earth,
or that the family wealth might go undivided to elder brothers,
and the dignity of their ancient houses be protected from decay.
The convent was renowned, therefore, for enshrining within its
walls a sisterhood of the purest blood, the most immaculate
virtue, and most resplendent beauty, of all Gothic Spain.

When the Moors overrun the kingdom, there was nothing
that more excited their hostility than these virgin asylums.
The very sight of a convent-spire was sufficient to set their
Moslem blood in a foment, and they sacked it with as fierce a
zeal as though the sacking of a nunnery were a sure passport
to Elysium.

Tidings of such outrages committed in various parts of the
kingdom reached this noble sanctuary and filled it with dismay.
The danger came nearer and nearer ; the infidel hosts were
spreading all over the country ; Toledo itself was captured ;
there was no flying from the convent, and no security within
its walls.

In the midst of this agitation, the alarm was given one clay
that a great band of Saracens were spurring across the plain.
In an instant the whole convent was a scene of confusion.
Some of the nuns wrung their fair hands at the windows ;
others waved their veils and uttered shrieks from the tops of
the towers, vainly hoping to draw relief from a country over-
run by the foe. The sight of these innocent doves thus flutter-
ing about their dove-cote, but increased the zealot fury of the
whiskered Moors. They thundered at the portal, and at every
blow the ponderous gates trembled on their hinges.

The nuns now crowded round the abbess. They hail been
accustomed to look up to her as all-powerful, and they now im-
plored her protection. The mother abbess looked with a rueful
eye upon the treasures of beauty and vestal virtue exposed to
such imminent peril. Alas ! how was she to protect them from
the spoiler ! She had, it is true, experienced many signal inter-
positions of providence in her individual favor. Her early days
had been passed amid the temptations of a court, where her
virtue had been purified by repeated trials, from none of which
had she escaped but by a miracle. But were miracles never to
cease? Could she hope that the marvellous protection shown
to herself would be extended to a whole sisterhood ? There was
no other resource. The Moors were at the threshold ; a few

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT. 139

moments more and the convent would be at their mercy. Sum-
moning her nuns to follow her, she hurried into the chapel ; and
throwing herself on her knees before the image of the blessed
Mary,, " Oh, holy Lady ! " exclaimed she, " oh, most pure and
immaculate of virgins ! thou seest our extremity. The ravager
is at the gate, and there is none on earth to help us ! Look down
with pity, and grant that the earth may gape and swallow us
rather than that our cloister vows should suffer violation ! "

The Moors redoubled their assault upon the portals ; the gates,
gave way, with a tremendous crash ; a savage yell of exultation
arose ; when of a sudden the earth yawned ; down sank the con-
vent, with its cloisters, its dormitories, and all its nuns. The
chapel tower was the last that sank, the bell ringing forth a peal
of triumph in the very teeth of the infidels.

FORTY years had passed and gone, since the period of this
miracle. The subjugation of Spain was complete. The Moors
lorded it over city and country ; and such of the Christian popu-
lation as remained, and were permitted to exercise their religion,
did it in humble resignation to the Moslem sway.

At this time, a Christian cavalier, of Cordova, hearing that a
patriotic band of his countrymen had raised the standard of the
cross in the mountains of the Asturias, resolved to join them,
and unite in breaking the yoke of bondage. Secretl}7 arming
himself, and caparisoning his steed, he set forth from Cordova,
and pursued his course by unfrequented mule-paths, and along
the dry channels made by winter torrents. His spirit burned
with indignation, whenever, on commanding a view over a long
sweeping plain, he beheld the mosque swelling in the distance,
and the Arab horsemen careering about, as if the, rightful lords
of the soil. Many a deep-drawn sigh, and heavy groan, also,
did the good cavalier utter, on passing the ruins of churches and
2onvents desolated by the conquerors.

It was on a sultry midsummer evening, that this wandering
cavalier, in skirting a hill thickly covered with forest, heard the
faint tones of a vesper bell sounding melodiously in the air, and
seeming to come from the summit of the hill. The cavalier crossed
himself with wonder, at this unwonted and Christian sound.
He supposed it to proceed from one of those humble chapels
and hermitages permitted to exist through the indulgence of the
Moslem conquerors. Turning his steed up a narrow path of the
forest, he sought this sanctuary, in hopes of finding a hospitable

140 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

shelter for the night. As he advanced, the trees threw a deep
gloom around him, and the bat flitted across his path. The bell
ceased to toll, and all was silence.

Presently a choir of female voices came stealing sweetly
through the forest, chanting the evening service, to the solemn
accompaniment of an organ. The heart of the good cavalier
melted at the sound, for it recalled the happier days of his coun-
try. Urging forward his weary steed, he at length arrived at a
broad grassy area, on the summit of the hill, surrounded by the
forest. Here the melodious voices rose in full chorus, like the
swelling of the breeze ; but whence they came, he could not tell.
Sometimes they were before, sometimes behind him ; sometimes
in the air, sometimes as if from within the bosom of the earth.
At length they died away, and a holy stillness settled on the
place.

The cavalier gazed around with bewildered eye. There was
neither chapel nor convent, nor humble hermitage, to be seen ;
nothing but a moss-grown stone pinnacle, rising out of the cen-
tre of the area, surmounted by a cross. The greensward around
appeared to have been sacred from the tread of man or beast,
and the surrounding trees bent toward the cross, as if in adora-
tion.

The cavalier felt a sensation of holy awe. He alighted and
tethered his steed on the skirts of the forest, where he might
crop the tender herbage ; then approaching the cross, he knelt
and poured forth his evening prayers before this relic of the
Christian days of Spain. His orisons being concluded, he laid
himself down at the foot of the pinnacle, and reclining his head
against one of its stones, fell into a deep sleep.

About midnight, he was awakened by the tolling of a bell,
and found himself lying before the gate of an ancient convent.
A train of nuns passed by, each bearing a taper. The cavalier
rose and followed them into the chapel ; in the centre of which
was a bier, on which lay the corpse of an aged nun. The organ
performed a solemn requiem : the nuns joining in chorus. When
the funeral service was finished, a melodious voice chanted,
" Requiescat in pace! " — " May she rest in peace ! " The
lights immediately vanished ; the whole passed away as a dream ;
and the cavalier found himself at the foot of the cross, and
beheld, by the faint rays of the rising moon, his steed quietly
grazing near him.

When the day dawned, the cavalier descended the hill, and
following the course of a small brook, came to a cave, at the
entrance of which was seated an ancient man, clad in hermit's

LEGEND OF THE ENGULPHED CONVENT. 141

garb, with rosary and cross, and a beard that descended to his
girdle. He was one of those holy anchorites permitted by the
Moors to live unmolested in dens and caves, and humble hermit-
ages, and even to practise the rites of their religion. The cava-
lier checked his horse, and dismounting, knelt and craved a
benediction. He then related all that had befallen him in the
night, and besought the hermit to explain the mystery.

" What thou hast heard and seen, my son," replied the other,
" is but type and shadow of the woes of Spain."

He then related the foregoing story of the miraculous deliver-
ance of the convent.

"Forty years," added the holy man, "have elapsed since
this event, yet the bells of that sacred edifice are still heard,
from time to time, sounding from under ground, together with
the pealing of the organ, and the chanting of the choir. The
Moors avoid this neighborhood, as haunted ground, and the
whole place, as thou mayest perceive, has become covered with
a thick and lonely forest."

The cavalier listened with wonder to the story of this en-
gulphed convent, as related by the holy man. For three days
and nights did they keep vigils beside the cross ; but nothing
more was to be seen of nun or convent. It is supposed that,
forty years having elapsed, the natural lives of all the nuns
were finished, and that the cavalier had beheld the obsequies
of the last of the sisterhood. Certain it is, that from that time,
bell, and organ, and choral chant have never more been heard.

The mouldering pinnacle, surmounted by the cross, still re-
mains an object of pious pilgrimage. Some say that it anciently
stood in front of the convent, but others assert that it was the
spire of the sacred edifice, and that, when the main body of the
building sank, this remained above ground, like the topmast of
some tall ship that has foundered. These pious believers main-
tain, that the convent is miraculously preserved entire in the
centre of the mountain, where, if proper excavations were made,
it would be found, with all its treasures, and monuments, and
shrines, and relics, and the tombs of its virgin nuns.

Should any one doubt the truth of this marvellous interposi-
tion of the Virgin, to protect the vestal purity of her votaries,
let him read the excellent work entitled " EspanaTriumphante,"
written by Padre Frdy Antonio de Sancta Maria, a barefoot
friar of the Carmelite order, and he will doubt no longer.

142 WOLFERT'S BOOST AND MISCELLANIES.

THE COUNT VAN HORN.

DURING the minority of Louis XV., while the Duke of Or-
leans was Regent of France, a young Flemish nobleman, the
Count Autoine Joseph Van Horn, made his sudden appearance
in Paris, and by his character, conduct, and the subsequent dis-
asters in which he became involved, created a great sensation
in the high circles of the proud aristocracy. He was about
twenty-two years of age, tall, finely formed, with a pale, roman-
tic countenance, and eyes of remarkable brilliancy and wildness.

He was of one of the most ancient and highly-esteemed fami-
lies of European nobility, being of the line of the Princes of
Horn and Overique, sovereign Counts of Hautekerke, and he-
reditary Grand Veneurs of the empire.

The family took its name from the little town and seigneurie
of Horn, in Brabant ; and was known as early as the eleventh
century among the little dynasties of the Netherlands, and since
that time by a long line of illustrious generations. At the
peace of Utrecht, when the Netherlands passed under subjec-
tion to Austria, the house of Van Horn came under the domina-
tion of the emperor. At the time we treat of, two of the
branches of this ancient house were extinct ; the third and only
surviving branch was represented by the reigning prince, Maxi-
milian Emanuel Van Horn, twenty-four years of age, who re-
sided in honorable and courtly style on his hereditary domains
at Baussigny, in the Netherlands, and his brother, the Count
Antoine Joseph, who is the subject of this memoir.

The ancient house of Van Horn, by the intermarriage of its
various branches with the noble families of the continent, had
become widely connected and interwoven with the high aris-
tocracy of Europe. The Count Antoine, therefore, could claim
relationship to many of the proudest names in Paris. In fact,
he was grandson, by the mother's side, of the Prince de Ligne,
and even might boast of affinity to the Regent (the Duke of
Orleans) himself. There were circumstances, however, con-
nected with his sudden appearance in Paris, and his previous
story, that placed him in what is termed " a false position ; " a
word of baleful significance in the fashionable vocabulary of
France.

The young count had been a captain in the service of Austria,
but had been cashiered for irregular conduct, and for disrespect
to Prince Louis of Baden, commander- in-chief. To check him

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 143

in his wild career, and bring him to sober reflection, his brother
the prince caused him to be arrested and sent to the old castle
of Van Wert, in the domains of Horn. This was the same
castle in which, in former times, John Van Horn, Stadtholder
of Gueldres, had imprisoned his father ; a circumstance which
has furnished Rembrandt with the subject of an admirable
painting. The governor of the castle was one Van Wert,
grandson of the famous John Van Wert, the hero of many a
popular song and legend. It was the intention of the prince
that his brother should be held in honorable durance, for his
object was to sober and improve, not to punish and afflict him.
Van Wert, however, was a stern, harsh man of violent passions.
He treated the youth in a manner that prisoners and offenders
were treated in the strongholds of the robber counts of Ger-
many in old times ; confined him in a dungeon and inflicted on
him such hardships and indignities that the irritable tempera-
ment of the young count was roused to continual fury, which
ended in insanity. For six months was the unfortunate youth
kept in this horrible state, without his brother the prince being
informed of his melancholy condition or of the cruel treatment
to which he was subjected. At length, one day, in a paroxysm
of frenzy, the count knocked down two of his jailers with a
beetle, escaped from the castle of Van Wert, and eluded all
pursuit ; and after roving about in a state of distraction, made
his way to Baussigny and appeared like a spectre before his
brother.

The prince was shocked at his wretched, emaciated appear-
ance and his lamentable state of mental alienation. He received
him with the most compassionate tenderness ; lodged him in his
own room, appointed three servants to attend and watch over
him day and night, and endeavored by the most soothing and
affectionate assiduity to atone for the past act of rigor with
which he reproached himself. When he learned, however, the
manner in which his unfortunate brother had been treated in
confinement, and the course of brutalities that had led to his
mental malady, he was roused to indignation. His first step
was to cashier Van Wert from his command. That violent man
set the prince at defiance, and attempted to maintain himself in
his government and his castle by instigating the peasants, for
several leagues round, to revolt. His insurrection might have
been formidable against the power of a petty prince ; but he
was put under the ban of the empire and seized as a state
prisoner. The memory of his grandfather, the oft-sung John
Van Wert, alone saved him from a gibbet; but he was im-

144 WOLFERTS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

prisoned in the strong tower of Horn-op-Zee. There he
remained until he was eighty-two years of age, savage, violent,
and unconquered to the last ; for we are told that he never
ceased fighting and thumping as long as he could close a fist or
wield a cudgel.

In the mean time a course of kind and gentle treatment and
wholesome regimen, and, above all, the tender and affectionate
assiduity of his brother, the prince, produced the most salutary
effects upon Count Antoine. He gradually recovered his reason ;
but a degree of violence seemed always lurking at the bottom of
his character, and he required to be treated with the greatest
caution and mildness, for the least contradiction exasperated
him.

In this state of mental convalescence, he began to find the
supervision and restraints of brotherly affection insupportable ;
so he left the Netherlands furtively, and repaired to Paris,
whither, in fact, it is said he was called by motives of interest,
to make arrangements concerning a valuable estate which he
inherited from his relative, the Princess d'Epinay.

On his arrival in Paris, he called upon the Marquis of Crequi,
and other of the high nobility with whom he was connected.
He was received with great courtesy ; but, as he brought no
letters from /his elder brother, the prince, and as various cir-
cumstances of his previous history had transpired, they did not
receive him into their families, nor introduce him to their ladies.
Still they feted him in bachelor style, gave him gay and elegant
suppers at their separate apartments, and took him to their
boxes at the theatres. He was often noticed, too, at the doors
of the most fashionable churches, taking his stand among the
young men of fashion ; and at such times, his tall, elegant
figure, his pale but handsome countenance, and his flashing
eyes, distinguished him from among the crowd ; and the ladies
declared that it was almost impossible to support his ardent
gaze.

The Count did not afflict himself much at his limited circu-
lation in the fastidious circles of the high aristocracy. He
relished society of a wilder and less ceremonious cast ; and
meeting with loose companions to his taste, soon ran into all
.the excesses of the capital, in that most licentious period. It
is said that, in the course of his wild career, he had an intrigue
with a lady of quality, a favorite of the Regent ; that he was
surprised by that prince in one of his interviews ; that sharp
words passed between them ; and that the jealousy and ven-
geance thus awakened, ended only with his life.

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 145

About this time, the famous Mississippi scheme of Law was
at its height, or rather it began to threaten that disastrous
catastrophe which convulsed the whole financial world. Every
effort was making to keep the bubble inflated. The vagrant
population of France was swept off from the streets at night,
and conveyed to Havre de Grace, .to be shipped to the pro-
jected colonies ; even laboring people and mechanics were thus
crimped and spirited away. As Count Antoine was in the
habit of sallying forth at night, in disguise, in pursuit of his
pleasures, he came near being carried off by a gang of crimps ;
-it seemed, in fact, as if they had been lying in wait for him, as
he had experienced very rough treatment at their hands. Com-
plaint was made of his case by his relation, the Marquis de
Cre"qui, who took much interest in the youth ; but the Marquis
received mysterious intimations not to interfere in the matter,
but to advise the Count to quit Paris immediately: "If he
lingers, he is lost ! " This has been cited as a proof that ven-
geance was dogging at the heels of the unfortunate youth, and
only watching for an opportunity to destroy him.

Such opportunity occurred but too soon. Among the loose
companions with whom the Count had become intimate, were
two who lodged in the same hotel with him. One was a youth
only twenty years of age, who passed himself off as the Cheva-
lier d'Etampes-, but whose real name was Lestang, the prodigal
son of a Flemish banker. The other, named Laurent de Mille,
a Piedmontese, was a cashiered captain, and at the time an
esquire in the service of the dissolute Princess de Carignan,
who kept gambling-tables in her palace. It is probable that
gambling propensities had driven these young men together,
and that their losses had brought them to desperate measures :
certain it is, that all Paris was suddenly astounded by a murder
which they were said to have committed. What made the crime
more startling, was, that it seemed connected with the great
Mississippi scheme, at that time the fruitful source of all kinds
of panics and agitations. A Jew, a stock-broker, who dealt
largely in shares of the bank of Law, founded on the Mis-
sissippi scheme, was the victim. The story of his death is
variously related. The darkest account states, that the Jew
was decoyed by these young men into an obscure tavern, under
pretext of negotiating with him for bank shares to the amount
of one hundred thousand crowns, which he had with him in his
pocket-book. Lestang kept watch upon the stairs. The Count
and De Mille entered with the Jew into a chamber. In a little
while there were heard cries and struggles from within. A

146 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

waiter passing by the room, looked in, and seeing the Jew
weltering in his blood, shut the door again, double-locked it,
and alarmed the house. Lestang rushed down-stairs, made his
way to the hotel, secured his most portable effects, and fled the
country. The Count and De Mille endeavored to escape by the
window, but were both taken, and conducted to prison.

A circumstance which occurs in this part of the Count's story,
seems to point him out as a fated man. His mother, and his
brother, the Prince Van Horn, had received intelligence some
time before at Baussigny, of the dissolute life the Count was
leading at Paris, and of his losses at play. They despatched a
gentleman of the prince's household to Paris, to pay the debts
of the Count, and persuade him to return to Flanders ; or, if he
should refuse, to obtain an order from the Regent for him to
quit the capital. Unfortunately the gentleman did net arrive at
Paris until the day after the murder.

The news of the Count's arrest and imprisonment on a charge
of murder, caused a violent sensation among the high aristoc-
racy. All those connected with him, who had treated him
hitherto with indifference, found their dignity deeply involved
in the question of his guilt or innocence. A general convoca-
tion was held at the hotel of the Marquis de Crequi, of all the
relatives and allies of the house of Horn. It was an assem-
blage of the most proud and aristocratic personages of Paris.
Inquiries were made into the circumstances of the affair. It
was ascertained, beyond a doubt, that the Jew was dead, and
that he had been killed by several stabs of a poniard. In
escaping by the window, it was said that the Count had fallen,
and been immediately taken ; but that De Mille had fled through
the streets, pursued by the populace, and had been arrested at
some distance from the scene of the murder; that the Count
had declared himself innocent of the death of the Jew, and that
he had risked his own life in endeavoring to protect him ; but
that De Mille, on being brought back to the tavern, confessed
to a plot to murder the broker, and rob him of his pocket-book,
and inculpated the Count in the crime.

Another version of the story was, that the Count Van Horn
had deposited with the broker, bank shares to the amount of
eighty-eight thousand livres ; that he had sought him in this
tavern, which was one of his resorts, and had demanded the
shares ; that the Jew had denied the deposit ; that a quarrel
had ensued, in the course of which the Jew struck the Count
in the face ; that the latter, transported with rage, had snatched
up a knife from a table, and wounded the Jew in the shoulder ;

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 147

and that thereupon De Mille, who was present, and who had
likewise been defrauded by the broker, fell on him, and de-
spatched him with blows of a poniard, and seized upon his
pocket-book ; that he had offered to divide the contents of
the latter with the Count, pro rata, of what the usurer had
defrauded them ; that the latter had refused the proposition with
disdain, and that, at a noise of persons approaching, both had
attempted to escape from the premises, but had been taken.

Regard the story in any way they might, appearances were
terribly against the Count, and the noble assemblage was in
great consternation. What was to be done to ward off so foul
a disgrace and to save their illustrious escutcheons from this
murderous stain of blood? Their first attempt was to prevent
the affair from going to trial, and their relative from being
dragged before a criminal tribunal, on so horrible and degrad-
ing a charge. They applied, therefore, to the Regent, to inter-
vene his power ; to treat the Count as having acted under an
access of his mental malady ; and to shut him up in a mad-
house. The Regent was deaf to their solicitations. He re-
plied, coldly, that if the Count was a madman, one could not
get rid too quickly of madmen who were furious in their insanity.
The crime was too public and atrocious to be hushed Up or
slurred over ; justice must take its course.

Seeing there was no avoiding the humiliating scene of a
public trial, the noble relatives of the Count endeavored to pre-
dispose the minds of the magistrates before whom he was to
be arraigned. They accordingly made urgent and eloquent
representations of the high descent, and noble and powerful
connections of the Count; set forth the circumstances of his
early history ; his mental malady ; the nervous irritability to
which he was subject, and his extreme sensitiveness to insult
or contradiction. By these means they sought to prepare the
judges to interpret every thing in favor of the Count, and,
even if it should prove that he had inflicted the mortal blow
on the usurer, to attribute it to access of insanity, provoked
by insult.

To give full effect to these representations, the noble con-
clave determined to bring upon the judges the dazzling rays
of the whole assembled aristocracy. Accordingly, on the day
that the trial took place, the relations of the Count, to th«
number of fifty-seven persons, of both sexes, and of the high-
est rank, repaired in a body to the Palace of Justice, and took
their stations in a long corridor which led to the court- room.
Here, as the judges entered, they had to pass in review this

148 WOLFERT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

array of lofty and noble personages, who saluted them mourn-
fully and significantly, as they passed. Any one conversant
with the stately pride and jealous dignity of the French
noblesse of that day, may imagine the extreme state of sensi-"
tiveness that produced this self-abasement. It was confidently
presumed, however, by the noble suppliants, that having once
brought themselves to this measure, their influence over the
tribunal would be irresistible. There was one lady present,
however, Madame de Beauffremout, who was affected with
the Scottish gift of second sight, and related such dismal and
sinister apparitions as passing before her eyes, that many of
her female companions were filled with doleful presentiments.

Unfortunately for the Count, there was another interest at
work, more powerful even than the high aristocracy. The all-
potent Abbe Dubois, the grand favorite and bosom counsellor
of the Regent, was deeply interested in the scheme of Law, and
the prosperity of his bank, and of course in the security of the
stock-brokers. Indeed, the Regent himself is said to have dipped
deep in the Mississippi scheme. Dubois and Law, therefore,
exerted their influence to the utmost to have the tragic affair
pushed to the extremity of the law, and the murder of the broker
punished in the most signal and appalling manner. Certain it
is, the trial was neither long nor intricate. The Count and his
fellow prisoner were equally inculpated in the crime ; and both
were condemned to a death the most horrible and ignominious
— to be broken alive on the wheel !

As soon as the sentence of the court was made public, all the
nobility, in any degree related to the house of Van Horn, went
into mourning. Another grand aristocratical assemblage was
held, and a petition to the Regent, on behalf of the Count, was
drawn out and left with the Marquis de Cre*qui for signature.
This petition set forth the previous insanity of the Count, and
showed that it was a hereditary malady of his family. It stated
various circumstances in mitigation of his offence, and implored
that his sentence might be commuted to perpetual imprisonment.

Upward of fifty names of the highest nobility, beginning witli
the Prince de Ligne, and including cardinals, archbishops,
dukes, marquises, etc., together with ladies of equal rank, were
signed to this petition. By one of the caprices of human pride
and vanity, it became an object of ambition to get enrolled
among the illustrious suppliants ; a kind of testimonial of noble
blood, to prove relationship to a murderer ! The Marquis de
Oe"qui was absolutely besieged by applicants to sign, and had
to refer their claims to this singular honor, to the Prince de

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 149

Ligne, the grandfather of the Count. Many who were excluded,
were highly incensed, and numerous feuds took place. Nay,
the affronts thus given to the morbid pride of some aristocrati-
cal families, passed from generation to generation ; for, fifty
years afterward, the Duchess of Mazarin complained of a slight
which her father had received from the Marquis de Cr£qui ;
which proved to be something connected with the signature of
this petition.

This important document being completed, the illustrious body
of petitioners, male and female, on Saturday evening, the eve of
Palm Sunday, repaired to the Palais Royal, the residence of the
Regent, and were ushered, with great ceremony but profound
silence, into his hall of council. They had appointed four of
their number as deputies, to present the petition, viz. : the Car-
dinal de Rohan, the Duke de Havre", the Prince de Ligne, and
the Marquis de Cr6qui. After a little while, the deputies were
summoned to the cabinet of the Regent. They entered, leaving
the assembled petitioners in a state of the greatest anxiety. As
time slowly wore away, and the evening advanced, the gloom of
the company increased. Several of the ladies prayed devoutly ;
the good Princess of Armagnac told her beads.

The petition was received by the Regent with a most unpropi-
tious aspect. " In asking the pardon of the criminal," said he,
"you display more zeal for the house of Van Horn, than for
the service of the king. ' ' The noble deputies enforced the peti-
tion by every argument in their power. They supplicated the
Regent to consider that the infamous punishment in question
would reach not merely the person of the condemned, not merely
the house of Van Horn, but also the genealogies of princely and
illustrious families, in whose armorial bearings might be found
quarterings of this dishonored name.

" Gentlemen," replied the Regent, " it appears to me the dis-
grace consists in the crime, rather than in the punishment."

The Prince de Ligne spoke with warmth: "I have in my
genealogical standard," said he, "four escutcheons of Van
Horn, and of course have four ancestors of that house. I must
have them erased and effaced, and there would be so many
blank spaces, like holes, in my heraldic ensigns. There is not
a sovereign family which would not suffer, through the rigor
of your Royal Highness ; nay, all the world knows, that in the
thirty-two quarterings of Madame, your mother, there is an
escutcheon of Van Horn."

" Very well," replied the Regent, " I will share the disgrace
with you, gentlemen."

150 WOLFEETS ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

Seeing that a pardon could not be obtained, the Cardinal de
Rohan and the Marquis cle Crequi left the cabinet ; but the
Prince de Ligne and the Duke de Havre" remained behind. The
honor of their houses, more than the life of the unhappy Count,
was the great object of their solicitude. They now endeavored
to obtain a minor grace. They represented that in the Nether-
lands, and in Germany, there was an important difference in the
public mind as to the mode of inflicting the punishment of death
upon persons of quality. That decapitation had no influence on
the fortunes of the family of the executed, but that the punish-
ment of the wheel was such an infamy, that the uncles, aunts,
brothers, and sisters of the criminal, and his whole family, for
three succeeding generations, were excluded from all noble
chapters, princely abbeys, sovereign bishoprics, and even Teu-
tonic commanderies of the Order of Malta. They showed how
this would operate immediately upon the fortunes of a sister of
the Count, who was on the point of being received as a canoness
into one of the noble chapters.

While this scene was going on in the cabinet of the Regent,
the illustrious assemblage of petitioners remained in the hall of
council, in the most gloomy state of suspense. The re-entrance
from the cabinet of the Cardinal de Rohan and the Marquis de
Cre"qui, with pale, downcast countenances, had struck a chill
into every heart. Still they lingered until near midnight, to
learn the result of the after application. At length the cabi-
net conference was at an end. The Regent came forth, and
saluted the high personages of the assemblage in a courtly
manner. One old lady of quality, Madame de Guyon, whom
he had known in his infancy, he kissed on the cheek, calling her
his "good aunt." He made a most ceremonious salutation to
the stately Marchioness de Crequi, telling her he was charmed
to see her at the Palais Royal ; " a compliment very ill-timed,"
said the Marchioness, " considering the circumstance which
brought me there." He then conducted the ladies to the door
of the second saloon, and there dismissed them, with the most
ceremonious politeness.

The application of the Prince de Ligne and the Duke de
Havre, for a change of the mode of punishment, had, after
much difficulty, been successful. The Regent had promised
solemnly to send a letter of commutation to the attorney-gen-
eral on Holy Monday, the 25th of March, at five o'clock in the
morning. According to the same promise, a scaffold would be
arranged in the cloister of the, Conciergerie, or prison, where
the Count would be beheaded on the same morning, imme-

THE COUNT VAN HORN. 151

diately after having received absolution. This mitigation of
the form of punishment gave but little consolation to the great
•body of petitioners, who had been anxious for the pardon of the
youth : it was looked upon as all-important, however, by the
Prince de Ligne, who, as has been before observed, was ex-
quisitely alive to the dignity of his family.

The Bishop of Bayeux and the Marquis de Cre"qui visited the
unfortunate youth in prison. He had just received the com-
munion in the chapel of the Conciergerie, and was kneeling
before the altar, listening to a mass for the dead, which was
performed at his request. He protested his innocence of any
intention to murder the Jew, but did not deign to allude to the
accusation of robbery. He made the bishop and the Marquis
promise to see his brother the prince, and inform him of this
his dying asseveration.

Two other of his relations, the Prince Rebecq-Montmorency
and the Marshal Van Isenghien, visited him secretly, and of-
fered him poison, as a means of evading the disgrace of a public
execution. On his refusing to take it, they left "him with high
indignation. u Miserable man i " said they, u you are fit only
to perish by the hand of the executioner ! ' '

The Marquis de Crequi sought the executioner of Paris, to
bespeak an easy and decent death for the unfortunate youth.
" Do not make him suffer," said he ; " uncover no part of him
but the neck ; and have his body placed in a coffin, before you
deliver it to his family." The executioner promised all that was
requested, but declined a rouleau of a hundred louis-d'ors which
the Marquis would have put into his hand. " I am paid by the
king for fulfilling my office," said he; and added that he had
already refused a like sum, offered by another relation of the
Marquis.

The Marquis de Cre"qui returned home in a state of deep afflic-
tion. There he found a letter from the Duke de St. Simon, the
familiar friend of the Regent, repeating the promise of that
prince, that the punishment of the wheel should be commuted
to decapitation.

"Imagine," says the Marchioness de Crequi, who in her
memoirs gives a detailed account of this affair, " imagine what
we experienced, and what was our astonishment, our grief, and
indignation, when, on Tuesday, the 26th of March, an hour
after midday, word was brought us that the Count Van Horn
had been exposed on the wheel, in the Place de Greve, since
half -past six in the morning, on the same scaffold with the
Piedmontese de Mille, and that he had been tortured previous
to execution ! "

152 WOLFEhT'S ROOST AND MISCELLANIES.

One more scene of aristocratic pride closed this tragic story.
The Marquis de Cre"qui, on receiving this astounding news, im-
mediately arrayed himself in the uniform of a general officer;
with his cordon of nobility on the coat. He ordered six valets
to attend him in grand livery, and two of his carriages, each
with six horses, to be brought forth. In this sumptuous state,
he set off for the Place de Greve, where he had been preceded
by the Princes de Ligne, de Rohan, de Croiiy, and the Duke
de Havre.

The Count Van Horn was already dead, and it was believed
that the executioner had had the charity to give him the coup
de grace, or " death-blow," at eight o'clock in the morning. At
five o'clock in the evening, when the Judge Commissary left
his post at the Hotel de Ville, these noblemen, with their own
hands, aided to detach the mutilated remains of their relation ;
the Marquis de Crequi placed them in one of his carriages, and
bore them off to his hotel, to receive the last sad obsequies.

The conduct of the Regent in this affair excited general
indignation. His needless severity was attributed by some to
vindictive jealousy ; by others to the persevering machinations
of Law. The house of Van Horn, and the high nobility of
Flanders and Germany, considered themselves flagrantly out-
raged : many schemes of vengeance were talked of, and a hatred
engendered against the Regent, that followed him through life,
and was wreaked with bitterness upon his memory after his
death.

The following letter is said to have been written to the Regent
by the Prince Van Horn, to whom the former had adjudged the
confiscated effects of the Count :

"I do not complain, Sir, of the death of my brother, but I
complain that your Royal Highness has violated in his person
the rights of the kingdom, the nobility, and the nation. I thank
you for the confiscation of his effects ; but I should think my-
self as much disgraced as he, should I accept any favor at your
hands. / hope that God and the King may render to you as
strict justice as you have rendered to my unfortunate brother."

PS
2050

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