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Les diagrammes sulvants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 1 6 6 i*%^ Mf • W r*'^ 1 A A y* *..»j '^. ^:-^ < i i A ii \i ;i •i - ! : i f '*-L ^ Mfc % I % ^^vW ■™- .vii*- ^^^ iCIl \i'.f m TRWK- tjem^yt^i ii..t..L-r;i . 1: • 111 :i >li n\ hiu hv I l; \ s K I . \n K'l;ll I W'ASHINCM ON IK\'IN(; fsrUrtdi ttlank (Traiunt IJaprni lllnlfrrt'r, fiuunit METROPCLiTAN TORONTO LIBRARY Literature 6^/^.c^ r^^.'/^ /^f/ LIFl Wash 1783. h midway 1 New Yoi the eleve He was 1 of St. G Washing ington's shall be i Washii when the New Yor] and a Sec lowed hi I was nanu ington is future bi< Washii from Wil Robert B Presbytei tures at s armed pa PEB - 5 W79 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. i Washington Irving first saw the light on April 3, 1783. His birthplace was a house on William Street, niiflway between Fulton and John Streets, in the city of New York. He was the eighth son and the youngest of the eleven children of William and Sarah Sanders Irving. He was baptized by a Presbyterian minister in the chapel of St. George, in Beekraan Street, soon after General Washington and his array had entered the city. " Wash- ington's work is ended," said Mrs. Irving, " and the child shall be named after him." Washington himself gave the infant his blessing ; for when the seat of the new government was established in New York the first President happened to step into a shop, and a Scotch servant-maid of the family saw him and fol- lowed him in, saying, "Please, your honor, here is a bairn was named after you." And the grave and stately Wash- ington is said to have placed his hands on the head of his future biographer with a paternal benediction. Washington Irving's fatlier was a Scotchman, descended from William De Irwyn, the secretary and armor-bearer of Robert Bruce. He was a man of high character, a strict Presbyterian, stern and sedate, in spite of his early adven- tures at sea. During the French war, while serving in an armed packet plying between Falmouth and New York, he j THF LIFE OF WASHINGTON I It VINO. met the b^a :tiful Sarah Sanders, the gnin(hlaujrl,ter of an English curate, and married lier. Two years later lie settled in New York. The mother of Washington Irving was of a more ardent nature, and sympathized moie with her children in their youthful pletisures. She had been brought up an Episcopalian; and though she attended church with her husband, she was never in full sympathy with his rigid views. Washington, at a very early age, was confirmed stealthily in Trinity Church ; and all the children, with one exception, left their father's communion and became Episcopalians. This might have been expected when we read that William Irving compelled them regu- larly every week to devote one of their two half-holidays to the study of the catechism ; and the only diversion that he permitted on Sunday, aside from attendance at church morning and afternoon, with a lecture in the evening, was the reading of " Pilgrim's Progress." In 1784 the Irvings moved into a quaint old house with the gable end and attic window facing the stie(;t. New York at that time was a small town, the northernmost limit of which was below the present City Hall. The Dutch element still predominated, and the Dutch pictur- esqueness was to be seen in the old-fashioned brick houses and the water-pumps in the middle of the streets. But the inhabitants were gay and hospitable, and there were amuse- ments for lively boys. The child is father of the man, and the town is mother of the city. Even then the mercurial, pleasure-loving, worldly, extravagant metropolis was shad- owed forth in the half-burnt Dutch-English seaport clus- tering around the lower end of Manhattan ! A theatre had been established a third of a century before in John Street, and here Washington Irving first acquired his liking for dramatic performances. He was full of vivacity, fun, and innocent mischief. His love of drollery and disinclination to religi( mother > and excl The ft the even Paulding away to in time t his room, back alle the " af L( lie nu schools, 1 I)erfunct( in Addis( tion. W books of bad, the publishct his specii time, to s was dete praised 1 liking fo with his I while the TUE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 3, to religion must have been a great trial to his father: his mother would look at him with a half-mournful admiration and exclaim, " O Washington, if you were only good ! " The father conducted family prayers at nine o'clock in the evening ; and Washington, in company with James K. Paulding, whose sister was his sister-in-law, used to steal away to the John-street Theatre, conveniently near, return in time to be present at the devotions, and then, retiring to liis room, climb out through the window, down a roof to a back alley, and thus regain his place in the theatre before the " after-piece " was played. He made slow progress in the regular studies at the schools, where the teaching seems to have been dull and perfunctory. At the age of ten he took the part of Juba in Addison's tragedy of " Cato," given at a school exhibi- tion. When eleven he showed an absorbing passion for books of travel and voyages. " Robinson Crusoe," " Sind- bad, the Sailor," and the collection of twenty volumes published under the title of "The World Displayed," were his special delight ; and he used to carry them, one at a time, to school, and read them under his desk. When he was detected he was re;>rimanded, though his teacher praised him for his good taste in selection. He had no liking for mathematics, and frequently exchanged tasks with his schoolmates. He would write their compositions while they performed his problems. He had a great long- ing to see tiie world. He himself says: " I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observ- ing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child, 1 began my travels, and made many tours of discov- ery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents and the emolu- ment of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were THE LIFE OF WASUINQTON IRVJNQ. spent in rarcbles 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 a robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neigh- boring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowl- edge, by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the sunmiit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabitated." " This travelling 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 AvistfuUy 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 .ind waft myself in imagi- nation to the ends of the earth." At one time he entertained the idea of running away from home and engaging as a sailor, but finally gave it up on account of an unconquerable dislike to salt pork. He began to show a literary tendency as early as the age of thirteen by writing a play, which was given at a friend's house, before a well-known actress of the day. Irving's talent for writing, however, did not develop along dramatic lines. The evolution of " Rip Van Winkle " as a play from Irving's sketch was a slow development. Two of his brothei-s — Peter and John — were sent to Columbia Col- lege ; but he was not given this advantage, a fact which he never ceased to regret. At the age of sixteen his school-days were over, and he entered the law-oifice of Henry Masterton, where he spent two years, but made httle advancement in the study of law. It was at this period that he made his voyage up the Hudson, the recol- lections for " T thrown tains." Josiah ( formed health b dency w a series })aper, o ters wen style." much tir the Mob Springs, On ac came of at their Bordeau: deaux, lu young Fi amusing They quilting, made no them p work. English Their ki he is m do with "Oh, " perhapl They Ti/J7 LIFE OF WAHUIJSQTON IHVINO. lections of wliich form part of an article begun in 1851 for " The Home Book of the Picturesque," afterwards thrown aside to give place to " The Kaatskill Moun- tains." In 1802 he became a law-clerk in the office of Josiah Ogdeu HofTman, with whose delightful family he formed a lasting intimacy. Soon after this Mr. Irving's healtli became impaired, and he showed a consumptive ten- dency which alarmed his friends. In spite of this he began a series of contributions to The Morning Chronicle^ a daily paper, owned and edited by his brother Peter. These let- ters were in a humorous vein, and signed "■ Jonathan Old- style." During the following two or three years he spent much time in excursions up the valleys of the Hudson and the Mohawk, and journeys to Montreal, Quebec, Saratoga Springs, and Ogdensburg. On account of Mr. Irving's delicate health, when he came of age liis brothers resolved to send him to Europe at their expense. Accordingly he engaged passage for Bordeaux in May, 1804. After spending six weeks in Bor- deaux, he stjirted for the Mediterranean, in company with a young French officer and an eccentric American doctor. An amusing story is told of his stop at Tonneins on the Garonne. They entered a house where a number of girls were quilting. He could not underatand their dialect, but that made no difference. They laughed and joked, and one of them put a needle into liis hands and made him go to work. The doctor informed them that Irving was an English prisoner whom the French officer had in charge. Their kind liearts melted: " Poor fellow," said they, " yet he is merry in spite of his troubles." " What will they do with him? " asked one of them. " Oh, nothing of consequence," replied the doctor ; " perhaps shoot him or cut off his head." The young French girls were really distressed at such a 6 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. prospect for the handsome foreigner. They resolved to make his last hours as happy as possible, and brought liim wine and fruit, and when he went away gave him their heartiest benedictions. Forty yeais later Irving went out of his way to revisit Tonneins, with the hope that he might atone for the cruel deception. "It was a shame," said he, "to leave them with such a painful impression. ... I believe I recog- nized the house," he went on to say, " and I saw two or tliree old women who might once have formed part of the merry group of girls ; but I doubt whether they recognized in the stout elderly gentleman, thus rattling in his car- riage through the street, the pale young English prisoner of forty years since." At Avignon he paused with the hope of paying his devotions at Laui-a's Shrine. «' Judge of my surprise, my disappointment, and my indignation," he wrote, " when I was told the church — tomb and all — were utterly de- molished at the time of the Revolution. Never did the Revolution, its authors, and its consequences, receive a more hearty and sincere execration than at that moment. Throughout the whole of my journey I had found reason to exclaim against it for depriving me of some valuable curiosity or celebrated monument, but this was the severest disappointment it had yet occasioned," At that time foreigners were closely watched and scru- tinized in France. The police suspected Irving of being an English spy, and dogged him at every step. He was detained at Marseilles, and kept fivd weeks at Nice on various frivolous pretex'.^ ; and the journey was rendered particularly disagreeable by dirty cars, by the noise and insolence of the i^opulace. But Irving said : " When I cannot get a dinner to suit my taste, I endeavor to get a taste to suit my dinner; " and he declared that he tried to 4 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. be pleased with everything about hira, with the masters, mistresses, and servants, especially when he thought they were doing their best to serve him. He reached Genoa in October. TIere ho found the society delightful ; his he.alth was restored and his spirits returned, and he enjoyed the gayety of tlie city life. Late in December he sailed in a Gc^ioese packet for Sicily. Here he had an experience with pirates. Off the island of Planoca a pickaroon with l«teen sails and armed witli guns overhauled them ; and they were boarded by a pictur- esquely villanous crew in ragged garb, and with cutlasses in hand and stilettos and pistols in belt, like genuine stage villains. The packet was thorouglily ransacked ; all the trunks and portmanteaus were opened by them, but they carried off little besides brandy and provisions. On their departure they gave the captain a " receipt " for what they took and an order on the British Consul at Messina to pay for it. Irving spent two months in Sicily, and made several inland journeys in which he ran great risk of being cap- tured by the banditti which were then overrunning +he island. He was painfully struck by the poverty and wretchedness of the natives. He wrote that his mind never suffered so much as on a jouiney which he took from Syracuse through the centre of the island — the half- starved peasants living in wretched cabins anr* often in filthy caverns infested with vermin. But in the ports he found American ships, and he was everywhere received as a comrade. " Every ship was a home and every officer a friend." At Messina he saw Lord Nelson's fleet passing through the straits in search of the French fleet. From there he went to Naples in a fruitrboat which safely dodged the cruisers, and he readied Rome in March. 1 1 M 8 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Here lie met Washington Allston, the painter, and was so captivated b; him and by the ideal life tliat he led that he was half inclined to abandon law and become an artist himself. He also made the acquaintance of Madame de Stael, the gifted authoress, and saw considerable of Roman society. The head of the great banking-house of Torlonia paid him special attention, supposing he was a relative of General Washington- He hurried th.-ough to Italy ;n order to get to Paris where, he wrote his brother Wilxlam, he wished " to pay attention to yeveral branches of art and science." He spent four months in Paris, and went to London by way of the Netherlands in October. He kept no journal, eithor in Paris or London ; but the chief attraction in the latter city seems to have been the theatre, where he saw Mrs. Siddons, George Frederick Cooke and John Kemble. Later on, soon after the publication of ''The Sketch- Book," Mr. Irving met Mrs. Siddons at some fashionable assembly, and was brought up to be presented. Slie looked at him for a moment, and then in her cleai voice said slowl}-. "You've made me weep." The modest author was so en- tirely taken by surprise and disconcerted that he had not a word to say, ana very soon retreated. After " Brace- bridge Hall " appeared, he met her again in company, and was met with a similar address : " You've made me we^p again." This t'n e he was prepared, and replied with some complimentary allusion to the pffect of hor own pathos. In Februaiy, 1806, Irving retf^-ned to New York with renewed health and vigor. He was admitted to the bar, but he devoted his time more than ever to society. He was one of a group of young men of convivial habits known as "the nine worthies," or as "tbo lads of Kilkenny," as Irving frequently alludes to them in his letters. Their favorite resort was an old mansion called Cockloft Hall, about a do'ied, h( attained is thus d "He : which m forehead height, a" inclined geni.-'l, li, attractive ous, it w words we ceedingly dark hair wore neit \v jg, whicl beat oifull a social fa| It was dence of Paulaing tion of duouc^cim own am; It ran thi a " spirit ch^is were tributed the poetiv loft." M " Salmagi or.iy of the inter] THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 9 about a mile above Newark. They were not so aban- doned, however, as they pretended to be, and many of them attained distinction in later life. His personal appearance is thus described by a relative : " He had dark gray eyes ; a handsome straight nose, which might perhaps be called large ; a broad, high, full forehead ; and a small mouth. I should call him of riedium height, about five feet eight and a half to nine inches, and inclined to be a trifle stout. His smile v/as exceedingly geni.''!, lighting up his whole face and rendering it very attractive ; while, if he were about to say anything humor- ous, it would beam forth from his eyes even before the words were spoken. As a young man his face was ex- ceedingly handsome, and his head was well covered with dark hair; but from my earliest recollection of him he ' wore neither whiskers nor moustache, but a dark brown w>g, which, although it made him look younger, concealed a beai oifully shaped head." So it was no wonder that he was a social favorite, not only in New York but in other cities. It was at this time that Irving gave the lii-st real evi- dence of his choice of a career. Together with James K. Paulaing and his brother William, he planned the produc- tion of Salmagundi, a semi-monthly periodical, in small duodv-^cimo sheets. The work was undertaken for their own amusement, and with no hope of. pecuniary profit. It ran through twenty numbers, and was characterized by a " spirit of fun and sarcastic drollery. ' Some of the arti- cles were written entirely by Paulding, others were con- tributed by Washington, while his brother William wrote the poetical pieces under the signature of " Pindar Cock- loft." Mr. Duyckinck, in his preface to the volume of "Salmagundi," says, '•''Salmagundi is the literary parent not oniy of ' The Sketch-Hook ' and ' The AUiambra,' but of al) the intermediate and subsequent productions of Irving." 10 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Not long after Salmagundi was discontinued Mr. Irving with his brother Peter began the " History of New York." At first only a burlesque on Dr. Samuel Mitchell's " Pic- ture of New York," was intended ; but later on Peter was called to Liverpool on urgent business, and Washington was left to go on with the work. He had great difficulty in condensing the enormous mass of notes accumulated, into five introductory chapters, and the r* st of tlie book was entirely his own. While engaged on this work the author received the crushing blow from which he never wholly recovered. He had conceived an ardent passion for Mr. Hoffman's second daughter, Matilda, and his affec- tion was reciprocated. He was struggling to better his condition, in order to be able to marry her, v/hen the lovely girl, in the eighteenth year of her age, died, after a short illness. The fact that Mr. Irving never alluded to this chapter of his life, nor ever mentioned her name to his most intimate friends, shows how deeply he was affecteJ. After his deatli, in a repository which he always kept locked, was found a package containing some memoranda concerning her, a beautiful miniature in a case, with a braid of hair, and a slip of paper on which lie had written "Matilda Hoffman." He kept her Bible and Prayer-book by him all through his life, and for some time after her death put them under his pillow every night. Thirt^' years afterwards her father, in taking some music from a drawer, found a piece of embroidery and handed it to Irving, saying,— " Washington, this is a piece of poor Matilda's handi- work." Irving, who had been particularly gay, suddenly relapsed into silence and left tlie house. Long after his death a part of a letter to Mrs. Foster of Berlin was published. He said in it : — "We saw each other every day, and I became excessively attached more I s Her min to discov I, for she ner studi intuitive quisite p: young cr( acknowle idolized li cacy and ] comparisc ills that 1 to me drc I saw her and more she looke( mind I wj ing; the thoughts not beur was a dis me fear t( and seek hunian be gloom of " I was tachmentfi tinually r was a pa would sin Irving niece: "'' THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 11 1 attached to her. Her shyness wore off by degrees. The more I saw of her, the more I had reason to admire her. Her mind seemed to unfold leaf by leaf, and every time to discover new sweetness. Nobody knew her so well as I, for slie was generally timid and silent ; but I in a man- ner studied her excellence. Never did I meet with more intuitive rectitude of mind, more native delicacy, more ex- quisite propriety in word, thought, and action, than in this young creature. I am not exaggerating; what I say was acknowledged by all who knew her. . . . For my part I idolized her. I felt at times rebuked by her superior deli- cacy and purity, and as if I was a coarse, unworthy being in comparison. I cannot tell you what I have suffered. The ills that I have undergone in this life have been dealt out to me drop by drop, and I have tasted all their bitterness. I saw her fade rapidly away ; beautiful and more beautiful and more angelic to the last. ... I was the last one she looked upon. I cannot tell you what a horrid state of mind I was in for a long time. I seemed to care for noth- ing; the world was a blank to me. I abandoned all thoughts of the law. I went into the country, but could not beur solitude, yet could not endure society. There was a dismal horror continually in my mind, which made me fear to be alone. I had often to get up in the night, and seek the bedroom of my brother, as if the having a human being by me would relieve me from the frightful gloom of my own thoughts. . . . " I was naturally susceptible, and tried to form other at- tachments, but my heart would not hold on ; it would con- tinually recur to what it had lost; and whenever there was a pause in the hurry of novelty and excitement, I would sink into dismal dejection." Irving never married ; he used to say playfully to a niece : " You know I was never intended for a bachelor." N n THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. '( fi^ :i The two months following Matilda's death were spent in the country at the house of his friend, Judge William Van Ness. In order to combat grief he applied himself vigorously to working on his " History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker." In his memoranda, he writes : " When I became more calm and collected I applied my- self, by way of occupation, to the finishing of my work. I brought it to a close, as well as I could, and published it; but the time and circumstances in which it was pro- duced rendered me always unable to look upon it with satisfaction." The work was printed in Philadelphia in order to keep its real character from being known in advance of its ap- pearance. At the same time it was very cleverly advertised. A notice appeared in the Evening .Post, to the effect that *'a small elderly gentleman by the name of Knickerbocker had disappeared from his lodgings. He was dressed in an old black coat and cocked hat." Soon after another paragraph appeared in the papers to the effect that a per- son answering the description had been seen by the pas- pongers of the Albany stage, that he was resting by the roadside with a small bundle tied in a red bandana hand- kerchief; and then another stating that Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker had gone from his hotel without paying his board, and if he did not return a very curious book which he had left would have to be sold to satisfy the landlord. ' ' The volume appeared Dec. 6, 1809, and was advertised then as a grave, matter-of-fact history, even being dedi- cated "To the New York Historical Society." So it is not difficult to imagine the surprise that many felt on perusing the work, to find that the author had used " the events which compose the history of the three Dutch gov- ernors of New York, merely as a vehicle to convey a world of sati descen of thei beyond first ed In sj sion wi precarii was an regular ings, he were er this req ciently ence, a Yet he i and the fruit, w tory of still he leisure. Thei to mere certain turned the edit of fiftee biograp azine p ment ol he wish In 1^ ernor 1816, THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 13 of satire, whim, and ludicrous description " Many of the descendants of the rolonists were indignant at the ridicule of their Dutch ancestors, but the work had a success far beyond the author's expectation. The returns from the first edition amounted to about three thousand dollars. In spite of this success, however, literature as a profes- sion was not attractive to him. He felt that it was too precarious, and too liable to trials and tribulations. He was anxious to find some employment to assure him a regular income. Finally, after many doubts and misgiv- ings, he entered i»ito a partnership with his brothers, who were engaged in the hardware business. By arrangement this required little work from him, and brought him a sufQ- ciently large share in the profits to provide for his subsist- ence, and give him time to devote himself to literature. Yet he seems to have devoted his time mostly to society .; and the two yeai-s that followed were without literary fruit, with the exception of a revised edition of the " His- tory of New York." His conscience often smote him, but still he settled down into the easy life of a gentleman of leisure. The war which broke out in 1812 brought great anxiety to merchants, and caused Washington Irving to feel un- certain about his commercial interests. This probably turned his thoughts once more to literature. He assumed the editorial charge of the Analectic Magazine^ at a salary of fifteen hundred dollars a year, and wrote reviews and biographical sketches for it. The management of the mag- azine proved very irksome to him, especially the depart- ment of criticism, for he could not bear to inflict pain, and he wished to be just. In 1814 Irving enlisted in the war, and was made Gov- ernor Tompkins's aid and military secretary. In May, 1816, he sailed for England to visit his brother, and little 1 u THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. dreamed that seventeen years would elapse before his return. It had been nearly seven years since his parting with Peter, but he found hira so much like old times that it soon seemed as if he had only left him the day before. Peter was at this time suffering from an indisposition, which finally resulted in a long illness, which kept him an invalid until the following May. Washington spent a week witli Peter, and then went to visit his brother-in-law in Birmingham, and from there to Sydenham, to visit the poet Campbell. From London he returned to Bir- mingham, and after a few days started on a tour by way of Bath ann Bristol, through South and North Wales, to Liverpool. Peter's illness made it necessary for Washing- ton to take charge of the business in Liverpool ; and he applied himself assiduously to it, in spite of his aversion to everything of the sort. The two years following were full of care and worry. He writes in January, 1816, " I would not again experience the anxious days and sleepless nights which have been my lot since I have taken hold of business, to possess the wealth of Croesus." Liverpool, where he was obliged to spend most of his time, was unattractive to him ; and he was too low-spirited to make the most of the society offered him. In the win- ter of 1815 he made a visit to London, and was completely carried away by Miss O'Neil's acting, but refused to be introduced to her for fear of being disenchanted. The following summer Peter recovered his health sufficiently to return to Liverpool ; and Washington was enabled to get away from the tread-mill, and visit his sister's family in Birmingham. He made a little excursion into Derby- shire, which was the one bright spot in the year, and then ' returned to his sister's house, where he tried to devote himself to literary work ; but his uneasimess about business affairs made it impossible for him to use his pen. His TUE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 15 anxiety, however, was always for his relatives, rather than for himself. In the spring of 1817 Irving was getting ready a new edition of the "History of New York," with designs by Allston and Leslie. He was intending to return to America, when the death of his mother, at the age of seventy-nine, occurred, and caused him to change his plans. When he had left her in New York, it was liis intention to return in a short time to remain with her the rest of her life. Business did not improve ; and Irving formed a plan with the Philadelphia publisher, Moses Thomas, which would give him means of support, and at the same time enable him to use his pen. It was an arrangement for the republication in America of choice English works. About this time Irving' made the ac- quaintance of the elder D'Israeli at a dinner at Murray's in London, and spent some time with Sir Walter Scott, a visit afterwards commemorated in his immortal " Abbots- ford." > • In a most interesting letter written to his brother Peter he tells he took chaise for Melrose, and on the w«ay stopped at the gate of Abbotsford, and sent in his letter of intro- duction, with a request to know whether it would be agreeable for Scott to receive a visit from him in the course of the day. The " glorious old minstrel " himself came limping to the gate, took him by the hand in a way that made him feel as if they were old friends, seated him at his hospit- able board among his charming little family, and kept him there as long as he would stjiy. Irving enjoyed the hours he passed there ; he said they flew by too quick, yet each was loaded with story, incident, or song; and when he considered the world of ideas, images, and impressions that had been crowded upon his mind during his visit, it seemed I ! 16 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. to him incredible that he should have been only two days at Abbotsford. He rambled about the hills with Scott; visited the haunts of Thomas the Rhymer, and other spots rendered classic by border tale and witching song, and he declared that he had been in a kind of dream or delirium. Irving found himself unable to express his delight at Scott's character and manners. He called him " a sterling, golden-hearted old worthy, full of the joyousness of youth, with an imagination continually furnishing forth pictures, and a charming simplicity of manner that puts you at ease with him in a moment." He found it a constant source of pleasure to remark his deportment toward his family, his neighboi-s, his domestics, his very dogs and cats ; every- thing that came within his influence seemed to catch a beam of that sunshine that played round his heart. Early in 1818, after vain endeavors to compromise with their creditors, the two brothers made up their minds to go through the humiliating ordeal of taking the bankrupt act. Washington felt little anxiety for himself, but he was torn with anguish for his brothers. He was to receive one thousand dollars a year compensation from Moses Thomas; but the arrangement only continued a twelve- month, and in August Imng went to London, determined to rely on his pen for a support. He had been in London but two weeks when he was obliged to part with his friend AUston, who returned to America. Soon after this he received word from his brother William to the effect that his old friend Decatur was keeping a clerkship open in the Navy for him with a salary of twenty-four hundred dollars a year, and that he was waiting for a reply. To the great disappointment of his brothei-s, he refused the offer. He was determined to let nothing interfere with his literary career. "This resolution," says Mr. THE LIFE OF WAHUINOTON IRVUfO, 17 days d the dered clared ■$ Charles Dudley Warner, " which exhibited a modest con- fidence in his own powers, and the energy with which he threw himself into his career, showed the fibre of the man. Suddenly, by the reverse of fortune, he who had been regarded as merely the ornamental genius of the family became its stay and support. If he had accepted the aid of his brothers during the experimental period of his life, in the loving spirit of confidence in which it was given, he was not less ready to reverse the relations when the time came ; the delicacy with which his assistance was rendered, the scrupulous care taken to convey the feeling that his brothers were doing him a continual favor in shr.ring his good fortune, and their own unjealous accept- ance of what they would as freely have given if circum- stances had been different, form one of the pleasantest instances of brotherly concord and self-abnegation. I know nothing more admirable than the life-long relations of this talented and sincere family." Early in the year 1819 Irving began preparing the first number of " The Sketch-Book," which was published in America the foUov/ing May. The title of the series, which was not completed until September, 1820, was "The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent." The first number contained the Prospectus, the author's ac- count of himself, the Voyage, Roscoe, the Wife, and Rip Van Winkle. It was published simultaneously in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. The first edition consisted of two thousand copies. The style of the publication was ^jeautiful for those days, and the price of the first number was seventy-five cents. Its appearance created a sensation in America, and this soon spread to Eng- land. Chambers's " Cyclopaedia of English Literature " declared the stories of " Rip Van Winkle " and " Sleepy Hollow " to be " the finest pieces of original fictitious u TEX LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. .1 writing that this ceutury has produced, next to the works of Scott." Lord Byron, speaking of " The Broken Heart," the hero- ine of which was the daughter of John Philpot Curran, the Irish leader, said : " That is one of the finest things ever written on earth. Irving is a genius ; and he has some- thing better than genius — a heart. He never wrote that without weeping ; nor can I hear it without tears. I have not wept much in this world, for trouble never brings tears to my eyes; but I always have tears for *The Broken Heart.' " Irving was completely overwhelmed — " appalled " was the term he used — by the success of " The Sketch-Book ; " but he was not in the least puffed up. He writes to his friend Brevoort, hoping that he would not attribute to an author's vanity all that sensibility to the kind reception he had met with. He declared vanity could not bring the tears into his eyes, as they had been brought by the kind- ness of his countrymen. " I have felt cast down, blighted, and broken-spirited," he wrote; "and these sudden rays of sunshine agitate even more than they revive me." And he expressed the hope that he might yet do something more worthy of the approbation lavished on him. Several of the papers in " The Sketch-Book " were copied into English periodicals ; and a writer in Black- wood, expressing surprise that the work had been printed in America earlier than in Britain, predicted that there would be a large and eager demand for it. Irving had already met John Murray, " the Prince of Booksellers;" and he took to him the first three num- bei-s of " The Sketch-Book," with a proposition tliat he should issue them. Murray did not see "that scope in the nature of it which would enable him to make those satisfactory accounts between them without which he TUE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. .19 felt no real satisfaction in undertaking to publish for another." So Irving sought the advice of Scott, telling him frankly that he " was in the mire." Scott at once wrote, asking him if he would become the editor of a magazine at a yearly salary of five hundred pounds. But Irving refused this offer, stating that he was " unfitted for any periodi- cally recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind," and was fis useless for regular service as one of his own country Indians or a Don-Cossack. Scott advised him to apply to Constable ; but Irving resolved to let the work go on its own merits, and entered into an arrangement with a man named Miller, who pub- lished the first four numbers in a volume in 1820. But within a month Miller failed. Again Scott came to Irving's aid, and induced John Murray «o undertake the work. Murray paid him two hundred pounds for it, and afterwards voluntarily more than doubled the honorarium. From that time forth Murray was his regular publisher, and treated him with exemplary generosity. In August, 1820, Irving went to Paris with his brother Peter. There he made the acquaintance of Thomas Moore, with whom he formed a firm and lasting friend- ship ; Talma, the great French tragedian ; John Howard Payne, Canning, Sydney Smith, and George Bancroft. The following year Irving returned to England, taking with him several plan's by the author of " Home, Sweet Home," with the hope of disposing of them for the benefit of Payne, whose finances were in bad shape. He spent some time in London, and visited his sister in Birmingham, where he was detained four months by illness. He re- turned to London in December; but he continued to suffer from the trouble in his ankles, so that he was unable to walk without pain and difficulty. Here he wrote " Brace- 8f. THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. bridge Hall," which appeared in America in 1822. He arranged that it should be brought out by a publisher who had failed in business ; but Irving says, " he had shown a disposition to serve me, and did serve me in the time of my necessity, and J should despise myself could I for a moment forget it." Irving sold the work to Murray for a thousand guineas. In July he left London, to travel in Germany for his health. He spent six months most delightfully in Dresden, where he met an English family by the name of Foster, with whom he became very intimate, and whose house be- came a home to him. With the daughter Emily he formed a warm friendship, which the family seem to have believed would have ended in marriage, if the lady's affections had not already been turned in another direction. After Irving's death this same daughter wrote of him in these glowing terms: "He was thorouglily a gentleman, not merely externally, in manners and look, but io the inmost fibres and core of his heart. Sweet-tempered, gentle, fas- tidious, sensitive, and gifted with the warmest affections, the most delightful and invariably interesting companion, gay, and full of humor, even in spite of occasional fits of melancholy, whicl: he was, however, seldom subject to when with those he liked — a gift of conversation that flowed like a full river in sunshine, bright, easy, and abundant." In July, 1823, he returned to Paris and to literary work. In 1821 the " Tales of a Traveller " appeared. In New York it was published in four parts. It did not excite so much surprise, nor was it so popular, as his previous publi- cations; but it sustained the author's reputation, and is thought to contain some of his best writing. Murray paiil him fifteen hundred pounds for the copyright. After this he worked on some American essays, and contemplated THE LIFE OF [VASHINGTON IRVING. 21 writing a " Life of Washington j " but this was abandoned to undertake tlie " Life of Columbus," for which purpose he started for Madrid, reaching there in Feburary, 1826. His first intention was to make a translation of M. Navar- rete's "Voyage of Columbus;" but he soon discovered that this work was "rather a mass of rich materials for history than a history itself," so he abandoned the idea, and began making researches for an original " Life of Columbus." Ho was unceasing in his labors, sometimes working all day and until midnight. At one time he wrote from five in the morning until eight at night, only stopping for meals. His studies for this " Life of Colum- bus " brought him into contact with the old chronicles and legends of Spain, from which arose those fascinating books which are the fruits of his sojourn in Spain. During Irving's stay in Madrid, the house of the Russian minis- ter, M. D'Oubril, became a favorite resort. Prince Dol- goruki, and Mademoiselle Bolville, a niece of Madame D'Oubril, were inmates of his household ; and his lettera to them give charming glimpses of the author's life in Spain. Through Irving's desire for historical accuracy in every respect, the " Life of Columb is " was not ready for pub- lication until February, 1828. Mr. Murray paid him three thousand guineas for the English copyright. This large honorarium was paid not without protests from some of Murray's friends. Robert Southey thought the work " to have been compiled with great industry and to be well conceived and likely to succeed because it was interesting and useful ; " but he criticized it, saying : " There is neither much power of mind nor much knowledge indicated in it." Mr. Sharon Turner wrote : " What has it of that su- perb degree as to make it fully safe for you to give the price you intend for it? I see no novelty of fact, and ■J 22 'iHE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. though much ability, yet not that overwhelming talent whicli will give a very gr-^'t circulation to so trite a sub- ject." These prognostications were realized. It was pub- lished in February, 1828, in four large octavo volumes ; three yeara later Murray wrote to Irving : " The publica- tion of 'Cclumbus' cost me, paper, printing, .vivertisiiig and author, .£5,700; and it has produced but .£4,700." From a literary standpoint its success was greater than the 'author anticipated; and he wrote an abridgment of it which Mr. Charles Dudley Warner avers he presented to John Murray and was very successful, the fii-st edition of ten thousand copies selling immediately. In March, 1828, Mr. Irving started with two intimate friends to make a tour through the most beautiful part of Andalusia. They visited Cordova, Granada, Malaga, and Seville. In Seville Mr. Irving remained over a year, and here he wrote the " Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada." This work, although considered by the autlior as the best of all his works, and regarded by critical authorities as a "masterpiece of romantic narrative," did not receive the popularity necessary to encourage him to continue in the same direction. The manuscript was sent by Irving to his friend an^. representative Colonel A spin wall, who seems to have sounded various Lor don publishers in order to secure the most favorable terms. The Reverend Sanuiel Smiles, D.D., says : " Murray, not liking to see the works of the famous author go into the hands of other j)nb- lishers, offered a large sum for the ' Conquest of Granada ' — not less than two thousand guineas, though it as well as the 'Columbus ' had been published in America before they appeared in England, and were tlierefon; devoid of all loyal protection." liOckhart wrote Murray concerning the manuscript of it: "My impression is that with much ele- 4 gance, tho add, of fee war, in thi he added : ligible his in Europe standard \ Mu:ray gun to pal bility of 1( your forel have the s you not tl the public mi:"d his he ended might be publicatioi In two the "Gra guineas. In May bra, takinj tors. Hei Spain," bi During hii tion cf hit don. A t urgency o ingly, he night on again cont years elap 1830, on h TB^ LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 23 gance, tlio'e is mixed a good deal of affectation — I must add, of feebleness. He is not the man to paint tumultuous war, in the lifetime of Scott, when Byron is fresh." But he added: "This, however, will be the only complete intel- ligible history of the downfall of the last Moorish power in P^urope, and tiierefore a valuable, and I doubt not, a staiidaid work." Murray v/rcte to Irving, hinting that his works had be- gun to pail on the public taste and that there was a proba- bility of loss. Irving replied : *' I have been annoyed by your forebodings of ill success to this work ; when you have the spirit to give a large price for a work, wliy have you not the spirit to go manfully through with it until the public voice determines its fate ? " And he called to mi;>d liis first doubts regarding " The Sketch-Book ; " but he ended with an expression of his wish that Murray might be relieved of such apprehensions of loss in the publication of his works. In two years Murray reported to Irving that his loss on the " Granada " had amounted to about twelve hundred guineas. In May, 1829, Irving left Seville and visited the Alham- bra, taking up his residence there in the governor's quar- ters. Here he wrote the " Legends of the Conquest of Spain," but they were not published until six years later. During his stay at the Alhambra he received the informa- tion cf liis appointment as Secretary of Legation to Lon- don. At first he hesitated about accepting it, but on the urgency of liis friends finally decided to do so. Accord- ingly, he left Spain for London, stopping in Paris a fort- night on the way. Toward the close of this year he again contemplated writing a " Life of Washington," but years elapsed before the idea was carried out. In April, 1830, on his biithday, the author received the news tliat !l m 24 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. the Royal Society of Literature had awarded him one of their fifty guinea gold medals. In less than a month after this he found himself committed for the degree of LL.D. from the Univereity of Oxford. His modesty prevented him from ever using the title, hov^ever. Mr. Irving retired from the legation in September, 1831, and shortly after had the sad pleasure of dining with Sir WaJter Scott for the last time, in London. Scott's powers had sadly failed, but during the dinner his mind would occasionally brighten, and he would begin some story in his old manner; but soon his head would sink and his countenance fall, as he saw that he had failed in his at- tempt. After dinner, as Scott took Irving's arm and grasped his cane with the ether hand, he said, '• Ah I the times are changed, my good fellow, since we went over the Eildon hills together. It is all nonsense to cell a man that his mind is not affected, when his body is in this state." In January, 1832, Mr. Irving revisited Newstead Abbey, and was lodged in Lord Byron's room. In April he sailed for New York, and reached hor>e after a voyage of forty days. A cordial reception awaited him. In a letter to his brother Peter, he :.ells how he was absolutely over- whelmed with the welcome and felicitations of his friends. It seemed to him as i^ all the old standers of the city had called on him; and he was continually thrown among old associates, who, he thanked God, had borne the wear and tear of seventeen years surprising!} and were all in good health, good looks, and good circumstances. He was de- lighted with the increased beauty and multiplied conve- niences and delights of the city, and his return home seemed to him wonderfully exciting. He immediately entered into "a tumult of enjoyment;" and was pleased *«? THE LIFE OF WASHINQTON IRVING. 25 forty with everything and everybody, and as happy as mortal I being could be. ; .. , . \J f His early friends and townsmen gave him a public din- || ner, which was pronounced the most successful public ' : banquet ever given in the United States, and it was long I remembered for its brilliancy. Nearly tliree hundred I guests were present. The fact that a speech would be I expected of him made Irving very nervous, as he was wholly unpractised in public speaking; but he not only " got on well, but with real eloquence." Three weeks after his arrival in his own country, " The Alhambra" was published by Messrs. Carey & Lea; but it seems that it appeared in England, and possibly a trans- lation in France, previous to this date. He had not suc- ceeded, however, in making a bargain with any London bookseller at the beginning of the year. He wrote in February, that the book-trade was in such a de})lorable state that he hardly knew where to turn. "Some," lie said, " are disabled, and all disheartened." " The Alham- bra " wd'-z dedicated to David Wilkie, the painter, who had cften been his companion in Spain. His first returns from it were about nine thousand dollars. Soon atter this Mr. Irving contemplated a tour in the western part of the State of New York, and through Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee ; but his plans were changed, and he finally undertook an extensive journey to the far West with one of the three commissioners appointed by the Government to trade with the Indians. The fruit of his visit to the Pawnee country was, " A Tour on the Prai- ries," the first of a series of volumes under the general title of " Miscellanies," and some other sketches of the West. On liis way home he spent three months in Washington. Tlie following July, after spending some time in Tarry- town and Saratoga Springs, he passed a day in visiting 26 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IJtVlNO. r T! the old Dutch villages in the region of the Catskill Mountains, where the scenes of Rip Van Winkle had been laid and which he now explored for the first time. It is an amusing fact in this connection that many years after- wards Irving received a letter from a boy at Catskill tell- ing him that he had lately been engaged in arguing vvitli a very old gentleman " whether, in the beautiful tale of ' Rip Van Winkle,' he referred to the village of Catskill, or Kingston," and requesting him to settle the vexed question. " He little dreamt," said Irving, as he exhibited the letter, " when I wrote the story, I had never been on the Catskills." The second number of the "Crayon Miscellany" con- tained "Abbotsford" and " Newstead Abbey," and came out in May, 1835. The third number, called " Legends of the Conquest of Spain," was published in October. About this time Irving was also preparing, with the aid of his nephew Pierre Irving, a work for John Jacob Astor, called "Astoria." It was on the subject of Mr. Astor's settlement called by that name, at the mouth of the Columbia River. While at work upon this, Irving spent much of his time at the Astor country-seat, opposite Hellgate. The volume was published in October, 1836. Irving received four thousand dollars from Carey & Lea for the right of printing five thousand copies, and five hundred pounds from Bentley in London. The author had not only himself to support, but also liis two brothers, Peter and Ebenezer ; so although he had re- ceived large sums for his works, he was obliged to be in- dustrious. Moreover, he longed to make a home for him- self and his brother Peter, who crossed the ocean to join him in April. He bought a small farm on the bank of the river at Tarrytown, near his old Sleepy Hollow haunt, and one of the most beautiful situations on the Hudson. ' ^,o,«'-r- THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 27 There was a small stone Dutch cottage on the place ; and this he enlarged, still retaining the quaint Dutch charac- teristics. He added a tower, and a weathercock brought from Holland ; and it became one of the most picturesque residences on the river. At first his intention was to have merely a summer retreat, and he called the place the " Roost," but afterwards it was named "Sunnyside ; " and it proved to be the dearest spot on earth to hi-n, and one where he passed nearly all of the remainder c his years. In January, 1837, we find Irving alone with his brother Peter, in the cottage dressed in Christmas greens, and completely settled in it. Here he was exercising his pen, and working on "The Adventures of Captain Bonneville, U.S.A., in the Rocky Mountains of the Far West," a supplementary work to "Astoria." Irving first met this gentleman at Mr. As tor's country-seat, in 1835. He met him again later on in Washington, and found him rewriting and extending the notes he had made in trav- elling, uiid making maps of the regions he had visited. He paid him one thousand dollars for the manuscripts, and undertook to prepare them for puMication. These manu- scripts formed the basis of the work, though other facts and details were interwoven ; and to the whole he gave a tone and color drawn from his own experiences during his tour on the prairies. For this work he received three thousand dollars from Carey, Lea, & Co., and nine hun- dred pounds from Bentley in London. While this work was going through the press, Irving attended a complimentary entertainment, given by the booksellei's of New York to authors jvnd other literary and distinguished men. William Cullen Bryant, Fitz- Green Halleck, the Rev. Orville Dewey, Judge Irving, and others were present. One of the memorable events of 1837 at the cottage 28 THE LIFS OF WASHINGTON IRVING. I I ii* was a visit from Louis Napoleon. After being a prisoner of state for several months on board a French man-of-war, he was released and set on shore at Norfolk, early in the spring. From Norfolk he went to New York, where he spent two months, during which he visited the '' Roost," accompanied by a young French count, and escorted by M. Anthony Constant. A large proportion of Mr. Irving's funds was at this time locked up in unfruitful land-purchases, so that it was an anxious problem to him to know how to derive an in- come sufficient to meet the expenses of the cottage, which from being a bachelor-nest had assumed the character of a mansion. Ebenezer decided to give up his town-house, and both he and Peter were to become permanent inmates of the "Roost." On the twenty-seventh of June, however, Mr. Irving received one of the severest blows of his life by the death of his brother Peter, whicli came close upon that of his brother John. How deeply he felt this loss is shown in a letter to Mrs. Van Wart, his sister : Every day, every hour, he said, he felt how completely Peter and he had been intertwined together in the whole course of their existence. The very circumstance of their both having never been married bound them more closely together. While Peter was living he had not been con- scious how much this was the case ; but now that his brother was gone, he felt how all-important he had been to him. Though he was surrounded by affectionate relatives, a dreary feeling of loneliness kept coming over him whicli lie reasoned against in vain ; for he felt that no one could ever be what he was ; no one could take so thorough an interest in his concerns ; to no one could he so confidingly lay open his every thought and feeling, and expose every fault and foible, certain of perfect toleration and indulgence. He declared that since dear mother's death, he had had no one J^, THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 29 who could so patiently and tenderly bear with all his weaknesses and infirmities, and throw over every error the mantle of affection. " I cannot open a book or take up a paper," he said, " or recall a past vein of thought, without having him instantly before me and finding myself com- pletely overcome." To quote Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, Mr. Irving " was now past middle life, having returned to New York in his fiftieth year ; but he was in the full flow of literary pro- ductiveness. The first crop of his mind was of course the most original ; time and experience had toned down his exuberant humor, but the spring of his fancy was as free, his vigor was not aoated, and his art was more refined. Some of his best work was yet to be done. And it is worthy of passing mention, in regard to his later produc- tions, that his admirable sense of literary proportion, which is wanting in many goo 1 writers, characterized his work to the end. High as his position was as a man of letters at this time, the consideration in which he was held was much broader than that — it was that of one of the first citizens of the Republic. His friends, readers, and admirers were not merely the literary class and the general public, but included nearly all the prominent statesmen of the time. Almost any career in public life would have been open to him if he had lent an ear to their solicitations. But politi- cal life was not to his taste, and it would have been fatal to liis sensitive spirit." He was asked to be mayor of New York ; to accept a seat in Congress, and to become Secretary of the Navy in Mr. Van Buren's cabinet ; but he declined all such over- tures. In 1838 Irving was working on the "History of the Con- quest of Mexico." He had already made a rough outline of the first volume when he went to New York to con- u 30 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. fl h 1' 1- ^ i suit the libraries on the subject. While tiiere he learned that Mr. Prescott, who had been winning a great reputar tion by his "History of Ferdinand and Isabella," was contemplating the work which he had actually begun ; and he at once abandoned the subject, saying, " I am happy to have this opportunity of testifying my high esteem for his talents, and my sense of the very courteous manner in which he has spoken of myself and my writings in his 'Ferdinand and Isabella,' though they interfered with a part of the subject of his history." But he did not surrender this glorious theme without a pang. In a letter to hk nephew, five years later, he wrote that he doubted whether Prescott was aware of the extent of the sacrifice he had made ; for it had been a favorite sub- ject, which had delighted his imagination ever since he was a boy. He had brought home books from Spain to aid him in it, and looked on it as the pendant to his " Colum- bus." He declared that when he gave it uj) to him, he, in a manner, gave up his bread; for he had depended on the profit of it to recruit his waning finances, and that if ho had accomplished it, his whole pecuniary situation would have been altered. He had no other subject at hand to supply its place, but was dismounted from his cheval Je bataille, and he complained that he had never been com- pletely mounted since. But he was not sorry to have made the sacrifice, for it was not with a view to compli- ments or thanks, but from a warm and sudden inii)uhse ; and he felt that Prescott had justified the opinion that Ir- ving expressed at the time ; that he would treat ' '^ subject with closer and ampler research than he wouiu ^ . ably have done. After surrendering the subject of the "Conquest of Mexico" to Prescott, Irving was persuaded to contribute monthly to the Knickerbocker, ?■ magazine published in New Yori lars a yea: his fancy arrangeme contnbuti< in Spring, Bobolink,' the Union a "Biogra " Biograph can girl " < liad died i Irving h well undei expected a seemed less pa.n of bei down the r* — very hai wind to the The apj Tylei''s Seel apj)ointed q made his received hi dinner was sided. Mr| twenty-thn describes tl "I was given in h| of New Yol but were through ar THE LIFE OF WASIlINGTOy IRVING. SI learned reputa- fi," was un ; and happy eeni for inner in I in his with a ithout a lie wrote e extent rite sub- since he in to aid "Colum- in, he, in d on the lat if lie in would , hand to cheval de een coni- to have 3 com pi i- impulse ; 1 that Ii- .? subject l-<\, ably iquest of !ontribute )lished in New York. For this he was to receive two thousand dol- lars a year. Irksome as it was to be obliged to draw ou his fancy once a month for an article, he continued the arrangement for two years. The most happy of all his contributions to the periodical was probably ''The Birds ill Spring," containing the charming sketch called "The Bobolink," which was copied into almost every paper in the Union. During this period Mr. Irving also wrote a "Biography of Goldsmith," his favorite author, and a " Biography of Margaret Davidson," a lovely young Amer- can girl " of surprising precocity of poetical talent," who had died in the very flower of her promise. Irving had begun his "Life of Washington," and was well under way with it, when he received the wholly un- expected appointment of minister to Spain. At first he seemed less impressed by the honor conferred than by the pa.n of being exiled from home ; and as he paced up and down the room, he murmured to his nephew, " It is hard, — very hard, yet I must try to bear it. God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb" The appointment was suggested by Daniel Webster, Tyler's Secretary of State. Alexander Hamilton, Jr., was appointed as his Secretary of Legation. Charles Diukens made his appearance in New York just as Mr. Irving received his appointment of minister to Spain. A great dinner was given to Dickens, and Washington Irving pre- sided. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, then a young woman of twenty-three, was present, and in her reminiscences thus describes the occasion: — " I was present, with other ladies, at a public dinner given in honor of Charles Dickens by prominent citizens of New York. The ladies were not bidden to the feast, but were allowed to occupy a small ante-room wliicli, through an open door, commanded a view of the tables. %:'. 32 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IttVlNa. ,1 •I When the speaking was about to begin, a message canu; suggesting that we should take possession of some vacant seats at the great table. This wo wore glad to do. Washington Irving was president of the evening, and upon him devolved the duty of inaugurating the pro- ceedings by an address of welcome to the distinguished guest. People who sat near me whispered, 'He'll break down, he always does.' Mr. Irving rose and uttered a sentence or two. His friends interrupted him by ap- plause, which was intended to encourage liim, but whicl; entirely overthrew his self-possession. He hesitated, stammered, and sat down, saying, 'I cannot go on.' It was an embarrassing and painful moment; but Mr. John Duer, an eminent lawyer, came to his fritjnd's assistance, and with suitable remarks proposed the health of Charkv. Dickens, to which Mr. Dickens promptly responded. This he did in his happiest manner, covering Mr. Irving'.s defeat by a glowing eulogy of his literary merits. "'Whose books do I take to bed with me, night after night? Washington Irving's, as one who is present can testify.' This one was evidently Mrs. Dickens, who was seated beside me." ' Irving declined a public dinner in New York on the eve of his departure, and aLo the same hospitality offered in Liverpool and Glasgow. After visiting his sister in Birmingham, and spending some time in Paris, he finally reached Madrid, July 25, 1842. The affairs of Spain at this time had become intensely dramatic, a con- dition that continued as long as Mr. Irving remained in the country, and gave intense interest to his diplomatic life. The duties which he had to j)erform were un- usual and difficult, but he acquitted himself with rare skill and judgment. He was at one time called to Lon- don to consult in regard to the Oregon boundary dis- ,«f a THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 33 pute, and rendered valuable assistance in settling the question. The following is a portion of Mr. Irving 's description of his first audience with the queen : — " It being signified to us that the queen would receive us at the royal palace, we drove thither, but had to wait some time in the apartment of Count Almodovar. After a while we had notice that the queen was prepared to receive us. We accordingly passed through the spacious court, up the noble staircase, and through the long suites of apartments of this splendid edifice, most of them silent and vacant, the casements closed to keep out the heat, so that a twi- light reigned throughout the mighty pile, not a little emblematical of the dubious fortunes of its inmates. It seemed more like traversing a convent than a palace. I ought to have mentioned, that on ascending the grand staircase, we found the portal at the head of it, opening into the royal suite of apartments, still bearing the marks of the midnight attack upon the palace in October last, when an attempt was made to get possession of the per- sons of the little queen and her sister, to carry them off. The marble casements of the doors had been shattered in several places, and the double doors themselves pierced all over with bullet holes, from the musketry that played upon them from the staircase during that eventful night. What must have been the feelings of those poor children, on lis- tening, from their apartment, to the horrid tumult, — the outcries of a furious multitude, and the reports of fire- arms echoing and reverberating through the vaulted halls and spacious courts of this immense edifice, — and dubi- ous whether their own lives were not the object of the assault ! " After passing through various chambers of the palace, now silent and sombre, but which I had traversed in former m 11 i 34 TEE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. Il dayd, on grand court occasions in the time of Ferdinand VII.v when they were glittering with all the splendor of a court, we paused in a great saloon, with high-vaulted ceiling incrusted with florid devices in porcelain, and hung with silken tapestry, but all in dim twilight, like the rest of the palace ; at one end of the saloon the door opened to an almost interminable range of other chambers, through which, at a distance, we had a glimpse of some indistinct figures in black. They glided into the saloon slowly, and with noiseless steps. Ifc was the little queen, with her governess, Madame Mina, widow of the general of that name, and her guardian, the excellent Arguelles, all in deep mourning for the Duke of Orleans. The little queen advanced some steps within the saloon and then paused. Madame Mina took her station a little distance behind her. The Count Almodovar then introduced me to the queen in my official capacity ; and she received me with a grave and quiet welcome, expressed in a very low voice. She is nearly twelve years of age, and is sufficiently well-grown for her years. She had a somewhat fair complexion, quite pale, with bluish and light-gray eyes ; a grave demeanor, but a graceful deportment. I could not but regard her with deep interest, knowing what important concerns de- pended upon the life of this fragile little being, and to what a stormy and precarious career she might be des- tined." While in Madrid, Irving was attacked by the inflamma- tory disease of thg skin from which he had suffered twenty years before, but this time it was much more severe. It was the result of overwork, with too little exercise. Jle was compelled to give up working on his " Life of Wash- ington," as the least mental excitement aggravated the symptoms and he was unable to resume the task until his return to America. Being urged by his physician to try li TBE LIFE OF WA8HINQT0N IBVINO. S5 a change of air for the trouble in his ankles, he made an excursion to France. He was absent nearly three months ; but he brought the malady back with him again, and con- tinued to suffer for some time longer. In December, 1845, Irving sent home his resignation from the court of Madrid ; and the following July General Romulus M. Saunders, of North Carolina, arrived in Spain as his successor. In April, 1845, on the day before his sixty -second birthday, he wrote, expressing his longing to be once more back at " dear little Sunnyside," while he yet liad strength and good spirits to enjoy the simple pleasures of the country, and to rally a happy family group once more about him. He declared that he grudged every year of absence that rolled by. " The evening of life," he said, " is fast drawing over me ; still I hope to get back among my friends while there is yet a little sunshine left." On the eighteenth of August, 1846, he bade farewell forever to European shores, and sailed for Boston on the Cambria. He reached his home on the nineteenth of Sep- tember ; and his first concern was to build an addition to liis cottage, which was quite too cramped for the number of its inmates. While occupied with this new building, Irving spent all his leisure in preparing a complete edition of his works, with corrections, alterations, and additions, with a view to getting liis literary property into a condi- tion to yield him a yearly income. In a letter to Mr. Kenible, he says that the new pagoda was one of the most useful additions that ever was made to a house, besides being so ornamental ; for it gave him a laundry, store- rooms, pantries, servants' rooms, coal-cellar, and other rooms, converting what was once "rather a make-shift little mansion," into one of the most complete snuggeries in the country He jestingly remarked that the only part of it that was not adapted to some valuable purpose ml 86 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING, I ll was the cupola, which had no bell in it, and was about as serviceable as the feather in one's cap. In the autumn of 1847 we find Irving hard at work on his " History of Washington ; " and early in the following year he went for a prolonged visit to New York, to be within reach of the libraries. A portion of this time was spent as the guest of John Jacob Astor, then eighty-four years of age. Irving had often urged him to begin his noble project of the Astor library, but it was left to be carried out after his death. At this time the author was very much disturbed by a plan which was proposed, to run a railroad along the east- ern bank of the Hudson River. Besides desecrating the beautiful shore, it threatened his little cottage, by coming to its very door, and would forever mar its charm of quiet and retirement. He was in despair when it was decided to carry out this scheme, but when he found that it was inevitable he tried to make the best of it. As it was car- ried some distance out into the river, he was spared the pain of having the railroad cross his grounds ; and the trees on the bank formed a screen, which he hoped would soon hide it from view. In adjustment of the damages, the rail- road company paid him thirty-five hundred dollars. On receiving the first payment, he observed: "Why, I am harder on them than the wagoner was on Giles Ginger- bread ; for he let him walk all the way to London along- side of his wagon without charging him anything, while I make them pay for only passing my door." In 1848 Irving made arrangements for a collected edition of his works, and was for the rest of his life assured a hand- some income. On the eighteenth of August he brought home to the cottage a copy of the revised edition of " Knickerbocker's History of New York," and on the same day he brought home a picture which had strongly im- THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 37 pressed him. It was Ary Scheffer's " Christus Consolator," engraved by Dupont. It first attracted his attention in the window of a German shop in Broadway, and the tears filled his eyes as lie looked at it without knowing whose it was. Finding that it was by Scheffer, he immediately went in and bought it. In the autumn of this year he united with the Episcopal Church. The following yeai Irving dropped his " Life of Wash- ington " to take up the " Life of Goldsmith," which he fin- ished within sixty days. " Everything combines to make this one of the most fascinating pieces of biography in the English i.inguage," said the New York Tribune. "Mr. Irving was in possession of abundant materials to do jus- tice to tlie subject. He had only to insert his exquisite magnetic needle into the mass, to give a choice and shapely form to all that was valuabl in the labore of pre- vious biographers. He lias done this in a manner which leaves nothing to be desired. With a genial admiration of Goldsmith, with a cordial appreciation of the spirit of his writings, and with many similar intellectual tendencies, lie has portrayed the varied picture ot his life with a grace and elegance that make his narrative as charming a piece of composition as can be found in the whole range of his foimer works. He hf-s added a new enchantment to the potent spell with which he always binds the hearts of his readers." The first volume of " Mahomet and his Successors," ap- peared in December, although it had been advertised to come out at the beginning of the year. The second volume was published the following April. Irving was most desirous to continue his " Life of Washington," which had been interrupted. " All I fear," he said to his nephew, "is to fail in health, and fail in completing this work at the same time. If I can only live to finish it, I I i-il ^! : would be willing to die the next moment. I think I can make it a most interesting book --can give interest and strength to many points without any prostration of historic dignity. If I had only ten years more of life I I never felt more able to write. I might not conceive as I did in earlier days, when 1 had more romance of feeling, but I could execute with more rapidity and freedom." One day in July, 1850, Irving was taken with chills while in the cars on his way to New York, and this proved to be the warning of a serious illness. The fever made such progress that Dr. Delafield, a celebrated physician from New York, who happened to be on the opposite side of the river, was called in, and Mr. Irving made his will, prepared for the worst. The skilful treatment he received, however, soon brought about a change for the better ; and in a few days the patient was out of danger, although very weak. The following autumn he had the pleasure of hear- in » Jenny Lind, and wrote to Miss Hamilton that he had seen and heard her, the "Priestess of Nature," but once, but at once enroUed himself among her admirers. He did not feel able to say, however, how much of his ad- miration went to her singing, how much to herself. As a singer, she appeared to him of the very first order ; as a specimen of womankind, a little more. He declared that she was enough of herself to counterbalance all the evil that the world was threatened with by the great conven- tion of women. "So God save Jenny Lind ! " In May, 1852, Irving wrote to Mrs. Storrow complaining because his " Life of Washington," lagged and dragged on account of interruptions caused by bilious attacks. He was disinclined to tear himself away from the quiet and retirement of home ; but he felt that such a tendency to settle aown ought to be resisted, lest he should grow rusty or fusty or crusty. But he could not help justifying h s THE LIFE OF WASUINO.TON IRVING. 89 delight in lolling in the shade of the trees he had planted, feeling the sweet southern breeze stealing up tlie green banks, and looking out with half-dreamy eye on the beauti- ful scenery of the Hudson, building castles in the clouls as he had built them in his boyhood. " Blessed retirement ! " he exclaimed ; " friend to life's decline ! " and he went off into a deeply -felt rhapsody o^^ his good fortune in being able so completely to realize what had been the mere picturing of his fancy. In 1855 Irving brought out the collection of sketches entitled " Wolfert's Roost," which elicited the warmest commendation from the press on both sides of the Atlantic. The title was derived from the first name given to Sunny- side, the "Roost " or " Rest of Wolfert Acker," one of Peter Stuyvesant's privy councillors, who had retreated to tliat point on the Hudson after the subjugation of New Am- sterdam. The first volume of the " Life of Washington " soon followed. He had finished correcting the proofs when his horse Dick, on which he was riding, became unmanage- able, and threw him violently to the ground. No bones were broken, but he was bruised and wrenched. He wrote a friend that, thanks to his hard head and strong chest, he had withstood a shock that would have staved in a sensi- tively constructed man. He said his head came nigh being forced down into his chest, " like the end of a telescope." But on the third day he got up, and dressed and shaved himself. The year 1857 was disastrous to trade, and Irving bought back the stereotype plates of his collected works, which had brought him in about $80,000 in nine years. At this time he was troubled with an obstiiiate catarrh, which in- duced serious deafness and i shortness of breath. He was also afflicted with a peculiar form of drowsiness. Often at dinner — even at public dinners — his head would droop if f »l 40 THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. and he would have a nap which would last several min- utes, and then rousing proceed with conversation seeming perfectly unaware that he had thus relapsed into uncon- sciousness. By January, 1859, he had succeeded in completing and revising the fifth and last volume of his "Washington; " but his nervous system was greatly shattered, and he was troubled by insomnia and strange feelings of dismay and dread, which enough medicine " to put a whole congrega- tion to sleep " could not overcome. On Monday, the twenty-eighth of November, as he was retiring for the night, his niece Sarah, who went into his room to place his medicines within easy reach, hoard him exclaim : — "Well, I must arrange my pillows for another weary night," and then a half-stifled exclamation, " When will this end?" At the same instant he pressed his hand to his side, and fell backward to the floor. He had passed away instan- taneously from enlargement of the heart. When the news of his death was announced in New York flags were hung at half-mast, and many public bodies made allusion to the event, or passed resolutions of re- spect. He was buried in the beautiful graveyard over- looking the scenes he had loved and made immortal ; the ugh so late in the year, it was a lovely Indian sum- mer day, typical of the close of a long and blameless life. His works can hardly be said to have suffered any eclipse in popularity. Though his style was formed on the smooth and somewhat artificial example of Goldsmith and Addison, his humor was thoroughly modern and vital. When one thinks of the dreary productions that passed for literature in America previous to the appearance of "Knickerbocker," poems like Wiggles worth's "Day of THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 41 Doom," with its ghastly pictures of a future state, long- winded controversial sermons, biographies unenlivened by a touch of nature ; when one thinks of the grave solemnity superinduced by the theological tendencies of Puritanism, and how few flowers of humor or wit can be gathered in all the years since Plymouth was settled, it is not strange that types so individual, so comical, so natural, so human in spite of their good-natured exaggerations, as the " Myn- heers of Manhattan," or " Rip Van Winkle," should have taken the literary world by storm. One can readily see the influence of " Don Quixote " on Irving's imagination. But, nevertheless, the humor is original and fresh. He did more than create types. He peopled the Hud- son with legends. The Highlands along the noble river were as bare of Fancy as they were of castles until Irving came to raise them into the realm of Faerie. Such an act of creation alone would make a man immortal. Legends are generally the growth of ages. No one knows when they start. But here a young Scotchman like an enchanter waves his wand, as it were, and the whole region forgets to be merely a picturesque landscape and becomes a sort of classic ground. Having done this much for America, for his own ho*ne, he goes abroad and naturally and without affectation be- comes the link between England and America. His pic- tures of life in New York were a revelation to the some- what supercilious, yet not blameworthy Englishmen who asked, " Who reads an American book ? " He woke them to a realization of the possibility of an American litera- ture which should be as much to the pride and honor of England as Shakespeare, Milton, and Scott were by Amer- icans regarded as their pride and lienor. He also depicted English and Spanish life, customs, and history for the benefit of his own countrymen. Such a u THE LIFE OF WASHINGTON IRVING. life-work was a step toward international amity and under- standing. Such men bind nations closer together. , , , Thus Irving is claimed by both England and America as an English Classic ; and as time goes on the masterpieces which he left seem to rise higher in their proportions, as the peaks of a mountain-range impress the traveller with their altitude, according as he reaches the right perspective of distance. Literature claims Washington Irving as one of her immortals. »i ^ti ¥. ' ! .i THE SKETCH-BOOK (»K GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENTK.i h ' I [1, ) m 'i «• /: : •■. t Preface t auvertisei Advektisei The Autik The Voyac R03COE . . The Wife . Rip Van W English VV llUKAL LiFI The Bkoke The Art o A Royal P The Count The Wiuo^ The Boar' The MuTAi Rural Fui The Inn kI The SpectI WestminstI Christmas The Stag] Christmas Christmas The Chrisi .f\i \\ ■ yi i I • I i • • 1.1 #• ' '< <> CONTENTS. 1 1 Preface to the RsviaED Edition v Advertisement to the first American Edition . . . . xi Advertisement to the first English Edition ..... xii The Author's Account of Himself 6 The Voyage 9 R03COE « 14 The Wife 20 Rip Van Winkle 27 English Writers on America 41 iluRAL Life in England 49 The Bi{oken Heart 56 The Art of Book-^Iaking 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 Dinnbb 170 iU m IV CONTSNTa, I FAsa Little Britaik 182 STRATrORD-ON-AYOK • 194 Traits of Indian Charaotkr . . 210 Philip of Pokanoket 219 John Bull 2S3 The Pride of the Viixagb 242 The Angler 260 The Legend of Slsept Hollow 258 L'Envot 285 A Sunday in London 287 London Antiques 280 Appendix 296 ? \ fi' PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. The following p&pers, with two exceptions, were written in England, and formed but part of an intended Beries for which I bad made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, howeve**, circumstances compelled me to send them piecemeal to tl i 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 Oazette. It was said, also, tliat 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 1 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 hin? 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 Sib: 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 iu ; and jester* ▼i PREFACE TO THE BBVISED EDITION. • day I was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. ,,. ^. o 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 attenl 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. 1 now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with much hospitality during a visit to Edin- burgh ; but firsu 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 y-ears 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 forwHrded 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 Ins 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 haol 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. ▼U 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 tha*^ the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. " Yet x 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. 1 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. '? tr » V! I: '* ^ PREFACE TO THE BEVISXD 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 ; a- ^ope to write better and more copiously by and by. " I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering your proposal than by showing what a very good- forSVkSid^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 lee me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and whatever ray 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." ^ 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 ScoU small duodecimo Amerioiin editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the " nigromancv " 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 vc'.umes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than ■he 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 Dr^oona." on one's owi PSEFACB TO THB RBVI8SD EDITION. IX Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, howerer, 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, and soon received a reply : " I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's own 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 I ockhart, 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. i ! i I'l And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the middle of the month, and promise myseli 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 Lelp, as I was clicking in the mire, and, more propitious *• 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 ia Europe , and I feel that I am but discharg.'ng, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging ray 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. SUNNTSIDB, 1848. ADVERTISEMENT TO THK FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. The following writings are published on experiment ; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to 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 he 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 bumble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. London, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT TO TBI 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, WBi, xU '■'l- \: THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. i ] I am of this mind with Homer, that sb the analle that crept out of her shel wan tnrned eftsooDB into a toad, and thereby wag forced to make a Btoole to Bit gn; bo the traveller that atragleth from hie owne country is in a short time trauBformed into bo monatroug a ghape, that be tg faine to alter his manalon with his manneni, and to live where be can, not where he would. — Lyly's Euphuet, I WAS alwaye 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 foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles 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 incognita, and was astonished to find ho^jr vast a globe I inhabited. This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant cl'mes — with what lodging eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself m imagination to the ends of the earth I Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vagae inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to mftko it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have « THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. . *■ I f felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification : for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigaii.v lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; her valleys, teaming 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 tiie ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summir 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 wandei over the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquitj - - to loiter about the ruined castU — 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 ' »» w i. ♦-** *<» «.y « THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 7 gay that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the 4)icturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to an- other ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, some- times by tlie distortions of caricatnrei 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 unluck}- 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 bad not a single glacier or volcano in his whole coUectioa. i i h' 1 Hif m pi^i *i m M 1 . 1 ',i^\ i 1 H i i 11 ' 'm 1 II ; • V, GEO " I have no wife n< mcn'» fortunei and diversely presented i To an Amer make is an ex worldly scenes culiarly fitted t space of water page in existec in Europe, th< almost impercc you lose sight you step on th the bustle and In travellinj conpp.oted su© the story of 1 THE SKETCH-BOOK ov GEOFFEEY CRAYON, GENT. " I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere ipeotetor of other men's fortunes and adventurei, and how they play their parte; whioh, methinkt, are dlTersely presented nnto mei aa from a common theater or acene." — BCBTOid THE VOYAGE. Bhipa, ahipa, I will deaorie yoo Amidst the main, I will come and try yon. What you are protecting, And projecting, What's your end and aim. One goea abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his country from invading, A third la coming homo with rich and wealthy lading. Hallo I my fancie, whither wilt thou go? — Old Poik. 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 conrected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of Ufe, and lessen the effect of absence and sepa- *j I 10 THE SKETCH-BOOK. If 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 ua 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 ut 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 ; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend 'o 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 upou 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. Mv 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; -^f 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 VOYAOB. 11 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of ttie 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 deseried 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 about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem« pest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ; what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, th« 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 wildj and threatening, and ga^e indications of one of those sudden storms which will somet raes 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 str ick with a short one related by the captain. " As I was once sailing," said he, " ia a fine, stout ship, across 12 I'HE SKETCH-BOOK. II: _■; 1 \ '^-ik it '• I? ' a • '.! ' - 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. Wo 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 cabui ; 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 t'rae before ve could put the ship about, she was under such headwa} . 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 asiinder by flashes of liglituing which quivered along tho foamiug billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by tho mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous tluit she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her ynrds would dip into the water; her bow wj»s almost buried IxMU'tUli tho 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 cabiu, the awful scene still followed Wfc )l ■: Hi me. The whi like funereal ing and i;voa weltering sea along the sid seemed as if seeking for hi of a seam, mij A fine day breeze, soon impossible to and fair wind canvas, every ing waves, h seems to lord the reveries o tinual reverie It was a : "land!" was have experien of sensations iirst comes in tions with the with every t which his stii From that feverish exci giiardion giar stretching out ing into the c we sailed up ■ escope. My their trim si mouldering ri spire of a vill hill — all wer The tide a enabled to C( people ; some or relatives, ship was con! restless air. wliistling the having been 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 r^rging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the meri- starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entr.uice. 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 curl- ing 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 con- tinual 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 experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom when iie first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associa- tions with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his ''hildhood has heard, or on wliich his studious years have pondered. From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish exciteraent. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, tower- ing into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a tel- escope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable, th,',t 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 bj the crowd, in deference tjn liia Ij 14 TEE SKETCH-BOOK. tercporary 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 couutenance. 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 vo3'age, and had ex- cited the sympathy of every one on board. AVhcn tho 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 rivf r, and was now leaning ngainst the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even t'le eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound cf his voice, her eye darted on his features; it read, at once, i whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a f liut 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 iervlce of mankind to be A guardian god below ; gtili to employ The mind's brave ardor in horoic alms, Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, And make us shine for ever — that is life. — Thomson. One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liver- pool, is the Athenaeum. It is establislied 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 witli grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. As T was o was attracted vanced in life commanding, care. He ha that would h furrows on h busy there, y« soul. There cated a being him. I inquired 1 I drew back m then, was an wliose voices whose minds 1 ica. Accusto writers only b; other men, en< with the crow Tiiey pass bef( with thj eman of literary gloi To find, the gUng among tj cal ideas ; but in which he ha est claims to a minds seem a every disadvai way through a disappointing legitimate dul luxuriance of of genius to tl stony places and brambles strike root eve into sunshine, beauties of ve Such has be apparently unj raarket-plac patronage ; sel ROSCOE^ 15 As T 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 diflferent 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 witli the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. Tiiey pass before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with thj 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 sous of tralHc, at first shocked my poeti- cal ideas ; but it is from the very ciicumstances 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 thougli 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 Tnarket-plac"^ '-f trade ; without fortune, family connections, or patronage ; self-prompted, self -sustained, and almost self-taught, i'' : n Ir H li 11 It THE 8KETCW-B00K. he has conquered every cbstaclc, achieved his way to eminence, and having become one of tlie ornaments of the nation, haa 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 rae 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 beat, they are prone to steal away from the bust!e 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 contrarj-, 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 fortli into the high- ways and thoroughfares of life, he has planted bovvers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourn-^r, and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and iickt of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is a " dtiily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because iiiimitable, ex- ample of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet sim- ple andimitable virtnes, which are within every man's reach, Itiit which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. But his private life is peculiarl}- worthy the attention of the citizens of our young and busy country, wliere 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 mucii 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 I'ounda- tions of its fame the moauuients of his virtues. Whenever you mind : to the l^ ROSCOB. 17 go, in Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footst ;p8 in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channela of traffic ; he has diverted from it invig- orating rills to refresh tlie gardens of literature. By his own example and constant exertions, he has effected that union of coraraerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recom- mended in one of his latest writings ; ' and has practically proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and scientilic purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and b:ive 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 tlie metropolis, it will be perceived that in avakening an ambition of mental improvement among its in- liabitaiits, he has effected a great beaefit to the cause of British literature. In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in Liverpool he is spoken of as tlie banker ; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. 1 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 Oi adversity ; but H 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 uest of men are a[)t 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. IMie solitude of such a mind is its state of higliest enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from lieaveii, in the wilderness of this world. While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune to light ou further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view tiie 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 * Address ou the opening of the Liverpool Institution. S' u I fit I . I II ! If ^\ IB THE SKETCH-BOOK. taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the fittaftt< a was de. lightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, 8tu<>'ca ^nb clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile ..vaj i"to a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen wiiuling a ad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land ; iv^hile the Welsh mountains, blended with clouds, and melting uto distance, bordered the horizon. I This was Roscoe's favorite residence during the da^j of hia ; nrosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitp.llty and lit- erary retirement. The house was now silent au'l 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 lower- ing about the place, whom my 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 wliich 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 whimsica' in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contendinsi for the possession of weapons which they cou!! not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of spt'cu lators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint bindin • and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; of the air of in- tense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchase attempted to dive into the bhick-letter l)argain he had sociircd. It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. liusi'oc's niisfoi tunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind.- that the parting with his books seems to have touched ui)on hit; tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that sould provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows dow dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts Ind 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 Vf intimates languishes iuto vapid civility and commonplace, BOSCOS. Id 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. Boscoe and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be diflicult to combat with others that might seem merely fancifid ; 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 dillicult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes miugled and confuunded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar witii the common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest cluuaeter. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard liini 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. Ab one, who, dnatined from his friends to part, Regrets h^B loss, but hopes again erewhlle To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; Thus, loved assoclateR, chiefs of elder art. Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now ruHigu you; uor with fuiutlng hearty li' 20 '>,-..( THE SKETCn-BOOR. For pans a few ehort yeara, or days, or boon, Aud happier seasooa may their dawn anfold* And all your iacred feilowahip restore; When freed from eaHb, unlimited Iti powera, Mind shall wl'.h mind direct communion hold. And kindred aplrita meet to part no more. A I THE WIFE. The treasures of the deep are not so preeioop 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— Tho violet bed's not sweeter I MiDDLBTOH. ■ i ■ I I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which breal{ 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 flrnmess, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about th» oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy 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 bis situation in tlie world than a single one ; partly, because be is more stim> ulatcd to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and be- loved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly, because bis 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 tlie 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 bad, 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 be, " 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 bis 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, nud 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 bis wife ; for he could not bring him- 22 THE SKETCn-BOOK. i IV' ■f 1 m I self to overwhelm her with the news. She snw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. blio 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 luster 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. AVhen 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 Bs&y break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted 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 nind ; 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 begger ! — that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with m^ 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 1 " THE WIFE. 28 I flaw his grief was eloquent, and I !et it have its flow ; fof sorrow relieves itself by words. Wlien bis paroxysm had sub- sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, J resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his .utuation at ouce to bis 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--" "1 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 you. 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 maii knov ^ 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 auditor 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 for tl.e 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. u I. 24 THE SEETCU-BOOK. <" In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next rooming, without trepiaation. He liad 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 amis 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 : shrj has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of aoonstoined conveniences nor elegancies. When we come pnicticaily to exi -'rience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humilia- tions — then will be the real trial." "But," said I, "now that j-ou 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, every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — "! struggle between a proud mind and an cin[)ty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage Ixj 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 tlie evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cot- tage in the country, a few miles from town. lie had been busied all day in «»nding out furniture. The new establish- ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his lato residence had lu-en sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, ho said, was too closely asso- '•iated with the idea of herself; it belonged to ihc little story >f their loves; for some of the sweetest nionicnts of their L'ourtship were those when he iiad leaned over that iustrumeui. !iud listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could notj but smile at this instance of romantic jiallantry in a doting Imshnnd He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all lay, superintending its arraiigeiiuMit. My feelinirs had become strongly interested in the jirogress of this familv 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 lit 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 raiaerable 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 me 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 woman." " 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 urable dwelling — she has been employed all day in arrang- ing its miserable eqtnpments — 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." Tiiere 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 eiiougli in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it JKul 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 simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise ou the gravel ^I'r AV\ '111 ,i»- 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 fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her chetk ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seon her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, ' I am so glad you are come ; I have been watching and wat'Aing for jou ; 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 coukl not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me that thougli the world has since gone prosperously with liim, 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 tlie 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, tlierefore, 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 becL various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it 18 not a whit better than it should be. Its cliief merit is its 8crUi»ulous accuracy, which, indeed, was a little questioned, on A POSTKUl ■1 RIP VAN WINKLE. 27 its flrst appearauce, but has since been completely established; tiud 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 barm to his memory, to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightiei 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 sp lit of some friends for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his error nd follies are remem- bered "more in sorrow than in anger,"' and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear bj' many folk, whose good op.iiiou is well worth having : particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on tluMr new-year cakes, and have thus given iiini a chance for iininortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 1)1^^ I' '■ Rir VAN WINKLE. A POSTKUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. By Woden, Qod of SaxouH, From whoiice comes Weiisday, thai in Wodeusday, Truth m u thiiiK that ever I wll! keep I to thylke day in which I croep luto My sepulchre. — Cartwbioht. 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 suri'ounding 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 regartled by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the land- scape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapors < Vide the ezoell«ut discourae of U. C Verplaack, Knq., Ujforo the New-Yuik Ulstorioitl Society. l!,lrt: i I' I. 1 ■ ' ■ ^ -^ if r' .iiv 28 THE SKETCn-BOOK. .' \\ r ( 1 # ^' about thoir summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow aud 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 IStuyvesant (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 l)ricks 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 Groat Britain, a simple, good-natui-ed 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 Stuj'vesant, 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 ,vas 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 aud 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 wortii all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may. tl»erefore, in some respects, be consid- ered a tolerable blessiiv • md if so, Kip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that be was a ,.^ieat favo.ite among all the good wives of the village, who, r.s usuf' ^.ith the amiable .s^'x, took his part in all family iiquabli'e. iv.X never failed, 'whenever they talked those matters • vr- in tl lay all the blame on Dar ; '• uu W village, too, would shoui. ..ii:i jov He assisted at their sports, midc f'.i' to rty kites aud shoot marli! > , ",;>d VVl. ghosts, witches, and Indians. Mr eveai'ig gossipmgs, to Jde. The ohi'.lren of the wl;enever he ;t.pproached. ;>• pi ay tilings, taught them •■ »ld them long stories of ;uever he went dodging RIP VAN WINKLE. 29 ftbout the village, he was stirroiinded bj' a troop of them hang- ing on his skirts, clambering on his back, and playing a thou- sand tricks on him with imi)uiiity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborliood. The great error in Ivip's composition was an insuperable aversion to all kinds of jtrolltable labor. It could not be from the want of assiduity or i)erseveranee ; 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 uiurmur, even tliough he should not be encouraged by a single uibl)le. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hcur-i together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill anJ down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He wouiiil never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in tlie roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all rjountry frolics for husking iiidian corn or building stone fences. The women of the vilhiLxs too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as tht'ir less obliging husbands would not do iov thmi ; — in a word, Kip was ready to attend to anybody's bui^liiess 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 uo use to work on liis farm ; it as the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole coun- try ; every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would eitlier go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow (juicker in his (ields 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 li..d dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until tiiere was little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it wat* the worst conditioned farm in the neigiiitorliood. His ciiildren, 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 fatlier. 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. Itip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white broad 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 , i >i I i I I 8d THE SKETCH-BOOK. if '<: i perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning io 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 al! lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grovn 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 ■ u irageous an animal as ever scoured the woods — but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-be- BPt^ing terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf ent^^red the house, his crest fell, his tail droope('. ^o the ground, '^r curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, •^sting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at ' ae least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelpin ^ precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip V^n Winkle, as years of matrimony rcJ! id on : a tart temper n'iver lueilows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge 'oo! fhrtt j^'u ws keener with constant use. For a long while he iisod to co;>sole himself, when driven from home, by frequer rin;^ ti kind i.'f perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and olli":- iulc ut^-onages ol the village, wliich held its sessions on a boiich before a ssnaH (dd, designued by a rubicund portrait of ii aajtsi;/ George the Third. Here they used to sit ii; the slia , of a long lazy summer's day, talking listlessly on- villngc \ )ssip, o»- telling endless sleepy stories a,„out notbiiig. But it ^ »uic' hav« been •Yorth any stiitcsOian's money to h ve heard the profound discus- dious that sometimes took place, vfhen by chanco an old nevv.s paper fell into their hands, from aome passing tcaveller. How solemnly th<;y would listen m the contents, as drawled out h; Derrick Van liiiimuel, the schoolmaster, a dapper hiarued little inaD, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they woul(> delil)eiate upon public events some uiuiUis after Ihey uvui taken placet. of all into up i a his side RIP VAN WINKLE. The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, 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 sufficientlj to avoid the sun, and keep in the siiade of a huge tree ; so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rurely 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 gathef 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, h\ \ . :nt, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inliale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe f»'oni 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 ternmgant 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 iiiinself, sacred fioin the daring tongiic of this terrible virago, who clKUiicd hiui outright with encouraging her husband in liiihils of idleness. Toor Kip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his only altcnii'.tiv'c to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of Ills wife, was to take gnu in liand, and stroll away into tlio woods. Ilt'ic he would sometimes seat himself at the foot ^,f a tree, and shaie the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with wliom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " I'uor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it ; but never n)ind, my lad, whilst 1 live thou shalt never want a frietid to stand by thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfull;y 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 ramf/J*' of the kind, on a fine autumnal day. Rip had unconsciously s one of the highest parts of the Kaalskill mountains. He was after his favorite sfK>rt of squirrel-shooting, and tlie still solitudes had o<'hoed and re- echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, be threw himself. lo.te in tlu' aCU-rnoon, on a green knoll covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the treex, he could overlook all the ■'I * 32 THE SKETCH-BOOK N 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 cloiul, 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 tlie impending clifls, 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 th • 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 aliout to descend he heard a voice from a distance hallooing, '• Rip Van Winkle ! Rij) Van Winkle ! " He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He tho-:ght liis fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to dL.-i.7eud, when he heard the same cry ring through the still eveiiing air, " Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" — at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giving a low grcwl, 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 tiie same direction, and perceived a Strang figure slowly toiliiii; up the rocks, and bending under the w.'ight 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 tliick 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 tlie load. Though ratiier shy and distrustful of this new awiuaintance. Rip complied with his usual alacrity, au'l 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 tlien heard long rolling peals, like uiatuut thunder, that seemed to BIP VAN WINKLE. 33 issue out of a deep ravine or rather cleft between lofty rocks, towHfd which their rugged path couducted. He paused for an instant, but supposiug it to be the muttering of one of those tnuisieut thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Tassing through the ravine, they came to a iiollow, 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 tiiiKs Kip and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of carvylng a keg of liquor up tliis wihl mountain, yet there was sometliing 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 tiie 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 hy 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 weatlier-beateu countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled slioes, with roses in them. Tlie whole gr()U[k reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the vil- lage parson, and wnich had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. Wliat seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that though tliese 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. Notliing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, wlienever 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 Btatu'^-like gaze, and such Btrange, uncouth, lack-lustre coun- tenances, that his heart turned within him, and bis kuees smote :;iiiJ li V>\ I \ ■i'li^v ?!> ! I 34 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 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, bis head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleep. On waking, he found himself ou 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 Kip, " 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 by 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 haviug 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 \\ RIP VAN WINKLE. 35 murmorB. 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 down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty 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 dififerent 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 1 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 larger 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 I' M^ i I' til ''J ,^ (3! IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) t^ 1.0 I.I 1.25 f 1^ IS 20 £ Ui 1.4 m 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WIBSTIR.N.Y. 14980 (716)872-4503 V ^ 66 I if' n THE SKETCH-BOOK. jely as it had always l>cen — Rip was every hill and dale precise 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. Ho found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the dcors off the hinges. A lialf-starved dojr. that looked like 'Wolf, was skulking about it. Hip called him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed ou. 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 hia 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 builds 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 tlie 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 smokec' so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. Tiie red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, k sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was decorated witli a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Veddei, with his broad face, double chin, aiid fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, iiistoMd of hUe speeches ; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient uewsoaner. In ulace of these, a lean bilious-looking tellow, wilh "i nieutly about gross — liluTt other words m wildered Van Tlie appea rusty fowling ;ui(l children t.ivern politic lu'iul to foot. him, and dra bo voted?" but bury littl tiptoe, inquin onit." Kip V whon a kiio cocked hat, i tx) the right a mg himself 1 other resting iiig, as it wer " what brong and a mob at Lhe village?" "Alas! g( a poor, quiet the King, Go Here a gen a tory ! a spj It was wit the cocked hs austerity of what he cauK mail humbly came tliere ir about the tav "Well — V Rip bethoi Nicholas Ved There was plied, in a tl dead and g( tomb-stone ii but that's rol / RIP VAN WTNKLt!. 87 tellow, v/illi iris pockets full of hamlltills, wns haranuninj; volio- ineutly uboiit ligiits of citizens — election — members of Con- gress — liberty — Hunker's hill — heroes of seventy-six — juul 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 (Mvern politicians. They crowded round him, eying him from lii'iid 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 bury little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or Demo- crit." Kip was eipially at a loss to coniprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through tlie crowd, jjutting them to the right and left with bis elljows :i;i lie passed, and i)lant- mg himself before Van Winkle, with one arm a-kimbo, the other resting on bis cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrat- ing, as it wen\ into bis v(>rv soul, demandi'd in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on bis shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in Ihe 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, Got! 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 witli great dilliculty that the self-important man in tlie cociked hat restored order ; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, wliat he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The })oor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely '•anie 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? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." i : \ i i |i ■, 1 'If 1 . f 1 ■■■ il • I '■ \-:-% filllllib ir i ^r- m 88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. " Where's Brom Dutcher? " " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point — others say he was drowned in 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 if these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himseif 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 »vent 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 tomebody else, got into ray 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 tvhat'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 suggestioi; of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At tliis critical moment a fresK comely woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at tlu gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, licgan to cry, " Hush, Rii)," cried she, " hush, you little fool ; tlie 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 ' " disked be. "Judith Gardenier." «' And your "Ah, poor ti years since he has been heart wliclhcr he sh iioliody can tel Uip'had i)ut faltering voice " W lure's } Oh. she toe blood-vessel ir Tliere was j Tlic honest mi his (laughter a died he — " Winkle now ! - All stood a among the cro it ill his face Hij) Van Win neighbor — W years?" Kip's story been to him Uiey heard it ; their tongues the cocked lir liie field, sen liis head — up throughout th It was detc; V'auderdonk, was a descent of the f'arlies ancient inhali wonderful ev '•eeoUccted Ri Batistaetory i fact, handed Kaatskill moi jugs. That the lirst disc' vigil there ev heiug peniiitt BIP VAN WINKLE. 39 ^« And your father's name? " " All, 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 wlictlier he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, iioliody <'a" toll. I was then but a little girl." Hip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice : '• Whi're's your mother? " Oh. shv. too had died but a short time since : she broke a blood-vessel in a lit of passion at a New-Kngland pedler. Tliere was a drop of comfort, at least, iu 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 Winivle now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle?" All stooil amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his f.ace for a moment, exclaimed, "Sure enough! it is Hip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, old neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Hip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had Ir'ou to him but as one nigiit. 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 lirt, 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 Vauderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of tiie "arliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most aiu'iinl inhabitant of tiie village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighborhood. He '•c'coUectcd Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most isatistactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains liad always been haunted by strange be- ings. That it was anirnied that tlie 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 enteX" i I IM miV s m 40 THE SKETC IT-BOOK. I .* prise, aud keep a guardian eye upon tlie 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 tuat 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 fanner 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 aud tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom he soon grew into great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, aud was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chron- icle of the (1 times "before the war." It was some limo before he coaid 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 tliere 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 TL'rd, he was now a free citizen of tlie United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but there wns one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, aud 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 aud out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, ho shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might pass eitlier 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 IMr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some pr' its 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 tnic I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the n('itrlil)orliood, but knew \t by heart. Some always pre- tciuled to (loiibt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his Ik'juI, 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 thuMdcr-storni of a summer afternoon about the Kaats- kill, but they say Ilendriek Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins : and it is a common wish of all henpecked liiishands in tiie neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hiuidrf, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's llagou. Not K. — The foregoing talc, one wonlrt sunpect, had been anggCRted to Mr. Knlcker* bockor by a little Oermaii fniporstition about the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart and tlie Kypphallscr mountain; the giibjoiiicd note, however, which he had appended to the talc, eliowH thnt it is an abHolutc fact, nai riitod with hlH uhubI fldciity. "The Hiory of Ki|> Van Winkle may Houin incredible to many, but nevertheless I give ii my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch setllements to have been very Kulijccl to nukrvcllouH events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger RliirirH than this, In the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenti- cated to iidnilt of a doubt. I have even talked with Kip Van Winkle myself, who, wbea jaxt 1 xaw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every nth t point, that I think no coiiMciontious |)erson could refuse to take th's into the liiiriraiii; nay, 1 have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country juRtlce, and t{<.'iM il with a cruHs, in the Justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the puHtiibiiity of doubt. ^ ExNuU.-Mi Uiaii-.ite O.S AMEUIUA. ' *Methlnk8l8eeln my mind aiuililo nnd pulsnnnt nation, ronnlnghermlf liko n etforiR man after sleep, and shaUing her invincible locks; mcthinks I see her as an eagle, mew- v.>: her mi(,'lily youth, mul kindling (i. r cndazzlud cyin ul tlii; full mid-day btain.' — Ul'LTOfi ON TIIE l-iniilirv «V TIIK I'UKSS. Ir is Willi fiH'rni«is (if deep regret that T observe the literary miinosity daily liiowing u}) between England and America, (irt'ut curiosity lias lu'i-n awakened of late with respect to the I'liilfil States'. :iii(l the London press has teemed with volumes of travels tliro'inli the Repultlic ; but they seem intended to dilTuse error rutlier than knowledge ; and so successful have lliev been, that, noLwillistaiidiiig the constant intercourse be- tween the natiims, then; is no people concerning whom the !j;reat mass of the British pulilii; have less pure information, oi entertain more uumcioub prejudices. .^ . — ^ II ■ 1 AuPeudix. Nota < t r '1 1 • 1 I i If i t i 42 TffJ SKETCH-BOOK. English travellers are the beat 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 th^ interior of India ; or of any other tract which other trav- elle' < ight be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fa^K'io'-. 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 ph^'osopher. That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America is 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- inesB 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 down into something substantially excellent. But the causes which a'-e 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- nation. Thej things; of th vate interests the snug con^ old, highly-fin the ranks of u and servile su tite and self-i all-important do not percei than counterb hlessingr. They may, sonable expcc America to tl abounded, an they were to 1 foreseen but indulges absu ment. Such finding that i he can reap ; contend with ncss of an in Perhaps, tl the prompt d prevalent am with unwonfc tomed all th( of good soci( ity, they becc attribute to underrate a and where 1: rise to consc( One would such sources be received \ motives of quiry and obi would be rij mitted, in su very reverse instance of ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 48 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-indulgenco. Those 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 hlessingr. They may, 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 correctl}', 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 iii. ) I. I'H 44 THE SKETCH-BOOK, ''> i it ^!- 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 ajwcry. 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 huge 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, pei- baps, of far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger originate in tl iNQLISE WRITERS ON AMERICA. 45 >ility and they n of ■y in hey ?r088 ng a our 4 and resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its growtli, and strengthen with its strength. If in Amer- ica, as some of her writers are laboring to oonvince hgr, she is hcrctvfter to find an invidious rival and a gigantic foe, she may tliank 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 in 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 ofifence. 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 docs 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 iiotliing i)ublished in England on the subject of our country, tliMt does not circulate through every part of it. There is not .! ''iiliiinny dropt from an fjiglish pen, nor an unworthy sarcasm ulU'ioiI by an English statesman, that does not go to l)li<;ht yood-will, and add to the mass of latent resentment. Possess- Injr then, as England does, the fountain-head whence the litera- \\trr of tlu' language flov/w, how coinplotely is it in her power, rrv' }'o\v truly is it her duty, to nia!c(> it the medium of r:,iiil;l'? and magnanimous feeling — a stream where the twc r Uions 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- ont friendship of America may be of but little moment to her ; hilt the future destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt : over those of England, there lower some shadows of nncer- tJiiiity. Should, then, a day of gloom arrive — should these lovorsps overtake her from which the proudest empires have not been exempt — she may look back with regret at her infatu- • i i 4G THE SKETCH-BOOK. bcr side a nation she ! I iii r ii k ation, in repulsing from bcr side a nation sue might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her only cliaiite for real friendship beyond the bouudariis of her own dominious, There is a general impression in P^nglaud, that the people of the United States are inimical to the parent country. It ia one of the errors which have been diligently propagated by desiguiii" writers. There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberalily of the P:ngli8h press ; but, <'cnerally speaking, the preposscosions 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 Engiishuian was a passport to the confidence and liospitality of every f.imily, and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the ungrateful. Throughout the country, there was sonuithing of enthusijism 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 numiimcnts 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 siudi thio))l)ings of warm consanguinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for kind feelings to si)riiig 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, an(l 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 tlie paternal roof, and lament the waywardness of the parent that would repel the afifections 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 have nious. pid of \h (1110 ij^iiiii- y, and l>iit, are they reo of to the save itoful. 8i;isin with a lul of 8 iind if the coun- -none • none warm e was it was , that •ks of ndred ?r? — which vc in- euled vc up 28t — back Q tiie t that ct of n on onipt itiga- iliatc ?:^ ^ Ul (5 < O o o u X o I- < X !i.. ■■:i(«1 i •• XNi ill I I it i i\> y f in kind, to retoi to be spreading ticuiarly against instead of redn viting as the rei and unprofitabl mind, fretied ini tion. If Englu trade, or the rai integrity of her ion, let us bewa est to diffuse en checking emigra Neitlier have we as yet, in ell oui the gaiuiL'5 part but the gratiliea tion ; and even lished iu Englin they foster a qu they sour the sv\ and brambles a circulate throui effect, excite vii most especially t by public opiuic the purity of tb is knowledge ; prejudice, wilful The members candid and disf the sovereign ra to come to all qi biassed judgmei with England, w and delicate cha tions that affect in the adjusting be determined I attentive to puri Opening too, portion of tlie It sliouhl be oi least, destitute ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 41 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, fretved into petulance, rather than warmed into indigna- tion. If P^ugluud is willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of poliiic-, 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 antijiathj, for the purpose of checking emigration ; we have no puri)ose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratif}' ; for as yet, in cU our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gainiL-T 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 temj)cr 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, a" :^, as far as they Lave efifect, 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 proi)agates 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, i)ortions 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 relatiouj with England, we must have more frequent (juestions 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 ultimatoly be determined by popuhir seiitiment. we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent passion or pre[)os.sessiou. Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangi-rs from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It sliould be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of uational autipathies, and exerciaing, not 48 THE SKETCH-BOOK. i !i il merely the overt acts of hospitality, bi.t those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. What have we to Oo 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 natioaal existence in an enlightened and philosophic pge, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family. have been indef atigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of oor 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 thr; English character. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples and models. In a great degree, from tl'.c existing na- tions 6f Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her constitution is must analogous to ours. The manners of her people — their intellec- tual activity — their freedom of opinion — their habits of tliiiik- mg on those subjects which concorn the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character; and, in fact, are all inliinsicall}^ exi'ol- lent : for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the doop foundations of British prosperity rre laid ; and howcvor tlio superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, und stable in the structure of an edifice that so long has tow- ered unshaken f midst the tempests of the world. Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding i<,ll feelings of irritation and disdaining to retaliate the illihcral- ity of British authors, to speak of the f^nglish nation without prejudice, and with determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry wit'.i which Sv^me of our countrynion admire and imitate every thing English, merely because it is English, let them frankly point out wliat is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before us as a per- petual volume of reference, wliereiii are recorded sound deduc- tions from ages of experience; and wh'n we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crei)t into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewitli to strengthen and to embelliah our national character. i » The strange lish character, olis. He musi villages and ha cottages ; he n bedgi'S and gre attend wakes with the peopl humors. In some coi fashion of the and iutelligent entirely by boc th-i meti opolis of the pol'te ( year to a iiUrr this kind of c genial habits > therefore ditYu the mo.st retire rarks. The Eiiglisl ing. Th.'v po tare, anc^ a k( the country, inhabitants of and l)ustling 5 2vinee .i tact 1 retreat iU tlie plays as niueli garden, and tl of his businei Even those le their lives in t thing thut sha tlie most chir room window RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 49 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh! fricDdly to the best pursuUs of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, Domestic life iu rural pleasuruH past! — Cowper. The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- lish cbtiiacter, must not confine his observations to the metrop- olis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn ia villtiges and hamlets ; lio must visit castles, villas, fa^m-houses, cotlagt's ; he must wuiider thri)ugh parks and gardens ; along hedgi's and green lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attoiul Wilkes and fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the people iu 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, th'j luetiopolis is a mere gathering place, or genera' rendezvoua, of the pobte classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a i.uri'y of gayety and dissipation, and having indulged this kind of carnival, I'eturn again to the apparently more con- genial hn'oits of rural life. The various orders of society are theiet'oifi ditYused ovi" the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neig'.borhoods afford specimens of the different rarks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel- hig. Tli jy possess a quick seiisibility to the beauties of na- ture, ant^ a keen relish for the pleasures r.nd employments of the counti'y. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhal)ilants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and hustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and 3viiK'e .1 tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat lU the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often dis- plays as much {)ride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower- garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct ()f his business, and the success of a commercial entei'prise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and tiaffic, contrive to have some- thing thut shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In tlie most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing- room window icseiubles frequently a bank of flowers; every so THE SKETCH-BOOK. If Bpot capable of vegetation lias 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. Ho Las, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wlicrever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he ir 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 tlie 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 briclly 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 hreaiis 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 tlie conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratifit-ation, 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 oue to partake according to his inclination. The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They havo studied Nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Thos charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild soli- tudes, are here assembled round t'^e haunts of domestic life. They seem lo have caught her coy and furtive graces, an