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 r '1 ;, 
 
 ■ ■:: t 
 
 i 
 
 32X 
 
 1 
 
 2 
 
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 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
1 
 
^'n «■. 
 
 THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORKS 
 
 OP 
 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING 
 
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 I'HIATKU IIV CASIUin, 
 12. nilK nn l„\ VIKILLK-MONNMi:. 
 
 I'D ALSO nv AMY 
 
 JiLi: ni 
 
THE 
 
 COMPLETE WORRS 
 
 or 
 
 ASHINGTON IRVING 
 
 IN ONE VOLUME, 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PARIS, 
 UAUDRY's EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 
 
 HUB DU CUQ, riE4B TUR LOUVBE. 
 
 kl.l) ALSO BV AMVOT, nUE DK L.\ PAIX; TRUrilV, BOULEVAHD DES ITAIJENS; TIIIJOPIIILE HARIIUIS, JIIN. , 
 nti; RICIIKLIEU; LIURAIHIE DKS lilRANGERS, SS, RUE NEIIVE-SAINT-AtlGUSTIN; 
 AND I'RKNUII AMI ENULISII LIBRARV, RUE VIVIBNNK; 
 NKilSMOiVn SCHNERBEH, FRANCIEORT ON MKIN. 
 
 1834. 
 
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 28813 
 
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 l^K. 
 
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 It has long; 
 
 ) underrate, 
 
 overlook Ame 
 
 asserted that I 
 
 Ijii'ccted to Avli 
 
 lo fine writing. 
 
 kvould gladly r 
 
 ■cry of Englan^ 
 
 poetry, romai 
 
 They wanted ti 
 
 able to the dev 
 
 nation. Inane 
 
 of the means ( 
 
 It he care of all. 
 
 Jsiiit of wealth i 
 
 ^vill long conti 
 
 Thus, in Amci 
 
 Justry, politics 
 
 |he business s 
 
 |lhe attention c 
 
 and the best \ 
 
 ^ime alone whi( 
 
 tiistinct class o 
 
 putalion of a n 
 
 [»f English Rev 
 
 With Mr \) 
 last was born i 
 \inte Agamemn 
 Authors before 
 ^istice Marshal 
 |jut Mr Irving 
 Df his powers, 1 
 ilom and priviie 
 
 His works d 
 
 terature, and 
 
 fulness of time 
 
 pf futurity. A 
 
 Americans rath 
 
 Ivith those who 
 
MEMOIR 
 
 OP 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 It has long been a fashion for English critics 
 !o undcrrale, or, more properly speaking, to 
 overlook American writers. It was repeatedly 
 [issertcd that the genius of America was rather 
 llirccted to what is useful and mechanical, than 
 io fine writing. The citizens of the United States 
 kyould gladly rival the broad-cloths and the cut- 
 lery of England, but were content to import her 
 [)oetry, romance, philosophy, and criticism, 
 fl'hey wanted the political circumstances favour- 
 jble to the developcmentof the literary taste of a 
 lalion. In a newly-peopled country the provision 
 jf the means of living must, for some time, be 
 i\\e care of all. After these are secured, the pur- 
 suit of wealth and the accumulation of property 
 kill long continue to be the favourite objects. 
 Thus, in America, agriculture, commerce, in- 
 lustiT, politics, — concerns which come home to 
 Ihe business and bosoms of men, — engrossed 
 pc attention of all, employing the best hands 
 and the best heads, and it was the fulness of 
 kinie alone which '^ould bring into existence that 
 [iislinct class of men who form the literary re- 
 lutalion of a nation. Such was the critical canl 
 f)f English Reviews about America. 
 
 With Mr Washington Irving, a painter at 
 last Avas born among the lions, Vixerc fortes 
 ^tntc Agamemnona, there were many American 
 Juthors before Mr Irving, such as Joel Barlow, 
 bistice Marshall, and Brockdcn Brown, etc., etc., 
 jjut Mr Irving is the first who, by the evidence 
 )( his powers, has been admitted to the full free- 
 Jom and privileges of the English literary guild. 
 
 His works did open a new era to American 
 litei'aturc, and his countrymen owe to him this 
 [Illness of time which was hitherto in the shades 
 [jf futurity. At last English critics give to the 
 Imericans rather fair play, and deal more justly 
 Ivitli those who venture upon the perilous life of 
 
 authorship. It is now acknowledged among the 
 reviewers of Edinburgh and London that a tran&- 
 atlantic book may be good of its kind, full of 
 imagination, and embellished with a delicacy of 
 feeling, and a refinement of taste that do not so 
 often belong, perhaps, to the contemporary lite- 
 rature of Britain. 
 
 Mr Washington Irving is the youngest son 
 of a gentleman of Scottish birth, who married 
 an English lady and settled in the city of New 
 York, where he exercised the profession of a 
 merchant, and enjoyed the respect and esteem 
 of his contemporaries for his unblemished in- 
 tegrity and unassuming worth. Being the 
 youngest of a numerous family, and his father 
 being entirely occupied in commerce, the care 
 of his education devolved upon his mother and 
 his elder brothers. Some of the latter had 
 already distinguished themselves for their lite- 
 rary taste and ability as writers, while their 
 younger brother was yet a r- ;.J. In their so- 
 ciety he began, at an early p«. ; i, the practice 
 of composition, and may be ainiost said to have 
 commenced his education where others are ac- 
 customed to finish it. We have been informed, 
 that he manifested in his youth a meditative and 
 almost melancholy disposition ; not, however, 
 without occasional and brilliant flashes of the 
 humour that is the distinctive character of his 
 most successful compositions. This disposition 
 did not prevent him from entering with spirit 
 into many of the pranks of his comrades, or even 
 from becoming the plotter and ringleader in 
 many a scheme.of merry mischief. 
 
 He was accustomed to read the best English 
 authors at an early age, and was led, partly 
 by accident, partly by taste, to the perusal of 
 Chaucer and Spenser, and others of the more 
 ancient writers, both in verse and prose : so that 
 
 8 
 
vi 
 
 M£MOIR 
 
 #■ 
 
 ^i 
 
 his mind became imbued with similar ideas, and 
 the peculiar style '^y which he has been disliu- 
 {juished, was unconsciously formed. 
 
 It may be here observed, that his disposition 
 in youth as in manhood, has always been amia- 
 ble and affectionate, and his manners so frank, 
 simple, and eoffkfiim, as to render his acquaint- 
 ances, friends. His own conduct has always been 
 upright and examplary, but he has ever been le- 
 nient and indulgent towaixis the errors of others. 
 The youth of the city of New York were then 
 a happy race. Their place of residence had not 
 yet assumed its metropolitan character, and the 
 freedom and ease of almost rural life, were 
 blended with the growing refinements of an in- 
 creasing population. The advantageous position 
 of its port made wealth flow rapidly into its mer- 
 chants' coffers, and the natives of other parts of 
 the country had not yet begun to colonise it, 
 and compete for a share of its growing riches. 
 The elder members of the community, seeing 
 their property increasing almost without know- 
 ing why, had not yet perceived the necessity of 
 drilling their children to habits of early labour 
 and premature prudence. The gambling spirit 
 that characterized one era of the commercial 
 history of New York, had not yet made its ap- 
 pearance ; nor had that ardent competition, that 
 steels the heart against all but selfish feelings, 
 been awakened. That system of instruction, 
 >vhich confines children for si\ hours a day in 
 almost listless inactivity in a school-room, and 
 then dismisses them, to pursue their labours un- 
 assisted for even a longer time, was not yet in- 
 ~ vented. Schoolmasters yet thought it their duly 
 to instruct ; and when their unruly subjects were 
 emancipated from direct control, they had no 
 other thought but to spend the rest of the day 
 in active sport, and the night in slumbers, undis- 
 turbed by the dread of the morrow's task. 
 
 For the enjoyment of these vacant hours, the 
 vicinity of New York then offered the most in- 
 viting opportunities. A few minutes' walk brought 
 the youth of the city into open and extensive pas- 
 tures, diversified by wood and sheets of trans- 
 parent water; on either hand flowed noble 
 rivers, whose quiet waters invited even the most ti- 
 mid to acquire "the noblest exercise of strength;" 
 when winter made such recreations impracti- 
 cable, sheets of smooth and glittering ice spread 
 themselves out to tempt the skater, and the youth 
 of le Manhattoes rivalled, if not excelled, the 
 glories of their Dutch father-land, in the speed 
 and activity with which they glided over the 
 glassy surface. 
 
 It may be the partial recollection of our in- 
 fancy, but it is not less the firm conviction of our 
 minds, that in all our wanderings, we have seen 
 no city, with the exception of the " Queen of the 
 North," whose environs possessed natural beau- 
 tics equal to those of New York. These beauties 
 have now vanished — paved streets and piles of 
 tasteless brick have covered the grassy slopes 
 and verdant meadows ; the lofty hills have been 
 appUcd to the ignoble purpose oi' filling up the 
 neij'hbouring lakes. Nor should we complain 
 of these changes, but consider the prosperity, of 
 which they arc an evidence, as more than e(iul- 
 valent to the destruction of wild and rural beauty, 
 in those places where a crowded population has 
 actually found its abode ; but we cannot tolerate 
 that barbarism that makes beauty consist in 
 straight lines and right angles, cuts our whole 
 island into oblong squares, and considers that 
 to convert the fertile surface into a barren and 
 sandy waste is the only fit preparation for an 
 increasing city. The blossomed orchards of| 
 Bayard and Delancey have given place to snuj; 
 brick houses, the sylvan deities have fled the 
 groves of Peters' field and Rose hill, and we can 
 rejoice ; but why should the flowery vales ufl 
 Bloomendahl be cut up by streets and avenues? 
 Nor has the spirit of devastation stopped here, 
 but has invaded the whole neighbourhood, until 
 the antres and cKffs of Hoboken have given place! 
 to a rail-road. 
 
 The early fancies of Mr Irving were deeply 
 impressed with the beauty of the natural scenery 
 of the island of Manhattan. These impressionsl 
 have given birth to many and choice passages ii 
 his various works. But, aware that such ro 
 mantic fancies might come with an ill grace fronii 
 one hackneyed in the ways of our commercial andj 
 prosaic city, he has given being to a personage, 
 in whose mouth they become the utterance ol 
 patriotic virtue. 
 
 New York, at that time, presented the sin 
 gular spectacle of races distinct in origin, cbO' 
 racter, and temper, struggling, as it were, foi{ 
 ascendancy ; and although the struggle finall 
 terminated happily, in the utter confusion of al 
 such distinctions, and the formation of a single 
 civic character, it was not the less apparent. 
 Wasted, too, as was the anger and anxiety the 
 struggle occasioned upon the most petty objects, 
 it presented, to a mind highly sensible to the 
 ludicrous, most amusing matter of contempla- 
 tion. First and most marked, were to be seen 
 the descendants of the original settlers from 
 Holland, letaining, in their own separate inter 
 
 course, the 
 tors, indulg 
 quered peo] 
 rated and tf 
 nature. Th( 
 French prot 
 by the revoc 
 tempered Di 
 of French vi 
 try and caval 
 tilio, who ha 
 was transfor 
 province, am 
 brother the 1 
 marked, the 
 his intelligen( 
 to enter into 
 has ended in i 
 tronymic nan 
 which businc: 
 rior energy a 
 the Dutch wei 
 for the loss ol 
 posed, by ou 
 and inward fe 
 I^st, and leas 
 distinguished 
 ence, was to 
 were shrewd, 
 mixed with tli 
 my much hos| 
 less conviviaU 
 to the contemi 
 in his father a 
 have not strut 
 lineation, or li 
 lo attempt it. 
 however, evid 
 relief the peci 
 Mr Irving 
 manhood whc 
 with a pulmoi 
 which, it was 
 should visit ih 
 embarked in a 
 proceeded leii 
 Leghorn, and 
 was restored 
 when he reac 
 and after a t 
 short delay a 
 and made a jo 
 land lo Franc 
 Paris, frequen 
 ble iiisiiiution 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 VII 
 
 ion of our in- 
 iviction of our 
 , we have seen 
 ' Queen of ihe 
 I natural beau- 
 Ihese beauties 
 is and piles of 
 ! grassy slopes 
 hills have been 
 ■ tilling up the 
 d we complain 
 ; prosperity, ol 
 lore than equi- 
 id rural beauty, 
 population has 
 cannot tolerate 
 luty consist in 
 cuts our whole 
 [ considers that 
 to a barron and 
 paration for an 
 ed orchards of 
 n place to snuj; 
 !s have fled tht- 
 hill, and we can 
 lowery vales of 
 ts and avenues? 
 n stopped here, 
 ibourhood, until 
 have given place 
 
 NG were deeplj 
 natural scenery 
 
 lese impressions 
 
 loice passages in 
 that such ro 
 
 an ill grace fron 
 commercial and 
 to a personage 
 
 Lhe utterance 
 
 ;sented the sin 
 t in origin, cha 
 
 as it were, foi 
 struggle finall 
 confusion of at 
 ation of a singlej 
 
 less apparent 
 and anxiety the 
 ist petty objects,] 
 
 sensible to tht 
 r of contempla 
 were to be seen 
 il settlers from 
 
 separate inter- 
 
 course, the language and habits of their ances- 
 tors, indulging the hereditary grudge of a con- 
 quered people to its subduers, although mod'v 
 rated and tempered by native kindness and goud 
 nature. These were amalgainatcd with a crowd of 
 French protesiants, l)anishcd from their country 
 by the revocation of the Edict of Names, who 
 tempered Dutch phlegm with the sprightliness 
 of French vivacity. Then came the English gen- 
 try and cavaliers, with pride, and stale, and punc- 
 tilio, who had emigrated when the Dutch colony 
 was transformed by conquest into an English 
 province, and Ijcstowed by Charles H upon his 
 brother the Duke of York. Next was to be re- 
 marked, the New Englander, distinguished by 
 his intelligence and activity, and just beginning 
 to enter into that rivalry with the Batavian, that 
 lias ended in a disappearance, almost total, of pa- 
 tronymic names of the latter from the streets in 
 which business is transacted. Before the supe- 
 rior energy and restless enterprise of this race, 
 the Dutch were beginning to quail, and retaliated 
 for the loss of business, to which they were ex- 
 posed, by outward expressions of contempt, 
 and inward feelings of dread and apprehension. 
 Last, and least numerous, but at the time most 
 distinguished for wealth and mei'cantile influ- 
 ence, M'as to be seen a clan of Scots. These 
 were shrewd, calculating, and enterprising ; but 
 mixed with their habits of business and econo- 
 my much hospitality, and unchecked, but barm- 
 less conviviaUly. Accustomed from his infancy 
 to the contemplation of the character of this race 
 in his father and his associates, its peculiarities 
 have not struck Mr Irving as an object for de- 
 lineation, or filial reverence has forbidden him 
 to attempt it. Its habits and manners have, 
 however, evidently served to bring out in higher 
 relief the peculiarities of the other races. 
 
 Mr Irving had hardly reached the age of 
 manhood when he appeared to be threatened 
 with a pulmonary affection, as a preventive of 
 which, it was considered expedient that he 
 should visit the south of Europe. He therefore 
 embarked in a vessel for Bourdeaux, whence he 
 proceeded leisurely by Nice, and Genoa, and 
 Leghorn, and Florence, to Rome. His bealtli 
 was restored in the course of his travels, and 
 when be reached Naples he crossed to Sicily, 
 and after a tour through that island, and a 
 short delay at Palermo, returned to Naples, 
 and made a journey through Italy and Switzer- 
 land to France. He resided several months in 
 Paris, frequenting its noble libraries and admira- 
 ble institutions, and then journeyed through 
 
 Flanders and Holland, making some delay in the 
 principal places, travelling occasionally on the 
 canals in treckschuyts, and regarding, with cu- 
 rious satisfaction, that amphibious country from 
 which the old Dutch burgliers of his native city 
 had derived their origin, and drawn their usages 
 and habits. From Holland be crossed over with 
 a Dutch skipper to the mouth of the Thames, 
 and ascended that river to London. 
 
 Here the curtain dropped, the melo-drame 
 was over. Frenchman, Italian, and Dutchman, 
 no longer passed before him in their variety of 
 costume and dialect* He found himself among 
 a busy crowd bearing the same physiognomy, 
 wearing the same attire, and speaking the same 
 language to which he had been accustomed all his 
 life. But it was the land of his fathers, and the 
 country with whose history his most interesting 
 studies and dearest recollections were associated. 
 
 This voyage, undertaken with far different 
 views than those which now usually direct the 
 travels of young Americans, was also wholly 
 different in its course, and in the impressions 
 it was likely to produce. Instead of a gradual 
 preparation for the views of tlie old world, by 
 a passage through countries connected by tics 
 of blood and language, or familiar to him in 
 consequence of an active and frequent com- 
 merce, he was transported, as if in a moment, 
 to lands where, in direct contrast to the conti- 
 nual strides bis own country is making, every 
 thing is torpid, and even retrograde; lands in 
 which the objects of interest are rather the 
 glories of by-gone ages, than any thing that 
 the present era can exhibit. His views of 
 Sicily exhibited the gigantic ruins of Agri- 
 gentum, the remains of a polished, wealthy, and 
 numerous people, buried in a desert waste, and 
 surrounded only by comparative barbarism and 
 poverty. No change of scene more abrupt can 
 well be imagined, and none more likely to ex- 
 cite the inuid of youthful genius. For the 
 guide books and tours of modern travellers, that 
 are the usual manuals of a tourist, it became 
 necessary to substitute the writings of the an- 
 cients. These would be most favourably studied 
 upon the very spots where they were written, or 
 of which they treat, and even when consulted in 
 a mere translation, cannot fail to improve and 
 refine the taste. In the line scenery of Calabria, 
 he recognised the studies of Salvator Rosa, and 
 in his progress through Italy, luxuriated in the 
 treasures of ancient and modern art, then al- 
 most a sealed book to his countrymen. 
 Before his departure for Europe he had made 
 
VUl 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 V 
 
 I 
 
 his first literary essays, in a newspaper of which 
 his brother, Dr. P. Irvin{;, was editor. There 
 is little doubt that these were not a few in num- 
 ber, but none can now be identified, except the 
 series of letters under the si{i^ature of Jonathan 
 Oldstyle. These were collected, as a matter of 
 bookselling speculation, after the literary repu- 
 tation of their author was established, and pub- 
 lished, although without his sanction. There is 
 a touch of the futui-e writer of the Sketch Book 
 in these juvenile papers : a touch of that happy, 
 sly humour, tliat grave pleasantry (wherein he 
 resembles Goldsmith so much) ; that quiet, 
 shrewd, good-humoured sense of the ridiculous, 
 which constitutes one of the chief excellencies of 
 Geoffrey Crayon, and sets him apart from every 
 English writer of the Georgian age. 
 
 The visit to Europe occupied about two years, 
 as he paused in every place of importance or in- 
 terest, and tlie return of Mr Ikving to America 
 iwas speedily followed by the appearance of the 
 first number of "Salmagundi." Those who recur 
 to this spri{j;htly work at the present day, cannot 
 enter into the feelings with which it was received 
 at the epoch at which it was published. They 
 will, indeed, see that it is not unworthy of the 
 reputation afterwards attained by those, who 
 have admitted themselves to have been its au- 
 thors. But the exact and skilful adaptation of 
 its delicate and witty allusions to the peculiar 
 circumstances of the times, the rich humour 
 with which prevailing follies were held up to 
 ridicule, and, above all, the exquisite good na- 
 ture of the satire, that made it almost an honour 
 to have been its object, rendered Sahnagundi the 
 most popular work that had ever issued from 
 the American press. Until it made its appear- 
 ance, our literary efforts had been almost wholly 
 confined to serious discussions upon general 
 and local politics ; if a few works of fancy had 
 been produced, the age was not ripe for their 
 reception, and, as in the case of Brown, they 
 procured foi* their authors no more than a post- 
 humous fame. The well-founded belief, that 
 Mr Irving had been the principal writer in Sal- 
 magundi, placed him, at once, first in tite list of 
 the living authors of America. Mr James K. 
 Paulding, his intimate friend, was his associate 
 in this work, and it has been suggested that the 
 papers of Paulding are more sarcastic and bitter 
 than those of Irving. It is undei-stood, however, 
 that their respective articles were freely sub- 
 mitted to each other for alteration, and the 
 charge of bitterness cannot be fairly attributed 
 to any of them. 
 
 Mr James K. Paulding was born in the vil- 
 lage of Grecnsburgh, on the banks of the Hud- 
 son, where he passed his boyhood chiefly in I 
 country sports and occupations, in the midst of | 
 beautiful forest and river scenei-y. Much of his I 
 time was spent at the farm of a kinsman of ec-l 
 centric character, whom he has purlrayed wilhl 
 mellow tints, as Mij Uncle John, in No. XI ofl 
 Salmagundi. His mind was rich in originall 
 ideas, and stored with rural imagery, and liisi 
 thoughts flowed with grace and beauty and racyl 
 humour from his pen. 
 
 Among the characters of Salmagundi, there isl 
 one of a fellow whoso name is Tom StraiUUeA 
 an Englishman, a fair specimen of those EnglislJ 
 tourists, who, if they ever were really admiltcdl 
 in a New York drawing-room, seem to havel 
 foully abused the privilege. Some years ago, al 
 man who was prosecuted in Jamaica for a libcl-F 
 lous publication, produced a volume of Salma-I 
 gundi on his trial. This publication, it ap-j 
 peared, had been copied literally, word for woixi, I 
 from the chaiaclcr of Tom Straddle, printed,! 
 sold, sent abroad mischievously enough, to be| 
 sure, while one of those English travellers whon 
 Irving had so delightfully hit off, was in Jamaia| 
 exploring and astonishing the natives. This 
 fact, alone, proves the truth of resemblance. 
 
 The next literary production of Mr IrvingI 
 was "The History of New York, by DiedrichI 
 Knickerbocker." The idea of this humorousj 
 work appears to have been suggested to him byl 
 the establishment of a historical society in Newl 
 York, and the announcement, that one of ilsT 
 members was about to compile from its collec-l 
 tlons a history of the early periods of our colo-j 
 nial existence. Identifying himself, in imagil 
 nation, with a descendant of the original Dulclij 
 selders, he adopted, in his fictitious charactci| 
 all the feelings and prejudices that might well ' 
 supposed to be inherent in that race, with an aiij 
 of gravity and veiisimilitude that is well caU 
 culated to mislead a reader not previously 
 aware of the deception. The public was pr( 
 pared for the reception of the work by advepl 
 tisements, ingeniously planned and worded, inl 
 which the supposed landlord of the imaginaryf 
 author expressed his anxiety for the safely ofl 
 his guest, until it might fairly have been believcdl 
 that the veracious historian had actually disa|>| 
 peared from his lodgings. So perfect was ihel 
 deception, that many commenced the work inl 
 fuUbelief of its being serious, and gravely toiiedl 
 through many of its pages before the wit, and anl 
 interest too intense to be created by so trivial al 
 
 '''IF* 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 h. 
 
 lubject as the annals of a little Dutcli borough, 
 
 wd<«?ived them. The author freciuenlly de- 
 
 |{;hle<J himself, and we arc sure must still recur* 
 
 Vilh pleasure, to the anecdote of an aged and 
 
 nost respectable clergyman, who, taking up the 
 
 |»ork, without referrinj; to its title page or in- 
 
 roduction, read many of its chapters in the full 
 
 elief that it was the production of a clerical 
 
 [iroiher, who had promised a histor'y of the 
 
 ame period, and was only gradually aroused to 
 
 suspicion of his mistake, by the continued va- 
 
 fialion of the style from grave and solemn irony, 
 
 llirough lively wit and poignant humour, until it 
 
 lairly bordered on the ludicrous. Such is the 
 
 Character of this veracious history, the mask is 
 
 Ivorn at first with the greatest gravity, yet in 
 
 Vich a manner as to give effect to the keenest 
 
 jind most poignant satire, while as soon as it 
 
 lines impossible for the reader to credit that 
 
 is other than a work of fancy, the author gives 
 
 ill play to his imagination, and riots in an excess 
 
 (f delicate wit and playful humour. 
 
 The object of the author was to take a ludi- 
 
 Irous view of the society around him, and give a 
 
 lood-humoured satire on the foibles of his native 
 
 lily. The Burgomasters and Schepens were the 
 
 lldurmen and assistant-aldermen of the present 
 
 lay. The absurdities held up to ridicule were 
 
 |ic follies of th(i presi^nt day ; and both were 
 
 nercty arrayed in the antiquated garb that ap- 
 
 ertained to the era of the Dutch dynasty. It 
 
 nay be regarded as a spoilive jeu d'esprit ; but 
 
 had also a moral tendency to correct and to 
 
 eform. 
 
 Yet are not these the sole merits of the work : 
 [ is occasionally tender, and even pathetic ; often 
 eplete with lively pictures, woithy, when of dia- 
 meter and costume, of the pencil of a Teniers ; 
 [hen of scenery, of that of Claude. In addition, 
 lie style is the purest idiomatic English that had 
 een written for many a year, and carries us 
 ack to the glories of an Augustan age. It is 
 marked contrast, not only with the barbarisms 
 the American writers of his day, but with 
 ^e corruptions of the pure fount that their En- 
 lish critics are themselves guilty of. This 
 [race and purity of style is also to be re- 
 narked in all the subsequent writings of Mr 
 itviNG ; but his Knickerbocker possesses, in ad- 
 lition, more of nerve and force than they in ge- 
 leral do. Its language is either tliat in which 
 ps thoughts spontaneously flowed, or, if elabo- 
 ated, ex hibits that perfection of art whieh hides 
 lie means by which the effect is produced . Tlis 
 jiher works do not always conceal the labour by 
 
 which the polish has been attained, and the 
 very grace and smoothness of the periods, some- 
 times seems to call for a relief to the ear, like 
 that which skilful musicians sometimes apply, in 
 the form of an occasional discord. 
 
 Were we, however, to be asked where we are 
 to find the prose language of England in a 
 high degree of perfection, we think we might 
 safely point to the works of Mr Irving : these 
 are composted in a style combining the grace and 
 delicacy of Addison, with the humour and pathos 
 of Goldsmith ; more idiomatic than that of the 
 writers of the Scottish school ; and, while it takes 
 advantage of the engrafiation of words of Latin 
 and Grecian origin upon the Anglo-Saxon, it is 
 far removed from the learned affectation of 
 Johnson. 
 
 The hours in which the papers of Salmagundi 
 were composed, and the History of the New 
 Netherlands compiled, were stolen from the dry 
 study of the law. To this, Mr Irving seemed 
 for a time to be condemned, and in spite of the 
 gravity with which, as in the case of Murray, 
 the heads of judges were shaken at him as a 
 wit, he persevered in it, and obtained his license 
 to practice. It is even said, that he opened an 
 office, and that his name was seen painted on a 
 sign, with the adjunct "Attorney at Law." 
 But it was not predestined that Mr. Irvikg should 
 merge these grave doubts in the honours of the 
 woolsack. A client was indeed found hardy 
 enough to trust his cause to the young barrister, 
 but an oppressive feeling of difKdence caused 
 him to shrink from trying it, and it was gladly 
 abandoned to a brother lawyer of far less talent, 
 but who possessed a more happy degree of con- 
 fidence in his own forensic abilitios. This diffi- 
 dence literary success has converted into an 
 innate and unaffected modesty, that adds not a 
 little to Mr Irving's agreeajjle qualities, and 
 which is rare in a person possessed of so high a 
 reputation as he enjoys. 
 
 The lilerai-y pursuits of Mr Irving were in- 
 terrupted for several years after the publication 
 of Knickerbocker. During this interval, he was 
 admitted by his brothers into a commercial es- 
 tablishment, that they were then successfully 
 carrying on, and in which, it appeared, he might 
 be more profitably engaged than as an author. 
 The business of this mercantile house being in- 
 terrupted by the war with Great Britain, Mr 
 Irving was left free to share in the general mili- 
 tary spirit that the capture of Washington, and 
 the threatenings of the enemy to attack New 
 York, awakened in all classes of the community. 
 
 |i 
 
 U 
 
 
 M 
 
ft 
 
 M£MOIR 
 
 His services were tendered to Governor Tomp- 
 kins, then commanding the district of New 
 York, and he was received into his staff as an 
 aid-de-camp. In this employment he was long 
 enffiged, and performed its duties with great 
 r.c&\, not only in the immediate vicinity of his 
 native city, but in several missions of importance 
 to the interior of the state. The pen of Mr Ir- 
 ving was applied to, at the same time, for a na- 
 tional undertaking. The war with England was 
 popular and glorious. The legitimate pride of 
 the people was up ; when Hull look the Guerriere 
 and broke the charm of the English ihvincibiUty 
 on sea, the whole country broke out into accla- 
 mation. They loaded him with honours, and 
 the consequence was natural. The commanders 
 of the American navy adventured every where 
 with a patriotic ardour, and an irresistible 
 bravery. Battle after battle was fought, victory 
 after victory followed. Many American heroes 
 wanted now but their Pericles to tell their glory. 
 Mr. luviNG was the man. The Analytical Ma- 
 gazine published a biography of the American 
 naval captains in a series of monthly papers by 
 our author. These papers arc eloquent, simple, 
 clear, and beautiful. 
 
 The peace put an end both to the military and 
 literary duties of Mr. Irving, and he returned to 
 his commercial pursuits, in the furlheiancc of 
 which, he visited England in the spring of I8I0, 
 taking up his abode at Bi'mingham. 
 
 His previous visit to t^nj^land had been made 
 in winter, and he had made no other excur- 
 sion but in the mail from London to Bath, at a 
 season when the shortness of the day gave but 
 little opportuni'y to view the country. The 
 peculiar beauties of English scenery, therefore, 
 broke upon him with unexpected brilliancy. 
 Birmingham, if it have in itself little to interest, 
 except its rich and prosperous manufactures, is 
 situated in a district of no little rural beauty ; 
 and wiUiin a few hours ride, are to be found 
 some of the sites that recall the most exciting 
 passages of English History, or awaken the most 
 pleasing literary recollections. Kcnilworth and 
 Warwick exhibit, the one the most splendid re- 
 mains of baronial grandeur, the othei- the only 
 perfect specimen of tl'c feudal castle ; Slratford- 
 on-the-Avon slill possesses the house in which 
 Shakspeare drew his Hrst breath, and the pic- 
 turesque Gothic church, in which his remains 
 repose safely, under the protL>ction of his poetic 
 malediction : the Lucics still inhabit the manor 
 house, from whose park the deer was stolen 
 that fixed the course of the great Uraiiiatist's 
 
 existence. In every direction, episcopal ciiicij 
 raised high the turrets of their venerable minj 
 sters, and spread abroad their shadowy cloistersJ 
 while hedge-row, and mead, and cultured fieldj 
 spoke of the successful toils of a rural life, moid 
 inviting, perhaps, to the romantic fancy, than 
 agreeablo ;o those who are compelled to pursiiJ 
 them. To one who had already celebrated tliJ 
 restless enterprise of the swarms of the Nc\l 
 England hive, wiio spread likf locusts over tli(| 
 wilderness, destroying every tree, and layinJ 
 waste every germ of natural beauty, Ihe caliij 
 contrast afforded by the farmers of England! 
 generations of whom are born in the same col j 
 tage, and entombed beneath the same yews, waij 
 a subject of agreeable study. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Birmingha Jid nul 
 long delay him, but served to excite iiis desirij 
 to see more of England. He, theref\..'e, in tli<J 
 summer that followed his arrival, joined afrienl 
 in a tour through the valley of the Severn, GlouJ 
 ceslersliire, and Wales. The Jetters addressed 
 by liini at this period to his American frienditi 
 would, if published, form the ino.<' .ntorestiiijl 
 portions of his works, and exhibit, with greaiei 
 freshness, descriptions of scenery and charactorj 
 like the rich pictures that he afterwirds eiii'| 
 bodi(Ml in the Sketch Book and P acebridj; 
 Hall. 
 
 Mr Irving's literary career mig 
 been considered at an end ; his cor 
 nociions appeai'cd to promise bin- 
 than commensurate with his v 
 unhappy revolution in the 
 
 have no\J 
 nercial cuiiJ 
 vcallh, moij 
 iies. But tliJ 
 .siness of New 
 
 York, that followed the ime> iipled proHts witlj 
 which the (irst importation.' ,cve attended, pru 
 strated the mercantile house- ith which he wa 
 connected, along with many of the most ivj 
 spectable, and even opulent merchants of lli( 
 United States. This blow, however painful 
 the time, had the happy effect of restoring hid 
 to the world of literature. He prepared liJ 
 "Sketch Book," and took measures to have itsil 
 multaneously published in London andAmericJ 
 Its success was complete. His own countrymcf 
 hailed with joy the renewal of the exertions ii 
 which they had b(!fore delighted, and the EnjJ 
 lish nation joined to applaud the author, wliuj 
 without abandoning his just national pride, wi 
 yet sensible to those feelings in whicli EnglislJ 
 men glory, and exhibited the honest exultaiioi 
 of a descendant in the honours of the mi{;liij 
 names that have embellished the liituary annall 
 of Great Briiain. 
 I'ho Sketch Book was admired, and its auiliui 
 
 i.ii 
 
*y 
 
 OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 ^ 
 
 XI 
 
 same yews, waJ 
 
 [\, and its aiiiiiJ 
 
 >ught for ; the aristocratic ciixles of the British 
 
 Metropolis received with open arms the trans- 
 
 llantic writer; and names of no small note in 
 
 kodern literature did not disdain to be ranked 
 
 I the list of his imitators. He may justly pride 
 
 limself on having pointed out a new track to a 
 
 lost of aspirants, and to have, himself, sur- 
 
 asscd all who followed him in it. Works upon 
 
 [similar plan were eagerly asked from him; 
 
 lieir appearance, at no distant intervals, in- 
 
 reased his fame, and soon left him no cause 
 
 regi'et the prostration of his commerciai 
 
 |opes. 
 
 'Brace'uridge Hall," which appeared after the 
 
 )ketch Book, is, perhaps, an ampliiication of a 
 
 [articular part of it, devoted to the illustration 
 
 If old English customs and manners as they ex- 
 
 k in the mere prinjtive counti'ies, and enlivened 
 
 ly just sufficient of narration to impress it on 
 
 lie recollection as a whole. Mi* Irving has, in 
 
 lie outset, fi-ankly disclaimed all intention of 
 
 Iriting a novel. The ground-work which he 
 
 las adopted is a very simple one, a mere thread, 
 
 short, on which to string his scattei'cd pearls. 
 
 the family of Bracebi-idge Hall is represented 
 
 the discharge of much the same daily occu- 
 
 lations as in the Sketch Book ; to break the 
 
 [lonotony of which, sundry marriages, as well as 
 
 bo''tive flirtations, occur among young and old, 
 
 Icntle and simple : the company being reinforced 
 
 Jy several personages,whocomplete thediamatis 
 
 Bi'sonse of "every man in his humour." With 
 
 he exception of these voluminous love-affairs, 
 
 |ie incidents are detached and separate, and 
 
 enerally introduced to give scope to a train of 
 
 bflection, or a piece of humorous painting. 
 
 Ihe accuracy of the pictures of old English cus- 
 
 lims and sports, which Mr Irving represents 
 
 flourishing under the influence of the bene- 
 
 slent Squire, has been questioned by some fas- 
 
 lious suburban readers. But in the opinion 
 
 an eminent critic of the Quarterly Review, 
 
 id according to his experience, there is nothing 
 
 [)o hi{rhly coloured in them. • We have our- 
 
 p\f known, says he, that village palladium, the 
 
 (ay-pole, become the object of a serious foray 
 
 Berks, and have witnessed Christmas carols 
 
 lid mummery flourishing in alt their perfection 
 
 1 the most f'reo>:ent(»d part of Devon. In many 
 
 Kstricts of Yorkshire, however, the county in 
 
 jrhich the scene isjudiciously laid, ancient usages 
 
 list in more entire preservation ; and all, or 
 
 early all, the customs which are described as 
 
 '"' • Vol. Slih. 
 
 fostered by the hero, Mr Bracebridge, toge- 
 ther with others of which no mention is made, 
 were within the last sixteen years voluntarily 
 kept up among the labouring classes as sources 
 of annual enjoyment, and matters "coming 
 home to their own business and bosoms." The 
 poorest peasant would have considered the ne- 
 glect of the genial ceremony of yule-cake, yule- 
 candles, and yule-clog, as equivalent to the loss 
 of caste : the paste-egg, or rather pasgcn-egg, 
 was duly eaten at Easter, as in Russia, and the 
 southern provinces of France and Spain, and 
 when presented to a lady obtained the same pri- 
 vilege as in the former country. The " Merry 
 Night" was, and perhaps still is, duly celebrated 
 in most farm-houses ; and instead of the duo- 
 dance which the Squire considers as a relic of the 
 ancient sword-dance, this Pyrrhic manoeuvre 
 itself was exhibited by the young farmers of 
 Cleveland in a manner requiring much grace, 
 nerve, and dexterity, and as dangerous to an 
 unpractised eye as the Indian wai-dance, per- 
 formed tomahawk in hand. The festival of St 
 Stephen, also, whom the Yorkshiremen have, 
 by a convenient fiction, erected into as mighty 
 a huntei' as Nimrod, is observed with most 
 sportsman-like solemnity by every rank and de- 
 gree of dog, horse, man, donkey, and leaping- 
 pole, altogether composing a turbulent high- 
 land host, amenable to no rules ever heard of in 
 Leicestei-shire. We think, therefore, that, far 
 from exceeding the limits of probability in this 
 respect, Mr Irving has hardly made the full 
 up of northern customs, which was really open 
 to him. Nor can we see any thing oveixlrawn 
 in the characters themselves. There are many 
 whims which we daily see practised, much less 
 natural, much less rational, than those of which 
 the indulgence forms the business of the Squire's 
 life; and, having selected him as the scape-goat, 
 on whom the whole weight of oddity was to be 
 laid, the author has accounted consistently fur 
 these whims. As to Master Simon, the brisk 
 paiTot-nosed bachelor, he only labours in his 
 vocation as equerry to his patron's stud of 
 hobby-horses ; and Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, 
 the sturdy freeholder, stands on his own basis 
 as a Yorkshire dalesman of the old school. Into 
 these three characters, and into that of General 
 Ilarbottle, the author has thrown all his strength. 
 Like the great novelist of Scotland, Mr Ir- 
 ving enters, with the eye of a Bewick, or a 
 Ward, into all the little amusing habits and pre- 
 dilections of the brute creation ; without going 
 the lcn{;tlis of hailing the ass, brother, 
 
 H 
 
x» 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 I 
 
 it!i 
 
 -. lie bat a kind of inclination, or 
 
 WealEoess, for what most people deem mere Termin, 
 
 Lire animals, 
 
 Btbor's Don /uan, 
 
 and contrives to awaken that interest in the 
 caprices and enjoyments of these humble friends, 
 which laughingly, but effectually, serves the 
 cause of humanity. This feeling, we will ven* 
 ture to affirm, is a more essential one in a well- 
 constructed mind, than the "music in the 
 soul," which a gr;^t bard requires under such a 
 heavy poetic ban. The whole chapter on the 
 Rookery is an animal comedy, so happily kept 
 up that we know not which part to select ; and 
 m the taking of Starlight Tom, the dogs on both 
 sides play their parts in a most characteristic, 
 and we can hardly call it unnatural manner, 
 which colours the whole scene. Cowper extols 
 those who can see charms in the arch meaning 
 of a kitten's face ; Hoffman has written the his* 
 tory of a fantastic rat-catcher ; M. de Chateau- 
 briand is not less a friend to the feline race ; but 
 Mr Irving, by dint of a few demure traits of 
 feline virtue, has contrived to interest us even in 
 Dame Heyliger's old cat, and has fairly earned 
 the gratitude of the species whom he so justly 
 styles "a slandered people." As a satirical con- 
 trast, the varieties of the canine fungus, called lap- 
 dog, are admirably exact in the comic painting 
 introduced by the author. The same good taste 
 and minute observation characterize that fre- 
 quent allusion to sylvan life, which in most hands 
 would grow monotonous, but which, in Brace- 
 bridge Hall, are made to address both the men- 
 tal and bodily eye. In the chapter on Forest 
 Trees, there is a meditative moral dignity, very 
 much reminding us of Soulhey's early poem to 
 the Holly, and which could hardly have been 
 surpassed, had the mantle of Evelyn himself 
 fallen on the American essayist. 
 
 Geoffrey Crayon was now so great a favour- 
 ite with the English public, that the English 
 critics, weary of hearing Arisiidcs called the 
 Just, and we Hnd the avowal of it in the Black- 
 wood's Mayasinc, seemed longing and lying 
 in wait for a new work to cry down the 
 man like over-rated coin. Indeed, without 
 mentioning the spite of national envy, the 
 "bustling boiherbys" of the periodicals seldom 
 patronize an author beyond his Hrst or second 
 attempt : with these, Scott's last novel was sure 
 to be vastly inferior to his former ones ; and 
 Byron's mind was inevitably losing inspiration 
 as he grew old. They delight in none but a 
 new name— to be puffed for a day, and then 
 
 abandoned to oblivion,— -a cockney draniatisij 
 or a versifying peasant. Mr W. Irving theff 
 would treat after the same fashion, when 
 pubUsbed the Tales of a Traveller. But 
 was difficult to deny that this new work 
 possess the spirit of Bracebridge Hall, witlj 
 more variety, in a larger field of obsei'vationJ 
 In fact, the Tales are, for the most part, tol(| 
 by the same imaginary narrator, and may 1 
 considered under the same head. Thus, tfa 
 Stout Gentleman naturally stands at the head i 
 the list of tales recounted by the nervous gen 
 tleman, who is again introduced by Mr IrvingI 
 in this new work. It is, indeed, a most amusing 
 specimen of that piquant cookery which make 
 somethmg out of nothing. The bulbous can-l 
 dlewicks, and the bulbous man, his last lingering 
 companion in the traveller's room ; the utterj 
 desolation which the dripping stable-yard pre 
 sents — the miserable drenched cock — the cov 
 standing to be rained on— the vociferous ducki| 
 — the dispirited cur — and the forlorn, spectra 
 eyed horse — are in admirable keeping as fe 
 turcs of a minute and rueful caricature. Thij 
 "Bold Dragoon" is not inferior in its way. Bui 
 too much praise cannot be bestowed on the tak 
 of "Buckthorne," where, as a novelist, Mij 
 Irving proves a rival to Goldsmith, whose lurij 
 of mind he very much inherits, and of whos 
 style he particularly reminds us in the life 
 Dribble. Like him, too, Mr Irving possesse 
 the art of setting lutltorous perplexities in l\A 
 most irresistible point of view, and, we think] 
 equals him in the variety as in the force of hil 
 humour. But throughout the whole of llid 
 burlesque incidents with which the tale aboundsf 
 the American Goldsmith has never once abuse 
 the latitude which the subject alTorded hitnl 
 and of which Goethe has made such filthy use iJ 
 Wilhelm Molster. With a hundred foibles, tlid 
 hero is not suffered to become vicious, and l\\\ 
 strictly moral tendency of the narrative is pre 
 served to the last page. 
 
 In the summer of 1822 ' Mr Irving made 
 tour along the banks of the Rhine, viewing iij 
 picturesque scenery, and inspecting many olj 
 fortresses and castles renowned in history anl 
 in the annals of the Secret Tribunal. He prof 
 cecded into Germany, visiting its principal citie 
 and exploring the forests and mountains con 
 mcmorated among the wild legends of thai 
 country. He sojourned a time in Prague, ti\\ 
 ancient Bohemian capital, and passed the wintei 
 
 ' June <83S. ,, v. 
 
OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 XIII 
 
 of 198S at Dresden, the capital of Saxony, where 
 |ie was presented at court and received kind ci- 
 vilities from the old king and queen, and other 
 
 embers of the veteran royal family. His Icl- 
 
 rs from Germany to his relations and friends 
 rould form &n interesting and entertaining work 
 If presented to the public. 
 
 From Germany Mr Invmc returned to Eng- 
 land, and passed the summer of 1834 partly in 
 
 ondon, and partly in visits among his friends 
 jn different parts of the country. 
 
 The winter of 182a he passed in Paris, but 
 employed the summer and autumn in an excur- 
 sion into the beautiful country of Touraine, which 
 he extended to Bourdeaux to witness the festivi- 
 kies of the vintage among the celebrated vine- 
 yards of Medoc. From Bourdeaux he proceeded 
 early in the next year to make a long-project- 
 pd journey into Spain, and passed nearly four 
 veavs in different parts of that country, so in- 
 teresting from its history and its romantic 
 loorish Avars. 
 
 The fame of Mr Irving as an essayist and 
 
 novelist, was not limited to the climes, extensive 
 
 Lhough they be, in which the English tongue is 
 
 ^poken. Translations were made of his Sketch 
 
 iook and his Tales, into most of the languages 
 
 of the continent ; and when he visited France, 
 
 jermany, Italy, and Spain, he found himself a 
 
 popular author, like Lord Byron, Sir Walter 
 
 cott, and Mr Fenimore Cooper. But he did 
 liot content himself to have enlarged the circle of 
 Sterne-travellers by adding another head to the 
 ket, the tale-traveller ; he had a higher ambition 
 In his mind. Columbus had already found his 
 el in the United Slates, Joel Barlow; ' he has 
 iiow his American historian. 
 
 It was in Spain Mr Irving undertook the 
 lask of giving lo his country and to Europe the 
 lislory of the life of that hero, who, in the words 
 )f his epitaph, gave a new world to Castile and 
 licon, but who may be said, with more justice, 
 lo have opened, to the oppressed of every clime, 
 
 secure and safe refuge, a Held, in which the 
 principles of freedom might be safely cultivated : 
 
 Tlio name of Commonwealth is past and gone 
 O'er the three fractions of the Rroaning globe j 
 
 One yiKat clime, 
 
 Whose Tigorous offsprinf? by dividing ocean 
 Are l(cpt apart and nursed in the devotion 
 Of Freedom, wliich llicir fnihers fought for, and 
 Boquealh'd— a heritage of heart and hand, 
 And proiid distinction from each other land, 
 
 ■ The Columliiad. 
 
 Whose sons mnst bow them at a monarch's motion. 
 
 As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
 
 Full of the magic of exploded science — 
 
 Still one great clime, in full and free defiance. 
 
 Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, ' 
 
 Above the far Atlantic ! ,, 
 
 Lord Bvaoif, on Venice. 
 
 The enterprise of Mr Irving was not wanting 
 in boldness, as it placed him in immediate 
 compa.ison with one of the most celebrated 
 among British historians ; but it was eminently 
 successful. The abridgment has become an 
 universally-adopted school-book in the United 
 Suites, and America has got in one and the same 
 man, her own Robertson, Goldsmith, and Addi- 
 son. The History of Columbus is the most im- 
 portant work of Mr W. Irving, completed now 
 by the " Votjages and Discoveriet of the Compa- 
 nions of Columbus," the brave partners of his 
 perilous enterprise, we wish we could add, his 
 imitators in humanity and benevolence. This 
 book unites the marvellous of old romance with 
 the sober charm of truth. Chivalry had left the 
 land and launched upon the deep in the ships of 
 these early Spanish discoverers. Contempt of 
 danger, and fortitude under suffering, a passion 
 for vainglorious exploits, are the characteristics 
 of these marine knights-errant, the daring Ojeda, 
 the unfortunate Nicuesa, the brave but credulous 
 Ponce de Leon, and the enterprising but ill-fated 
 Vasco Nunez de Balboa. 
 
 In writing the history of Columbus, Mr Irving 
 derived great assistance from the attention he 
 had bestowed on the acquisition of various lan- 
 guages. He had considered these studies as 
 giving access to mines of intellectual wealth in 
 the literature of different nations, and he was 
 now enabled to trace every point in the life of 
 his hero through the narratives, and often 
 the errors of successive historians, up to its ori- 
 ginal source, which he did with an industrious 
 and persevering research. 
 
 The idea of his two last publications, the 
 "Conquest of Granada" and the "Alhambra," 
 was suggested to Mr Irving while in Spain, occu- 
 pied upon his History of the Life and Voyages 
 of Columbus. The application of the great 
 navigator to the Spanish Sovnrcigns for patron- 
 age to his project of discovery, was made during 
 their crusade against the Moors of Granada, 
 and continued during the residue of that war. 
 Columbus followed the court in several of its 
 campaigns, mingled occasionally in the contest, 
 and was actually present at the {;rand cata- 
 strophe of ihe enlerprisc, the surrender of tho 
 
xi«> 
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 t* 
 
 •V 
 
 !|M 
 
 iti 
 
 \y' 
 
 metropolis. The researclics of Mr Irving, in 
 tracing the movement of his hero, led him to 
 the various chronicles of the reign of Ferdinand 
 and Isabella. He became deeply interested in 
 the details of the war, and was induced, while 
 collecting materials for the biography he had 
 in hand, to make preparation also for the 
 '* Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada." He 
 made subsequently a tour in Andalusia, visited 
 the ruins of the Moorish towns, fortresses, and 
 castles, and the wild mountain passes and defiles 
 which had been the scenes of the most remark- 
 able events of the war ; he passed some time in 
 the ancient palace of the Alhambra, the once 
 favourite abode of the Moorish monarchs in 
 Granada. It was then, while his mind was still 
 excited by the romantic scenery around him, 
 and by the chivalrous and poetical association, 
 which throw a moral interest over every feature 
 of Spanish landscape, that lie completed the 
 Chronicle and commenced the Alhambra. 
 
 The Chronicle is an authentic body of facts 
 relative to the war with the Moors, but arranged 
 in such a manner as to be attractive to the reider 
 for mere amusement. Mr Irving brings forth 
 ever)' scene in its strongest light, and portrays the 
 manners and customs of the age, with a graphic 
 effect, by connecting them with the events and 
 the splendid scenery amidst which they took 
 place. Thus, while he preserves the truth and 
 chronological order of history, he imparts a 
 more impressive and entertaining character to 
 his narrative than regular historians are accus- 
 tomed to possess. By these means his Chronicle 
 at times wears almost the air of romance ; yet 
 the story is authenticated by frequent references 
 to existing documents, proving that the fictitious 
 Spanish monk. Fray Antonio Agapida, has sub- 
 stantial foundation for his most extraordinary 
 incidents. 
 
 As his History of the^ Conquest of Granada 
 was collected from ancient chronicles, and Mr 
 Irving could not put implicit confidence in the cor- 
 rectness of all the facts ; and as he was not will- 
 ing to throw aside a picturesque and interesting 
 incident whenever a shade of doubt was thrown 
 over its authenticity ; he employed the interven- 
 tion of Fray Antonio Agapida, an imaginary 
 monk of the order of St Ilici'onymo. This in- 
 termediate personage enabled him also to treat 
 the bigotry and superstition and various grave 
 absurdities of that era with a degree of irony 
 and humour which, in his opinion, he could not 
 decorously employ in his own cliaracter. How- 
 ever visionary a person Agapida may have been, 
 
 the reader is assuredly indebted to him for a 
 great part of the entertainment he recr>v ■ '■■ > 
 the perusal of this Chronicle. li 
 
 The Alhambra is a sort of Spanish >. ')i<i 
 Book : here we have our old Geoffrey C- > 
 again. The fancy of most readers lakes pa 
 with him when he says : "From earliest boy 
 
 It 
 
 m 
 
 hood, when, on the banks of the Hudson, I first T P"^''*^ '' 
 
 pored over the pages of an old Spanish story 
 about the wars of Granada, that city has ever 
 been a subject of my waking dreams, and often 
 have I trod in fancy the romantic balls of the 
 Alhambra." 
 
 The Alhambra is the poetry of architecture, 
 both in its former state, when 
 
 -Carved cedar door«, 
 
 Run inward over spangled doors, 
 Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
 Hung up with golden balustrade," 
 
 m tl 
 
 ,,ry to t 
 Theofti 
 'his part, ar 
 
 ne such a 
 luation until 
 'turned honu 
 jrcs at that 
 lother minis! 
 During this 
 ■ Oxford coi 
 'L.L.D., in 
 icter, and h( 
 
 the month 
 ons of the st 
 int assembla{ 
 
 While Mr li 
 ic English co 
 icier at the o 
 
 illiamlV; : 
 rni of his di 
 
 attention frc 
 
 id from i^aii 
 
 and now, whe. ibe ivy creeps round its lattices, 
 and the bats bi I in its towers, to the memory 
 of former spleuuour it adds lingering beauty 
 and actual ruin. Geoffrey Crayon enters those 
 desolate and destroyed but still lovely walls, witli 
 eyes turned towards the past, and full of that] 
 enthusiasm which alone can understand the me- 
 lancholy and the beautiful. In these delightfuljnages of the 
 volumes, the sketches of Spanish scenery andP''' ^f'^'*^*^ "^ 
 peasants are full of life and animation ; the 
 description of the Alhambra is " painted in ricli 
 words," and the ancient legends, told in a style 
 worthy of the days when the story-teller sat on 
 an embroidered carpet, while the music of a 
 falling fountain accompanied his recital. We 
 suspect these legends owe as much to Mr Irving, 
 as the Arabian Nights to Mr Galland; and that] 
 his fairy tales are 
 
 '" Plus Aral)ei qu'en Arable ;" 
 
 but we ought scarcely to complain if he wliol 
 found the silk, has also wrought it into " graced 
 ful broderie." This has been the mistake ofl 
 all the late doers into English of Arabian fiction ;[ 
 they have only given us the raw material, andl 
 then boasted of their accuracy — as if accuracyl 
 in a fairy tale could ever be asked by any but! 
 an antiquary. Mr Irving, on the contrary,! 
 narrates equally fancifully, and playfully, witlil 
 a vein of quiet humour, admirably suited to tliisl 
 age of disbelief. We know no more exquisite I 
 specimen of this kind than the " Rose of the Al[ 
 hainbra," and the "Three beautiful Princesses.'! 
 When you read these pages you fancy yoursclf| 
 at once in the Hall of Lions. 
 
 kleration of tl 
 
 On the reti 
 
 untry, in th( 
 
 illi a degree 
 
 blic entei'tai 
 
 e father of I 
 
 any, he was ( 
 
 naie and aff( 
 
 neraiion tlia 
 
 owded with ; 
 
 c lileiature < 
 
 |rst and succi 
 
 leslion, " V 
 
 ad he felt i 
 
 ubiic entliu! 
 
 nited Slates 
 
 ivation. Bui 
 
 lublic exhibit 
 
 rrival in his 
 
 on of the kir 
 
 A few wee] 
 
 Ir Irving coi 
 
 hrough the d 
 
 as into thos 
 
 ostonandoti 
 
 insofVermi 
 
 d of the Wh 
 
OF WASHINGTON lUVING. 
 
 XV 
 
 
 m 
 
 of architecture,! 
 
 ' ,tlr Irving was an inmate of the Al- 
 
 in the summer of i8!2), he was ap- 
 
 y by the President of the United States, 
 
 jjry to the Legation at the Court of I^on- 
 
 * The office was unsolicited and unexpected 
 
 'his part, and he had always withheld himself 
 
 m public life. He would not, however, de- 
 
 ine such a mark of kindness, and he filled the 
 
 nation until Mr Louis M'Lane, the minister, 
 
 turned home, when he remained Ghargd d'AI- 
 
 jrcs at that court until the appointment of 
 
 other minister. 
 
 Durin{; this interval, the Enghsh University 
 Oxford conferred on Mr Irving the degree 
 L.L.D., in consideration of his literary cha- 
 icter, and he received the honours in person 
 the month of June 1851, amid the acclama- 
 ns of the students and graduates, and a bril- 
 nt assemblage of spociaiors. 
 While Mr Irving represented his country at 
 c English court, he assisted in his ofHcial cha- 
 iclur at the coronation of his present Majesty, 
 iliiam IV ; and he received, during the short 
 rni of his diplomatic career, repeated marks 
 F attention from the sovereign and royal family, 
 d from i^any of the most distinguished per- 
 nages of the country, not merely on account of 
 c office he filled, but also expressly in con- 
 ideration of the works he had written. 
 On the return of Mr Irving to his native 
 unlry, in the spring of ISoii, he was greeted 
 ilh a degree of warmth rarely equalled, in a 
 blic entertainment at which Chancellor Kent, 
 e father of ilie New York bar, presided. To 
 any, he was endeared by the recollection of in- 
 nate and affectionate intercourse, while a new 
 .'ncraiion that had sprung up in his absence, 
 owdcd with zeal to sec and honour the pride of 
 e literature of America— the author, who had 
 |rst and successfully answered the reproachful 
 lestion, " Who reads an American book?" 
 lad he felt inclinal to have encouraged the 
 iiblic enthusiasm, liis tour throughout the 
 Inited States might have been one continued 
 vaiion. But he shrunk from the parade of 
 ublic exhibition, and after his reception on his 
 rrival in his native city, declined every invita- 
 on of the kind. 
 
 A few weeks after his return to New York, 
 Ir Irving commenced a succession of journeys 
 hrough the different states. His first excursion 
 vas into those of the east, in which he visited 
 iostonand other cities, crossed the Green Moun- 
 ains of Vermont, and ascended the most celcbrat- 
 id of the Whit*' Mountains of New Hampshire. 
 
 His next journey was through the most inter- 
 esting parts of his native state to the Falls of 
 Niagara. From thence he proceeded by the 
 lakes and the Ohio, visiting the states bordering 
 on that river, and then ascending the Mississipi 
 into the regions of the far West. Her^e joined 
 a deputation commissioned to hold treaties with 
 the Indians; and passing the frontier military 
 posts, and the boundaries of civilization, pene- 
 trated into the wilderness, to the wigwams and 
 villages of the natives. 
 
 In company with a party of mounted back- 
 woodsmen, half Indian in their habits, he made 
 an expedition of a month to the wild hunting 
 ground of the warlike Pawnee tribes, scourinj; 
 the woods and extensive prairies, and giving 
 chase to buffaloes and wild horses ; sleeping at 
 nights by fires kindled in the open air ; and sub- 
 sisting on the produce of their rifles ; and keeping 
 a vigilant guard against any sudden attack by the 
 Indians. After this rude specimen of frontier 
 life, he descended the Mississipi to New Orleans, 
 whence he proceeded through the states border- 
 ing on the Atlantic, to the city of Washington. 
 Here he passed the first winter of his return in 
 attending the debates of Congress during an in- 
 teresting session, and made himself acquainted 
 with the political differences, and the sectional 
 rivalries and jealousies of his country, by com- 
 munication with the intelligent statesmen assem- 
 bled in the capital from all parts of the Union. 
 But he mingled with them as a mere spectator, 
 unconnected with any of their parties. His ab- 
 sence during about sixteen years in Europe had 
 accustomed him to regard his conntry with affec- 
 tion from a distance, and with satisfaction when 
 he compai'cd its government and institutions with 
 those of othci' nations, but had kept him aloof 
 from all its internal dissensions. He found also 
 among the opposing candidates for the presi- 
 dency, and leaders of parlies, gentlemen with 
 whom he had been connected in personal friend- 
 ship previous to his voyage to Europe, and from 
 whom he had received many proofs of conside- 
 ration and regard. 
 
 Politics form, it is probable, more of a great 
 game in the United Slates, where every man is 
 eligible to every office, than in any other coun- 
 try. Men of talents and ambition contend with 
 each other to obtain the ascendancy and the 
 rule. But whoever may succeed in the contest, 
 will equally administer the government to the 
 best of his judgment for the welfare and happi- 
 ness of the country. It is to be lamented that 
 the partisans of the distinguished (aiididates, 
 
 i, . 
 
 .i: 
 
XVI 
 
 MEMOIR OF WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
 and in particular ihose who control the press, 
 are apt to conduct the stru{jg;le with a person- 
 ality and virulence which excite animosities, 
 and greatly disturb the harmony of social inter* 
 ooui-se. 
 
 We have not heard that Mr Irving is, at 
 present, engaged in any literary enterprise. 
 We have, however, a pledge in the fertility of 
 invention he has hitherto shown, that he is 
 not idle, nor is his task accomplished ; still, it 
 remains that he should pursue the career he has 
 opened to himself in the annals of tliis continent. 
 
 The downfal of the empires of the Aztecs ; 
 Incas, asks for a worthy historian ; the generoij 
 advocate of Philip of Pokanoket may yet fin 
 an ample field in the early adventures of tli| 
 British colonists, and in their struggles with ih 
 warlike race, which, for a time, bravely witlj 
 stood their superior civilization and intelligenc 
 finally, his native Hudson claims of him that I 
 who in his youth first made its banks vocal 
 the strains of satire, shall, in his mature ag 
 make them renowned, as the habitation of 
 Historian of the Western continent. 
 
 f 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 DILUBBl'S NOTICB I 
 
 |o I.— Editor's adTertisement 2 
 
 I IntrodncUon to the work 2 
 
 I Theatrics— by William Wizard, Esq 4 
 
 New York assembly— by A. Evergreen, Gent. . . 5 
 
 |o II.— Laoncelot LangstafT's account of his friends. 6 
 
 Mr Wilson's concert— by A. Evergreen, Gent. . 8 
 
 I Some account of Pindar Cockloft 9 
 
 Poetical address form Pindar Cockloft, Esq. . . 10 
 
 Advertisement , il 
 
 |i» m.— Account of Mustapha Rnba-dub Keli Khan, i I 
 Letter of Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Asem 
 
 Haochem. ,, , 12 
 
 Fashions— by A. Evergreen, Gent 13 
 
 Fashionable morning-dress for walking. ... 14 
 
 The progress of Salmagundi 14 
 
 Poetical Proclamation— firom the mill of Pindar 
 
 Cockloft, Esq <5 
 
 |I<> IV. — Some account of Jeremy Cockloft the 
 
 younger 16 
 
 Memorandums for a tour, to be entitled " the Stran- 
 ger in New Jersey, or Cockney Travelling,"— 
 
 by Jeremy Cockloft the younger 17 
 
 |)o v.— Introduction to a letter from Mustapha Rub- 
 a-dub Keli Khan <8 
 
 Letter firom Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Ab- 
 
 dallahEb'natRahab 19 
 
 Account of Will Wizard's expedition to a modern 
 
 Ball— by A. Evergreen, Gent 22 
 
 [jo VI.— Account of the Cfimily of the Cocklofts. . 23 
 
 •Theatrics-by Wflliam Wizard, Esq 27 
 
 |i« vn. — Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keti 
 
 Khan to Asem Haochem 29 
 
 Poetical account of ancient Times— from the mill 
 
 of Pindar Cockloft, Esq 32 
 
 Notes on the above— by Will Wizard, Esq. . . 32 
 |!o Vin.— Anthony Evergreen's account of his friend 
 
 Langstaff. 33 
 
 On Style-by WiU Wizard, Esq 55 
 
 The Editors and the Public 37 
 
 so IX.— Account of Miss Charity Cockloft 38 
 
 From the elbow-chair of the author 40 
 
 LetterfromRub<a-dtd>KeliKbantoAsemUacchem. 41 
 
 P^lry— from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq. . . 43 
 
 So X.— Introduction to the number 44 
 
 Letter from Demi Semiquaver to Launcelot Lang- 
 
 slafl',Esq 45 
 
 Noteby the Publisher 47 
 
 No XI.— Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan 
 
 toAsemUacchem 47 
 
 Account of "Mine uncle John." 50 
 
 No XII.— Christopher Cockloft's company. ... 52 
 The Stranger at home, or a tour in broadway— by 
 
 Jeremy Cockloft the younger 55 
 
 Introduction to Pindar Cockloft's poem 57 
 
 A Poem— from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, Esq. . 58 
 No Xni.— Introduction to WtU Wizard's plans for 
 
 defending our Harbour , . S9 
 
 Plans for defending our hartMur— by Will Wiz- 
 ard, Esq , 60 
 
 Aretro8pect,or" What you will." 62 
 
 To readers and correspondents 65 
 
 No XIV. — Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub KeH 
 
 Khan to Asem Hacchem 65 
 
 Cockloft Hall— by L. Langstaff, Esq 68 
 
 Theatrical Intelligence— by William Wizard, Esq. 7 1 
 N" XV.— Sketches from nature— by A. Evergreen, 
 
 ucnt. .............. 7« 
 
 On Greatness— by L. Langstaff, Esq 74 
 
 No XVI.-Style at Ballston— by WUl Wizard, Esq. 77 
 Letter fi«m Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to 
 
 Asem Hacchem 79 
 
 No XVU.— Autumnal reflections— by L. Langstaff, 
 
 Esq 82 
 
 Description of the library at Cockloft Hall— by L. 
 
 Langstaff, Esq 84 
 
 Chap. CIX of the chronicles of the renowned and 
 
 ancient city of Gotham 85 
 
 NO XVin.— The LitUe Man inBlack-by L. LangslaCf. 
 
 Esq 87 
 
 Letter firom Mustapha Rub-a-dnb Keli Khan to Asem 
 
 Hacchem 90 
 
 No XIX.— Introduction to the number 92 
 
 Letter from Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan to Mu- 
 
 ley Helim al Raggi 92 
 
 Anthony Evergreen's Introduction to the winter 
 
 campaign 95 
 
 Tea, a Poem— from the mill of Pindar Cockloft, 
 
 Esq 97 
 
 NO XX.— On the New Year 98 
 
 To the ladies— by A. Evergreen, Gent 100 
 
 Farewell address— by William Wizard, Esq. . . 105 
 
 
 ft 
 ■I 
 
 n 
 
 y. ■ 
 
 h 
 
 H 
 
 '4 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 rl 
 
 ^<:i:oiiNT or tbb Authoi f05 
 
 BOOK I, CONTAINinO DIVIBS nOBFIIOUS TUBOHIB8 AND 
 PBILOSOPHIC BPBCUL4TION8, CONCBBNINO TUB CBBA- 
 TION AND POPULATION OV THB WORLD, AS CONNBUTBD 
 WITH THB RISTOBT OF NlW-YORB 100 
 
 i;hap. I.~Descriplionofthe world 10!) 
 
 Chap. H.— Cosmography, or creation of the world ; 
 with h multitude of excellent theories, by which 
 the creation of a world is shown to be no such dif- 
 flcult matter as common folk would imagine. . 
 
 Chap. III.— How that famous navigator, Noah, was 
 shameiblly nick-named ; and how he committed 
 
 III 
 
 f'l 
 
will 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 H3 
 
 115 
 
 122 
 
 122 
 
 an unpardoiialile oversight in not having Tour 
 son;. With the great troal)le ot philosophers 
 caused thereby, and the discovery of America. . 
 
 Cb4p. IV.— Showing the great dirilculty philoso- 
 phers have bad in peopling America— and how 
 the aborigines came to be begotten by accident 
 —to the great relief and satisfaction of the au- 
 thor 
 
 Chap. V. — In which the author putsa mighty (iiies- 
 tion to the rout, by the assistance of the Man in 
 the Moon— which nut only delivers thousands of 
 people from great embarrassment, but likewise 
 concludes the introductory book 117 
 
 BOOK IT, TBEATIMG OF THE FIRST SETTLEUBNT OF THB 
 
 PROVincE OF Nieuw-Nedehlandts 
 
 Chap. I. — In which are contained divers reasons why 
 a man should not write in a hurry. Also of master 
 Ilendrick Hudson, hisdiscovery of a strange coun- 
 try—and how he was magnificently rewarded by 
 thcmunificenceof their High Mightinesses. . . 
 
 Chap. II. — Containing an account of a mighty Ark 
 which floated, under the protection of St Nicho- 
 las, from Holland to Gibbet Island - the descent 
 of the strangle animals therefrom— a great victory, 
 and a description of the ancient village of Commu- 
 nipaw 123 
 
 Chap. III. — In which is set forth the true art of mak- 
 ing a bargain— together with the miraculous es- 
 cape of a great metropolis in a fog— and the bio- 
 graphy of certain Heroes of Commuuipaw. . . 
 
 Chap. IV.— How the Heroes of Communipaw voy- 
 aged to Hell-Gate, and how they were received 
 there 
 
 Chap. V.— How the Heroes of Communipaw re- 
 turned somewhat wiser than they went— and how 
 the sage Oloffe dreamed a dream— and the dream 
 that be dreamed 
 
 Chap. VI.— Containing an attempt at etymology— 
 and of the founding of the great city of New-Ams- 
 terdam 133 
 
 Cbap. Vn.— How the city of New-Amsterdam waxed 
 great, under the protection of Oloffe the Dreamer. 1 33 
 
 BOOK HI, IN WHICH IS RECORDED THK GOLDEN BBIGN 
 
 OF WOUTER VAN TWII.LER 137 
 
 Chap. L— Of the renowned Wouter vanTwiller, 
 his unparalleled virtues— as likewise his unutter- 
 able wisdom in the law case of Waudle Schoon- 
 hoveu and Barent Bleecker— and the great admi- 
 ration of the public thereat 137 
 
 Chap. II. — Containing some account of the grand 
 council of New-Amsterdam; as also divers espe- 
 cial good philnjuphical reasons why an alderman 
 should be fat— with other particulars touching 
 thestate of the province 139 
 
 Chap. HI.- How the town of New- Amsterdam arose 
 out of mud, and came to be marvellously polish- 
 ed and polite— together with a picture of the 
 manners of our great great grandfathers. . . . 
 
 Chap. IV.— Containing further particulars of the 
 golden age, and what constituted a One lady and 
 gentleinan in the days of Walter the Doubter. . 
 
 Chap. V. — In which the reader Is beguiled into a 
 delectable walk, which ends very differently from 
 what it commenced Ii6 
 
 Cbap. VI. — Faithfully describing theingenioiu peo- 
 ple of Connecticut and thereabont Showing, 
 moixHiver, the true meaning of liberty of con- 
 
 127 
 
 129 
 
 <32 
 
 142 
 
 14 f 
 
 i4 
 
 13 
 
 IS 
 
 <d1 
 
 science, and a curiods device among the sturdy 
 barlwrians, tokeepupa harmony of intercourse, 
 and promote population It; 
 
 CuAP. VH. — How these singular barliariang the 
 Yanokies turned out to be notorious squatters. 
 How they built air castles, and attempted to ini- 
 tiate theNederlanders in the mystery of bundling. 
 
 Cbap. VIII. — How the fort Goed Hoop was fear- 
 fully beleaguered— how the renowned Wouter 
 fell into a profound doubt, and how he finally eva- 
 porated 
 
 BOOK IV, CONTAINING THE CHRONICLES OF THE BKIGN 
 
 OF VN'lLLIAM THE TeSTV i 
 
 Chap. I.— Showing the nature of history in gene- 
 ral; containing furthermore the universal ac(|uire- 
 ments of William the Testy, and how a man may 
 learn so much as to render himself good for 
 nothing 
 
 Chap II. — In which are recorded the sage projects 
 ofa ruler ofuniversal genius. The art of fighting 
 by proclamation;- and how that the viiliant Ja- 
 cobus Van Curlet came to be foully dishonoured 
 at Fort (locd Hoop 
 
 Chap. HI. - Containing the fearful wrath of Wil- 
 liam the Testy, and the great dolour of the New- 
 Amsterdammcrs, because of the affair of Fort 
 Goed Hoop. — And, moreover, how William the 
 Testy did strongly fortify the city. — Together 
 with the exploits of StofTel Brinkerhoff. . . . 
 
 Chap. IV.— Phllasophicalreneclionson thefoHy of 
 being happy in times of prosperity .-Sundry trou- 
 bles on the southern frontiers.— How William 
 the I'esty bad well nigh ruined the province 
 through a cabalistic word. — As also the secret ex- 
 pe<lition of Jan Jansen Alpendara, and his aston- 
 ishing reward 
 
 Chap. V.— How William the Testy enriched the 
 province by a multitude of laws, and came to be 
 the patron of lawyers and bum-bailiffs. And how 
 the people became exceedingly enlightened and 
 unhappy under his instructions id 
 
 Chap. VI.— Of the great Pipe Plot— and of the dolor- 
 ous perplexities into which William the Testy 
 was thrown, by reason of his having enlightened 
 the multitude ICi 
 
 Chap. VU.— Containing divers fearful accounts of 
 Border wars, and the Uagrant outrages of the 
 Moss-troopers of Connecticut— with the rise of 
 the great Amphictyonic Council of the east, and 
 
 the decline of William the Testy 
 
 book v, containing the first part of the reign of 
 Peter Stuyvesant and his troubles with the 
 Amphictyonic Council 
 
 Chap. I. — In which the death of a great man is 
 shown to be no very inconsolable matter of sorro\^ 
 —and how Peter Stuyvesant ac(|uired a great 
 name from the uncommon strength of his head. 
 
 Chap. H.— Showing how Peter the Headstrong 
 bestirred himself among the rats and the cobwelw 
 on entering into office; and the perilous mistake 
 he was guilty of, in his dealings with the Ampbic- 
 tyons 
 
 Chap. III.— Containing divers speculations ou war 
 and negotiations— showing that a treaty of peace 
 is a great national evil i' 
 
 Chap. IV.— IlowPelerShiyvesont was greatly be- 
 lied by his adversaries the Moss-troopers— and 
 
 <7| 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 
 long the stnrdy 
 of intercourse, 
 
 barlMrians the 
 rious squatters. 
 Itempted to ini- 
 er) of bundling. 
 Hoop was fear- 
 nvned Wouter 
 wtiefinaliyeva- 
 
 £8 Of THE lUGN 
 
 listory in gene- 
 liversal ac(|uire- 
 liow a man may 
 msclf good for 
 
 lie sage projects 
 
 leartofflgbting 
 
 tlie valiant Ja- 
 
 lly dishonoured 
 
 I wrath of Wil- 
 our of I lie New- 
 ! affair of Fort 
 ow William the 
 city.— Together 
 Brhoff. . . . 
 IS on the folly of 
 '.— Sundry trou- 
 — IIow William 
 3d the province 
 |lso the secret ex- 
 and his aston- 
 
 ty enriched the 
 and came to be 
 iliffs. And how 
 nlightened and 
 
 andofthedolor- 
 
 lani the Testy 
 
 iiig enlightened 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 rful accounts of 
 [intrages of the 
 vith the rise of 
 }f the east, and 
 
 IIP TUB HEIGN OP 
 BLES WITH TUB 
 
 great man is 
 latter of sorro\^ 
 quired a great 
 th of his head, 
 le Headstrong 
 
 d the cobwebs 
 crilous mistake 
 Ih the Ampbic- 
 
 ilations ou war 
 treaty of peace 
 
 i4 
 
 tcl 
 
 his conduct thereupon 175 
 
 nf, v.— How the New-Amsterdammers became 
 eat in arms, and of the direful cataitropbe of a 
 Imigbty army— together with Peter Stuyvesanfi 
 measures to fortify the city— and how be was the 
 
 original founder of the battery 176 
 
 kAP. VI.— How the people of the East Country 
 [were suddenly afOictcd with a diabolical evil— and 
 I their judicious measures for theexlirpatioa there* 
 
 liP. vn.— Which records the rise and renown 
 I of a valiant commander, showing that a man, like 
 la bladder, may be puffed up to greatness and im- 
 I portance by mere wind 180 
 
 aK VI, CONTAIKIMG THE SECOKID PiHT OP TUB BElOH 
 
 I OP Peter the Headstbong — and bis gallant 
 
 I ACBiEVEMEMTS ON THE Delaware 182 
 
 nAP. I.— In which is exhibited a warlike portraitof 
 I the great Peter— and how General Von Poffcn- 
 [burgh distinguished himself at Fort Casimir. . 182 
 
 II.— Showing how profound secrets are of- 
 Iten brought to light; with the proceedings of 
 I Peter the Headstrong when he heard of themis- 
 I fortunes of General Von Poffcnlnirgh. . . . t85 
 gAP. III.— Containing Peter Stuyvcsant's voyage 
 up the Hudson, and the wonders and delights 
 
 of that renowned river 187 
 
 BAP. IV.— Describing the powerful army thatas- 
 Isembled at the city of New-Amsterdam— together 
 I with the interview between Peter the Headstrong 
 I and General Yon Poffenburgh, and Peter's sen- 
 I timents touching unfortunate great men. . . 190 
 RAP. V. — In which the author discourses very in- 
 Igeniously of himself.— After which is to be found 
 I much interesting history about Peter the Head- 
 
 I strong and his followers 192 
 
 HAP. VI.— Showing the great advantage that the 
 (author has over his reader in time of battle— to- 
 1 gether with divers portentous movements ; which 
 I betoken that something terrible is about to hap- 
 
 IM 
 
 an 
 
 205 
 
 |pen 194 
 
 HAP. VII.— Containing the most horrible battle 
 lever recorded in poetry or prose ; with the admi- 
 IraMeexploits of Peter the HcadKli'uug. ... 196 
 
 CiAP. vm.— In which the author and the reader, 
 while reposing after the battle, fall into a very 
 grave discourse- after which is recorded the con- 
 duct of Peter Stuyvesant after bis victory. . . 
 
 BOOK VU, CONTAINING THE THIRD PART OF TBB BBIOII 
 
 OF Peter THE Headstrong — HisTROUBLUwmTRi 
 British nation, and the deglinb and fall op tib 
 Dutch dynasty 
 
 Chap. I. — How Peter Stuyvesant relieved the ao- 
 vereign people from the burthen of taking care of 
 the nation— with sundry particulart of his con- 
 duct in time of peace SOS 
 
 ClAP. II.— IIow Peter Stuyvesant was much mo- 
 lested by the Moss-troopers of the East, and the 
 Giants of Merryland — and how a dark and horrki 
 conspiracy was carried on in the British Cabinet 
 against the prosperity of the Manhattoes. ' . . 
 
 Chap. HI.— Of Peter Stuyvcsant's expedition into 
 the East Country, showing that, though an old 
 bird, he did not understand trap 207 
 
 Chap. IV.— How the people of New-Amsterdam 
 were thrown into a great panic, by the news of 
 a threatened invasion, and the manner in which 
 they fortified themselves 210 
 
 Chap. V.— Showing how the Grand Council of 
 the New-Netherlands came to be miraculously 
 gifted with long tongues. Together with a great 
 triumph of Economy 21 f 
 
 Chap. VI.— In which the troubles of New-Amster- 
 dam appear to thicken— Showing the bravery, in 
 time of peril, of a people who defend themselves 
 by resolution 213 
 
 Chap. VII. — Containing a doleful disaster of An- 
 thony the Trumpeter— And how Peter Stuy- 
 vesant, like a second Cromwell, suddenly dis- 
 solved a Rump Parliament 216 
 
 Chap. VIII.— How Peter Stuyvesant defended the 
 city of New-Amsterdam for several days, by dint • ■ 
 ofthc strength of his head 217 
 
 Chap. IX .—Containing the dignified retirement and 
 
 mortal surrenderofPeter the Headstrong. . .219 
 Chap. X.— The Author's reflections upon what has 
 been said 221 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 lAuthor's account of himself. 225 
 
 1 Voyage 226 
 
 roe 228 
 
 I Wife 251 
 
 [Van Winkle 255 
 
 |Hsh Writers on America 240 
 
 al Life in England 2'i5 
 
 I Broken Heart 24S 
 
 ! Art of Book-making 247 
 
 ^oyalPoet 2S0 
 
 Country Church 25.'» 
 
 I Widow and her Son 257 
 
 > Boar's Head Tavern 2.'>9 
 
 ! Mutability of Literature 263 
 
 al Funerals 267 
 
 ^InnKitchen 271 
 
 The Spectre Bridegroom. . . . .' 272 
 
 Westminster Abbey 277 
 
 Christmas 281 
 
 The Stage Coach 283 
 
 Christmas Eve 286 
 
 Christmas Day 290 
 
 The Christmas Dinner 294 
 
 Little Britain 299 
 
 Strafford-on-Avon 505 
 
 Traits of Indian Charaeter 511 
 
 Philip of Pokanoket 515 
 
 John Bull • •''21 
 
 The Pride of the Village 525 
 
 The Angler 329 
 
 TheLegendof Sleepy Hollow 352 
 
 L'Envoy ''•'* 
 
 H 
 
 
 II 
 
 ^«'as greatly bc- 
 Iroopers— and 
 
n 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 11 
 
 i 
 
 'ill 
 
 |(t 
 
 ThflAathor. W5 
 
 The Hall W 
 
 The Busy Man 548 
 
 Family Servants 5^9 
 
 TheWMow 351 
 
 The Lovers 355 
 
 Family Reliques 354 
 
 An Old Soldier 3S5 
 
 The "Widow's Retinue 356 
 
 Heady-Money Jack 357 
 
 Bachelors 359 
 
 Wives 360 
 
 Story-Telling 362 
 
 The Stout Gentleman 363 
 
 ForestTreci 366 
 
 A literary Antiquary 368 
 
 The Farm-House. . 370 
 
 Horsemanship 371 
 
 LoveSymptoms > 373 
 
 Falconry 375 
 
 Hawking 375 
 
 St Mark's Eve. 577 
 
 GentiUty 580 
 
 Fortune-Telling 381 
 
 Love-Charms 382 
 
 The Library 384 
 
 The Student of i 
 
 English Country Gentlemen. 
 
 A Bachelor's Confessions. . 
 
 English Gravity 
 
 Gipsies. 
 
 May-Day Customs. 
 
 Village Worthies. 
 
 The Schoolmaster. 
 
 The School. 
 
 A Village Politician. 
 
 The Rookery. 
 
 May^Day. 
 
 The Manuscript. . . 
 
 Annette Delarbre. . 
 
 Travelling 
 
 Popular Superstitions. 
 The Culprit. . . . 
 Family Misfortunes. . 
 Lovers' Troubles. 
 The Historian. . . 
 The Haunted House. 
 Dolpb Heyliger. . . 
 The Storm-Sbip. 
 
 The Wedding 4l 
 
 The Author's Farewell it 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 t/i 
 
 4 
 
 To TBI RUDEI 
 
 PART I.— Strange Stories , by a Nervous Geitfle- 
 
 MAN. 
 
 The Great Unknown 
 
 The Hunting Dinner. 
 
 The Adventure of my Uncle 
 
 The Adventure of my Aunt 
 
 The Bold Dragoon ; or, the Adventure of my Grand- 
 father 
 
 The > jivenu:re of the German Student. . . . 
 Tbp Adventure of the Mysterious Picture. . . . 
 T!ie Adventure of the Mysterious Stranger. . . 
 
 The Story of the Young Italian. 
 
 PART n. — Bdckthorne and bis friends. . . 
 
 Literary Life 
 
 A Literary Dinner 
 
 The Club of Queer Fellows 
 
 The Poor-Devil Author 
 
 Notoriety 
 
 A Practical Philosopher 
 
 477 
 
 478 
 478 
 478 
 480 
 484 
 
 492 
 495 
 497 
 507 
 507 
 508 
 509 
 511 
 518 
 519 
 
 Buckthorne; or, the Toung Man of great Expecta- 
 tions 
 
 Grave Reflections of a Disappointed Man. . . . 
 
 The Booby Squire 
 
 The Strolling Manager 
 
 PART m.— The Italian Banditti 
 
 The Inn at Terradna 
 
 The Adventure of the Little Antiquary 
 
 The Belated Travellers 
 
 The Adventure of the Popkins Family 
 
 The Painter's Adventure 
 
 The Story of the Bandit Chieftain 
 
 The Story of the Young Robber 
 
 The Adventure of the Englishman 
 
 PARTFV.— TUK MONEI-DlGGERS 
 
 Hell-Gate 
 
 Kidd the Pirate 
 
 The Devil and Tom Walker 
 
 Wolfert Webber; or. Golden Dreams 
 
 The Adventure of the Black Fisherman 
 
 LIFE AND VOYAGES OF CHRISTOPHER COLURIBUS. 
 
 Preface 605 
 
 BOOK 1 606 
 
 Introduction 606 
 
 Cbap. I.— Birth, Parentage, and Education of Co- 
 lumbus 607 
 
 Cbap. U.— Early Life of Columbus 608 
 
 Cbap. IO. — Progress of Discovery under Prince 
 
 Henry of Portugal 610 
 
 Cbap. FV. — Residence ofColumbus atLisbon. Ideas 
 
 concerning Islands in the Ocean CIS 
 
 Cbap. V. — Grounds on which Columbus founded 
 his l)elief of the existence of undiscovered lands 
 in the west 
 
 Cbap. VI. — Correspondence of Columbns with 
 Paolo Toscanelli. Events in Portugal relative to 
 Discoveries. . 
 
 Cbap. VII.— Proposilions ofColumbus to the Court 
 of Portugal 
 
 Cbap. Vm.— Departure of Columbus from Por- 
 tugal, and Iiis Application to other Courts. . . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 x\i 
 
 ibustotbeConrt 
 
 )KU 622 
 
 CaiP- I.— Fint Arrival of Colambus in Spain. . 622 
 Cbap. n.—Cl]aracters of Ferdinand and laabelia. . 623 
 I Cair> in.— Propositioos of Columbus totbe Court 
 
 ofCa«Ule 625 
 
 CoiP. IV.— Columbus before tbe Council at Sala- 
 manca 626 
 
 Chap. V.— Further Applications at tbe Court of 
 Castile. Columbus follows the Court in its Cam- 
 paigns 628 
 
 Cbap. VI.— Application to the Duke of Medina Cell. 
 
 Return to the Convent of La Rabida 651 
 
 Cbap. VII.— Application to tbe Court at the time 
 
 of the Surrender of Granada 632 
 
 Cbap. VHI.— Arrangement with the Spanish Sove- 
 reigns 634 
 
 Cbap. IX.— Preparations for the Expedition at the 
 
 Port of Palos 636 
 
 lOOK in 638 
 
 Chap. I.— Departure of Columbus on bis First 
 
 Voyage 638 
 
 Chap, n.— Continuation of the Voyage. Varia- 
 tion of tbe Needle 640 
 
 1 Chap, m.— Continuation of the Voyage. Various 
 
 Terrors of the Seamen 641 
 
 I Chap. IV.— Continuation of the Voyage. Dis- 
 covery of Land 643 
 
 )KIV 646 
 
 I Chap. I.— First Landing of Columbus in the New 
 
 World 646 
 
 Chap. U.— Cruise among the Bahama Islands. . . 649 
 Cbap. m.— Discovery and coasting of Cuba. . . 652 
 
 Chap. IV.— Further coasting of Cuba 654 
 
 I Chap. V.— Search after the supposed Island of Ba- 
 
 beque. Desertion of the Pinta. 657 
 
 I Chap. VI.— Discovery of Ilispaniola 658 
 
 Chap. VII.— Coasting of Ilispaniola 660 
 
 Chap. Vin.— Shipwreck 662 
 
 Ichap. IX.— Transactions with the Natives. . . . 6G3 
 I Chap. X.— Building of the Fortress of La Navidad. 665 
 I Chap. XL— Regulation of the Fortress of La Navi- 
 dad. Departure of Columbus for Spain. . . 666 
 
 )K V 668 
 
 IChap. I. — Coasting towardu the Eastern End of 
 Hispaniola. Meeting with Pinzon. Affair with 
 
 the natives at the Gulf of Semana 668 
 
 ICuAP. n.— Return voyage. Violent storms. Arri- 
 val at the Azores 670 
 
 JBAP. m.— Transactions at the Island of St Mary's. 675 
 ]hap. IV.— ArrivalatPortugal. Visit to the Court. 674 
 IChaf. v.— Reception of Columbus at Palos. . . 677 
 Chap. VI. — Reception of Columbus by the Spanish 
 
 Court at Barcelona 678 
 
 Cbip. vn. — Sojournof Columbus at Barcelona. At- 
 tentions paid him by the Sovereigns and Cour- 
 tiers 680 
 
 "Zakv, Vin.—PapalBulI of Partition. Preparations 
 
 for a second vd|age of Columbus 682 
 
 ]hap. IX.— Diplomatic Negotiations between the 
 Courts of Spain and Portugal with respect to the 
 
 New Discoveries 684 
 
 Jbap. X.— Further Preparations for the second 
 Voyage. Character of Alonso de Ojeda. Dif- 
 ference of Columbus with Suria and Fonseca. . 686 
 
 )K VI 688 
 
 []hap. L— Departure of Columbus on his Second 
 Voyage. Discovery of the Caribbce Islands. . 688 
 
 Cbap. H.— Transactions at (he Island of Guada- 
 loupe 690 
 
 Cbap. UI.— Cruise among tbe Caribbee Islands. . 692 
 
 Cbap. IV.— Arrival at the Harbour of La Navidad. 
 Disaster of the Fortress 695 
 
 Cbap. V.- Transactions with the Natives. Suspi- 
 cions Conduct of Guacanagari 698 
 
 Cbap. VI.— Founding oftbeCityof Isabella. Mala- 
 dies of the Spaniards 700 
 
 Cbap. Vn.— Expedition of Alonso de Ojeda to ex- 
 plore the Interior of the Island. Despatch of the 
 Ships to Spain 702 
 
 Cbap. VIII.— Discontents at Isabella. Mutiny of 
 Bernal Diaz de Pisa 704 
 
 Chap. IX.— Expedition of Columbus to the Moun- 
 tains of Cibao 705 
 
 Chap. X.— Excursion of Juan de Luxan among the 
 Mountains. Customs and Characteristics of the 
 Natives. Columbus returns to Isabella. . . . 708 
 
 Cbap. XI.— Arrival of Columbusat Isabella. Sick- 
 ness of the Colony 712 
 
 Chap. XII. — Distribution of the Spanish Forces in 
 the Interior. Preparations for a Voyage to Cuba . 714 
 BOOK VII 715 
 
 Chap. I.— Voyage to the East End of Cuba. ... 715 
 
 Chap. II. — Discovery of Jamaica 716 
 
 Chap. III.— Return to Cuba. Navigation among 
 tbe Islands called the Queen's Gardens. . . . 718 
 
 Chap. IV.— Coasting of tbe Southern Side of Cuba. 7 1 9 
 
 Chap. V.— Return of Columbus along the Southern 
 Coast of Cuba 722 
 
 Chap. VI. — Coasting Voyage along the South Side 
 of Jamaica 724 
 
 Chap. VII.— Voyage along the South Side of Ilis- 
 paniola, and Return to Isabella 726 
 
 BOOK VIU 727 
 
 Chap. I.— Arrival of tbe Admiral at Isabella. Cha- 
 racter of Bartholomew Columbus 727 
 
 Cbap. XL— Misconduct of Don Pedro Margarite, 
 and bis Departure irom tbe Island 729 
 
 Chap. III. — ^Troubles with the Natives. Alonso de 
 Ojeda besieged by Caonabo 730 
 
 Chap. IV.— Measures of Columbus to restore the 
 quiet of tbe Island. Expedition of Ojeda to sur- 
 prise Caonabo 732 
 
 Chap. V. — Arrival of Antonio de Torres with four 
 Ships irom Spain. His return with Indian Slaves. 733 
 
 Chap. VI. - Expedition of Columbus against the In- 
 dians of the Vega. Battle 736 
 
 Chap. VII.— Subjugation of tbe Natives. Imposi- 
 tion of Tribute 738 
 
 Chap. VIII. — Intrigues against Columbus in the 
 Court of Spain. Aguado sent to investigate the 
 Affairs of Ilispaniola. 740 
 
 Cbap. IX. — Arrival of Aguadoat Isabella. His ar- 
 rogant Conduct. Tempest in the HarlMur. . 742 
 
 Chap. X.— Discovery of the Mines of Ilayna. . . 744 
 BOOK IX 746 
 
 Chap. I.— Return of Columbus toSpain with Agua- 
 do 746 
 
 Chap. II.— Decline of the Popularity of Columbus 
 in Spain. His reception by the Sovereigns at 
 Burgos. He proposes a Third Voyage. . . . 748 
 
 Chap. III.— Preparations for a Third Voyage. Dis- 
 appointments and Delays 7£0 
 
 BOOKX 753 
 
 Chav. I.— Departure of Columbus from Spain on 
 
 It 
 ii 
 
 ,1 
 

 '\ 
 
 • I i 
 
 I 
 
 
 11 
 
 X\ll 
 
 WJ»- 
 
 OONIENTS. 
 
 Ilia Third Voyano. DiscoTen of TrIiiWIad. . . "">.) 
 Chap. II.— Voyano lhr()ii);h llio (iiilf of I'nria. . 75(i 
 Chap. III.— ConliiuialioD of the Vuyai;c through 
 
 the Gulf of I'ariii. Itcturn to Ilispaniula. . . 75» 
 Chap. IV.— Speculations of Columbus concerning; 
 
 the Coast of Paria "61 
 
 BOOK XI 76J 
 
 Chap. I.— Administration of the Adclantado. Ex- 
 pedition to the Province of Xara^ua 'Pi 
 
 Chap. II.— Establishment of a Chain of Military 
 Posts. Insurrection of Guarioncx, the Cacique 
 
 of the Vega 767 
 
 Chap, irr.— The Adelantado repairs to Xaraguato 
 
 receive Tribute 769 
 
 Chap. IV.— Conspiracy of Roldan 77 1 
 
 Chap. V.— The Adclantado repairs to the Vega in 
 relief of Fort Conception. His Interview with 
 
 Roldan 772 
 
 Chap. VI.— Second Insurrection of Guarionex, and 
 
 his Flight to the Mountains of Cigiiay. . . . 774 
 Chap. VII.— Campaign of the Adelantado in the 
 
 Mountains of Ciguay 776 
 
 BOOK XII 778 
 
 Chap. I. — Confusion in Ilispaniola. Proceedings of 
 
 ilicKelielsalXaragua 778 
 
 Chap. II.— Negolialion of the Admiral with the He- 
 
 liels. Departure of Ships for Spain 780 
 
 Chap. HI. — Arrangement with the Rel)ols. . . 782 
 Chap. IV. — Another Mutiny of the Rebels; and Se- 
 cond Arrangement with them 78 i 
 
 Chap. V. — Grants made to Roldan and his Follow- 
 ers. DepartureofsevcraloftheRebelsforSpain. 786 
 Chap. VI.— Arrival of Ojeda with a Squadron at 
 the Western part of the Island. Roldan sent to 
 
 meet him 788 
 
 Chap. VII.— Manoeuvres of Roldan and Ojeda. . 789 
 Chap. VIII. — Conspiracy of Guevara and Moxira. 791 
 
 BOOK Xin 795 
 
 Chap. I. — Representations at Court against Colum- 
 bus. Bobadilla empowered to examine into his 
 
 Conduct . 
 
 Chap. II. — Arrival of Bobadilla at San Domingo. 
 
 His violent Assumption of the Command. . . 
 
 Chap. HI. — Columbus summoned to appear before 
 
 Bobadilla 
 
 CuAP. IV. — Columbusand his Brothers arrested and 
 
 sent to Spain in Chains 
 
 BOOK XIV 
 
 Chap. I.— Sensation in Spain on the Arrival of Co- 
 
 lumbiu in Imns. His appearance at Court. . . 802 
 Chap. II. — Contemporary Voyagesof Discovery. . 805 
 Chap. III.— Nicholas de Ovando appointed to su- 
 persede Bobadilla 805 
 
 Chap. IV. — Proposition of Columbus relative to the 
 
 Recovery of the Holy Sepulchre ' . 80S 
 
 Chap. V.— Preparations of Columbus for a Fourth 
 
 Voyage of Discovery 810 
 
 BOOK XV. . 812 
 
 Chap. I.— Departure of Columbus on his Fourth 
 Voyage. Refused Admission to the Harbour of 
 San Domingo. Exposed to a violent Tempest. 812 
 Chap. II.— Voyage along the Coast of Honduras. 814 
 Chap. HI.— Voyage along the Mosquito Coast, and 
 
 Transactions at Cariari 816 
 
 Chap. IV.— Voyage along" Costa Rica. Specula- 
 tions concerning the Istluniu; at Veragua. . . 818 
 Chap. V.— Discovery of Puerto Bello and El Reh-etc. 
 
 795 
 
 796 
 
 798 
 
 799 
 
 ^02 
 
 CulnmlNis alMiidons the Search after the Strait. 
 
 Chap. VI.— Return to Veragua. Tlie Adelantado 
 explores the country 
 
 Chap. VII. — Commencement of a Settlement on 
 the River Belen. Conspiracy of the Natives. 
 Expedition of the Adelantado to surprise Quibian. 
 
 Chap. VIII.— Disasters of the Settlement. . . . 
 
 Chap. IX.— Distress of the Admiral no board of his 
 Ship. Ultimate Relief of the Settlement. . . 
 
 Chap. X.— Departure fmm the Coast of Veragua. 
 
 Arrival at Jamaica. Stranding of the Ships. . 
 
 BOOK XVI 
 
 Chap. I.— Arrangement of l5iegoMondex with the 
 Caciques for Supplies of Provisions. Sent to San 
 Domingo by Columbus in quest of Relief. . . 
 
 Chap. H.— Mutiny of Porras 
 
 Chap. IH.— Scarcity of Provisions. Stratagem of 
 Columbus to obtain Supplies from the Natives. 
 
 Chap. IV.— Mission of Diego de Escobfir to the Ad- 
 miral 
 
 Chap. V. — Voyage of Diego Mendez and Bartho- 
 lomew Fiesco in a Canoe to Hispaniola. . . . 
 
 Chap. VI.— Overtures of Columbus to the Muti- 
 neers. Battle of the Adelantado with Porras and 
 
 his followers 
 
 BOOK XVII 
 
 Chap. I.— Administration of Ovando in Hispaniola. 
 Oppression of the natives 
 
 Chap. II.— Massacre at Xaragua. Fate of Ana- 
 caona 
 
 Chap. III.— War Avith the Natives of Higuey. . . 
 
 Chap. IV.— Close of the War with Higuey. Fate 
 
 of Cotabanama 
 
 BOOK XVIII 
 
 Chap. I.— Departure of Columbus for St Domingo. 
 His Return to Spain 
 
 Chap. H.- Illness of Columbus at Seville. Applica- 
 tion to the Crown for a Restitution of his Ho- 
 nours. Death of Isabella 
 
 CuAP. IH. — Columbus arrives at Court. Fruitless 
 Application to the King for Redress 
 
 Chap. IV.— Death of Columbus 
 
 Chap. V.— Observations on the Character of Co- 
 lumbus 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 No I.— Transportation of the Remains of Columbus 
 from St Domingo to the Uavanna 
 
 N'o H.— Account of the Descendants of Columbus. 
 
 NO ID .-Fernando Columbus 
 
 No IV.— Lineage of Columbus 
 
 No v.— Birth-place of Columbus 
 
 No VI.— The Colombos 
 
 No MI.— Expedition of John of Anjou 
 
 NO VIII.— Capture of the Venetian Galleys by Co- 
 lombo the Younger 
 
 No IX.— Amerigo Vespucci 
 
 No X.— Martin Alonso Pinion 
 
 No XI.— Rumour of the Pilot said to lAve died in the 
 House of Columbus 
 
 No Xn.— Martin Behem 
 
 N'oXIH.-Voyages of the Scandinavians 
 
 No XIV.— Circumnavigation of Africa by the Ancients. 
 
 No XV.— Of the Ships of Cohunbus 
 
 No XVI.— Route of Columbus in his First Voyage. 
 
 No XVII.— Principles upon which the Sums mention- 
 ed in this Work have been reduced into modem 
 Currency 
 
 Kt 
 
 821 
 
 8S 
 
 &->) 
 
 
 X\ III.— Marco Polo. 
 aiX.-Thc Work of N 
 > XX.— Sir John Mandi 
 XXI.— The Zones. 
 < XXII .—Of the Atalanii 
 g2i • XXIII.— The imaginai 
 Xj; » XXI v.— The Island of 
 • XXV. — Discovery ofth 
 » XXVI.— Las Casas. 
 XXVII. -Peter Martyr. 
 "XXVIIl.— Oviedo. 
 
 VOYAGES A 
 
 8,32 LOXSO DE OJEDA, hi 
 
 $5j 
 
 
 
 HE WAS ACCOMPANIED B 
 
 Tjap. I. — SomeAccoun 
 
 Cusa. Of Amerigo V< 
 
 the Voyage.— (A. D. 
 CuiP. II. — Departure fn 
 
 Coast of Paria. Cust( 
 Cinp. 111.— Coasting of 
 
 ppjilion of Ojeda. 
 Cbap. IV.— Discovery ol 
 
 Transactions tiicre. 
 
 Penetrates to ^laracail 
 Chip. V. Prosecution c 
 
 Spain. 
 EDRO A. NINO aud CB 
 ICENTE YANEZ PINZ 
 IIEGO DE LEPE AND 
 iLONSO DE OJEDA, se 
 LONSO DE OJEDA, tii 
 Cbap. I.— Ojeda applies 
 
 rival Candidate in Die( 
 
 (1509) 
 
 Cbap. II.— Fend betwe 
 
 Ojeda and Nicuesa. 
 Cbap. HI.— Exploits and 
 
 Coast of Carthagena. 
 
 de la Cosa. . . . 
 Cbap. IV.— Arrival of N 
 
 on the Indians. . . 
 Chap. V.— Ojeda founds 
 
 lian. Beleaguered b; 
 Chap. VI.— Alonso de ( 
 
 vages to have a charm 
 
 to try the fact. . . 
 Chap. VII.— Arrival of i 
 
 bastion 
 
 Chap. VHI.— Factions ii 
 
 tionmade. . . . 
 Chap. IX. — Disastrous ^ 
 
 rate Ship 
 
 Cbap. X.— Toilsome Ma 
 
 panions through the i 
 Chap. XL— Ojeda pcrfa 
 Chap. XIL— Arrival of ( 
 
 ceplion by Juan de I 
 Chap. XIII.— Arrival o 
 
 Domingo. Conclusia 
 DIEGO DE NICUESA. 
 Chap. I. — Nicuesa sails 
 
 Shipwreck and subseq 
 Chap. II. — Nicuesa am 
 
 Island 
 
 Oup. III.— Arrival of a 
 
 
Kit 
 
 821 
 
 82? 
 
 829 
 
 831 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXill 
 
 XVIII.— Marco Pok) 
 
 XIX.— The Work of Marco Polo 
 
 I XX.— Sir John Mandeville 
 
 • XXI.— The Zones 
 
 • XKII— or Ihc Atalanlwof Plato 
 
 gjl • XXIII.— The imaginary Idand of St Brandan. 
 
 »XXIV.— The Island of the Seven Cilies. . . . 
 
 • XXV.— Discovery of the Island of Madeira. . . 
 
 « XXVI.— Las Casa» 
 
 "XXVlI.-I'eler Martyr 
 
 • XXVIII.— Oviedo 
 
 901 
 9<)i 
 94)6 
 90(i 
 9(t7 
 90S 
 911 
 »ll 
 913 
 9l(i 
 918 
 
 N» XXrX.— Cura de Log Palaciot 919 
 
 N* XXX.—" Navigutione del Re de Castiglia delie 
 Isolec Paese nuovamenteHitroTate;"— " Navi- 
 
 Ratio Chri«lophori ColomU." 9I9 
 
 N» XXXI.— Antonio de lierrera 920 
 
 ?;» y.XXII.— Bishop Fonscca 920 
 
 No XXXIII.— Of the Situation of the Teireatrial Pa- 
 radise 922 
 
 NO XXXIV.— W ill of Columbus 92t 
 
 No XXXV.— Signature of Columbus 92K 
 
 I.tiDiix 929 
 
 VOYAGES AND DISCOVERIES OF THE COxMPANlONS OF COLUMBUS. 
 
 853 
 
 8-,ll 
 
 83! 
 
 iV 
 
 81 
 U 
 
 U 
 
 ^34 LONSO DE OJEDA, his riasr voyage, ik vtuica 
 
 us HKn^s AccojiPANieD Bv AvEBico Vegpucci. . . 943 
 
 CsAP. I. — Some Account of Ojcda. Of Juan de la 
 Cosa. Of Amerigo Vespucci. Preparations for 
 the Voyage.— (A. D. 1499.) 9'i'i 
 
 CuiP. II. — Departure from Spain. Arrival on the 
 Coast of Paria. Customs of the Natives. . . 916 
 
 Chap. 111.— Coasting of Terra Finna. Military Ex- 
 pedition of Ojcda 946 
 
 CuAP. 1\.— Discovery of the Gulf of Venezuela. 
 Transactions there. Ojcda explores the Gulf. 
 Ponelrates toMaracaibo 947 
 
 Cbap. V. Prosecution of the Voyage. Return to 
 Spain 948 
 
 EDRO A. NINO akd CHRIS. GUERRA. ... 949 
 
 ICENTE YANEZ PINZON 9-i0 
 
 IIEGO DE LEPE AND R. DE BASITDES. . . 933 
 
 lOXSO DE OJEDA, skcond voyacb 935 
 
 LONSO DE OJEDA, thibd vovacb 956 
 
 Cbap. I.— Ojeda applies for a Command. Has a 
 rival Candidate in Diego de Nicuesa. His success 
 (1509) 956 
 
 Chap. II. — Feud between the Rival Governors 
 Ojeda and Nicuesa. A Challenge 937 
 
 Cbap. UI.— Exploits and Disasters of Ojeda on the 
 Coast of Carthagena. Fate of the veteran Juan 
 de la Cosa 939 
 
 CoiP. IV. — Arrival of Nicuesa. Vengeance taken 
 on the Indians 961 
 
 Cbap. V.— Ojeda founds the Colony of San Sebas- 
 tian. Beleaguered by the Indians 962 
 
 Cbap. VI. — Alonso de Ojeda supposed by the Sa- 
 vages to have a charmed life. Their experiment 
 to try the fact 963 
 
 Cbap. VII.— Arrival of a Strange Ship at San Se- 
 bastian 963 
 
 Cbap. VHT.- Factions in the Cdony. A Conven- 
 tion made 964 
 
 Chap. IX. — Disastrous Voyage of Ojeda in the Pi- 
 raleShip 965 
 
 Chap. X.— Toilsome March of Ojeda and his Com- 
 panions through the morasses of Cuba. . . . 963 
 
 Cbap. XI.— Ojeda performs his Vow to the Virgin. 966 
 
 Chap. XII.— Arrival of Ojeda at Jamaica. His Re- 
 ception by Juan de Esquibel 967 
 
 Chap. XIII.— Arrival of Alonso de Ojeda at San 
 
 Domingo. Conclusion of his story 967 
 
 DIEGO DE NICUESA 968 
 
 Chap. I. — Nicuesa sails to the Westward. His 
 Shipwreck and subsequent Disasters 968 
 
 Cbap. II. — Nicuesa and bis men on a desolate 
 
 Island 970 
 
 91 Cbap. III.— Arrival of a Boat. Conduct of Lope de 
 
 «0 
 
 83 
 
 83 
 
 83 
 81 
 
 s; 
 
 8S 
 
 Olano 970 
 
 Chap. IV.— Nicuesa rejoins bis Crews 971 
 
 Chap. V.— Sufferings of Nicuesa and his men on 
 the Coast of the Isthmus 971 
 
 CuAP. VI.— Expedition of the Bachelor Euciso in 
 search oftheSeatof (Government of Ojeda. . . 972 
 
 Chap. VII.— The Bachelor hears unwelcome Tid- 
 ings of his destined Jurisdiction 974 
 
 Chap. VIII. — Crusade of the Bachelor Enciso 
 against the Sepulchres of Zenu 974 
 
 Chap. IX.— The Bachelor arrives at San Sebastian. 
 His Disasters there, and sultsequent Exploits at 
 Darien 973 
 
 Chap. X.— The Bachelor Enciso undertakes the 
 Command. His Downfal 976 
 
 Chap. XI.— Perplexities at the Colony. Arrival 
 ofColmenares 970 
 
 Chap. XII. — Colmenares goes in quest of Nicuesa. 977 
 
 Chap. XIII. — Catastrophe of the unfortunate Ni- 
 cuesa 978 
 
 VASCO NUNEZ DE BALBOA, discovibxr of tbb 
 
 Pacific Ocean 979 
 
 Chap. I.— Factions at Darien. Vasco Nunez ele- 
 vated to the Command 979 
 
 Chap. II. — Expedition to Coyba. Vasco Nufiez re- 
 ceives the daughter of a Cacique as hostage. . 980 
 
 Cuap. III.— Vasco Nunez hears of a Sea beyond 
 the Mountains 981 
 
 Chap. IV.— Expedition of Vasco Nunez in quest of 
 the Golden Temple of Dobayba 983 
 
 Cuap. V.— Disaster on the Black River. Indian 
 Plot against Darien 984 
 
 Cuap. VI. — ^Further Factions in the Colony. Ar- 
 rogance of Alonso Perez and the Bachelor Corral. 985 
 
 Chap. VII. — Vasco Nunez determines to seek the 
 Sea l)eyond the Mountains 987 
 
 Chap. VIII.— Expedition in quest of the Southern 
 Sea 987 
 
 Chap. IX.— Discovery of the Paciflc Ocean. . . 989 
 
 Chap, X. — Vasco Nuiiez marches to the Shores of 
 the South Sea 990 
 
 Chap. XI.— Adventures of Vasco Nunez on the 
 borders of the Pacific Ocean 991 
 
 Chap. XII. — Further Adventures and Exploits of 
 Vasco Nuiiez on the t)orders of the PaciOc Ocean. 992 
 
 Chap. XIII. — Vasco Nrniez sets out on his Return 
 across the Mountains. His Contests with the Sa- 
 
 995 
 
 Chap. XIV. — Enterprise against Tubanamft the 
 warlike Cacique of the Mountains. Return to 
 Darien 994 
 
 Chap. XV.— Transactions in Spain. Pedrarias Da- 
 vilaappointedto the Command of Darien. Tid- 
 
XXIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 it 
 
 ings receiTed in Spaia of the Discovery of the 
 Pacific Ocean 996 
 
 Ciur. XVI.— Arrival and Rrand Entry of Don Pe- 
 drarias Davila into Daricn 998 
 
 CiiAP. XVII.— Perfidious Conduct of Don Pedra- 
 rias towards Vasco >ufiez 999 
 
 Chap. XVIII.— Calamities of the Spanish Cavaliers 
 at Darien lOflO 
 
 Chap. XIX.— Fruitless Expedition of Pedrarias. 1001 
 
 CuAP. XX.— Second Expedition of Vasco INuiiez in 
 quest of the Golden Temple of DolKiylM. . . lOOt 
 
 Chap. XXI.— Letters from the King in favour of 
 Vasco NuKez. Arrival of Gabarito. Arrest of 
 Vasco Nunez 1002 
 
 Chap. XXII. — Expedition of Morales and Pizarro 
 to the shores of the Pacific Ocean. Their Visit to 
 the Pearl Islands. Their disastrous Return across 
 the Mountains 1003 
 
 Chap. XXIII.— Unfortunate Enterprises of the 
 Officers of Pedrarias. Matrimonial Compact 
 l)etween the Governor and Vasco Nunez. . . IflOG 
 Chap. XXIV.— Vasco Nunez transports Ships across 
 
 the Mountains to the Pacific Ocean 1007 
 
 Chap. XXV.— Cruise of Vaseo Nunez to the South- 
 prnSea. Rumours from Ada * . 1008 
 
 Chap. XXVI.— Reconnoitring Expedition of Ga- 
 rabito. Stratagem of Pedrarias to entrap Vasco 
 Nuiiez 1008 
 
 Cbap. XXVII.— Vasco Nuiiez and the Astrologer. 
 
 His return to Ada 
 
 Chap. XXVUI.— Trial of Vasco Nunez. . . . 
 Chap. XXIX.— Execution of Vasco Nuiiez. . . 
 
 VALDIVIA AND HIS Companions 
 
 MICERCODRO, the Astrologer 
 
 JUAN PONCE DE LEON, CoKQUkBOB op Pobto 
 
 Rico, and discovebeb op Flohiiia 
 
 Chap. I.— Reconnoitring Expedition of Juan 
 
 Ponce de Leon to the Island of Boriquen. 
 Chap. II.— Juan Ponce aspires to theGovernment 
 
 of Porto Rico 
 
 Chap. III.— Juan Ponce rules with a strong hand. 
 
 Exasperation of the Indians. Their experiment 
 
 to prove whether the Spaniards were mortal. . 
 Chap. IV —Conspiracy of the Caciques. Fate of 
 
 Sotomayor 
 
 Chap. V.— War of Juan Ponce with the Cacique 
 
 Agueyliand 
 
 Chap. VI. — Juan Ponce de Leon hears of a won- 
 derful Counti y and miraculous Fountain. . . 
 Chap. VII. — Cruise of Juan Ponce de Leon in 
 
 search of the Fountain of Youth 
 
 Chap. VIII.— Expedition of Juan Ponce against 
 
 the Caribs. Ilis Death 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 A Visrr to Paios 
 
 Manifesto OP Alonso DE Ojeda 
 
 101 
 
 101 
 
 lUI 
 
 m 
 
 102 
 
 t02 
 
 A CHRONICLE OF THE CONQUEST OF GRANADA. 
 
 iNTBODUCTIOn 1053 
 
 Chap. I.— Of the kingdom of Granada, and the 
 tribute which it paid to the Castilian crown. . 1033 
 
 Chap. II.— How the Catholic Sovereigns sent to 
 demand arrears of tribute from the Moor, and 
 how the Moor replied 1033 
 
 Chap. IU.— How the. Moor determined to strike 
 the first blow in the war 1036 
 
 €hap. IV.— Expedition of Aluley Aben Hassan 
 against the fortress of Zahara 1037 
 
 Chap. V.— Expedition of the Marquis of Cadiz 
 against Alhama 1038 
 
 Chap. VI.— How the people of Granada were af- 
 fected on hearing of the capture of Alhama, and 
 how the Moorish Kin|r sallied forth to regain it. lOil 
 
 Chap. VIL— How the Duke of Medina Sidouia and 
 the chivalry of Andalusia hastened to the relief of 
 Alhama »0«3 
 
 Chap. VIIL— Sequel of the events at Alhama. . <0S3 
 
 Chap. IX.— Events at Granada, and rise of the 
 Moorish King Boabdil d Chico 1016 
 
 Chap. X.— Royal expedition against Loxa. . . iOiS 
 
 Chap. XI.— How Mulcy Abeu Hassan made a foray 
 into the lauds of Medina Sidonia, and how ho 
 was received lOSO 
 
 Chap. XII.— Foray of theSpanish cavaliers among 
 the mountains of Malaga 1033 
 
 Cbap. XIII.— Effects of the disasters among the 
 mountains of Malaga 1037 
 
 Chap. XIV.— How King Boabdil el Chico marched 
 over the border t038 
 
 Chap. XV.— How the Count de Cabra sallied forth 
 tram his cattle, in «|awtt of King Boalidil. . . 1039 
 
 Cbap. XVf.— The battle of Luoena 1061 
 
 Chap. XVII.— Lamentations of the Moors for the 
 
 battle of Lucena 
 
 Chap. XVIII. — How Muley AImju Hassan profited 
 by the misforiunes.of his son Boal)dil. . . . 
 
 Chap. XIX.— Captivity of Boabdil d Chico. . . 
 
 Chap. XX.— Of the treatment of Boabdil by the 
 Castilian Sovereigns 
 
 Chap. XXL— Return of Boabdil from captivity. . 
 
 Chap. XXU.— Foray of the Moorish alcaydcs, and 
 battle of Lopera 
 
 Chap. XXIII.— Retreatofllametel Zegri.alcayde 
 of Ronda 
 
 Chap. XXIV. — Of the high and ceremonious re- 
 ception at court of the Count de Cabra and the 
 alcayde de los Donzeles 
 
 Chap. XXV.— How the Marquis of Cadiz concerted 
 to surprise Zahara, and the result of his enter- 
 prise 
 
 Chap. XXVI.- Of the forlj-ew of Alhama j and 
 how wisely it was governed by the Count dc 
 Tendilla 
 
 Chap. XXVIL— Foray of Christian knights into 
 the territories of the Moors 
 
 Chap. XXVIIL— Attempt of El Zagal to surprise 
 Boabdil in Almeria 
 
 Chap. XXIX.— How King Ferdinand commenced 
 another campaign against the Moors, and how 
 ho laid siege to Coin and Cartama 
 
 Chap. XXX.— Siege of Ronda 
 
 Chap. XXXL— How the people of Granada invit- 
 ed El Zagal to the throne ; and how he marched 
 to the capital 
 
 Chap. XXXIL— How the Count do Cabra attempt- 
 ed to rapture another king, and how ho fared 
 in his attejnpt. 
 
 Chap. XXXlII.-E.xpediliou against the Caslli-s of 
 
 lOi 
 
 (01 
 
 id; 
 
 lo; 
 
 lo; 
 
 m 
 
 im 
 
 Cambil and Atliahai 
 Chap. XXXIV.— Ente 
 
 lalrava against Zaie 
 Cbap. XXXV.— Death 
 Cbap. XXXVI.— Of th 
 
 sembled at the city 
 Cbap. XXXVIL— Hov 
 
 out in Granada, and 
 
 to allay them. . 
 Cbap. XXXVUI.-Ho 
 
 council of war at the 
 Cbap. XXXIX.— How 
 
 Itefore the city of Lox 
 
 and ofthc doughty a 
 
 carl 
 
 Chap. XL.— Conclusio 
 Chap. XLI. — Capture < 
 Chap. XLII.-Of the a 
 
 the camp before Mocl 
 
 of the English carl. 
 Chap. XLIII.-How 
 
 Moclin, and of thest 
 
 its capture. . . . 
 Chap. XLIV.— How K 
 
 vuga;andofthefateo 
 Cbap. XLV.— Attempt 
 
 Boal)dil; and how the 
 Chap. XLVI.— How B 
 
 Granada ; and how h( 
 Chap. XLVIL— How 
 
 to Vdez Malaga. . 
 Chap. XLVIII— How 
 
 army were exposed 
 
 Velez Iklalaga. . . 
 Chap. XHX.— Result c 
 
 to surprise King Fci 
 Chap. L. — How the pe 
 
 the valour of El Zaga 
 Cbap. LL— Surrender 
 
 places 
 
 Chap. LIL— Of the cit 
 
 ants 
 
 Chap, LIIL— Advance 
 
 Malaga 
 
 Cn»p. LIV.— Siege of 1 
 Cn.ip. LV.-Siege of I 
 
 nacy of Ilamet el Z 
 Chap. LVL— Attack of 
 
 (tibralfaro. . . . 
 Chap. LVII. -Siege ol 
 
 tagems of various kii 
 Chap. LVIIL— Sufferi 
 Chap. LIX.— How a 1 
 
 lo deliver the city of 
 
 its enemies, . . . 
 Chap. LX.— How Han 
 
 ill his olwtinacy by tl 
 
 loger 
 
 Chip. LXI. -Siege of] 
 
 Hon of a tower by 
 
 drid 
 
 Chap. LXII.-How th 
 
 tulated with Ilamet c 
 Chap. LXIII.-How II 
 
 with the lacrcd bann 
 
 ramp 
 
 Chap. LXI V. -How tl« 
 
im 
 
 >z. . , 
 
 toi 
 
 • 
 
 Ifll 
 
 . . . 
 
 101 
 
 F POBTO 
 
 
 . 
 
 toi 
 
 sr Juan 
 
 
 n. 
 
 toi 
 
 ernmcnt 
 
 
 • • 
 
 101 
 
 ig band. 
 
 
 ^eriment 
 
 
 aortal. . 
 
 lUI 
 
 Fate of 
 
 
 . • 
 
 toi 
 
 Cacique 
 
 
 . • . 
 
 m 
 
 »f a won- 
 
 
 iii. . . 
 
 m 
 
 Leon in 
 
 
 . . . 
 
 102 
 
 against 
 
 
 • 
 
 102 
 
 . 
 
 102 
 
 
 (02 
 
 . . 
 
 lo; 
 
 ... toe 
 
 profltcd 
 
 . . . m 
 o. . . loe 
 I Ity tlic 
 
 . . "loe 
 
 vity. . 106 
 des, and 
 . . . lOCi 
 atcayde 
 
 . . . lo;, 
 
 ious re- 
 aud the 
 
 . . lo;; 
 
 tnccrted 
 B cnler- 
 
 . . fo: 
 la; and 
 mnt dc 
 
 . . mi 
 
 lits into 
 
 . . (O'l 
 lurprise 
 
 . . tOI! 
 incnced 
 [id how 
 
 . . m 
 . . m 
 
 a invit- 
 lorcticd 
 
 , . I 
 ttenipl- 
 a fared 
 
 isiii>8 or 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XXV 
 
 Cambil and Albahar 1088 
 
 Cii»p. XXXIV.— Enterprise of the knights of Ca- 
 lalrava against Zaiea 1090 
 
 Cbap. XXXV.— Deatli of old MuIeyAI)en Hassan. 1091 
 
 CstP. XXXVI. — Of the Cliristian array, which as- 
 sembled at the city of Cordo?a t092 
 
 Chap. XXXVII. — How fresh commotions broke 
 out in Granada, and how the people undertook 
 toallaythem 1094 
 
 CaiP. XXXVUI.— How King Ferdinand hcla a 
 council of war at the Rock of the Lovers. . . 1095 
 
 Caip. XXXIX.— How the royal army appeared 
 Iwfore thecity of Loxa, and how it was received, 
 and of the doughty achievements of the English 
 carl 1096 
 
 Chap. XL.— Conclusions of the siege of Loxa. . 1098 
 
 Chap. XLL— Capture of Illora <099 
 
 Chap. XLII.— Of the arrival of Queen Isabella at 
 the camp before Moclin, and the pleasant sayings 
 of the Enjilisli carl 1099 
 
 Chap. XLIII.-IIow King Ferdinand attacked 
 Moclin, and of the strange events that attended 
 its capture KOI 
 
 Chap. XLIV. — How King Ferdinand foraged the 
 vega ; and of the fa te of the two Moorish brothers. { 1 02 
 
 Chap. XLV.— Attempt of El Zagal upon the life of 
 Boalidil; and how the latter was roused to action. 1 104 
 
 Chap. XLVI.— How BoalKlil returned secretly to 
 Granada; and how he was received It 03 
 
 Chap. XLVIL— How King Ferdinand laid siege 
 to Veicz Malaga 1106 
 
 Chap. XLVIII. —How King Ferdinand and his 
 army were exposed to imminent peril before 
 Velez Malaga 1109 
 
 Chap. XLIX.— Result of the stratagem of El Zagal 
 to surprise King Fci-dinand III! 
 
 Chap. L. — How the people of Granada rewarded 
 the valour of El Zagal ; . 1112 
 
 Chap. LL— Surrender of VelezMalaga, and other 
 places 1113 
 
 Chap. LII. — Of the city of Malaga and its inhabits 
 ants 1114 
 
 Chap. LIIL— Advance of King Ferdinand against 
 Malaga 1116 
 
 Chap. LIV.— Siege of Malaga 1117 
 
 CuAP. LV.-Siege of Malaga continued. Obsti- 
 nacy of Hamet el Zcgri 1118 
 
 Chap. LVI.— Attack of the Marquis of Cadiz upon 
 (iihralfaro 1119 
 
 Chap, LVII.— Siege of Malaga continued. Stra- 
 tagems of various kinds 1120 
 
 Chap. LVllL— Sufferingsofthe peopleofMalaga. 1121 
 
 Chap. LIX.— How a Moorish santon imdortook 
 to deliver the city of Malaga from the power of 
 ils enemies (122 
 
 Chap. LX.— How Hamet el Zegri was hardened 
 in his obstinacy by the arts of a Moorish astro- 
 loger 1124 
 
 Chap. LXL— Siege of Malaga continued. Destruc- 
 tion of a tower by Francisco Romirez de Ma- 
 drid 1123 
 
 Chap. LXII.— How the people of Malaga expos- 
 tulated with Hamet el Zegri 1123 
 
 Chap. LXIII.— How Hamet el Zegil sallied forth, 
 with the sacred banner, to attack the Chrbtian 
 romp 1126 
 
 Chap. LXIV.~Uow thocily ofMalaga capitulated. 1 128 
 
 Cbap. LXV.— FalfUment of the prophecy of the 
 dervise. Fate of Hamet el Zegri 1129 
 
 CBiP. LXVI.— How the Gastilian Sovereigns took 
 possession of the city of Malaga, and bow King 
 Ferdinand signalised himself by hit skill in bar- 
 gaining with the inhabitants for their ransom. 1130 
 
 Chap. LXVII. — How KingFerdinand prepared to 
 carry the war into a different part of the territo- 
 ries of the Moors 1132 
 
 Chap. t.XVIIL— HowKingFerdinandinvadedtbe 
 eastern side of the kingdom of Granada ; and how 
 be was received by El Zagal (133 
 
 Chap. LXIX. — How the Moors made various en- 
 terprises against the Christians 1133 
 
 Chap. LXX.— How King Ferdinand prepared to 
 besiege the city of Baza,- and how the city pre- 
 pared for defence I(3(t 
 
 CuAP. LXXI.— The battle of the gardens before 
 Baza 1137 
 
 CuAP. LXXII. — Siege of Baza. Embarrassment 
 of the army 1139 
 
 Chap. LXXIII.— Siege of Baza continued. How 
 King Ferdinand completely invested Uie city . . II 40 
 
 Chap. LXXIV.— Exploit of Hernando Perez del 
 Pulgar, and other cavaliers 1141 
 
 Cbap. LXX v.— Continuation of the siege of Baza. 1 1 42 
 
 CuAP. LXXVI.— How two friars arrived at the 
 camp, and how they came from the Holy Land. I i 43 
 
 Chap. LXXVIL— How Queen Isabella devised 
 means to supply the army with provisions. . . 1143 
 
 Chap. LXXVIIL— Of the disasters which bcfcl the 
 camp 1146 
 
 Chap. LXXIX.— Encounter between the Chris- 
 tians and Moors before Baza ; and the devotion of 
 the inhabitants to the defence of the city. . . 1147 
 
 Chap. LXXX. — How Queen Isabella arrives at the 
 camp; and the consequcncesoflierarrival. . . II4K 
 
 CuAP. LXXXI.— Surrender of Baza 1149 
 
 Chap. LXXXII.— Submission of El Zagal to the 
 Castilian Sovereigns ll.lil 
 
 Chap. LXXXIII.— Events at Gt-anada subsequent 
 to the submission of El Zagal 1IS2 
 
 Chap. LXXXIV.— How King Ferdinand turned 
 his hostilities against the city of Granada . . . 1 1 54 
 
 Chap. LXXXV.— The Fate of the castle of Roma. 1133 
 
 Chap. LXXXVI.— How Boabdil el Chico took the 
 field ; and his expedition against Alhendin. . . 1136 
 
 Chap. LXXXVII.— Exploit of the Count do Ten- 
 dilla II.W 
 
 Chap. LXXXVIII.— Expedition of Boabdil el Chi- 
 co against Salobrcfia. Exploit of Hernando 
 Perez del Pulgar 113!) 
 
 Chap. LXXXIX.— How King Ferdinand i>f;»?ed 
 the people of Guadix, and how El Zagal finish- 
 ed his royal career 1161 
 
 Chap. XC— Preparations of Granada for a des- 
 perate defence 1162 
 
 Chap. XCI. — How King Ferdinand con lucted the 
 siege cautiously, and how Queen Isabella arrived 
 at the camp 1161 
 
 Chap. XCIL— Of the insolent dennncf ofTarfo, 
 the Moor, and the daring exploit of Hernaujo 
 Perez del Pulgar <|6{ 
 
 Chap. XCIII.-How Queen Isabella took a vietv 
 of the city of Granada, and how hci- curiosity 
 cost the lives of many Christians and Mooi-s. 1 IC3 
 
 Chap. XCIV. — CocUagrutiou of the .Christian 
 
xxvi CONTENTS. 
 
 camp 
 
 Chap. XCV.—Tbe last ravage before Granada. 
 Chap. XGVI.— Building of the city of Santa Fi 
 
 Despair of the Moors 
 
 Chap. XCVII.— Capihilation ofGranada. . . 
 Chap. XCVIU.— Commotions in Granada. . 
 
 CoAP. XCIX.— Surrender ofGranada. 
 
 1167 
 1168 
 
 1169 
 1170 
 <I72 
 1175 
 
 Cbap. C— How the Castilian Sovereigns toolc pos- 
 session of Granada li;i 
 
 APPENDIX 1175 
 
 FateofBoabdilEIChico |i7j 
 
 Death of the Marquis of Cadiz H76 
 
 The legend of the death of Don AlonsodeAguilar. . 117/ 
 
 THE ALHAMBRA. 
 
 TheJonmey 1185 
 
 Government of the Alhambra 1189 
 
 Interior of the Alhambra 1190 
 
 The Tower of Comares 1192 
 
 Reflections on the Moslem Domination in Spain. . 1 194 
 
 The Household 1195 
 
 The Truant 1196 
 
 The Author's Chamber 1 197 
 
 The Alhambra by Moonlight 1199 
 
 Inhabitante of the Alhambra 1200 
 
 The Court of Lions 1201 
 
 Boabdil el Chico 1205 
 
 Mementos of Boabdil 1204 
 
 TlieBalcony 1203 
 
 The Adventure of the Mason 1207 
 
 A Ramble among the Hills 1208 
 
 {.oical Traditions 1211 
 
 The House of the Weathercock 1212 
 
 Legend of the Arabian Astrologer (212 
 
 The Tower of Las Infantas 12|8 
 
 Legend of the Three Beautiful Princesses. . . . <2I9 
 
 Visitors to the Alhambra J226 
 
 Legend ofthePrinceAhmedalKamcI; or, the Pilgrim 
 
 ofLove 1228 
 
 Legend of the Moor's Legacy 1239 
 
 Legend of the Rose of the Alhambra ; or, the Page 
 
 and the Ger-Falcon i2i(j 
 
 The Veteran t2.il 
 
 The Governor and the Notary J2,")| 
 
 Governor Manco and the Soldier J2o» 
 
 Legend of the two Discreet Statues 1259 
 
 Muhamcd Abu Alahmar |2e,"> 
 
 Yusef Abul Uagig lofiif 
 
 m 
 
 
 ■^''■ 
 
 ^■^■,; 
 
 PUBLISH! 
 
 Tat volumes now laid b< 
 tst writings of an Americ 
 ma, who has lately attrac 
 ime of Geoffrey Crayon, 
 Bracebridge-Uail," and 
 few-York." 
 The first of these works, ' 
 men and manners, geuer 
 elic.and sometimes shade 
 srlraying some of the mos 
 t that have fallen under tl 
 Europe. 
 
 The second, Bbacebbidg 
 Dolinuation of the former, 
 terwoven with the bislor 
 Ki'cut gentry in Yorkshire 
 the other work. The esi 
 orately finished as Uiosc ii 
 as originally published at 
 imposed of only three or I 
 De another, and requiring 
 Mpletc in itself. In Bha 
 tars to have had morn regi 
 roducing effect as a whole 
 rought out by simple tou 
 lereiy to give a dramatic i 
 ons. The papers, there 
 ombination, a morn interc: 
 {greater unity of object. 
 The third, Kkcickerbockei 
 lineal work, in which thi 
 resent day are humorously 
 >!od( somewhat after the I 
 igs) in the grotesque cost 
 isis, who originally settled 
 cw-York. The scene is I 
 iprcinlly directed to that y 
 irronces in the history of 1 
 le mcnsures pursued by it 
 itr, is aimed at human cl 
 Mfore be generally felt. 
 
SALMAGUNDI: 
 
 OR, THR 
 
 lDI)im-iDI)am0 anii ©pinian^ 
 
 OF 
 
 LAUiVGELOT LANGSTAFF, ESQ. 
 
 AND OTHERS. 
 
 In hoc est hoax, cum quiz et jokesez, 
 Et smokem, toastem, roastem folkscz. 
 
 Fee, faw, fum. Psalmanasar. 
 
 With baked, and broil'd, and stcw'd, and toasted, 
 And fried, and buil'd, and smoked, and roasted, 
 
 We treat the town. 
 
 PUBLISHER'S NOTICE. 
 
 Tbe volumes now laid before the Public contain the car- 
 tst writings of an American gentleman, Mr Washington 
 mo, who has lately attracted attention under the assumed 
 ime of Geoffrey Crayon, author of " The Sketch Book," 
 Braccbridge-llall," and " Knickerbocker's History of 
 ew-York." 
 
 The first of these vorks. The Sketch Book, exhibits views 
 men and manners, generally humorous, occasionally pa- 
 «lic, and sometimes shaded with a dash of misty antiquity ; 
 orlraying some of the most striking scenes of picturesque 
 fe that have fallen under the author's eye, in America and 
 Europe. 
 
 The second, BaAGEBBincE-Hut, may be considered a 
 Dotinuation of the former. It consists of similar sketches, 
 iterwoven with the history of an old-fashioned family of 
 Kicnt gentry in Yorkshire, who play a considerable part 
 the other work. The essays, individually, are not so ela- 
 oratcly finished as Ihosein "The Sketch Book;" ^Mi,tx 
 as originally published at New- York, in numbers, each 
 Moposcd of only three or four articles, disconnected with 
 ne another, and requiring, therefore, that each should be 
 uplete in itself. In Bhacebridue-IIall, the author ap- 
 earsto have had mort^ regard to a general plan, and to the 
 roducing effect as a whole. The characters arc gradually 
 ruu|;iit out by simple touches, and are often introduced 
 lerely to give a dramatic interest to the author's specnla- 
 Thc papers, therefc-re, have a more harmonious 
 mbination, a more interesting relation to each otl:er, and 
 greater unity of object. 
 
 The Ihii-d, Knickehbocker's New-York, is n whimsical and 
 ilirical work, in which the peculiarities and follies of the 
 tfseut day are humorously depicted in the |)crsous, and ar- 
 i;cd( somewhat after the ludicrous style of Flemish paint- 
 igs) in the grotes(|ue costume of the aniiient Dutch colo- 
 isls, who originally settled and founded the present city of 
 icff-York. The scone is local, and the ap|)lication more 
 ijioclally directed to that particular city, and lo r«>cent oc- 
 irrenccs in the history of the United Slates, together with 
 le measures pursued by its government : the satire, how- 
 <tt, is aimed at human character and conduct, and may 
 nvforo be generally felt. 
 
 The papers contained in the following pages, under the 
 title of SALMAGUNni, were the joint production of Mr Wash- 
 ington Ibvino, and Mr James K. Paulding, with the excep- 
 tion of the poetry, and some sketches and hints for a few of 
 the essays, which were furnished by a third hand. The 
 authors were all natives of New-York. The work appear- 
 ed in numbers, which were written for mere amusement, 
 and with little heed, by very young men, who did not expect 
 that they would have more than a transient and local cur- 
 rency. An original work, however, and one treating of 
 national scenes and manners, was, at that time, so great a 
 rarity in America as to attract general attention. It was 
 received with great welcome, underwent numerous repu- 
 blications, and has continued in popular circulation ever 
 since. 
 
 The present edition has been submitted to the revision of 
 one of the authors, who, at first, contemplated making es- 
 sential alterations. On further consideration, however, he 
 contented himself with correcting merely a few of what he 
 termed the most glaring errors and flippancies, and judged 
 it best to leave the evident juvenility of the work to plead its 
 own apology. 
 
 The first number was originally introduced with the fol- 
 lowing whimsical notice, which has been dropped in suIh 
 sequont American editions. The commencing paragraph 
 is probably by the authors; the latter one is evidently by the 
 publisher, David Longworth, an eccentric booksillcr, who 
 hiid filled a large (tpartment with the valuable engravings of 
 " Boydell's Slidkspeare Gallery," magnificently framwl, ond 
 had nearly obscured the front of his house with a huge sign, 
 —a colossal painting, in rhiaro sruro, of the ci'owning of 
 Shakspenre. Longworth had an extraordinary propensity 
 to publish elegant works, to the gi-eat grotlflcalion of per- 
 sons of last}, and the no small diminution of his own slender 
 fortune. He alludes ironically to this circiunslanco in the 
 present notice. 
 
 ,, "PUBLISHER'S NOTICE. 
 
 "SHAKSPEARE (IALLERV, NEW-YORK. 
 
 " This work will he published and sold by D. Longwobth. 
 It will be printed on hot-prossed vellum pa|)er, as that is 
 held in highest estimation for buckling up young ladies' 
 hair— a purpose to which similar works are usually appnK- 
 priated ; it will be a small neat duodecimo size, so that, when 
 
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iir 
 
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 m: 
 
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 SAUIAGUNDI. 
 
 enough nionbers arc written, it may form a volume, sufH- 
 ciently portable to lie carried in old ladies' pockets and young 
 ladies' work-bap;s. 
 
 " As the above work will not come out at stated periods, 
 notice will he given when another numtier will be publish- 
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 must be paid on delivery. The publisher professes the same 
 sublime contempt for money as his authors. The liberal 
 patronage bestowed by his discerning fellow-citizens, on 
 various works of taste which he has published, has left him 
 no inclination to ask for fiu'ther favours at their hands; and 
 he publishes this work in the mere hope of requiting their 
 bounty." 
 
 e«»B>» f ><««e»»» 
 
 No. I.— SATUKDAV. .lANUAUY 21, 1807. 
 
 As every body knows, or ought to know, what a 
 Salmacuadi is, we shall spare ourselves the trouble 
 of an explanation; besides, we despise trouble as we 
 do evei7 thing that is low and mean, and hold the 
 man who would incur it unnecessarily, as an object 
 worthy our highest pity and contempt. Neither will 
 we puzzle our heads to give an account of ourselves, 
 for two reasons : first, because it is nobody's business; 
 secondly, because if it were, we do not hold ourselves 
 bound to attend to any body's business but our own; 
 and even that we take the liberty of neglecting when 
 it suits our inclination. To these we might add a third, 
 that very few men can give a tolerable account of them- 
 selves, let them try ever so hard : but this reason, we 
 candidly avow, would not hold gootl with ourselves. 
 
 There are, liowever, two or three pieces of infor- 
 mation which we bestow gratis on the public, chiefly 
 because it suits our own pleasure and convenience 
 that they should be known, and partly l)ecause we do 
 not wish that there should be any ill will between us 
 at the commencement of our acquaintance. 
 
 Our intention is simply to instruct the young, re- 
 form the old, correct the town, and castigate the age : 
 this is an arduous task, and therefore we undertake 
 it with confidence. We intend for this purpose to pre- 
 sent a striking picture of the town; and as every body 
 is anxious to see his own phiz on canvas, however 
 stupid or ugly it may be, we have no doubt but the 
 whole town will Hock to our exhibition. Our picture 
 will necessarily include a vast variety of figures : and 
 should any gentleman or lady be displeased with the 
 inveterate truth of their likenesses, they may ease 
 their spleen by laughing at those of their neigh- 
 bours—this being what we understand by poetical 
 justice. 
 
 Like all true and able editors, we consider oursel- 
 ves infallible; and therefore, with the customary dif- 
 fidence of our brethren of the (|uill, we shall take the 
 liberty of interfering in all matters either of a public 
 or private nature. We are critics, amateurs, dilet- 
 tanti, and cognoscenti; and as we know, "by the 
 pricking of our thumbs," that every opinion which 
 we may advance in cither of those characters will be 
 
 ' 
 
 coiTcct, we are determined, though it may be ques 
 tioned, contradicted, or even controverted, yet it slu 
 never l)e revoked 
 
 To conclude, we invite all editors of newspap«i 
 and literary journals to praise us heartily in advance 
 as we assure them that we intend to deserve iliei 
 praises. To our next-door neighbour., "Town,'" « 
 liold out a hand of amity, declaring to him that, afle 
 ours, his paper will stand the best chance for ininior 
 tality. We proffer an exchange of civilities : he sha 
 furnish us with notices of epic poems and tolwcco- 
 and we, in return, will enrich him with original spe 
 culations on all manner of subjects, together will 
 " the rummaging of my grandfather's mahogany dies 
 of drawers," "the life and amours of mine unci 
 John," "anecdotes of the Cockloft family," an 
 learned quotations from that unheard-of writer o 
 folios, Linkum Fidklius. 
 
 PROM THE ELnOW-CHAIR OF 
 
 LALKCF.LOT LAKtiSTAFF, ESQ. 
 
 Wk were a considerable time in deciding w^hetlie '"'"^'^^: 
 we should be at the pains of introducing ourselves t 
 the public. As we care for uoboily, and as we 
 not yet at the bar, we do not feel bound to hold u 
 our hands and answer to our names 
 
 Willing, however, to gain at once that frank, con 
 fidential footing, which we are certain of ultimatel 
 possessing in this, doubtless, "best of all possible 
 ties;" and anxious to spare its worthy inhabitants tli 
 trouble of making a thousand wise conjectures, no 
 one of which would be worth a tobacco-stopper, w 
 have thought it in some degree a necessary excrti« 
 of charitable condescension to furnish them with 
 slight clue to the truth. 
 
 )atrons of this city not 
 tee we make : — we i 
 eniuses, who swarm in 
 lis, or rather by the 1 
 )(1 who spoil the genui 
 leir daughters with Fi 
 nent. 
 
 We have said we do n 
 owe write for fame. 
 le nature of public oiiii 
 : ffe care not x^'hat tli 
 ispecl, before we read 
 it know what to thini 
 rite for no other earthi 
 Ires ; and this we sha 
 t all three.of us detem 
 with what we write, 
 eedify, and instruct, a 
 lietter for the public 
 ilge, that so soon as w( 
 orks, we shall discontii 
 , whatever the f 
 e continue to go on, w 
 it will be but » 
 e shall be muresolicito 
 an cry — for we are laug 
 of opinion, that wisdo 
 dame, who sits in 
 rrily at the farce of li 
 
 oralize 
 
 iiy 
 
 !C 
 
 Before we proceed further, however, we advis 
 eveiy botly — man, womiiin, and child — that can reai 
 or get any friend to read for them, to purchase 
 paper; — not that we write for money; for, in com 
 mon with all philosophers, from Solomon downwards 
 we hold it in supreme contempt. Wa beg the piibli 
 particularly to understand that we solicit no patron 
 age. We are determined, on the contrary, that Ih 
 patronage shall be entirely on our side. The piiLli 
 are welcome to buy this work, or not— just as llu 
 choose. If it be purchased freely, so nuich the belli 
 for the public — antl the publisher : we gain not a sli 
 ver. If it be not purchased, we give fair warning 
 we shall burn iill our essays, criti(|ues, and epigram 
 in one promiscuous blaze; and, like the hooks of III <^>^' 
 sibyls, and the Alexandrian library, they will be loi 
 for ever to posterity. For the sake, therefore, of ou w 
 publisher — for the sake of the public— and for tli ''"pe 
 sake of the public's children to the nineteenth genera 
 lion, we advise them to purchase our paper; if the 
 do not, let them settle the affair with their own coii 
 sciences and posterity. We Iwg the respectable oi 
 
 ■ The tillp of a nowspapcr piiWiRlird In Now-Vork, the coliirai 
 of wlilcli, among uthcr DilNCi'llnnroiis topics, occasionally coiitaii 
 c(l sU'icturi's on the pcrfovinaiicvs at the Ihcalro.— /rtjit. 
 
 shi 
 
 We intend parlicularl; 
 liionable world ; — nor 
 by that carping spirit 
 Mkwurni cynics squint 
 tion; but with that lib 
 fry man of fashion. 
 trberus watch over the 
 tyand decorum — wes 
 
 ri«;litliness of demeani 
 
 aracter. Itefore we a 
 
 list let it be understooi 
 
 all prejudice or partial 
 
 oik are the fairest, the I 
 
 I, lite most bewitching 
 
 atwalk, creep, crawl, 
 
 any or all of the foure 
 
 ant to be cured of certai 
 
 iseemly conceits, by o 
 
 iKler them absolutely pe 
 
 ive a large portion of 
 
 Tashionable world ; m 
 
 away tiieir time in 
 
 our currying : — w 
 
 lio sit stock-still u|K)ntl 
 
 ord, and then complain 
 
 Mrs 's party. 
 
 Tills department will 
 m and control of A nth 
 liom all communicalioni 
 KmH, This geiillema 
 
nay be ques 
 ed, yet it slial 
 
 f newspaper 
 ly in advance 
 deserve lliei 
 'Town,'" \» 
 lim that, afte 
 ce for ininior 
 lities : he sha 
 ind toliacco- 
 1 original spe 
 together w 
 alioganyches 
 if mine unci 
 family," ant 
 l-of writer 
 
 lSQ. 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 latrons of tliis city not to be alarmed at the appear- 
 gce we make : — we are none of those outlandish 
 eniuses, who swarm in New-York, who live by (lieir 
 ils, or rather by tiie little wit of their neighbours; 
 id who spoil the genuine honest American tastes of 
 J ... »«.a.n.c ^.^ (laughters with French slops and fricasseed sen- 
 ■Bient. 
 We have said we do not write for money ; — neither 
 ) we write for fame. We know too well the vari- 
 ile nature of public opinion, to build our hopes upon 
 we rare not what the public think of us; and we 
 ispecl, before we reach tlie tenth number, they will 
 Hi know what to think of us. In two words — we 
 rite for no other earthly purpose but to please our- 
 Ives ; and this we shall be sure of doing, — for we 
 t all three of us determined beforehand to be pleas- 
 « ith what we write. If in the course of this work 
 eeilify, and instruct, and amuse Ihe public, so much 
 elteller for the public; — but we frankly acknow- 
 Jge, that so soon as we get tired of reading our own 
 orks, we shall discontinue them without the least 
 dinff whetlie '"'""'"*^' whatever the public may think ofil. While 
 e continue to go on, we will g'» on merrily : if we 
 nd as we ar '^^^^^^ •' ^^'" ^ '^"^ seldom ; and on all occasions 
 nd to hold u ' ^''•'" ^^ '""'^® solicitous to make our readers laugh 
 an cry — for we are laughing philosophers, and clear- 
 lal frank con "f "^P'^'on, that wisdom, true wisdom, is a plump, 
 1 of ultimalel "^ Jame, who sits in her arm-chair, laughs riglit 
 all possible c ''"'^ '"'^ ^''^ ^^^'^^ ^^ ''''^' ^"^ '•'''^ '**^ world as 
 nhabitantstli ^^• 
 
 niectures m ^^^ intend particularly to nqtice the conduct of the 
 o-stonper w ''''•"'•''ble world ; — nor in this shall we be govern- 
 isary exerlio ' ''^ '''^'' '^^T^'o '^P""''^ with which narrow-minded 
 them with '"''^'"■'■n cynics squint at the little extravagances of 
 £ ton; but with that liberal toleration which actuates 
 ler we advis ^^ '"^" "^ fashion. While we keep more than a 
 that can re* orlx"""* watch over the golden rules of female deli- 
 purchase tlii *y '''"'' decorum — we shall not discourage any little 
 for in rom (>Dl>ll>iici>s of demeanour, or innocent vivacity of 
 „ downwards laracter. Before we advance one line further we 
 )eg the nubli ^^ '^'' '*' ^'^ understood, as our firm opinion, void 
 cit no patron "" piejudice or partiality, that the ladies of New- 
 rary, that Ih "i^ ■'^'''^ ^'>*^ fairest, the linest, the most accomplisii- 
 The ptiLli 'i "'^ i^'^'^'' bewitching, the most ineffable beings, 
 -just as tiie ''walk, creep, crawl, swim, lly, lloat, or vegetate, 
 uch the belle '"'Y o'' ^" ^^^ ^^^^ f"^''' elements ; and that they only 
 ain not a sli ">' '<> ^ cured of certain whims, eccentricities, and 
 jir warninjt- i*tmly conceits, by our superintending cares, to 
 and epigrams inlt'i' them absolutely perfect. They will, therefore, 
 e lK)oks of til *«ive a •ai"g« portion of those attentions directed to 
 ey will be lot ' fashionable world ; nor will the gentlemen, who 
 irefore, of oii w away their time in the circles of the /(aiit-(o», 
 —and for 111 ''"P* our currying : — we mean those sapient fellows 
 ho sit stock-still uimn their chuii's, without raying a 
 ord, and then complain how damned stupid it was 
 
 Mrs 's party. 
 
 Tills department will be under the peculiar direc- 
 mand control of A>'Tiio>v EvEiiGnEKN, Gent, to 
 wioiiati'y coi'lii '"••" "" communications on this subject are to be ad- 
 .—Kdit. petiscd. This gentleman, from his long experience 
 
 eenlh genera 
 laper; if tlio 
 leir own con 
 ?spectal)Ie ol 
 
 in the routine of balls, routs, and assemblies, is emi- 
 nently qualified for the task he has undertaken. He 
 is a kind of patriarch in the fashionable world, and has 
 seen generation after generation pass away into the 
 silent tombof matrunony, while he remains unchange- 
 ably the same. lie can recount the amours and 
 courtships of the fathers, mothers, uncles, and aunts, 
 and even granddames, of all the l)elles of the present 
 day— provided their pedigrees extend so far back with- 
 out being lost in obscurity. As, liowever, treating of 
 pedigrees is rather an ungrateful task in this city, and 
 as we mean to be perfectly good-natured, he has pro- 
 mised to be cautious in this particular. He recollects 
 perfectly the time when young ladies used to go a 
 sleighriding, at night, without their mammas or grand* 
 mammas; in short, without being matronized at all; 
 and can relate a thousand pleasant stories about Kiss- 
 ing-bridge. ■ lie likewise remembers the time when 
 ladies paid tea-visits at three in the afternoon, and re- 
 turned before dark to see that tiie house was shut up 
 and the servants on duty. He has often played cric- 
 ket in the orchard in the rear of old Vauxliall, and re- 
 members when the Bull's-head was quite out of town. 
 Though he has slowly and gradually given in to mo- 
 dern fashions, and still nourishes in the heau-nionde, 
 yet he seems a little prejudiced in favour of the dress 
 and manners of the old school: and his chief com- 
 mendation of a new mode is, " that it is the same 
 good old fashion we had before the war." It has cost 
 us much trouble to make him confess that a cotillon 
 is superior to a minuet, or an unadorned crop to a pig- 
 tail and powder. Custom and fashion have, however, 
 had more effect on him than all our lectures; and he 
 tempers, so happily, the grave and ceremonious gal- 
 lantry of the old school with the hail fellow familiarity 
 of the new, that, we trust, on a little acquaintance, 
 and making allowance for his old-fashioned preju- 
 dices, he will become a very considerable favourite 
 with our readers; if not, the worse for themselves— 
 as they will have to endure his company. 
 
 In the territory of criticism, Williajm Wihahd, 
 Esq. has undertaken to preside; and though we may 
 all dabble in it a little by turns, yet we have willingly 
 ceded to him all discretionary powers in this respect. 
 Though Will has not had the advantage of an educa- 
 tion at Oxford or Cambridge, or even at Edinbingh 
 or Al)erdeen, and though he is but little versed in He- 
 brew, yet we have no doubt he will be found fully 
 competent to the undertaking. He has improved his 
 taste by a long residence abroad, particularly at Can- 
 ton, Calcutta, and the gay and polished court of Hayti. 
 He has also had an opportunity of seeing tlie best sing- 
 ing-girls and tragedians of China; is a great connois- 
 seur in mandarine dresses, and porcelain, and particu- 
 
 ■ AiiioiiRst the atniisetncnts of llic nitizons, in (lines gone by, 
 was Uiat of making cxcur.sioim in llic winter i!vcnin.i;s, on nlcigli!), 
 to wmic nciglilNiuring villagu, wlicre llio wH^ial parly liad a Itall and 
 8ii|)|icr. hhsiiuj-liridge was so dononilnatiHl from llio circuin- 
 stance ttiat hnic lliu Iwanx exacled from llieir fair companions tlie 
 forfeiture of a liiss befoie (wrmitling their Iravolling velilcks to 
 pam over.— Brf«. 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 «'. 
 
 If 
 II 
 
 \\v 
 
 larly valucs himself on his intimate knowled^'e of the 
 buffalo and war dances of the Northern Indians. He 
 is likewise promised the assistance of a gentleman, 
 lately from London, who was born and bred in that 
 centre of science and bon gout, the vicinity of Fleet- 
 market, where he has been edified, man and boy, 
 these six-and-twenty years, with the harmonious jin- 
 gle of Bow-bells. His taste, therefore, has attained 
 to such an exquisite pitch of refinement, that there 
 are few exhibitions of any kind which do not put him 
 in a fever. He has assured Will, that if Mr Cooper 
 emphasises " and" instead of " but," — or Mrs Old- 
 inixon pins her kerchief a hair's-breadth awry — or Mrs 
 Darley offers to dare to look less than the " daughter 
 of a senator of Venice," — the standard of a senator's 
 daughter being exactly six feet — they shall all hear of 
 it in good time. — We have, however, advised Will 
 Wizard to keep his friend in check, lest by opening 
 the eyes of the public to the wretchedness of the ac- 
 tors, by whom they have hitherto been entertained, 
 he might cut off one source of amusement from our 
 fellow-citizens. We hereby give notice, that we have 
 taken the whole corps, from the manager in his mantle 
 of gorgeous copperlace, to honest John in his green 
 coat and black breeches, under our wing— and woe 
 be unto him who injures a hair of their heads.— As 
 we have no design against the patience of our fellow- 
 citizens, we shall not dose them with copious draughts 
 of theatrical criticism : we know that they have al- 
 ready been well physicked with them of late. Our 
 theatrics will take up but a small part of our paper; 
 nor will they be altogether confined to the stage, but 
 extend from time to time to those incorrigible offend- 
 ers against the peace of society, the stage-critics, who 
 not unfrequently create the fault they find, in order to 
 yield an opening for their witticism; censure an actor 
 for a gesture he never made, or an emphasis he never 
 gave; and, in their attempt to show off new readings, 
 make the sweet swan of Avon cackle like a goose. If 
 any one should feel himself offended by our remarKs, 
 let him attack us in return — we shall not wince from 
 the combat. If his passes he successful, we will be 
 the first to cry out, a hit! a hit ! and we doubt not we 
 shall frequently lay ourselves open to the weapons of 
 our assailants. But let them have a care how they 
 run a-tilting with us; they have lo deal with stubborn 
 foes, who can bear a world of pommelling; we will 
 be relentless in our vengeance, and will fight " till 
 from our bones the flesh be hack'd." 
 
 What other subjects we shall include in the range 
 of our observations, we have not determined, or ra- 
 ther we shall not trouble ourserves to detail. The 
 public have already more information concerning us 
 than we intended to impart. We owe them no fa- 
 vours — neither do we ask any. We again advise 
 them, for their own sakes, to read our papers when 
 they come out. We recommend to all mothers to 
 purchase them for their daughters, who will be ini- 
 tiated into the arcana of the bon ton, and cured of all 
 those rusty old notions which they acquired during 
 
 the last century : parents shall be taught how to 
 
 vern their children, girls how to get husbands, ao^Town). 
 
 old maids how to do without them. 
 
 As we do not measure our wits by the yard or 
 el, and as they do not flow periodically nor consta 
 ly, we shall not restrict our paper as to size or 
 time of its appearance. It will be published whea 
 ever we have sufficient matter to constitute a numbd 
 and the size of the number shall depend on the 
 in hand. This will best suit our negligent habits, 
 leave us that full liberty and independence which 
 the joy and pride of our souls. 
 
 Is there any one who wi.ihes to know more 
 us? — let him read Salmagundi, and grow wise 
 Thus much we will say — there are three of us, " 
 dolph, Peto, and I," all townsmen good and 
 Many a time and oft have we three amused the 
 without its knowing to whom it was indebted ; ai 
 many a time haA'e we seen the midnight lamp twii 
 faintly on our studious phizzes, and heard the mon 
 ing salutation of" past three o'clock" before we sougl 
 our pillows. The result of these midnight studies Dgi 
 now offered to the public : and little as we care 
 the opinion of this exceedingly stupid world, we 
 take care, as far as lies in our careless natures, to h 
 fil the promises made in this introduction;- if we 
 not, we shall have so many examples to justify 
 tliat we feel little solicitude on that account. 
 
 xt number of a paper c 
 
 bnsl icbeth 
 
 iecl 
 ndle 
 
 stoc (n 
 
 an ore 
 
 ' aboi 
 
 !apaa 
 
 Bai [her 
 
 trni isses 
 
 tow laracter 
 
 ; an ilea, < 
 
 ink lactly 
 
 lei 
 
 THEATRICS, 
 Containing the quintessence of Modern Criticism. 
 
 ir 
 
 BT WILLIAM WIZARD, ESQ. 
 
 Ihous 
 
 ILiii 
 Sco 
 Machi\ nagery, 
 lakedi 
 
 Macbeth was performed to a very crowded 
 andmuch to our satisfaction. As, however, our nei^ 
 hour Town has been very voluminous already 
 his criticisms on this play, we shall make but fe 
 remarks. Having never seen Kemble in this 
 ter, we are absolutely at a loss to say whether 5 
 Cooper performed it well or not. We think, howev( 
 there was an error in his costume, as the learned 
 Fid. is of opinion that, in the time of Macbeth, the 
 did not wear sandals but wooden shoes, i^ 
 also was noted for wearing his jacket open, that 
 might play the Scotch fiddle more conveniently ;— 111 
 being an hereditary acconiplishnient in the 
 family. 
 
 We have seen this character performed in 
 by the celebrated Chow-Chow, the Roscius of tit 
 great empire, who in the dagger scene always 
 trifled the audience by blowing his nose Uke a trumpc 
 Chow-Chow, in compliance with the «^p..i. of 
 sage Linkum, performed Macbeth in wo.>uen shoes 
 this gave him an opportunity of protlucing great 
 feet— for on first seeing the " air-drawn dagger," 
 always cut a prodigious high caper, and kicked 
 shoes into the pit at the heads of the critics ; 
 upon the audience were marvellously delighted, 
 rished their hands, and stroked their whiskers 
 times; and the matter was carefully reported iii 
 
 We were much pleas< 
 
 but we think si 
 
 t to the night-sceni 
 
 in her hand, or s 
 
 liicli is sagaciously cei 
 
 had stuck it in her i 
 
 extremely picturesc 
 
 strongly the deran 
 
 Mrs Villiers, howevei 
 
 lough for the character 
 
 our opinion, a woman 
 
 race of the giants, m 
 
 " little hand ; " \ 
 
 for nothing. W 
 
 in the hands o 
 
 ktt, queen of (he gia 
 
 of imperial din 
 
 well shaved, of a m( 
 
 she appears also to b 
 
 age she will read a h 
 
 air, and such commo 
 
 shalnnalurally surprised. 
 
 Town." 
 
 We are happy to obs« 
 
 instructions of frieni 
 
 igger in blood so deep 
 
 n inch or two. This 
 
 immortal bard. A 
 
 is reading of the woi 
 
 e are of opinion the k 
 
 irown on the word sig 
 
 n, a short time befoi 
 
 igged with an aerial di 
 
 16 daggers actually in hi 
 
 ley were not mere sIk 
 
 charaAioy have termed it, s) 
 
 stablish our skill in nen 
 
 Tin this respect from ( 
 
 larlily agree with him 
 
 lilting that passage si 
 
 ," etc., beginn 
 
 new-born babe," 
 
 ^esofShakspenre whi 
 
 Glaiii )r the purpose of showi 
 
 loet could talk like a 
 Chii ilainly, like the famous 
 As it is the first duty 
 profess and do actua 
 'Town," we warn bin 
 leddle with a lady's " 
 bttoni. In the first in 
 , and in he second 
 ndgment a^'ainst him- 
 is no knowing wli 
 wherelilace it. We would nt 
 lloiaockets, see Town flon 
 auspices of an ass's 
 Montero Cap. 
 
 elc( »e 
 
 jr; 
 
 here i 
 
 Hire he 
 II his 1 
 
SALMAGUrO)!. 
 
 ;bt how to gg It number of a paper called tlie FItm Flam {English 
 
 liusbands, an Town). 
 
 We were much pleased with Mrs Yilliers m Lady 
 
 ! yard or bush tcbeth ; but we think she would have given a greater 
 
 ' nor constant feet to the night-scene, if, instead of holding the 
 
 to size or th ndle in her hand, or setting it down on the table, 
 
 blished when liicli is sagaciously censured by neighbour Town, 
 
 lute a numbei e had stuck it in her night-cap. — This would liave 
 
 A on the stoc «n extremely picturesque, and would have marked 
 
 ent habits, an ore strongly the derangement of her mind, 
 
 ence whicli Mrs Villiers, however, is not by any means large 
 loiigh for the character— Lady Macbeth having been, 
 
 w more aboi our opinion, a woman of extraordinary size, and of 
 
 )w wise apaci le race of the giants, notwithstanding what she says 
 
 e of us, " Bai [her " little hand ; " which being said in her sleep 
 
 ood and trui L«ses for nothing. We should be happy to see tliis 
 
 jsed the towi aracter in the hands of the lady who played G lutn- 
 
 indebted ; an ilea, queen of the giants, in Tom Thumb : 'she is 
 
 t lamp twinki aclly of imperial dimensions ; and, provided she 
 
 ard the morn well shaved, of a most interesting physiognomy : 
 
 fore we sougl s slie appears also to be a lady of some nerve, I dare 
 
 light studies ngage she will read a letter about witches vanishing 
 
 as we care ( lair, and such coinmioii occurrences, without being 
 
 trorld, wesha nnaturally surprised, to the annoyance of honest 
 
 natures, to fo Town." 
 
 ion ;— if we ( We are happy to observe that Mr Cooper profits by 
 
 3 to justify u 18 instructions of friend Town, and does not dip the 
 agger in blood so deep as formerly by the matter of 
 D inch or two. This was a violent outrage upon 
 ur immortal bard. We differ with Mr Town in 
 is reading of the words "this is a sorry sight" 
 Ve are of opinion the force of the sentence should be 
 irown on the word sight — because Macbeth having 
 
 rowded hous een, a short time before, most confoundedly hum- 
 
 ver,our neigl pgged with an aerial dagger, was in doubt whether 
 
 )us already i ledaggers actually in his hands were real, or whether 
 
 nake but fe hey were not mere shadows; or as the old English 
 
 inthischarai \ay have termed it, syjijitB (this, at any rate, will 
 
 jT whether) slablish our skill in new readt)i(/s). Though we dif- 
 
 link, howeve irin this respect from our neighbour Town, yet we 
 
 ! learned Lin earlily agree with him in censuring Mr Cooper for 
 
 6cf/j, theSco milting that passage so remarkable for "beauty of 
 
 oes. Macbti nagery," etc., beginning with "and pity, like a 
 
 open, tliatt lajsed new-born babe," etc. It is one of those pas- 
 
 niently ;— th ages of Shakspeare which should always be retained, 
 
 in the Glam )r the purpose of showing how sometimes that great 
 loet could talk like a buzzard; or, to speak more 
 
 med in Chin liainly, like the famous mad poet Nat Lee. 
 
 loscius of til As it is the first duty of a friend to advise; and as 
 
 B always ek k profess and do actually feel a friendship for honest 
 
 likeatrumpe 'Town," we warn him, never in his criticisms to 
 
 oji.i.i. oflh neddle with a lady's "petticoats," or to quote Nic 
 
 »'oi/clen sho« lottom. In the first instance he may " catch a tar- 
 
 cing great e ar;" and in ,he second, the ass's head may rise in 
 
 n dagger," h adgment a^' ainst him— and when it is once afloat 
 
 md kicked li liere is no knowing where some unlucky hand may 
 
 ritics; when Jaceit. We would not, for all the money in our 
 
 elighted, floi lockets, see Town flourishing his critical quill under 
 
 vhiskers tlin he auspices of an ass's head, like the great Franklin 
 
 eporled in ili n his Montero Cap. ' - - v 
 
 ount. 
 
 I Criticism. 
 
 NEW-YORK ASSEMBLY. 
 
 BT ANTBONT ETEBGBBIN, GEIfT. 
 
 The assemblies this year have gained a great ac- 
 cession of beauty. Several brilliant stars have arisen 
 from the east and from the north, to brighten the fir- 
 mament of fashion : among the number I have disco- 
 vered another planet, which rivals even Venus in 
 lustre, and I claim equal honour with Herschel for 
 my discovery. I shall take some future opportunity 
 to describe this planet, and the numerous satellites 
 which revolve around it. 
 
 At the last assembly the company began to make 
 some show about eight, but the most fashionable de- 
 layed their appearance until about nine — nine being 
 the number of the muses, and therefore the best pos- 
 sible hour for beginning to exhibit the graces. — (This 
 is meant for a pretty play upon words, and I assure 
 my readers that I think it very tolerable.) 
 
 Poor Will Honeycomb, whose memory I hold in 
 special consideration, even with his half century of 
 experience, would have been puzzled to point out the 
 humours of a lady by her prevailing colours ; for the 
 "rival queens" of fashion, Mrs Toole and Madame 
 Bouchard, ' appeared to have exhausted their wonder- 
 ful inventions in the different disposition, variation, 
 and combination of lints and shades. The philosopher 
 who maintained that black was white, and that, of 
 course, there was no such colour as white, might 
 have given some colour to his theory on this occasion, 
 by the absence of poor forsaken white muslin. I was, 
 however, much pleased to see that red maintains its 
 ground against all other colours, because red is the 
 colour of Mr Jefferson's*****, Tom Paine's nose, and 
 my slippers. " 
 
 Let the grumbling smellfungi of this world, who 
 cultivate taste among books, cobwebs, and spiders, 
 rail at the extravagance of the age; for my part, I was 
 delighted with the magic of the scene, and as the la- 
 dies tripped through tlie mizes of the dance, spark- 
 ling and glowing and dazzling, I, like the honest Chi- 
 nese, thanked them heartily for the jewels and finery 
 with which they loaded themselves, merely for the 
 entertainment of by-standers, and blessed my stars 
 that I was a bachelor. 
 
 The gentlemen were considerably numerous, and 
 being as usual equipt in their appropriate black uni- 
 forms, constituted a sable regiment, which contribut- 
 ed not a little to the brilliant gaiety of the ball-room. 
 I must confess I am indebted for this remark to our 
 friend, the cockney, Mr 'Sbidlikensflash, or 'Sbid- 
 likens, as he is called for shortness. He is a fellow of 
 infinite verbosity— stands in high favour— with him- 
 self—and, like Caleb Quotem, is "up to every thing." 
 
 ■ Two fashionable milliners of rival celebrity in the city of New- 
 Yoi-k.— Krfi^ 
 
 > In this instance, as well as on several olher occasions, a litllo 
 innocent pleasantry is indulged at Mr Jefferson's exijcnse. The 
 alhislon made here is to the r'M velvet small-clothes with which 
 tl'R President, in defiance of Rood taste, used to attiro himself on 
 levec-dayg and other public occasions.— J?rf<t. ; H 
 
I i 
 
 I J. 
 
 e 
 
 S.VLMAGLNDI. 
 
 I remember wlien a comfortable |>himp-looking ci- 
 tizen led into tbe room a fair damsel, who looked for 
 all the world like the personification of a rainbow, 
 'Sbidlikens observed, tliat it reminded him of a fable, 
 which he had read somewhere, of the maiTiage of an 
 honest pains-taking snail, who had once walked six 
 feet in an hour, for a wager, ^ a buttertly whom he 
 used to gallant by the elbow, with the aid of much 
 puffing and exertion. On being called upon to tell 
 where he bad come across this story, 'Sbidlikens ab- 
 solutely refused to answer. 
 
 It would but be repealing an old story to say, that 
 the ladies of New- York dance wellj and well may 
 they, since they learn it scientifically, and l»egin their 
 lessons l)efore they have quitted their swaddling 
 clothes. The immortal Duporl has usurpetl despotic 
 sway over all the female heads and heels in this city; 
 hornbooks, primers, and pianos, are neglected to at- 
 tend to his positions; and poor Chilton, with his pots 
 and kettles and chemical crockery, finds him a more 
 potent enemy than the whole collective force of the 
 " North-river Society," ■ 'Sbidlikens insists that this 
 dancing mania will inevitably continue as long as a 
 dancing-master will charge the fashionable price of 
 live-and-twenty dollars a quarter, and all the other 
 accomplishments are so vulgar as to be attainable at 
 "half the money;"— but I put no faith in 'Sbidlikens' 
 candour in this particular. Among his infinitude of 
 endowments he is but a poor proficient in dancing; 
 and though he often flounders through a cotillon, yet 
 he never cut a pigeon-wing in liLs life. 
 
 In my mind there's no position more positive and 
 unexceptionable than that most Frenchmen, dead or 
 alive, are born dancers. I came pounce upon this 
 discovery at the assembly, and I immediately noted it 
 down in my register of indisputable facts— the public 
 shall know all about it. As I never daiice cotillons, 
 holding them to be monstrous distorters of the hu- 
 manframe, and tantamountin their operations to being 
 broken and dislocateil on the wheel, I generally take 
 occasion, while they aregoingon, to make my remarks 
 on the company. In llie courseof these observalions 
 I was struck wilh the energy and eloquence of sun- 
 dry limbs, which seemed to be flourishing about with- 
 out ; pperlaining to any Iwdy. After much invpsli- 
 gation and difliculty, I at length traced them to their 
 respective owners, whom I found to be all French- 
 men to a man. Art may have meddled somewhat 
 in these affairs, but nature certainly did more. I have 
 since been considerably employed in calculations on 
 this subject ; and by the most accurate computation 
 I have delernuncd, that a Frenchman passes at least 
 Jhrec-fiflhs of his time between the heavens and the 
 earth, and partakes eminently of the nature of a gos- 
 samer or soap-bubble. One of these jack-o'-lantern 
 heroes, in taking a figure, which neither Euclid nor 
 
 ■ The J\'oith-rh'er soHftij, An imaginary assoclalion, tlu! ob- 
 ject of wliicli was to 9i!l tlic Nortli-i-ivci- Ulic Hudson) on liiv. A 
 number ut' young men of some fastliion, liltle tolcat, aiul great i>rc- 
 (ension, were ridiculed an members.— £'rff(. 
 
 >c, 
 
 sliow tliat I intend to b 
 Tlie other night Will V 
 upon me, to pass away 
 
 Pythagoras himself could demonstrate, unfortuiiate 
 
 wound himself— I mean his foot — his better part 
 
 into a lady's cobweb muslin rolie; but perceiving ii 
 
 the instant, he set himself a spinning the other waAouletcnnined, therefoi 
 
 like a top, unravelled his step, without omitting oi [oour divan ; and I shall 
 
 angle or curve, and extricated himself without breai 
 
 ing a tiu'ead of the lady's dress ! he then sprung u 
 
 like a sturgeon, crossed his feet four times, and finu 
 
 ed this wonderful evolution by quivering bis left lei J hold a kind of coiuici 
 
 as a cat does her paw when she has accidentally di r evening, I uncorked a 
 
 ped it in water. No man "of woman born," who vri lich has grown old will 
 
 not a Frenchman, could have done the like. js to excite a smile in ll 
 
 Among the new faces, I remarked a blooniin mies, to whom alone 
 nymph, who has brought a fresh supply of roses fi-oi lie time tlie conversatioi 
 the country to adorn tlie wreath of beauty, where I ced by our first mimbei 
 lies too much predominate. As I wish well to evei 
 sweet face under heaven, I sincerely hope her vm 
 may siirvive the frosts and dissipations of winter, an nise us for our merrim 
 lose nothing by a comparison with the loveliest offei rergreen, who is equallj 
 ings of the spring. 'Sbidlikens, to whom I made si 
 milar remarks, assured me that they were very jus uils; and it was highly 
 and very prettily expressed ; and that tbe lady in ques t characters were tickl 
 tion was a proiligious fine piece of flesh and blow le old folks were deligli 
 Now could I find it in my heart to baste these cock 
 neys like their own roast-beef— Ihey can maken 
 distinction between a line woman and a fine hoi-$e. 
 
 I would praise the sylph-like grace wilh which an 
 
 iug the lead; yet at the 
 opposed to my opinion, 
 , my opinion general 
 
 other young lady acquitted herself in the dance, Ihi ssing-bridge. It recall 
 
 (hat she excels in far more valuable accomplisluDenIs 
 Who praises the rose for its beauty, even though il i 
 beautiful ? 
 
 The company retired at the customary hour to tin i»lit be preserved for tbt 
 
 supper-room, where the tables were laid out will 
 
 inrormation, and I assur 
 most unceremoniously 
 
 our junto towards the 
 liciilarly noticed a wc 
 quaintance, who had b( 
 V, whose eyes brighten 
 
 his youthful exploits, 
 hich lie seemed to dwe 
 It-complacency :— he ho 
 
 monimient of the gallai 
 
 No II.— WEDNESDAY, FKUUUARV 4, 1807. 
 
 FnOM TIIK ELnOW-CIIAIR OF 
 
 LAUNCELOT LANGSTAIT, ESQ. 
 
 In the conduct of an epic poem, it has been 
 
 custom, from time inmiemorial, for the poet occusino 
 
 ally to intnxluce his reader to an intimate acquaint 
 
 ance with tbe heroes of his story, by conducting 
 
 into their tents, and giving him an opportunity ofoli- 
 
 serving them in their night- gown and slippers. How 
 
 ever I despise the servile genius that would (lesccm 
 
 to follow a precedent, though furnished by IluiiieAi without husbands;—! 
 
 himself, and consider him as on a par with the cart 
 
 that follows at the heels of the horse, without ever 
 
 iheir usual splendour and profusion. My friendAd even hinted at the ex 
 'Sbidlikens, with tbe native forelhought of a cockney ite there, to collect the 
 bad carefully stowed his pocket with cheese and crack « most flattering testir 
 crs, that he might not Ite tempted again to ventiin 
 his limbs in the crowd of hungry fair ones who tliroiiAver laughed but once in 
 tbe supper-room door : his precaution was unnecessa nciiision of the last wj 
 ry, for the company entered the room wilh siirprisiiij md Anthony in the ver 
 order and decorum. No gowns were torn — noladie reperously at thedescr 
 fainted — no noses bled — nor was there any need o rencliman. Now it glac 
 the interference of either managers or peace-oflicers fusions have such a plea 
 
 wl, and joy whenever 
 w flowers in their path. 
 The young people wei 
 le account of the assembl 
 ice of opinion respectir 
 Doming nymph from tin 
 iinent paid to the fasciuii 
 gracefidly— every lady 
 Evergreen mentioned 
 ere extremely anxious t 
 iging their beaux; and 
 as chaste as an icicle, 
 inters pass over her hea 
 erlliousands, wished to 
 
 KHit the matter, she " ( 
 feral ladies expressed 
 
iinrorluiiati 
 belter part 
 erceiviiig ii 
 
 opposed (0 my opinion, and wlienever tliis is Uie 
 
 , my opinion generally sun'cnders at discretion. 
 
 le otlier waAni (ietcrniined, therefore, to give tlie town a peep 
 
 omitting oi looiir divan ; and I sliall repeat it as often as I please, 
 
 iiliow liiat I intend to be sociable. 
 
 Tlie other night Will Wizard and Evergreen call- 
 
 upon me, to pass away a few honrs in social cliat. 
 
 ithout breal 
 n sprun;;; u 
 is, and finis 
 
 his left l({ i imld a kind of council of war. 
 
 identallydi 
 ■n," wliow 
 ike. 
 
 well to I'vci 
 >pe her ros 
 f winter, an 
 
 i these cock 
 :an make II 
 
 \ 
 
 SAUIAGUNDI. 
 
 ig the lead; yet at the present moment my whim 
 
 To give a zest to 
 revelling, I uncorked a bottle of London particular, 
 licii has grown old with myself, and which never 
 Is to excite a smile in the countenances of jiiy old 
 a blooniin mics, to whom alone it is devoted. After some 
 of roses fr« ile time the conversation tmned on the effect pro- 
 ity, where I ce(l by our first number ; every one had his budget 
 information, and I assure my readers that we laugh- 
 most uncei'emoniously at their expense : they will 
 rase us for our merriment — 'tis a way we've got. 
 Bveliest oHei ergreen, who is equally a favourite and companion 
 m I made si young and old, was particularly satisfactory in his 
 ;re very jiisi uils; and it was highly amusing to hear how differ- 
 iladyinques t characters were tickled with different passages, 
 h and blow le old folks were delighted to find there was a bias 
 our junto towards the "good old limes;" and he 
 ticularly noticed a worthy old gentleman of his 
 
 line hoi-se, quaintance, who had been somewhat a l)eau in his 
 Ihwhiciian y, whose eyes brightened at the Lure mention of 
 le dance, Ira ssing-bridge. It recalled to his recollection several 
 mplishnienls 
 1 though it i 
 
 ;ace-of(icers 
 
 1807. 
 
 Q. 
 
 >ns been tlie 
 jet occiisioii- 
 le ac(|uaint 
 ducting hint 
 lunity ofolH 
 )ers. How 
 uld descciu 
 
 his youthful exploits, at that celebrated pass, on 
 hich he seemed to dwell with great pleasure and 
 It-complacency : — he hoped, he said, that the l)ridge 
 r hour to ih igiit be preserved for the benefit of posterity, and as 
 aid out will monument of the gallantry of their grandfathers ; 
 My friend id even hinted at the expediency of erecting a toll- 
 [)f a cockney te there, to collect the forfeits of the ladies. But 
 se and crack e most flattering testimony of approbation which 
 II to venliin r work has received was from an old lady, who 
 who lliioiij iver laughed but once in her life, and that was at the 
 s unnecesss ncliision of the last war. She was detected by 
 lb siirprisiiij ^-nil Anthony in the very fact of laughing most ol>- 
 n— noiaiiie reperously at the description of the little dancing 
 any iiewl o^nciiman. Now it glads my very heart to fnul our 
 iisions have such a pleasing effect. I venerate the 
 «<i, and joy whenever it is in my power to scatter a 
 A' flowers in their path. 
 
 The young people were particularly interested in 
 le account of the assembly. There was some differ- 
 ice of opinion respecting the new planet, and the 
 Doming nymph from the country ; but as to the com- 
 iinent paid to the fascinating little sylph who danced 
 gracefully — every lady took that to herself. 
 Evergreen mentioned f'.so that the young ladies 
 'ere extremely anxious to learn the true mode of nia- 
 iging their beaux; and Miss Diana Wearwell, who 
 as chaste as an icicle, has seen a few superfluous 
 inters pass over her head, and boasts of having slain 
 er thousands, wished to know how old maids were to 
 by Homer » without husbands ;— not that she was very cu ions 
 ith the carl loiit the matter, she " only asked for information." 
 nihout ever cveral ladies expressed their earnest desire that we 
 
 would not spare those wooden gentlemen who per- 
 form the parts of mutes, or stalking-horses, in their 
 drawing-rooms; and their mothers were equally 
 anxious that we would show no quarter to those lads 
 of spirit, who now and then cut (heir Itottles to enliven 
 a tea-party with the humours of the dinner-table. 
 
 Will Wizard was not a little chagrined at having 
 been mistaken for a gentleman, " who is no more like 
 me," said Will, " than I like Hercules."—" I was 
 well assured," continued Will, " that as our charac- 
 ters were drawn from nature, the originals would lie 
 found in every society. And so it has happened— 
 every little circle has its 'Sbidlikens ;— and the cock- 
 ney, intended merely as the representative of his spe- 
 cies, has dwindled into an insigniflcant individual, 
 who having recognised his own likeness, has foolishly 
 appropriated to himself a picture for which he never 
 sat. Such, too, has been the case with Dimj-domj, 
 who has kindly undertaken to be my representative ; 
 —not that I care much aliout the matter, for it must 
 lie acknowledged that the animal is a good-natured 
 animal enough; — and what is more, a fashionable 
 animal — and this is saying more than to call him a 
 conjuror. But I am much mistaken if he can claim 
 
 any afflnity to the Wizard family. Surely every 
 
 iMxly knows Ding-dong, the gentle Ding-tlong, who 
 pervades all space, who is here and there and every 
 where ; no lea-party can be complete without Ding- 
 dong — and his appearance is sure to occasion a smile. 
 Ding-dong has been the occasion of much wit in his 
 day ; I have even seen many puny whipsters attempt 
 to be dull at his expense, who were as much inferior 
 to him as the gad-fly is to the ox that he buzzes about. 
 Does any witling want to distress the company with 
 a miserable pun? — noltody's name presents sooner 
 than Ding-dong's; and it has been played upon witii 
 equal skill and equal entertainment to the by-standers 
 as Trinity-bells. Ding-dong is profoundly devote<l to 
 the ladies, and highly entitled to their regard ; for I 
 know no man who makes a better bow, or talks less 
 to the purpose than Ding-dong. Ding-dong has ac- 
 (|uired a prodigious fund of knowledge by reading 
 Dilworlh when a lioy; and the other day, on being 
 asked who was the author of Macl>etli, answeretl, 
 without the least hesitation— Shakspeare ! Ding-dong 
 has a quotation for every day of the year, and every 
 hour of the day, and every minute of the hour ; but 
 he often commits petty larcenies on the poets— plucks 
 the gray hairs of old Chaucer's head, and claps Ihcni 
 on the chin of Pope; and lilches Johnson's wig, to 
 cover the bald pale of Homer;— but his blunders pass 
 undetected by one half of his hearers. Ding-dong, 
 it is true, though he has long wrangled at our bar, 
 cannot boast much of his legal knowledge, nor docs 
 his forensic elo(|ucnce entitle him to rank wilh a Ci- 
 cero or a Demosthenes ; but bating his professional 
 deliciencics, he is a man of most delectable discourse, 
 aiul can hold forth for an hour upon the colour of n 
 riband or I he construction of a work-bag. Ding-tlong 
 is now in his fortieth year, or perhaps a little more— 
 
8 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 
 I 'I 
 
 
 rivals all the Utile beaux in town, in his attentions to 
 the ladies— is in a state of rapid improvement; and 
 there is no doubt but that, by tlie time be arrives at 
 years of discretion, he will be a very accomplished, 
 agreeable young fellow." — I advise all clever, good- 
 for-nothing " learned and authentic gentlemen," to 
 take care how they wear this cap, however well it 
 fits; — and to bear in mind that our characters are not 
 individuals, but species : if, after this warnuig, any 
 person chooses to represent Mr Ding-dong, the sin is 
 at his own door ; — we wash our hands of it. 
 
 We all sympathized with Wizard, that he should 
 be mistaken for a person so very different; and I 
 hereby assure my readers, that William Wizard is no 
 other person in the whole world but William Wizard ; 
 so I beg I may hear no more conjectures on the sub- 
 ject. Will is, in fact, a wiseacre by inheritance. The 
 Wizard family has long been celebrated for knowing 
 more than their neighbours, particularly concerning 
 their neighbours' affairs. They were anciently called 
 Josselin; but Will's great uncle, by the father's side, 
 having been accidentally burnt for a witch in Connec- 
 ticut, in consequence of blowing np his own house in 
 a philosophical experiment, the family, in order to 
 perpetuate the recollection of this memorable circum- 
 stance, assumed (he name and arms of Wizard, and 
 have borne them ever since. 
 
 In the course of my customary morning's walk, I 
 stepped in at a book-shop, which is noted for being 
 the favourite haunt of a number of literati, some of 
 whom rank high in the opinion of the world, and 
 others rank equally high in their own. Here I found 
 a knot of queer fellows, listening to one of their com- 
 pany, who was reading our paper : I particularly no- 
 ticed Mr Ichabod Fungus among the number. 
 
 Fungus is one of those fidgeting, meddling quid- 
 nuncs, with which this unhappy city is pestered ; one 
 of your "Q in the corner fellows," who speaks vo- 
 lumes with a wink — conveys most portentous infor- 
 mation, by laying his finger beside his nose — and is 
 always smelling a rat in the most trifling occurrence. 
 He listened to our work with the most frigid gravity 
 — every now and then gave a mysterious shrug — a 
 humph — or a screw of (he mouth; and on being ask- 
 ed his opinion at the conclusion, said, he did not 
 know what to think of it— he hoped it did not mean 
 any thing against the Government — that no Itnking 
 treason was couched in all this talk. — These were 
 dangerous times — times of plot and conspiracy ; — 
 he did not at all like those stars after Mr Jeffer- 
 son's name ; they had an air of concealment. Dick 
 Paddle, who was one of the group, undertook our 
 cause. Dick is known to the world as being a most 
 knowing genius, who can see as far as any body — into 
 a millstone ; maintains, in the teeth of all argument, 
 that a spade is a spade; and will labour a good half 
 hour by St Paul's clock, to establish a self-evident fact. 
 Dick assured old Fungus, that those stars merely stood 
 for Mr Jefferson's red what-d'ye-call'ems: and that 
 so far from a conspiracy against their peace and pro- 
 
 sperity, the authors, whom he knew very well, v 
 only expressuig their high respect for them. The 
 man shook his head, shrugged Iiis shoulders, gave 
 mysterious Lord Burleigh nod, said he hoped it ini{ 
 be so; but he was by no means satisfied with this 
 tack upon the President's breeches, as "thereby han| 
 a tale." * 
 
 Mr WILSON'S CONCERT. 
 
 BT ANTnONT EVERGBEEN, GEilT. 
 
 In my register of indisputable facts, I have noted 
 conspicuously, that all modern music is but the 
 dregs and draining of the ancient, and that all 
 spirit and vigour of harmony has entirely evaporai 
 in the lapse of ages. Oh ! for (he chant of (he Naiad 
 and Dryads, the shell of the Tritons, and the swi 
 warblings of the mermaids of ancient days ! \V 
 now shall we seek the Amphion, who built val 
 with a turn of. his hurdy-gurdy, the Orpheus, vl 
 made stones to whistle about hi3 ears, and trees In 
 in a country -tlance, by the mere quavering of his 
 diestick ! Ah ! had I the power of the former, ho 
 soon would I build up the new City-Hall, and 
 the cash and credit of the corporation; and ho'y mui 
 sooner would I build myself a snug hoi s» i'l 
 way ; — nor would it be the first time a ho'jse has 
 obtained there for a song. In my opinion, i!.e Scot( 
 bag-pipe is (he only instrument tliat rivals (he 
 cient lyre; and I am surprised it should be almost 
 only one enlirely excluded I'rom our concerts. 
 
 Talking of concerls reminds me of that given a fei 
 nights since by Mr Wilson; at which I had (he niij 
 fortune of being present. It was attended by a ni 
 merous company, and {^re^t satisfaction, if I may 
 allowed to j'ldge from t.ie frequent gapings of 
 audience ; though I will not risk my credit as a 
 noisseur, by saying whether they proce^-ed 
 wonder or a violent inclination to doze. I was di 
 lighted to find, in the mazes of the crowd, my 
 cular friend 'Sbidlikens, who had put on his cogni 
 scenti phiz — he being, according to his own 
 a profound adept in the science of music. He « 
 tell a crotchet at first sight; and, like a true EnglisI 
 man, is delighted with the plum-pudding 
 of a semibrief ; and, in short, boasts of having incoi 
 tinenlly climbed up Paff's musical tree," which 
 every day upon the poplar, from the fundainenii 
 concord, to the fundamental major discord ; andsoo 
 from branch to branch, until he reached the very lop 
 where he sung "Rule Britannia," clapped his wings 
 and then — came down again. Like all true trans 
 atlantic judges, he suffers most horribly at our musi 
 cal entertainments, and assures me, that what w 
 the confounded scraping, and scratching, and gratin 
 of our fiddlers, he thinks the sitting out one of ourcon 
 certs tantamount to the punishment of that unforia 
 natc saint, who was frittered in two with a handsai 
 
 Mr Wilson gave me infinite satisfaction by 
 
 ■ An emblcmalical device, suspended from a poplar in fronli 
 the shop of Faff, a music-seller in Broadway.— £di(. 
 
 utility of his demeanoi 
 Iff and then cast at the 
 ssive modesty threw hi 
 r he absolutely forgot 
 arse of his entrances an 
 IV to the audience. < 
 ink he has a fine voice, '. 
 rery motlest, good-loc 
 ive to repeat the advice 
 ious tenants of the (heat 
 men who are charged 
 lirs and tables — "mal! 
 ;e a bow ! " 
 
 cannot, on this occasi 
 certain amateurs sho 
 considering what s 
 :eofmusic is playing, 
 lanity, and who has i 
 contemplate the conn 
 victims of a fiddle-i 
 nent of compassion. I] 
 rolls up his eyes, as 
 in thunder," and t 
 him like a fit of ( 
 (0 sympathize at ev 
 helieard at that momen 
 lal that had been sa 
 the hero of the nrch< 
 on as the signal is givei 
 a most horrible g 
 m his music-book, as ( 
 otchet and quaver out of 
 nes particularly noticed i 
 tents a huge bass viol 
 iginalof the famous "lis 
 in frightening n 
 The person who playec 
 in his way; but 
 performance, having s 
 inCothan 
 a style infinitely superii 
 lyceascd to exhibit this 
 ', it was whispered, 
 a ferryman, who had los 
 was, that he die 
 ny so frequently as befi 
 
 me 
 
 till 
 ake 
 K 
 at( 
 
 he rtS' 
 ece 
 
 una 
 
 ippy 
 
 sai 
 ick 
 
 Broa( «n 
 
 hel 
 
 lima 
 
 *sl 
 
 oni 
 
 akes 
 
 rme 
 
 con 
 
 fra potent i 
 
 jd( The pel 
 
 part cellenti 
 
 sp 
 
 accoiin Mnamateuri 
 
 • 
 
 roluiidil i"ng: 
 
 han. quence' 
 
 ning 
 
 SiniNG late (he other ( 
 ing in that kind of 
 »nsider the perfection ( 
 from my reverie by th 
 the Cockloft livery, wh 
 ig the following addt 
 ege chum, Pindar Cc 
 Honest Andrew, as he 
 it his master, who resii 
 reading a small pamph 
 bbed his hands with syr 
 
 The numbers ofSalmaftund 
 
;nT, 
 
 have noted 
 but the inei 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 9 
 
 ry well, vm j,,jmy of his tlemeanoiir, and the rogtiisli looks he 
 em. Theol ,^ and tlien cast at the ladies; but we fear his ex- 
 ilders, gaye ^j^g modesty threw him into some little confusion, 
 oped it migi ^ |,g absolutely forgot himself, and in the whole 
 
 I with this ] ji^ of his entrances and exits, never once made his 
 thereby kan{ ^^ („ ihe audience. On the whole, however, I 
 
 ink he has a fine voice, sings with great taste, and is 
 very modest, good-looking little man; but I beg 
 ave to repeat the advice so often given by the illus- 
 ious tenants of the theatrical sky-parlour, to the gen- 
 men who are charged with the "nice conduct" of 
 that all il ^''"^ ^"** tables— "mafie a bow, Johnny— Johnny, 
 ilyevaporat, *eabow!" 
 
 of the Naiad ' cannot, on this occasion, but express my surprise 
 nd the swe ^' certain amateurs should be so frequently at con- 
 avs ! Wiia '^^ considering what agonies they suffer while a 
 10 built wal ^^ of music is playing. I defy any man of common 
 Drpheus vl ■""^"'^Y' ^^^ ^vl)(> l><>s not the heart of a Choctaw, 
 and trees h« contemplate the countenance of one of these un- 
 ring of hisfu W ^''^t™s of a flddle-stick, without feeling a sen- 
 former ho nc"' of compassion. His whole visage is distorted; 
 [all and sai '™"^ "P '"^ ^Y^*' ^* M'Sycophant says, "Hkea 
 i!>«l ho'y raw "'' '" '''""'^cr," and the music seems to operate 
 ii'Sfl in Broa( *" '"'" ^'^^ ^ ''^ ^^ *'^^ cholic : his very bowels 
 lo'jse has b« '*" ''^ sympathize at every twang of the cat-gut, as 
 9n i! e Scoti l>elieard at that moment the waitings of the helpltss 
 rivals the ai ''"'^' ^^^^ ''""^ ^^^ sacrificed to harmony. Nor 
 be ahiiost tl ** '''* ''*'"** ^'^ "** orchestra seem less affected : as 
 icerts. "^ ^^ ^^^ signal is given, he seizes his fiddle-stick, 
 
 at given a fe '''** ■• ^^^^ horrible grimace, and scowls fiercely 
 had the niis ""' '"* music-book, as though he would grin every 
 ided by a ni ^'^^^^ ^"''' ^'-^^ver out of countenance. I have some- 
 if I may li nesparticulariy noticeda hungry-looking Gaul, who 
 anin"-s of lli '^^^^ ^ l>"§f^ ^^^^ viol? <tnd who is doubtless the 
 :dit as a coi iginalof the famous "Raw-head-and-blootly-bones," 
 oce^-ed frn potent in frightening naughty children. 
 
 I was di '^'•e person who played the French horn was very 
 vd my pari c^Uc'it^ i" bis way ; but 'Sbidlikens could not relish 
 )n his coj^t s performance, having some time since heard a gen- 
 man amateur in Gotham play a solo on his /)ro5osds, 
 a style infinitely superior. This gentleman had lat- 
 true En'HisI rly ceased to exhibit this prodigious accomplishment, 
 in$; rolundil ^'"Si '^ was whispered, hired out his musical feature 
 a ferryman, who had lost his conch-shell ; — the con- 
 which han; quence was, that he did not show his nose in coin- 
 fundainenti ny «> frequently as before. 
 >rd; and SCO 
 the very lop 
 led his wingi 
 
 II true Iran! 
 ' at our musi 
 lat what wil 
 5, and gralin 
 ineofoureon 
 
 that unforlo 
 
 own accoiml 
 isic. He C3 
 
 iction by ih 
 
 loplar in front 
 dU. 
 
 SiniNG late the other evening in my elbow-chair, 
 ing in that kind of indolent meditation which 
 »nsider the perfection of human bliss, I was rous- 
 from my reverie by the entrance of an old servant 
 the Cockloft livery, who handed me a letter, con- 
 ning the following address from my cousin and old 
 liege chum, Pindab Cockloft. 
 Honest Andrew, as he delivered it, informed me 
 h a handsaw " '"* master, who resides a little way from town, 
 reading a small pamphlet in a neat yellow cover,' 
 bbed his hands with symptoms of great satisfaction, 
 
 Thrnuml)ersof$atniagundi were originally publialied In lliis 
 
 m. 
 
 called for his favourite Chinese ink-stand, with two 
 sprawling mandarines for its supporters, and wrote 
 the letter which he had the honour to present me. 
 
 As I foresee my cousin will one day become a great 
 favourite with the public, and as I know him to be 
 somewhat punctilious as it respects etiquette, I shall 
 take this opportunity to gratify the old gentleman, by 
 giving him a proper introduction to the fashionable 
 world. The Cockloft family, to which I have the 
 comfortof being related, has been fruitful in old ba- 
 chelors and humorists, as will lie perceived when I 
 come to treat more of its history.— My cousin Pindar 
 is one of its most conspicuous members — he is now in 
 his fifty-eighth year— is a bachelor, partly through 
 choice, and partly through chance, and an oddity of 
 the first water. Half his life has been employed in 
 writing odes, sonnets, epigrams, and elegies, which 
 he seldom shows to any body but myself after they 
 are written; — and all the old chests, drawers, and 
 chair-bottoms in the house, teem with his produc- 
 tions. 
 
 In his younger days he figured as a dashing blade 
 in the great world ; and no young fellow of the town 
 wore a longer pig-tail, or carried more buckram in 
 his skirts. From sixteen to thirty he was continually 
 in love ; and during that period, to use his own wonls, 
 he tiescribbled more paper than would serve the 
 theatre for snow-storms a whole season. The evening 
 of his thirtieth birth-day, as he sat by the fireside, as 
 much in love as ever was man in this world, and writ- 
 ing the name of his mistress in the ashes, with an old 
 tongs that had lost one of its legs, he was seized with 
 a whim-wham that he was an old fool to be in love at 
 his time of life. It was ever one of the Cockloft cha- 
 racteristics to strike to whim : and had Pindar stood 
 out on this occasion, he would have brought the repu- 
 tation of his mother in question. From that time he 
 gave up all particular attention to the ladies; and 
 though he still loves their company, he has never been 
 known to exceed the bounds of common courtesy in 
 his intercourse with them. He was the life and or- 
 nament of our family circle in town, until the epoch 
 of the French revolution, which sent so many unfor- 
 tunate dancing-masters from their country to polish 
 and enlighten our hemisphere. This was a sad time 
 for Pindar, who had taken a genuine Cockloft preju- 
 dice against every thing French, ever since he was 
 brought to death's door by a lagoitf : he groaned at 
 ^a Ira, and the Marseilles Hymn had much the same 
 effect upon him that sharpening a knife on a dry 
 whetstone has u[K)n some people — it set his teeth chat- 
 tering. He might in time have been reconciled to 
 these rubs, had not the introduction of French cock- 
 ades on the hats of our citizens absolutely thrown 
 him into a fever. The first time he saw an instance 
 of this kind, he came home with great precipitation, 
 packed up his trunk, his old-fashioned writing-<lesk, 
 and his Chinese ink-stand, and made a kind of growl- 
 ing retreat to Cockloft-Hall, where he has resided ever 
 since. 
 
 3 
 
lU 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 
 4 ! 
 
 i'ti' 
 
 m 
 
 My cousin Pinilar is of a mercurial tiisposition — a 
 liiiniorist without ill-nature;— lie is of (he true gun- 
 |)ow(ler temper — one flash, ami all is over. It is true, 
 when the wind is easterly, or the gout gives him a 
 gentle twinge, or he hears of any new successes of the 
 French, he will become a little splenetic; and heaven 
 help the man, and more {tarticularly the woman, that 
 crosses his humour at that moment — she is sure to re- 
 ceive no quarter. These are the most sublime mo- 
 ments of Pindar. I swear to you, dear ladies and 
 gentlemen, I would not lose one of those splenetic 
 bursts for the best wig in my wardrobe — even though 
 it were proved to be the identical wig worn by the 
 sage Linkum, when he demonstrated before the whole 
 university of Leyden, that it was possible to make 
 bricks without straw. I have seen the old gentle- 
 man blaze forth such a volcanic explosion of wit, ridi- 
 cule, and satire, that I was almost tempted to believe 
 liim inspired. Rut these sallies only lasted for a mo- 
 nient, and passed like summer clouds over the bene- 
 volent sunshine which ever warmed his heart and 
 lighted up his countenance. 
 
 Time, though it has dealt roughly with his person, 
 hiis passed lightly over the graces of his mind, and 
 left him in full possession of all the sensibilities of 
 youth. His eye kindles at the relation of a noble or 
 generous action — his heart melts at the story of dis- 
 tress—and he is still a warm admirer of the fair. Like 
 all old bachelors, however, he looks back witlia fond 
 and lingering eye on the period of his boyhood, and 
 would sooner suffer the pangs of matrimony, than 
 acknowledge that the world, or any thing in it , is 
 half so clever as it was in those good old times that 
 are "gone by." 
 
 I believe I have already mentioned, that with all 
 his good qualities he is a humorist, and a humorist of 
 the highest order. He has some of the most into- 
 lerable whim-whams I ever met with m my life, and 
 his oddities are sufficient to eke out a hundred to- 
 lerable originals. But I will not enlarge on them; 
 enough has been told to excite a desire to know more : 
 and I am much mistaken if, m the course of half a 
 dozen of our numbers, he don't tickle, plague, please, 
 and perplex tlie whole town, and completely esta- 
 blish his claim to the laureatship he has solicited, and 
 with which we hereby invest him, recommending 
 him and his effusions to public reverence and respect. 
 Laukcelot Langstaff. 
 
 to i.auncelot langstaff, ksq. 
 
 Dear Launce, 
 
 An I nnd you 1)avc taken the quill, 
 To put our gay town and its fair under drill, 
 I offer my Iiopes for success to your cause, 
 And scud you unvaniish'd my mite of applause. 
 
 Ah, Launce, this poor town has been woefully fash'd ; 
 Has long been be-fircnchman'd, be-cockney'd, be-trash'd ; 
 , And our ladies be^evil'd, bcwildcr'd astray, 
 From the rules of their (;rand-<lames have wander'd away. 
 No longer that modest demeanour we meet. 
 Which whilom the eyes of our fathers did greet ;— 
 Nil longer be-inohbled, l)c-rMft1ed, be^uill'd. 
 
 ne-powder'd, bc.hoadrd, lioiMtch'd, and br-frili'd. 
 >i> longer our fair ones Uieir grograms dis|>lay, 
 And stiff ill brocade, stmt "like castles" away. 
 
 Oh, how fondly my soul forms de|tartc<l has traced, . 
 When our latiirs in st.iys, ,'md in htxiice well laced, 
 When lii.Hho|i'd, and cushion'd, ami lioop'd to the chin. 
 Well calash'd without, and well liolstcr'd within ; 
 All cased in their buckrams, from crown down to tail. 
 Like U'Brallagan's mistress, were sliaped like a pail. 
 
 Well— pc,icc to those fashions— the joy of our eyes— 
 Tem|iora mutantur— new follies will rise; 
 Yet, "like joys thatarepast," they still crowd on the mini 
 In moments of thought, as the soul looks behind. 
 
 Sweet days of our boyhood, gone by, my dear Launce. 
 Liki- the shadow s of night, or thi; forms in a trance : 
 Yet oft we retrace those bright visions again ; 
 >'os mutamiir, 'tis Inw. — but those visions remain. 
 I recall w ilh delight, how my liosom would creep. 
 When some delicate foot from its chamber would peep ; 
 And w hen I a neat stocking'd ankle could spy- 
 By the sages of old, I was rapt to the sky ! 
 All then was retiring— was inoilest— <liscreet ; 
 Tiie beauties, all shrouded, were left to conceit; 
 To the visions which fancy woukl form in her eye, 
 Of graces that snug in soft ambush would lie; 
 And the heart, liki; the |io<is, in thought would pursue 
 The elysium of bliss, which wasveii'd from its view. 
 
 We are old-fash ion'd fellows, our nieces will say : 
 01d-fa.shion'd, imleed, coz— and swear it they may- 
 Fur I freely confess that it yields me no pride. 
 To sec them all show what tlieir mothers would hide. 
 To see them, all shivering, some cold winter's day. 
 So lavish their Iwauties and graces di.splay. 
 And give to each fopling that offers his hand. 
 Like Moses from Pisgah— a peep at the land. 
 
 But a tnice with complaining— the object in view 
 Is to offer my help in the work you pursue ; 
 And as your effusions and labours sublime 
 May need, now and then, a few touches of rhyme. 
 I humbly solicit, as cousin and friend, 
 A quidd-.ty, (|uirk, or remonstrance to send : 
 Or should you a laureate want in your plan. 
 By the muff of my grandmother, I am your man ! 
 Y'ou must know I liave got a poetical mill. 
 Which with odd lines, and couplets, and triplets I R\\ ; 
 And a poem I grind, as from rags white and blue 
 The paper-mill yields you a sheet fair and new. 
 I can grind down an ode, or an epic that's long, 
 Into sonnet, acrostic, conundnun, or song : 
 As to dull hudibrastic, so boasted of late. 
 The doggerel disch.irge of some muddle-brained pale. 
 I can grind it by wholesale— and give it true point. 
 With Billingsgate dish'd up in rhymes out of joint. 
 
 I have read all the poets — and got them by heart ; 
 Can slit them, and twist tliem, and lake them apart ; 
 Can cook up .in ode out of patches and shreds. 
 To muddle my readers, and liother their heads. 
 Old Homer, and Virgil, and Ovid, I scan, 
 Anacreon, and Saiipho ( who changed to a swan )— 
 Iambics and Sapphics I grind at my w ill, 
 And with ditties of love every noddle can till. 
 
 ADVERl 
 
 Pfjuiaps the most frii 
 1 meiry writer who, k 
 dtlie public, employs I 
 iracters from imaginatii 
 
 his pen, but every J 
 inted directly at himsel 
 L<, throw a fool's cap at 
 eer fellow insists upon | 
 clialk an outlandish fl; 
 litis is eager to write 
 rever we may be mort 
 ii individually think li 
 ence to engage our attei 
 h about it, if they did 
 nplain of having been il 
 is not in our hearts to hi 
 rial, by holding him i 
 irever, we are aware, ti 
 s a thwack in the crow 
 
 was intended exclusi 
 
 unreasonable anger, 
 se crusty gentry know 
 r are to expect from us 
 t, fur three special reas 
 
 i( all events extremely 
 nl, particularly at this s 
 ause if either of us shui 
 uld lie a great loss to the 
 a 1^)0(1 laugh we have ir 
 
 1 lliird, because if we si 
 sary, as is most likely- 
 it balls u|>on razors an 
 a loss to our publisher, 
 tomer. If any gentlen 
 good reasons for iiglitin 
 leset of Salmagundi for 
 iiit though we do not fi 
 s, let it not be suppos 
 pie satisfaction to all tlu 
 od it— for this would be 
 Imle, and lead very va 
 what is called a quant 
 Ml and one pities that an 
 limselfthecapand bell: 
 
 acceptance, should no 
 ^iled into the bargain. 
 ing salisfactioii in every 
 loiillthatofii; 
 
 ipping heroes of the tl 
 Oh, 'twould do your heart good, Launce, to see my mill pi jj^gj ^f ^^^ gin'terbreai 
 
 Old stuff iiito verses, and poems refined; 
 Dan Spencer, Dan Chaucer, those poets of old. 
 Though cover'd with dust, are yet true sterling gold : 
 lean grind off tlieir tarnish, and bring them to view, 
 New modell'd, new mill'd, and improved in their \w.\ 
 
 But I promise no more— only give me the place, 
 And I'll warrant I'll Tdl it with credit and grace : 
 By the powei-s! I'll figure and cut you a dash- 
 As hold as Will Wizard, or 'Sbidlikeiisflasli ! 
 
 PiNDAB Cockloft. 
 
 •ghting. 
 
 rry an old stuff petticoat 
 ulorsof Rome or aldermi 
 isker their mttflin faces w 
 >t valiant warriors, arm 
 mill therefore any great 
 Meat our good-natured 
 iffend nobody under hea 
 uy hour after twelve 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 It 
 
 ADVERTISEMEI*'''. 
 
 Pfjuiaps the iiioiil friiitrul sourv.^ of mortificdiiuii 
 ineiry writer who, for the ainiiseinent of himself 
 J the public, employs his leisure in sketchin;^ odd 
 traders from imai^ination, is, that he cannot iloiir- 
 his pen, hut every Jack-pudding imagines it is 
 inted directly at himself; — he cannot, in his gani- 
 Ls, throw a fool's cap among the crowd, but every 
 eer fellow insists upon putting it on his own head ; 
 clialk an outlandish figure, but every oullnndisli 
 liiis is eager to write his own name un«lcr it.— 
 wever we may be mortified, that these men should 
 lb individually think himself of suflicient conse- 
 ence to engage our attention, we should not care a 
 ill about it, if they did not get into a passion and 
 nplain of having been ill used. 
 I is not in our hearts to hurl the feelings of one single 
 irtal, by holding him up to public ridicule. As, 
 irever, we are aware, that wlien a man by chance 
 s a thwack in the crowd he is apt to suppose the 
 m- was intended exclusively for himself, and so fall 
 unreasonable anger, we have determined to let 
 se crusty gentry know what kind of satisfaction 
 y are to expect from us. We are resolved not to 
 It, fur three special reasons ; first, because fighting 
 It all events extremely troublesome and inconve- 
 nl, particularly at this season of the year ; second, 
 ause if either of us should happen to l»e killed, it 
 uldl)ea great loss to thepublic, and rob tlieniof ma- 
 a ptod laugh we have in store for their amusement; 
 third, because if we shoidd chance to kill our ad- 
 saiy, as is most likely — for we can every one of us 
 it balls u|ion razors and snutT candles — it would 
 a loss to our publisher, by depriving him of a good 
 tomer. If any gentleman casuist will give three 
 guod reasons for fighting, we promise him a com- 
 leset of Salmagundi for nothing. 
 lut though we do not fight in our own proper per- 
 s, let it not be supposed that we will not give 
 pie satisfaction to all those who may choose to de- 
 ad it— for this would be a mistake of the first ma- 
 ilude, and lead very valiant gentlemen, perhaps, 
 owhat is called a quandary. It would l)e a ihou- 
 dand one pities that any honest man, after taking 
 limself the cap and bells which we merely offereil 
 lis acceptance, shoidd not have the privilege of being 
 Igeiled into the bargain. We pride ourselves upon 
 ing satisfaction in every dei>artment of our paper ; 
 to fill that of fighting, have engaged two of those 
 ipping heroes of the theatre, who figure in the 
 inues of our gingerbread kings and queens — now 
 17 an old stuff petticoat on their backs, and strut 
 mors of Rome or aldermen of London — and now be- 
 isker their muffin faces with burnt cork, and swagger 
 ht valiant warriors, armed cap-d-pie, in buckram. 
 lid therefore any great little man about town lake 
 at our good-natured villany, though we intend 
 Tend nobody nnder heaven, he will please to apply 
 aiy hour afler Iwelve o'clock, as oin* champions 
 
 will then be off duty at the theatre, and ready for any 
 thing. They have promised to light" with or with- 
 out balls " — to give two tweaks of the ntise for once 
 — to submit to l)e kicked, and to aidgel their ap|)li- 
 canl most lieartily in return ; this tieing whal we un- 
 derstand by "the satisfaction of a gentleman." 
 
 No. III.— FHinAY, FEBKLAHV 13. IHOT. 
 PBOM MV ELB()\V-4:il*IH. 
 
 As I delight in every thing novel and eccenlrir, 
 and would at any lime give an old coal for a new- 
 idea, I am particularly attentive to the manners and 
 conversation of strangers, and scarcely ever a traveller 
 enters this city, whose appearance promises any thing 
 original, but by some means or another I form an 
 aLxjuaintance with him. I must confess I often suf- 
 fer manifeld afflictions from the intimacies thus con- 
 tracted : my curiosity is frequenllv punished by the 
 stupid details of a blockhead, or the shallow verLtosity 
 of a coxcomb. Now I would prefer at any time to 
 travel with an ov-teaui thiuugh a Carolina sand-llal, 
 rather than plod through a heavy unmeaning conver- 
 sation with the former ; and as to the latter, I would 
 sooner bold sweet converse with the wheel of a knife- 
 grinder than endure his monotonous chattering. In 
 fact, the strangers who flock to this most pleasant of 
 all earthly cities are generally mere birds of passage , 
 whose plumage is often guy enough, I own, but their 
 notes, " heaven save the mark, " are as unmusical as 
 tlit)se of that classic night bird, which the uiicienis 
 humorously selected as the emblem of wisdom. 'J'liosc 
 from the south, it is true, entertaui me with their 
 hoi-ses, equipages, and puns : and it is excessively 
 pleasant to hear a couple of these four in /(«)!(/ gentle- 
 men detail their exploits over a lN)ttlc. 'J'hose from 
 the east have often induced me to doubt the existence 
 of the wise men of yore wlu) are said to liave flourish- 
 ed in that quarter; and as for those from parts beyond 
 seas — oh I my masters, ye shall hear more from me 
 anon. Heaven help this unhappy town ! — hath it not 
 goslings enow of its own hatching and rearing, that 
 it must be overwhelmed by such an inundation of 
 ganders from other climes? I would not have any of 
 my courteous and gentle readers siq)pose that I am 
 running a mucli, full tilt, cut and slash, upon all fo- 
 reigners indiscriminately. I have no national anti- 
 pathies, though related to the Cockloft family. As 
 to honest John Bull, I shake him heartily by the hand, 
 assuruig him that I love his jolly countenance, ami 
 moreover am lineally descended from him ; in proof 
 of which I allege my invincible predilection for roast 
 beef and pudding. I therefore look upon all his chil- 
 dren as my kinsmen ; and I l)eg, when I tickle a 
 cockney, I may not lie understood as trimming an 
 Englishman, they being very distinct animals, as I 
 shall clearly demonstrate in a future number. If any 
 one wishes to know my opinion of the Irish and Scotch. 
 

 $. I 
 
 12 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 M i 
 
 i 
 
 
 he may And it in the characters of those nations, 
 drawn by the first advocate of the age. But the 
 French, I must confess, are my favourites, and I have 
 taken more pains to argue my cousin Pindar out of 
 his antipatliy to them than I ever did about any other 
 tiling. When, tiierefore, I clioose to hunt a Mon- 
 sieur for my own particular amusement, I beg it may 
 not be asserted that I intend him as a representative 
 of his countrymen at large. Far from this — I love 
 the nation, as being a nation of right merry fellows, 
 possessing the true secret of l)eing happy ; which is 
 nothing more than thinking of nothing, talking about 
 any thing, and laughing at every thing. I mean only 
 to tune up those little thing-o-mys, who represent 
 nobody but themselves ; who have no national trait 
 about them but their language, and who hop about 
 our town in swarms like little toads after a shower. 
 
 Among the few strangers whose acquaintance has 
 entertained me, I particularly rank the magnanimous 
 Mustapha Rub-a-dub Keli Khan, a most illustrious 
 captain of a ketch, who figured, some time since, in 
 our fashionable circles, at the head of a ragged regi- 
 ment of Tripolitan prisoners. ■ His conversation was 
 to me a perpetual feast; — I chuckled with inward 
 pleasure at his whimsical mistakes and unaffected ob- 
 servations on men and manners ; and I rolled each 
 odd conceit " like a sweet morsel under my tongue." 
 
 Whether Mustapha was captivated by my iron- 
 bound physiognomy, or flattered by the attentions 
 which I paid him, I won't determine ; but I so far 
 gained his confidence, that, at his departure, he pre- 
 sented me with a bundle of papers, containing, among 
 other articles, several copies of letters, which he had 
 written to his friends at Tripoli. The following is a 
 translation of one of them. The original is in Arabic- 
 (Ireek; but by the assistance of Will Wizard, who 
 understands all languages, not excepting that manu- 
 factured by Psalmanazar, I have been enabled to ac- 
 complish a tolerable translation. We should have 
 found little difficulty in rendering it into English, had 
 it not been for Mustapha's confounded pot-hooks and 
 
 hangers. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 rilOM MIJ8TAPIIA lllll-A-nLD KELI KUAN, 
 
 Ciiplain of a Ketch, to Asem llacihem, principal Slave- 
 driver to his Highness the liashaw of Tripoli. 
 
 Tiioii wilt learn from this letter, most illustrious 
 disci(tle of Mahomet, that I have tor some time resid- 
 ed in New-York; the most polished, vast, and ma- 
 Ruilicenl city of the United States of America. — But 
 what to me are its delights! I wander a captive 
 through its splenilid stree'* • I turn a heavy eye on 
 evei7 rising day that beholtis me banished from my 
 Country. I'he christian husbands here lament most 
 bitterly any short absence from home, though they 
 
 ■ Scvoral Tri|)olitan prigoiirra lal(cn by an American wiiiaclron, 
 in an action off Tripoli, wore liroughl lo New-York ; wliere llicy 
 livrfl at larKc, ohjecti of llic curiosity and liuspilalily nf tlin in- 
 lialtilanlA, iinlil an opport\inily prrscntcil lo restore Ihein lollicir 
 Dwnconnlry.— Frf/^ 
 
 epublic 
 dinirai 
 ither i 
 memo (hereat ■ 
 
 habi 
 
 (C-l 
 
 tlw 
 
 igiy 
 
 Ult 
 
 inlii Resident. 
 
 J' 
 
 tee; 
 
 Incredil haw 
 Itol 
 
 leave liut one wife behind to lament their deparlurt 
 — what then must be the feelings of thy unhapi lin 
 kinsman, while thus lingering at an inuneasiiral 
 distance from tliree-and-twenty of the most Im 
 and obedient wives in all Tripoli ! Oh, Allah ! si 
 thy servant never again return to his native land, 
 behold his beloved wives, who beam on his 
 beautiful as the rosy morn of the east, and graceful 
 Mahomet's camel ! 
 
 Yet beautiful, oh, most puissant slave-driver, 
 are my wives, they are far exceeded by the wom«hey 
 of this country. Even those who run about the stretlwb. 
 with bare arms and necks {et cwtera), whose 
 ments are too scanty to protect them either from 
 inclemency of the seasons, or the scrutinizing glane^ned 
 of the curious, and who it would seem belong to 
 body, are lovely as the houris that people the elysii 
 of (rue believers. If, then, such as run wild in 
 highways, and whom no one cares to appropriate, 
 thus beauteous; what must be the charms of 
 who are shut up in the seraglios md never permill 
 to go abroad ! Surely the region of beauty, the 
 of the graces, can contain nothing so inimitably 
 
 But, notwilhstanduig the charms of these 
 women, they are apt to have one fault, which is 
 tremely troublesome and inconvenient. Wouldst IhSiob 
 believe it, Asem, I have been positively assured li| 
 famous dervise (or doctor as he is here called), that 
 least one fifth part of them — have souls ! 
 as it may seem to thee, I am the more inclined 
 lieve them in possession of this monstrous superflui 
 from my own little experience, and from tlie iniipining 
 mation which I have derived from others. In wal 
 ing the streets I have actually seen an exceeding goMhe 
 looking woman with soul enough to box her husban hat 
 ears to his heart's content, and my very wliiski 
 trembled with indignation at the abject state of thAfthe 
 wretched infidels. I am told, moreover, that some 
 the women have soul enough to usurp the 
 of the men, but these I suppose are married and ki be 
 close; for I have not, in my rambles, met with any 
 extravagantly accoutred. Others, I am informed, lu 
 soul enough to swear!— yea! by the beard of 
 great Omar, who prayed three times lo each 
 one hundred and twenty-four thousand prophets ofoftiiich 
 most holy faith, and who never swore but once in 
 life— they actually swear ! 
 
 (let thee to the mosque, good Asem! return (liai 
 lo our most holy prophet that he has been thus 
 fill of the comfort of all true Mussulmen, and 
 !j;iven them wives with no more souls than cats 
 dogs, and other necessary animals of the houselio 
 
 Tluui wilt doubtless be anxious to learn our reci 
 lion in this country, and how we were treated 
 people whom we have been accustomed lo coiisii 
 as unenlightened barbarians. 
 
 On landing we were wailed upon to our 
 I suppose according to the directions of the inui 
 palily, by a vast and respectable escort of Itoys 
 negroes, who shouted and (brew up their hats. 
 
 to do honour to the 
 
 ofaketch; they wei 
 
 their equipments, bu 
 
 ican simplicity. 
 
 dmiration, threw an oh 
 
 an ungentle salul 
 
 I was not a lit 
 
 refer informed us that t 
 
 I which great men we 
 
 nd that the more distin 
 
 were subjected to t 
 
 Upon tills I bow 
 
 hands to my turbai 
 
 Greek, which gave 
 
 a shower of old ! 
 
 ras exceedingly refresh 
 
 Thou wilt not as yet 
 
 n account of the laws s 
 
 lill reserve them for soi 
 
 more experienced in 
 
 y contradictory natu 
 
 This empire is govern 
 
 bashaw, whom tl 
 
 He is cliosei 
 
 an assembly, electei 
 
 is called the soverei 
 
 ; the body politic do 
 
 ihich is best governed I 
 
 is a very plain old 
 
 of a humorist, as he 
 
 butterflies and pickli 
 
 in popularity, h 
 
 earing red breeches, a 
 
 people of the Uni 
 
 they themselves are 
 
 inder the sun ; but thou 
 
 desert, who assen 
 
 » shoot their arrows a 
 
 breecvder to extinguish his I 
 
 same boast; — whici 
 
 jaim, I shall not altem]; 
 
 I have observed, with 
 
 le men of this country 
 
 of#>n)modate themselves 
 
 alone the laws ] 
 
 rardiiess is probabi 
 
 lieir absolutely having r 
 
 rhoii knowest how inva 
 
 miiftii'iions ; what a price it 
 
 what entertaining v 
 
 itful entertainment a 
 
 he 
 
 lackwi 
 
 iglil 
 
 b "«•' 
 
 Tliis is anotlier allnsioii U 
 
 wlio, even wliilc llic FIrsI 
 
 tcaiions when a litllc of tlin ' 
 
 iWild not liave Iteen iiiconip 
 
 ustometl to(li-i'a.s in tl)c plaint 
 
 lodgin (wiijiuut an attendant ; m lli; 
 
 umiglil be seen, wlien the In 
 
 (nil presence, riding np nioiv 
 
 ijtlon, and, haviiiR tied IiIk » 
 
 (lie iinporlant biiitiiifi 
 
 iloii rinuui I 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 13 
 
 eii- deparlurt iss to do honour to the magnanimous Muslapiia, cap- 
 thy unhapi ijn of a ketch ; they were somewhat ragged and dirty 
 inuneasnralU i their equipments, but this was attributed to their 
 le most love jipubiican simplicity. One of them, in tlie zeal of 
 I, Allah ! sit (iiniration, threw an old shoe, which gave thy friend 
 ative land, n ither an ungentle salutation on one side of the head, 
 n his memo rhereat I was not a little offended, until the inter- 
 and graceful reter informed us that this was the customary manner 
 I which great men were honoured in this counti7; 
 ave-driver, nd that tlie more distinguished they were, the more 
 by the wonn bey were subjected to the attacks and peltings of the 
 wut the stra wb. Upon this I bowed my head three times, with 
 whose habi ly iiands to my turban, and made a speech in Ara- 
 ;ither from l| jc-Greek, which gave gi-eat satisfaction, and occa- 
 jnizing giant ioned a shower of old shoes, hats, and so forth, that 
 I belong to n ras exceedingly refreshing to us all. 
 )le the eiysJD Thou wilt not as yet expect that I should give thee 
 jn wild in il n account of the laws and politics of this country. I 
 ppropriate, j nil reserve them for some future letter, when I shall 
 larms of tlw e more experienced in their complicaled and seem- 
 ever permill igly contradictory nature. 
 
 luty, the valii This empire is governed by a grand and most puis- 
 nimitably fai mt bashaw, whom they dignify with the title of 
 3f these inlii tesident. He is chosen by persons, who are chosen 
 t, which is e y an assembly, elected by the people— hence the 
 Wouklstlh wb is called the sovereign people— and the country, 
 y assured lij pee; the body politic doubtless resembling a vessel, 
 calletl), thai rliich is best governed by its tail. The present ba- 
 s ! Incredil baw is a very plain old gentleman— something they 
 inclined tol ay of a humorist, as he amuses himself with impal- 
 )us superflui ig butterflies and pickling tadpoles ; he is rather de- 
 rom the infi lining in popularity, having given great offence by 
 ers. In wal rearing red breeches, and tying his iiorse to a post.' 
 xceedinggot lie people of the United States have assured me 
 (herhusban hat they themselves are the most enlightened nation 
 very whiski inder the sun; but thou know est that the barbarians 
 It state of tlH if the desert, who assemble at the summer solstice, 
 »', that some o shoot their arrows at that glorious luminary, in 
 'P the breed mler to extinguish his burning rays, make precisely 
 trricd and ki he same boast ; — which of them have the superior 
 net with any ilaim, I shall not attempt to decide, 
 informed, lu I have observed, with some degree of surprise, that 
 I beard of I he men of this country do not seem in haste to ac- 
 I (o each of I mmodate themselves even with the single wife 
 prophets ofo vhich alone the laws permit them to marry; Ibis 
 but once in ackwardness is probably owing to the misfortune of 
 heir absolutely having no female mules among them. 
 ! return thai fhou knowest how invaluable are these silent com- 
 een thus mil anions; what a price is given for them in the east, 
 hnen, and 1 ml what entertaining wives they make. What de- 
 than CHls a iglilful entertainment aiises from beholding the si- 
 the houselio 
 
 tarn our rect ' This is another alliisiflii to the primitive hahiU of Mr JolTi'r- 
 rt treated b "*' *''"• "vcn while the Flwt MaRlslrate of the Uei)ul)lic, aiul on 
 pH Io ronsil '""'''"' ^•""' •'''""•' "'"'«" l>""U>a'«l«iroi"»slaiien" of office 
 e« 10 toi ,D,|U ^^^ ii^yg li^^ij incoiiipatihie with that situation, was ac- 
 wtotncil toflresH in the plainest Rarb. anil when on huwchack to 
 witlmiil an attcnilant ; no that it not nnfrequeiitly happeninl that 
 of the nmn '""'S''' ^- m*"- when Uie Inwinesd of the Stale iwinii-cil his |ier- 
 JmuI presence, riding up alone to the government house at Wash- 
 Won, anil, haviuR lied his steed to the nearest |io»t, prucccd to 
 •nuct the important business of tlie nation.— ^;rf<^ 
 
 )rtof iKiysi 
 pirhals.doii 
 
 lent eloquence of their signs and gestures; but a wife 
 possessed both of a tongue and a soul — monstrous ! 
 monstrous ! Is it astonishing that these unhappy in- 
 fidels should shrink from a union with a woman so 
 preposterously endowed? 
 
 Thou hast doubtless read in the works of Abul Fa- 
 raj, the Arabian historian, the tradition which men- 
 tions that the muses were once upon the point of fall- 
 ing together by the ears about the admission of a tenth 
 among tneir number, until she assured them, by signs, 
 that she was dumb; whereupon they received her 
 with great rejoicing. I should, perhaps, inform thee 
 that there are but nine Christian muses, who were 
 formerly pagans, but have since been converted, and 
 that ui this country we never hear of a tenth, unless 
 some crazy poet wishes to pay an hyperl)oiical com- 
 pliment to his mistress; on which occasion it goes 
 bard but she figures as a tenth muse, or fourth grace, 
 even though she should be more illiterate than a Hot- 
 tentot, and more ungraceful than a dancing bear ! 
 Since my arrival in this country, I have met not less 
 than a hundred of these supernumerary nmses and 
 graces — antl may Allah preserve me from ever meet- 
 ing any more ! 
 
 When I have studied this people more profoundly, 
 I will write thee again ; in the mean time watch over 
 my household, and do not beat my beloved wives, 
 unless you catch them with their noses out at the 
 window. Though far distant, and a slave, let me 
 live in thy heart as thou Uvest in mine : — think not, 
 O friend oi my soul, that the splendours of this luxu- 
 rious capital, its gorgeous palaces, its stupendous 
 mosques, and the beautiful females who run wild in 
 herds about its streets, can obliterate thee from my 
 remembrance. Thy name shall still be mentioned in 
 the five-and-twenly prayers which I offer up daily ; 
 and may our great prophet, after bestowing on thee 
 all the blessings of this life, at length, in a good old 
 age, lead thee gently by the hand, to enjoy the dig- 
 nity of bashaw of three tails in the blissful bowers of 
 Eden. Mustapiia. 
 
 FASIIIOISS. 
 
 »Y A^TUO^iY KVIiUUItllKiH, liKKT. 
 
 The following avlide is furnished tne lnj a young iMdij of 
 unquestionable taste, and who is tlic orarle of fashion and 
 frippenj. lieing deeply Initiated into all the m ijsteries of 
 the toilet, site lias promised me, from time to time, a simi- 
 lar detail. 
 
 Mhs Toolk has for some lime reigned unrivalled 
 in the fashionable world, and had the supreme direc- 
 tion of caps, buiniets, feathers, flowers, and tinsel.— 
 She has dressed and undressed our ladies just as she 
 pleased; now loading them with velvet and wail- 
 ding, now turning them adrift upon the world, to run 
 shivering throiigli the streets with scarcely a covering 
 to their- backs; and now obliging them to drag a 
 long traui at their heels, like the tail of a paper kite. 
 Her despotic sway, however, threatens to be limited. 
 A (laiip'f>rous rival has sprung up in the person of 
 Madame nouehiird, an intrepid little wuniaii, IVesh 
 
14 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 if 
 
 1 1 
 
 I 
 
 
 i ■ 
 
 from the head qnarters of fashion and folly, and who 
 has burst like a second Bonaparte upon the fashion- 
 able world.— Mrs Toole, notwithstanding, seems de- 
 termined to dispute her ground bravely for the honour 
 ofoldEnglaiiii. The ladies have begun to arrange 
 themselves under the banner of one or other of these 
 herouies of the needle, and every thing portends open 
 war. Madame Bouchard marches gallantly to tl>.e 
 Held, flourishing a flaming red robe for a standard, 
 " flouting the skies ; " and Mrs Toole, no ways dis- 
 mayed, sallies out under cover of a forest of artificial 
 flowers, like Malcolm's host. Both parties possess 
 great merit, and both deserve the victory. Mrs Toole 
 charges the highest, but Madame Bouchard makes 
 tlie lowest courtesy. Madame Bouchard is a little 
 short lady — nor is there any Iwpe of her growing 
 larger; but then she is perfectly genteel — and so is 
 Mrs Toole. Mrs Toole lives in Broadway, and Ma- 
 dame Bouchard in Courlland-street; but Madame 
 atones for the inferiority of her stand, by making two 
 courtesies to Mrs Toole's one, and talking French 
 like an angel. Mrs Toole is the best looking — but Ma- 
 dame Bouchard wears a most bewitching little scrub- 
 by wig. Mrs Toole is the tallest — but Madame Bou- 
 chard has the longest nose. Mrs Toole is fond of 
 roast beef— but Madame is loyal in her adherence to 
 onions : in short, so equally are the merits of the two 
 ladies balanced, that there is no judging which will 
 " kick the beam." — It however seems to be the pre- 
 vailing opinion, that Madame Boudiard will carry the 
 day, because she vfnars a wig, lias a long nose, talks 
 French, loves onions, and does not charge above ten 
 times as much for a thing as it is worth. 
 
 Under the direction of these high priestesses of the beuii- 
 monde, the following is the fashionable nwming-dress for 
 tvaUttng .— 
 
 If the weather be very cold, a thin muslin gown, 
 or frock, is most advisable — because it agrees with the 
 season, being perfectly cool. The neck, arms, and 
 particularly the elbows bare, in order that they may 
 be agreeably painted and mottled by Mr John Frost, 
 nose-painter-general, of the colour of Castile soap. 
 Shoes of kid, the thinnest that can [mssibly be pro- 
 curetl— as they tend to promote colds and make a 
 lady look interesting— (i. c. grizzly). Picnic silk 
 stockings, with lace clocks— flesh-coloured are most 
 fashionable, as they have the appearance of bare legs— 
 inidity being all llie rage. The stockings carelessly 
 bespattered with mud, to agree with the gown, which 
 should he Itordereil about three inches deep with the 
 most fashionably coloured mud that can be found : the 
 ladies permitted to hold up their trains, after they 
 have swept two or three streets, in order to show— the 
 clocks of their stockings. The shawl scarlet, crimson, 
 flame, orange, salmon, or any other combustible or 
 brimstone colour, thrown over one shoulder, like an 
 Indian blanket, with one end dragging on the ground. 
 
 IN. B.— If the ladies have not a red shawl at hand, 
 a red petticoat turned topsy-turvy, (wer the shoul- 
 
 ders, would do just as well. This is caUed beini 
 dressed a-la-drabble. 
 
 When the ladies do not go abroad of a morning, 
 nsual chimney-corner dress is adotted, spotted, 
 or cross-barred gown — a yellowish, whitish, smokisi 
 dirty-coloured shawl, and the hair curiously 
 mented with little hits of newspapers, or pieces of 
 better from a dear friend. This is called the "Cii 
 derella dress." 
 
 The recipe for a full-dress is as follows : — Take o 
 spider-net, crape, satin, gymp, cat-gut, gauze, whali 
 bon<>, lace, bobbin, riltands, and artificial flowers, 
 much as will rig out the congregation of a 
 church; to these add as many spangles, beads, an 
 gew-gaws, as would be sufficient to turn the heads 
 all the fashionable fair ones of Nootka S«)und. 
 Mrs Toole, or Madame Bouchard, patch all these 
 tides together, one u|)on another, dash them plenti- 
 fully over Avith stars, l3ugles, and tinsel, and they wil 
 altogether form a dress, which, hung ufton a lady'i 
 back, cannot fail of supplying the place of beautr, 
 youth, and grace, and of reminding the spectator 
 that cdebrated region of finery, called Rag Fair. 
 
 smile by their effusion 
 
 we modestly doubt 
 
 le burthen of Salmagu 
 
 striped « a whole fortnight, as 
 
 D, until the whole to' 
 
 oro) lugliing philosophers HI 
 
 >ntion, however, of und 
 
 ut 
 villagi ersons 
 VVhi] 
 ehind 
 
 w 
 
 i 
 «led 
 
 ler 
 
 inciden tracy 
 
 udi 
 
 W( ««» 
 
 spectable 
 tlrt ipitol 
 llij, hale^ 
 lonj racy 
 
 '^" 
 
 Hi 
 
 II. 
 even "se 
 
 ive 
 
 One of the greatest sources of amusement 
 to our humorous knight-errantry is to ramble abod 
 and hear the various conjedures of the town respect' 
 ing our worships, whom eveiy body pi-etends to knon 
 as well as Falstaff did Prince Hal at Gads-hill 
 have sometimes seen a sapient, sleepy fellow, on beiiif 
 tickled with a straw, make a furious effort, and fam 
 he had fairly cauglit a gnat in his grasp; so, 
 many-headed monster, tlie public, who with all lia 
 heads is, we fear, sadly off for brains, has, after 
 hovering, come souse down, like a king-fisher, on tli 
 authors of Salmagundi, and caught them as certaiiil| 
 as llie aforesaid honest fellow caught the gnat. 
 
 Would that we were rich enough to give 
 one of our numerous readers a farthing, as a rewani 
 for their ingenuity ! not that they liave really conjec- 
 tured within a thousand leagues of the truth, biitllul 
 we consider it a great stretch of ingenuity even 
 have guessed wrong ; — and that we hold oursclvi 
 much obliged to tlieni for having taken the trouble 
 guess at all. 
 
 One of the most tickling, dear, mischievous plea 
 sui-es of this life is to laugh in one's sleeve — to sit sm 
 in a corner, unnoticed and unknown, and hear iIk 
 wise men of Gotham, who are profound judgi 
 horseflesh, pronounce, from the style of our woii, 
 who are the authors. This listening incog, and I'c- 
 ceiving a hearty prhising over another man's back, b 
 a situation so celestially whimsical, that we have done 
 little else than laugh in our sleeve ever since our first 
 numl)er was published. 
 
 The town has at lioglii allayed the titillalions 
 curiosity, by fixing on two young gentlemen of lile- 
 rary talents— that is tn say, they are equal to the com 
 position of a iiewspapcc stpiib, a hodge-|>ndge vrili' 
 cism, or some such trifle, and may occasionally raist 
 
 jgli 
 
 nu; 
 
 l'8-fli 
 
 young men, whom 
 I common acceptation, 
 Were we ill-natured, 
 lat would get our rep 
 far be it from us to 
 to whom we arc 
 While they stand befc 
 the sevenfold sh 
 n our sportive arrow 
 itiict a wound, unless 1 
 to some conscic 
 Another marvellous g 
 Ibe abuse our work ha 
 1 gentlemen, whose ce 
 we did any thing ir 
 eclared open war again 
 ECted to receive no qua 
 of all the blockh 
 our indisputable facts 
 ler by the tail, the 
 le and all, have a fellov 
 to cackle and hiss 11 
 we have a profound 
 e birds, on the 
 , we hereby dech 
 lialever by comparing 
 We have heart 
 Salmagundi, as almoti 
 liere, asintheeast, 1 
 Every silly roiste 
 of anticipated dati 
 Hidemned us without ni 
 It would have morl 
 !n disappointed in this 
 been apprehensive 
 « ground, innocent of 
 e numskull. Ourefl 
 onderful success. All 
 Hats, the noddies, a 
 mtlenien, are pointing 
 eare threatened with a 
 " pigmies and cranes 
 icked by the heavy-ari 
 upidily. The veriest ti 
 mentji are thus realize 
 mures of the wise, th 
 ill ever be sacred from 
 e wise, love the good, 
 ourselves champion 
 m nality— and we thi 
 wld besides. 
 While we profess an«l 
 ililio applause as at fir 
 
 are 
 
called beiii 
 
 rs : — Take ( 
 :auze, whali 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 15 
 
 sinile by their effusions; but pardon us, sweet sirs, 
 we modestly doubt your capability of supporting 
 norning, (hAie burthen of Salmagundi, or of keeping up a laugh 
 tted, striped tr a whole fortnight, as we have done, and intend to 
 ish, smokish d, ""l"! *'*« whole town becomes a community of 
 iously oriu lugliing philosophers like ourselves. We have no m- 
 r pieces of 
 d the "Cii 
 
 ntion, however, of undervaluing the abilities of those 
 
 young men, whom we verily believe, according 
 ) common acceptation, young men of promise. 
 
 Were we ill-natured, we might publish something 
 lat would get our representatives into difliculties; 
 1 flowers, 1 it far be it from us to do any thuig to the injury of 
 of a \\lh«{ ersons to whom we are under such obligations, 
 beads an VVhile they stand before us, we, like little Teucer, 
 the heads o chind the sevenfold shield of Ajax, can launch un- 
 Sound. U *" •'"'■ sportive arrows, which we trust will never 
 1 all these ar >'l><^' '^ wound, unless like his they fly, "heaven di- 
 them plenti' Kted," to some conscious-struck bosom, 
 and they wil Another marvellous great source of pleasure to us 
 ition a ladv' "i^ abuse our work has received from several wood- 
 « of beauty > gentlemen, whose censures we covet more than 
 I spectator o ''>' ^'^ ^'^^ ^i^Y ^'^'"S '" <'"'' ''^^s. The moment we 
 Hag Fair. eclared open war against folly and stupidity we ex- 
 
 icted to receive no quarte>\ and to provoke a confe- 
 nent incident cracy of all the blockheads in town. For it is one 
 ramble about "i"' indisputable facts, that so soon as you catch a 
 town respect- od*^!' ^y l^'^^ t^''> ^^^ whole flock, geese, goslings, 
 ends to knoi ^ ""^ '*"> l'*'^^ ^ fellow-feeling on the occasion, and 
 ds-hill. Wi 6>" to cackle and hiss like so many devils bewitched, 
 low, onbeiiii ^ we have a profound respect for these ancient and 
 irt and faiiq ^table birds, on the score of their once saving the 
 asp- so, tlm ^pit"'; ^ve hereby declare, that we mean nooifence 
 } with all lii tiatcver by comparing them to the aforesaid confe- 
 us after loni ^racy. We have heard in our walks such criticism 
 iishcr on tiK > Salmagundi, as almost induced a belief that lolly 
 I as certainli xlli^i'^; «s in the east, her moments of inspired idio' 
 gnat. Qi. Every silly roister has, as if by an instinctive 
 
 nse of anticipated danger, joined in the cry, and 
 
 mdemned us without mercy. All is thus as it should 
 It would have mortiiied us very sensibly had we 
 
 eii disappointed in this particular, as we should then 
 uity even tii i^*^ ^c<^" apprehensive that our shaits had fallen to 
 aid oursclve e ground, innocent of the " blood or brains" of a 
 Lhe trouble to ugle numskull. Our efforts have been crowned with 
 
 onderful success. All the queer Hsh, the grubs, 
 lievous plea- ' 'l^t^^ tlic noddies, and the live oak and timber 
 , lo sit ,snii{| ^itlenien, are pointing their empty guns at us ; and 
 
 give even 
 
 as a reward 
 
 eally conjvo 
 
 -nth, biittliU 
 
 ind hear tlie 
 
 of our wdii. 
 cog. and re- 
 
 ive have duiit 
 iiice our lirsl 
 
 eare threatened with a most puissant confederacy of 
 
 d jiidg(>s-«i ^ " pigmies and cranes," and other " light militia," 
 icked by the heavy-armed artillery of dulness and 
 upidily. The veriest dreams of our most sanguine 
 
 laii's back, is oments are thus realized. We have no fear of the 
 iiujuies of the wise, the good, or I he fair ; fur they 
 ill ever be sacred from our attacks. We reverence 
 le wise, love the gootl, and adore the fair; we de- 
 re ourselves champions in their cause— in the cause 
 iiDiality— and we throw our gauntlet to all the 
 wid besides. 
 
 W hile we profess and feel the same indifference lo 
 Mf applause as at lirst, we most earnestly invite 
 
 tilillalioiis 
 einen of lile-| 
 illothecoin 
 -|MHlge' orili 
 sionally raisfl 
 
 the attacks and censures of all the wooden warriors of 
 this sensible city, and especially of that distinguished 
 and learned body, heretofore celebrated under the ap- 
 pellation of " the North-river Society." The thrice 
 valiant and renowned Don Quixote never made such 
 work amongst the wool-r' d warriors of Taprol)an, or 
 the puppets of the itinerant showman, as we promise 
 to make amongst these fine fellows > and we pledge 
 ourselves to the public in general, and the Albany 
 skippers in particular, that the North-river shall not be 
 set on fire this winter at least, for we shall give the 
 authors of that nefarious scheme ample employment 
 for some time to come. 
 
 PROCLAMATION, 
 
 FBOM THE MILL OP PINDAH COCKLOFT, ESQ. 
 
 To all llie young l)eltes wlio enliven our scene, 
 From ripe rive-and-forty, to blooming fillcen; 
 Who racliet at routs, and wh . raUlc at plays, 
 Wlio visit, and fidget, and dance out tlicir days ; 
 Wlio conquer all hearts with a shot from the eye. 
 Who freeze with a frown, and wlio thaw witli a sigh :— 
 To all those brig'nt youths who embellish the age. 
 Whether young boys, or old boys, or numskull or sage ; 
 Whether dull dogs, who cringe at their mistress' feet, 
 Who sigh and who whine, and who try to look sweet ; 
 Whether tough dogs, who squat down stock-still in a row. 
 And play wooden genUemcn stuck up for show ; 
 Or sud dogs, who glory in nmning their rigs. 
 Now dash in their sleighs, and now whirl in their gigs ; 
 Who riot at Dyde's on imperial champaign. 
 And then scour our city— the peace to maintain : 
 
 To whome'er it concerns or may happen to meet. 
 By these presents their worships I lovingly greet. 
 Now know ye, that I, Pindar Cockloft, esquire. 
 Am laureate appointed at special desire ;— 
 A censor, self-tlubb'd, to admonish the fair. 
 And tenderly take the town under my eare. 
 
 I'm a ci-ilevant beau, cousin Launcelot has said— 
 A remnant of habits long vanish 'd and dead : 
 But still, thougli my heart dwells with rapture sublime 
 On the fashions and customs which reign 'd in my prime, 
 I yet can perceive— and still candidly praise, 
 Some maxims and manners of these "latter dayst" 
 Still own that some wisdom and beauty appears. 
 Though ahnost cntomb'd in the rubbish of years. 
 
 No tierce nor tyrannical cynic am I, 
 Who frown on each foible 1 chance to espy ; 
 Who pounce on a novelty, just like a kite, 
 And tear up a victim through malice or spite i 
 Who expose to the scoffs of an ill-natured crew 
 A trembler for starting a whim that is new. 
 No, no— I shall cautiously liokl up my glass, 
 To the sweet Utile blossoms who heedlessly pass; 
 My remarks not too pointed to wound or offend. 
 Nor so vague as to miss their licnevolent end : 
 liach innocent fashion shall have its full sway ; 
 New modes shall arise to astonish Broadway ; 
 lied hats and n-d shawls still illumine the town. 
 And each belle, like a l>onfiix>, blaze up and down. 
 
 Fair spirits, who brighten the gloom of our days. 
 Who eheer this dull scene with your heavenly rays. 
 No mortal can love you more firmly and true, 
 From the crown of the head, to the solo of your shoo. 
 I'm old-fashion 'd, 'tis true— but still runs in my heart 
 That affectionate stn-am, to which youth gave the start— 
 More calm in Its current— yet |iotent in foi-ee t 
 l-ess rufdMl by gales— but still steadfast in course. 
 Though the lover, enraptumi, no longer ajipears.- - 
 ' ris the guide ami the guardian -nllghteii'd by yeari. 
 
Id 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 i . I 
 
 l-.m 
 
 !^l 
 
 All ripen'd, and mellow'd, and soften'd by time, 
 The asperities polish "d which chafed in my prime: 
 I am fuUy prepared for that delicate end, 
 The fair one's instructor, companion and friend. 
 —And should I perceive you in fashion's gay dance. 
 Allured by the frippery-mongers of France, 
 Expose your weak frames to a chill wintry sky, 
 To be nipp'd by its frosts, to be torn from the eye ; 
 My soft admonitions shall fall on your ear- 
 Shall whisiier those parents to whom you are dear- 
 Shall warn you of hazards you heedlessly run. 
 And sing of those fair ones whom frost has undone ; 
 Bright suns that would scarce on our horizon dawn. 
 Ere shrouded from sight, they were early withdrawn : 
 Gay sylphs, who have floated in circles below, 
 As pure in their souls, and as transient as snow ; 
 Sweet roses, that bloom'd and decay'd to my eye. 
 And of forms that have flitted and pass'd to the sky. 
 
 But as to those brainless pert bloods of our town. 
 Those sprigs of the ton who run decency down; 
 Who lounge and who loot, and who booby about. 
 No knowledge within, and no manners without; 
 Who stare at each beauty with insolent eyes, 
 Who rail at those morals their fathers would prize ; 
 Who are loud at Uie play— and who impiously dare 
 To come in their cups to the routs of the fair; 
 I shall hold up my mirror, to let them sui-vey 
 The ligures they cut as they dash it away ; 
 Shoukl my good-humoured verse no amendment produce, 
 Like scarecrows, at least, they shall still be of use ; 
 I shall stitch them, in efflgy, up in my rhyme, 
 And hold them aloft through the progi-ess of time, 
 As figures of fun to make the folks laugh. 
 Like that queer-looking angel erected by Paff, 
 " What shtops," as he says, " all dc people what come ; 
 " What smiles on dem all, and what peats on dc Iruni." 
 
 No. IV.— TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 1807. 
 FROM MV KLDOW-CIIAIR. 
 
 Perhaps there is no class of men to which the cu- 
 rious and literary are more indebted than travellers; 
 — I mean travel-mongers, who write whole volumes 
 about themselves, their horses and their servants, in- 
 terspersed with anecdotes of inn-keepers,— droll say- 
 ings of stage-drivers, and interesting memoirs of— the 
 lord knows who. They will give you a full account 
 of a city, its manners, customs, and manufactures; 
 though perhaps all their knowledge of it was obtained 
 l)y a peep from their inn-windows, and an interesting 
 conversation with the landlord or the waiter. Ame- 
 rica has had ils share of these buzzards ; and in the 
 name of my countrymen I return their profound thanks 
 for the compliments they have lavished u[M)n us, and 
 the variety of particulars concerr.ing our own country 
 which we should never have dlicovered without their 
 assistance. 
 
 Iniluenced by such sentimeits, I am delighted to 
 find that the Cockloft family, am-uig ils oliier whim- 
 sical and monstrous productions, is about to be enrich- 
 ed with a genuine travel-writer. This is no less a 
 personage than iVir Jkuemv Cockloft, the only son 
 and darling pride of my cousin, Mr Christopher Cock- 
 loft. Jeremy is at present in his nne-and-twentietli 
 year, and a young fellow of wonderful quick parts, if 
 
 r( 
 ;paii 
 
 ire- 
 
 ■and, 
 ;oftl ice 
 
 •Ch 
 
 you will trust to the word of his father, who, havii^ 
 begotten him, should be the best judge of the matte 
 He is the oracle of the family, dictates to lu's sisters 
 every occasion, though they are st>me dozen or 
 years older than himself;— and never did son 
 mother better advice than Jeremy. 
 
 As old Cockloft was determined his son should 
 both a scholar and a gentleman, he took great 
 with his education, which was completed at our 
 versity, where he became exceedingly expert in 
 zing his teachers and playing billiards. No stndeii 
 made better squibs and crackers to blow up the chi 
 mical professor— nj one chalked more ludicrous caii 
 catures on the walls of the college — and none w« 
 more adroit in shaving pigs and climbing lightnini 
 rods. He moreover learned all the letters of the Gref 
 alphabet; could demonstrate that water never " of i 
 own accord" rose above the level of its source, an 
 that air was certainly the principle of life, for he 
 been entertained with the humane experiment o( 
 cat worried to death in an air-pump. He once si 
 down the ash-hoiise, by an artiricial earthquake; 
 nearly blew his sister Barbara, and her cat, out 
 window with detonating powder. He likewise 
 exceedingly of being thoroughly acquainted with 
 composition of J^acedemonian black broth ; and oi 
 made a pot of it, which had well nigh poisoned 
 whole family, and actually threw the cook-maid ii 
 convulsions. But above all, he values himself upopory 
 his logic, has the old college conundrum of the 
 with three tails at his fingers' ends, and often hampe 
 his father with his syllogisms, to the great delight 
 the old gentleman ; who considers the major, mil 
 and conclusion, as almost equal in argument to 
 pulley, the wedge, and the lever, in mechanics, 
 fact, my cousin Cockloft was once nearly 
 with astonishment, on hearing Jeremy trace the 
 vation of Mango from Jeremiah King;— as Jeremii 
 King, Jerry King ! Jerking, Girkin I cuctimber. 
 In short, had Jeremy been a student at Oxford or 
 bridge, he would, in all probability, have been 
 moted to the dignity of a senior wrangler. 
 
 Having made a very pretty speech on graduatii 
 to a numerous assemblage of old folks and young I) 
 dies, who all declared that he was a very fine youi 
 man, and made very handsome gestures, Jeremy vi 
 seized with a great desire to see, or rather to be 
 by the world ; and as his father was anxious to gii 
 him every possible advantage, it was determitied Ji 
 remy should visit foreign parts. In consequence 
 this resolution, he has s|)ent a matter of three or fu 
 months in visiting strange places ; and in the ci 
 of his travels has tarried some few days at the splendi 
 metropolises of Albany and Philadelphia. 
 
 Jeremy has travelled as every modern man of sci 
 .should do; that is, he judges of things by the samp 
 next at hand; if he has ever any doubt on a sii 
 always decides against the city where he happens 
 sojourn ; and invariably takes home as the slainlai 
 by which to direct his judgment. 
 
 .Mango 
 
 Going into his rcom t 
 
 ened to be absent, I foui 
 
 his table; and was o' 
 
 "^^i^vs and huits for a boo 
 
 . He seems to 
 
 rnvel-mouger for his mc 
 
 ork will be equally in 
 
 lat of his prototype. 1 
 
 "■liftaets, which may not pn 
 
 MEMORANDU 
 TO BE 
 
 •THE STRANGEl 
 
 OB, COCKNE 
 
 Bij Jeremtj Coc 
 CII 
 
 The man in the moo 
 
 I— hints to travellers 
 
 ■sii'aps, buckles ant' be^ 
 
 hofjociii^!/ — five tnmks — th 
 
 a medicine-chest, 
 
 of my two sisters— (| 
 
 boajBgrticular in their cautioi 
 
 escription of Powles I 
 
 Hiverted into gun-boats, 
 
 e!l with Albany sloops- 
 
 ;haron— river Stjx- ; 
 
 — ferryage nitie-pen( 
 
 the spot where the folk 
 
 le the devil fiddled ;- 
 
 lites talk Dutch? — story 
 
 ino mfiision of tongues — gel 
 
 •famous fellow for rtnui 
 
 issengers and crippled n 
 
 annihilaliye— philosophical reaso 
 
 luseway — ditch c 
 
 ranious place for sk 
 
 larapins— roast thei 
 
 CaiiB"atoes— query, may th 
 
 lians are all turtle 
 
 good painting of a blue 
 
 1— wonder who it wa 
 
 Jiaroit de Gusto aboti 
 
 ;e-hill, so called from 
 
 ■salt marsh, surmountet 
 
 hay-stack;— more t 
 
 liladelphians don't estal 
 
 patent for it?— bridgt 
 
 l-description of toll-b< 
 
 dei wg— cai 
 ilu— fa 
 
 pn (ielphii 
 
 in- 
 
 lake 
 
 is« ry 
 
 coiin ling 
 
 eiH 
 
 lubjed 
 
 Kile 
 
 Ills not a little singular, tli 
 
 pitKluctionsof sir John i 
 
 uld have been successfiilly ai 
 
 two writers placed in dilfei-ei 
 
 lly Pockcl-Book " appeared li 
 
 lerthe publication of these " 
 
 nclttier writer could possib 
 
 by its ingenious itlcasaiitr 
 
 host of buok-making tou 
 
 (Irhcad.— KrfU. 
 
 ' Vide carr's Stranger in Irel 
 
 ' vide Weld. 
 
who, havio 
 ifthematta 
 
 never " of i 
 s source, an 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 17 
 
 Going into his iTom the other day, when he hap- 
 ■ened to be absent, I found a manuscript volume lying 
 lus sisters ^ ),is table; and was overjoyed to find it contained 
 ozen or nw jjfj, and hints for a book of travels which he intends 
 did son gii g])|ig|)ing. He seems to have taken a late fashionable 
 utel-motiger for his model, and I have no doubt his 
 on should li ^of^ ^yill be equally instructive and amusing with 
 k great paii ui of his prototype. The following are some ex- 
 d at our uni jjts, which may not prove uninteresting to my read- 
 Kpert in quii j^ 
 
 No stndei memorandums for a tour, 
 
 f up the chi 
 iidicrous cat 
 id none wa 
 ng lightnini 
 softheGro 
 
 TO BE ENTITLED 
 
 "THE STRANGER IN NEW-JERSEY: 
 
 OB, COCKNEY TBAVELLING."' 
 
 liij Jeremy Cockloft, the Younger. 
 CHAP. I. 
 
 The man in the moon ' — preparations for depar- 
 fe, for he luBire— hints to travellers about packing their trunks ^ 
 periment o( -suaps, buckles anc' bed-cords— case of pistols, a la 
 ie once shot «knetj — five tninks— three bandboxes— a cocked hat 
 thquake; an -and a medicine-chest, « hi /"raiiraise- parting ad- 
 cat, out of tl ice of my two sisters — query, why old maids are so 
 ikewise boaj articular in their cautions against naughty women — 
 nted with Hi Escription of Powles Hook ferry-boats— might l)e 
 »th ; and on inverted into gun-boats, and defend our port equally 
 poisoned li *!! with Albany sloops — Brom, the black ferryman 
 ook-maidini -Charon— river Styx— gliosis;— Major Hunt— good 
 himself up« ory— ferryage nine-pence ;— city of Harsimus— built 
 im of the i the spot where the folk once danced on their stumps 
 often hampe hile the devil fiddled ;— query, why do the Harsi- 
 
 lilestdlk Dutch? — story of the tower of Babel, and 
 najor, minoiBmfiision of tongues— get into the stage— driver a wag 
 
 ument to lli famous fellow for runiiiug stage races— killed three 
 
 echanics. 1 isseugers and crippled nine ui the coui-se of his prac- 
 
 y annihilate ce— philosophical reasons why stage drivers love 
 
 trace the da flg— causeway— ditch on each side for folk to tumble 
 
 -as Jeremii l«)-famous place for skilhj-pois ; Philadelphians call 
 
 nber, Mango m larapins— roast them under the ashes as we do 
 
 xford or Can Jtatoes— (piery, may this be the reason thai the Phi- 
 
 ive been pn delphians are all turtle heads ?— Hackensack bridge 
 
 er. 5»<tl painting of a blue horse j timping over a moun- 
 
 1 gradualii^ in-wonder who it was paintoii by;— mem. to ask 
 
 and young li « B«»o»i de Gusto about it on my return ;—Rattlo- 
 
 y fine youn lake-liill, so called from abounding with butlertlies ; 
 
 , Jeremy w -salt marsh, sunnounted here and there by a soli- 
 
 lertobesei ry hay-stack;— more tarapins— wonder why the 
 
 ixious to gii hiladelphians don't establish a fishery here, and get 
 
 itermined J( patent for it ?— bridge over the Passaic— rate of 
 
 insequence i H-description of toll-boards— toll-man had but one 
 
 tlir66 or fon 
 
 • 1 1 n m ' " '" ""' " "'"" ''"«"•'"'• "'•'" "''» 'n«'e of ridlcullnR the gos- 
 
 in ine COim ||„g pitKluctloiw of sir Jolm Oarr, anJ oilier lourlslg of llie day, 
 
 It llie splendi wid have been successfully ailopled almost at the sanio moment 
 
 two writers placed In dirfeivnt and distant quarlers of (lie glolH*. 
 
 man of sera *'' ■'"cket-Book " appeaixnl in London only two or three wtrks 
 L , fflliepuWication oflheso "Memorandums" ill Ne\v.York—«o 
 By the samp u „citin.r writer could possibly have bon owed fmin the other- 
 Oil a suhjed il by its ingenious pleasantry and poignant satire, crushed a 
 lie happens I ^''o** of Iwok-making tourists, willi the liicklcu Knight at 
 
 .u- ..,,,,1., '^'^»>i-f:dil. 
 
 the siamiH , ,1,,^ ^^^.^ g,^^^^^, ^^ ^^^^^ 
 
 ' Vide Wold. 
 
 eye— story how it is possible he may have lost the 
 other— pence-table, etc— 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Newark— noted for ils fine breed of fat mosquitoes 
 —sting through the thickest boot'— story alwut Gal- 
 ly-nipers— Archer Giffoid and his man Caliban- 
 jolly fat fellows;— a knowing traveller always judges 
 of every thing by the inn-keepers and waiters ; ^— 
 set down Newark people all fat as butter— learned 
 dissertation on Archer Gifford's green coat, with 
 pliilosophical reasons why the Newarkites wear red 
 worsted night-caps— Newark academy full of win- 
 dows—sunshine excellent to make little boys grow — 
 Ilizabeth-town— fine girls— vile mosquitoes- plenty 
 of oysters— query, have oysters any feeling ?— good 
 story about the fox catching them by his tail— ergo, 
 foxes might be of great use in the pearl fishery ;— 
 landlonl memlier of the legislature — treats every body 
 who has a vote— mem. all the inn-keepers inembers 
 of legislature in New-Jersey ;— Bridge-town, vul- 
 garly called Spunk-toirii, from a story of a quondam 
 parson and his wife— real name. Bridge-town, from 
 bridge, a contrivance to get dry-shod over a river or 
 brook ; and town, an appellation given in America to 
 the accidental assemblage of a church, a tavern, and 
 a blacksmith's shop— Woodbridge— landlady mending 
 her husband's breeches — sublime apostrophe to con- 
 jugal affection and the fair sex; <— Wootlbridge fa- 
 mous for its crab-fishery— sentimental correspondence 
 between a crab and a lobster— digression to Abelard 
 and Eloisa ;— mem. when the moon is in Pisces, she 
 plays the devil witli the crabs. 
 
 CHAP. HI. 
 
 Brunswick— oldest town in the state— division line 
 between two counties in the middle of the street;— 
 posed a lawyer with the case of a man standing with 
 one foot in each county — wanted to know in which 
 he was domieil — lawyer couldn't tell for the soul of 
 him — mem. all the New-Jersey lawyers nums; — Miss 
 Hay's boarding-school — young ladies not allowed to 
 eat mustard— and why; fat story of a mustard-pot, 
 with a good saying of Ding-Dong's; — Vernon's ta- 
 vern—line place to sleep in, if the noise would let 
 you— another Caliban; — Vernon .<sJeir-eyed— people 
 of Brunswick, of course, all squint ; — Drake's tavern 
 — fine old blade — wears square buckles in his shoes 
 — tells bloody long stories about last war — people, of 
 course, all do the same ; — Hook' em Siiivy, the famous 
 fortune-teller, born here— contemporary with Mo- 
 tkier Shoulders — particulars of his history — died one 
 day — lines to his memory, which found their way 
 into my pocket-book;" — melancholy reflections on 
 the death of great men— beautiful epitaph on myself. 
 
 ' VideCarr. 
 ' Vide Weld. 
 
 3 vide Weldj vide Parkinson; vide 
 and vide Mes.srs Tag, Rag, and Hoblail. 
 
 4 vide the sentiinenlal Kolzebuc. 
 s Vide Cnrr and Pllnd Ret ! 
 
 Prlesl ; vide Link. Fid-i 
 
lil'i 
 
 11;' 
 
 ,lu. 
 
 18 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 Princeton — college — professors wear boots ! — stu- 
 dents famous for their love of a jest — set the college 
 on fire, and burnt out the professors; an excellent 
 joke, but not worth repeating — mem. American 
 students very much addicted to burning down colleges 
 — reminds me of a good story, nothing at all to the 
 purpose — two societies in the college — good notion 
 — encourages emulation, and makes little hoys fight; 
 — students famous for their eating and erudition — saw 
 two at the tavern, who had just got their allowance 
 of spending-money — laid it all out in a supper — got 
 fuddled, and d — d the professors for nincoms. N. B. 
 Soulhemgentlemen— churchyard— apostrophe to grim 
 death— saw a cow feeding on a grave — metempsy- 
 chosis — who knows but the cow may have been eat- 
 ing up the soul of one of my ancestors — made me me- 
 lancholy for fifteen minutes ; — man planting cabbages' 
 — wondered how he could plant them so straight — 
 method of mole-catching— and all that— query, whe- 
 ther it would not be a good notion to ring their noses 
 as we do pigs— mem. to propose it to the American 
 Agricultural Society — geta premium, perhaps;— com- 
 mencement — students give a ball and supper — com- 
 pany from New- York, Philadelphia, and Albany — 
 great contest which spoke the best English — Alba- 
 nians vociferous in their demand for sturgeon— Phi- 
 ladelphians gave the preference to racoon ' — gave 
 them a long dissertation on the phlegmatic nature of 
 a goose's gizzard — students can't dance — always set 
 off with the wrong foot foremost — Duport's opinion 
 on that subject — Sir Christopher Hatton the first man 
 who ever turned out his toes in dancing — great fa- 
 vourite with Queen Bess on that account — Sir Walter 
 Raleigh — good story about his smoking — his descent 
 into New-Spain— El Dorado — Candid — Dr Pangloss 
 — Miss Cunegunde — earthquake at Lisbon— Baron of 
 Thundertentronck — Jesuits — Monks — Cardinal Wol- 
 sey — Pope Joan — Tom Jefferson- -Tom Paine, and 
 Tom the whew !— N. B. Students got drunk as 
 
 nsual. 
 
 CHAP. v. 
 
 Left Princeton— country finely diversified with 
 sheep and hay-slacks ^ — saw a man riding alone in a 
 waggon ! why the deuce didn't the blockhead ride in 
 a chair? fellow must be a fool — particular account of 
 theconstruction of waggons, carts, wheelbarrows and 
 quail-traps — saw a large flock of crows — concluded 
 there must be a dead horse in the neighbourhood — 
 mem. country remarkable for crows— won't let the 
 horses die in peace— anecdote of a jury of crows — 
 —stopped to give the horses water— good-looking 
 man came up, and asked me if I had seen his wife ? 
 Heavens! tho..ght I, how strange it is that this virtuous 
 man should ask me about his wife— story of Cain and 
 Abel— stage-driver took a swi{/— mem. set down all 
 the people as drunkards— old house had moss on the 
 top— swallows built in the roof— better place than old 
 
 Vide Can-. 
 
 » Vide Pricdt. 
 
 men's beards— story about that — derivation of worti 
 kippy, kippy, kippy and shoo-pig' — negro-drive 
 could not write his own name — languishing state i 
 literature in this country;— philosophical inquiry ( 
 'Sbidlikens, why the Americans are so much inferio 
 to the nobility of Cheapside and Shore-ditch, an 
 why Ihey do not eat plum-pudding on Sundays; 
 perfine reflections about any thing. 
 
 ■, 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 I' 
 
 m 
 
 remin 
 
 the B' 
 
 I 
 
 Trenton— built above the head of navigation to 
 courage commerce — capital of the slate — only wai 
 a castle, a bay, a mountain, a sea, and a volcano, 
 bear a strong resemblance to the bay of Naples '— sn 
 preme court silting— fat Chief Justice— used to 
 asleep on the bench after dinner— gave judgment, 
 suppose, like Pilate's wife, from his dreams- 
 ed me of Justice Bridlegoosfe deciding by a throw of 
 die, and of the oracle of the holy bottle— attempii 
 to kiss the chambermaid— boxed my ears till 
 rung like our theatre bell— girl had lost one too'J 
 mem. all the American ladies prudes, and have 
 teeth; — Anacreon Moore's opinion on the matter, 
 Slate-house- fine place to see the sturgeons jump 
 —query, whether sturgeons jump up by an im 
 the tail, or whelher they bounce up from the bottom 
 the elasticity of their noses— Link. Fid. of the latter 
 nion— I too— sturgeon's nose capital for tennisball 
 learnt that at school— went to a ball— negro went 
 principal musician! N. B. People of America haven 
 fiddlers but females !— origin of the phrase, " fiddle 
 your heart" — reasons why men fiddle better than 
 women ;— expedient of the Amazons who were expn 
 at the bow ;— waiter at the cily tavern— good sloi 
 his— nothing to the purpose — never mind — fill up n 
 book like Carr— make it sell.— Saw a democrat 
 into the stage, followed by his dog. N. B. This to« 
 remarkable for dogs and democrats— ciperfine senii 
 ment ' — good story from Joe Miller — ode to a 
 of butter— pensive meditations on a mousehole— mal 
 a book as clear as a whistle ! 
 
 an, 
 
 oAbdallahEb'nal Rah( 
 centinel at the gati 
 
 Thou hast heard, O 
 , Muley Fuz, who c 
 Icssed with all the ely 
 [glade and grove, of fi 
 ightful, solitary and fo 
 his wand could transi 
 imet into grinning a] 
 ely, thought I to mys 
 liiley has been exercisi 
 ihappy infidels. List( 
 night I committed n 
 with all the monotom 
 orning 1 awoke, envel 
 clangour, and the s 
 changed as if by ina 
 
 as( 
 
 pulsei rongi'P^ like mushro 
 ibblers, tailors, and tir 
 
 ' vide Carr. 
 
 No. v.— SATURDAY, MAUCH 7, 1807. 
 
 PROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR. 
 
 at 
 
 The following letter of my friend Mustapha 
 lo have been written some time subsequent to Uie 
 already published. Were I to judge from its content 
 I should suppose it was suggested by the splendid n clion. 
 view of the twenty-fifl of last November; when a pa 
 of colours was presented, at the City-Hall, to the 
 gimenls of artillery, and when a huge dinner va(scent 
 devoured, by our corporation, in the honoural 
 remembrance of the evacuation of this cily. I 
 happy to find that the laudable spirit of military 
 lation which prevails in our city has attracted the aUei|rai!;li 
 
 ■ vide Carr'i teamed deilvatlon of gee arid whon. 
 » Carr. ' Carr. 
 
 Mil 
 
 on of a stranger of 
 Diulation I mean that 
 at, the length of a 
 fa sword belt. 
 
 feati 
 
 nOM MUSTiPBA 
 
 e nodding plume; had 
 eye, helmeted heroes 
 Alarmed at the beatii 
 nmpets, andtheshoutii 
 yself in haste, sallied 
 
 crowd of people t( 
 his is so denominated, 
 
 defended with foi 
 
 hich in the course of a 
 
 to pieces by an ect 
 
 ibttted for fire wood an 
 
 the hint of a cunning 
 
 it was the only wa; 
 ever be able to kec 
 f friend, is the watch- 
 en studying for a nioi 
 f, but truly am as muc 
 nd of national slarvatio 
 mforts and necessarie: 
 ived of before it peris 
 a lamentable degree 
 appeai^rethe fate of the Aral 
 
 he could live with 
 
 just as he had broi 
 
 I 
 
 OUSI 
 
 iry *•> 
 
 died I 
 
 piggi em 
 
 DUld( 
 
 
 me 
 renii jng 
 
 On arriving at the batti 
 six hundred men, dra 
 At first I supi 
 myself, but my interpi 
 merely for wanto 
 able to afford the 
 It line. As I expe 
 olulions and military i 
 main a tranquil sfiectal 
 
lion of word 
 -negro-drive 
 ihing state g 
 al inquiry < 
 nach inferio 
 re-ditch, ag 
 jundays ; 
 
 I— only wani 
 a volcano, 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 19 
 
 on of a stranger of Mnstapha's sagacity ; by military 
 mulation I mean that .spirited rivfllry in the size of a 
 at, the length of a feather, and the gingerbread finery 
 fa sword belt. 
 
 V 
 
 LETTER 
 
 FBOX MUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB KELI KDAN,' 
 
 Abdallah Eb'n al Rahab, surnamed the Snorer, military 
 centinel at the gate of his Highness' Palace. 
 
 Thou hast heard, O Abdallah ! of the great magi- 
 i^ation to ent"*' ^^"'^Y ^"2> ^^^ could change a blooming land, 
 Icssed with all the elysian charms of hill and dale, 
 fgiade and grove, of fruit and flower, into a desert, 
 Naples "^B io'"'f"'> solitary and forlorn;— who with the wave 
 
 ,,ggj ^Q a, [his wand could transform even the disciples of Ma- 
 
 ; judgment ""^^^ '"'^ grinning apes and chattering monkeys. 
 
 jj,,^ remiiK "f^'y' thong''' I to myself this morning, the dreadful 
 
 r a throw of '"'^^ ^^ ^^^ exercisuighis enchantments on these 
 
 lg attemni( ^WY infidels. Listen, O Abdallah, and wonder ! 
 
 ears till tht ist night I committed myself to slumber, encompass- 
 ;t one tooth- '^''^ ^'' ^'^^ monotonous tokens of peace, and this 
 and have tm of'"? ^ awoke, enveloped in the noise, the bustle, 
 the matter." * clangour, and the shouts of war. Every thing 
 eons iunip g is changed as if by magic. An immense army had 
 r g„ itnpulsei "^"g "P' '"'^ mushrooms, in a night; and all the 
 the bottom b ^^^j tailors, and tinkers of the city had mounted 
 f thelatteroi ^nodding plume; had become, in the twinkling of 
 r tennisballs- '*y^' helmeted heroes and war-worn veterans, 
 -neo'ro went Alarmed at the beating of drums, the braying of 
 lerica haven 
 
 )se, " fiddlei 
 
 DOipets, and the shouting of the multitude, I dressed 
 yself in haste, sallied forUi, and followed a prodi- 
 
 tetter than th "i^ crowd of people to s. place called the Battery. 
 
 10 were expti 
 
 his is so denominated, I am told, from having once 
 -(rood story I ^^ defended with formidable wooden bulwarks, 
 ,d fill upn Wch in the course of a hard winter were thriftily 
 
 democrat a >"^ to pieces by an economic corporation, to be dis- 
 
 B. This ton 
 
 isehole- 
 
 t807. 
 
 stapha appes 
 
 ibuted for fire wood among the poor ; this was done 
 iperfine senii '1^ hint of a cunning old engineer, who assured 
 de to a pigti ™ >t was the only way in which their fortifications 
 mai raid ever be able to keep up a warm fire. Economy, 
 f friend, is the watch-word of this nation ; I have 
 «n studying for a monlli past to divine its mean- 
 f, but truly am as much perplexed as ever. It is a 
 nd of national starvation ; an experiment how many 
 imforts and necessaries the body politic can be de- 
 lved of before it [>eri$hes. — It has already arrived 
 a lamentable degree of debility, aud promises to 
 ■are the fate of the Arabian philo opher, who proved 
 iienttotheoi at he could live without food, but unfortunately 
 m its content ed just as he had brought hi$ experiment to per- 
 le splendid n ction. 
 
 On arriving at the battery T found an immense army 
 six hundred men, drawn up in a true Mussulman 
 
 p; when a pa 
 lall, to the 
 
 ^e dinner w wcent. At first I supposed this was in compliment 
 »e honouraU myself, but my interpreter informed me that it was 
 is city. I a me merely for want of room ; the corporation not 
 military em ijng ai,|e to afford them sufficient to display in a 
 icted the alte^aiitht line. As I expected a display of some grand 
 olulions and military manntuvres, I determined to 
 hon. Bmain a tranquil sitectator, in hopes that I might pos- 
 
 sibly collect some hints which might be of service to 
 Ills Highness. 
 
 This great body of men I perceived was under the 
 command of a small bashaw, in yellow and gold, with 
 while nodding plumes and most formidable whiskers; 
 which, contrary to the Tripolitan fashion, were in the 
 neighbourhood of his ears instead of his nose.— He had 
 two attendants called aides-de-camp (or tails), being 
 similar to a bashaw with two tails. The bashaw, though 
 commander-in-chief, seemed to have little more to do 
 than myself; he was a spectator within the lines and I 
 without : he was clear of the rabble, and I was en- 
 compassed by them ; this was the only difference be- 
 tween us, except that he had the best opportunity of 
 showing his clothes. I waited an hour or two with 
 exemplaiy patience, expecting to see some grand mi- 
 litary evolutions or a sham battle exhibited ; but no 
 such thing took place ; the men stood stock-still, suit- 
 porting their arms, groaning under the fatigues of 
 war, and now and then sending out a foraging party 
 to levy contributions of beer and a favourite beverage 
 which they denominate grog. As I perceived the 
 crowd very active in examinhig the line, from one 
 extreme to the other, and as I could see no other pur- 
 pose for which these sunshine warriors should be ex- 
 {wsed so long to the merciless attacks of wind and 
 weather, I of course concluded that this must lie the 
 review. 
 
 In about two hours the army was put in motions, 
 and marched through some narrow streets, where 
 the economic corporation had carefully provided a soft 
 carpet of mud, to a magnificent castle of painted brick, 
 decorated with grand pillars of pine Iwards. By the 
 ardour which brightened in each countenance, I soon 
 perceived that this castle was to nndergo a vigorous 
 attack As the ordnance of the castle was perfectly 
 silent, and as they had nothing but a straight street to 
 advance through, they made their approaches with 
 great courage and admirable regularity, until within 
 about a hundred feet of the castle a pump opposed a 
 formidable obstacle in their way, and put the whole 
 army to a nonplus. The circumstance was sudden 
 and unlooked for : the commanding officer ran over 
 all the military tactics with which his head was cram- 
 med, but none offered any expedient for the present 
 awful emergency. The pump maintained its post, 
 and so did the commander ; — there was no knowing 
 which was most at a stand. The commanding officer 
 oi-dered his men to wheel and take it in flank ; — the 
 army accordingly wheeled and came full butt against 
 it in the rear exactly as they were before.—" Wheel 
 to the left!" cried the officer : they did so, and again, 
 as before, the inveterate pump intercepted their pro- 
 gress. " [light about, face !" cried the officer : the 
 men obeyed, but bungled— they faced hack to back. 
 U|)on this the bashaw will) two tails, with great cool- 
 ness, undauntedly ordered his men to push right for- 
 ward, pell-inell,pump or no pump : they gallantly obey- 
 ed. After unheard-of acts of bravery, the pump was 
 carried, without the loss ofaman, and the army firmly 
 
20 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 
 
 entrenched itself under the very walls uf the castle. 
 The bashaw had then a council of war with his ofli- 
 cers ; the most vigorous measures were resolved on. 
 An advance guard of musicians were ordered to attack 
 the castle without mercy. Then the whole hand 
 opened a tremendous battery of drums, fifes, tamlmu- 
 rines, and trumpets, and kept up a thundering assault, 
 as if the castle, like the walls of Jericho, spoken of in 
 the Jewish Chronicles, would tumble down at the 
 blowing of rams' horns. After some time a parley 
 en; ued. The grand bashaw of the city appeared on 
 the battlements of the castle, and, as far as I could un- 
 derstand from circumstances, dared the little bashaw 
 of two tails to single combat; — this, thou knowest, 
 was in the style of ancient chivalry. The little ba- 
 shaw dismounted with great intrepidity, and ascended 
 the battlements of the castle, where the great bashaw 
 waited to receive him attended by numerous digni- 
 taries and woithies of his court, one of whom bore the 
 lunners of the castle. The battle was carried on en- 
 tirely by words, according to the universal custom of 
 this country, of which I shall speak to thee more fully 
 hereafter. The grand bashaw made a furious attack 
 in a speech of considerable length; the little bashaw, 
 by no means appalled, retorted with great spirit. '± ne 
 grand bashaw attempted to rip him up with an ar- 
 gument, or stun him with a solid fact ; hut the little 
 bashaw parried them both with admirable adroitness, 
 and ran him clean through and through with a syllo- 
 gism. The grand bashaw was overthrown, the ban- 
 ners of the castle yielded up to the little bashaw, and 
 the castle surrendered after a vigorous defence of three 
 hours — during which the besiegers suffered great ex- 
 tremity from muddy streets and u drizzling atmo- 
 sphere. 
 
 On returning to diiuier, I soon discovered that as 
 usual I had been indulging in a great mistake. The 
 matter was all clearly explained to me by a fellow 
 lodger, who on ordinary occasions moves in the 
 humble character of a tailor, hut in the present in- 
 stance figured in a high military station, denomi- 
 nated corporal. He informed me that what I had 
 mistaken for a cnstle was the splendid palace ot the 
 municipality, and that the supposed attack was no- 
 thing more than the delivery of a Hag given by the 
 authorities to the army, for its magnanimous defence 
 of the town for upwards of twenty years past, that 
 is, ever since the last war! O my friend, surely 
 every thing in this country is on a great scale ! The 
 conversation insensibly turned upon the military es- 
 tablishment of the nation ; and I do assure thee (hat 
 my friend, the tailor, though being, according to the 
 nalionni proverb, hut the ninth part of a man, yet 
 acquitted hiinseiron military concerns as ably as the 
 grand bashaw of the empire himself. He observed 
 that their rulers had decided that wars were very 
 useless and expensive, and ill beiitting an economic, 
 philosophic nation ; they had therefore made up their 
 minds never to have any wars, and conse(iuently 
 (here was no need of soldiers or military discipline. 
 
 As, however, it was Ihonglit highly ornamental to 
 city to have a number of men drest in fine cI 
 and feathers strutting about the streets on a holidAded 
 — and as the women and children were particniaii 
 fond of such raree shows, it was ordered that 
 
 tailors of the different cities throughout the 
 
 clotln 
 idi 
 at 
 
 J 
 empii sign 
 
 un 
 
 needit uch 
 
 istress j 
 
 vliH 
 
 should forthwith go to work, and cut out and mam 
 facture soldiers as fast as their shears and 
 would permit. 
 
 These soldiers have no pecuniary pay; and thi 
 only recompense for the immense services which 
 render their country, in their voluntary parades, 
 the plunder of smiles, and winks, and nods, w 
 they extort from (he ladies. As they have no oppot 
 tunity, like the vagrant Arabs, of making inroads 
 their neighbours, and as it is necessary to keep 
 their military spirit, the town is therefore now an 
 then, but particularly on two days of the year, 
 up to their ravages. The arrangements are contrive nel 
 with admirable address, so that every officer 
 hasliaw down to the drum-major, the chief of 
 eunuchs or musicians, shall have his share of that 
 valuable booty — the admiration of the fair. As 
 the soldiers, poor animals, they, like the privates 
 all great armies, have to bear the brunt of dangi 
 and fatigue, while (he officers receive all (he gl( 
 and reward. The narradve of a parade day 
 exemplify (his more clearly. 
 
 The chief bashaw, in the plenitude of his authorilj 
 orders a grand review of the whole army at t? 
 o'clock. The bashaw with two tails, that he 
 have an opportunity of vapouring about as the gi 
 est man on the field, orders (he army (o assemble 
 (welve. The kiaya, or colonel, as he is called, tl 
 is, commander of one hundred and twenty men, 
 ders his regiment or tribe to collect one mile at 
 from the place of parade at eleven. Each captaii 
 or fag-rag as we term them, commands his squad 
 meet at ten, at least a half mile from the 
 parade; and to close all, the chief of the eunuclis 
 ders his infernal concert of fifes, trumpets, cymbal 
 and drums to assemble at ten ! From that moim 
 the city receives no quarter. All is noise, hootii 
 and hubbub. Every window, door, crack, and loop 
 hole, from (he gan'e( (o the cellar, is crowded ml 
 the fair of all ages and of all complexions. The 
 
 I 
 lea inble, 
 
 regiment latrons 
 
 tress smiles through the windows of (he drawin; 
 room; (he chubby chambermaid lolls out of the all 
 
 casement, and a host of sooty wenches roll (heir whil 
 eyes and grin and cha<t(er from (he cellar door. Ever 
 nymph seems anxious to yiekl voluntarily that 
 which the heroes of (heir coun(ry demand. 
 stru(s the chief eunuch or drum-major, at (he liei 
 of his sable band, magnificently arrayed in tarnisln 
 scarlet. Alexander himself could not have spun 
 the earth more superbly. A host of ragged bei 
 shout in his train, and inflate the Iwsom of the >vai 
 rior with tenfold self-complacency. After he Ii 
 rattled his drums thro\igh the town, and swelled r 
 swaggered like a turkey-cock licfore all the dini 
 
 t 
 
 oras, and Dianas, and 
 
 jntance, he repairs 
 
 with a rich booty 
 
 comes the fag-rag 
 
 mighty band, consi 
 
 or mute, four s« 
 
 nimer, one fifer, an 
 
 the better for him 
 
 mental parade he is su 
 
 lane which is honour 
 
 or intended, wl 
 
 heavy contribution. '. 
 
 tliese heroes, as 
 
 ances at the upper wit 
 
 nods, and the winks 
 
 les lavish profusely on t 
 
 The fag-rags having « 
 
 regiments, th( 
 
 a bashaw with n 
 
 to him; and tli 
 
 the drummers, hav 
 
 iv, are confounded an 
 
 colonel set« his wh( 
 
 unted on a mettleson 
 
 capers, and plunges 
 
 lent of the multi(u< 
 
 and his neighhoi 
 
 If, his trappings, his h 
 
 e at length arrives at t 
 
 HIS, blessed with the 
 
 omen. I shou 
 
 of hardy veterans, 
 
 al of service during tli 
 
 their existence, and w 
 
 tight green jackets an 
 
 and gallop and 
 
 rough every street, a 
 
 ity, (0 the great dreat 
 
 with yoimg chil 
 
 lis is what I call niakin 
 
 Oh, my friend, or 
 
 ling in this country ! 
 
 iring Arabs of the des( 
 
 Hacked, or a hamlet to 
 
 for weeks beforel 
 
 larcliing and counter-ii 
 
 ntrate their ragged foi 
 
 lal before they can brii 
 
 liole enterprise is blow 
 
 The army being all Y 
 
 though, perhaps, ( 
 
 it is now the ti 
 
 to distinguish him 
 
 implanted alike in evi 
 
 from the bashav 
 
 ihaw, fireil with that 
 
 m the noble mind, is 
 
 the laurels of the day 
 
 plunder. The d 
 
 le standards wave pre 
 
 giv( specdve i 
 Irive nel, a 
 frointh reeled 
 
 Kit 
 
 el 
 he( 
 
 inme 
 imself < 
 
 )untryw( 
 
 irea ran 
 
 tribul 
 Fin ointed. 
 
 osom 
 
 ash 
 
 f 
 male i 
 
rnamental to 
 
 in fine 
 
 i on a 
 
 re particulaii ext 
 
 lered that 
 
 ut the 
 
 tut and 
 
 s and needl( 
 
 clollK 
 holidj jded 
 
 tv 
 
 s 
 empii sign 
 manii nmmer, 
 
 )ay; and tin 
 ces which tin 
 ry parades, 
 i nods, will 
 lave no oppa 
 ing inroads 
 iry to keep 
 fore now a 
 he year, 
 sare 
 fllcer 
 e chief of 
 lare of that 
 e fair. As 
 he privates 
 lint of 
 all the gl 
 rade day 
 
 lid 
 
 lest 
 
 contrive nel 
 fromth reeled 
 idl 
 
 ely, 
 he( 
 on 
 dangi 
 
 ii 
 
 f his authoril] 
 army at ti 
 , that he 
 
 t as the gl 
 
 [ 
 
 I 
 
 captain irougli 
 
 regimeiHi latrons 
 
 usi 
 
 ymbal 
 
 to assemble 
 
 is called, tl 
 
 enty men, 
 
 e mile at 
 
 Each 
 
 Is his squad 
 
 :he 
 
 le eunuclis 
 
 pets, c 
 
 I that moini 
 noise, hoolii 
 ack, and 
 crowded wil 
 ns. The 
 
 the drawi 
 ul of the all 
 •oil their whil 
 rdoor. Ever 
 ily that tribul 
 ::mand 
 , at the liei 
 
 II in tarnislii 
 have 
 
 f ragged 
 
 n of the wai 
 After he In 
 d swelled s 
 all the dinj! 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 21 
 
 oras, and Dianas, and Junos, and Didos of his ac- 
 lintance, he repairs to his place of destination 
 with a rich booty of smiles and approbation, 
 comes the fag-rag, or captain, at the head of 
 mighty band, consisting of one lieutenant, one 
 or mute, four sergeants, four corporals, one 
 one fifer, and if lie has any privates so 
 uch the better for himself. In marching to the re- 
 niental parade he is sure to pass through the street 
 lane which is honoured with the residence of his 
 istress or intended, whom he resolutely lays under 
 heavy contribution. Truly it is delectable to he- 
 ld these heroes, as Ihey march along, cast side 
 inces at the upper windows ; to collect the smiles, 
 nods, and the winks, which the enraptured fair 
 lavish profusely on the defenders of their country. 
 The fag-rags having conducted their squads to their 
 givAspective regiments, then comes the turn of the co- 
 , a bashaw with no tails, for all eyes are now 
 to him; and the fag-rags, and the eunuchs, 
 the drummers, having had their hour of noto- 
 , are confounded and lost in the military crowd, 
 colonel set« his whole regiment in motion; and 
 lunted on a mettlesome charger, frisks and fidgets, 
 capers, and plunges in front, to the great enter- 
 inment of the multitude, and the great hazard of 
 imself and his neighbours. Having displayed him- 
 if, his trappings, his horse, and his horsemanship, 
 e at length arrives at the place of general rendez- 
 ws, blessed with the universal admiration of his 
 Nintry women. I should, perhaps, mention a squa- 
 of hardy veterans, most of whom have seen a 
 al of service during the nineteen or twenty years 
 their existence, and who, most gorgeously equipped 
 tight green jackets and leather breeches, trot and 
 lea nble, and gallop and scamper, like little devils 
 1 every street, and nook, and corner of the 
 ty, to the great dread of all old people and sage 
 with young children. This is truly sublime ! 
 is what I call making a mountain out of a mole- 
 Oh, my friend, on what a great scale is every 
 ling in this country ! It is in the style of the wan- 
 ring Arabs of the desert FA-tih. Is a village to be 
 loo|i|ltacked, or a hamlet to be plundered, the whole de- 
 rt, for weeks beforehand, is in a buzz; — such 
 ini larcliing and counter-marching, ere they can con- 
 ntrate their ragged forces ! and the consequence is, 
 lat before they can bring their troops into action the 
 iiole enterprise is blown. 
 
 The army being all happily collected on the bat- 
 
 :ry, though, perhaps, two hours after the time ap- 
 
 FirsBointed, it is now the turn of the bashaw, with two 
 
 to distinguish himself. Ambition, my friend, 
 
 implanted alike in every heart ; it pervades each 
 
 from the bashaw to the drum-major. The 
 
 fired with that thirst for. glory, inseparable 
 
 im the noble mind, is anxious to reap a full share 
 
 rthe laurels of the day, and bear off his portion of 
 
 male plunder. The drums beat, the fifes whistle, 
 
 le standards wave proudly in the air. The signal 
 
 real ran ( 
 
 ei 
 
 spurne osom 
 be; ashaw, 
 
 m 
 
 is given ! thunder roai-s the cannon ! away goes the 
 bashaw, and away go the tails ! The review finish- 
 ed, evolutions and military manoeuvres are generally 
 dispensed with for three excellent reasons ; — first, be- 
 cause the army knows very little about them; se- 
 cond, because as the country has determined to re- 
 main always at peace, there is no necessity for them 
 toknow any thing about them ; and tliird, as it is grow- 
 ing late, the bashaw must dispatch, or il will be too 
 dark for him to get his quota of the plunder. He of 
 course orders the whole army to march ; and now, 
 my friend, now comes the tug of war, now is the 
 city completely sacked. Open fly the battery-gates 
 — forth sallies the bashaw with his two tails, sur- 
 rounded by a shouting body-guard of boys and ne- 
 groes ! then pour forth bis legions, potent as the pis- 
 mires of the desert! the customary salutations of the 
 country commence — those tokens of joy and admira- 
 tion which so much annoyed me on first landing : the 
 air is darkened with old hats, shoes, and dead cats; 
 the soldiers, no ways disheartened, march gallantly 
 under their shade. On they push, splash-dash, mud 
 or no mud, down one lane, up another; — the martial 
 music resounds through every street; the fair ones 
 throng to their windows, — the soldiers look every way 
 but straight forward. "Carry arms!" cries the ba- 
 shaw — "tanta-rara," brays the trumpet — "rub-a- 
 dub," roars the drum— " hurraw," shout the raga- 
 muffins. The bashaw smiles with exultation— every 
 fag-rag feels himself a hero — "none but the brave 
 deserve the fair ! " Head of the immortal Amrou, on 
 what a great scale is every thing in this country ! 
 
 Ay, but you'll say, is not this unfair that the offi- 
 cers should share all the sports while the privates un- 
 dergo all the fatigue ? Truly, my friend, I indulged 
 the same idea, and pitied from my heart the poor fel- 
 lows who had to drabble through the mud and the 
 mire, toiling under ponderous cocked hats, which 
 seemed as unwieldy, and cumbrous, as the shell 
 which the snail lumbers along on his back. I soon 
 found out, however, that they have their quantum of 
 notoriety. As soon as the army is dismissed, the city 
 swarms with little scouting parties, who fire off their 
 guns at every corner, to the great delight of all the 
 women and children in their vicinity ; and woe unto 
 any dog, or pig, or hog, that falls in the way of these 
 magnanimous warriors ; they are shown no quarter. 
 Every gentle swain repairs to pass the evening at the 
 feet of his dulcinea, to play "the soldier tired of war'» 
 alarms," and to captivate her with the glare of bis re- 
 gimentals : excepting some ambitious heroes who 
 strut to the theatre, flame away in the front boxes, 
 and hector every old apple-woman in the lobbies. 
 
 Such, my friend, is the gigantic genius of this nation, 
 and its faculty of swelling up nothings into import- 
 ance. Our bashaw of Tripoli will review his troops, 
 of some thousands, by an early hour in the morning. 
 Here a review of six hundred men is made the mighty 
 work of a day ! With us a bashaw of two tails is 
 never appointed to a command of less than ten thou- 
 
i; 
 
 22 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 sand men ; but here we behold every rank, from (he 
 bashaw down to the drum-major, in a force of less than 
 one-tenth of the number. By the beard of Mahomet, 
 but every thing here is indeed on a great scale ! 
 
 BT ANTBOMT EVERGBEEM, GENT. 
 
 I was not a little surprised the other morning at a 
 request from Will Wizard that I would accompany 
 
 him that evening to Mrs 's ball. The request was 
 
 simple enough in itself, it was only singular as coming 
 from Will. Of all my acquaintance Wizard is the 
 least calculated and disposed for the society of ladies. 
 Not that he dislikes their company ; on the contrary, 
 like every man of pith and marrow, he is a professed 
 admirer of the sex ; and had he been Iwrn a ^et, 
 would undoubtedly have bespattered and be-rliymed 
 some hard-named goddess, until she became as fa- 
 mous as Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's Sacharissa. 
 But Will is such a confounded bungler at a bow, has 
 80 many odd bachelor habits, and finds it so trouble- 
 some to be gallant, that he generally prefers smoking 
 his cigar and telling his story among cronies of his 
 own gender ; and thundering long stories they are, 
 let me tell you. Set Will once a-goiiig about China 
 or Grim Tartary, or the Hottentots, and heaven help 
 the poor victim who has to endure liis prolixity; he 
 might better be tied to the tail of a jack-o'lantern. 
 In one word — W ill talks like a traveller. Being well 
 acquainted with his character, I was the more alarm- 
 ed at his inclination to visit a party; since he has 
 often assured me, that he considered it as equivalent 
 to being shut up for three hours in a steam-engine. I 
 even wondered how he had received an invitation; 
 — this he soon accounted for. It seems Will, on his 
 last arrival from Canton, had made a present of a case 
 of tea to a lady, for whom he had once entertained a 
 sneaking kindness when at grammar-school ; and she 
 in return had invited him to come and drink some of 
 it; a cheap way enough of paying off little obligations. 
 I readily acceded to Will's proposition, expecting 
 mucli entertainment from his eccentric remarks; 
 and as he has been absent some few years, I antici- 
 pated his surprise at the splendour and elegance of a 
 modern rout. 
 
 On calling for Will in the evening, I found him full 
 <lressed, waiting for me. I contemplated him with 
 absolute dismay. As he slill retained a spark of re- 
 gard for the lady who once reigned in his affections, he 
 had been at unusual pains in decorating his person, 
 and broke upon my sight arrayed in the true style 
 that prevailed among our beaux some years ago. His 
 hair was turned up and tufted at the top, frizzled out 
 at the ears, a profusion of powder puffed over the 
 whole, and a long plaited club swung gracefully from 
 shoulder to shouUler, describing a pleasing semi-circle 
 of powder and pomatum. His claret-coloured coat 
 was decorated with a profusion of gilt buttons, and 
 reached to his calves. His white kerseymere small- 
 clothes were so tight that he seemed to have grown 
 up in them ; and his ponderous legs, which are the 
 
 thickest part of his body, were beautifully clothed , contemporary beau 
 
 sky-blue silk stockmgs, once considered so beconui ,( (he magnanimous I 
 
 But above all, he prided himself upon his waisto ,jg court one fine sultr 
 
 of China silk, which might almost have served a go ■ ] ^^ |.g „|.gat cronies 
 
 housewife fur a short-gown : and he boasted that i| , „^( condescendin<' 
 
 roses and tulips upon it were the work of NaHg-h\ .^ g display of black a 
 
 daughter of the great Chin-Chin-Fou, who had fall ^^ (,f Madras handken 
 
 in love with the graces of his person, and sent it j peacocks' feathers !— 
 
 him as a parting present. He assured me she wai ^^ the hin'hest top-kno 
 
 perfect Iteauty, with sweet obliquity of eyes, and ,ibit the greatest varii 
 
 foot no larger than the thumb of an alderman H ^.craws. In the midd 
 
 then dilated most copiously on his silver-sprig; ^ slip-slop clack an< 
 
 dicky, w hich he assured me was quite the rage amo j^j Tncky Squash ! 
 
 the dashing young mandarines of Canton. ^ gnd llie black ones 1 
 
 I hold it an ill-natured office to put any man out j, pleasure ■ and then 
 
 conceit with himself; so' though I would willing ^„g i Every eye bri" 
 
 have made a little alteration in my friend Wizard ^^y • for he was the p 
 
 picturesque costume , yet I politely compUmented lii courtesy the mirror of 
 
 on his rakish appearance. , ggbie fair ones of Haj 
 
 On entering the room I kept a good look-out |, exuberance of lip ! 
 
 Will, expecting to see him exhibit signs of surpris ^ber curve- his fac( 
 
 but he is one of those knowing fellows who are nev ^g . a,,(] provided you 
 
 surprised at any thing, or at least will never acknoi ^^r I do not know : 
 
 ledge it. He took his stand in the middle of the fluo „ jycky Squash. W 
 
 playing with his great steel watch-chain ; and lool ^ f^Qxn ear to ear a 
 
 ing round on the company, the furniture and ll ^ rivalled the shark's 
 
 pictures, with the air of a man " who had seen d- jjUg iji^^ a north-westc 
 
 liner things in his time ; " and to my utter confusio j|g iji^^ Apollo ■ and as 
 
 and dismay, I saw him coolly pull out his villana fto could shuffle you 
 
 old japanned tobacco-box, ornamented with a bottli |, g^d di"- potatoes," m 
 
 a pipe, and a scurvy motto, and help himself to a qui ^.^g a second Lothario 
 
 in face of all the company. y,} ^^e and all, declai 
 
 I knew it was all in vain to find fault with a fello j^^y talked about, wh 
 
 of Will's socratic turn, who is never to be put oiiti jniino' any body * and 
 humour with himself; so, after he had given his bo 
 its prescriptive rap, and returned it to his pocket, 
 drew him into a corner, where we might observe ill 
 company without being prominent objects ourselvei 
 
 "And pray who is that stylish figure," said Will „pie and Tucky Squasl 
 
 " who blazes away in red, like a volcano, and 
 
 seems wrapped in flames like a fiery dragon ? "- |,pa,iy ^q i|,e dance 
 
 That, cried I, is Miss Laurelia Dashaway ;— she i inspiring effect on hon 
 
 the highest flash of the *oh— has much whim an \^^^^^\ of an old acquaii 
 
 more eccentricity, and has reduced many an unhappi appened to be the fasl 
 
 gentleman to stupidity by her charms ; you see sb 
 
 holds out the red flag in token of "no <]uarler, 
 
 " Then keep me safe out of the sphere of her attrac 
 
 tions," cried Will ; " I would not e'en come in conta 
 
 with her train, lest it should scorch me like the tail i 
 
 a comet. — But who, I beg of you, is that amiah 
 
 youth who is handing along a young lady, an«„j|„nen^ and now ma 
 
 at the same time contemplating his sweet persoi i^jj, muslins and spar 
 
 in a mirror as he passes?" His name, said I, i ftill's body partook of 
 
 Billy Dimple; — he is a universal smiler, and woiil 
 
 travel from Dan to Beersheba, and smile on ever] 
 
 body as he passed. Dimple is a slave to the ladii 
 
 —a hero at tea-parties, and is famous at the f 
 
 rouetie and the pigeon-wing; a fiddle-stick is his idol 
 
 and a dance his elysium. " A very pretty youni ^8, that quivered 
 
 gentleman, truly," cried Wizard ; " he reminds 
 
 me: 
 
 found Will had got n 
 traveller's stories ; anc 
 he would have run 
 
 from an adjoining apai 
 
 ng the Tailors," wl 
 nded at every ball and 
 vn, and many an un 
 icing of that night; for 
 ice like a coach and si 
 *s wrong ; now runnii 
 
 body partook ( 
 capacious head such v 
 us Eneas on the first ii 
 might be said to have 1 
 r was Will's partner ai 
 ne; she was a young Ii 
 
 iced up in the fashions 
 
 If 
 
illy clotiitHl 
 1 so becoinii 
 
 lend Wizan 
 pliinented hi 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 25 
 
 a contemporary beau at Hayti. You must know 
 
 it the magnanimous Dessalines gave a great ball 
 (1 his waisla ,js court one fine sultry summer's evening. Dessy 
 served a g« | j ^gre great cronies ; — hand and glove : — one of 
 
 most condescending great men I ever knew. — 
 of Nmg-ft jIj g display of black and yellow beauties ! such a 
 who had fall ^^ „f Madras handkerchiefs, red beads, cocks' tails 
 
 i peacocks' feathers ! — It was, as here, who should 
 me she wai ^j (|,e highest top-knot, drag the longest tail, or 
 of eyes, and ,ji,jt the greatest variety of combs, colours, and 
 
 . gaws. In the middle of the rout, when all was 
 iilver-spri^ b, slip-slop, clack, and perfume, who should en- 
 he rage amo but Tucky Squash! The yellow beauties blushed 
 
 e, andllie black ones blushed as red as they could, 
 
 Ih pleasure; and there was a universal agitation 
 ould willing |^ng i Every eye brightened and whitened to see 
 
 cky ; for he was the pride of the court, the pink 
 courtesy, the mirror of fashion, the adoration of all 
 ! sable fair ones of Hayti. Such breadth of nose, 
 od look-out I ;|i exuberance of lip ! his shins had the true cu- 
 is ofsurprisf ,,1,^,. curve; — his face in dancing shone like a 
 tie ; and provided you kept to windward of him in 
 never acknoi ^^^^ I ^o not know a sweeter youth in all Hayti 
 lie of the floa „ Xucky Squash. When he laughed, there ap- 
 and lool^f^ from ear to ear a chevaux-de-frise of teeth, 
 rivalled the shark's in whiteness. He could 
 ■istle like a north-wester; play on a three-stringed 
 itter confusii \\g \h^q Apollo ; and as to dancing, no Long-Island 
 It his villanm ^ could shuffle you " double-trouble," or "hoe 
 witli^ a bottk „ g^d dig potatoes," more scientifically : in short, 
 was a second Lothario, and the dusky nymphs of 
 vti, one and all, declared him a perfect Adonis, 
 withafello |jiy walked about, whistling to himself, without 
 be put out anUngany body; and his nonchalance was irre- 
 givenhislKjble." 
 
 found Will had got neck and heels into one of 
 traveller's stories ; and there is no knowing how 
 he would have run his parallel between Billy 
 nple and Tucky Squash, had not the music struck 
 from an adjoining apartment, and summoned the 
 paiiy to the dance. The sound seemed to have 
 inspiring effect on honest Will, and he procured 
 hand of an old acquaintance for a country-dance. 
 ly an unhappp,appe„ed to be the fashionable one of " The devil 
 ng the Tailors," which is so vociferously de- 
 nded at every ball and assembly ; and many a torn 
 m, and many an unfortunate toe, did rue the 
 icingof that night; for Will thundered down the 
 ice like a coach and six, sometimes right, some- 
 '•es wrong; now running over half a score of little 
 lady, an mchmen, and now making sad inroads into ladies' 
 sweet persoi web muslins and spangled tails. As every part 
 iVill's body partook of the exertion, he shook from 
 capacious head such volumes of powdei, that like 
 U8 Eneas on the first interview witli Queen Dido, 
 might be said to have been enveloped in a cloud, 
 was Will's [)artner an insignificant figure in the 
 le; she was a young lady of most voluminous pro- 
 ions, that quivered at every skip; and being 
 ice<I up in (he fashionable style with whalebone. 
 
 un 
 liture and 
 had seen d 
 
 ) his pocket, 
 ht observe ti 
 !Cts ourselva 
 
 ," said Wil 
 no, and w 
 
 dragon ? " 
 way ;— she i 
 eh whim 
 
 you see si 
 no quarter, 
 of her attrac 
 me in cont« 
 ike the tailo 
 that amiali 
 
 ne, said I, 
 , and woiil 
 nile on ever 
 
 to the ladi( 
 IS at the jN' 
 ick is his i( 
 pretty youi 
 
 reminds 
 
 stay-tape and buckram, looked like an apple pudding 
 tied in the middle; or, taking her flaming dress into 
 consideration, like a bed and bolsters rolled up in a 
 suit of red curtains. The dance finished,— I would 
 gladly have taken Will off, but no ;— he was now in 
 one of his happy moods, and there was no doing any 
 thing with him. He insisted on my introtlucing him 
 to Miss Sophy Sparkle, a young lady unrivalled for 
 playful wit and innocent vivacity, and who, like a 
 brilliant, adds lustre to the front of fashion. I ac- 
 cordingly presented him to her, and began a conver- 
 sation, in which, I thought, he might take a share ; 
 but no such thing. Will took his stand before her, 
 straddling like a colossus, with his hands in his poc- 
 kets, and an air of the most profound attention ; nor 
 did he pretend to open his lips for some time, until, 
 upon some lively sally of hers, he electrified the 
 whole company with a most intolerable burst of 
 laughter. What was to be done with such an incor- 
 rigible fellow ? — To add to my distress, the first word 
 he spoke was to tell Miss Sparkle that something she 
 said reminded him of a circumstance that hap|iened 
 to him in China : — and at it he went, in the true tra- 
 veller style — described the Chinese mode of eating 
 rice with chopsticks ; — entered into a long eulogium 
 on the succulent qualities of boiled birds' nests ; and 
 I made my escape at the very moment when he was 
 on the point of squatting down on the floor, to show 
 how the little Chinese Joshes sil cross-legged. 
 
 No. VI.— FRIDAY, MARCH 20. 4807. 
 FBOM !HV ELBOW-CBAIB. 
 
 The Cockloft family, of which I have made such 
 frequent mention, is of great antiquity, if there beany 
 truth in the genealogical tree which hangs up in my 
 cousin's library. They trace their descent from a ce- 
 lebrated Roman knight, cousin to the progenitor of 
 his Majesty of Britain, who left his native country on 
 occasion of some disgust; and coming into Wales, be- 
 came a great favourite of Prince Madoc, and accom- 
 panied that famous argonaut in the voyage which 
 ended in the discovery of this continent. — Though a 
 member of the family, I have sometimes ventured to 
 doubt the authenticity of this portion of their annals, 
 to the greatvexalion of cousin Christopher, whoislook- 
 ed up to as the head of our house ; and who, though as 
 orthodox as a bishop, would sooner give up the whole 
 decalogue than lop ofl'a single limb of the family tree. 
 From time immemorial, it has been the rule for the 
 Cocklofts to marry one of their own name ; and as 
 they always bred like rabbits, the family has increas- 
 ed and multiplied like that of Adam and Eve. In truth 
 their number is almost incredible; and you can hardly 
 go into any part of the country without starting a 
 warren of genuine Cocklofts. Every person of the 
 least observation or experience must have observe<l 
 that where this practice of marrying cousins, and se- 
 
24 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 il 
 
 ! ^ 
 
 cond cousins, prevails in a family, every member, in 
 thecourseofa few generations, becomes queer, bumor- 
 ous, and original; as much distinguished from the 
 common race of mongrels as if he were of a different 
 species. This Ik-m happened in our family, and par- 
 ticularly in that branch of it of which Christopher 
 Ck)cklon, Esq., is the head. — Christopher is, in fact, 
 the only married man of the name who resides in 
 town; his family is small, having lost most of his 
 children when yoong, by the excessive care he took 
 to bring them up like vegetables. This was one of 
 his first whim-whams, and a confounded one it was ; 
 as his children might have told, had they not fallen 
 victims to his experiment before they could talk. He 
 had got, from some quack philosopher or other, a no- 
 tion that there was a complete analogy between chil- 
 dren and plants, and that they ought to be both reared 
 alike. Accordingly he sprinkled them every morning 
 with water, laid them out in the sun, as he did his 
 geraniums; and if the season was remarkably dry, 
 repeated this wise experiment three or four times of a 
 morning. The consequence was, the poor little souls 
 died one after the other, except Jeremy and his two 
 sisters ; who, to be sure, are a trio of as odd, mummy- 
 looking originals as ever Hogarth fancied in his most 
 happy moments. Mrs Cockloft, the larger if not the 
 better half of my cousin, often remonstrated against 
 this vegetable theory ; — and even brought the parson 
 of the parish in which my cousin's country house is 
 situated, to her aid; but in vain : Christopher persist- 
 ed, and attributed the failure of his plan to its not hav- 
 ing been exactly conformed to. As I have mentioned 
 Mrs Cockloft, I may as well say a little more about 
 her while I am in the humour. She is a lady of won- 
 derful notability, a warm admirer of shining maho- 
 gany, clean hearths, and her husband, whom she con- 
 siders the wisest man in the world, bating Will Wi- 
 zard and the parson of our parish ; the last of whom is 
 her oracle on all occasions. She goes constantly to 
 church every Sunday and saint's-day, and insists upon 
 it that no man is entitled to ascend a pulpit unless he 
 hasp been ordained by a bishop; nay, so far does she 
 carry her orthodoxy, that all the arguments in the 
 world will never persuade her that a Presbyterian or 
 Baptist, or even a Calvinist, has any possible chance 
 of going to heaven. Above every thing else, how- 
 ever, she abhors Paganism; — can scarcely refrain from 
 laying violent hands on a Paniheon when she meets 
 with it; and was very nigh going into hysterics, when 
 my cousin insisted that one of his boys should be chris- 
 tened after our laureate, because the parson of the 
 parish had told her that Pindar was the name of a Pagan 
 writer, famous for his love of boxing-matches, wrest- 
 ling, and horse-racing. To sum up all her qualifica- 
 tions in the shortest possible way, Mi's Cockloft is, in 
 the true sense of the phrase, a good sort of a woman ; 
 and I often congratulate my cousin on possessing her. 
 The rest of the family consists of Jeremy Cockloft the 
 younger, who has already been mentioned, and the 
 two Miss Cocklofts, or rather the young ladies, as they 
 
 have been called by the servants time out of min he original remnined. 
 
 not that they are really young, the younger bei old mansion makes a p 
 
 somewhat on the shady side of thirty— but it hasei m is sure to make a d 
 
 been the custom to call every member of the fam » attends u|H)n it as n 
 
 young under fifty. In the south-east comer of il i. This predilection f 
 
 bouse, I hold quiet possession of an old-fashioned api r jn the family shows 
 
 ment, where myself and my elbow -chair are suffer t donicslics are all groi 
 
 to amuse ourselves undisturbed, save at meal tint ise. We have a little 
 
 This apartment old Cockloft has facetiously denot ro, who has lived throi 
 
 nated Cousin Launce's Paradise; and the good ( he Cocklofts, and of 
 
 gentleman has two or tlu-ee favourite jokes about age of no little imporlc- 
 
 which are served up as regularly as the standing | $ all (he family by tli 
 
 mily-dish of beef-steaks and onions, which every d r stories about how Ik 
 
 maintains its station at the foot of the table, Ih deliag ^n they were children ' 
 
 of mutton, poultry, or even venison itself. jnicle for the last sever 
 
 Though the family is apparently small, yet, 1 e was made in the lai 
 
 most old establishments of the kind, it does not vj les were most indubita 
 
 for honorary members. It is the city rendezvous oft nibling marvellously 
 
 Cocklofts; and we are continually enlivened by i « sober animals which 
 
 company of half a score of uncles, aunts, and cousi rjn the streets of Pliilail 
 
 in the fortieth remove, from all parts of the counli >, a dozen in a row i 
 
 who profess a wonderful regard for Cousin ChrislopJK r bells. Wliim-wliam 
 
 and overwhelm every member of his household, doi klofls, and every men 
 
 to the cook in the kitchen, with their attentions. \ lorist sui generis, fron 
 
 have for three weeks past been greeted with the ca man. The very cats a 
 
 pany of two worthy old spinsters, who came doi have a little scoundrel 
 
 from the country to settle a law-suit. They hi church bells rin"- will 
 
 done little else but retail stories of their village nei; ijs nose in the wind 
 
 hours, knit stockings, and take snuff, all the time tb mv insists that this is o 
 
 have been here : the whole family are bewiidet le organization of his e 
 
 with churchyard tales of sheeted ghosts, and wi by many learned ar"! 
 
 horses without heads, and not one of the old servai ei^tand ; but I am of opi 
 
 dare budge an inch after dark without a nuinero whim-wham, which tl 
 
 company at his heels. My cousin's visitors, howevi ended from a race of d 
 
 always return bis hospitality with due gratitude, a jamiiy ever since the ti 
 
 now and then remind him of their fraternal regsi propensity to save e 
 
 by a present of a pot of apple sweetmeats, or a ban ip of family antiquity 
 
 of sour cider at Christmas. Jeremy displays liiins :e of trumpery and rub 
 
 to great advantage among bis country relations, it ncumbered, from the 
 
 all think him a prodigy, and often stand astounded, y room and closet an 
 
 gaping wonderment," at his natural philosophy. I e-le^o'ed chairs clocks v 
 
 lately frightened a simple old uncle almost out of 
 wits, by giving it as his opinion that the earth wn 
 
 icabbards, cocked hats 
 ing-glasses with frames 
 
 one day be scorched to ashes by the eccentric gamli atliered sheep woolly 
 of the famous comet, so much talked of; and posilivi have no name except i 
 asserted that this world revolved round the sun, a jerous maho"-any chair 
 
 that the moon was certainly inhabited. 
 
 The family mansion bears equal marks of aniif 
 with its inhabitants. As the Cocklofts are reniarkal jiimgg make a most eoi 
 for their attachment to every thing that has remain nin a hurry : the mam 
 long in the family, they are bigoted towards their 
 edifice, and I dare say would sooner have it crunil 
 about their ears than abandon it. The consequen 
 is, it has been so patched up and repaired, that it I i great variety of Scrint 
 become as full of whims and oddities as its tenan loui of a cousin takes ini 
 requires to be nursed and humoured like a gouty 
 alderman ; and reminds one of the famous ship 
 which a certain admiral circumnavigated the giol 
 which was so patched and timbered, in order topi 
 serve so great a curiosity, that at length not a pirlii 
 
 ieldy proportions, thai 
 aking to gallant one of 1 
 
 lacquered earthen shej 
 
 ilhout toes, and othei 
 
 place is garnished out 
 
 Jeremy hates them as 
 inker, he was obliged 
 «7 of a tile every Sui 
 1(1 permit him to join 
 We affair for Jeremy^ 
 
SALMAGLKDI. 
 
 ss 
 
 lich every 
 lie, Ih defii 
 If. 
 
 mall, yet, 
 does not v; 
 ulezvousof 
 livened by 
 s, and coi 
 )>' the couni 
 inChrislopI 
 lusehold, (loi 
 tenlions. V 
 1 with the 
 10 came doi 
 t. They li 
 r village nei{ 
 ill the lime tl 
 are bewildi 
 sts, and tv 
 he old sen 
 ut a nuniei 
 itors, howevi 
 gratitude, 
 aternal reg; 
 a(s, or a bai 
 isplays liiii 
 elations, 
 astounded,! 
 jhilosophy. 
 most out of 
 le earth w 
 entric gam! 
 and posillv 
 id the sun, 
 
 ksofantii 
 are remarki 
 It has remai 
 wards their 
 lave it cruni 
 \e consequi 
 ired, that it 
 as its tenani 
 ike a gouty 
 famous sliip 
 ated the gli 
 n order to 
 h not a pniti 
 
 lie original remained. Whenever the wind blows, 
 old niaasion makes a perilous groaning; and every 
 is sure to make a day's work for the cai-penter, 
 attends H|)on it as regularly as the family physi- 
 This predilection for every thing that has lx;en 
 in the family shows itself in every particular, 
 domestics are all grown grey in the service of our 
 We have a little, old, crusty, grey-headed 
 0, who has lived through two or three generations 
 r,e Cocklofts, and, of course, has become a per- 
 ^e of no little importance in the household. He 
 all the family by their Christian names; tells 
 stories about how he dandled them on his knee 
 n they were children; and is a complete Cockloft 
 nicle for the last seventy years. The family car- 
 was made in the last French war, and the old 
 s were most indubitably foaled in Noah's ark — 
 imbling marvellously, in gravity of demeanour, 
 sober animals which may lie seen any day of the 
 in the streets of Philadelphia , walking their snail's 
 , a dozen in a row, and harmoniously jingling 
 bells. Whim-whaiiis are the inheritance of the 
 lofts, and every member of the household is a 
 irist sui generis, from the master down to the 
 lan. The very cats and dogs are humorists; and 
 jbave a little scoundrel of a cur, who, whenever 
 church bells ring, will run to the street door, turn 
 lis nose in the wind, and howl most piteously. 
 y insists that this is owing to a peculiar delicacy 
 le organization of his ears, and supports his posi- 
 by many learned arguments which nobody can 
 tand ; but I am of opinion that it is a mere Cock- 
 |\viiiin-wham, which the little cur indulges, being 
 nded from a race of dogs which has flourished in 
 family ever since the time of my grandfather, 
 propensity to save every thing that bears the 
 ip of family antiquity has accumulated an abun- 
 ;e of trumpery and rubbish with which the house 
 icumbered, from the cellar to the garret; and 
 room, and closet, and corner, is crammed with 
 ■legged chairs, clocks without hands, swords wit h- 
 ibbards, cocked hats, broken candlesticks, and 
 ig-glasses with frames carved into fantastic shape 
 lalliered sheep, woolly birds, and other animals 
 have no name except in books of heraldry. — The 
 lerous mahogany chairs in the parlour are of such 
 ieldy proportions, that it is quite a serious un- 
 iking to gallant one of them across the room ; and 
 tunes make a most equivocal noise when you sit 
 nin a hurry : the mantel-piece is decorated with 
 lacquered earthen shepherdesses— some of which 
 ithout toes, and others without noses; and the 
 place is garnished out with Dutch tiles, exhibit- 
 great variety of Scripture pieces, which my good 
 111 of a cousin takes infinite delight in explaining. 
 Jeremy hates them as he does poison ; for while 
 inker, he was obliged by his mother to learn the 
 iry of a tile every Sunday morning before she 
 lid permit him to join his playmates : this was a 
 iWe affair for Jereniy; who ))y the lime he had 
 
 learned the last had forgotten the first, and was oblig- 
 ed to begin again. He assured me the other day, with 
 a round college oath, that if the old house stood out 
 till he inherited it, he would have these tiles taken 
 out, and ground into |iowder, for tlie perfect hatred 
 he bore them. 
 
 IVly cousin Christopher enjoys unlimited authority 
 in the mansion of his forefathers; he is tmly what 
 may be termed a hearty old blade — has a florid, sun- 
 shiny countenance, and, if you will only praise his 
 wine, and laugh at his long stories, himself and his 
 house are heartily at your service. The first condi- 
 tion is indeed easily complied with, for, to tell the 
 truth, his wine is excellent; but his stories, being not 
 of the best, and often repeated, are apt to create a 
 disposition to yawn, being, in addition to their other 
 qualities, most unreasonably long. His prolixity is 
 the more afflicting to nie, since I have all his stories 
 by heart ; and when he enters upon one, it reminds 
 me of Newark causeway, where the traveller sees 
 the end at the distance of several miles. To the great 
 misfortune of all his acquaintance, cousin Cockloft is 
 blessed with a most provoking retentive memory, and 
 can give day and date, and name and age and cir- 
 cumstance, with most unfeeling precision. These, 
 however, are but trivial foibles, forgotten, or remem- 
 bered only with a kind of tender respectful pity, by 
 those who know with what a rich redundant harvest 
 of kindness and generosity his heart is stored. It would 
 delight you to see with what social gladness he wel- 
 comes a visitor into his house ; and (he poorest man 
 that enters his door never leaves it w>:lioul a cordial 
 invitation to sit down and drink a glass of wine, by 
 the honest farmers round his country seat, he is looked 
 up to with love and reverence; they never pass liim 
 by without his inquiring afte.- the welfare of their fa- 
 milies, and receiving a cordial sliake of iiis liberal liand. 
 There are but two classes of people who are thrown 
 out of the reach of his hospitality — and these are 
 Frenchmen and democrats. The old gentleman con- 
 siders it treason against the majesty of good breeding 
 to speak to any visitor with his hat on ; but the moment 
 a democrat enters his door, he forthwith bids his 
 man Pompey bring his hat, puts it on his head, and 
 salutes him with an appalling " Well, sir, what do you 
 want with me?" 
 
 lie has a profound contempt for Frenchmen, and 
 firmly believes that they eat nothing but frogs and 
 sou[i-maigre in their own country. This unlucky 
 prejudice is partly owing to my great aunt Pamela 
 liaving been, many years ago, run away with by a 
 French Count, who turned out to be the son of a ge- 
 neration of barbers ; and partly to a little vivid spark 
 of toryism, which burns in a secret corner of his heart. 
 He was a loyal subject of the crown ; has hardly yet 
 recovered the shock of Independence; and, though 
 he does not care to own it, always does honour to his 
 Majesty's birth-day, by inviting a few cavaliers, like 
 himself, to dinner ; and gracing his table with more 
 than ordinary festivity. If by chance the revolution 
 
26 
 
 SALMAGIM)!. 
 
 is mentioned before him, my cousin shakes his liead ; 
 and you may see, if you take good note, a lurking 
 smile of contempt in the corner of his eye, wliich 
 marks a decided disapprobation of the sound. He 
 once, in the fulness of his heart, observed (o me that 
 green peas were a month later than they were under 
 the old government. But the most eccentric mani- 
 festation of loyalty he ever gave was making a voyage 
 to Halifax for no other reason under heaven but to 
 hear his Majesty prayed for in church, as he used to 
 be here formerly. This he never could lie brouglit 
 fairly to acknowledge ; but it is a certain fact, I assure 
 you.— ItLs not a little singular that a person, so much 
 given to long story-telling as my cousin, should take a 
 liking to another of the same character ; but so it is 
 with the old gentleman — his prime favourite and com- 
 panion is Will Wizard, who is almost a member of 
 the family, and will sit before the fire, and screw his 
 phiz, and spin away tremendous long stories of his 
 travels, for a whole evening, to the great delight of 
 the old gentleman and lady, and especially of the 
 young ladies, who, like Desdeniona, do " seriously in- 
 cline,"and listen to him with uinumeiable " O dears," 
 " is it possibles, " and who look upon him as a second 
 Sindbad the sailor. 
 
 The Miss Cocklofts, whose pardon I crave for not 
 having particularly introduced them before, are a pair 
 of delectable damsels; who, having purloined and 
 locked up the family-bible, pass for just what age they 
 please to plead guilty to. Barbara, the eldest, has 
 long since resigned the character of a belle, and adopt- 
 ed that staid, sober, demure, snuff-taking air, becom- 
 ing her years and discretion. She is a good-natured 
 soul, whom I never saw in a passion but once ; and 
 that was occasioned by seeing an old favourite beau 
 of hers kiss the hand of a pretty blooming girl ; and, 
 in truth, she only got angry because, as she very pro- 
 perly said, it was spoiling the child. Her sister Mar- 
 gery, or Maggie, as she is familiarly teimed, seemed 
 disposed to maintain her post as a belle, until a few 
 months since; when accidentally hearing a gentleman 
 observe that she broke very fast, she suddenly left off 
 going to the assembly, took a cat into high favour, and 
 began to rail at the forward pertncss of young misies. 
 From that moment I set her down for an old maid ; 
 and so she is, " by the hand of my body. " The young 
 ladies are still visited by some lialf dozen of veteran 
 beaux, who grew and flourished in the hntti ton when 
 the Miss Cocklofts were quite children, but have been 
 brushed rather rudely by the hand of time, who, to say 
 the truth, can do almost any thing but make people 
 young. They are, notwithstanding, still warm canili- 
 dates for female favour; look venerably tender, and 
 repeat over and over the same honeyed speeches and 
 sugared sentiments to the little belles tliat they \mir- 
 ed so profusely into the ears of their mothers. I iK'g 
 leave here to give notice, that by this sketch I mean 
 no reflection on old bachelors ; on the contrary , I 
 hold, that next to a fine lady, the tie plus ultra, an 
 old bachelor is the most charming being upon earth ; 
 
 inasmuch as by living in " single blessedness, " Ik 
 
 sill, in crossing the si 
 
 of would-be gentlemt 
 irpe from low life by i 
 a visit two doors off; 
 hatthem, andcutlinj 
 
 course does just as he pleases ; and if he has any s bespattered with mi 
 
 nius must acquire a plentiful stock of whims, and '"S^ '^ ^ dashing ^ 
 
 dilies, and whalebone habits ; without which I esK P''"' *® '*"™''y with 
 
 a man to be mere beef without mustard, good for *'«"' thereupon turne 
 
 thing at all, but to run on errands for ladies, take bo *« "i^"'" "•'^s ; and it 
 
 at the theatre, and act the part of a screen ati jregation to hear thee 
 
 parties, or a walking-stick in the streets. I mc#i*"""o '•'« insolence 
 
 speak of those old lx)ys who infest public v; 
 
 pounce upon ladies from every corner of the sti 
 
 and worry and frisk and amble, and caper before, 
 
 hind, and round about the fashionable belles, likei 
 
 ponies in a pasture, striving to supply the abseni 
 
 youthful whim and hilarity, by grimaces and grjl 
 
 and artificial vivacity. I have sometimes seen oi 
 
 these "revereiMk youths" endeavouring to elevate| 
 
 wintry passions into something like love, by bai 
 
 in the sunshine of beauty; and it did remind me 
 
 moth attempting to fly through a pane of glass towi 
 
 a light without ever approaching near enough to % 
 
 itself, or scorch its wings. 
 
 Never, I firmly believe, did there exist a family 
 went more by tangents than the Cocklofts.— Ei 
 thing is governed by whim ; and if one meml)er 
 a new freak, away all the rest follow on like 
 geese in a string. As the family, the servants, 
 horses, cats and dogs, have all grown old togel 
 they have accommodated themselves to each ol 
 habits completely ; and though every bo<ly of tin 
 full of odd points, angles, rhomboids, and ins and 
 yet somehow or other, they harmonize together 
 so many straight lines; and it is truly a gral 
 and refreshing sight to see them agree so well. SI 
 one, however, get out of tune, it is like a en 
 fiddle, the whole concert is ajar; you perceii 
 cloud over every brow in the house, and even tlie| 
 chairs seem to creak affectuoso. If my cousin, 
 is rather apt to do, betray any symptoms of vexi 
 or uneasiness, no matter about what, he is worrit 
 death with inquiries, which answer no otiier end 
 to demonstrate the gowl-will of the inquirer, andj 
 him in a passion; for every body knows how prov 
 it is to be cut short in a fit of the blues, by an imperl 
 
 question about " what is the matter ? " when a il 
 can't tell himself. I remember a few months a^| 
 old gentleman came home in quite a sipiall ; kk 
 poor C<Tsar, the mastiff, out of his way, as he 
 through the hall ; threw his hat on the (able 
 most violent emphasis, and pulling out his bux,l 
 three huge pinches of snuff, and threw a fourllil 
 the cat's eyes as he sat purring his astonislinieiilj 
 the fire-side. This was enough to set the body 
 going ; Mrs Cockloft began " my dearing" it as fi^ 
 tongue could move; the young ladies took each i 
 at an elbow of his chair; Jeremy marshalled ini 
 the servants came tumbling in; the mastilT put i 
 inquiring nose; and even grimalkin, after lie 
 cleansed his whiskers and finished sneezing, disiiij 
 ed indubitable signs of sympathy. After the m 
 fcctionate iiHiuiries on all sides, it turned out llMtl 
 
 TIlEj 
 
 BV WILLIAM 
 
 WENT, a few evening 
 ipanied by my frienii 
 
 is a man deeply read 
 lenline and Orson, Blui 
 works so necessary to 
 modern drama. 'Shi 
 ible fellows who will 
 ig until he has turned 
 
 if it corresponds wit 
 as he is none of the qu 
 viil sometimes come 
 ;ii every Iwdy else has 
 lited it. 'Sbidlikens is, 
 [finds fault with every tl 
 itaiid by modern critici 
 to acknowledge that o 
 le, all tilings considerci 
 of our best actors. Tl 
 ikmy mind freely, 1(1 
 luch worse in my time 
 e, did their best ; and v 
 has a right to find faul 
 le Rutherford, the R 
 tre, looked as big as pr 
 size he made up in fn 
 
 l7;andifamanbut 
 
 inkle, talks big, and tak 
 
 Iways set him down a: 
 
 my friend 'Sbidlikens 
 
 fore die first act was 
 
 Irish his critical woode 
 
 lirat found fault with C 
 
 If as black as a ncg 
 
 lello was an arrant blai 
 
 iioiis of the play ; as 
 
 y bosom,* and a varie 
 
 link," continued he, ' 
 
 by hirth, from the cir 
 
 'f|,nven to his mother I 
 
 if so, he certainly wai 
 
 lotus has told us, that 
 
 frizzled hair; a clear | 
 
 He did not contin 
 
 T of the actor, but wt 
 
 "• III (his he WHS see 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 27 
 
 ^0, ill crossing the street, had got liis silk stock- 
 ; bespattered with mud by a coach, which it st>enis 
 louged to a dashing gentleman who had formerly 
 filieit the family with hot rolls and mufiins ! Mrs 
 fcloft thereupon turned up hei- eyes, and the young 
 
 i their noses ; and it would have edified a whole 
 gregation to hear the conversation which took place 
 
 «rning the insolence of upstarts, and the vulgar- 
 lof would-be gentlemen and ladies, who strive to 
 We from low life by dashing about in carriages to 
 [a visit two doors off; giving parties to people who 
 leh at them, and cutting all their old friends. 
 
 THEATRICS. 
 
 BV WILLUM WIZARD, ESQ. 
 
 hvENT, a few evenings since, to the theatre, ac- 
 [ipanied by my friend 'Sbidlikens, the Cockney, 
 
 ) is a man deeply read in the history of Cinderella, 
 bentine and Orson, Blue Beard, and all those recon- 
 1 works so necessary to enable a man to understand 
 I modern drama. 'Sbidlikens is one of those inlo- 
 Ible fellows who will never be pleased with any 
 pg until he has turned and twisted it divers ways, 
 
 iif it corresponds with his notions ofcongruily ; 
 tas he is none of the quickest in his ratiocinations, 
 jwill sometimes come out with his approbation, 
 jeii every Iwdy else has forgotten the cause which 
 ■led it. 'Sbidlikens is, moreover, a great critic, for 
 [finds fault with every thing; this being what I uii- 
 Tsland by modern criticism. He, however, is pleas- 
 Ito acknowledge that our theatre is not so dcspi- 
 jle, ail things considered ; and really thinks Cooper 
 lof our best actors. The play was Othello, and, to 
 iak my mind freely, I Ihiiik I have seen it perform- 
 Jniuch worse in my time. The actors, I firmly be- 
 |e,did their best; and whenever this is the case, no 
 » has a right to find fault with them, in my opinion. 
 lie Rutherford, the Roscius of the Philadelphia 
 jatre, looked as big as possible ; and what he want- 
 
 II size he made up in frowning. I like frowning in 
 
 df ; and if a man but keeps his forehead in proper 
 inkle, talks big, and takes long strides on the stage, 
 pays set him down as a great tragedian ; and so 
 8 my friend 'Sbidlikens. 
 
 lefore the first act was over, 'Sbidlikens began to 
 brisli his critical wooden sword like a harlequin. 
 Ilii'st found fault with Cooper for not having made 
 
 lelf as black as a negro; "for," said he, "that 
 jiello was an arrant black appears from several cx- 
 
 isions of the play ; as for instance, ' thick lips,' 
 loty bosom,' and a variety of others. I am inclined 
 |liink," continued he, "that Othello was an Kgyp- 
 iby liirth, from the circumstance of the handker- 
 |ef (,'iven to his mother l)y a native of that country ; 
 iirso, he certainly was as black as my hat : for 
 
 dolus has told us, that the Egyptians had flat noses 
 i frizzled hair; a dear proof that llicy were all iie- 
 Ks." He did not conliiic hiHslricturcs to this single 
 k of the actor, but went on to run him down in 
 V. Ill lliis he was socoiided Ity a IMiiladelphian, 
 
 who proved, by a string of most eloquent logical puns, 
 that Fennel was unquestionably in every respect a 
 better actor than Cooper. I knew it was vain to con- 
 tend with him, since I recollected a most obstinate 
 trial of skill these two great Roseii had last spring in 
 Philadelphia. Cooper brandished his blood-stained 
 dagger at the theatre — Fennel flourished his snuff- 
 box and shook his wig at the Lyceum, and the un- 
 fortunate Philadelphians were a long time at a loss to 
 decide which deserved the palm. The literati were 
 inclined to give it to Cooper, because his name was 
 the most fraitful in puns; but then, on the other side, 
 it was contended that Fennel was the best Greek 
 scholar. Scarcely was the town of Strasburgh in a 
 greater hubbub about the courteous stranger's nose ; 
 and it was well that the doctors of the University did 
 not get into the dispute, else it might have become a 
 battle of folios. At length, after much excellent ar- 
 gument had been expended on both sides, recourse 
 was had to Cocker's arithmetic and a carpenter's rule ; 
 the rival candidates were both measured by one of 
 their most steady-handed critics, and by the most 
 exact measurement it was proved that Mr Fennel was 
 the greater actor by three inches and a quarter. 
 Since this demonstration of his inferiority, Cooper has 
 never l)een able to hold up his head in Philadelphia. 
 
 In order to change a conversation in which my fa- 
 vourite suffered so much, I made some inquiries of 
 the Philadelphian concerning the two heroes of his 
 theatre. Wood and Cain; but I had scarcely men- 
 tioned their names, when, whack ! he threw a whole 
 handful of puns in my face ; 'twas like a bowl of cold 
 water. I turned on my heel, had recourse to my 
 snuff-box, and said no more about Wood and Cain; 
 nor will I ever more, if I can help it, mentiou their 
 names in the presence of a Philadelphian. Would 
 that they could leave off punning! for I love every 
 soul of them, with a cordial affection, warm as their 
 own generous hearts, and boundless as their hospi- 
 tality. 
 
 During the perfunnance, I kept an eye on the coun- 
 tenance of my friend, the Cockney — because having 
 conic all the way from England, and having seen 
 Kcmble, I thought his phiz might serve as a kind of 
 thermometer to direct my manifestations of applause 
 or disapprobation. — I might as well have looked at the 
 back of Ills head ; for I could not, with all my peering, 
 perceive by his features that he was pleased with any 
 thing— except himself. His hat was twitched a little 
 on one side, as much as to say, "dcinme, I'm yoiir 
 sorls ! " he was sucking the end of a little stick ; he was 
 "gemman" from head to fool; but as to his face, 
 there was no more expression in it than in the face of 
 a Chinese lady on a tea-cup. On Cooper's giving one 
 of his gunpowder explosions of passion, I exclaimed, 
 "line, very fine!" "Pardon me," said my friend 
 'Sbidlikens, "this is damnable !— the gesture, my dear 
 sir, only look at the gesture ! how horrible ! Oo you 
 not observe that Ihc aiitor slaps his fureheud, wliercius, 
 till' passion iiol having iirrivcd at Ihc proper height, 
 
$8 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 ! ,!■ 
 
 he should only have slapped his— pocket-flap.— This 
 figure of rhetoric is a most important stage trick, and 
 the proper management uf it is what peculiarly distin- 
 guishes the great actor from the mere plodding me- 
 chanical buffoon. Different degrees of passion require 
 different slaps, which we critics have reduced to a 
 perfect manual, improving upon the principle adopt- 
 ed by Frederic of Prussia, by deciding that an actor, 
 like a soldier, is a mere machine; as thus — the ac- 
 tor, for a minor burst of passion, merely slaps his 
 pocket-hole; good! — for a major burst, he slaps his 
 breast;— very good!— but for a burst maximus, he 
 whacks away at his forehead, like a brave fellow ; — 
 this is excellent ! — nothing can be finer than an exit, 
 slapping the forehead from one end of the stage to the 
 other." "Except," replied I, " one of those slaps on 
 the breast, which I have sometimes admired in some 
 of our fat heroes and heroines, which make their 
 whole body shake and quiver like a pyramid of jelly." 
 The Philadelphian had listened to this conversation 
 with profound attention, and appeared delighted with 
 'Sbidlikens' mechanical strictures; 'twas natural 
 enough in a man who chose an actor as he would a 
 grenadier. lie took the opportunity of a pause, to 
 t!titer into a long conversation with my friend ; and 
 was receiving a prodigious fund of information con- 
 cerning the true mode of emphasising conjunctions, 
 shifting scenes, snufTrng candles, and making thunder 
 and lightning, belter than you can get evei-y day from 
 the sky, as practised at the royal theatres; — when, as 
 ill luck would have it, they happened to run their 
 heads full butt against a new reading. — Now this was 
 " a stumper," as our old friend Paddle would say; for 
 the Philadelphians are as inveterate new -reading 
 hunters as the Cockneys; and, for aught I know, as 
 well skilled in finding them out. The Philadelphian 
 thereupon met the Cockney on his own ground ; and 
 at it they went, like two inveterate curs at a bone. 
 'Sbidlikens quoted Theobald, Ilaniner, and a host of 
 learned commentators, who have pinned themselves 
 on the sleeve of Shakspearc's immortality, anil made 
 the old bard, like General Washington, in General 
 Washington's life, a most diminutive figure in his own 
 book; — his opponent chose Johnson for his ally, and 
 thundered him forward like an elephant to bear down 
 the ranks of the enemy. I was not long in discovering 
 that these two precious judges had got hold of that un- 
 lucky passage of Shakspeare which, like a straw, has 
 tickled and puzzled and confounded many a somni- 
 ferous buzzard of past and present lime. It was the 
 celebrated wish of Desdeniona, that heaven had made 
 her such a man as Othello. 'Sbidlikens insisted, that 
 " the gentle Desdemona" merely wished for such a 
 man for a husband, which in all conscience was a 
 modest wish enough, and very natural in a young lady 
 who might possii)ly have had a predilection for flat 
 nosos. The Philadelphian CLiilcnded with all the ve- 
 hemence of a menilier of Congress, moving the house 
 to have "whereas," or "also," or "nevertheless," 
 struck out of a hill, that the young lady wished heaven 
 
 had made her a man instead of a woman, in order 
 she might have an opportunity of seeing the "am 
 pophagi, and the men whose heads do grow bei 
 their shoulders;" which was a vei-y natural 
 considering the curiosity of the sex. On being n 
 red to, I incontinently decided in favjur of the lioi 
 able member who spoke last ; inasnmch as I thii 
 was a vei7 foolish, and therefore very natural, 
 for a young lady to make before a man she wislu 
 marry. It was, moreover, an indication of the 
 lent inclination she felt to wear the breeches, wl 
 was afterwards, in all probability, gratified, if we 
 judge from the title of "our captain's captain," g, 
 her by Cassio, a phrase which, in my opinion, 
 cates that Othello was, at that lime, most ijjtioi 
 ously hen-pecked. — I believe my arguments stagt, 
 'Sbidlikens himself, for he looked confoundedly qi 
 and said not another word on the subject. 
 
 A little while after, at it he went again on atu 
 tack; and began to find fault with Cooper's mai 
 of dying; — " it was not natural," he said, for it 
 lately been demonstrated, by a learned doctor of 
 sic, that when a man is mortally stabbed, he 
 to take a flying leap of at least five feet, and 
 down " dead as a salmon in a fishmonger's baski 
 — Whenever a man, in the predicament above 
 tioned, departed from this fundamental rule, by 
 ing flat down, like a log, and rolling about for 
 or three minutes, making speeches all the time, 
 said learned doctor maintained that it was owini 
 the waywardness of the human mind, wliicii 
 lighted in lying in the face of nature, and dyin{ 
 defiance of all her established rules.— I replied, ' 
 my part, I held that every man had a right of d)i 
 in whatever position he pleased; and that the 
 of doing it depended altogether on the peculiar 
 racter of the person going to die. A Persian 
 not die in peace unless he had his face turned to 
 east;— a Mahometan would always choose to li 
 his towards Mecca ; a Frenchman might prefer 
 mode of throwing a somereet; hut Mynheer \] 
 Brumble-holtom, the lloscius of Rotterdam, alwl 
 chose to thunder down on his seat of honour win 
 ever he received a mortal wound. Being a man 
 ponderous dimensions, this had a most electrifyi 
 effect, for the whole theatre ' shook like 01ynipus| 
 the nod of Jove.' " The Pliiladelphian was iiiiini 
 ately inspired with a pun, and swore that Myiilu 
 must be great in a dying scene, since he knew 
 to make the most of his latter end. 
 
 It is the inveterate cry of stage critics, that an 
 tor does not perform the character naturally, if 
 chance he happens not to die exactly jis they w 
 have him. I think the exhibition of a play at Pil 
 would suit them exactly; and I wish with all 
 heart, they would go there and see one : naliir 
 there imitated with the most scrupulous exactness 
 every trifling particular. Here an unhappy lady 
 gentleman, who happens nnluckily to be poisoned 
 slabbed, is left on the stage to writhe and groan 
 
 ^e faces at the audiei 
 
 should die ; while ll 
 
 personte, bless Iheii 
 
 yield assistance, by c 
 
 tiferously ! The audiei 
 white pocket handl 
 
 their noses, and swe 
 poor actor is left l« die 
 
 ifort. In China, on ll 
 
 do is to run for the d 
 
 The audience are 
 
 act with a learned 
 
 if the patient must di 
 
 I, and always is allows 
 celebrated Chow-Ch( 
 
 [ever saw at killing hims( 
 his robe a bladder of 
 
 igave the mortal stab, 
 ight of the audience, 
 more fond of the sight 
 inlry;— on the coutrarj 
 ive in this particular; 
 lutiful Ninny Consequ? 
 leror's seraglio, once f 
 irile slave's nose bleed 
 It has been carried to si 
 is not allowed to run 
 the face of the audieni 
 low, in conformity to ll 
 fer he plays the part of C 
 b master-piece, always 
 !lfshly behind, and ii 
 :ts dial he has given tin 
 P. S.— Just as this was 
 led by Evergreen thai 
 irmed here the Lord kn 
 n not the first Ihat ha; 
 ;ing it; and this criliqi 
 erfomuince, even Ihoug 
 ice. 
 
 No. vn.-SATUUl 
 LK 
 
 I'llOM MlSTHI'llA « 
 
 iTo.lsem Ilacchem. prinrii) 
 the Biisha 
 
 I PHOMiSKn in a forme 
 Ivoiikl furnish thee with 
 lulure of Ihe govornmen 
 Irance. Though my inqi 
 Ibecn industrious, yel I ai 
 Itiieiri-esulls ; fur Ihou m 
 Irision of a captive is ovi 
 lilliisiun and prejudice, a 
 Ibtions must Ik; limited ir 
 |of this country are stra 
 
 ! nature uf iheir govt 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 2i) 
 
 ike faces at the audience, until the poet pleases 
 
 t should die ; while the honest folks of the dra- 
 
 itij personte, bless their hearts ! all crowd round 
 
 I yield assistance, by crying and lamenting most 
 
 jferonsly ! The audience, tender souls, pull out 
 
 white pocket handkerchiefs, wipe their eyes, 
 
 low their noses, and sw^ear it is natural as life, while 
 
 t poor actor is left to die without conunon Christian 
 
 nfort. In China, on the contrary, the first thing 
 
 r do is to run for the doctor and tchoouc, or no- 
 
 The audience are entertained throughout the 
 
 act with a learned consultation of physicians, 
 
 I if the patient must die, he does it secuiulum ar- 
 
 H, and always is allowed time to make his will. 
 
 ! celebrated Chow-Chow was the completest hand 
 
 [ever saw at killing himself; he always carried un- 
 r his robe a bladder of bull's blood, which, when 
 e gave the mortal stab, spirted out, to the infinite 
 light of the audience. Not that the ladies of China 
 ! more fond of the sight of blood than those of our 
 untry; — on the contrary, they are remarkably sen- 
 ilive in this particular; and we are told that the 
 dutiful Ninny Consequa, one of the ladies of the 
 peror's seraglio, once fainted away on seeing a fa- 
 urile slave's nose bleed ; since which time refine- 
 nt has been carried to such a pitch, that a buskined 
 
 lero is not allowed to run himself through the body 
 I the face of the audience. The immortal Chow- 
 
 khow, in conformity to this absurd prejudice, when- 
 
 |ver he plays the part of Othello, whicli is reckoned 
 master-piece, always keeps a bold front, stabs 
 elf silly behind, and is dead before any body sus- 
 his that he has given the mortal blow. 
 P. S.— Just as this was going (o press, I was in- 
 ned by Evergreen that Othello had not been per- 
 
 |brined here the Lord knows when : — no matter ; I 
 
 ini not the first that has criticised a play without 
 leing it; and this critique will answer for the last 
 
 ferfomiance, even though that were a dozen years 
 
 ince. 
 
 No. \II.— SATUnnAY, APKIL i, 1807. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 I'nOM nir.STAIMIA lli;il-4-l)L'0 KKLI KUAN, 
 
 |To Asem llaechem, prinrijml Slave-driver to his Highness 
 the Raslmiv of Tripoli. 
 
 I PKUMiSEn in a former letter, good Asem, that I 
 Ift'ould furnish thee with a few hints respecting the 
 liuture of the govorninent by which I am held in du- 
 Irancc. Though my inquiries for that purpose have 
 ■been industrious, yet I am not perfectly satisfied with 
 lllieir results ; for thou mayest easily imagine that the 
 Ivisioii of a captive is overshadowed by the mists of 
 liision and prejudice, and the horizon of his spccu- 
 jlations must be limited indeed. I find that the peo|ilc 
 loflhis country are strangely at a loss to determine 
 jilie nature of their government : even their dcrvisps 
 
 are extremely in the dark as to this particular, and 
 are continually indulging in the most preposterous 
 disquisitions on the subject ! Some have insisted that 
 it savours of an aristocracy ; others maintain that it is 
 a pure democracy ; and a third set of theorists de- 
 clare that it is nothing more nor less than a mobo- 
 cracy. The latter, I must confess, though still wide 
 in error, have com? nearest to the truth. You of 
 course must nnderstand the meaning of these different 
 words, as they are derived from the ancient Greek 
 language, and bespeak loudly the verbal poverty of 
 these poor infidels, who cannot utter a learned phrase 
 without laying the dead languages under contribution. 
 A man, my dear Asem, who talks good sense in his 
 native tongue, is held in tolerable estimation in this 
 country; but a fool, who clothes his feeble ideas in a 
 foreign or antique garb, is bowed down to as a lite- 
 rary prodigy. While I conversed with these people 
 in plain English, I was but little attended to ; but the 
 moment I prosed away in Greek, every one looked up 
 to me with veneration as an oracle. 
 
 Although the dervises differ widely in the parti- 
 culars above mentioned, yet they all agree in terming 
 their government one of the most pacific in the known 
 world. I cannot help pitying their ignorance, and 
 smiling, at times, to see into what ridiculous errors 
 those nations will wander who are unenlightened by 
 the precepts of Mahomet, our divine Prophet, and un- 
 instructed by the five hundred and forty-nine books 
 of wisdom of the immortal Ibrahim Hassan al Fusti. 
 To call this nation pacific ! Most preposterous ! It 
 reminds me of the title assumed by the Sheik of that 
 muixlerous tribe of wild Arabs, that desolate the val- 
 leys of Belsaden, who styles himself " Star of Courtesy 
 —Beam of the Mercy Seat ! " 
 
 The simple truth of the matter is, that these people 
 are totally ignorant of their own trjie character; for, 
 according to the best of my observation, they are the 
 most warlike, and, I must say, the most savage nation 
 that I have as yet discovered among all the barbarians. 
 They are not only at war, in their own way, with 
 almost every nation on earth, but they are at the same 
 time engaged in the most complicated knot of civil 
 wars that ever infested any poor unhappy country on 
 which Alia has denounced his malediction ! 
 
 To let thee at once into a secret, which is unknown 
 to these peo|)le tiiemselves, their government is a pure, 
 unadulterated Uxjimacy, or government of words. 
 The whole nation docs every thing riva voce, or by 
 word of mouth ; and in this manner is one of the most 
 military nations in existence. — Every man who has 
 what is here called the gift of the gab, that is, a plen- 
 tiful stock of verbosity, hecoinos a soldier outright, 
 and is for ever in a mililiiiit state. The country is 
 entirely defended vi et lingua — that is to say, by force 
 of tongues. 'J'he account which I lately wrote to our 
 friend the snorer, respecting the inuncnse army of six 
 hundred men, makes nothing against thisobservatiou ; 
 that forniidnbie body being kept uii, as I have already 
 observed, only to anmse their fair countrywomen by 
 
80 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 their splendid appearance and nodding plumes ; and 
 they are, by way of distinction, denominated the 
 '' defenders of the fair." 
 
 In a logocracy, liiou must know there is little or no 
 occasion for fire-arms, or any such destructive wea- 
 pons. Every offensive or defensive measure is enforc- 
 ed by wordy battle and paper war ; — he who has the 
 longest tongue or readiest quill b, sure to gain the vic- 
 tory; will carry horror, abuse, and inkshed, into the 
 very trenches of the enemy, and without mercy or 
 remorse, put men, women, and children, to the point 
 of the— pen ! 
 
 There is still preserved in this country some remains 
 of that Gothic spirit of knight-errantry which so much 
 annoyed the faithful in the middle ages of the Hegira. 
 As, notwithstanding their martial disposition, they 
 are a people much given to commerce and agriculture, 
 and must, necessarily, at certain seasons be engaged 
 in these employments, they have accommodated them- 
 selves by appointing knights, or constant warriors, 
 similar to those who, in former ages, swore eternal 
 enmity to the followers of our divine Prophet. — These 
 knights, denominated editors, or slmig-vhangers, 
 are appointed in every town, village, and district, to 
 carry on both foreign and internal warfare, and may 
 be said to keep up a constant Hring " in words." O 
 my friend, could you but witness the enormities some- 
 times committed by these tremendous slang-whang- 
 ers, your very turban would rise with horror and asto- 
 nishment. I have seen them extend their ravages 
 even into the kitchens of their op|)onents, and anni- 
 hilate the very cook with a blast ; and I do assure thee, 
 I beheld one of these warriors attack a iriost venerable 
 bashaw, and at one stroke of his pen lay him open 
 from the waistband of his breeches to his chin ! 
 
 There has been a civil war carrying on with great 
 violence for sometime past, in conse(|uence of a con- 
 spiracy, among the higher classes, (o dethrone his 
 Highness the present Bashaw, and place another in 
 his stead. I was mistaken when I formerly asserted 
 to thee that this disafTection arose from his wearing 
 red breeches. It is true the nation have long held 
 that colour in great detestation, in consequence of a 
 dispute they had some twenty years since with the 
 barbarians of the British Islands. The colour, how- 
 ever, is again rising int(» favour, as the ladies have 
 transferred it to their heads from the Bashaw's body. 
 The true reason, I am told, is, that the Bashaw al)so- 
 lutely refuses to believe in the Deluge, and in the sto- 
 ry of Balaam's ass; niainlaining that this animal was 
 never yet permitted to talk except in a genuine logo- 
 cracy, where, it is true, his voice may often be hoard, 
 and is listened to with reverence, as "the voice of llie 
 sovereign {wopie." INay, so far did he carry his ob- 
 stinacy, that he alwolutely invited a professed Anti- 
 diluvian from the Gallic Empire, who illuminated the 
 whole country with his principles— and his nose.' 
 
 • A Kf nllii reproof dircvlod aK<iiiist Mr JrlTcrsoii fur the iii(ll«- 
 rrrtinn lio cniiimiKril in iiiviliiiK I'aiiin to America, ami ()|)cnly 
 lakliiR lilin -nder IiIh proleclion.— Arftf . 
 
 This was enough to set the nation in a b'aze ;— evei Knt more evident than in 
 slang- whanger resorted to his tongue or his pen ; an f Congress, where the la 
 for seven years have they carried on a most inhutra gstering, windy assemh 
 war, in which volumes of words have been expends med by noise, tum'dt, ! 
 oceans of ink have l)een shed ; nor has any mere low that the members of 
 been shown to age, sex, or condition. Every dj ^ther to find wisdom in t 
 have these slang- whangers made furious attacks o jt to wrangle, call each o 
 each other, and upon their respective adherents— di lemselves talk. When 
 charging their heavy artillery, consisting of lar; asliaw first sends them a 
 sheets, loaded with scoundrel ! villain ! liar ! rascal gss of words— vox ctpr re 
 numskull ! nincompoop ! dunderhead! wiseacre ! block lag; because it only tells 
 held ! jackass !— and I do swear, by my beard, tlioii§ low already. Then the 
 I know thou wilt scarcely credit me, that in sumei to a ferment, and have i 
 liiese skirmishes the Grand Bashaw himself has [hx [j of words that are to Ix 
 wofully pelted ! yea most ignominiously pelted ! an lessage ; and here arise m 
 yet have these talking desperadoes escaped witlux >clion and alteration of ' 
 the bastinado! rer's." A month, perh. 
 
 Every now and then a slang-whanger, who has lining the precise numbei 
 longer head, or rather a longer tongue than the rest )ntain; and then atiother. 
 will elevate his piece and discharge a shot quite acro! ;« whether it shall be can 
 the ocean, levelled at the head of the Emperor « g horseback, or in coa( 
 France, the King of England, or, wouldst thou be eighty matter, they next 
 lieve it, O Asem, even at his Sublime Highness ih igeiLself, and hold as mi 
 Bashaw of Tripoli ! These long pieces are loade any magpies over an ad( 
 with single ball, or langrage, as tyrant ! usurper 
 robber ! tiger ! monster ! and thou mayest well su| 
 l)Ose they occasion great distress and dismay in t] 
 camps of the enemy, and are marvellously annoyinj 
 to the crowned heads at which they are directi 
 The slang-whanger, though perhaps the mere chai 
 pion of a village, having fired off his shot, struts aboi 
 with great self-congratulalic.i, chuckling at the prodiMisprodigious arguing, qu 
 gious bustle he must have occasioned, and seems li (fair of no importance, ai 
 ask of every stranger, "Well, sir, what do they tliini (ay it not then be said, tl 
 of me in Europe ? " ■ This is sufficient to show yoi ilking to no purpose ? 1 
 the manner in which these blooily, or rather windi e somewhat conscious ol 
 fellows fight : it is the only mode allowable in a iog» ijiich they are character 
 cracy, or government of woixls. ruveib on the subject, vis 
 
 I would also observe that the civil wars have a thou iiisls particularly applied 
 sand ramifications. While the fury of the battle rages mbly of all the sage ch 
 in the metropolis, every little town and village liasi jiaitered through a whol( 
 distinct broil, growing like excrescences out of liie eiil and momentous eve 
 grand national altercation, or rather agitating williin ut exhibit the length oft 
 it, like those complicated pieces of mechanism wlieii less of their heads, 
 there is a " wheel within a wheel." IJiihappy nation ! thus 
 
 But in nothing is the verbose nature of this govern- i)|is! never, I fear, will i 
 
 ind silence. Words are I 
 ind air put into motion I 
 lasl empike, therefore, n 
 
 ivide the message into s 
 :in into the hands of lit 
 mittees; these juntos I 
 ut their respective pars 
 llslo the Grand Divan, 
 talks the matter over 
 
 Sow after all, it is an evei 
 
 .vote, by it: fJ isurd, K^q. 
 
 < Tlie saRC Miistaplia, wlien lie wrolo (lie alxive paraRraiili, lnJ 
 probably la liis eye llie fdllowiiiK aiiecdiiUi-relalfd by Jos('|iliii. . , • 
 
 Millerius, vulgarly calleil Joe Miller, of facelioiw iiieniory :-rte »"™ ""' '»''* """' " "">' 
 captain of a slave- vessel, on his first laiidiiiR on the coast of Gniiiei 
 olwerveit, under a palni-li-ee, a iiPRro chief, sittinj? most iiiaii* 
 catty on a stump, while two -.voinen, with wooden simioiih, »w 
 adniinislering bis favourite pottage of IkmUhI rice, whieli, asl* 
 Imiicrial M-ijcsty was a liUlc greedy, would part of it escaiic Uk 
 place of destination, and inn down his chin i the watclifnl alM 
 ants were parliciilarly carchil to intercept these scapegrace |«^ 
 tides, and return them to tlieir proper [lort of entry. As llic aif 
 lain appi-oached, in (ird<M' lo admire lliis curious e\liihitioii i' 
 royally, Ihe great chief clapiR'd his hands to his sides, and saliili<l 
 his visilnr Willi tlio following pompons ipiestion i— " Well. «r: 
 what do they sa> ol iiie In Knglaiid? " 
 
 n, and the chatterers, 
 lie In-eezos that put it in i 
 hey are apt to blow diffe 
 nunteracting each other 
 rheels stand still, the gris 
 nd his family starved. 
 Every thing partakes 
 overninenl. In case of 
 n insult from a foreign 
 Huz;— town-meetings a 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 SI 
 
 nze ;— ever (nt more evident than in its grand national Divan, 
 his pen ; an Congress, where the laws are rramed.— This is a 
 ostinhumi pstering, windy assembly, where every thing is 
 n expende( tried by noise, tumult, and debate ; for thou must 
 any mere uw that the members o( this assembly do not meet 
 livery da gether to find wisdom in the multitude of counsellors, 
 s attacks « ,tto wrangle, call each other hard names, and hear 
 erenis— di Kjnselves talk. When the Congress opens, the 
 ng of lar; ,s|iaw first sends them a long message, t. e. a huge 
 liar ! rascal tss of words— tor et praterea ttihil, all meaning no- 
 sacrelhlodi jng; because it only tells them what they perfectly 
 ;ard, thong y^y/ already. Then the whole assembly are thrown 
 It in suine( io a ferment, and have a long talk about the quan- 
 elf has !)« |y of words that are to be returned in answer to this 
 pelted ! an (ssage ; and here arise many disputes about the cor- 
 )ed witho( j;iion and alteration of " if so he's," and " howso- 
 rer's." A month, perhaps, is spent in thus deter- 
 ', who lias ining the precise number of words the answer shall 
 lan the rest gniain ; and then another, most probably, in conclud- 
 quile acroi ig whether it shall be carried to the Bashaw on foot. 
 Emperor « j horseback, or in coaches. Having settled this 
 Jst thou be eigiily matter, they next fall to work upon the mes- 
 lighness lb ige itself, and hold as much chattering over it as so 
 are loade any magpies over an addled egg. This done, they 
 ! usurper ivjde the message into small portions, and deliver 
 it well sup lem into the hands of little juntos of talkers, called 
 imay in lb gmmittees; these juntos have each a world of talking 
 y annoyin! bout their respective paragraphs, and return the re- 
 re directed iiis to the Grand Divan, which forthwith falls to and 
 mere Chan e-ulks the matter over more earnestly than ever. 
 struts ahoo m after all, it is an even chance that the subject of 
 fit the prodi lis prodigious arguing, quarrelling, and talking, is an 
 Kair of no importance, and ends entirely in smoke. 
 they thini lay it not then be said, the whole nation have been 
 show yoi liking to no purpose ? The people, in fact, seem to 
 e somewhat conscious of this propensity to talk, by 
 le in a logo fbich they are characterized, and have a favourite 
 wverb on the subject, viz, " all talk and no cider : " 
 bis is particularly applied when their Congress, or as- 
 batlle rages mbiy of all the sage chatterers of tlie nation, have 
 irillage iiasj haltered through a whole session, in a time of great 
 out of tlie eril and momentous event, and have done nothing 
 iting within ut exhibit the length of their tongues and the empti- 
 m of their heads. 
 
 [;iihap[)y nation ! thus torn to pieces by intestine 
 alks! never, I fear, will it be restored to tranquillity 
 ind silence. Words are but breath ; breath is but air ; 
 nd air put into motion is nothing but wind. This 
 ast enipike, therefore, may be compared to nothing 
 nore nor less than a mighty wind-mill, and the ora- 
 01^, and the chatterers, and the slang-whangers, are 
 lie breezes that put it in motion : unluckily, however, 
 hey are apt to blow different ways; and their blasts 
 «uiiteracling each other, the mill is peiplexed, the 
 (heels stand still, the grist is unground, and the miller 
 indliis family starved. 
 
 Every thing partakes of the windy nature of the 
 overninent. In case of any domestic grievance, or 
 n insult from a foreign foe, the people are all in a 
 »i2z;— town-meetings are inunidiately held, where 
 
 liave a tlinu 
 
 uisru \\\m 
 
 this goveni' 
 
 ijtritpirapii. Iiail 
 I by Jost'iiliii' 
 iPiiiory :— Tk 
 DastofUiiiiiM 
 most iiiajwli' 
 
 1 S|MM)II)I, wfir 
 
 wlilcli, a.Hliii 
 r it cscaiic lli< 
 llcliful iillim^ 
 
 '. As the ttf 
 i<\lill)itioii i' 
 ■s, and saliiN 
 -'• Well, jir 
 
 the quidnuncs of the city repair, each with the cares 
 of the whole nation upon his slioulders, each resolutely 
 bent upon saving his country, and each swelling and 
 strutting like a turkey-cock, puffed up with words, 
 and wind, and wisdom.— After hustling, and buzzing, 
 and bawling for some time, and after each man has 
 shown himself to be indubitably the greatest perso- 
 nage in the meeting, they pass a string of resolutions 
 (i. e. words), which were previously prepared for the 
 purpose. These resolutions are whimsical!/ denomi- 
 nated " the sense of the meeting," and ai sent off 
 for the instruction of the reigning Bashaw, who re- 
 ceives them graciously, puts them into his red breech- 
 es pocket, forgets to read them— and so the matter 
 ends. 
 
 As to his Highness the present Bashaw, who is at 
 the very top of the logocracy, never was a dignitary 
 better qualifie<l for his station. He is a man of su- 
 perlative ventosity, and comparable to nothing but a 
 huge bladder of wind. He talks of vanquishing all 
 opposition by tha force of reason and philosophy ; 
 throws his gauntlet at all the nations of the earth, and 
 defies them to meet him^n the field of argument ! 
 — Is the national dignity insulted, a case in which his 
 Highness of Tripoli would immediately call forth his 
 forces; — the Bashaw of America — utters a speech. 
 Docs a foreign invader molest the commerce in the 
 very mouth of the harbours — an insult which would 
 induce his Highness of Tripoli to order out his fleets ; 
 — his Highness of America — utters a speech. Are 
 the free citizens of America dragged from on board 
 the vessels of their country, and forcibly detained in 
 the war ships of another power ;— his Highness — ut- 
 ters a speech. Is a peaceable citizen killed by the 
 marauders of a foreign power, on the very shores of 
 his country; — his Highness — utters a speech. Does 
 an alarming insurrection break out in a distant part 
 of the empire; — his Highness — utters a speech!— 
 Nay, more, for here he shows his " energies;" — he 
 most intrepidly dispatches a courier on horseback, and 
 orders him to rideone hundred and twenty miles a-day , 
 with a most formidable army of proclamations (t. ^. a 
 collection of words), packed up in his saddle-bags. He 
 is instructed to show no favour nor affection; but 
 to charge the thickest ranks of the enemy, and to 
 speechify and batter by words the conspiracy and the 
 conspirators out of existence. Heavens, my friend, 
 what a deal of blustering is here ! It reminds me of a 
 dunghill cock in a farm-yard, who, having accidentally 
 in his scratchings found a worm, immediately begins 
 a most vociferous cackling — calls around him his hen- 
 hearted companions, who run chattering from all 
 quarters to gobble up the poor little worm that hap- 
 pened to turn under his eye. Oh, Asem, Asem! on 
 what a prodigious gteat scale is every thing in this 
 country ! 
 
 Thus, then, I conclude my observations. The in- 
 fidel nations have each a separate characteristic trail, 
 by which they may be distinguished from each other ; 
 —the Spanianis, for instance, may lie said to slee|i 
 
.-52 
 
 SALMAtilJlNDI. 
 
 !U'- 
 
 I ■! 
 
 I 
 
 upon every affair of iniportniiee ;— the Ilalians to fhkllc 
 
 upon every thin;,';— Ihe IVench to dance i\\h»\ every 
 
 thing;— llifc Germans to smoke upon every tiling;— 
 
 the Hrilisli Islanders to eat upon every thing ;— and 
 
 the windy subjects of the American logocracy to talk 
 
 npon every thing. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 MrSTAPIIA. 
 VBOM TIIK MUX OK VnOM COCKLOI^, KSQ. 
 
 Iluw oft III iiiiiHiiiK iiiimmI my lit>ar( n'cnlln. 
 From Kiry-lNMnI falhrr Tlmn'8 oIiIIvIouji hall8, 
 Thit miNlr!) ami maxhiDi of my parly day, 
 I.UIIK III tlioMi dark r*!et!SM'ii hIow'iI away ; 
 DraKN oikt iiioi-t) (o llii! clicurriil n'atiii!i of liKlit 
 TliiiM! Imukram faHliloiis, Ioiik sIiioo IohI in iilKliti 
 Aiiil makoa, likt; liiidor's wlldi, oiitu! mor« to rlNii 
 My KroKram KraiidaiiiM to my raptiirt'd cycH ! 
 
 SliadiVH of my rallittrs! in your panlolioiiiil itkirtii, 
 Your liroidcr'il wainlroaiN ami your iilaiird Nliirtu, 
 Vour (ormal IwK-wiRst— widt'-ttxU'ndwl oiilTs, 
 Your llvf-liioh rliiltuilinKN and iiliic-iiii^li rnlTit ! 
 riotis! how ycslnil. at liiiii'N. in all yoiirxlato, 
 Amid tli<^ viitiouH of my llioiiKlilfid (lalc! 
 I M!<> yo movo the mili'imi mimii't o'or, 
 Tim modi*Kt ((N)t scarce WHiiiK from llu! Iloor ; 
 No tlumdoriiiK rigailooii with iNiislci-oiiii |>rani;i', 
 N<i |iiBiHiii-wiiiKdiHlurl> yoiirroMfic-(<«H,vc. 
 Bill Hih'iil as till' Rciillc liclhc's tide, 
 Adowii the fcHtivK ma/c yo |)cacofiil Klldo ! 
 
 Still in my menial eye each dame apiM'ars— 
 Kaeh nuKleiil lM>aulyof de(>arled years; 
 <:iose by mamma 1 w-e her stately march. 
 Or sit, ill all the majesty of starch t 
 When for the dance a siranst'r seeks her linnd, 
 I see her donhtiiiK, lii'silaliiiK. stand ; 
 Yield to his claim with most faslidioiis ftrncc, 
 Aiid siKli for her inlundetl in Ids place ! 
 
 Ah ! Rolden days ! wlien every gentle fair 
 On sacred Sahliiilh iMiim'd with pious ear<t 
 Iter Holy llilile, or her prayer-lHuik o'er, 
 Or studied honest iimiyans drowsy loiv ; 
 TravelI'd with him the iniKrim's l>i-oKiess through. 
 And storm 'd the famous town of Itlan-Soiil tiMi; 
 Heat Kyeand liar-Kate up with IhimderiiiKjar, 
 Ami foiiKht triumphant IhriiiiKli Ihe Holy War; 
 Or if, |M-rclianct>, lo lighter works iiu;liiu><l, 
 They sought with novels to relasi the niiiid, 
 'Twas (irandison's politely formal itagn, , 
 Or i:lelia or Pamela wei-e the rage. 
 
 No plays were then— theatrics wri-e unknown.— 
 A learned pig—a dancing monkey shown— 
 The feats of (■iiiich— a cunning jiiggh>r's sleight. 
 Were sure lo lili each iHtsimi with delight. 
 All honesi, simple, Immdriim race we wei-c, 
 r .iar.zled yet hy fashion's wilderlng glare i 
 Onr maimers inui'serviMl, devoid of guile, 
 We knew not then (he miHlerii monster— style. 
 Style, that willi priih' each empty Imisoiii swells, 
 I'lilfs Utys to maiilKMHl, little girls to lielle*. 
 
 Scarce from Ihe nursery freed, our gentle fair 
 Are yii"ldtHl in the daiit^iiig-iiiaster's care j 
 And ere Ihe head one mile of seiide ('an gain, 
 Are introihiced 'mid folly's frip|M<ry trahi. 
 A stranger's grasp no longer gives alarms. 
 Our fair surrender to iheir very arms. 
 Ami in Ihe insidious walU ■ will swim and twine, 
 AihI whirl and languish tenderly divine ! 
 Oh 1 how I hale this loving, hnggliig dance I 
 Thi» Imp nf (iermany— hiMuglit up in Kraiiir, 
 
 Nor c<in I M>e a niece its w Indings trace, 
 
 lint all Ilia honest IiIikmI glows in iiiy face. 
 
 ■■ Sad, sad rel!iieinenl this," I often say, 
 
 ■■ 'Tis mmlesty indeed retiiied away ! 
 
 " l,el France iU whim, its sparkliiig wit supply. 
 
 " The easy grace that captivates Ihe eye i 
 
 '■ lliil curse Iheir w.iltv!— their loosi? lascivioiM art*, 
 
 •• That smooth our uianners, lo corrupt our hearts!" 
 
 Where now those iHMiksfrom which, in days of yore. 
 
 Our mothers gain'd their literary store? 
 
 AliLs! stiff skirle<l (irandison gives place 
 
 To novels of a new and rakish raci!; 
 
 And honest Huiiyau's pious dreaming lines, 
 
 Hach now for soft licenlions versi; declines. 
 
 And, last of all, liehohl the mimic stage 
 Us morals lend to |m>IIsIi off the age. 
 With llinisy fariT. a comedy miscaU'd, 
 <;ariiish'il wllh vulgar cant, and pii)>erhs bald. 
 With puns most puny, and a plenteous stui-e 
 Of ribald Jokes, tocahli agaUery roar. 
 Or si>e, more fatal, graced with every art 
 To charm and captivate the female heart, 
 The false, "Ihe gallant, gay Lothario "smiU's, 
 And loudly iHiasIs his base seductive wiles; 
 In glowing colours paints Callsla's wrongs. 
 And with volnpliioiis scenes Ihe tale prolongs. " 
 \Mien CtKiiH'r lends his fascinating powers. 
 Decks vice Itsi'lf in bright allnriiig llowei-s. 
 Pleased with his iiiaiily grace, his youthful lire. 
 Our fair are hired the villain lo .idiiiire ; 
 While humbler virtue, like a stalking bursu, 
 Struts clumsily and croaks in lioiie»t Moi-m^ 
 
 All, hapless ilay ! when trials Hum combined, 
 Ui pleasing garb assail the female mind ; 
 Wbi'ii every smoolli insidious .snare is sprcjid 
 To .sap the morals and delii(h> Ihe head. 
 Not Shadrach, Itlesbaeh, and AlN-d-nego, 
 To prove thivir faith ami viiiiie here below, 
 i:oiild more an angel's helping hand retpiiir 
 To guide Iheir .steps nuiiOured lliroiigh the lire, 
 AVhere had but heaven ilsgnanlian aid deuh<d, 
 The holy trio in Ihe proof had died. 
 If, llien, their manly vigour sought supplies 
 t'limi the bright siranger in i^rleslial giiist!, 
 Alas! can wc from feebler naliires claim 
 To brave seduction's ordeal free fi'oin blain(\ 
 To pass ihroiigli lire iiuhnrt like golden oi-e. 
 Though ungel missions bless the earth no more! 
 
 Nolfs, hy It ilUam It Iztiid, /•'.«/. 
 
 • / 7 (i/f s.— As many of the retired matrons of this city, iinsiii 
 ed in "geslielore," are doubtless IgnoranI of Ihe movemeiitsii 
 llgiires of Ihis miHh'st eikhibiliou, I will endeavour lo givi'.w 
 account of it, in order that they may learii what odd capmllw 
 daugblers somelimes cut when from under I heir gnaiilian wing 
 --On a signal In-iug given by Ihe iniisie, Ihe genlleman scimlli 
 lady nnind her waisi ; Ihe lady, Hcoruing to Ih) onldone in cmt 
 lesy, very (Mtlilely lakes the genlhiiiau i-oiind Ihe neck, willm 
 arm it'sling against his shoulder lo prevent eneiwiehmenls. A«: 
 then Ihey go, almul, and alMiiil, and aUiiil— " AlNint what, sir! 
 — AUint the room, iiiadam, to Ik; sniv. The whole eciiiuiiii) 
 Ihis dance consisis in lurniiig round anil roiiml Ihe riNini iiMir 
 tain nie.isiired step; and it is truly aslonishiiig thai this edtilliiiii 
 ii'volulion (hies not set all Iheir beads swiminiiig like a t<ip; Nl 
 have Ihm'ii |Hisllively assured that It only occasions a gentle win 
 lion wliieh is marvellously agret'able. In lli<> course of i\\i»t't 
 cumnavigalion, Ihe daiicers. in onler lo give the charm of Vtwrti 
 aro continually changing Iheir relative siliiallona I— now Ihe g(>iill 
 man, meaning no hariii in the world, I assni'e you, madam, i" 
 lessly llliigs his arm aboiil the lady's neck with an air of edoili 
 liiipiidence ; and anon, the lady, meaning as little barm »* ll 
 i^entleinan, lakes lilm rnnnil Ihe waist w lib most ingenuoiiii imiili 
 langiiishmenl, lo Ihe great delight of niimerons s|m'cIaIoi'« « 
 atualeiii's, who gcncrully form a ring, as Ihc iiiub do about i jit 
 
 lUKMis pulling c.i|>s, or a cu 
 iiiuiiig this divine intcrchani 
 an liuiir or so, the lady iM-giii 
 ill most bewitching languor 
 e iiii|i|M)rt. Tills is always i 
 liaiiN gently on his sboiildei 
 sriliiciiig mi.schievous curv( 
 rraiiil closer Ihey a[iproaeh i 
 priii's iM^ing overcome vvitli 
 itl sinking into the genlleniai 
 llhi'ii? "— 1.01-d! madam, ho 
 ») friend Pindar, and in fac 
 iliifaii unreasonable boslilily 
 iiiisl by a Parisian corn-s|K>m 
 iiry devil in the Court of SI 
 iilii a most oiitragivius |iassii 
 Ki'iitleiiian, had nearly kicki 
 g( the cabinet, in the parox) 
 lil that the nation was as.saili 
 Aclillles, exlremely .siMisilivii 
 :iiiiiycorn;s|H)iideiitH<'iituffli 
 iiicasiii'es would he adopteii 
 vi'lii'iiienl rt^presentalions wo 
 iiii;. Ilieritfore, lo save our m 
 10 Hulijecl, w(! do assure Mr 
 rrfniiii our thoughts than tl 
 iir .my attack on the interi,'! 
 aliiHi at larg*!, which we serii 
 uik ill imr estimation. Nothi 
 lliave induci^d ns to trouble i 
 ill III!' name of the Jimlo 1 on 
 J I'n'iichman, we merely m 
 mill III Ibis country, from th 
 I, Kiirdeaux, and MarsttiUes ; 
 iir kills and as.seinblies; set 11 
 lixwi'il tlieiiiselves off on our 
 iiair noblemen— ruined iii 
 ■atllie lash, and acciist! us of 
 ill Ihe exla-mu if they did i 
 n. 
 
 fitir I'fiiitfnl.— The nlory ii 
 Hge, would exhibit a scene o 
 ear cnuld listen lo wilhoiil h 
 I as it is in all Ihe sph'iidonr I 
 'w. it steals into llii! heart lik 
 villain, ami IN-Irays it iiise 
 rry syiii|ialliy Isenlisled on I 
 iwiit. and Ihe giiitleiiess of L 
 iiclieries of the "gallant gay 
 « n'lieiitance of the fair Calit 
 ill'iipe's lleloise— " 1 mourn 
 init is more easy than lo bar 
 inir ladies, instead of crowd 
 ilfil, to discourage their ex' 
 ilmun 1k! indeed Ihe school 
 rPrnitents, " In all prubabilil 
 
 No. Mil,— SATUnOA 
 RV ANTHONY KVI! 
 
 "In nil Ihyhuinoiiifi, whel 
 Thim'rl siieh a touchy, b'sl 
 llml so iiiiich wit, and iiiirl 
 TIm-e is uu living with Ihe 
 
 Never, in the memory 
 lliere been known a m 
 is the universal remark 
 I. and weather-wiseat!! 
 <l it at least fifly-nve tin 
 poor woman, is one o 
 
ly. 
 
 « nrlK, 
 I'lirls ! " 
 »( ynrp. 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 S!i 
 
 '0, 
 
 tl. 
 
 10, 
 
 ic! 
 
 lliiaKily, iinsk 
 
 IIIIIVCIIICIIl!! 
 
 >ui' to Kivc »( 
 
 (Mill CIllHTSllKi 
 
 Kiiiii-dliiii vm 
 Iciiimi M'l/i'slli 
 iiililoiic III I'ini 
 iii'ck, wHIni 
 diini'iilH. A«i 
 Niiil \^llllt. sir' 
 liiilo rcoiKilii) 
 
 U'I'IMIIII llMM 
 
 III IIiIn i'iiiiIIiiik 
 llki'i(l<i|i;liul 
 
 \» i\ HOIltIf SOIK 
 
 Diirsr (iniiisf 
 ■liai'mofviirirt 
 
 — lldW lllCRdlll 
 
 III, iiiiiiliiin. fit 
 Hii air (if (tN 
 
 IIIO ll.ll'lllill 
 
 iiitriiiimH ini 
 s >(|M'clnloi» 
 b ilu iilxnil a 
 
 iu«iii« inilliiift cniM. or a couple of liKlitiiig iiinslKrN.— Aflci- 
 iiiuiiiK tl>><* ilivinu iiiturcliaiiKii of iioiulit, arum, el nilcra, for 
 111 lioiii' or no, llm lady Im-kIiih Io tin.*, anil wKli •' i;yi>H ii|)ralN- 
 iii mimt bewitching laiifpiiir iirlUlonii her |iarliii'r for a littli! 
 ( mipiMirt. This In alwayii kIvcii wltlioiit licallatioii. Tlii) 
 IriiiH KCiitly on hid hIioiiIiIci' ; llirir ariim Inlwiiu! In a Uioih 
 urtliicliiK Mil.sclili!V()iis ciirvrit— (lon't In; alariiicil, iiiadaiii— 
 fraiiil vMmr Ihvy a(i|ir(iacli each ollioi', ami, in coiK^liision, 
 partii'M iM^lnK ovi<rconi)! wllti ciMlatlc fatlKmt, llii! lady m'ciiifi 
 itl siiikinR into tin; KeMllciiian'H ariiiM, and llii-n— " Well, ulr! 
 Illii'ii? " — I'Ord ! iiiadani, liow kIioiiIiI I know ! " 
 )() friend I'indai-, inid In fact oiir \^llol<■jnlllo, li.is liron ac- 
 iliif an iinrr<i!Miii,'dil(! luwlllity Io tin; Fi-ciicli nation ; and 1 am 
 mill hy a I'arliiian corn-!i|Hindcnt that our firKt niinilM'r playi'd 
 cry dt'vil in Mie Court of SI. Cloud. Ilis ltii|H'rial M,'0<'iity 
 iild a iiiont outraKoouH pawilon, and liriiiK withal a \va.spi!<li 
 Ki'iilleniaii, had iirarly kick(!il lilx bosom frirnil, Talti'yraiid, 
 )f llif (:abiu(!t, In tin; iiaroxysriiii of IiIn wralli. llo Inslslcd 
 lil that till! nation wan assalh^l In Its most vital pari— In-Iiik, 
 ArlillU's, cxirouicly sensitive to any attacks ii|)oii tlii! heel, 
 iiiiiy corres|ioiid('iit sent off his dis|i,'il(:lii-s. It wasstill in doubt 
 iiiciisiires would be adoptril ; but it was slroui^ly siisiieiied 
 vi'hi'iiieiil ntpresenlallons wiiidil In; made to our Kuvermiienl. 
 III!;, llieri^fore, to save our executive from any cnibarrassnirnt 
 K HUliJi'Cl, W(! do assun; Sir Jeffersoii, that there Is nothing 
 I'rfniin our tliiiiiKlits than the Kiibversion of thi; (iailic Kin- 
 iir iiiiy iitliU'k on the liilitresl, trauipiillity, or reputation of 
 dliiiii at larKi!. wliivli we Nerioiisly declare jMissi-tuies the hif;h- 
 iiik ill our estlmallou. NotbuiK less than the national welfare 
 jliave induced us to trouble ourselves t>.:ili this explanation; 
 ill llie naiiii! of the Junto I once more declai'i-, that wlicn wu 
 la I'n'iichnian, we merely mean one of tliosi- <iiroii(iH,v, who 
 ninl l(> this country, from ilie kitchens and barlN>rs' shops of 
 II, lliirdeaiix, and Marseilles ; playi^l the f;ame of leap-fniK a( 
 iirlKills and as.Hemblies ; set this unhappy town lioppiiiK mad ; 
 |ia.vi(-il lliemselves off on our leniler-bearled damsi'ls fur iiii- 
 Mlr noblemen— -ruined 'n the revolution! .Such only can 
 'alllie lash, and aeeiisi; us of severity ; luid wit should be ninr- 
 iii the exlix'inu If they did nut feel our wvll-lutendcd casti- 
 II. 
 
 nil- reiiilenl.—T\iC Riory of Ibis play, if told In its native 
 \ff, would exhibit a scene of Riiilt and shame which no mu- 
 ir ciiiild listen to without sliriiikinK with disgust ; liiit, ar- 
 ,iul is in all the splendour of harmonious, rich, and piilisli- 
 w, it steals iiihi the heart like some gay, luxurious, snuHitb- 
 vlllahi, and InMrays It Insensibly to Immoralily and vice; 
 rry «yiii|)iithy Is enlisted on the side of Riiilt ; and \\w. piety iif 
 iHJiil, and the Kenlleness of Lavinia, are lust in the s|ilendid 
 iiclioriesof the "Kallant gay liOthariii," and the blustering, 
 » n'|H-iitance of llie fair Calisla, whose sorrow reminds us of 
 nll'ii|ii-°s llelnise— " I inouru the lover, not lament the fault." 
 inji is more easy than Io banish such plays from our sIiikc. 
 iHir l.idies, instead of crowdinK to Kite them aKaiii and a^ain 
 ilnl, til iliscuiiraKe their exhibllluii by absence, the staj^e 
 MMiii Iki indeeil the scIiimiI of morality, and the nimdicr of 
 rlVi\iti>nts, " In all prubabilily, diminish. 
 
 No. vni.-,sATiinnAV, ai'ihi, «h. isor. 
 
 RY ANTIIOMY KVKHOniiRIV, OKNT. 
 
 "In all thy hmnoiiifi, whether Rrave or mellow, 
 Tliim'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow ; 
 Hint so much wit, and mirth, and spleen aUiul Ihee, 
 There Is no llvinK with Ihee— or wlthoul tbiH'." 
 
 Nevrr, in (he ineinofy of the oldest iiihabiluitl, 
 there been known a more backward sprinj?."— 
 istlie universal remark amonjf tbe nimniiac qiiid- 
 land weallier-wiseacresoflhedny; and I have 
 I it at least iifty-live times from old Mrs Cockloft, 
 poor woman, is one of lliose walking almanacs 
 
 lliat ftirMell every snow, rain, or fro.st, by the shoot- 
 ing of corns, n pain in the Imiiics, or an "ugly stitch in 
 the siile." I do not recollect, in tbe whole courseofmy 
 life, to have seen the niontli of March indulge in such 
 untoward capers, caprices and coquetries as it has done 
 this year : I might liavi; forgiven these vagaries, had 
 they not completely knocked up my friend Langslaffj 
 whose feelings are ever at the mercy of a weatlicr- 
 cock, whose spirits sink and rise with the mercin-y of 
 a barometer, and to whom an east wind is as obnoxious 
 as a Si(;ilian .s-irorro. lie was tempted some time 
 since, by the iineness oftiie weather, to dress himself 
 with more than ordinary care anil take bis morning 
 .stroll; but before be bad half tinisbed bis peregrina- 
 tion, be was utterly dLscomtited, and driven home by 
 a tremendous s(|uali of wind, bail, rain, and snow; or, 
 as be testily termed it, "a most villanoiis congregation 
 of va|H)uis." 
 
 'J'his was loo much for the patience of friend Laun- 
 celot; be declared he would humour the weather no 
 lunger in ils wbim-wlianis; and, according to his im- 
 memorial custom on these occasions, retreated in high 
 diiilgeon to bis ellmw-cbair, to lie-in of the spleen and 
 rail at Nature for being so fantastical. "Confound 
 the jade," he frequently exclaims, "what a pily ]Na- 
 tiire liad not been of the masculine instead of the fc- 
 iniiiine gender; tbe almanac-makers might then have 
 caictilaled with some degree of certainty." 
 
 WIten Langslaff invests himself with tbe spleen, 
 and gives auiliencc to tbe blue devils from his elbow- 
 chair, I would not advise any of his friends to come 
 within gunshot of bis citadel with the l)enevoIent pur- 
 pose of administering consolatitm or amusement; for 
 he is then as crusty and crablted as that famous coiner 
 of false money Diogenes himself. Inilecd his room is 
 at such times inaccessible; and old i'ompey is the only 
 soul that can gain admission, or ask a question with 
 impunity : the truth is, thai on these occasions there 
 is not a straw's diflerence lielween them, for Pompey 
 is as glum and grim and cynical as his master. 
 
 Launcdot has now licen above three weeks in this 
 desolate situation, and has therefore had but little to do 
 in our last luimber. As he could not he prevailed on to 
 KJve any account of himself in our inticHluction, I will 
 lake the opportunity of bis confinement, while bis back 
 is turned, to give a slight sketch of bis characler;— fer- 
 tile in whiiii-whauis and bachelorisms, but rich in 
 many of the sterling tpialilies of our nature. 
 
 Of the anti(|uity of the Langslaff fatnily I can say 
 bill little; except thai I have no doiilil il is eqnal to 
 (hat of most families who have the privilege of making 
 Ihi'ir own pedigree without tbe impertinent in(er[io- 
 sition of a <;ollege of heralds. My friend Launcelol is 
 not a man to hiaxon any thing; but I have beard him 
 talk with great complacency of bis ancestor. Sir How- 
 land, who was a dashing buck in tbe days of Hardik- 
 luite, and broke the head of a gigantic Dane, at a 
 game of quarter-staff, in presence of the whole court. 
 In memory of this gallant exploit, Sir Rowland wa.s 
 permitted to lake the name of Langstoffe, anil to as- 
 
Tvt 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 I'V 
 
 Niiiiie, as a crest to his arniK, a hand grasping a cudgel. 
 11 is, however, a foible so ridicidously coninM>a in this 
 country for people lo claim consanguinity with all the 
 great personages of their own name in Europe, that 
 I should put hut little faith in this family boast of 
 friend Langstaff, did I not know him to be a man of 
 most unquestionable veracity. 
 
 The whole world knows already that my friend is 
 a Itachclor : for he is, or pretends to l>e, cxceetlingly 
 proud of his itersonal independence, and takes care 
 to make it known in all cotnpanies where strangers 
 are present. He is for ever vaimling the precious 
 slate of single blessedness;" and was, not long ago, 
 considerably startled at a projwsition of one of his 
 great favourites. Miss Sophy Sparkle, "that ohi ba- 
 chelors shoulil he taxed as luxuries."— Launcelot im- 
 mediately hied him home and wrote a long represen- 
 tation in their Itchalf, which I am resolvcil to publish 
 if it is ever attempted to carry the measure into opera- 
 tion. Whether he be sincere in these professions, 
 or whether his present situation be owing to choice or 
 disiippoiutment, be only can tell; but if be ever does 
 tell, I will suffer myself lo Iw shot by the Hrst lady's 
 eye Hint can twang an arrow. In his youth he was 
 for ever in love ; but it was his misfortune lo be con- 
 tinually crossed and rivalled by his bosom friend and 
 contemporary beau, Pindar Cockloft, Esq.; for as 
 Langstaff never made a confidant on these occasions, 
 IiLh friend never knew which way his affections point- 
 ed; and so, between them, the lady generally slipped 
 through their lingers. 
 
 It has ever been the misfortune of Launcelot, that 
 he could not for the soul of him restrain a good thing; 
 and this fatality ha» drawn upon him the ill-will of 
 many whom he would not have offended for the 
 world. With the kindest heart under heaven, and 
 the most benevolent ilisposition towards every being 
 aroimd him, be has been continually betrayed by the 
 mischievous vivacity of hi? fancy, and the good-hu- 
 moured waggery of his feelings, into satirical sallies 
 which have been treasured up by the invidious, and 
 retailed out with the bitter siieer of malevolence, 
 instead of the playful hilarity of countenance which 
 originally sweetened and tempered and disarmed 
 Ibeni of their sling. These misrepresentations have 
 gained him many reproaches, and lost him many a 
 friend. 
 
 This unlucky characlfrislic j.iayed the mischief 
 with him in one of bis love affairs. He was,, as I 
 have before observed, ol'leii opposed in his gallantries 
 by that formidable rival, I'indar Cocklofl, Esq., and 
 a most formidable rival he was; for he had Apollo, 
 the Nine Muses, together with all the joint tenants of 
 Olympus, to bjick him ; and every body knows what 
 important ctnil'ederales they are to a lover. — Poor 
 Launcelot stood no chance : — the lady was served iqi 
 in the poet's corner of every weekly pa[)cr ; and at 
 length Pindar attacked her with a sonnet, that took 
 up a whole column, in which be enumerated at least 
 a dozen cardinal virtues, together with innumerable 
 
 iicyi 
 
 iiifou 
 
 •eii 
 
 nessl 
 
 others of inferior consideration.— Launcelot saw 
 case was desperate, and that nidess he sat down 
 with, be-cherubimed and be-angeled her to the sii 
 and put every virtue under the sun in re(|uisilion, 
 might as well go hang himself, and so make an 
 of the business. At it, therefore, he went ; and i 
 going on very swunmingly, for, in the space 
 dozen lines, he had enlisted under her coniniaiKi ich 
 least threescore and ten substantial housekeeping 
 tues, when, uiduckily for Launcelot's reputation 
 poet, and the lady's as a saint, one of those coi 
 ed gooti thoughts struck his laughter-loving brain 
 it was irresistible — away he went, full sweep liel 
 the wind, cutting and slashing, and tickled lo 
 with his own fun ; the consequence was, that l)y 
 lime be had finished, never was poor lady so niostig 
 crously lain|)ooned since lampooning came intofiisiii 
 Hut this was not half ;— so hugely was I 
 pleased with this frolic of his wits, that nothing 
 do but he nuist slutw it lo the lady, who, as wdl 
 might be, was mortally offended, and forbade 
 her presence. My friend was ;n despair, but, tin 
 the interference of his generous rival, was peiniii 
 to make his a|H)logy, which turned out worse than 
 original offence ; for though he had studied an 
 (|ucnt compliment, yet as ill luck would Itave il 
 preposterous whim-wham knocked at his pericranin^w 
 and inspired him to say some consummate good lliii 
 which all put together amounted to a downright 
 and provoked the lady's wrath to such a degree, tl 
 
 itrcvocably concerned, 
 
 ) ruined by one for wtu 
 
 arm friendship. The cii 
 
 flothe very soul; he \ 
 
 muiitlis afterwards, and 
 
 retire within himself, 
 
 of his feelings ; bul 
 
 was heard to fall fn 
 
 ilioa of his friend's nam 
 
 ht be observed stealing 
 
 assumed a tou(;hing t 
 
 iiiienibered his treache 
 
 iii|,'er." This affair Us 
 
 to his disposition, v 
 
 lira 
 
 ni 
 
 ely 
 
 sentence of eternal banishment was awarded aga 
 him. 
 
 Launcelot was inconsolable, and determined, in 
 true style of novel heroics, to make the tour oFE iimy 
 rope, and endeavour to lose the recollection of iird 
 misfortune amongst the gaieties of France, and 
 classic charms of Italy : he accordingly took piK 
 in a vessel, and pursued his voyage prosperoiiiily 
 far as Sandy-Uook, where he was seized with a v 
 lent fit of sea-sickness; at which he was so arTroiil^enient 
 that be put bis portmanteau into the fii-st pilot-! 
 and retiu-ned lo town, completely cured of his \i 
 and his rage for travelling. 
 
 I pass over the subseipient amours of my frii 
 Langstaff, being but little acquainted with them 
 for, as I have already mentioned, he never was kno 
 to make a confidant of any Iwdy. He always 
 od a man must be a fool to fall in love, bul an k 
 lo boast of it;— ever denominated it the vilian 
 |>:ission ; lamented that it coidd not l>e cudgelled 
 of the luunan heart ;— and yet could no more 
 without being in love with somebody or other I 
 he could without whim-whams. 
 
 My friend Launcelot is a man of excessive irriu 
 lily of nerve, and I am acquahited with no one 
 susceptible of the petty miseries of human life; 
 its keener evils and misfortunes he bears will) 
 shrinking, and however they may prey in secret 
 his happiness, he never complains. This was striki 
 ly evinced in an alTair where his heart was de< 
 
 I'enl his entering into the 
 only effect il o(;(;asions i 
 flitserve him, at the cut 
 iinici for a few nunutes hilo 
 urmunding objects, din- 
 
 inilulging in some me 
 ingstaff inherited from 
 ite, u ilisposition for cas 
 j' lo noise, a sovereign a 
 brooms, and a plenlifu 
 
 the delicacy of his ne 
 
 lo discordant sounds ; 
 
 is "horrible;" the 
 
 distracted;" and he on 
 
 because tiic lady ( 
 
 ed shoes, in which sht 
 
 i, till, to use his own ei 
 
 le life loathsome" to 
 
 Irrdoin from the ra/o 
 
 spring," and soh 
 
 Mionlh of May has I 
 
 As some people b 
 
 , and c;ui tell when one 
 
 jiiiiicelol declares his 
 
 ini the neighbourhooil < 
 
 which he alM)ii 
 
 is there any living anii 
 
 in more utter ahhorrc 
 led a notable housewife 
 irolesis, IS the bane of ; 
 avy charge to answer fu 
 
 it against the ease, ct 
 lis of sovereign man. 1 
 ID' he had rather sec ( 
 risli through his key-ho 
 of the servant maids entc 
 y friend Launcelot is ar 
 
 iienis, which are conf 
 Ke society he loves lo gi^ 
 imagination ; he mingi 
 ever, though more as a 
 wilhoul ail anxiety, or 
 erally received with weU 
 placeiicy. When he e 
 
 open, liberal style; an 
 his honest heart throb i 
 
 «l 
 
icelot saw 
 
 ■e(iiiisilion, 
 make ani 
 ent ; and i 
 
 sekcepiiij,' 
 I'pulatiuii 
 use coiifui 
 )ving brail 
 
 swet'p liel 
 kle«l U) (I 
 s, Uial by 
 y Kuiimstli 
 iicinlufaslii 
 vas Lauiii 
 nothiiii; w 
 10, as well 
 1 forbade 
 -, but, till 
 was pcrinil 
 worse I hill 
 ludied an 
 luUl bave il 
 is pericranii 
 lie good liiii 
 :>wnright lu 
 
 a degree 
 yarded agai 
 
 rmined,in 
 le tour of 
 llectiun of 
 ance, and 
 took pi 
 n'ospcroiiiily 
 Ecd with a i 
 IS so alTronl 
 lirst pilot 
 ed of his 
 
 with them 
 
 SALMAGIINDI. 
 
 irrevocably concerned, and in wliicli his success 
 It down fut , ruined Iiy one for whom lie bad long clierislied 
 r to the ski gm friendship. The einnimstance cut poor hang- 
 lo the very soul ; he was not seen in company 
 inuntlis afterwards, and for a long time be seemed 
 Ktire within himself, and battle with the [loi- 
 le space c ncyof his feelings; but not a murmur or a re- 
 r coinniaod ich was beard to fall from his lips, though, at the 
 ilion of bis friend's name, a shade of melancholy 
 lit be observed stealing across his face, and his 
 assumed a touching tone, that seemed to say, 
 remembered his treachery *' more in sorrow than 
 iiil.'er." This affair has given a slight tinge of 
 to his disposition, which, however, docs not 
 rent his entering into the amusements of the world ; 
 only effect it occasions is, that you may occasion- 
 olisvrvc liini, at tiie end of a lively coiiversalion, 
 for a few minutes into an apparent forgclfidness 
 imiuiiiling objects, during which time he seems 
 iiiihiiging in some melancholy retrospection. 
 ingsliilf inherited from his father a love of lile- 
 ire, a disposition for caslle-buildiiig, a mortal en- 
 k to noise, a sovereign antipathy to cold weather 
 brooms, and a plentiful slock of whim-whams. 
 I the delicacy of his nerves, lie is peculiarly seii- 
 lo discordant sounds ; the rattling of a wheel- 
 i\v is " horrible;" the noise of children "drives 
 distracted;" and he on(;c left excellent lodgings 
 ily because liie lady of the house wore higli- 
 il shoes, in which she clattered uji and down 
 ;, till, to use bis own emphatic expression, "they 
 le lil'e loathsome" to him. lie suffers annual 
 yrdoin from the la/or-etlged zephyrs of our 
 Imy spring," and solemnly declares that the 
 ittii inoiitb of May has liecome a perfect " vaga- 
 As some people have a great antipathy to 
 I, and can tell when one is locked up in a closet, 
 uncelol declares bis feelings always announce 
 III the neighbourhood of a broom ; a household 
 lemenl which be abominates above all others, 
 isliiereany living animal in the world that he 
 s ill more utter abhorrence than what is usually 
 lied a notable housewife; a pestilent l)eiiig, who, 
 t of my frk^rotests, is the bane of gooil fellowship, and has 
 avy charge to answer for the many olTenccs coin- 
 
 always i 
 
 , but an il 
 the villan 
 cudgelled 
 no more 
 
 or other II 
 
 with no OIK 
 
 luman life; 
 
 bears wil 
 
 y in secret 
 
 art was d( 
 
 ver was kno^ed against the ease, comfort, and social enjoy- 
 
 11c told nie, not long ago, 
 la' he had rather sec one of the weird sisters 
 rish through his key-hole on a broomstick than 
 oftlie servant maids enter the door with a besom." 
 y friend Launcclot is ardent and sincere in bis at- 
 nienls, which are coiiliiicd to a chosen few, in 
 ise society he loves to give free scoiie to his wliim- 
 
 cessive irriiJ liniagination ; be mingles freely with the world, 
 ever, though more as a spectator than an actor ; 
 without an anxiety, or hardly a care to please, is 
 (rally received with welcome, and listened to with 
 placency. When be extends his hand it is in a 
 
 is was striki , open, liberal style ; and when you shake it, you 
 
 his honest heart throb in its puLsutions. Though 
 
 rather fond of gay exiiibilions, lie does not appear su 
 frequently at balls ami assemblies since the introduc- 
 tion of the drum, tnimpet and tambourine; all of 
 which he abhors on account of the rude attacks they 
 make on his organs of hearing ; — in short, such is his 
 antipathy to noise, that though exceedingly patriotic, 
 yet he retreats every fourth of July to Cocklofl-hall, 
 in order to get out of the way of the hubbub and con- 
 fusion wliicli make so considerable a part of the plea- 
 sure of that splendid anniversary. 
 
 I intend this article as a mere sket«>h of Kangstalf's 
 multifarious character ; his innumerable whim-whams 
 will be exhibited by himself, in the course of this 
 work, in all their strange varieties ; and the machine- 
 ry of his mind, more intricate than in the most 
 subtle piece of clock-work, be fully explained. — And 
 trust me, gentlefidk, bis are the whim-whams of a 
 courteous gentleman full of most excellent (pialilies ; 
 honourable in his disposition, independent in bis sen- 
 timents, and of nnboimdcd guotl-nature, as may be 
 seen through all his works. 
 
 ON STYLK. 
 
 BV VVILMAn WlXtlll), KNQ. 
 
 Slijk . a inaniicr of wriUiig t lillu ; pin ut a dial ; llie pistil uf 
 
 plantx. Jolinson, 
 
 Style, i.s slylc. Link. Fid. 
 
 Now I would not give a straw for either of the aliove 
 deiinitions, though I think the latter is by far the most 
 satisfactory ; and I do wish sincerely every imMlerii 
 numskull, who lakes hold of a subject be knows no- 
 thing aliout, would adopt honest Linkum's iiuHle of 
 explanation. Blair's Lectmes on this arti(;le bave not 
 thrown a whit more light on the subject of my in - 
 <|uiries; — they puzzled me just as much as did the 
 learned and laborious ex|M)silions and illustrations of 
 the worthy professor of our college, in the middle of 
 which I generally had the ill luck to tall asleep. 
 
 This same word style, though but a diminulive wend, 
 assumes to itself more contradictions, and signiiicu- 
 tions, and eccentricities, than any monosyllable in the 
 language is legitimately entitled to. It is an arrant 
 little humorist of a word, and full uf whim-wliams, 
 which occasions nie to like il hugely ; but it puzzled 
 mc most wickedly on my lirst return from a long re- 
 sidence abroad, having crept into fashionable use dur- 
 ing my al)sence ; and had it not been lor hieiul Kver- 
 gi-een, and that thrifty sprig of knowledge, .lereniy 
 ("ocklofl the younger, I should bave remained to this 
 day ignorant of iU meaning. 
 
 Though it would seem that thcpeo|de of all coun- 
 tries are equally vehement in the pursuit of this phan- 
 tom, slylc, yet in alimvst all of them there is a strange 
 diversity in opinion as to what consliliiles its essence; 
 and every dilTerent class, like the [lagan nations, adore 
 it under a different form. In lingland, for instance, 
 an honest cil packs up himself, his family and his slylc 
 in a buggy or lim whisky, and rattles away on Sunday 
 with bis fair partner blooming lieside him, like an east- 
 ern bride, and two chubby children, squatting lik(! 
 
36 
 
 SAI.MAGUNDI. 
 
 li'l 
 
 p^ 
 
 If 
 
 Chinese -images at his feet. A baronet requires a 
 cliariotand pair; — an earl must needs have a barouche 
 and four; — but a duke— oli ! a dulie cannot possibly 
 lumber his style along under a coach and six, and 
 half a score of foolmen into the bargain. In China a 
 puissant mandarin loads at least three elephants with 
 style, and an overgrown sheep at the Cape of Good 
 Hope trails along his tail and his style on a wheel- 
 barrow. In Egypt, or at Constantinople, style con- 
 sists in the quantity of fur and line clothes a lady can 
 put on without dang-T of suffocation : here it is other- 
 wise, and consists in the quantity she can put off wit!i- 
 out the risk of freezing. A Chinese lady is thought 
 prodigal of her charms if she exposes the tip of her 
 nose, or the ends of her fingers, to the ardent gaze of 
 by-standers; and I recollect that all Canton was in a 
 buzz in consequence of the great belle Miss Nangfous 
 peeping out of the window with her face uncovered ! 
 Here the style is to show not only the face, but the 
 neck, shoulders, etc. ; and a lady never presumes to 
 hide them except when she is not at home, and not 
 sufficiently undressed to see company. 
 
 This style has ruined the peace and harmony of 
 many a worthy household; for no sooner do they 
 set up for style, but instantly all the honest old com- 
 fortable sans ciirdmonie furniture is discarded; and 
 you stalk cautiously about, amongst the uncomfortable 
 splendour of Grecian chairs, Egyptian tables, Turkey 
 carpets, and Etruscan vases. This vast improvement 
 in furniture demands an increase in the domestic es- 
 tablishment : and a family that once required two or 
 three servants for convenience, now employ half a 
 dozen for style. 
 
 Bell-Brazen, late favourite of my unfortunate friend 
 Dessalines, was one of these patterns of style; and 
 whatever freak she was seized with, however pre- 
 posterous, was implicitly followed by all who would 
 be considered as admitted in the stylish arcana. — She 
 was once seized with a whim-w-ham that tickled the 
 whole court. She could not lie down to take an af- 
 ternoon's loll, but she must have one servant to scratch 
 her head, two to tickle her feet, and a fourth to fan 
 herdelectable person whileshe slumbered. — The thing 
 took ; — it became the rage, and not a sable belle in 
 all Ilayti but what insisted upon being fanned, and 
 scratched, and tickled in the true imperial style. 
 Sneer not at this picture, my most excellent townsmen; 
 for who among you but arc daily following fashions 
 equally absurd ! 
 
 Style, according to Evergreen's account, consists in 
 certain fashions, or certain eccentricities, or certain 
 manners of certain people, in certain situations, and 
 possessed of a certain share of fashion or importance. 
 A red cloak, for instance, on the shoulders of an old 
 market-woman is regarded with contempt; it is vul- 
 gar, it is odious :— tling, however, its usurping rival, 
 a red shawl, over the figure of a fashionable belle, and 
 let her flame away with it in Broadway, or in a ball- 
 room, and it is immediately declared to l)e the style. 
 
 The modes of attaining this certain situation, which 
 
 entitles its Iiolder to style, are various and op 
 the most ostensible is the attainment of wealth; 
 possession of which changes, at once, the pert ain 
 vulgar ignorance into fashionable ease and el^ 
 vivacity. It is highly amusing to observe the { 
 tion of a family aspiring to style, and the devious vtA 
 ings they pursue in order to attain it. While beai 
 up against wind and tide, they are the most coDipj 
 sant beings in the world ; they keep " booing and b 
 ing," as M'Sycophant says, until you would supj 
 them incapable of standing upright; they kiss 
 hands to every bmly who has the least claim tosij 
 their familiarity is intoleral)le, and they absoim 
 overwhelm you with their friendship and loving-kj| 
 ness. But having once gained the envied pre-4 
 nence, never were beings in the world more chan( 
 They assume the most intolerable caprices; atone li 
 address you with importunate sociability ; at anolj 
 pass you by with silent indifference ; sometimes sill 
 in their chairs in all the majesty of dignified silenf 
 and at another time bounce about with all the ob; 
 perous ill-bred noise of a little hoiden just broke li 
 from a boarding-school. 
 
 Another feature which distinguishes these i 
 made fashionables is the inveteracy with which I 
 look down upon the honest people who are strug 
 to climb up to the same envied height. They i 
 fail to salute them with the most sarcastic reileelia 
 and like so many worthy hodmen, clambering a l| 
 der, each one looks down upon his next neiglil^ 
 below, and makes no scruple of shaking the dm 
 his shoes into his eyes. Thus, by dint of pen 
 rancc merely, they come to be considered as establ 
 ed denizens of the great world ; as in some barh 
 nations an oyster-shell is of sterling value, andaij 
 per washed counter will pass current for genuineji 
 
 In no instance have I seen this grasping after si 
 more whimsically exhibited than in the family of ni;| 
 acquaintance Timothy Giblet. I recollect old ( 
 when I was a boy, and he was the most surly i 
 mudgeon I ever knew. He was a perfec. scare( 
 to the small-fry of the day, and inherited the lu 
 of all these unlucky little urchins; for never couldl 
 assemble about his door of an evening to p!ay,[ 
 make a little hubbub, but out be sallied from his j 
 like a spider, flourished bis formidable htrsei 
 and dispersed the whole crew in the twinkling 
 lamp. I perfectly reniember a bill he sent in lii| 
 father for a pane of glass I had accidentally iin 
 which came well nigh getting me a sound llogi 
 and I remember, as perfectly, that the next nigl 
 revenged myself by breaking half a dozen, 
 was as arrant a grub-worm as ever crawled ; aodl 
 only rules of right and wrong he cared a button f 
 were the rules of multiplication and addition; via 
 he practised much more successfully than he did I 
 of the rules of religion or morality. He used toj 
 dare they were the true golden rules ; and he I 
 special care to put Cocker's arithmetic in the ham 
 his children, before they had read ten pages in I 
 
 » 7 
 
 Having once started, t 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 37 
 
 lie or the prayer-book. The practice of these fa- 
 
 loarite maxims was at length crowned witli tlie har- 
 
 it of success ; and after enduring all the pounds, 
 
 llings and pence miseries of a miser, he had the sa- 
 
 laction of seeing himself worth a plum, and of 
 
 just as he had determined to enjoy the remain- 
 
 :r of his days in contemplating his great wealth and 
 
 umulaling mortgages. 
 
 His children inherited his money ; but they buried 
 disposition, and every other memorial of their fa- 
 ir in his grave. Fired with a noble thirst for style, 
 ley instantly emerged from the retired lane in which 
 inselves and their accomplishments had hitherto 
 n buried ; and they blazed, and they whizzed, and 
 ley cracked about town, like a nest of squibs and 
 ivils in a firework. Their sudden iclat may be li- 
 ;ened to that of the locust, which is hatched in the 
 lusl, where it increases ard swells up to maturity, 
 id after feeling for a moment the vivifying rays of 
 sun, bursis forth a mighty insect, and tlutters, and 
 lilies, and buzzes from every tree. The little war- 
 lers, who have long cheered the woodlands with 
 leir dulcet notes, are stunned by the discordant rac- 
 letofthis upstart intruder, and contemplate, in con- 
 iptuous silence, its bustle and its noise. 
 Having once started, the Giblets were determined 
 it nothing should stop them in their career, until 
 ley had run their full course and arrived at the very 
 lop of style. Every tailor, every shoemaker, evei7 
 ichmaker, every milliner, every irianlua-makc.-, 
 ivery paper-hanger, every piano-teacher, avA every 
 incing-master in the city, were enlisted in their ser- 
 ice; and the willing wights most courteously answered 
 ircali, and fell to work to build up the fame of the 
 liblets, as they had done that of many an aspiring fa- 
 lily before them. In a little time the young ladies 
 luld dance the waltz, thunder Lodoiska, murder 
 rcnch, kill lime, and commit violence on the face of na- 
 :are in a landscape in water-colours, equal to the best 
 y in the land ; and the young gentlemen were seen 
 lunging at corners of streets, and driving tandem; 
 leard talking loud at the theatre, and laughing in 
 krch, withas much ease, and grace, and modesty, as 
 iltiiey had been gentlemen all the days of their lives. 
 And ihe Giblels arrayed themselves in scarlet, and 
 tine linen, and sealed themselves in high places ; 
 t nobody noticed them except to honour them with 
 little contempt. The Giblets made a prodigious 
 entally lii'otBp'^'ih in their own opinion ; but nobody extolled them 
 sound tlog^ icept the tailors, and the milliners, who had been 
 next nigl mployedinmanufacluring their paraphernalia. The 
 iiblets thereupon being, Uke Caleb Quotem, deter- 
 nined lohave "a place at the review," fell to work 
 iwre fiercely than ever; — they gave dinners, and 
 ddition; v\ bey gave balls; they hired confectioners; and they 
 rould have kept a newspaper in pay , had they not 
 leen all bought up at that time for tlie eleclion. They 
 i ; and he I nvited the dancing men and the dancing women, and 
 in the hand lie gormandizers, and the epicures of the city, to 
 vine and make merry at their expense ; and the danc- 
 
 ing men, and the dancing women, and the epicures, 
 and the gormandizers, did come; and they did make 
 merry at their expense ; and they eat, and they drank, 
 and they capered, and they danced, and they— laugh- 
 ed at their entertainers. 
 
 Then commenced the hurry and the bustle, and 
 the mighty nothingness of fashionable life; such rat- 
 tling in coaches ! such Haunting in the streets I such 
 slamming of box-doors at the theatre ! such a tempest 
 of busfle and unmeaning noise wherever they ap- 
 peared ! The Giblets were seen here and there and 
 every where ; — they visited every boily they knew, 
 and every body they did not know ; and there was no 
 getting along for the Giblets. Their plan at length 
 succeeded. By duit of dinners, of feevUng and fro- 
 licking the town, the Giblet family worked them- 
 selves into notice, and enjoyed the ineffable pleasure 
 of I)eing for ever pestered by visitors, who cared no- 
 thing about them; of being squee7ed, and smothered, 
 and parboiled at nightly balls, and evening tea-parlies ; 
 they were allowed the privilege of forgetting the very 
 few old friends they once possessed; — they turned 
 up their noses at evei7 thing that was not genteel ; 
 and their superb mannei's and sublime affectation at 
 length left it no longer a matter of doubt that the 
 Giblets were perfectly in the style. 
 
 " Being, as it were, a small conlentincnic in a never con- 
 tenting suhjectc, a bitter picasauntc laste of a swecle seasoned 
 sower; and, all in all, a more than ordinarie rcjoiuing, in an cx- 
 iraoriMuaric sorrow of dclyghls ! "— 
 
 LiTIIGUW. 
 
 We have lieen considerably edified of late by se- 
 veral letters of advice from a number of sage cor- 
 respondents, who really seem to know more about 
 our work than we do ourselves. One warns us 
 against saying any thing more about 'Sbidlikens, who 
 is a very particular friend of the writer, and who has 
 a singular disinclination to be laughed at. This cor- 
 respondent in particular invcigiis against personalities, 
 and accuses us of ill-nature in bringing forward old 
 Fungus and Billy Dimple, as figures of fim to amuse 
 Ihe public. Another gentleman, who states that he 
 is a near relation of the Cocklofts, proses away most 
 soporilically on the impropriety of ridiculing a res- 
 pectable old family ; and declares that if we make 
 them and their whim-whams the subject of any more 
 essays, he shall be under the necessity of applying to 
 our theatrical champions for satislaclion. A third, 
 who by the crabbedness of the hand-writing, and a 
 few careless inaccuracies in tlie spelling, appears to 
 be a lady, assures us that the Miss Cocklofts, and Miss 
 
 Diana VVearwell, and Miss Dasliaway, and Mrs , 
 
 Will Wizard's (piondain flame, are so much obliged 
 to us for our notice, that they intend in future to 
 take no notice of us at all, but leave us out of ail their 
 tea-parties ; for which we make thein one of our best 
 Iwws, and say, " thank you, ladies." 
 
 We wish to heaven these good people woidd at- 
 tend to their owit affairs, if they have any to attend 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 f lii 
 
 t(t, and lei us aluiic. Il is one uf the most provok- 
 ing things in the world that we cannot ticlde the 
 public a little, merely for our own private amuse- 
 ment, but wc must l)e crossed and jostled by these 
 meddling incendiaries, and, in fact, have the whole 
 town about our ears. We are much in the same si- 
 tuation with an unlucky blade of a Cockney, who 
 having mounted his bit of blood to enjoy a little in- 
 nocent recreation, and display his horsemanshi[> along 
 Kroadway, Ls worried by all those little yelping curs 
 that infest our city, and who never fail to sally out 
 and growl, and bark, and snarl, to the great an- 
 noyance of the Birmingham equestrian. 
 
 Wisely was it said by the sage Linkum Fidelius, 
 " howbeit, moreover, nevertheless, this thrice wicked 
 towne is charged up to the muzzle with all manner 
 of ill-natures and uncharilablenesses, and is, more- 
 over, exceedinglie naughtie." This passage of the 
 erudite Linkuui was applied to the city of (iolhani, 
 of which he was once lord mayor, as appears by his 
 picture hung up in the hall of that ancient city ; — but 
 his observation fits this best of all possible cities " to 
 a hair." It is a melancholy truth that this same 
 i\ew-York, though the most charming, pleasant, po- 
 lished, and praise-worthy city under the sun, and in 
 a word the honiie bouche of the universe, is most 
 shockingly ill-natured and sarcastic, and wickedly 
 given to all manner of backsliilings ; — for which we 
 are very sorry indeed. In truth, for it must come 
 out, like murder, one time or other, the inhabitants 
 are not only ill-natured, hut nianifeslly unjust : no 
 sooner do they get one of our random sketches in 
 their hands, but instantly they apply it most unjusti- 
 fiably to some " dear frieiul," and then accuse us of 
 the personality which originated in their own officious 
 friendship! Truly it is an ill-natured town, and 
 most earnestly do we hope it may not meet with the 
 tate of Sodom and Gomorrah of old. 
 
 As, however, it may be thought incumbent upon 
 us to make some apology for these mistakes of the 
 town, and as our good-nature is truly exemplary, we 
 would certainly answer this expectation, were it not 
 that we have an invincible antipathy to making apo- 
 logies. We have a most profound contempt for any 
 man who cannot give three good reasons for an un- 
 reasonable thing , and will therefore condescend, as 
 usual, to give the public three special reasons for ne- 
 ver apologizing. — First, an apology implies that we 
 are accountable to somebody or another for our con- 
 duct ; — now as we do not care a fiddle-stick, as au- 
 thors, for either public opinion or private ill-will, it 
 would l)e implying a falsehood to apologize. — Second, 
 an apology would indicate that we had been doing 
 what we ought not to have done : — now as we never 
 did, nor ever intend to do, any thing wrong, it would 
 be ridiculous to make an apology. — Third, we lalMur 
 under the same incapacity in the art of apologizing 
 that lost Langslaff his mistress; — we never yet un- 
 dertook to make apology without committing a new 
 offence, and making matters ten times worse than 
 
 they were before; and we are, therefore, determine 
 to avoid such predicaments in future. 
 
 But though we have resolved never to a|iolo(,'iz( 
 yet we have no particular objection to explain ; aiuii ^"J'..(i^e ""in h'ei"!^^^ 
 this is all that's wanted, we will go about it directly ^„;,eou„t, a celebrated 
 -AUoHS. gentlemen ! Before however, we em, ^,,j ,„,„ ^.m, ,,,, ^ 
 upon this serious affair, we take this opportunity i ^^ |,a,niso,nj. Qntlie 
 express our surprise and indignation at the increduliii 
 of some people. Have wc not, over and over, assut 
 ed the town that we are three of the best-natured U 
 lows living? And is it not astonishing, that havin 
 already given seven convincing proofs of the trulhi 
 this 
 
 subject? — but as it is one ol' the impossible things 
 make a knave believe in honesty, so, perhaps, it mayb 
 another to make this most sarcastic, satirical, and let 
 drinking city believe in the existence of gootl-naturc 
 But to our explanation. Gentle reader ! for we at 
 convinced that none but gentle or genteel readers ca 
 relish our excellent productions, if thou art in expw 
 talion of being perfectly satisfied with what wt; an 
 about to say, thon mayest as well "whistle liliebu) 
 lero," and skip quite over what follows; for nev 
 
 wight was more disappointed than thou wilt be, moj 
 assuredly. — But to the explanation. We care jusl 
 much about the public and ils wise conjectures as m 
 do about the man in the moon and his whiin-wliams; 
 or the criticisms of the lady who sits majestically 
 her elbow-chair in the lobster; and who, belying In 
 sex, as we are credibly informed, never says aiii 
 thing worth listening to. We have launched 
 bark, and we will steer to our destined port with u* 
 deviating perseverance, fearless of being ship wreckeii] 
 by the way. Good-nature is our steersman, reawi 
 our ballast, whim the breeze that wafts us alon< 
 MORALITY our Icadihg-star. 
 
 Ills, and, like .1 tr«M)p of w 
 fTiuwards a inoister part < 
 My aunt Charily dcparte 
 ear of her age, though si 
 
 !COI 
 
 ho used to gallant her in 
 
 lolty a little piece of hiinii 
 
 at, if she had been possess 
 
 e would, like [toor old A cv^ 
 
 .1 111 .11 1 11. ," ad at her own figure an 
 
 isassuiaiice, they should stnt have any doubtsonli . 1. n ir- 1 
 ,...,,,' .: . ,. ., . ... ,. nteniplated herself in a lo 
 
 bject? — but as It IS one oi the impossible thiiis:!i t i.- .1 . 
 
 li limes that saw my auni 
 
 fine lady was a most formi 
 
 10 be approached with tli 
 
 at a Tartar feels in the pn 
 
 a gentleman offered to 1 
 
 !lp iier into a carriage, or 
 
 oin, such frowns ! such 
 
 (idla ! Her very paste sli 
 
 dignation, and for a inom( 
 
 liamonds ! In those day: 
 
 ered— it was unprofaned 
 
 a stranger : — simple souls 
 
 loiig them yet ! 
 
 My good aunt prided he 
 
 kram delicacy ; and ifsh 
 
 le old-fashioned game 
 
 b, it was always more tie 
 
 [ortli ; for she made a most ; 
 
 irrendered until she saw I 
 
 ive over his attack. Ever; 
 
 mbers once to have been 
 
 r, and when they came t( 
 
 k lot lo levy contributions ^ 
 
 ilio after s(|ualUng at a hid« 
 
 out of the sleigh plump i 
 
 le stuck fast like an icicle, 
 
 le. This Latonian feat coi 
 
 iliicli she never thoroughly 
 
 It is rather singular that 
 
 autv, and an heiress with 
 
 lie reason she alleged was. 
 
 lover who resembled Sit 
 
 p of her nightly dreams i 
 
 I privately of opinion that 
 
 living had an offer. This 
 
 any years previous to liei 
 
 llentions from the gentler 
 
 [if with watching over th 
 
 ■ealiires. She was, indeci 
 
 Berable leaning towards r 
 
 I her attendance at love-fe 
 
 I'esley, and even went so 
 
 ptaiice of live-and-twenty 
 
 Imp-meeting. This gave { 
 
 pristopher and his good lad 
 
 eiilioned, are rigidly ortli 
 
 No. IX.— SATURDAY, APRIL 23. «807. 
 FltOM MV KI.BOW-CIIAIR. 
 
 It in some measure jumps with my humour (u I 
 " melancholy and gentleman-like" this stormy iiigiil.| 
 and see no reason why I should not indulge in; 
 for once. — Away, then, with joke, with fun 
 laughter for a while; let my soul look back in moun 
 ful retrospect, and sadden with the memory of nii| 
 gootl aunt Charity — who died of a Frenchman I 
 
 Stare not, O most dubious reader, at the nieiitioi 
 of a complaint so uncommon. Grievously hath if 
 afflicted the ancient family of the Cocklofts, who can 
 their absui-d antipathy to the French so far that (heil 
 will not sutfer a clove of garlic in the house; ani 
 my good old friend Christopher was once on the jioinl 
 of abandoning his paternal country mansion of Coii'| 
 loft-hall, merely because a colony of frogs had settled 
 in a neighbouring swamp. I verily believe he wonii^ 
 have carried his whim-wham into effect, had not i 
 fortunate drought obliged the enemy to strike theiil 
 
SALiMAGLNDI. 
 
 m 
 
 ^iils, nntl, like .1 lr«M)[» ()r waiulering Arulis, lo march 
 
 ftuwanls a inoister [Kirt of the cuuutry. 
 
 { My •iunl Charity departed this life in the flfly-iiinlh 
 
 [ear of her age, though she never grew older after 
 
 Kenly-five. In Iter teens she was, according to her 
 
 irn account, a celehrated beauty,— ''"ough I never 
 
 Mild meet with any liody that remembered when she 
 
 1]$ handsome. On the contrary, Evergreen's fatlier, 
 
 (ho used to gallant her in his youth, says she was as 
 
 my a liltle piece of humanity as he ever saw; and 
 
 lai, if she iiad been possessed of the least sensibility, 
 
 ewuuld, like [wor old Acio,\\aye most certainly run 
 
 1 at her own figure and face, the lirsl time she 
 
 nteniplated herself in a looking-glass. In the goo(i 
 
 I limes that saw my aunt in the hey-day of youth, 
 
 |line lady was a most formidable animal, and requir- 
 
 1 to be approached with the same awe and devotion 
 
 1,1 Tartar feels in the presence of his Grand Lama. 
 
 I a ;;enlleman offered to take her hand, except lo 
 
 kip her into a carriage, or lead her into a drawing- 
 
 loin, such frowns ! such a rustling of brocade and 
 
 [tfela ! Her very paste shoe-buckles sparkled with 
 
 idi;iiation, and for h moment assumed the brilliancy 
 
 Idiamonds ! In those days the person of a belle was 
 
 [red— it was unprofuned by the sacrilegious grasp 
 
 laslianger :— simple souls ! — they had not the waltz 
 
 Inoiig them yet ! 
 
 My good aunt prided herself on keeping up this 
 Lckiam delicacy ; and if she happened to be playing 
 J llie old-fashioned game of forfeits, and was lined a 
 |s,<, it was always more trouble lo get it than it was 
 lurlh; for she made a most gallant defence, and never 
 Irrendered until she saw her adversary inclined to 
 Ive over his attack. Evergreen's father says he re- 
 members once to have been on a sleighing party with 
 r, and when they came to Kissing-bridge, it fell to 
 L lot lo levy contributions on Miss Charity Cockloft, 
 llio after stjualling at a hideous rate, at length jump- 
 |init of the sleigh plump into a snow-bank, where 
 le stuck fast like an icicle, until he came to her res- 
 pe. This Lalonian feat cost her a rheumatism, from 
 
 ;ii she never thoroughly recovered. 
 Ill is rather singular that my aunt, though a great 
 lauly, and an heiress withal, never got married.— 
 treason she alleged was, that she never met with 
 lover who resembled Sir Charles Grandison, the 
 p of her nightly dreams and waking fancy; but I 
 1 privately of opinion that it was owing to her never 
 living had an offer. This much is certain, that for 
 (any years previous to her decease she declined all 
 (lentions from the gentlemen, and contented her- 
 ]if with watching over the welfare of her fellow- 
 jeatiires. She was, indeed, observed to take a con- 
 perable leaning towards melhodism, was frequent 
 I her attendance at love-feasts, read Whitfield and 
 lesley, and even went so far as once to travel the 
 plance of live-and-twenty miles to be present at a 
 Imp-meeting. This gave great offence lo my cousin 
 rislopher and his good lady, who, as I liave already 
 lenlioned, are rigidly orthotlox ;— and had' not my 
 
 aunt Charily l)ecn of a most pacific disposition, her re- 
 ligious whim-wham would have occasioned many a 
 family altercation. Fhe was, indeed, as good a soul 
 as the Cockloft family ever boasted — a lady of un- 
 Iwunded loving-kindness, which extended to man, 
 woman, and child ; many of whom she almost killeil 
 with gooil-nature. Was any ac(|uaintancc ill?— in 
 vain did the wind whistle and the storm beat— my 
 aunt would war'dlc through mud and mire, over the 
 whole town, bi.1 what she would visit them. She 
 wiMild sit by them for hours together with the most 
 persevering patience; and tell a thousand melancholy 
 stories of human misery, to keep up their spirits. 
 The whole catalogue of yerb leas was at her fingers' 
 ends, from formidable wormwood down lo gentle 
 balm; and she would descant by the hour on the 
 healing qualities of hoarhound, catnip, and penny- 
 royal. Woe be to the patient that came under the 
 benevolent hand of my aunt Charity ! He was sure, 
 willy nilly, to be drenched with a deluge of decoc- 
 tions; and full many a time has my cousin Christopher 
 Imrne a twinge of pain in silence, through fear of being 
 condemned lo suffer the martyrdom of her maleria- 
 medica. My gooil aunt had, moreover, considerable 
 skill in astronomy ; for she could tell when the sun 
 rose and set every day in the year ; — and no woman 
 in the whole world was able to pronounce, with more 
 certainly, at what precise minute the moon changed. 
 She held the story of the moon's being made of green 
 cheese as an al)oniinable slander on her favourite 
 planet ; and she had made several valuable discoveries 
 in solar eclipses, by means of a bit of burnt glass, 
 which entitled her at least to an honorary admission 
 in t he A nierican Philosophical Society. ' ' Hutching's 
 lniprove<l" was her favourite book; and I shrewdly 
 suspect that it was from this valuable work she drew 
 most of her sovereign remedies for colds, coughs, 
 corns, and consumptions. 
 
 But the truth must be told ; with all her good qua- 
 lities, my aunt Charily was afflicted with one fault, 
 extremely rare among her gentle sex — It was curio- 
 sity. How she came by it I am at a loss lo imagine, 
 but it played the very vengeance with her, and tles- 
 Iroycd the comfort of her life. Having an invincible 
 desire lo know every body's character, business, and 
 mode of living, she was for ever piling into the affairs 
 of her neighbours ; and got a great deal of ill-will 
 from people towards whom she had the kindest dis- 
 position possible. If any family on the opposite side 
 of the street gave a dinner, my aunt would mount her 
 spectacles, and sit at the window until the company 
 were all housed, merely that she might know who 
 Ihey were. If she heard a story about any of her ac- 
 quaintance, she would, forthwith, set off full sail, and 
 never rest until, lo use her usual expression, she had 
 got " lo the bottom of it ; " which meant nothing 
 more than telling it to every body she knew. 
 
 I remember one night my aunt Charity happened 
 lo hear a most precious slory about one of her good 
 friends, but unfortunately too late to give it imme- 
 
40 
 
 SAUIAGUNDF. 
 
 r 
 
 i', 
 
 diate circulation. It made lier absolutely miserable ; 
 and she hardly slept a wink all night, for fear her 
 bosom friend, Mrs Sipkins, should get the start of her 
 in the morning, and blow the whole affair. — You must 
 know there was always a contest between these two 
 ladies, who should first give currency to the good- 
 natured things said about every boily ; and this un- 
 fortunate rivalship at length proved fatal to their long 
 and ardent friendship. My aunt got up full two hours 
 that morning before her usual lime ; put nii her pom- 
 padour taffeta gown, and sallied forth to lament the 
 misfortune of her dear friend. — Would you believe 
 it !— wherever she went, Mrs Sipkins had anticipated 
 her ; and instead of being listened to with uplifted 
 hands and open-mouthed wonder, my unhappy aunt 
 was obliged to sit down quietly and listen to the whole 
 affair, with numerous additions, alterations, and 
 amendments ! Now this was too bad ; it would al- 
 most have provoked Patient Grizzle or a saint ; — it 
 was too much for my aunt, who kept her bed three 
 days afterwards, with a cold, as she pretended ; but I 
 have no doubt it was owing to this affair of Mrs Sipkins, 
 to whom she never would be reconciled. 
 
 But I pass over the rest of my aunt Charity's life, 
 chequered with the various misfortunes and mortifi- 
 cations incident to those worthy old gentlewomen 
 who have the domestic cares of the whole community 
 upon their minds ; and I hasten to relate the melan- 
 choly incident that hurried her out of existence in the 
 full bloom of antiquated virginity. 
 
 In their frolicksome malice the Fates had ordered 
 that a French Itoarding-house, or Pension Fran^aise, 
 as it was called, should be established directly opposite 
 njy aunt's residence. Cruel event ! unhappy aunt Cha- 
 rity ! — It threw her into that alarming disorder deno- 
 
 minated the fldgets. 
 
 She did nothing but watch at the 
 
 window day after day, but without becoming one whit 
 the wiser at the end of a fortnight than she was at the 
 beginning. She thought that neighbour Pension had 
 a monstrous large family, and somehow or other they 
 were all men ! She could not imagine what business 
 neighbour Pension followed to support so numerous a 
 household } and wondered why there was always such 
 a scraping of fiddles in the parlour, and such a smell 
 of onions from neighbour Pension's kitchen. In short, 
 neighbour Pension was coutiiuially uppermost in her 
 thoughts, and incessantly on the outer edge of her 
 tongue. This was, I believe, the very flrst time she 
 lia(l ever failed " to gel at the bottom of a thing j " and 
 <lisa[)pointment cost lier many a sleepless night, I war- 
 lant you. I have little doubt, however, that my aunt 
 would have ferreted neighltour Pension out, could she 
 have spoken or understood French ; but in those times 
 people in general could make themselves imderstood 
 In plain English ; and it was always a standing rule in 
 (he Cockloft fiimily, which exists to this day, that not 
 one of the females should learn French. 
 
 My aunt Charity liad lived, at her window, for some 
 lime in vain; when one day as she was keeping lier 
 usual look-out, and suffering all the pangs of unsatis- 
 
 fied curiosity, she l)eheld a little meagre, weazel-fao 
 Frenchman, of the most forlorn, diminutive, and pltjl 
 ful proportions, arrive at neihgbour Pension's door| 
 He was dressed in white, with a Httle pinched up co 
 ed hat ; he seemed toshake in the wind, and every bias 
 that went over him whistled through his bones aoi 
 threatened instant annihilation. This embodied spiri 
 of famine was followed by three carts, lumberetl wjj 
 crazy trunks, chests, band-boxes, bidets, medicin 
 chests, parrots, and monkeys ; and at his heels ran | 
 yelping pack of little black-nosed pug-dogs. This vJ 
 the one thing wanting to fill up the measure nfnj 
 aunt Charity's afflictions; she could not conceive, I 
 the soul of her, who this mysterious little apparilio 
 could be that made so great a display ; — what he coul 
 possibly do with so much baggage, and particular 
 with his parrots and monkeys; or how so small a carcat 
 could have occasion for so many trunks of cloliiei 
 Honest soul ! she had never had a peep into a Frencbl 
 man's wardrobe— that depot of old coals, hats, anj 
 breeches, of the growth of every fashion he has foUo«| 
 ed in bis life. 
 
 From the time of this fatal arrival, my poor auntvij 
 in a quandary; — all her inquiries were fruitless;! 
 one could expound the history of this mysterious stranj 
 ger. She never held up her head afterwards — droop 
 daily, took to her bed in a fortnight, and in "one lilll| 
 month"! saw her quietly deposited in the family vaul 
 — I)eing the seventh Cockloft that has died of a whin 
 wham. 
 
 Tako warning, my fair countrywomen ! and you,i 
 ye excellent ladies, whether married or single, wh 
 pi7 into other people's affairs and neglect those ofya 
 own household; who are so busily employed in obsen 
 ing the faults of others that you have no time to corree 
 your own; remember the fate of my dear aunt Cliariljj 
 and eschew the evil spirit of curiosity. 
 
 FROM MY ELBOW-CHAIR. 
 
 I FIND, by perusal of our last number, that Wij 
 Wizard and Evergreen, taking advantage of myc 
 flnement, have been playing some of their gamboiJ 
 I suspected these rogues of some mal-practices, in coo 
 sequence of their queer looks and knowing winks when] 
 ever I caiuedown to dinner; and of their not showinj 
 their faces at old Cockloft's for several days after I 
 appearance of their precious effusions. Wliencvd 
 these two waggish fellows lay their heads togetlier| 
 there is always sure to be hatched some notable pie( 
 of mischief,— which, if it tickles nobody else, is siireli 
 make its authors merry. The public will take not™ 
 that, for the purpose of teaching these my assoclal(j 
 better manners, and punishing them for their liigl 
 misdemeanoiu-s, I have, by virtue of my anllioiitjj 
 suspended them from all interference in Salmagundi 
 until they show a proper degree of repentance, or( 
 get tired of supporting the burthen of the work mjf 
 self. I am sorry for Will, who is already sunicleiilli 
 mortified in not daring to cuine to the old house mi 
 tell his long stories and smoke his cigar; but Evnl 
 
 lorning, when he bonne 
 "Fire in each eye— an 
 
 FROM MINTAPIIA RL 
 
SAUIAGUNDI. 
 
 41 
 
 er, that Vi 
 fe ofmycoi 
 leir gamboii 
 dices, in cii 
 p winks wh( 
 r not sliowii 
 ays after tl 
 Wlienev 
 ads tO{i;ellierl 
 notable piw 
 ?lsc, is siirel 
 II take nulic 
 my associaK 
 or their lii§l 
 ny aiilhorilj 
 Sahnagunii 
 entance, or 
 he work mj 
 ly sufllciciill 
 1(1 house ail 
 r: but Kvet 
 
 en, being an old beau, may solace himself in his 
 ij;o;race by trimming up all his old finery, and mak- 
 j love to the little girls. 
 
 J At present my right-hand man is cousin Pindar, 
 Ihom I have taken into high favour. He came home 
 eother night all in a blaze, like a sky-rocket; whisk- 
 lup to his room in a paroxysm of poetic iii-spiralion ; 
 jordid we see any thing of him until late the next 
 lorning, when he bounced upon us at breakfast, 
 
 " Fire in each eye— anil paper in each hand." 
 
 Tills is just the way with Pindar. — Like a volcano, 
 nlll remain for a long time silent without emitting 
 jsingle spark ; and then, all at once, burst out in a 
 
 lendous explosion of rhyme and rhapsody. 
 As the letters of my friend Mustapha seem to excite 
 
 iderable curiosity, I have subjoined another. I do 
 vouch for the justice of his remarks, or the correct- 
 
 of his conclusions; they are full of the blunders 
 
 errors into which strangers continually indulge, 
 |ho pretend to give an account of this country before 
 y Avell know the geography of the street in which 
 y live. The copies of my friend's papers being 
 fused, and without dale, I cannot pretend to give 
 !inin systematic order; in fact, they seem now and 
 
 to treat of matters which have occurred since his 
 
 rture. Whether these are sly interpolations of 
 It meddlesome wight Will Wizai-d, or whether 
 lest Mustapha was gifted with the spirit of prophecy 
 second sight, I neither know, nor, in fact, do I care. 
 le following seems to have been written when the 
 ipolilan prisoners were so much annoyed by the 
 
 ;e(l state of their wardrobe. Mustapha feelingly 
 lids the embarrassments of his situation ; makes an 
 ly transition from his breeches to the seat of govern- 
 nt; and incontinently abuses the whole adminis- 
 lion : like a sapient traveller I once knew, who 
 
 ned the French nation in toto — because they cat 
 ;ar with green peas. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 PIIOM MUSTAPHA HUD-A-ULB KELI KUAl, 
 
 Asem Hacchem, printipal Slnre-drirer to his Highness 
 the liasliaw of Tripoli. 
 
 SwKET, O Asem ! is the memory of distaiU friends ! 
 e the mellow ray of a departing sun, it falls ten- 
 irlyyet sadly on the heart. Every hour of absence 
 im my native land rolls heavily by, like the sandy 
 iveof llie desert ; and the fair shores of my country 
 « blooming to my imagination, clothed in the soft 
 isivu cliarnis of distance. I sigh, yet no one listens 
 the sigh of the captive ! I shed the bitter tear of rc- 
 lleclion, but no one sympathiires in the tear of the 
 itanwl stranger! — Think not, however, thou hro- 
 erof my soul, that I complain of the horrors of my si- 
 ition; think not that my captivity is attended with 
 t labours, the chains, tlie scourges, the insults, that 
 ider slavery, with us, more dreadful than the pangs 
 hesitating, lingering death. Light, indeed, are the 
 ilrainls on the [)ersonal freedom of thy kinsman ; 
 
 but who can enter into the afflictions of the mind ? 
 who can describe the agonies of the heart ? They are 
 muuible as the clouds of the air; they are countless as 
 the waves that divide me from my native country. 
 
 I have, of late, my dear Asem, laboured under an 
 inconvenience singularly unfortunate, and am reduced 
 to a dilemma most ridiculously embarrassing. Why 
 should I hide it from the companion of my thoughts, 
 the partner of my sorrows and my joys ? Alas ! Asem, 
 thy friend Mustapha, the invincible captain of a ketch, 
 is sadly in want of a pair of breeches ! Thou wilt 
 doubtless smile, O most grave Mussulman, to hear mc 
 indulge in lamentations about a circumstance so tri- 
 vial, and a want apparently so easy to be satisfied ; but 
 little canst thou know of the mortiFications attending 
 my necessities, and the astonishing difficulty of sup- 
 plying them. Honoured by the smiles a:.d attentions 
 of the beautiful ladies of this city, who have fallen in 
 love with my whiskers and my turban ; courted by the 
 bashaws and the great men, who ilelight to have me 
 at their feasts, the honour of my company eagerly so- 
 licited by every fiddler who gives a concert; think of 
 my chagrin at being obliged to decline the host of in- 
 vitations that daily overwhelm me, merely for want of 
 a pair of breeches ! Oh, Allah! Allah! that thy dis- 
 ciples could come into the world all be-feathered like a 
 bantam, or with a pair of leather breeches like the 
 wild deer of the forest ! Surely, my friend, it is the 
 destiny of man to be for ever subjected to petty evils 
 which, however trifling in appearance, prey in silence 
 on his little pittance of enjoyment, and |)oison those 
 moments of sunshine, which might otherwise be con- 
 secrated to happiness. 
 
 The want of a garment, thou wilt say, is easily sup- 
 plied ; and thou mayest suppose need only be men- 
 tioned, to be remedied at once by any tailor of the 
 land. Little canst thou conceive the impediments 
 which stand in the way of my comfort, and still less 
 art thou ae(|uainted with the proiligious great scale on 
 which every thing is transacted in this country. 'J'he 
 nation moves most majestically slow and clumsy in the 
 most trivial affairs; like the unwieldy elephant which 
 makes a formidable difficulty of picking up a straw! 
 When I hinted my necessities to the officer who has 
 d large of myself and my companions, I expected to 
 have them forthwith relieved. But he made an amaz- 
 ingly long face — told me that we were prisoners of 
 state — th? we nuist therefore be dollied at the ex- 
 pense of the government ; that as no provision has 
 Iteen made by Congress for an emergency of the kind, 
 it was impossible to furnish me wilh a pair of breechcN, 
 until iill the sages of the nation had been convene'' ;o 
 talk over the matter, and debate upon the expediency 
 of granting my rccpiest. Sword of the immortal 
 Khalid, thought I, but this is great!— this is truly su- 
 blime! All the sages of an immense logocracy assem- 
 bled together to talk about my breeelies !— Vain mortal 
 that I am ! I cannot but own I was somewhat recon- 
 ciled to the delay which must necessarily attend this 
 method of clothing me, by the consideration that if 
 
42 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 Iiili:"' 
 
 they made the affair a national act, my " name must 
 of course be embodied in history," and myself and my 
 breeches flourish to immortality in the annals of this 
 mighty empire ! 
 
 " But pray, sir," said I, " how does it happen that 
 a matter so insignificant should be erected into an ob- 
 ject of such importance as to employ the representa- 
 tive wisdom of the nation? and what is the cause of 
 their talking so much about a trifle!" — " Oh," re- 
 plied the officer, who acts as our slave-driver, " it all 
 proceeds from economy. If the government did not 
 spend ten times as much money in debating whether 
 it was proper to supply you with breeches, as the 
 breeches themselves would cost, the people, who go- 
 vern the bashaw and his divan, would straightway 
 begin to complain of their liberties being infringed — 
 the national finances squandered. — Not a hostile slang- 
 whanger throughout the logocracy but would burst 
 forth like a barrel of combustion, — and ten chances to 
 one but the bashaw and the sages of his divan would 
 all be turned out of office together. My good Mus- 
 sulman," continued he, " the administration have the 
 good of the people too much at heart to trifle with their 
 pockets; and they would sooner assemble and talk 
 away ten thousand dollars than expend flfly silently 
 out of the treasury. Such is the wonderful spirit of 
 economy tliat pervades every branch of this govern- 
 ment!"— " But," said I, "how is it possible they 
 can spend money in talking : surely words cannot be 
 the current coin of this country?" — "Truly," cried 
 he, smiling, "your question is pertinent enough, for 
 words indeed often supply the place of cash among us, 
 and many an honest debt is paid in promises ; but the 
 fact is, the grand bashaw and the members of Con- 
 gress, or grand talkers of the nation, either receive 
 a yearly salaiy or are paid by (he day." — "By the 
 nine hundred tongues of the great lieast in Maliomet's 
 vision, but the murder is out! it is no wonder these 
 honest men talk so much alx)ut nothing, when they 
 are paid for talking like day-labourers." "You are 
 mistaken," said my driver; "it is nothing but eco- 
 nomy." ' 
 
 I remained silent for some minutes, for this inex- 
 plicable word economy always discomfits me ;— and 
 when I flatter myself I have grasped it, it slips through 
 my fingers like a jack-o'lantern. I have not, nor 
 perhaps ever shall acquire, sufficient of the philoso- 
 phic [)oIicy of this government, to draw a proper di- 
 stinction between an individual and a nation. If a 
 man was to throw away a pound in order to save a 
 beggarly penny, and lioast at the same time of his eco- 
 nomy, I should think him on a par with the fool in 
 the fable of Alfanji; who, in skinning a 'lint worth a 
 farthing, spoiled a knifi; worth flfly times the sum, 
 and thought he had acted wisely. 
 
 This economic disposition, my friend, occasions 
 
 ■ Som« of our n«ailri's may nni he aware, that the Monihorh of 
 llie Amcrk'itn Ix'Rislalurn arc paid kIk ollai. |H'r diom for (heir 
 aUcndancc dnring IhP nilllnKn, hmidm f.ii allnv ancr for Iravrtllns 
 
 fxitciiM«s,— 7i'rf/^ 
 
 • > ■ ■ . . .* 1 ' * ' • ' ii ■ 
 
 much fighting of the spirit, and innumerable conte 
 of the tongue in this talking assembly. Wouldst thq 
 believe it? they were actually employed for a whol 
 week in a most strenuous and eloquent debate abogj 
 patching up a hole in the wall of the room appropriai 
 ed to their meetings! A vast profusion of neno 
 argument and pompous declamation was expended 
 on the occasion. Some of the orators, I am told 
 being rather waggishly inclined, were moststupidlyjij 
 cular on the occasion ; but their waggery gave great o 
 fence, and was highly rcf robatedbythemore weigliijj 
 part of the assembly ; who hold all wit and humoi 
 in abomination, and thought the business in haul 
 much too solemn and serious to be treated lightlij 
 It is supposed by some that this affair would haveo 
 cupied a whole winter, as it was a subject upon whi(|{ 
 several gentlemen spoke who had never been know 
 to open their lips in that place except to say yes 9 
 no. — These silent members are by way of distinclio 
 denominated orator mums, and are highly valued i| 
 this country on account of their great talents fur s 
 lence; — a qualification extremely rare in alogocran 
 
 Fortunately for the public tranquillity, in the \^ 
 test part of the debate, the president of the divan, j 
 knowing old gentleman, one night silly sent a inai 
 with a hod of mortar, who in the course of a fe^ 
 minutes closed up the hole, and put a final end toll 
 argument. Thus did this wise old gentleman, byj 
 most simple expedient, in all probability, save I 
 country as much money as would build a gun-boal| 
 or pay a hireling slang-whanger for a whole vein 
 of words. 
 
 Another instance of their economy I relate will 
 pleasure, for I really begin to feel a regard for thei 
 poor barbarians. They talked away the best partij 
 a whole winter Iwforc they could determine not I 
 expend a few dollars in purchasing a sword to hesloi 
 on an illustrious warrior : yes, Asem, on that va 
 hero who frightened all our poor old women 
 young children at Derne, and fully proved liliiistilf| 
 greater man than the mother that bore him.' Thot 
 my friend, is the collective wisdom of thismif^lilyli 
 gocracy employed in profound debates upon the 1 
 trivial affairs;, as I have sometimes seen a lleit 
 lean mountebank exert all his energies in Imlancii ayeil at the idea ofremaii 
 a straw u|H)n his nose. Their sages behold the n ijonal gray-beards shou 
 nutest object with the microscopic eyes of a pisiiiin e oa'asion and given t 
 mole-hills swell into mountains, and a grain of mo re. The embarrassment 
 tard-seed will set the whole ant-hill in a luil)biii| 
 Whether this indicates a capacious vision, or a (lin 
 nulive mind, I leave thee to decide; for my pari 
 consider it as another proof of the great scale 011 whii 
 every thing is transacted in this coimtry. 
 
 |t has lately laboured ' 
 
 oception of a mighty n; 
 
 > good wives that assi: 
 
 jencies hurried to head-c 
 
 (fives, at the delivery.— 
 
 I consultation; when 
 
 uggling, instead of foi 
 
 ot frigates, out crept a 1 
 
 bese are most pitiful lit 
 
 rtlie character of the g 
 
 dit of begetting them 
 
 at can only sail befor 
 
 «p in with the land;— 
 
 running ashore; and, 
 
 oth water. Though 
 
 |ie maritime cities, yet th 
 
 lem ; and they require { 
 
 Ickety little bantlings. '. 
 
 \\« pets of the grand ba: 
 
 I dotage, and, perhaps 
 
 I palpable weakness, a 
 
 (America." The act tl 
 
 ice was almost deified b 
 
 \ a grand stroke of ecun 
 
 net, but Ibis word is ti 
 
 I To this economic body 
 
 kiress my petition, and 
 
 |igust assembly of sages 
 
 leir wisdom and the m 
 
 lunificently bestow on ai 
 
 icolton breeches ! "flea 
 
 1 1, " but this woidd 
 
 •!— What! after these 
 
 r to leave their country 
 
 |posed to all the political 
 
 if expect that they wi 
 
 niforl the extremities of 
 
 iciamation was only ansv 
 
 nsoled by the assurance 
 
 tied, it was every way \ 
 
 Jciipy a whole session of 
 
 [the longest heads togetli 
 
 was the idea of a wl 
 
 out my breeches, yet I 
 
 have before told thee that nothing can be doi oposition the result of w 
 
 without consulting the sages of the nation, whuotia 
 pose the assembly called the Congress. Thisprulil 
 liody may not improperly be called the " niollier 
 inventions ; " and a most fruitful mother it is, lei 
 
 tell thee, though its children are generally abortion g, bestowed on thee b\ 
 > r.cneral Eaton. „, . "h thy gratitude that h 
 
 ix|)erlenced was visible ii 
 ard, who is a man of in 
 Jlely snggested, as a mo 
 iiijf my wants, a berief 
 ofoimdiy ignorant of his 
 
 another letter. 
 
 Fare thee well, dear As 
 
 tfi'cal prophet, never fi 
 
 lurn;and when thou nu 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 43 
 
 ible conte 
 f^ouldst th 
 for a whol 
 ebate aboJ 
 1 appropriau 
 of nenoiii 
 IS expended 
 , I amtoldj 
 ;t stupidly joj 
 ;ave great 
 lore weightil 
 and humoi 
 less in lianj 
 ated Ugh 
 mid have 
 buponwhi 
 been knoi 
 » say yes ai 
 »f distinctii 
 ily valued i 
 alenU fur 
 1 a logocrai 
 , in the hot 
 the divan, 
 
 |t has lately laboured with what was deemed the 
 
 nception of a mighty navy. — All the old women and 
 
 > good wives that assist the bashaw in his emer- 
 
 |«ocies hurried to head-quarters to be busy, like mid- 
 
 (fives, at the delivery. — All was anxiety, fidgeting, 
 
 I consultation; when after a deal of groaning and 
 
 uggling, instead of formidable first-rates and gal- 
 
 nt frigates, out crept a litter of sorry little gun-boats ! 
 
 bese are most pitiful little vessels, partaking vastly 
 
 [the character of the grand bashaw, who has the 
 
 dit of begetting them; being flat shallow vessels 
 lat can only sail before the wind; — must always 
 !ep in with the land;— are continually foundering 
 r running ashore; and, in short, are only fit for 
 
 olh water. Though intended for the defence of 
 |ie maritime cities, yet the cities are obliged to defend 
 lem ; and they require as much nursing as so many 
 |ckety little bantlings. They are, however, the dar- 
 
 ; pets of the grand l)ashaw, being the children of 
 i dotage, and, perhaps from their diminutive size 
 
 palpable weakness, are called the " infant navy 
 America." The act that brought them into exist- 
 ice was almost deified by the majority of the people 
 a grand stroke of economy.— By the beard of Ma- 
 
 sent a tnasd met, but this word is truly inexplicable ! 
 
 ■se of a fei 
 
 lalendtotli dress my petition, and humbly to pray that the 
 
 tleman, hy 
 
 ity, save bi eir wisdom and the magnitude of their powers, 
 
 a gun-lxHf unificently bestow on an unfortunate captive a pair 
 
 hole volun cotton breeches ! " Head of the immortal Anirou," 
 ied I, " but this would be presumptuous to a de- 
 
 [ relate wil ee !— What ! after these worthies have thought pro- 
 
 :ard for Iha r to leave their country naked and defenceless, and 
 
 e best parti posed to all the political storms that rattle without, 
 
 rmiiie not I d I expect that they will lend a helping hand to 
 
 »rd to besto nifort the extremities of a solitary captive ? " My 
 
 on that ver clamation was only answered by a smile, and I was 
 
 women an nsoled by the assurance that, so far from being ne- 
 
 k'cd hinisell ected, it was every way probable my breeches might 
 
 liin.' Tlio cupy a whole session of the divan, and set several 
 
 lis mighty 
 poll the ni 
 
 n, or 
 
 a dii 
 
 >r my part 
 
 in, who 0(1 
 
 This pruli 
 
 " molhiT 
 
 rit is, let I 
 
 To this economic body therefore was I advised to 
 
 gust assembly of sages would, in the plenitude of 
 
 the longest heads together by the ears. Flattering 
 was the idea of a whole nation being agitated 
 en a llerct out my breeches, yet I own 1 was somewhat dis- 
 iii balancii jyed at the idea of remaining in cuerpo, until all the 
 lioiial gray-beards should have made a speech on 
 of a pisiiiin e occasion, and given their consent to the mea- 
 jrain of nw re. The embarrassment and distress of mind which 
 n a luihbul u|)ericnced was visible in my countenance, and my 
 lani, who is a man of inflnite good-nature, imme- 
 ilely suggested, as a more expeditious plan of sup- 
 caleonwIiiMyiiig my wants, a benelitat the theatre. Though 
 ofouiully ignorant of his meaning, I agreed to his 
 can be doi oposilioii, the result of which I sliull disclose to thee 
 another letter. 
 
 Fare thee well, dear Asein; in thy pious prayers to 
 irKienl prophet, never forget to solicit thy friend's 
 turn; and when thou numlwrest up the many bless- 
 lly abortion g, bestowed on thee by all-lwiintiful Allah, pour 
 rlh thy gratitude (hat he has cast thy nativity in a 
 
 land where there is no assembly of legislative chat- 
 terers; — no great bashaw, who bestrides a gun-boat 
 for a hobby-horse ; — where the word economy is un- 
 known; — and where an unfortunate captive is not 
 obliged to call upon the whole nation to cut him out 
 a pau" of breeches. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 MCSTAPIIA. 
 FIOM TUK HILL OF PIXDAB COCKLOFT, ESQ. 
 
 TuouGH enter'd on that sol)er age, 
 Wlien men withdraw from rasliion's stage, 
 And leave llie rollies of llie day, 
 To sliape tlieir course a graver way ; 
 Still those gay scenes I loiter round. 
 In wliicli my youth sweet transport found ; 
 And though I feel their joys decay, 
 And languish every hour away, — 
 Yet like an exile doom'd to part 
 From the dear country of his tieart. 
 From the fair spot in which he sprung. 
 Where his first notes of love were sung. 
 Will often turn to wave the hand. 
 And sigh his blessings on the land ; 
 Just so my lingering watch I keep, 
 Thus oft I take the farewell peep. 
 
 And, like that pilgrim, who retreats 
 Thus lagging from his parent seats. 
 When the sad thought [Mirvades his mind, 
 That the fair land he leaves behind 
 Is ravaged by a foreign foe. 
 Its cities waste, its temples low. 
 And ruined all those haunts of joy 
 That gave him rapture when a boy ; 
 Turns from it with averted eye. 
 And while he heaves the anguish'd sigli, 
 Scarce feels regret that the loved shore 
 Shall beam uixin his sight no more ;— 
 Just so it grieves my soul to view. 
 While breathing forth a fond adieu. 
 The innovations pride has made. 
 The lUstlan, frip(H3ry, and parade, 
 That now usurp with mawkish grace 
 Pure tranquil pleasure's wonted place ! 
 
 "Twas joy we took'd for in my prime, 
 That idol of the olden time ; 
 When all our |)astiines liad the art 
 To please, and not mislead, tlic lieart. 
 Style cursed us not,— Itiat modern flash, 
 That love of racket and of trash ; 
 Whicli scares at once all feeling joys. 
 And drowns delight in empty noise ; 
 Which liarters friendship, mirth and truth, 
 The artless air, the bloom of youth, 
 And all those gentle sweets Ihat swarm 
 Hound nature in their simplest form. 
 For cold display, fur hollow slate. 
 The trappings of the would-be great. 
 
 Oh ! once again those days recall, 
 When heart met heart in fashion's hall ; 
 AV hen every honest guest would Hock 
 To add his pleasure to the stock, 
 Horo fond his feelings to e\|iresN, 
 Than show the tinsel of his dn-ss ! 
 These were the limes that held the soul 
 In gentle friendship's soft control i 
 Our fair ones, uuiiiiifaned l)y art, 
 Content to gain one honest Ix'art, 
 No train of sighing swains desired. 
 Sought to be loved and not admired. 
 DnI now 'lis form, not love, unites i 
 'Tls show, not pleasure, that Invites. ' 
 
4i 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 Karli weks llie ball to play the queen, 
 To ilirt, to conquer, to be seen; 
 liacli graitps at univri-iial sway, 
 And rel^s the Idol of the day i 
 Kxnils amid a thousand sifili.s. 
 And triuniphs when a lover dies, 
 lilach belle a rival belle surveys, 
 Like deadly foe with hostile gaze ; 
 Nor can her "dearest friend " caress. 
 Till she has slily scaun'd her dress ; 
 Sis conquests in one year will make, 
 And ten eternal friendships break ! 
 
 How oft I braathe the inward sigh, 
 And feel the dew^lrup in my eye. 
 When I liehold some l)cauteons fk-anic, 
 Divine in every thing but name, 
 Just venturing, in the tender age, , 
 
 On fashion's late new-fangled stage ! 
 Where soon the guiltless heart shall ceaso 
 To beat in artlessness and peace; 
 Where all the (lowers of gay delight 
 Willi which youth decks its prospects bright. 
 Shall wither 'mid the cares, the strife, 
 The cold realities of life ! 
 
 Thus lately, in my careless mood. 
 As I the world of fashion view'd. 
 While celebrating great and small. 
 That grand iuilenuiity, a ball, 
 BIy roving vision chanced to light 
 on two sweet forms, divinely bright : 
 Two sister nymphs, alike in face. 
 In mien, in loveliness, an<l grace; 
 Twin rose-buds, bursting into bloom. 
 In all their freshness and perfume ; 
 Like those fair forms that often beam 
 Upon the Kastern poet's dream '. 
 l''or Kden had each lovely maid 
 In native imioceiicc array'd,— 
 And heaven itself had almost slicd 
 1(8 sacred halo round each head ! 
 
 They seem'd. Just entering hand in hand, 
 To cautious tread this fairy laud; 
 To take a timid hasly view, 
 Knchanted w ith a scene so ui w. 
 The modest blush, untaught by art, 
 Ilespolke their purity of licarl ; 
 And every timorous act uulurl'd 
 'I'wo souls unsimltdd by tlic world. 
 
 Oh ! how these strangers joyed my sight. 
 And thrill'd my Iiosom with delight! 
 They brought th.; \isions of my youth 
 Back to my soui in all their truth ; 
 iteoall'd fair spirits into day. 
 That time's rough hand had swept away. 
 Thus the bright natives from aljove. 
 Who come on nicssiigcs of love, 
 Will ble^s, at rare and distant whiles, 
 Uur sinful dwelling by their smiles. 
 
 Oh ! my romance of youth is piist— 
 Dear airy dream, too bright to last. 
 Yet when such forms as these app(!ar, 
 I feci its soft rcnieinhrance here; 
 l'"or oft the simple poet's heart. 
 On w lii(;h foiiil love once (ilay'd Its part, 
 Will W\ lli(> soft pulsations lieat. 
 As loath to quit their former seal •■ 
 .lust like the huiv's luekNlious w ire, 
 Kwept hy a haiil with lu<aveidy lire— 
 Thougli ceas(Ml the loudly swelling strain. 
 Yet sweet vihratiuns long remain. 
 
 I''nll soon I found the lovely |iair 
 llnd <i|>rung lK<uealli a molher's care. 
 
 Hard by a neighbouring sirenndet's side, 
 
 At once its ornament and pride. 
 
 The beauteous parent's tender heart . _ -. . 
 
 Il.id well fullill'd iLs pious part; 
 
 And, like the holy man of old, ' ' ' 
 
 As we're by sacred writings told, . 
 
 Who, when he from his pupil s()ed, 
 
 Pixir'd two-fokl hicssings on his head : 
 
 So this fond mother had imprest ' 
 
 Her early virtues in each breast. 
 
 But now resign'd the calm retreat, 
 Where lirst their souls in concert beat, 
 They'd llown on expectation's wing, , 
 
 To sip the joys of life's gay spring ; 
 To s|iori in fashion's splendid maze. 
 Where friendship fades, and love decays. ' ' ' 
 So two sweet wild (lowers, near the side 
 Of some fair river's silver tide. 
 Pure as the gentle stream that laves 
 The green banks w ith its lucid waves. 
 Bloom Iteauteous in their native ground. 
 Diffusing heavenly fragrance round ; 
 But should a venturous hand transfer 
 These blossoms to the gay parterre, 
 W here, spite ofarlKicial aid, 
 The fairest plants of nature fade. 
 Though tiu'.) may shine supreme awhile 
 'Mid pale ones of the stranger soil. 
 The tender beauties soon decay. 
 And their sweet fragrance dies away. 
 
 Blest spirits! who, enthroned in air, 
 Watch o'er the virtues of Ilie fair, 
 And with angelic ken survey 
 Their windings through life's che<|uer'd way ; 
 Oh ! make this inexperienced pair 
 The objects of your tenderest care. 
 I'rcserve them from the languid eye, 
 The faded cheek, the long drawn sigh ; 
 And let it be your constant aim 
 '1 keep the fair oties still tlie same : 
 Two sister hearts, uiisnilied, bright 
 As the lii-st beams of hic^d light. 
 That sparkled from the youthful sun. 
 When lii-sl his jocund race begun. 
 So when these hearts shall hurst their shrine, 
 To wing their (light to realms divine, 
 liiey may to radiant mansions rise 
 I'ure as when lirst they left the skies. 
 
 No. X.— SATURDAY, MAY 10, «II07. 
 
 FROM MY KLUOW-CIUIR. 
 
 The long interval which lias elapsed since 
 blicalion of our last nuinher, like many other reimil 
 able events, has given rise to much conjecture, 
 excited considerable solicitude. It is hut a day 
 two since I heard a knowing young gentleman 
 serve that he suspected Salniagundi would be a 
 days wonder, and had even prophesied that the ni 
 would l)e our last elTort. Hut the age of propli 
 as well as that of chivalry, is past; and no reti 
 man should now venture to foretell aught hut vli 
 he is ilelcrmincd to bring altout himself ;— lie ii 
 then, if he please, monopolize prediction, and kl 
 iioured as a prophet evei> in his own country. 
 
 'riiough I liold whether we write, or not write, 
 be none of the public's business, yet (is I ha>ej 
 
 lid nf the loss of three 
 iCiintoiuans, I feel in a 
 reupon, and will give s 
 ijch induced us to resu 
 lier our amusements ; f 
 a moment's labour, the 
 luld hang up his pen, t( 
 irld at large, and of o 
 10 has actually bougli 
 jeches, with the prolils 
 He iitforms me that sc 
 [Saturday for No. X., 
 ich to heart, that he re 
 le catastrophe; and one 
 ular, declared his inten 
 Ihe work was not contin 
 $ grown quite rielancho 
 eral young ladies hav 
 It if another number di 
 m, they would be oblige 
 ingtheir beaux and mal 
 ssuie my reatlers, there 
 cy no more suspected m 
 iD', than they suspect n 
 lina, or the man in the r 
 I have also received se^ 
 r indolent procrastinatii 
 ndeiiis assures me, tha 
 men, who had not reat 
 scliool, but who have I 
 r paper, will certainly i 
 ess we go on. 
 For the sake, therefor* 
 il:<iost especially for th 
 ery one of whom we 
 iild, I have again wie 
 arty determination to se 
 make cherubim and ser 
 is enchanting town, am 
 ileralists, who, in truth, 
 er since the American 'J 
 being so unhappily thro 
 
 TO L4U>CEL0T 
 
 Sir— I felt myself hurt 
 
 the [I een's terrible philippic a 
 
 of your work, and was 
 
 at ills strictures might 1 
 
 iiionoiir to profess, int 
 
 yourself and fraternity 
 
 onderftil effect upon the 
 
 eall fiiiployed in readin 
 
 e waltz has !)een enlir 
 
 iisonal inter halls haveclosed.— 
 
 should have addressed ; 
 
 inlotisiy employed while 
 
 supporting Ihe astonishi 
 
 Klin composing i new ( 
 
 ly-clmrch,loberungdu 
 
 ilh dingdong di-do, in: 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 m 
 
 n( the loss of three thousand votes at least to 
 tCiintoiuans, I feel in a remarkably dulcet humour 
 kreupon, and will give some account of the reasons 
 jijcli induced us to resume our useful labours — or 
 Iher our amusements; for, if writing cost either of 
 I a moment's labour, there is not a man but what 
 (lid hang up his pen, to the great detriment of the 
 )fl(i at large, and of our publisher in particular; 
 |io has actually bought himself a pair of trunk 
 
 ches, with the profits of our writings ! ! 
 |||e iuforms me that several persons having called 
 (Saturday for No. X., took the disappointment so 
 |ich to heart, that he really apprehended some ter- 
 
 > catastrophe; and one good-looking mun, in par- 
 ular, declared his intention of quitting the country 
 |lhe work was not continued. Add to this, the town 
 $ grown quite melancholy in the last fortnight; and 
 Ireral young ladies have declared in my hearing, 
 bt if another number did not make its appearance 
 JDn, Ihey would he obliged to amuse themselves with 
 isinglheir beaux and making them miserable. Now, 
 Issme my readers, there was no (lattery in this, for 
 ley no more suspected me of being Launcelot Lang- 
 ifl', than they suspect me of being the Emperor of 
 nina, or the man in the moon. 
 |l have also received several letters complaining of 
 Ir indolent i>rocrastination ; and one of my corres- 
 Indeiiis assures me, that a number of young gen- 
 (men, who had not read a book through since they 
 tscliool, but who have taken a wonderful liking to 
 Ir paper, will certainly relapse into their old habits 
 lless we go on. 
 
 [For the sake, therefore, of all these good people, 
 
 J:nost especially for the satisfaction of the ladies, 
 
 |ery one of whom we would love, if we possibly 
 
 i], I have again wielded my pen, with a most 
 laity determination to set the whole world to rights ; 
 1 make cherubim and seraphim of all the fair ones of 
 lis enchanting town, and raise the spirits of the poor 
 lleralists, who, in truth, seem to be in a sad taking, 
 ■er since the American Ticket met with the accident 
 [being so unhappily thrown out. 
 
 TO LWNCBLOT LANnSTAFV, ESQ, 
 
 Sir— I felt myself hurt and offended by Mr Ever- 
 
 en's terrible philippic against modern nuisic,inNo. 
 
 of your work, and was under serious apprehension 
 
 t Ills strictures might bring the art, which I have 
 
 iionour to profess, into contempt. The opinions 
 
 yourself and fraternity appear indeed to have a 
 
 nderfiil effect upon the town. I am told the ladies 
 
 all I'inployed in reading Bunyan and Pamela, and 
 
 e waltz has !ieen entirely forsaken ever since the 
 
 no reasonal inter halls have closed . — Under these apprehensions, 
 
 slioiikl have adilressed you before, had I not been 
 
 liiiioHsly employed while the theatre continued open, 
 
 supporting the astonishing variety of the orchestra. 
 
 Hi in composing <i new chime or bob-major for Tri- 
 
 ly-cluireh, to be rimg during the summer, beginning 
 
 ilh (lidgdong di-do, instead of di -do ding-dong. 
 
 llie citizens, especially those who live in the neigh- 
 liourhood of that harmonious quarter, will no doubt 
 be infinitely delighted with this novelty. 
 
 But to the object of this communication. So far, 
 sir, from agreeing with Mr Evergreen in thinking 
 that all moilern music is but the mere dregs and 
 drainings of the ancient, I tnist before this letter is 
 concluded, I shall convince you and him that some of 
 the late professors of this enchanting art have com- 
 pletely distanced the paltry efforts of the ancients ; 
 and that I, in particular, have at length brought it al- 
 most to absolute perfection. 
 
 The Greeks, simple souls ! were astonished at the 
 powers of Orpheus, who made the woods and rocks 
 dance to his lyre— of Amphion, who converted crotch- 
 ets into bricks, and quavers into mortar — and of 
 Arion, who won upon the compassion of the fishes. 
 In the fervency of admiration, their poets fabled that 
 Apollo had lent them his lyre, and inspired them 
 with his own spirit of harmony. What then would 
 they have said had they witnessed the wonde ful ef- 
 fects of my skill ? Had they heard me, in the compass 
 of a single piece, describe in glowing notes one of the 
 most sublime operations of nature, and not only make 
 inanimate objects dance, but even speak ; and not only 
 speak, but speak in strains of exquisite harmony? 
 
 Let me not, however, be understood to say that I 
 am the sole author of this extraordinary improvement 
 in the art, for I confess I took the hint of many of my 
 discoveries from some of those meritorious produc- 
 tions that have lately come abroad, and made so much 
 noise under the title of overtures. — From some of 
 these, as, for instance, Lodoiska, and the battle of 
 Marengo, a gentleman, or a captain in the city mi- 
 litia, or an amazonian young lady, may indeed acquire 
 a tolerable idea of military tactics, and become very 
 well experienced in the firing of musketry, the roar- 
 ing of cannon, the rattling of drums, the whistling of 
 fifes, braying of trumpets, groans of the dying, and 
 trampling of cavalry without ever going to the wars; 
 but it is more especially in the art of imitating ini- 
 mitable things, and giving the language of every pas- 
 sion and sentiment of he human mind, so as entirely 
 to do away the necessity of speech, that I purticidarly 
 excel the most celebrated musicians of ancient and 
 modern times. 
 
 I think, sir, I may venture to say there is not a 
 sound in the whole compass of nature which I cannot 
 imitate, and even improve upon; — nay, what I con- 
 sidtr the perfection of my art, I have iliscovered a 
 method of expressing, in the most striking manner, 
 that undeflnahle, indescribable silence, which accom- 
 {Kinies the falUng of snow. 
 
 In order to prove to you that I do not arrogate to 
 myself what I am unable to perform, I will detail to 
 you the different movements of a grand piece which 
 I pride myself upon exceedingly, called tlie "Break- 
 ing up of the ice in the Worth-river." 
 
 'I'he piece opens with a gentle andante nffetinitso, 
 which ushers you into the Assembly-room in the 
 
m 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 r i 
 
 State-house at Albany, where the Speaker addresses 
 Ills farewell speech, informing the members that the 
 ice is alwut breaking up, and thanking them for their 
 great services and good behaviour in a manner so 
 pathetic as to bring tears into their eyes.— Flourish 
 of Jacks-a-donkies. — Ice cracks; Albany in a hubbub 
 — air, " Three children sliding on the ice, all on a 
 summer's day." — Citizens quan-elling in Dutch — 
 chorus of tin trumpet, a cracked fiddle, and a hand- 
 saw! — allegro moderato. — Hard frost : this, if given 
 with proper spirit, has a charming effect, and sets 
 every body's teeth chattering. — Symptoms of snow — 
 consultation of old women who complain of pains in 
 the bones, and rheumaiics — air, " There was an old 
 woman tossed up in a blanket," etc. — allegro stac- 
 cato. — Waggon breaks into the ice — people all run to 
 see what is the matter — air, sieiliano. — "Can you 
 row the boat ashore, Billy boy, Billy Ijoy" — audante; 
 — frost fish froze up in the ice — air, " Ho, why dost 
 thou shiver and shake. Gaffer Gray, and why does 
 thy nose look so blue?" — Flourish of two-penny 
 trumpets and rattles — consultation of the North-river 
 society — determine to set the North-river on lire, as 
 soon as it will burn— air, " O, what a line kettle of 
 fish." 
 
 Part II.— Great Thaw. — This consists of Ihe most 
 melting strains, (lowing su smoothly as to occasion a 
 great overflowing of scientific rapture — air, "One 
 misty moisty morning." — The house of assembly 
 breaks up— air,— "The owls came out and flew 
 about." — Assembly-men embark on their way to 
 New- York — air, " The ducks and the geese they all 
 swim over, fal de ral," etc. — Vessel sets sail— chorus 
 of mariners, "Steer her up, and let her gang." — 
 After this a rapid movement conducts you to New- 
 York — the North-river society hold a meeting at the 
 corner of Wall-street, and determine to delay burning 
 till all the assembly-men are safe home, for fear of 
 consuming some of their own members who belong 
 to that respectable body. — lleturn again to the ca- 
 pital. — Ice floats down the river — lamentation of skait- 
 ers— air, affeituoso — " I sigh and lament me in 
 vain," etc. — Albanians cutting up sturgeon — air, "O 
 the roast beef of Albany." — Ice runs against Polopoy's 
 island, with a terrible crash : this is represented by 
 a fierce fellow travelling with his fiddle-stick over a 
 huge bass viol, at Ihe rate of one hundred and fifty 
 bars a minute, and tearing the music to rags — this 
 being what is called execution. — The great body of 
 ice passes West-Point, and is saluted by three or four 
 dismounted cannon from Fort Putnam. — " Jefferson's 
 march," by a full band — air, " Yankee dooille," with 
 seventy-six variations, never before attempted, ex- 
 cept by the celebrated eagle, which flutters his wings 
 over the copper-bottomed angel at Messrs Paff's in 
 Broadway. Ice passes New-York — conch-shell sounds 
 at a distance- ferryman calls o-v-e-r — people run 
 down Courtlaiull street— ferry-boat sets sail— air, ac- 
 companied by the conch-shell, " We'll all go over Ihe 
 ferry."— llondeaux— giving a particular account of 
 
 nt. They might also 
 int being obliged to i 
 irtality of nine days, 
 '^tism. 
 
 it the most important 
 |t it may be applied to the 
 ideralum, in the learn( 
 jfe. Wherever this so 
 iiig more will be nece 
 ilpliabet; which being al 
 amount to a universal i 
 in may thus — with 
 of rosin, and a few 
 way through the world 
 :e himself understood. 
 IJ 
 
 Brom the PoWles-hook admiral, who is supposed! 
 be closely connected with the North-river societTj 
 The society make a grand attempt to fire the stn 
 but are utterly defeated by a remarkably high i 
 which brings the plot to light. — Society notbeingij 
 couraged, apply to " Common sense " for his lania 
 — air, " Nose, nose, jolly red nose." — Flock of \ 
 geese fly over the city — old wives chatter in the 
 — cocks crow at Communipaw — drums beat on 
 vernor's island. — The whole to conclude with 
 blowing up of Sands' powder-house 
 
 Thus, sir, you perceive what wonderful poweiii 
 expression have been hitherto locked up in this 
 chanting art ; — a whole history is here told will 
 the aid of speech, or writing ; and provided the hi 
 is in the least accpiainted with music, he cannot 
 take a single note. As to the blowing up of the poi 
 der-house, I look upon it as a chef-d'mivre whickj 
 am confident will delight all modern amateurs, \i 
 very properly estimate music in proportion to 
 noise it makes, and delight in thundering cannon 
 earthquakes. 
 
 I must confess, however, it is a difficult im 
 manage, and I have already broken six pianos in 
 ing it the proper force and effect. But I do not 
 spair, and am quite certain that by Ihe time I In 
 broken eight or ten more, I shall have brought il 
 such perfection, as to be able to teach any young li 
 of tolerable ear, to thunder it away to the infinite 
 light of papa and mamma, and the great annuy 
 of those Vandals who are so barbarous as to pi 
 the simple melody of a Scots air to the sublime el 
 sions of modern musical doctors 
 
 In my warm anticipations of future improvemei 
 I have sometimes almost convinced myself that 
 sic will in time be brought to such a climax of 
 fection, as to supersede the necessity of speech 
 writing; and every kind of social intercourse be 
 ducted by the flute and fiddle. The immense 
 fits that will result from this improvement must 
 plain to every man of the least consideration.— In 
 present unhappy situation of mortals, a man has 
 one way of making himself perfectly understood 
 he loses his speech, he must inevitably be diiinb 
 the rest of his life; but having once learned thisni 
 musical language, the loss of speech wi'l be a 
 trifle, not worth a moment's uneasiness. No 
 this, Mr L., but it will add much to the ' -trinony 
 domestic intercourse; for it is certainly m. . ran 
 agreeable to hear a lady give lectures on the pian 
 than viva voce, in the usual discordant nieasun "'"S tl'6 cheek of his ir 
 This manner of discoursing may also, I think, be ■ sl'e<l» trtmhled, advaa 
 troduced with great effect into our national assea wdtohismistress;— an 
 blies, where every man, instead of wagging his IM 
 gue, should l)e obligetl to flourish a fiddlestick;! •' a modest and diffkU 
 which means, if he said nothing to the purpose, I ?lel which playetl upon 
 would at all events "discourse most ehwiuenl music, > »"'' relued to demar 
 which is more than can be said of most of ihem »>»st evident confusion 
 
 and the game went on 
 
 AlhHling to Tom Paine, who had a remarkably red nose, nsff"* "f he'' rejected suil 
 
 NOTE BT TB 
 
 lut tlic knowledge or perm 
 
 Ihe dared, he would have pla( 
 
 Icon Ihe fireal dilfereiiee i 
 
 sc\cs now, from what did 
 
 danger of that check-by-ji 
 
 lusl be obvious to many ; an 
 
 pie ofone of its evils. 
 
 REMEMBER the CounI 
 ipiishedand handsome y 
 as there, he was passion 
 it peerless beauty. S 
 of great rank, andgrt 
 lliese considerations, as 
 , slie was followed 
 was lively and amiable 
 affahilily which still k< 
 gh it was generally kn( 
 
 ilyfor Count M ;a 
 
 king for the nuptials.- 
 
 miiid, and a delicate s 
 
 If alone ; for the virtue 
 
 T beautiful form. Like 
 
 never approached her v 
 
 tuucked her, a fire sh 
 
 led him not to invade 
 
 lips. Such were his 
 
 ,atlii$ intended father- 
 
 ile were met to celebrai 
 
 le young lady's rejected 
 
 were one of the pasli 
 
 gie«>tost merriment, til 
 
 bv jme witty mam'se 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 47 
 
 «nt. They might also sound their own * umpets 
 at being obliged to a hireling scribbler for an 
 ality of nine days, or subjected to the censure 
 |[goUsm. 
 
 u( the most important result of this discovery is, 
 
 t it may be applied to the establishment of that great 
 
 tderatum, in the learned world, a universal lan- 
 
 Ige. Wherever this science of music is cultivated, 
 
 biug more will be necessary than a knowledge of 
 
 Lipliabet; which being almost the same every where, 
 
 ll amount to a universal medium of communication. 
 
 an may thus — with his violin under his arm, a 
 
 of rosin, and a few bundles of catgut — fiddle 
 
 Iway through the world, and never be at a loss to 
 
 Ike himself understood. 
 
 I am, etc. 
 
 Demv Semiquaver. 
 
 NOTE BV TDE PUBLISHER, 
 
 ml tlic knowledge or pprmission of the authors, and which, 
 |bc dared, he would have placod ni-ar where tlieir remarks arc 
 
 ideon Ihe fircal difTerencc uf manners which exist between 
 
 ! sexes now, Trom what did in the days of our granUames. 
 Jb;ilauger of that check-by-juwl familiarity of the present day 
 |usl be obvious to many; and 1 think the following a strong 
 
 rpleofone of its evils. 
 
 REMEMBER the CoHut , ouc of the most ac- 
 
 iplished and handsome young men in Vienna : when 
 as there, he was passionately in love with a girl of 
 t peerless beauty. She was the daughter of a 
 of great rank, and great inHuence at court ; and 
 Oiese considerations, as well as in regard to her 
 , she w^as followed by a multitude of suitors, 
 was lively and amiable, and treate<l them all with 
 aflabilily which still kept them in her train, al- 
 igli it was generally known she had avowed a par- 
 ity for Count M ; and that preparations were 
 
 ing for the nuptials.— The count was of a re- 
 mind, and a delicate sensibility : he loved her for 
 self alone, for the virtues which he believed dwelt 
 ler beautiful form. Like a lover of such perfections, 
 never approached her without timidity; and when 
 tuuched her, a fire shot through his veins, that 
 net! him nut to invade the vermilion sanctuary of 
 Such were his feelings, when, one even- 
 ;,aliiis intended father-in-law's, a party of young 
 lie were met to celebrate » certain festival : several 
 le young lady's rejected suitors were present. For- 
 wetc one of the pastimes, and all went on with 
 gieiOest merriment, till the count was command- 
 bv jme witty mam'selle, to redeem his glove by 
 
 ant measuiC*''"? tl>c cheek of his intended bride. The count 
 ilied, trtmbled, advanced, retreated; again ad- 
 
 itional asseiiB"*^'*'»s mistress;— and,— atlast,— with a tremor 
 
 I shook his whole soul, and every fibre of his frame, 
 
 II a modest and diffident grace, he took the soft 
 (let which played upon her cheek, pressed it to his 
 ,an(l retired to demand bis redeemetl pledge in 
 most evident confusion. His mistress gaily smil 
 ami the game went on. 
 
 ly red nosc.ri ^* "'^ ''*"'■ ejected suitors, who was of a merry 
 
 unthinking disftosition, was adjudged by the same 
 indiscreet crier of the forfeits as "liis last treat be- 
 fore he hanged himself" to snatch a kiss from the 
 object of his recent vows. A lively contest ensued 
 between the gentleman and lady, which lasted for 
 more than a minute; but the lady yielded, though in 
 the midst of a convulsive laugh. 
 
 The count had the mortification — the agony — to 
 see the lips, which his passionate and delicate love 
 would not permit him to touch, kissed with rough- 
 ness, and repetition, by another man : — even by one 
 whom he reaUy despised. Mournfully and silently, 
 without a word, ne rose from his chair — left the room 
 and the house. By that good-natured kiss the fair 
 boast of Yieima lost her lover — lost her husband. 
 The count never saw her more. 
 
 No. XI.— TUESDAY, JUNE 2, 1807. 
 
 LEITER 
 
 FBOM HUSTAPHA RUB-A-DUB EELI KHAN, 
 
 Captain of a Kelrh. to Asem Hacchem, principal Slave- 
 driter to his Highness the Bashaw of Tripoli. 
 
 The deep shadows of midnight gather around me 
 — the footsteps of the passengers have ceased in Ihe 
 streets, and nothing disturbs the holy silence of the 
 hour save the sound of distant drums, mingled with 
 the shouts, tlie l>awlings, and Ihe discordant revelry of 
 his majesty, the sovereign mob. Let the hour be sa- 
 cred to friendship, and consecrated to thee, oh, thou 
 brother of my inmost soul ! 
 
 Oh, Asem! I almost shruik at Ihe recollection of Ihe 
 scenes which I have witnessed during Ihe last three 
 days. I have beheld this whole city, nay, jhis whole 
 state, given up to the tongue and the pen— to the bawl- 
 ers, the babblers, and the slang-whangers. I have 
 beheld the community convulsed with a civil war, or 
 civil talk — individuals verbally massacral — families 
 annihilated by whole sheets full — and slang-whangers 
 coolly bathing their pens in ink and rioting in the 
 slaughter of their thousands. J have seen, in short, 
 that awful despot, the people, in the moment of un- 
 limited power, wielding newspapers in one hand, and 
 with the other scattering mud and filth about, like 
 some desperate lunatic relieved from the restraints of 
 his strait waistcoat. I have seen beggars on horse- 
 back, ragamuffins riding in coaches, and swine seated 
 in places of honour. I have seen liberty ! I have seen 
 equality ! I have seen fraternity! — I have seen that 
 great political puppet show — an election. 
 
 A few days ago the friend, whom I have mentioned 
 in some of my former letters, called upon me to ac- 
 company him to witness this grand ceremony ; and 
 we forthwith sallied out to the {tolls, as he called them. 
 Though, for several weeks before this splendid exhi- 
 bition, notJiing else had l)een talked of, yet I do assure 
 thee I was entirely ignorant of iU nature; and when, 
 on coming up to a church, my companion informed 
 
48 
 
 SAUUGUNDI. 
 
 me we were at the poll, I supposed that an election 
 was some great religious ceremony like the fast of Ra- 
 mazan, or the great festival of Haraphat, so celebrat- 
 ed in the east. 
 
 My friend, however, nndeceivetl me at once, and 
 entered into a long dissertation on the nature and ob- 
 ject of an election, the subject of which was near- 
 ly to this effect : " You know, " said he, " that this 
 country is engaged in a violent internal warfare, and 
 suffers a variety of evils from civil dissensions. An 
 election is the grand trial of strength, where the belli- 
 gerents draw out their forces in martial array ; where 
 every leader burning with warlike ardour, and en- 
 couraged by the shouts and acclamations of tatterde- 
 malions, buffoons, dependents, parasites, toad - caters, 
 scrubs, vagrants, mumpers, ragamuHins, bravoes and 
 beggars in his rear, and puffed up by his bellows-blow- 
 ing slang-whangers, waves gallantly the banners of 
 faction, and presses forward to office and immoriafitij. 
 
 " For a month or two previous to this critical period, 
 the whole community is in a ferment. Every man, 
 of whatever rank or degree, disinterestedly neglects 
 ixis business, (o devote himself to his country ; — and 
 not an insignificant fellow but feels himself inspired, 
 on this occasion, with as much warmth in favour of (he 
 cause he has espoused, as if all the comfort of his life, 
 or even his life itself, were dependent on the issue. 
 Grand councils of war are in the first place called by 
 the different powers, which are dubbed general 
 meetings, where all the leaders collect, and arrange 
 the order of battle — appoint the different commanders, 
 and their subordinate instruments, and furnish the 
 funds indispensable for supplying the expenses of the 
 war. Inferior councils are next called in the different 
 classes or wards, consisting of young cadets who are 
 candidates for office; idlers who come from mere cu- 
 riosity ; and orators who appear for the purpose of 
 detailing all the crimes, the faults, or the weaknesses 
 of their opponents, and speaking the sense of the meet- 
 ing, as it is called; for as the meeting generally consists 
 of men whose quota of sense, taken individually, would 
 make but a poor figure, these orators are appointed to 
 collect it all in a lump, when, I assure you, it makes 
 a very formidable appearance, and wlien spun out 
 furnishes suf/icient matter fui an oration of two or 
 three hours. 
 
 "The orators who declaim at these meetings are, 
 with a few exceptions, men of most profuimd elo- 
 quence, who are the oracles ofl)arbers' shops, market- 
 places, and porter-houses, and whom you may see 
 every day at tht corner of the street, taking honest 
 men prisoners by the button, and talking their ribs 
 quite Iwre, without mercy and without end. These 
 orators, in addressing an audience, generally mount 
 a chair, a table, or a beer barrel— which last is sup- 
 posed to afford considerable inspiration— and thunder 
 away their combustible sentiments at the heads of 
 the audience, who are generally so busily employed 
 in smoking, drinking, and hearing themselves talk, 
 that they seldom hear a word of the matter. This, 
 
 however, is of little moment; for as they come tin 
 to agree at all events to a certain set of resoliitioi 
 or articles of war, it is not at all necessary to hearii 
 speech, more especially as few would understand! 
 if they did. Do not suppose, however, that tin i 
 nor persons of the meeting are entirely idle. BesidI 
 smoking and drinking, there are few who doi 
 come with as great a desire to talk as the orator I 
 self. Each has his little circle of listeners, in i 
 midst of whom he sets his hat on one side of hisliei 
 deals out matter-of-fact information, and draws s 
 evident conclusions, with the pertinacity of a peda 
 and to the great edification of his gaping au(lit« 
 Nay, the very urchins from the nursery, wlioi 
 scarcely emancipated from the dominion of birch,i 
 these occasions strut pigmy great men — bellow | 
 the instruction of gray-bearded ignorance, and, 
 the frog in thefuble, endeavour to puff themselves J 
 to the size of the great object of their emulation- 
 principal orator." 
 
 "But is it not preposterous to a degree," crifdj 
 "for puny whipsters to attempt to lecture age andif 
 perience? They should be sent to school to !« 
 better." "Not at all," replied my friend; "for J 
 an election is nothing more than a war of words, i| 
 man that can wag his tongue with the greatest dj 
 ticity, whether he spe.ik to the purpose or not, is j 
 titled to lecture at ward-meetings and polls, .uidil 
 struct all who are inclined to listen to him. Yoiin 
 have remarked a ward-meeting of politic dogs, wlm 
 although the great dog is, ostensibly, the leader, 
 makes the most noise, yet every little scoandrela 
 cur has something to say, and, in proportion to I 
 insignificance, fidgets, and worries about in orderj 
 obtain the nut ice and approbation of his betters, 
 it is with these little, beardless, bread-and-b(itter|i| 
 liticians, who, on this occasion, escape from tliejm 
 diction of the nurseiy to attend to the affairs of II 
 nation : you will see them engage in dreadful m 
 contest with old carlmen, cobblers, and tailors, ; 
 plume themselves not a little if they should clianwj 
 gain a victory. Aspiring spirits! how interesting^ 
 the first dawnings of political greatness ! An eleclH 
 my friend, is a hot-bed of genius in a logocracy; 
 I look with enthusiasm on a troop of these Lillipulii 
 partisans, as so many chatterers, and orators, i 
 puffers, and slang-whangers in embryo, who willo 
 day take an important part in the quarrels and m 
 wars of their country. 
 
 "As the time for fighting the decisive battle i 
 proaches, a[)pearances become more and more alanj 
 ing; committees are appointed, who hold encaiq 
 ments, from whence they send out small detacliniel 
 of tattlers to reconnoitre, harass, and skirmish ' 
 the enemy, and, if possible, to ascertain tbeirn« 
 hers ; every body seems big with the mighty evtj 
 that is impending : the great orators gradually s« 
 beyond their usual size; the little orators grow greil 
 and greater ; the secretaries of the ward coniniill^ 
 strut about, looking like wooden oracles; the pii 
 
SAIJflAGUNDI. 
 
 4<J 
 
 (Oil nirs of inif^lity consequence ; tiie slang-whang- 
 I deal out direful inuendoes, and threats of doughty 
 ort;— and all is buz7, murmur, suspense, and 
 blifflity! 
 
 I" At length the day arrives. The storm that has 
 so long gathering, and threatening in distant 
 ^nders, bursts forth in terrible explosion : all bu- 
 I is at an end; the whole city is in a tumult; 
 people arc running helter-sktiter; they know 
 : whither, and they know not why; the hack- 
 ly-coaches rattle through the streets, loaded with 
 uiting sergeants, who have been prowling in 
 |lars and caves, to unearth some penniless patriot, 
 will barter his vote for a glass of beer, or a 
 >ina coach with such fine genUemen! — the buz- 
 i of the party scamper from poll to poll, on foot 
 J on horseback ; and they worry from committee 
 Icommittee, and buzz, and fume, and talk big, and 
 jdo nothing : like the vagabond drone, who wastes 
 I lime in the labonous idleness of see-saw-song, and 
 Ly nothingness." 
 
 I know not how long my friend would have con- 
 
 lued his detail, had he not been interrupted by a 
 
 labhle which took place between two o/d conti- 
 
 |ifa($, as they were called. It seems they bad en- 
 
 linto an argument on the respective merits of 
 
 |eir cause, and not being able to make each other 
 
 >ariy understood, resorted to what is called knock- 
 
 irn arguments, which form the superlative degree 
 
 largumeHtum ad hominem ; but are, in my opinion, 
 
 flier inconsistent with the spirit of a logocracy. 
 
 lerthey had beaten each other soundly, and set the 
 
 ole mob together by the ears, they came to a full 
 
 planatlon ; when it was discovered that they were 
 
 I of the same way of thinking ; — whereupon they 
 
 : each other heartily by the hand, and laughed 
 
 I great glee at their humorous misunderstand- 
 
 I could not help being struck with the exceeding 
 lat number of ragged, though self-important per- 
 kages that swaggered about the place, and seem- 
 I to think themselves the bashaws of the land. I 
 iiired of my friend if these people were employed 
 drive away the hogs, dogs, and other intruders 
 |t might thrust themselves in and interrupt the ce- 
 flny?— "By no means," replied he; "these are 
 i representatives of the sovereign people, who 
 ^e here to make governors, senators, and mem- 
 s of Assembly, and are the source of all power and 
 Diority in this nation."— " Preposterous ! " said I; 
 pw is it possible that such men can be instructed 
 he high concerns of legislation, and capable of dis- 
 fiinating between the moral and political merits 
 atesmen ? Will they not rather be too often led 
 he nose by intriguing demagogues, and made the 
 ! puppets of political jugglei-s? Surely it would 
 letter to trust to Providence, or even to chance, 
 Igovernors, than to the discrimination of an igno- 
 I mob. What will be the consequence where pro- 
 pon rests with the rabble! He who courts the 
 
 rabble will be most likely to succeed. The man of 
 superior worth and talents will always be too proud 
 to stoop to the low arts by which vulgar minds are 
 won; he will too often, therefore, be defeated by the 
 pliant sycophants or blustering demagogues who ad- 
 dress themselves to the passions and prejudices, ra- 
 ther than to the judgments of the populace." 
 
 My friend appeared a little puzzled either by the 
 logic or the length of my remark. "That is very 
 true— very true indeed," said he, with some hesita- 
 tion; " there is a great deal of force in what you say 
 —yet after all you cannot deny that this is a free coun- 
 try, and that the people can get drunk at a cheaper 
 rate, particularly during elections, than in the des- 
 potic countries of the east." 
 
 I confess I was somewhat staggered by the perti- 
 nency of this rejoinder, and had not a word to say 
 against the correctness of its concluding assertion ; for 
 just at that moment a cart drove up with a load of pa- 
 triotic beer-barrels, which caused a temporary cessa- 
 tion of all further argument. The great crowd of 
 buzzards, puffers, and "old continentals" of all par- 
 ties, who throng to the polls, to [lersuade, to cheat, 
 or to force the freeholders into the right way, and to 
 maintain the freedom of suffrage, seemed for a mo- 
 ment to forget their hostilities, and joined heartily in 
 a copious libation of this patriotic and argumentative 
 beverage. 
 
 These beer-barrels, indeed, seem to be most able 
 logicians, well stored with that kind of argument 
 best suited to the comprehension and taste of the mob 
 or sovereign people, who are never so tractable as 
 when operated upon by this convincmg liquor, which, 
 in fact, seems to be imbued with the very spirit of a 
 logocracy. No sooner does it begin to operate than 
 the tongue waxes extremely valorous, and becomes 
 impatient for some mighty conflict. The puffer puts 
 himself at the head of his body-guard of buzzards and 
 his legion of ragamuffins, and woe then to every ad- 
 versary uninspired by the beer-barrel — he is sure to 
 be talked and argued into complete insignificance. 
 
 While I was making these observations, I was sur- 
 prised to observe a bashaw, high in office, shaking a 
 fellow by the band, that looked rather more ragged 
 than a scarecrow, and inquiring with apparent soli- 
 citude concerning the health of his family ; after which 
 he slipped a little folded paper into his hand, and 
 turned away. I could not help applauding his humi- 
 lity in shaking the fellow's hand, and his benevolence 
 in relieving his distresses, for I imagined the paper 
 contained something for the poor man's necessities ; 
 and truly he seemed verging towards the last stage of 
 starvation. My friend, however, soon undeceived 
 me, by saying that this was an elector, and the bashaw 
 had merely given him the list of candidates for whom 
 he was to vote. "Ho! ho!" said I, "then he is a 
 particular friend of the bashaw ? " " By no means," 
 replied my friend ; " the bashaw will pass him without 
 notice the day after the election, except, perhaps, just 
 to drive over him with his carriage." 
 
 7 
 
SAUIAUIIINDI. 
 
 
 t ■-■ 
 
 My friend Ihen procewltnl to inforin me that for 
 some time before, and during the continuance of an 
 election^ there was a most delectable courtship, or in- 
 trigue, carried on between the great bashaws and mo- 
 ther mob. That mother mob generally preferred the 
 attentions of the rabble, or of fellows of her own 
 stamp; but would sometimes condescend to be treat- 
 ed to a feasting, or any thing of that kind, at the ba- 
 shaw's expense : nay, sometimes when she was in good 
 humour, she would condescend to toy in her rough 
 way with her gentleman suitor; but woe be to the 
 bashaw who presumed upon her favours, for she was 
 the most pestilent, cross, crabbed, scolding, thieving, 
 scratching, toping, wrong-headed, rebellious, and 
 abominable termagant that ever was let loose in 
 the world, to the confusion of honest gentlemen ba- 
 shaws. 
 
 lust then, a fellow came round and distributed 
 among the crowd a number of hand-bills, written by 
 the ghost of Washington, the fame of whose illustrious 
 actions, and still more illustrious virtues, has reached 
 even the remotest regions of the east, and who is ve- 
 nerated by this people as the father of his country. 
 On reading this paltry paper, I could not restrain my 
 indignation. "Insulted hero," cried I, "is it thus 
 thy name is profaned— thy menr.ioi-y disgraced— thy 
 spirit drawn down from heaven to administer to the 
 brutal violence of party rage! — It is thus the necro- 
 mancers of the east, by their incantations, sometimes 
 call up the shades of the just, to give their sanction 
 to frauds, to lies, and to every species of enormity." 
 My friend smiled at my warmth, and observed that 
 raising ghosts, and not only raising them but making 
 them speak, was one of the miracles of election. 
 "And believe me," continued he, " there is good rea- 
 son for the ashes of departed, heroes being disturbed 
 on these occasions, for such is the sandy foundation 
 of our government, that there never happens an elec- 
 tion of an alderman, or a collector, or even a constable, 
 but we are in imminent danger of losing our liberties, 
 and becoming a provmce of France, or tributary to the 
 British islands." " By the hump of Mahomet's ca- 
 mel," said I, "but this is only another striking 
 example of the prodigious great scale on which every 
 thing is transacted in this country ! " 
 
 By this time I had become tired of the scene; my 
 head ached with the uproar of voices, mingling in all 
 the discordant tones of triumphant exclamation, non- 
 sensical argument, intemperate reproach, and drunken 
 absurdity. These, thought I , are the orgies of liberty ' 
 —these are the manifestations of the spirit of indepen- 
 dence !— these are the symbols of man's sovereignty ! 
 Head of Mahomet! what a fatal and inexorable des- 
 potism do empty names and ideal phantoms exercise 
 on the human mind ! The experience of ages has de- 
 monstrated that in all nations, barbarous or enlighten- 
 ed, the gross minds, the mob of the people, must be 
 slaves or they will be tyrants. Even of tyrants their 
 reign is short; some ambitious minion having first con- 
 descended to be their slave, at length becomes their 
 
 master; and, in proportion to thevileness of hlj) 
 ginal servitude, will be the severity of his snL 
 tyramiy. But woe to the bashaws and leaders < 
 gain a seat in the saddle by flattering the humours i 
 administering to the (lassions of the mob. They i 
 soon learn, by fatal experience, that he who tnid 
 to the beast that carries him, teaches it the secml 
 its power, and will sooner or later be thrown (o| 
 dust, and trampled under foot. 
 
 Ever thine, ' 
 
 MUSTAPHJ.I 
 MINE UNCLE JOHN. 
 
 FBOM nv ELBOW-CIIAIB. 
 
 To those whose habits of abstraction may liaTej 
 them into some of the secrets of their own minds, i 
 whose freedom from daily toil has left them at I 
 sure to analyze their feelings, it will be nothing g 
 to say that the present is peculiarly the season of i| 
 membrance. The flowers, the zephyrs, and the \ 
 biers of spring, returning after their tedious ab 
 bring naturally to our recollection past limes 
 buried feelings ; and the whispers of the full-foliii 
 grove fall on the eer of contemplation, like the m 
 tones of far distant friends whom the rude josllal 
 the world have severed from us, and cast far beyu 
 our reach. It is at such times, that casting 
 ward many a lingering look, we recall, with a 
 of sweet-souled melancholy, the days of our )« 
 and the jocund conii)anions who started with m H 
 race of life, but parted midway in the journey,! 
 pursue some winding path that allured them wiikl 
 prospect more seducing — and never returned tof 
 again. It is then, too, if we have been afflifl 
 with any heavy sorrow, if we have aver lost- 
 who has not? — an old friend, or chosen compani 
 that his shade will hover around us ; the memoryl 
 his virtues press on the heart ; and a thousand t 
 dearing recollections, forgotten amidst the cold [ 
 sures and midnight dissipations of winter, arise | 
 our remembrance. 
 
 These speculations bring to my mind My Vit\ 
 John, the history of whose loves, and disapp 
 ments, I have promised to the world, 
 must own myself much addicted to forgetting i 
 promises, yet, as I have been so happily remindedl 
 this, I believe I must pay it at once, " and there f 
 end." Lest my readers, good-natured souls I 
 they are ! should, in the ardour of peeping into n 
 stones, take my uncle for an old acquaintance, lb 
 inform them that the old gentleman died a { 
 many years ago, and it is impossible they shoulde 
 have known him : — I pity them — for they vol 
 have known a good-natured, benevolent man, win 
 example might have been of service. 
 
 The last time I saw my uncle John was filti 
 years ago, when I paid him a visit at his old niansi(| 
 I found hun reading a newspaper— for it was eie 
 lime, and he was always a warm federalist, andll 
 made several converts to the true political faitlil 
 
 who never failed 
 
 m 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 ol 
 
 I time; paiticularly uiie old tenant, who always, 
 (before the election, became a violent ami, in or- 
 r that he might be convinced of his errors by my 
 je, who never failed to reward his conviction by 
 
 'substantial benefit. 
 JAfter we had settled the affairs of the nation, and 
 
 I paid my respects to the old family chronicles 
 |the kitchen — an indisf)ensable ceremony — the old 
 ntleman exclaimed, with heartfelt glee, " Well, I 
 bpose you ape for a trout-flshing : I have got every 
 jng prepared, but first you must take a walk with 
 [ to see my improvements." I was obliged to con- 
 U, though I knew my uncle would lead me a most 
 lanous dance, and inall probability treat me to a 
 
 aire, or a tumble into a ditch. — If my readers 
 
 > to accompany me in this expedition, they are 
 
 hcome; if not, let them stay at home like lazy fel- 
 
 jrs— and sleep — or be hanged. 
 
 Though I had been absent several years, yet there 
 
 ! very little alteration in the scenery, and every 
 
 lect retained the same features it bore when I was 
 
 ]chool-boy ; for it was in this spot that I grew up 
 
 he fear of ghosts and in the breaking of many of 
 
 kteocommandments. The brook, or rivet as they 
 
 M call it in Europe, still murmured with its 
 
 nted sweetness through the meadow ; and its 
 
 is were still tufted with dwarf willows, that bent 
 
 irn to the surface. The same echo inhabited the 
 
 Ley, and the same tender air of repose pervaded 
 
 t whole scene. Even my gootl uncle was but little 
 
 except that his hair was grown a little 
 
 Ljfer, and his forehead iiad lost some of its former 
 
 othness. He iiad, however, lost nothing of his 
 
 ner activity, and laughed heartily at the difiiculty 
 
 nd in keeping up with him as he stumped through 
 
 bes, and briars, and hedges ; talking all the time 
 
 lut his improvements, and telling what he would 
 
 Iwith such a spot of ground and such a tree. At 
 
 ^, after showing me his stone fences, his famous 
 
 i-year-old bull, his new invented cart, which was 
 
 Igo before the horse, and his Eclipse colt, he was 
 
 lased to return home to dinner. 
 
 After dining and returning thanks, — which with 
 
 was not a ceremony merely, but an offering 
 
 1 the heart, — my uncle opened his trunk, took 
 this lishing-tackle, and, without saying a word, 
 hied forth with some of those truly alarming steps 
 liich Father Neptune once took when he was in a 
 pat hurry to attend to the affair of the siege of 
 loy. Trout-fishing was my uncle's favourite s|)ort; 
 d, tliough I always caught two fish to his one, he 
 her would acknowledge my superiority ; but puzzled 
 
 elf, oflen and often, to account for such a sin- 
 ar phenomenon. 
 
 Following the current of the brook, for a mile or 
 lo, we retraced many of our old haunts, and told a 
 Indred adventures which had befallen us at differ- 
 
 times. It was like snatching the hour-glass of 
 
 *, inverting it, and rolling back again the sands 
 
 kt had marked the lapse of years. At length the 
 
 shadows began to lengthen, tlie south wind gradu- 
 ally settled into a perfect calm, the sun threw hin 
 rays through the trees on the hill-tops in golden lustre, 
 and a kind of Sabbath stillness pervaded the whole 
 valley, indicating that the hour was fast approaching 
 which was to relieve for a while the farmer from his 
 rural labour, the ox from his toil, the school urchin 
 from his primer, and bring the loving ploughman 
 home to the feet of his blooming dairy-maid. 
 
 As we were watching in silence the last rays of the 
 sun, beaming their farewell radiance on the high hills 
 at a distance, my uncle exclaimed, in a kind of half-, 
 desponding tone, while he rested his arm over an old 
 tree that had fallen — " I know not how it is, my dear 
 l^uiicc, but such an evening, and such a still quiet 
 scene as this, always make me a little sad, ancl it is at 
 such a time I am most apt to look forward with regret 
 to the period when this farm, on which ' I have been 
 young but now am old,' and every object around me 
 that is endeared by long acquaintance, — when all these 
 and I must shake hands and part. I have no fear of 
 death, for my life has affoi-ded but little temptation to 
 wickedness; and when I die, I hope to leave behind 
 me more substantial proofs of virtue than will be found 
 in my epitaph, and more lasting memorials than church- 
 es built or hospitals endowed with wealth wrung 
 fiom the hard hand of poverty, by an unfeeling land- 
 lord, or unprincipled knave; — but still, when I pass 
 such a day as this and contemplate such a scene, I 
 cannot help feeling a latent wish to linger yet a little 
 longer in this peaceful asylum , to enjoy a little more 
 sunshine in this world, and to have a few more iishing 
 matches with my boy." As lie ended he raiseil 'lis 
 hand a little from the fallen tree, and dropping it lan- 
 guidly by his side, turned himself towards home. The 
 sentiment, the look, the action, all seemed to be pro- 
 phetic. — And so they were, for when I shook him by 
 the hand, and bade him farewell the next mornuig — 
 it was for the last time ! 
 
 He died a bachelor, at the age of sixty-three, though 
 he had been all his life trying to get married ; and al- 
 ways thought himself on tlie point of accomplishing 
 his wishes. His disappointments were not owingeither 
 lo the deformity of his mind or person ; for in his youth 
 he was reckoned handsome, and I myself can wit- 
 ness tor him that he had as kind a heart as ever was 
 fashioned by Heaven ; neitlier were they owing to his 
 poverty, — which sometimes stands in an honest man's 
 way; — for he was born to the inheritance of a small 
 estate which was sufQcient to establish his claim to 
 the title of " one well to do in the world." The truth 
 is, my uncle had a prodigious antipathy to doing things 
 in a hurry — " A man should consider," said he to me 
 once—" that he can always get a wife, but cannot al- 
 ways get rid of her. For my part," continued he, 
 " I am a young fellow with the world before me; (he 
 was aboutforty !) and am resolved lo look sharp, weigh 
 matters well, and know wliat's what before I marry : 
 in short, Launce, f don't intettd io do the thing in a 
 hurry, depend upon it." On this whim-wham, he 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 m 
 
 proceeded : he began with young girls, and ended 
 with widows. The girls he courted until they grew 
 old maids, or married out of pure apprehension of in- 
 curring certain penalties hereafter; and the widows 
 not having quite as much patience, generally, at the 
 end of a year, while the good man thought himself in 
 the high road to success, married some harum-scarum 
 young fellow, who had not such an antipathy (o do 
 things in a hurry. 
 
 My uncle would have inevitably sunk under these 
 repeated disappointments — for he did not want sensi- 
 fbility — had he not hit upon a discovery which set all 
 to rights at once. He consoled his vanity, — for he 
 was a little vain, and soothed his pride, which was his 
 master passion, — by telling his friends very signifi- 
 cantly,.while his eye would flash triumph, " that he 
 might have had her." Those who know how much 
 of the bitterness of disappointed affection arises from 
 wounded vanity and exasperated pride, will give my 
 uncle credit for this discovery. 
 
 My uncle had been told by a prodigious number of 
 married men, and had read in an innumerable quan- 
 tity of books, that a man could not possibly be happy 
 except in the marriage state; so he determined at an 
 early age to marry, that he might not lose his only 
 chance for happiness. He accordingly forthwith paid 
 his addresses to the daughter of a neighbouring gen- 
 tleman farmer, who was reckoned the beauty of the 
 whole w^orld — a phrase by which the honest country 
 people mean nothing more than the circle of their 
 acquaintance, or that territory of land which is within 
 sight of the smoke of their own hamlet. 
 
 This young lady, in addition to her beauty, was 
 highly accomplished — for she had spent five or six 
 months at a boarding-school in town, where she learn- 
 ed to work pictures in satin, and paint sheep that 
 might be mistaken for wolves; to hold up her head, 
 sit straight in her chair, and to think every species of 
 useful acquirement beneath her attention. When she 
 returned home, so completely had she forgotten every 
 thing she knew before, that on seeing one of the maids 
 milking a cow, she asked her father with an air of 
 most enchanting ignorance—'' what that odd-looking 
 thing was doing to that queer animal?" The old 
 man shook his head at this ; but the mother was de- 
 lighted at thesesymptoms of genlility,and so enamour- 
 ed of her 'daugliter's accomplishments, that she ac- 
 tually got framed a picture worked in satin by the 
 joung lady. It represented the tomb scene in Romeo 
 and Juliet : Romeo was dressed in an orange-colour- 
 ed cloak, fastened round his neck with a large golden 
 clasp; a white satin tamboured waistcoat, leather 
 breeches, blue silk stockings, and white topped boots. 
 The amiable Juliet shone in a flame-coloured gown, 
 gorgeously bespangled with silver stars, a high crown- 
 ed muslin cap that reached to the top of the tomb; — 
 on her feet she wore a pair of short-quartered high- 
 heeled shoes, and her waist was the exact fac-simile 
 of an inverted sugar-loaf. The head of the " noble 
 county Paris" looked like a chimney-sweep's brush 
 
 that had lost its handle; and the cloak of the , 
 friar hung about him as gracefully as the armour ol| 
 rhinoceros. The good lady considered this picluref 
 a splendid proof of her daughter's accomplish 
 and hung it up in the best parlour, as an ho 
 tradesman does his certificate of admission into t 
 enlightened body yclept the Mechanic Society. 
 
 With this accomplished young lady, then, didg 
 uncle John become deeply enamoured ; and as it \ 
 his first love, he determined to bestir, himself in ^ 
 extraordinary manner. Once at least in a forlnij 
 and generally on a Sunday evening, he would put J 
 his leather breeches, (for he was a great beau,) i 
 his gray horse Pepper, and ride over to see 
 mela; though she lived upwards of a mile off, and|| 
 was obliged to pass close by a church-yard, wliicii) 
 least a hundred creditable persons would swear i 
 haunted. Miss Pamela could not be insensible to s 
 proofs of attaclunent, and accordingly received I 
 with considerable kindness; her mother alwaj-slj 
 tlie room when he came, and my uncle had as [ 
 as made a declaration by saying one evening, veryj 
 gnilicantly , '' that he believed that he should i 
 change his condition;" when, somehow or otlierj 
 began to think he wasrfoiiif/ things in too great a ht 
 and that it was high time to consider. So he ( 
 dered near a month about it, and there is no m 
 how much longer he might have spun the threadl 
 his doubts, had he not been roused from this stal(| 
 indecision, by the news that his mistress had man 
 an attorney's apprentice, whom she had seen tlieS 
 day before at church, where he had excited llie^ 
 plauses of the whole congregation, by tlie invii 
 gravity with which he listened to a Dutch sern 
 The young people in the neiglibourhood laughedl 
 good deal at my uncle on the occasion; but be ( 
 shrugged his shoulders, looked mysterious, andij 
 plied, '' Tut, boys ! 1 might have had her." 
 
 Note, by IJilliam I Vizard, Esq. 
 
 Our piiblislier, who is busily engaged ia printing a cele 
 work, which is perhaps more generally i-ead in this city Ihiny 
 other book, not excepting the Bible— I mean the New-rork| 
 rectory— has begged so hard that we would not overwhelm tl 
 with too much of a good thing, that we have, with I^angslalTiJ 
 probation, cut short the residue of uncle John's amours. Iii| 
 probability it will be given in a future number, whenever I 
 celot is in the humour for it : he is such an odd— but mum, fori^ 
 of another suspension. 
 
 No. XII.— SATUHDAY, JUNE 27, 1807. 
 FBOM MY ELBOn-CHilB. 
 
 Some men delight in the study of plants, in thed 
 section of a leaf, or the contour and complexion ol| 
 tulip; others are charmed with the beauties of the i 
 thered race, or the varied hues of the insect tribe, 
 naturalist will spend hours in the fatiguing pui'suhij 
 a butterfly ; and a man of the ton will waste wti 
 years in the chase of a fine lady. I feel a resi)ecl i 
 
 lecily of Birmingham, < 
 
ik of the 
 lie armour ol 
 1 this piclurt 
 »mpli8l 
 
 as an 
 ission into 
 Society. 
 , then, did i 
 ; and as it 
 '.himseirin 
 in a 
 
 e would put 
 It beau,) 
 to see Miss 
 nile off, and 
 •yard, which 
 )uld swear 
 sensible ton 
 f received 
 her always 
 le had as g, 
 rening, \ 
 he should 
 )w or otlier, 
 great a 
 . So he 
 ire is no sa; 
 n the thread 
 [)m this stale 
 ;ss had 
 dseen 
 excited the 
 f tlie invi 
 Dutch serm 
 ood laughed 
 
 ; but he 
 rious, and 
 her." 
 
 sq. 
 
 iting a eel 
 this city llian 
 he New- York 1 
 I overwhelm K 
 ith IiangstaiTii 
 8 amoun. lo 
 , whenever 
 but mum, fori 
 
 <807. 
 
 nts, in the 
 )mpIexion ol 
 itiesoftheti 
 sect tribe, 
 ling pursuit 
 I waste w 
 I a res|)ecl 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 85 
 
 (ir avocations, for my own are somewhat similar. 
 
 gveto open the great volume of human character : 
 
 me the examination of a beau is more interesting 
 
 ihiiKiAin tiiat of a daffodil or narcissus ; and I feel a tbou- 
 
 ho(K Ml times more pleasure in catching a new view of 
 man nature, than in kidnapping the most gorgeous 
 lUerfly— even an Emperor of Morocco himself. 
 Ill my present situation I have ample room for the 
 dulgence of this taste ; for periiaps there is not a 
 use in this city more fertile in subjects for the ana- 
 fortni°| mists of human character than my cousin Cockloft's. 
 onest Ciuislopher, as I iiave before mentioned, is 
 
 nio, le of those hearty old cavaliers who pride themselves 
 m l^eeping up the good, honest, unceremonious hos- 
 ility of old times, lie is never so happy as when 
 I has drawn about him a knot of sterling-hearted as- 
 ciales, and sits at the bead of bis table, dispensing a 
 arm, cheering welcome to all. IJis countenance 
 pands at every glass, and beams forth emanations of 
 larily, benevolence, and good-fellowship, that inspire 
 id gladden every guest around him. It is no wonder, 
 
 en erefore, that such excellent soc|al qualities should 
 tract a host of guests; in fact, my cousin is almost 
 lerwhelnied with them ; and they all, uniformly, 
 
 Ann tmounce old Cockloft to be one of the finest old fel- 
 vs in the world. His wine also always comes in for 
 ^ share of their approbation; nor do they forget 
 do honour to Mrs Cockloft's cookery, pronouncing 
 to be modelled after the most approved recipes of 
 manifltliogabalus and Mrs Glasse. The variety of com- 
 theSi '■y t''"^ attracted is particularly pleasing to me ; for 
 ing considered a privileged person in the family, I 
 
 i,^ n sit in a corner, indulge in my favourite amusement 
 observation, and retreat to my elbow-chair, like a 
 e to his hive, whenever I have collected sufficient 
 od for meditation. 
 
 Will Wizard is particularly efficient in adding to 
 f, slock of originals which frequent our house ; for 
 I is one of the most inveterate hunters of oddities I 
 er knew ; and bis first care, on making a new ac- 
 
 leiini laintance, is lo gallant him to old Cockloft's, where 
 I never fails to receive the freedom of the house in 
 pinch from bis gold box. Will has, without excep- 
 in,the queerest, most eccentric, and indescribable set 
 intimates that ever man possessed; how he became 
 quainted with them I cannot conceive, except by 
 pposing there is a secret attraction or unintelligible 
 Dipathy that unconsciously draws together oddities 
 every soil. , 
 
 Will's great crony for some time was Tom Straddle, 
 whom he really took a great liking. Straddle had 
 St arrived in an importation of hardware, fresh from 
 ecily of Birmingham, or rather, as the most learn- 
 English would call it, Brummagem, so famous for 
 manufactories of gimlets, pen-knives, and pepper- 
 ues, and where they make buttons and beaux 
 9ugh to inundate our whole country. He was a 
 King man of considerable standing in the manufac- 
 ryat Birmingham, sometimes had the honour to 
 nd his master's daughter into a tim-whisky, was 
 
 the oracle of the tavern he fhiqaented on Sundays, 
 and could beat all his associates, if you would take 
 bis word for it, in boxing, beer-drinking, jumping 
 over chairs, and imitating cats in a gutter and opera- 
 singers. Straddle was, moreover, a member of a 
 catch-club, and was a great hand at ringing bub-ma- 
 jors ; be was, of course, a complete connoisseur in 
 music, and entitled to assume that character at all per- 
 formances in the art. He was likewise a member of a 
 spouting-club ; had seen a company of strolling actors 
 perforin in a barn, and bad even, like Abel Drugger, 
 " enacted" the part of Major Sturgeon with consider- 
 able applause ; he was consequently a profound critic, 
 and fully authorized to turn up his nose at any Ame- 
 rican performances. He bad twice partaken of annual 
 dinners, given to the head manufacturers of Birming^ 
 ham, where he had the good fortune to get a taste of 
 turtle and turbot, and a smack of Champaign and Bur- 
 gundy; and he had heard a vast deal of the roast beef of 
 Old England. — He was therefore epicure sufficient to 
 d — n every dish and every glass of wine he tasted in 
 America, though at the same time he was as voracious 
 an animal as ever crossed the Atlantic. Straddle had 
 been splashed half a dozen times by the carriages of 
 nobility, and had once the superlative felicity of being 
 kicked out of doors by the footman of a noble duke ; 
 be could, therefore, talk of nobility, and despise the 
 untitled plebeians of America. In short. Straddle was 
 one of those dapper, bustling, tlorid, round, self-im- 
 porlant " gemmeii, " who bounce upon us half bean, 
 half button-maker; undertake to give us the true po- 
 lish of the bon-ton, and endeavour lo inspire us with 
 a proper and dignified contempt of our native country. 
 
 Straddle was quite in raptures when his employers 
 determined to send him to America as an agent. 
 He considered himself as going among a nation of 
 barbarians, where he would be received as a prodigy : 
 he anticipated, with a proud satisfaction, the bustle 
 and confusion his arrival would occasion ; the crowd 
 that would throng to gaze at him as he passed through 
 the streets; and had little doubt but that he should ex- 
 cite as much curiosity as an Indian chief or a Turk in 
 the streets of Birmingham. He had heard of the beau- 
 ty of our women, and chuckled at the thought how 
 completely be should eclipse their unpolished beaux, 
 a; ~ the number of despairing lovers that would mourn 
 the hour of his arrival. I am even informed by Will 
 Wizard, that be put good store of beads, spike-nails, 
 and looking-glasses in bis trunk, to win the affections 
 of tlie fair ones as they paddled about in their bark ca- 
 noes. The reason Will gave for this error of Straddle's 
 respecting our ladies was that he had read in Guthrie's 
 Geography that the aborigines of America were all 
 savages; and not exactly understanding the word ab- 
 origines, be applied to one of his fellow-apprentices, 
 who assured him that it was the Latin word for inha- 
 bitants. 
 
 Wizard used to tell another anecdote of Straddle, 
 which always put him in a passion :— Will swore thai 
 the captain of the ship told him, that when Straddle 
 
SA 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 I ,'■ 
 
 V 
 
 ■ 
 
 heard they were off the banks of Newfoundland, he 
 insisted upon going on shore there to gather some 
 cabbages, of which he was excessively fond. Straddle, 
 however, denied all this, and declared it to he a mis- 
 cliievous quiz of Will Wizard, who indeed often made 
 himself merry at his expense. However this may 
 be, certain it is he kept his tailor and shoemaker con- 
 stantly employed for a month before his de[)arture ; 
 equipped himself with a smart crooked slick about 
 eighteen inches long, a pair of breeches of most un- 
 heard-of length, a little short pair of Iloby's while- 
 topped boots, that seemed to stand on tip-loe to reach 
 his breeches, and his hat had the true trans-Atlantic 
 declination towards his right ear. The fact was — 
 nor did he make any secret of it — he was determined 
 to astonish the natives a few ! 
 
 Straddle was not a little disappointed on his ar- 
 rival to find the Americans were rather more civi- 
 lized than be had imagined; — he was suffered to 
 walk to his lodgings unmolested by a crowd, and 
 even unnoticed by a single individual ; — no love-let- 
 tera came pouring in upon him ; — no rivals lay in wait 
 to assassinate him ; — his very dress excited no atten- 
 tion, for there were many fools dressed equally ridi- 
 culous with himself. This was mortifying indeed 
 to an aspiring youth, who had come out w ith the 
 idea of astonishing and captivating. He was equally 
 unfortunate in his pretensions to the character of 
 critic, connoisseur, and Imxer : he condemned our 
 whole dramatic corps, and every thing appertaining 
 to the theatre; but his critical abilities were ridiculed ; 
 -T-lie found fault'with old Cockloft's dinner, not even 
 sparing his wine, and was never invited to the house 
 afterwards; — he scoured the streets at night, and 
 was cudgelled by a sturdy watchman ; — he hoaxed 
 an honest mechanic, and was soundly kicked. Thus 
 disappointed in all his attempts at notoriety. Straddle 
 liit on the expedient which was resorted to by the 
 Giblets ; — he determined to take the town by storm. 
 Heaccordingly bought horsesand etpiipagcs, and forth- 
 with made a furious dash at style in a gig and tandem. 
 
 As Straddle's linances were but limited, it may 
 easily be supposed that his fashionable career in- 
 fringed a little upon his consignments, which was in- 
 deed the case — for, to use a true cockney phrase, 
 lirummagem suffered. Hut this was a circumstance 
 that made little impression upon Straddle, who was 
 now a lad of spirit — and lads of spirit always despise 
 the sordid cares of keeping another man's money. 
 Suspecting Ibis circumstance, I never coulil witness 
 any of his exhibitions of style without some whim- 
 sical association of ideas. Did he give an cntertJiin- 
 nienl to a host of gu/zling friends, I iinincdiately 
 fancied them gormandizing heartily at the expense of 
 |)Oor llirmingham, and swallowing a consignment of 
 liandsaws and razors. Did I behold him dashing 
 through Broadway in his gig, I saw hun, " in n:y 
 mind's eye," during tandem on a lea-lmard; nor 
 could ! ever c<uitempiale his cockney exhibitions of 
 horsemanship, but my mischievous imaginatioti would 
 
 picture him spurring a cask of hardware, like 
 Bacchus bestriding a tun; or the little gentleman ; 
 be-straddles the world in the front of Hutching's i 
 manac. 
 
 Straddle was equally successful with the Giblei 
 as may well be supposed ; for though pedestrian i 
 may strive in vain to become fashionable in Gothai 
 yet a candidate in an equipage is always recognisf 
 and like Philip's ass, laden with gold, will gain a 
 mittance every where. Mounted in his curricle « 
 his gig, the candidate is like a statue elevated on] 
 high pedestal; his meritsare discernible fromafar,i 
 strike Ihedullestoptics. Oh ! Gotham, Gotham ! nio 
 enlightened of cities ! how does my heart swell wiij 
 delight when I behold your sapient inhabilants lavisk 
 ing their attention with such wonderful discernmen 
 
 'J'hus Straddle became quite a man of ton, and; 
 caressed, and courted, and invited to dinners i 
 balls. Whatever was absurd or ridiculous in himb 
 fore was now declared to be the style. He criticis 
 our theatre, and was listened to with reverence, 
 pronounced our musical entertainments barhai-oiii| 
 and the judgment of Apollo himself would notiuJ 
 been more decisive. He abused our dinners; and iM 
 god of eating, if there be any such deity, seemed ij 
 speak through his organs. He became at once a t 
 of taste — for he put his malediction on every tliini 
 and his arguments were conclusive — for he support 
 every assertion with a bet. He was likewise pro 
 nounced by the iearned in the fashionable world J 
 young man of great research and deep ol)servation-| 
 for he had sent home, as natural curiosilie^, an f 
 of Indian corn, a pairof moccasons, a l)eltof wampuq 
 and a four-leaved clover. He had taken great pain 
 to enrich this curious collection with an Indian, and j 
 caUiract, but without success. In line, the peopl 
 talked of Straddle and his equipage, and Stradd 
 talked of his horses, until it was imirassiblc fur I 
 most critical observer to pronounce whether Straddi 
 or his horses were most admired, or whether Stradd 
 admired himself or his horses most. 
 
 Straddle was now in the zenith of his glory, 
 swaggered al)out parlours and drawing-rooms wiUj 
 the same unceremonious confidence he used to dis' 
 play in the taverns at Birmingham. He accosted ^ 
 lady as he would a bar-maid; and this was pn 
 noimced a certain proof that he had been used to I 
 ter company in Birmingham. He became the pn 
 man of |||l the taverns between New- York and llaeij 
 l(;ni ; and no one stood a chance of being acconiiik>| 
 dated until Straddle and his horses were piTfeetlJ 
 sulisiied. He d — d the landlords and waiters willT 
 the best air in tlu; world, and accosted them will 
 true genllenianlikc fan'liarily. He staggered (m 
 the dinner-table to the play, entered the 1h)\ liket 
 tempest, and staid long enough to be l)ured to ileiilhj 
 and to Imre all those who had the inisfortiine lu t 
 near him. I'rom thence he dashed off to n ball, lim 
 enough to llonuder through a cotillon, tear linlil 
 dozen gowns, commit n numlKir of other (Ippredil 
 
 /nJ 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 53 
 
 lis, niul inuke the whole company sensible of his 
 Unite condescension in coming <imongst them. The 
 lie of Gotham thought him a prodigious tine fel- 
 the young bucks cultivated his acquaintance 
 Ith the most persevering assiduity, and his retainers 
 sometimes complimented with a seat in his 
 irricle, or a ride on one of his fine horses. The 
 lies were delighted with the attentions of such a 
 ihionable gentleman, and struck with astonishment 
 his learned distinctions between wrought scissors 
 id those of cast-steel ; together with his profound 
 rtations on buttons and horse-flesh. The rich 
 Tchants courted his acquaintance because he was 
 Englishman, and their wives treated him with 
 lat deference because he had come from beyond 
 I cannot help here observing that your salt 
 iler is a marvellous great sharpener of men's wits, 
 I intend to recommend it to some of my ac- 
 laintance in a particular essay. 
 Straddle continued his brilliant career for only a 
 irt lime. His prosperous journey over the turnpike 
 fashion was checked by some of those stumbling- 
 :lis in the way of aspiring youth called creditors — 
 duns;— a race of people who, as a celebrated writ- 
 observes, "are hated by gods and men." Con- 
 iinents slackened, whispers of distant suspicion 
 ted in the dark, and those pests of society, the tai- 
 vaitd shoemakers, rose in rebellion against Straddle, 
 vain were all his remonstrances; in vain did he 
 ive to them, that though he iiad given them no mo- 
 y, yet he had given them more custom, and as ma- 
 promises as any young man in the city. Tb.cy 
 re inflexible; and the signal of danger being given, 
 lost of other prosecutors pounced upon his back. 
 Iraddle saw there was but one way for it : he did 
 thing genteelly, went (o smash like a hero, and 
 islied into (he Uniits in high style; being the tifleenlh 
 ntleiiian I have known to drive tandem to the — ne 
 isttJfra— thed— I. 
 
 Unfortunate Straddle ! may thy fate he a warning 
 all young gentlemen who come out from Bir- 
 iigham to astonish the natives!— I should never 
 ive taken the trouble to delineate his character, had 
 not been a genuine Cockney, and worthy to he 
 e representative of his numerous tribe. Perhaps 
 y simple countrymen may hereafter be able to distin- 
 lis was pro lish between the real English gentleman and i^divi- 
 » used to b(t uis of ijie cast I have heretofore spoken of, as mere 
 ne the pra ongrels, springing at one Itound from contemptible 
 rk and Haw gdriiy ui home, to daylight and splendour in this 
 g acconiiiw lod-nalured land . The true-born and true-bred Eng- 
 LTc pfrfeoih h geinleman is a character I hold in great respect; 
 waiters will id I love to look back to the period when our fore- 
 tiiers flourished in the same generous soil, and hail 
 
 re, hke 
 ntleman 
 utching'g 
 
 the Gibli 
 lestrian 
 e in Gothi 
 s recogni 
 will gain 
 is curricle 
 levaled on 
 romafar, 
 rotham ! ni 
 rt swell w 
 litants lav! 
 discernmei 
 ton, and 
 dinners 
 )us in him 
 He critic! 
 fcrence 
 ^ barbarowj 
 )uld notliai 
 ners;andl 
 ly, seemed 
 It once a ni 
 every thii 
 he suppoi 
 likewise pi 
 able world 
 jliservatioii' 
 sities;, an 
 of wampui 
 n great pal 
 Indian, and 
 the peo| 
 and Strad) 
 isible for 
 titer Stradi 
 ther Stradi 
 
 glory, 
 -rooms wil 
 used to di> 
 accosted I 
 
 tlieiii will 
 
 tear liiilf 
 ler depredi 
 
 Bfgered fioi leach other as brothers. Unt the Cockney !— when 
 e l)o\ like contemplate him as springing too from the same 
 red lotieaik urc^,^ I fi^f,\ ashamed of the relationship, and am 
 )rtuiie toll nip(e(j to deny my origin. — In the char; cter of 
 n ball, tin raddle is traced the complete outline of a true Cock- 
 r) of English growth, and a descendant of that in- 
 
 dividual facetious character mentioned by Sliakspeare, 
 "who, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his 
 hay." 
 
 THE STRANGER AT HOME; 
 
 on 
 
 A TOCR IN BROADWAY. 
 
 Bt JEHEMY COCKLOFT, TUB TOUMGER. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 YoLR learned traveller begins his travels at the 
 commencement of his journey ; others begin theire at 
 the end , and a third class begin any how and any 
 where, which I think is the true way. A late face- 
 tious writer begins what he calls "A Picture of New- 
 York" with a particular description of Glen's Falls; 
 from whence, with admirable dexterity, he makes a 
 digression to (he celebra'^odMill Hock, on Long Island ! 
 Now this is what I like; and I intend in my present 
 tour to digress as often ^nd as long as I please. If, 
 therefore, I choose to make a hop, skip, and jump to 
 China, or New-Holland, or Terra Incognita, or Com- 
 munipaw, I can produce a host of examples to justify 
 me, even in books that have been praised by the Eng- 
 lish reviewers; whose fiat being all that is neces- 
 sary to give hooks a currency in this country, I am 
 deteriiiined, as soon as I finish my edition of travels 
 in sevefity-five volumes, to transmit it forthwith to 
 them for judgment. If these trans-Atlantic censors 
 praise it, I have no tear of its success in this country, 
 where their approbation gives, like the Tower stamp, 
 a fictitious value, and makes tinsel and wampum pass 
 current for classic gold. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Battery— flag-Staff kept by Louis Keaffee— Keaffee 
 maintains two spy-glasses by subscriptions — mer- 
 chants pay two shillings a-year to look through them 
 at the signal poles on Sta ten-Island; a very pleasant 
 prospect; but not so pleasant as that from the liill of 
 Howth — query, ever been there? Young seniors go 
 down to the flag-staff to buy pea-nuts and beer, after 
 the fatigue of their morning studies, and sometimes 
 to play at ball, or some other innocent amusement- 
 digression to the Olympic and Isthmian games, with 
 a description of the Islhmus of Corinth, and that of 
 Darien : to conclude with a dissertation on the Indian 
 custom of offering a whiff of tobacco-smoke to their 
 great spirit Areskou. Return to the battery ; delight- 
 ful place to indidge in the luxury of sentiment. How 
 various are the nmtalions of this world! but a few 
 <iays, a few hours— at least not alK)ve two hundretl 
 years ago, and this spot was inhabited by a race of 
 aborigines, who dwelt in hark huts, lived upon oys- 
 ters and Indian corn, danced butfalo dances, and were 
 lords "of the fowl and the lirute;" hut the spirit of 
 time, and the spirit of brandy, have swept them from 
 their ancient inheritance; and as the white wave of 
 the ocean, by its evertoiling assiduity, gains on the 
 brown land, so the white man, by slow and sure de- 
 grees, has gained on the brown savage, and dispos- 
 
 o 
 
m 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 sessed him of the land of his Torefathers. Conjectures 
 on the flret peopling of America — different opinions 
 on that subject, to tlie amount of near one hundred — 
 opinion of Augustine Torniel, that they are the des- 
 cendants of Slieni and Japlieth, who came by the way 
 of Japan to America — Juffridius Petri says they came 
 from Friezeland — mem. cold journey. Mons. Char- 
 ron says they are descended from tlie Gauls — bitter 
 enough. A. Milius from the Celta; — Kircher from 
 the Egyptians~Le Compte from the Phenicians — 
 Lescarbot from the Canaanites, alias the Anthropo- 
 phagi— Brerewood from the Tartars— Grotius from 
 the Norwegians; and Link. Fid. has written two foliu 
 volumes to prove that America was first of all peopled 
 either by the Antipodeans or the Cornish miners, 
 who, he maintains, might easily have made a subter- 
 ranean passage to this country, particularly the Anti- 
 podeans, who, he asserts, can get along under ground 
 as fast as mules — query, which of these is in the right, 
 or are they all wrong ? For'my part, I don't see why 
 America has not as good a light to be peopled at first, 
 as any little contemptible country in Europe, or of 
 Asia; and I am determined to write a book at my 
 first leisure, to prove that Noah was born here; and 
 that so far is America from being indebted to any 
 other country for inhabitants, that they were every 
 one of them peopled by colonies from her! — Mem. 
 battery a very pleasant place to walk on a Sunday 
 evening — not quite genteel though ; every body walks 
 there, and a pleasure, however genuine, is spoiled by 
 general participation : (he fashionable ladies of New- 
 York turn up their noses if you ask them to walk on the 
 battery on Sunday— query, have they scruples ofcon- 
 scienceor scruples of delicacy? — neither; theyliaveon- 
 ly scruples ofgenlilily, which arequiledifferenl things. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Custom-house — origin of duties on mercbandise — 
 this place nmcli frequented by merchants — and why ? 
 — different classes of merchants — importers — a kind 
 of nobility — wholesale merchants — have (he privilege 
 of going to the city assembly— retail traders cannot go 
 to tlie assembly. Some cmious speculations on the 
 vast distinction betwixt selling tape by the piece or by 
 the yard. Wholesale merchants look down upon 
 the retailers, who in return look down upon the 
 greengrocers, who look down upon the market-wo- 
 men, who don't care a straw about any of tliem. 
 Origin of the distinction of ranks — Dr Johnson once 
 lunribly puzzled to settle the point of precedence be- 
 Iwten a 1 — and a Ilea — good hint to humble purse- 
 proud arrogance. Custom-house partly used as a 
 lodgiiig-liouse for the pictures belonging to the aca- 
 demy of arts — couldn't afford the statues house-room 
 — most of tlu'in in the cellar of tlie city hall— poor 
 place for the gods and goddesses— after Olympus, 
 Pensive relleclious on the u|)s and downs of life— 
 A|)ollo, and the rest of the set, used to cut a great fi- 
 gure in (lays of yore.— Mem. every dog has his day- 
 sorry for \enns though, poor weneh^ to l)e cooped up 
 
 in a cellar, with not a single grace to wait on heil 
 Eulogy on the gentlemen of the academy of arts, I 
 the great spirit with which they began the under 
 ing, and the perseverance with which they have^, 
 sued it. It is a pity, however, they began at ibj 
 wrong end— maxim— if you want a bird and a u^ 
 always buy the cage first— hem !— a word to thewii 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Bowling-green— fine place for pasturing cows- 
 perquisite of the late corporation ; formerly ornamei 
 ed with a statue of George III. ; people pulled itdoi| 
 in the war to make bullets — great pity, as it mis 
 have been given to the academy; it would haveb 
 come a cellar as well as any other. Broadway— gn 
 difference in the gentility of streets; a man who rei 
 des in Pearl-street, or Chathamrow, derives no kinij J 
 dignity from his domicil ; but place him in a cert 
 jiart of Broadway— any where between the baltaj 
 and Wall -street— and he straightway becomes i 
 titled to figure in the beau monde, and strut as a i 
 son of prodigious consequence ! Query, whell 
 there is a degree of purity in the air of that quau 
 which changes the gross particles of vulgarity 
 gems of refinement and polish ?— a question to lie a 
 ed, but not to be answered. Wall-street— City 1 
 —famous places for catchpoles, deputy sherift's, 
 young lawyers; which last attend the courts, noil 
 cause they have business there, but because Iheyli 
 no business any where else. My blood always curdJ 
 when I see a catchpole, they beluga species of verm^ 
 who feed and fallen on the wretchedness of mx 
 kind, who trade in misery, and, in becoming theeii 
 cutioners of the law, by their oppression and villa 
 almost counterbalance all the benellts which ared 
 rived from its saluiary regulations. Story of Qiievfi 
 about a catchpole possessed by a devil, who, oril 
 interrogated, declared that he did not come llieren 
 luntarily, but by compulsion; and lliat a decent dml 
 would never of his own free will enter into the I 
 of a catchpole : instead, therefore, of doing liiinl 
 injustice to say that here was a catchpole he(l('\il 
 they should say it was a devil be~catchpoled; tliatbfij 
 in reality the truth. Wonder what has lieeonifi 
 the old crier of the court, who used to ninke 
 noise in preserving silence than the audience dnii 
 breaking it : if a man happened to drop his canc,i 
 old hero would sing out " Silence ! " in a voice eimili 
 iiig the "wide-mouthed thunder." On iiiqiiiij 
 found he had retired from business to enjoy oUumm 
 dignitate, as many a great man had done M4 
 Strange that wise men, as they are thought, slioi 
 toil through a whole existence merely to cnjoyiiffj 
 moments of leisure at last ! why don't they bcfjinj 
 be easy at first, and not pur(;hase a moment's pleiisui 
 with an age of pain?— mem. posed some of the j« 
 keys— eh I 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HarlH>r's pole ! three different orders of s/inrfri| 
 New-York : those who slwve pig$—^.li. Fresliiw 
 
 CHAPl 
 
 ll<Hi!;lil a pair of gloves;! 
 thnols of p'llileness— trui 
 )lii pair of gloves and .ip 
 |iMlar— (Idg-dieap ! <,(. 
 (mspl-'»« to see the belh 
 "I'l'iiiK with a lady ? 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 57 
 
 y sophomores;— those who cut beards, and those 
 (bo shave notes of hand : the last are the most respect- 
 ])le, because, in the course of a year, they make more 
 looey, and that honesthj, than tlie wlioJe corps of 
 [her sharers can do in half a century j besides, it 
 lould puzzle a common barber to ruin any njan, ex- 
 Iplby cutting his throat; whereas your higher order 
 JsUters, your true blood-suckers of the community, 
 ated snugly behind the curtain, in watch for prey, 
 |\e upon the vitals of the unfortunate, and grow rich 
 1 the ruin of thousands. Yet this last class of barbers 
 Ve held in high respect in the world ; they never offend 
 fcainst the decencies of life, go often to church, look 
 Un on honest poverty walking on foot, and call them- 
 llves gentlemen ; yea, men of honour ! Lottery-offices 
 [■another set of capital shavers ! licensed gambling- 
 Lses ! good things enough though, as they enable 
 I few honest industrious gentkinen to humbug the 
 lople— according to law; besides, if the people will 
 ! such fools, whose fault is it but their own if they 
 kbit? Messrs Paff— beg pardon for putting them 
 Isuch bad company, because they are a couple of 
 lie fellows — mem.— to recommend Michael's antique 
 luff-box to all amateurs in the art. Eagle singing 
 Liikey-tloodle- N.B. Buffon, Pennant, and the rest 
 J the naturalists all naturals, not to know the eagle 
 las a singing-bird; Link. Fid. knew better, and gives 
 lion;? description of a bald eagle that serenaded him 
 lice in Canada :— digression; particular account of 
 le Canadian Indians; — story about Areskou learn- 
 Ig to make lisliing-ncts of a spider — don' believe it, 
 jecause, according to Linkum, and many oilier learn- 
 I aullioiities, Areskou is the same as Mars, being 
 lerived from bis Greek name of Arcs; and if so, he 
 new we!i enough what a net was without consulting 
 jspider: — story of Arachne being changed into a 
 elder as a reward for having hanged herself;— deri- 
 tlion of the word spinster from spider :— Colophon, 
 pwAltobosco, the birth-place of Arachne, remuk- 
 l)!e for a famous breed of spiders to this day ;— mem. 
 j-iiolhing like a little scho'-uship—make theigiiorw- 
 \vm, viz. the majority of my readers, slare like wild 
 Reons; return to IN ew- York by a short cut— meet a 
 |is!iinj{ belle in a thick while veil— tried to get a peep 
 I her face, saw she wpiinted a little -thought so at 
 jsl ; never saw a face covered with a veil that was 
 lorlli looking at : saw some ladies holding a conver- 
 llion across the street altout going to church next 
 ■iiKlay— talked so loud they fri^-htened a c;/'.iman's 
 Vse, who ran away, and lAersot a bask' '. of gin- 
 prliiead willi a little boy under it;—,' n .— I don't 
 !l! see the use of speaking-truin[)ets no\.-a-days. 
 
 CIIAPTKn V. 
 
 j Iloiijilil a |)air of gloves; dry-good shops the genuine 
 Ihnol.s of politeness— true Parisian manners there; 
 pt ii pair of gloves and a pislareen's worth of bows for 
 lar— dog-(>heiip ! (,uurtlandt-street corner— fa- 
 lioiis |»lace to see the belles go by : query, ever been 
 iM'jipiiig with a lady i' Some account of it. Ladies 
 
 go into all the shops in the city to buy a pair of gloves : 
 goofl way of spending time if they have nothing else to 
 do. Oswegomarket— looks very muchlikea triumphal 
 arch : some account of the manner of erecting them ui 
 ancient times. Digression to the nrr/i-duke Charles, 
 and some account of the ancient Germans. N. B. 
 Quote Tacitus on this subject. Particular descrip- 
 tion of market-baskets, butchers' blocks, and wheel- 
 barrows : mem. queer things run upon one wheel ! 
 Saw a cartman driving full tilt through Bro,.dway — 
 run over a child ; gooti enough for it— what business 
 had it to be in the way ? Hint concerning the laws 
 against pigs, goals, dogs, and cartmen; grand apo- 
 strophe to the sublime science of jurisprudence. Com- 
 parison between legislators and tinkers : ffuery, whe- 
 ther it requires greater ability to mend a law than to 
 mend a kettle ? Inquiry into Ihe utility of makitig 
 laws that are broken a hundred times in a day with 
 impunity; my Lord Coke's opinion on the subject; 
 my lord a very great man — so was Lord Bacon : good 
 story about a criminal named Hog claiming relalion- 
 sliip with him. Hogg's porter-house — great haunt of 
 Will Wizard. Will put tlown there one night by a 
 sea-captain, in an argument concerning the ara of the 
 Chinese empire Whangpo. Hogg's a capital place for 
 hearing the same stories, the same jokes, and the same 
 songs, every night in the year — menr. except Sunday 
 nights : line school for young politicians too ; some of 
 the longest and thickest beads in Ihe city come there 
 to settle the afftiirs of the nation. Scheme of Ichabod 
 Fungus to restore Ihe balance of Europe. Digression : 
 some account of the balance of Europe ; comparison 
 between it and a pair of scales, witli the Emperor 
 Alexander in one, and the Emperor Napoleon in the 
 other ; line fellows— both of a weight; can't tell which 
 will kick the beam : mem. don't care much either — 
 nolbing to me. Ichabod very unhappy about it; thinks 
 Napoleon has an eye on this country : capital place 'o 
 pasture his horses, and provide for Ihe rest of bis fa- 
 mily. Dey-street; ancient Dutch name of il, signify- 
 ing nuirdei<'r's valley, formerly the site of a great 
 peach-orchard : my granilmotber's history of the fa- 
 mous Peach war ; arose from an Indian stealing peach- 
 es out of this orchard — gopd cause as need be for a 
 war; just as gooil as i\u' balance of power. Anecdote 
 of a war between two Italian slates about a bucket; in- 
 troduce some capital new truisms about the folly of 
 mankir.d, the ambition of kings, potentates, and princes 
 — particularly Alexander, Ca'sar, Charles XII., Na- 
 poleon, little King Pepin, and Ihe great Charlemagne. 
 Conclude with an exborlalion to the present race of 
 sovereigns to keep the king's peace, and abstain from 
 .I'l those deadly iiuarrelswbich produce battle, murder, 
 and sudden death : mem. ran my nose against a lamp- 
 post—conclude in great dudgeon. 
 
 FlIOM nv ELIIOW-CUAIR. 
 
 Oin cousin Pindar, after having been couliiutl for 
 sonur lime [tast with a lit of the gout, which is a kind 
 of keepsake in our family, has again set bis mill going, 
 
 H 
 
88 
 
 SAUUGUNDI. 
 
 ft 
 
 * 
 
 as my readers will perceive. On reading his piece, I 
 could not help smiling at the high compliments which, 
 contrary to his usual style, he has lavished on the dear 
 sex. The old gentleman, unfortunately ohserving my 
 merriment, stumped out of the room with great voci- 
 feration of crutch, and has not exchanged three woras 
 with me since. I expect every hour to hear that he 
 has packed up his m )veahles, and, as usual in all cases 
 of disgust, retreated to his old country-house. 
 
 Pindar, like most of the old Cockloft heroes, is 
 wonderfully su.sceptihle to the genial influence of warm 
 weather. In winter he is one of the most crusty old 
 bachelors under heaven, and is wickedly addicted to 
 sarcastic reflections of every kind, particularly on the 
 little enchanting foibles and whim-whams of women. 
 But when the spring comes on, and the mild influence 
 of the sun releases nature from her icy fetters, the ice 
 of his bosom dissolves into a gentle current, which re- 
 flects the bewitching qualities of the fair ; as in some 
 mild, clear evening, when nature reposes in silence, 
 the stream bears in its pure bosom all the starry ma- 
 gnificence of heaven. It is under the control of this 
 influence he has written his piece ; r.nd I beg the la- 
 thes, in the pleniluile of their harmless conceit, not to 
 flatter themselves that because the good Pindar has 
 suffered them to escape his censures, he had nothing 
 more to censure. It is but sunshine and zephyrs which 
 have wrought this wonderfid change ; and I am nuich 
 mistaken if the 'irst north-easter don't convert all his 
 good-nature into most exquisite spleen. 
 
 FROM THE MILL OF PIMDAIl COCKLOFT, ESQ. 
 
 How often I cast my renectioiis licliinil, 
 And call up the ila j s of past youtli to my mind ! 
 When folly assails in habiliments new, 
 When fasliion obtrudes some fresli wbim-wliam to view ; 
 When tlie fopUnss of fiisliioii bedazzle my sight, 
 Bewilder my feelings— my senses benight ; 
 I retreat in disgust from the world of to^lay, 
 To commune with the world that has moulder'd away i 
 To converse with the shades of those friends ;f my love, 
 Long gather 'd in peace to the angels alH)ve. 
 
 In my rambles through life, should I meet with annoy 
 From the lK)ld Iwardless stripling— the turbid |iert boy ; 
 One rear'd in the mode lately reckon'd genteel, 
 Which, neglecting the head, aims to perfect the heel ; 
 Which completes the sweet fopling while yet in bis teens. 
 And ntsbini for fashion's light changeable scenes; 
 And though brainless and va[iid as vapid can be, 
 To routs and to parties pronounces him free;. — 
 Oh ! I think on the be.iiix that existed of yore, 
 On those rules of the ton that exist now no more ! 
 
 I recall with delight linw each younkcr at /irst 
 In the cradb' of science and virtu(^ was nursed j 
 How the graces of person and graces of mind. 
 The polish of learning and fashion combined, 
 Till soften'd in manners anil sirenglhen'd in head, 
 Ily (be classical lore of the living and dead, 
 Matured in his person till manly In size, 
 He thin was presented a be.in to our eyes! 
 
 My nieces of late have made freipieut crtmijlalnt 
 Tli.it they suffer vexation and painful constraint, 
 ny having their circles loo often dlslrest 
 l<y some thre(^ or four goslings just Hedged from the ncsl j 
 Who, propp'd by the eri'dit their firthers sustain, 
 Alike lender in years and in perixHi find brain. 
 
 But plcntcously «tock'd with that substitute, brass. 
 For trie nils and critics would anxiously \asa. 
 
 They complain of that empty sarcasdcai slang, 
 So common to all the coxcombical gang, 
 AVho Hie fair with their shallow experience vex. 
 By tbnimming for ever their weakness of sex— 
 And who iKiast of themselves, when they talk with prouiiur, 
 Of man's mental ascendancy over the fair. 
 
 'Twas thus the young owlet produced in the nest 
 Where the eagle of Jove her young eaglets had presi, 
 I'retended to Ixjasl of his royal descent. 
 And vaunted that force which to eagles is lent. 
 Though fated to shun with dim visual ray 
 The cheering delights and the brilliance of day, 
 To forsake the fair regioas of a'tlier and light, 
 For dull moping cavenis of darkness and night; 
 Still talk'd of that eagle-like stremitb of the eye, 
 AVliich ap[iroaches, unwinking, the pride of the sky ; 
 Of that wing which, unwearied, can hover and play 
 In the noon-tide etful,!.'cnce and torrent of day. 
 
 Dear girls, the sad evils of whieii ye complain, 
 Yoiu' sex must endure from the feeble and vain. 
 They know not that nature— that custom decrees, 
 That women should .dways endeavour to please; 
 That the law of llieir system has e.irly imprest 
 The importance of lining tlieniselvi's to each guest ; 
 And, of course, that hdloft, when ye Iritle and play, 
 'lis to gratify Irillers « ho strut in your way. 
 The cliild might as well of its mother complain. 
 As watiting true wisdom and souuilness of brain. 
 Because that, at times, whib' it bangs on her bre.xst 
 She with " lulla-by-baby " beguiles it to rest. 
 'Tis its weakness of niiud that iiiducis the strain ; 
 For wisdom to iiifanis is prattled in vain. 
 
 'lis true, at odd times, when infrolicksome fit, 
 In th(! midst of bis gambols, the mischievous wit 
 May start some light foible that clings to the fair. 
 Like cobwebs that fasten to objects most rare; 
 In the play of bis fancy will sportively say 
 Some delicate censure that pops iu his way : 
 He may smile at your fa.shions. and frankly express 
 His dislike of a dance, or a llamiiig red dress ; 
 Yet he blames not your want of man's physical force. 
 Nor complains though ye caimot in Latin discourse. 
 He dehghts in the language of nature ye .speak. 
 Though not .so refined as true classical (Jreek. 
 He reuKMnbers that Providence never dcsign'il 
 Our females, like suns, to bi.'wilder and blind ; 
 But like IIk! mild orb of |)ale evening serene. 
 Whose lailiance illuiuines, yet softens the .scene. 
 To light us with cheering and welcoming ray 
 Along the rude path when the sun Is away. 
 
 I own In my sciibbllngs I lately have named 
 Some faults of our fair which I gently b.ive blamed ; 
 But be it for ever by .ill understood, 
 My censures were only pronounced for their good. 
 I delight in the sex— 'tis the pride of my mind 
 To consider them gentle, endearing, relincd ; 
 As our solace below in the journey of life. 
 To smooth its rough passes, to soften its strife; 
 As objects intended our joys to supply, 
 And to lead us in love to the temples on high. 
 How oft have I felt, when two lucid blue eyes. 
 As calm and as bright as the gems of the skies. 
 Have lieam'd their soft r.idiance into my .sou!, 
 Iiiipre.ss'd with an awe like an angel's control ! 
 
 Yes. fair ones, by this Is forever delined 
 The fop fi'iiin the man of renneiuenl .mil mind ; 
 The laller bi.'lieves ye in homily were given 
 As a iMinil upon earth of our union with be.tven; 
 AniI if ye an,' weak, and are frail, in his view, 
 'Tis to call forth fresh wainUli, and his fondness reneu 
 
 'Tis his Joy to support tlicsi 
 Aiid his love at your weaki 
 lie rejoices the gem is so ri 
 Anil is proud that it claims 
 
 No. XUI.— FIUDA 
 
 |ii^:ait(l notwilhstandiii 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 30 
 
 I 'Ti8 tite Joy to su|)port Hiedc tlofecls uf your frame, 
 I Aiid Ilia love at your weakness redoul)les its flaiiiu : 
 I iici'cjoices the gem is so rich and so fair, 
 I Aud is proud that it claims his protection and care. 
 
 No. XUI.— FftlDAY, AUGUST 14, «807. 
 FBOM HV ELROW-CBAIB. 
 
 |l was not a litlle perplexed, a short time since, by 
 ; eccentric conduct of my knowing coadjutor Will 
 lizard. For two or three days lie was completely 
 Lqiiandary. He would come into old Cockloft's 
 jrloiir ten times a day, swinging his ponderous legs 
 Lg vvith his usual vast strides, clap his hands into 
 ) sides, contemplate the little shepherdesses on the 
 |iiUel-piece fora few minutes, whistling all the while, 
 I then sally out full sweep without uttering a word. 
 [ be sure, a pish or a [)shaw occasionally escaped 
 |ii ; and he was observed once to pull out his enorm- 
 i smiff-lwx, drum for a moment upon its lid with 
 I knuckles, and then relurn it into his pocket with- 
 llaking a pinch. 'Twas evident Will was full of 
 tie mighty idea — not that his restlessness was any 
 Ir uiicDniinon ; for I have often seen him throw him- 
 If almost into a fever of heal and fatigue — doing no- 
 Hut his inllexihle tactUu-nity set the whole fa- 
 ly, as usual, a-\vondering, as he seldom enters the 
 W without giving one of his " one thousand and 
 |e" stories. For my part, I began to think that the 
 ; fracas at Canton had alarmed Will for the safely 
 |liis friends Kiiiglum, Chinqua, and Consetpia — or 
 I something had gone wrong in the alterations of 
 I theatre— or ;.,"l some new outrage at Norfolk had 
 lliimin a worry.— In short, I did not know what to 
 Jik; for Will is such a universal busy-lwdy, and 
 ■lilies so much in every thing going forward, that 
 Tuiii^lit as well attempt to conjecture what is going 
 liii the North Star as in his precious pericranium. 
 til Mrs (Cockloft, who, like a worthy woman as she 
 |seliloiii troubles herself about any thing hi this 
 (i, saving the affairs of her household, and the 
 ct deportment of her female friends, was struck 
 111 the mystery of Will's behaviour. She happened, 
 Jen he came in and went out the tenth time, to be 
 lydainiiig the bottom of one of the old red damask 
 p; and notwilhslandhig this is to her an affair of 
 I imiwrtance, yet she coidd not help turning rumid 
 I exclaiming, " I wonder what can be the matter 
 |i Mr Wizard ! " '' Nolhiiig, " replied old Christo- 
 |r, "only we shall have an eruption soon, "—The 
 Wy did not understand a word of this, neither 
 I she care : she had expressed her wonder ; and 
 f, with her, is always sulficient. 
 [mi so well actpiainleii with Will's peculiarities, 
 111 ran lell, even by his whistle, when he is alwiut an 
 jiyfor our paper, as certainly as a weather wiseacre 
 [wslliat it is going to rain when he sees a pig run 
 >iikin^r about with his nose in the wind. I therc- 
 iilaiil my account with receiving a conuuuiiicaliou 
 
 from him liefore long ; and, sure enough, tlie evening 
 before last I distinguished his iree-mason knock at my 
 door. I have seen many wise men in my lime, phi- 
 losophers, mathematicia.is, astronomers, politicians, 
 editors, and almanac-makers— but never did I see a 
 man look half as wise asdid my friend Wizard on enter- 
 ing the room. Had Lavater beheld him at that mo- 
 ment, he would have set him down, to a certainty, as 
 a fellow who iiad just discovered the longitude or the 
 philosopher's stone. 
 
 Without saying a word, he handed me a roll of pa- 
 per; after which he lighted his cigar, sat down, cross- 
 ed his legs, folded his arms, and, elevating his nose to 
 an angle of about forty-live degrees, began to smoke 
 like a steam-engine. Will delights in the picturesque. 
 On opening his budget, and perceiving the motto, it 
 struck me that Will had brought me one of his con- 
 founded Chinese manuscripts, and I was forthwith 
 going to dismiss it with indignation ; but accidentally 
 seeing the name of our oracle, the sage Linkiim, of 
 whose inestimable folios we pride ourselves upon beuig 
 the sole possessors, I began to think the better of it, 
 and looked round at Will to express my approbation. 
 I shall never forget the figure he cut at that moment ! 
 He had watched my countenance, on opening his ma- 
 nuscript, with the Argus eyes of an author; and, per- 
 ceiving some tokens of disapprobation, began, accord- 
 ing to custom, to puff away at his cigar with such 
 vigour, that in a few minutes he had entirely involved 
 himself in smoke, except his nose and one foot, which 
 were just visible, the latter wagging with great velo- 
 city. I believe I have hinted before — at least, I ought 
 to have done so — that Will's nose is a very goodly 
 nose ; to which it may l)e as well to add, that in his 
 voyages under tiie tropics it has aciptired a copper 
 complexion, which remlers it very brilliant and lu- 
 minous. Yoti may iiuaginc what a sumptuous ap- 
 pearance it made, projecting boldly, like the celebrat- 
 edpromontorium uasidi u m at Samos wilha light-house 
 upon it, and surrounded on all sides with smoke and 
 vaiKtur. Had my gravity been like the Chinese phi- 
 losopher's, " within one degree of absolute frigidity," 
 here would have l>een a trial for it. I could not stand 
 it, but burst into such a laugh as I do not indulge in 
 alwve once in a lumdred years. This was too much 
 for Will; he emerged fiom his cloud, threw his cigar 
 into the lir'-place, and strode out of the room, pulling 
 u[) his breeches, muttering something which, I verily 
 believe, was nothing more nor less than a horribly 
 long Chinese malediction. 
 
 He however left his manuscript behind hiiH, which 
 I now give to the world. Whether he is serious on 
 the occasion, or only bantering, no one, I believe, can 
 tell : for, whether in speaking or writing, there is such 
 an invincible gravity in hisdeuieanoiir and style, that 
 even I, who have studied him as closely as an anli- 
 (piarian s'ndics an old manuscript or inscription, am 
 Irequeii'ly .it a loss to know what the rogue would !».! 
 at. I have seen him indulge in his favourite amuse- 
 ment of(|uizztiigfor hours together, without any one 
 
i '■ 
 
 60 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 1 j 
 
 having the least suspicion of tlie matter, until lie would 
 suddenly twist his phiz into an expression that baffles 
 all description, thrust his ton^ue'inhis cheek, and blow 
 up into a laugh almost as loud as the shout of the Ro- 
 mans on a certain occasion, which honest Plutarch 
 avers frightened several crows to such a degree, that 
 they fell down stone dead into the Campus Martins. 
 Jeremy Cockloft the younger, who, like a true modern 
 philosopher, delights in ey ^riments that are of no 
 kind of use, took the trouble to measure one of Will's 
 risible explosions, and declared to me that, according to 
 accurate measurement, it contained thirty feet square 
 of solid laughter. What will the professors say to this? 
 
 PLANS FOR DEFENDING OUR HARBOUR. 
 
 BY WILLIAM WIZABD, ESQ. 
 
 Long-fong teko buzz tor-pedo, 
 
 Fudge Confucius. 
 
 We'll blow the villains all sky high ; 
 
 But do it with econo my. Link. Fid. 
 
 Surely never was a town more subject to mid- 
 summer fancies and dog-day whim-whams than this 
 most excellent of cities. Our notions, like our dis- 
 eases, seem all epidemic ; and no sooner does a new 
 disorder or a new freak seize one individual, but it 
 is sure to run through all the community. This is 
 particularly the case when the summer is at the hot- 
 test, and every body's head is in a vertigo, and his 
 brain in a ferment : 'tis absolutely necessary, then, 
 the poor souls should have some bubble to amuse 
 themselves with, or they would certainly run mad. 
 Last year the poplar-worm made its ap(.earance most 
 fortunately for our citizens; and every body was so 
 much in horror of being poisoned and devoured, and 
 so busied in making humane experiments on cats and 
 dogs, that we got through the summer (|uite comfort- 
 ably : the cats had the worst of it— every niouser of 
 them was shaved, and there was not a whisker to be 
 seen in the whole sisterhood. This summer every 
 body has had full employment in planning fcrtiflca- 
 tions for our harbour. Not a cobbler or tailor in the 
 city but has left his awl and his thimble, become an 
 engineer outright, and aspired most magnanimously 
 to the building of forts and destruction of navies. Hea- 
 vens ! as my friend Mustaplia would say, on what a 
 great scale is every thing in this country ! 
 
 Among the various plans that have been offered, the 
 most conspicuous is one devised and exhibited, as I 
 am informed, by that notable confederacy the North- 
 river Society. 
 
 Anxious to redeem their reputation from the foul 
 8US[.cions that have for a long lime overclouded it, 
 these aquatic incendiaries have come forward, at the 
 present alarming juncture, and announced a most po- 
 tent discovery, which is to guarantee our port from 
 the visits of any foreign marauders. The society have, 
 it seems., invented a cunning machine, shrewdly yclep- 
 ed a ioipnio; by wliioli the stoutest line-ol-liutlle ship, 
 even a iiantisima Tii»idad, may be caught v„r\ 
 ping, and dcconqiuscd in a 'winkling; a kind o<'sul)- 
 
 marine powder magazine to swim under water, 1 
 an aquatic mole, or water-rat, and destroy the enei 
 in the moments of unsuspicious security. 
 
 This straw tickled the noses of all our dignitaiji 
 wonderfully; for, to do our government justice, itii 
 no objection to injuring and exterminating its enen 
 in any manner — provided the thing can be done < 
 mically. 
 
 It was determined tlie experiment should be trid 
 and an old brig was purchased, for not more than tv 
 its value, and delivered over into the hands of ilslg 
 mentors, the North-river Society, to he tortured, j 
 battered, and annihilated, secundum ariem. Ad 
 was appointed for the occasion, when all the guod^ 
 tizens of the wonder-loving city of Gotham were invii 
 to the blowing-up; like the fat ir.nkeeper in RaiKlii 
 who requested all his customers to come on a cett 
 day, and see him burst. 
 
 As I have almost as great a veneration as the ^ 
 Mr Walter Shandy for all kinds of experiments t 
 are ingeniously ridiculous, I made very particular i 
 tion of the one in question at the table of my fn 
 Christopher Cockloft ; but it put the honest old j 
 tieman in a violent passion. He condemned it| 
 loto, as an attempt to introduce a dastardly andii 
 terminating mode of warfare. — " Already liavei 
 proceeded far enough," said he, " in the scienct| 
 destruction : war is already invested with sufiid 
 horrors and calamities : let us not increase the t 
 logue; let us not, by these deadly artifices, provob 
 system of insidious and indiscriminate hostility, 
 may terminate in laying our cities desolate, and espi 
 ing our women, our cliildren, and our infirm, to( 
 sword of pitiless recrimination." Honest old ci| 
 Her ! — it was evident he did not reason us a true p 
 tician; but he felt as a Christian and philanthropy 
 and that was, perhaps, just as well. 
 
 It may be readily supposed that our citizens did J 
 refuse the invitation of the society to the bIo\v-iip;j 
 was the first naval action ever exhibited in our f 
 and the good people all crowded to see the Brid 
 navy blown up in effigy. The young ladies were^ 
 lighted with the novelty of the show, ai>d declai 
 that ifwar could be conducted in this manner, it\nj 
 become a fashionable amusement ; and the destrucf 
 of a fleet be as pleasant as a ball or a tea-party, 
 old folk were e(iually pleased with the spectacle- 
 cause it cost them nothing. Dear souls, howli 
 was it they shoidd he disappointed ! the brig mosll 
 stiuately refused to be decomposed ;— the dinuersH 
 cold, an<! ihe puddings were overlioiled, Ihroii;;™ 
 the renowned city of Gotham ; and its sapient in 
 bitants, like the honest Strasburghers, from m 
 most of them are doubtless descended, who weiit^ 
 to see the courteous stranger and his nose, all rcti 
 ed home, after having threatened to pull downj 
 fiag-slalT by way of taking salisfaclion for their ilis 
 pointnient. — Hy the way, there is not an animal iii| 
 world nu)rc discriminating in its vengeance th 
 free-born mob. 
 
 A. 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 01 
 
 |ln the evening I repaired to friend Hogg's, to smoke 
 dable cigar, but iiad scarrely entered llie room, 
 en I was taicen prisoner by my friend, Mr Iciiabod 
 DgQs; wlio, I soon saw, was at Ids usual trade of 
 yjng into niill-stones. Tlie old gentleman inform- 
 I me that the brig had actually been blown up, after 
 iforld of manoeuvring, and had nearly blown up the 
 liety with it ; he seemed to entertain strong doubts 
 ) to the objects of the society in the invention of these 
 Iferoal machines — hinted a suspicion of their wishing 
 I set the river on fire, and that he should not be sur- 
 on waking one of these mornings to find the 
 bdson in a blaze. " Not that I disapprove of the 
 U," said he, " provided it has the end in view which 
 U profess; no, no, an excellent plan of defence j — 
 I need of batteries, forts, frigates, and gun-boats : 
 «rve, sir, all that's necessary is, that the ships must 
 Ime to anchor in a convenient place ; watch must l)e 
 Beep, or so complaisant as not to disturb any boats 
 (Idling al)out them — fair wind and tide — no moon- 
 ht— machines well directed— mustn't flash in the 
 n— bang's the word, and the vessel's blown up in a 
 loment!" — " Good," said I, " you remind me of a 
 pberly Chinese who was flogged by an honest cap- 
 I of my acquaintance, and who, on being advised 
 Irelallate, exclaimed—' Hi yah ! spose two men hold 
 kt him captain, den very mush me bamboo he ! ' " 
 I The old gentleman grew a little crusty, and insisted 
 all did not understand him; — all that was reouisite 
 [render the effect certain was, that the enemy should 
 jiter into the project; or, in common phrase, " be 
 [reeable to the measure;" so that if the machine did 
 bt come to the ship, the ship should go to the nia- 
 kine; by which means he thought the success of the 
 lachine would be inevitable — provided it struck fire. 
 [But do not you think," said I, doubtingly, " that it 
 lould be rather difficult to persuade the enemy into 
 ■ch an agreement ? — some peo[)le have an invincible 
 jitipalby to being blown up." — " Not at all, not at 
 I," replied he, triumphantly ; " got an excellent no- 
 Jon for thnt; — do with them as we have done with 
 lebrig; buy all the vessels we mean to destroy, and 
 low them up as best suits our convenience. I have 
 loiight deeply on that subject, and have calculated to 
 Icertainly, that if our funds holil out, we may in this 
 lay (kstroy the whole lUilish navy — by contract." 
 J Hy this time all the ({uidnuncs of the room had ga- 
 kered around us, each pregnant with some niighly 
 [heme for the salvation of his country. One palhe- 
 ally lamented that we had no such men amoni; us 
 the famous Toujourstlort and (irossitout, mIio, 
 [hentlie celebrated (Captain Tranchemont made war 
 kainst the city of Kalacahabalaba, utterly discomfited 
 |it!,'ri'al Kin;; Higstaff, and blew up his whole army 
 fc stieeziii;;. — Another imparted a sage idea, which 
 *nw to have occupied more heads tliaii one; that is, 
 flttlie l)est way of I'ortifying Ilie harbour was lo 
 jiiii it at once ; choke the channel with riK'ks and 
 Jorks; strew it with ehevav.r de frise and Iw|m'- 
 *s, and make it like a niu'sery-garden, full of men- 
 
 traps and spring-guns. No vessel would then have 
 the temerity to enter our harbour; we should not 
 even dare to navigate it ourselves. Or, if no cheaper 
 way could be devisal, let Governor's Island be raised 
 by levers and pulleys, floated with empty casks, etc. 
 towed down to the Narrows, and dropped plump in 
 the very mouth of the harbour!— " But," said I, 
 " would not the prosecution of these whim-whams 
 be rather expensive and dilatory ?"—" Pshaw ! " 
 cried the other — " what's a million of money to an 
 experiment ? the true spirit of our economy requires 
 that we should spare no expense in discovering the 
 cheapest moile of defending ourselves ; and then, if 
 all these moiles should fail, why you know the worst 
 we liave to do is to return to the old-fashioned hum- 
 drum mode of forts and batteries." — " By which 
 time," cried I, " the arrival of the enemy may have 
 rendered their erecUon superfluous." 
 
 A shrewd old gentleman, who stood listening by 
 with a mischievously equivocal look, observed that 
 the most effectual mode of repulsing a fleet from our 
 ports would be to administer them a proclamation 
 from time to time, till it operated. 
 
 Unwilling lo leave the company without demon- 
 strating my patriotism and ingenuity, I communicated 
 a plan of defence ; which in truth was suggested long 
 since by that oracle Muslapha, who had as clear a 
 head for cobweb-weaving as ever dignified the shoul- 
 ders of a projector. He thought the most effectual 
 mode would be to assend}le all the slang-whamjers, 
 great and small, from all parts of the state, and 
 marshal them at the battery; where they should be 
 exposed point-blank to the enemy, and form a body of 
 scoliling infantry, similar to ihe poissards, or doughty 
 champions of Hillingsgate. They should be exhorted 
 to fire away, without pity or remorse, in sheets, half- 
 sheets, columns, hand-bills, or squibs; great canon, little 
 canon, pica, German-text, stereotype, and to run their 
 enemies through with shar{)-pointed italics. They 
 should haveorderstoshow noquarter — tobiazeaway in 
 their loudest epithets — '^Miscreants .'" " Murderers '." 
 " Barbarians .' " " Pirates'. " " lUMers / " " Hlack- 
 GiiAuus ! " and, to do away all fear of consecpieiices, 
 they should be guaranteed from all dangers ol pil- 
 lory, kicking, euflintf, nose-pulling, whipimig-posl, 
 or prosecution for libels. If, continued IVIuslapha, 
 you wish men to fight well and valiantly, they must 
 be allowed those weapons they have been used lo 
 handle. Your countrymen are notoriously adniil in 
 the management of the tongue ;iiul the pen, and con- 
 duct all their bailies by spetclics or newspa[»ers. 
 Adopt, therefore, the plan I have pointed out; and 
 rely upon it, that let any Meet, however large, be 
 but once assailed by this battery of slang-wlian;;ers. 
 Hid if they ba\<' not entirely lost their sense of hear- 
 ing, or a regard for their own rharaeters and feelings, 
 the\ will, at the very liist lire, slip their rallies, and 
 nuvat with as nnich prenpitaiion as if IIk y had un- 
 warily eiiterwl into the atmosphere (tf the holion vpas. 
 In this maimer may your wars be condiicle;! with 
 
02 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 !;' i 
 
 proper economy; and it will cost no more to drive 
 off u fleet than to write up a party, or write down a 
 bashaw^ of three tails. 
 
 The sly old gentleman I have before mentioned 
 was highly delighted with this plan; and proposeil, 
 as an improvement, that mortars should be placed on 
 the battery, which, instead of throwing shells and 
 such trifles, might be charged with newspapers, 
 Tammany addresses, etc. by way of red-hot shot, 
 which would undoubtedly he very potent in blowing 
 up any powder magazine they might chance to come 
 in contact with. lie concluded by informing the 
 company, that in the course of a few evenings he 
 would have the honour to present them with a scheme 
 for loading certain vessels with newspapers, resolu- 
 tions of " numerous and respectable meetings," and 
 other combustibles, which vessels were to be blown 
 directly in the midst of the enemy by the bellows of 
 the slang- whangers ; and he was much mistaken if 
 they would not be more fatal than lire-ships, bomb- 
 ketches, gun-boats, or even torpedoes. 
 
 These are but two or three specimens of the nature 
 and eflicacy of the innumerable |)lans with which this 
 cilyabounds. Every body seems charged lolheinuzzle 
 with gunpowder, every eye Hashes lire-works and tor- 
 pedoes, and every corner is occupiedhy knotsof inflam- 
 matory projectors ; not one of whom but has some pre- 
 posterous mode of destruction, which he has proved to 
 be infallible by a previous experiment in c tub of water ! 
 
 Even Jeremy Cockloft has caught the infection, to 
 the great annoyance of the inhabitants of Cockloft- 
 hall, whither he had retired to make his experiments 
 undisturbed. At one time all the mirrors in the 
 house were unhung, — their collected rays thrown 
 into the hot-house, to try Archimedes' plan of burn- 
 ing-glasses ; and the honest old gardener was almost 
 knocked down by what he mistook for a str(»ke of the 
 sun, but which turned out to be nothing moie than 
 a sudden attack of one of these tremendous jack-o'lan- 
 terns. It l)ecame dangerous to walk tluongh the 
 court-yard, for fear of an explosion; and the whole 
 family was thrown into distress and consternation, 
 by a letter from the old housekeep*"' to Mrs Cock- 
 loft, informing her of his having blown up a favourite 
 Chinese gander, which I had brought from Canton, 
 as he was majeslically sailing in the duck-pond. 
 
 " In the multitude of counsellors there is safely ; " 
 if so, the defenceless city of Gotham has nothing to 
 apprehend ; hut much do I fear that so many excel- 
 lent and infallible i»rojecls will be presented, that 
 we shall be at a loss which to adopt, and the jteacc- 
 able inhabitants fare likeu famous projector of my ac- 
 quainlaiu^e, whose house was unfortunately plun- 
 dered while he "as contriving a patent lock to secure 
 his door. 
 
 I'llOM D1V ELBOW-CHAIR. 
 
 A RF.TIlOSPi:CT, OH "WHAT YOU WHl." 
 
 I.OM.INC. in my elbow -chair this [}\\e summer noon, 
 I foci myself insensibly yielding to that genial feeling 
 
 of indolence the season is so well fitted to inspi 
 Every one, who is blessed with a little of the delid 
 languor of disposition that delights in repose, 
 often have sported among the fairy scenes, the golili 
 visions, the voluptuous reveries, that swim before i| 
 imagination at such moments; resembling those blji 
 ful sensations a Mussulman enjoys after his favouiii 
 indulgence of opium; which Will Wizard declai 
 can be compare<l to nothing but "swimming jn^ 
 ocean of peacocks' feathers." In such a mwK\, evg 
 body must be sensible it would lie idle and uripn 
 able for a man to send his wits a-gadding on a vurnj 
 of discovery into futurity ; or even to trouble hinis 
 with a laborious investigation of what is actually | 
 ing under his eye. We are, at such times, moieii 
 posed to resort to the pleasures of memory than I 
 those of the imagination; and like the way-faring,' ij 
 veller, reclining for a moment on his statT, had rath 
 contemplate the ground we have travelled thaa i 
 region which is yet before us. 
 
 I could here amuse myself and stultify my reada 
 with a most elaborate and ingenious parallel betwet 
 authors and travellers; but in this balmy seasoi; 
 which makes men stupid and dogs mad, and >vii 
 doubtless many of our most strenuous admirers hai^ 
 great difficulty in keeping awake through the ilay.i 
 would be cruel to saddle them with the foriniilalil 
 difficulty of putting two ideas together and drawinsj 
 conclusion; or, in the learned phrase, forging si/lljj 
 (jisms in Baroco : — a terrible undertaking for tliedij 
 days ! To say the truth, my observations were onlj 
 intended to prove that this, of all others, is the inoi 
 auspicious moment, and my present the most favourJ 
 able mood, for indulging in a retrospect. — WliellietJ 
 like certain great personages of the day, in atteiiipliii| 
 to prove one thing, I have exposed another; or win 
 Iher, like certain other great personages, in attenipil 
 ing to prove a great deal, I have proved nothing atallj 
 I leave to my readers to decide, provided they iiai 
 the power and inclination so to do; but a uiiTUusPEal 
 will 1 take notwithstanding. 
 
 I am perfectly aware that in doing this I shall I 
 myself open to the charge of imitation, than which ^ 
 man might be better accused of downright house- 
 breaking; for it has been a standing rule with manjl 
 of my illustrious predecessors, occasionally, and part 
 cularly at the conclusion of a volume, to look ov(t| 
 their shoulder and chuckle at the miracles they lijl 
 acliieveil. Bui as I before professed, I am deleriiiin-l 
 ed to hold myself entirely independent of all niaiiiie( 
 of opinions and criticisms, as the only method ofiieJ 
 ting on in this world in any thing like a straight iiu!.! 
 True it is, I may sometimes seem to angle a little (utT 
 the good opinion of mankind, by giving Iheni soiii^ 
 excellent reasons for doing unreasonable things; li 
 Ibis is merely to show them, that allhough I may i 
 casionnlly go wrong, it is not for want of kiu)\vin,| 
 how to go right; and here I will lay down a niaximl 
 which will for ever entitle nie to the gratituile ofnijl 
 inexperienced readers, namely, thai a, ntan always ot 
 
 I),' voices of a retrieve! 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 G5 
 
 Ire crctlil in the eyes of this naughty world fur sinning 
 Ifully, tiian for sinning tlirough sheer ignorance. 
 t will ilouhlless be insisted by matiy ingenious ca- 
 lers, wlio will be meddling with what does not at 
 1 concern then;, that this retrospect should have 
 L taken at the commencement of our second vo- 
 |ic'; it is usual, I know : moreover, it is natural. 
 on ns a writer has once accomplished a volume, 
 I forthwith becomes wonderfully increased in ai- 
 de ! He steps upon his book as upon a pedestal, 
 is elevatal in proportion to its magnitude. A 
 deeimo makes him one inch taller; an octavo, 
 ! laches; a (juarto, six :— but he who has made 
 I to swell a folio, looks down uiwn his fellow-crea- 
 i fi'om such a fearful height that, ten to one, the 
 ■r man's head is turned for ever afterwards. From 
 Pi a lofty situation, therefore, it ia natural an author 
 ^Id cast his eyes behind ; and having reached the 
 t landing-place on the stairs of immortality, may 
 oiiably be allowed to plead his privilege to look 
 i over the height he has ascended. I have deviat- 
 alillle from this venerable custom, merely that our 
 ispect might fall in the dog-<)ays — of all days in 
 [year most congenial to the indulgence of a little 
 Isiifflciency ; inasmuch as people have then little 
 )biit to retire within the sphere of self, and make 
 [most of what they lind there. 
 let it not be supposed, however, that we think our- 
 Ics a whit the wiser or beltc since we have linish- 
 liur volume than we were before; on the contrary, 
 jseriously assure our readers that we were fully 
 lessed of all the wisdom and morality it contains at 
 noment we commenced writing. It is the world 
 [clilias grown wiser, — not we; we hiive thrown our 
 [ into the common stock of knowledge ; we have 
 led our morsel with the ignorant multitude; and 
 pr from elevating ourselves above me world, our 
 lemleavour has been to raise the world to our own 
 |1, and make it as wise as we its disinterested be- 
 Klors. 
 
 loa moral writer like myself, who, next to his 
 j comfort and entertainment, has the good of bis 
 Iw-cilizens at heart, a retrospect is but a sorry 
 Isement. Like the industrious husbandman, he 
 I contemplates in silent disappointment his la- 
 > wasted on a barren soil ; or the seed he has 
 Ifiilly sown choked by a redundancy of worthless 
 lis. I expected long ere this to have seen a coni- 
 I reformation in manners and morals, achieved 
 bur united efforts. My fancy echoed to the ap- 
 jtliii},' voices of a retrieved generation. I antici- 
 , with proud satisfaction, the periotl, not far di- 
 |, when our work would be introduced into the 
 Icmieswith which every lane and alley of our ci- 
 jalwiiad— when our precepts would be gently in- 
 led into every unlucky urchin by force of birch— 
 |iuy inMi-lioiiud i>liysi(»:ruoniy, as taken by Will 
 ard, lie as notorious .is that of Noah VVebsier, 
 Es(|., or his no less renowned predecessor the 
 Iliis work was urixiually |iiiltlii«lioil m Iwo volumes. 
 
 illustrious Dilworth, of spelling-book immortality. 
 Rut, well-a-day ! to let my rceiders into a profound 
 secret, the expectations of man are like the varied 
 hues that tinge the distant prospect — never to be rea- 
 lized — never to be enjoyed but in perspective. Luck- 
 less Launcelot, that the humblest of the many air 
 castles thou bast erected should prove a ^'baseless fa- 
 bric ! " IMuch does it grieve me to confess, that after 
 all our lectures, precepts, and excellent admonitions, 
 the people of New-York are nearly as nuich given to 
 backsliding and ill-nature as ever; they are just as 
 much abiuidoned to dancing and tcci-ilrinking; and as 
 to scandal. Will Wizard informs me that, by a rough 
 computation, since the last cargo of gunpowder-tea 
 from Canton arrived, no less than eighteen characters 
 have been blown up, besides a number of others that 
 have been woefully shattered. 
 
 The ladies still labour under the same scarcity of 
 muslins, and delight in flesh-coloured silk stockings : 
 it is evident, however, that our advice has bad very 
 considerable effect on them, as tbey endeavour to act 
 as opposite to it as possible — this being what Evergreen 
 calls fe' .ale independence. As to the Straddles, they 
 abound as much as ever in Broadway, particularly on 
 Sundays ; and Wizard roundly asserts that he supped 
 in company with a knot of them a few evenings since, 
 when they liquidated a whole Birmingham consign- 
 ment in a batch of imperial champaign. I have, fur- 
 thermore, in the course of a month past, detected no 
 less than three Giblet families making their first onset 
 towards style and gentility in the very manner we 
 have heretofore reprobated. Nor have our utmost 
 efforts been able to check the progress of that alarm- 
 ing epidemic, the rage for punning, which, though 
 doubtless originally inlendeu merely to ornament and 
 enliven conversation by liiile sports of fancy, threatens 
 to overrun and poison the whole, like the baneful ivy 
 which destroys the useful plant it lirst embellished. 
 Now I look upon an habitual punster as a depredator 
 upon conversation ; and I have remarked sometimes 
 one of these offenders sitting silent on tiie watdi for 
 an hour together, until some luckless wight, unfor- 
 tunately for the ease and quiet of the company, ilropped 
 a phrase susceptible of a double meaning — when, pop, 
 our punster would dart out like a veteran mouser 
 from her covert, seize the unlucky word, and after 
 worrying and mumbling at it until it was capable of 
 no further marring, relapse again into silent watch- 
 fulness, and lie in wait for anotlier opiwrtunity. Even 
 this might be borne with, by the aid of a little phi- 
 losophy ; but the worst of it is, they are not content 
 to manufacture puns and laugh heartily at them them- 
 selves, but they expect we should laugh with them 
 — which I consider as an inlolerable hardship, and a 
 flagrant imposition on good-nature. Let these gen- 
 tlemen fritter away conversation with impunity, and 
 deal out their wits in sixpenny bits if they please ; but 
 I beg I may have the choice of refusing currency to 
 their small change. I am seriously afraid, lu)wevcr, 
 that our junto is not cpiite free from the uifcction ; nay. 
 
64 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 t 
 
 .. I 
 
 il 
 
 that it hi. s even approached so near as to menace the 
 tranquillity of my elhow-chair : for Will Wizard, as 
 we were in council the other night, absolutely elec- 
 trified Pindar and myself with a most palpable and 
 perplexing pun— had it been a torpedo, it could not 
 have more discomposed Hit fraternity. Sentence of 
 banishment was unanimously decreed ; but on his con- 
 fessing that, like many celebrated wits, he was merely 
 retailing other men's wares on commission, he war 
 for that once forgiven, on condition of refraining from 
 such diabolical practices in future. Pindar is parti- 
 cularly outrageous against punsters ; and quite asto- 
 nished and put me to a nonplus a day or two since, by 
 asking abruptly '' whc .her I thought a punster coidd 
 be a good Christian ?" He followed up his question 
 triumphantly, by offering to prove, by sound logic 
 and historical fact, that tlie Roman empire owed its 
 decline and fall to a pun, and that nothing tended so 
 much to demoralize the French nation as their abo- 
 minable rage for jmcc demots. 
 
 But what, above every thing else, has caused me 
 much vexation of spirit, and displeased me most with 
 this stiff-necked nation, is, that in spite of all the se- 
 rious and profound censures of the sage Mustapha, in 
 his various letters — they will talk ! — they will still wag 
 their tongues, and chatter like vei7 slang-whangers I 
 This is ii degree of obstinacy incomprehensible in the 
 extreme, and is another proof how alarming is the 
 force of habil, and how difficult it is to reduce beings, 
 accustomed to talk, to that state of silence which is the 
 very acme of human wisdom. 
 
 We can only account for these disappointments, in 
 our moderate and reasonable expectations, by suppos- 
 ing the world so deeply sunk in the mire of delin- 
 quency, that not even Hercules, were he to put his 
 shoulder to the axletree, would be able to extricate it. 
 We comfort ourselves, however, by the reflection that 
 there are at least three good men left in this degene- 
 rate age, to benefit the world by example, should 
 precept ultimately fail. And borrowing, for once, an 
 example fi*om certain sleepy writers, who, after the 
 first emotions of surprise at finding their invaluable 
 effusions neglected or despised, console themselves 
 with the idea that 'tis a stupid age, and look forward 
 to posterity for redress — we bequeath our first vo- 
 lume to future generations — and much good may it do 
 them. Heaven grant they may be able to read it ! 
 for, if our fashionable mode of education continues to 
 improve, as of late, I am under serious apprehensions 
 that the period is not far distant when tlie discipline 
 of the dancing-master will supersede that of the gram- 
 marian — crotchets and quavers supplant the alphabet 
 — and the heels, by an antip 'dean manccuvre, obtain 
 entire pre-eminence over the head. How does my 
 heart yearn for poor dear posterity, when this work 
 shall become as unintelligible to our grandchildren as it 
 seems to be to their grandfathers and grandmothers ! 
 In fact, for I love to be candid, we begin to suspect 
 that many people read our numbers merely for their 
 amusement, without [laying any attention to the se- 
 
 rious truths conveyed In every page. Unpardoa 
 want of penetration ! not that we wish to restriciJ 
 readers in the article of laughing— which we conjij 
 as one of the dearest prerogatives of man, and tjiel 
 linguishing characteristic which raises him abmej 
 other animals : let them laugh therefore if they 
 provided they profit at the same time and do not t 
 take our object. It is one of our indisputable faq 
 that it is easier to laugh ten follies out of counten,iii 
 ti.an to coax, reason, or flog a man out of one. Ini^ 
 odd, singular and indescribable age, which is neid 
 the .'.ge of gold, silver, iron, brass, chivalry, nor J 
 whatever Sir John Carr may assert, a grave writeri^ 
 attempts to attack folly with the heavy artillery uf:^ 
 ral reasoning wilt fare like "mollett's honest ped 
 who clearly demonstrated by angles, etc., after ( 
 manner of Euclid, that it was wrong to do evil, 
 was laughed at for his pains. Take niy woril foriJ 
 little well applied ridicule, like Hannibal's applica^ 
 of vinegar to rocks, will do more with certain I 
 heads and obdurate hearts than all the logic ori 
 monstrations in Longinus or Euclid. But the | 
 of Gotham, wise souls! are so much accustoniedl 
 see morality approach them, clothed in formidi 
 wigs, and sable garbs, " with leaden eye that loresj 
 ground," that they can never recognise her wlien,(j 
 in gay attire, she comes tripping towards tlienii 
 smiles and sunshine in her countenance. — VVellJ 
 the rogues remain in happy ignorance, for" ignon 
 is bliss, " as the poet says ; and I put as implicit [J 
 in poetry as I do in the almanac or the news-u;^ 
 We will improve them without their being the v 
 for it, and they shall become better in spite ofU 
 teeth, and without their having the least suspicioul 
 the reformation working within them. 
 
 Among all our manifold grievances, however, i| 
 some small but vivid rays of sunshine occasion^ 
 brighten along our path, cheering our ste[is, amliij 
 ing us to persevere. 
 
 The public have paid some little regard to afei[| 
 tides of our advice — they have purchased ouriui 
 hers freely ; so much the belter for our publisliij 
 they have read them attentively ; so much liie I 
 for themselves. The melancholy fate of my i 
 aunt Charity has had a wonderful effect ; and I b 
 now before me a Liter from a gentleman who i 
 opposite to a couple of old ladies, remarkable forf 
 interest they took in his affairs; his apartmcnlsn 
 absolutely in a state of blockade, and he was on j 
 point of changing his lodgings, or capitulating, 
 the appearance of our ninth number, which he in 
 diately sent over with his compliments — the gd| 
 dies took the hint, and have scarcely appeared at tl 
 window since. As to the wooden gentlemen, j 
 friend Miss Sparkle assures me they are wonder! 
 improved by our criticisms, and sometimes venl 
 to make a remark, or attempt a pun in cuinpanj| 
 the great edification of all who happen to undcrit 
 them. As to red shawls, they are entirely discaij 
 from the fair shoulders of our ladies, ever since I 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 65 
 
 Lt importation of finery ; nor has any lady, since the 
 Ljwealiier, venturetl to expose her elbows to Uie 
 Hniirin;^ ^aze of scnilinizin;^ passengers. Bnt there 
 (one victory we have achieved, which has given us 
 ore pleasure than to have written down the whole 
 bmiiiisli'.'ilion : I am assured, from un(|uestionah!e 
 biliniily, that our young latlies, doubtless in con- 
 Liience of our weighty admonitions, have not 
 hce imlulged in that intoxicating, inflanmiatory, and 
 lliirligig dance, the waltz, ever since warm weather 
 Inimeiiccd. True it is, I understand, an attempt 
 las made to exhibit it, by some of the sable fair ones, 
 lllie last African ball, but it was highly disapproved 
 [liy all the respectable elderly ladies present. 
 I These are sweet sources of comfort to atone for the 
 any wrongs and misrepresentations heaped upon us 
 f the world — for even we have experienced its ill- 
 ^ture. Ilowoflen have weheard ourselves reproach- 
 I fur the insidious applications of the uncharitable! 
 j)\v (tften have we been accused of emotions which 
 Iver found an entrance into our bosoms! — how 
 [ten have our sportive effusions been wrested to 
 \ethe purposes of particular enmity and bitterness ! 
 (Idlesome spirits! little do they know our disposi- 
 ng : we "lack gall" to wound the feelings of a 
 bie innocent individual — we can even forgive them 
 p the very bottom of our souls ; may they meet 
 Iready a forgiveness from their own consciences ! 
 Jjic true and independent bachelors, having no do- 
 stic cares to interfere with our general benevo- 
 jire, we consider it incuml)ent upon us to watch 
 (eithe welfare of society; and although we are in- 
 J)ted to the world for little else than left-handed fa- 
 liirs, yet we feel a proud satisfaction in requiting 
 l\vilhgoo<], and the sneer of illiberalily with the 
 ^feigned smile of gootl-humour. With these min- 
 I motives of selfishness and philanthropy we com- 
 Jenced our work, and if we cannot solace ourselves 
 |th the consciousness of having done much good, 
 I there is still one pleasing consolation left, which 
 pworldcan neither give nor take away. There are 
 [)ments— lingering moments of listless indifference 
 heavy-hearted despondency — when our best 
 kies and affections slipphig, as they sometimes will, 
 pi their hold on those objects to which they usually 
 n;' for support, seem abandoned on thf wide waste 
 Icheerless existence, without a place to cast anchor 
 Iwithouta shore in view to excite a single wish, or 
 Igive a momentary interest to contemplation. We 
 Ik back with delight ujwn many of the«e moments 
 |mental gloom, whiled away by the cheerful exer- 
 ! of our pen, and consider every such triumph over 
 e spleen as retarding the furrowing hand of time in 
 I insidious encroachments on our brows. If, in ad- 
 lion to our own amusements, we have, as we jog- 
 |I carelessly laughing along, brushed away one tear 
 jdejection and called forth a smile in its place — if 
 ( have brightened the pale countenance of a single 
 lid of sorrow — we shall feel almost as much joy and 
 jflicing as a slang-whanger does when he bathes his 
 
 ' pen in the heart's blood of a patron and benefactor; 
 or sacrifices an illustrious victim on the altar of [larty 
 animosity. 
 
 TO RKADEBS AJiD C0BRI':.SP0MDe'<iT8. 
 
 It is our misfortune to be frequently pestered, in 
 our peregrinations about this learned city, by certain 
 critical gad-tlies, who buzz around, and merely attack 
 the skin, without ever being able lu penetrate the 
 body. The reputation of our promising jjrofpf/^, Je- 
 remy Cockloit the younger, has been assailed by these 
 skin-deep critics; they have questioned his claims to 
 originality, and even hintetl that the ideas for his New- 
 Jersey Tour were borrowed from a late work entitled 
 " My Pocket-hook." As there is no Hterary offence 
 more despicable in the eyes of the trio than borrow- 
 ing, we immediately called Jeremy to an account; 
 when heproved, by the dedication of the work in ques- 
 tion, that it was first published in London in March, 
 i807— and that his "Stranger in New-Jersey" had 
 made its appearance on the 24th of the preceding Fe- 
 briiaiy. 
 
 We were on the point of acquitting Jeremy with 
 honour, on the ground that it was impossible, know- 
 ing as he is, to borrow from a foreign work one 
 month before it was in existence, when Will Wizard 
 suddenly took up the cudgels for the critics, and in- 
 sisted that nothing was more probable, for he recol- 
 lected reading of an ingenious Dutch author, who 
 plainly convicted the ancients of stealing from his la- 
 bours! — So much fur criticism. 
 
 We have received a host of friendly and admoni- 
 tory letters from different quarters, and among the 
 rest a very loving epistle from George-town, Colum- 
 bia, signed Teddy M'Gundy, who addresses us by 
 the name of Saul M'Gundy, and insists that we are 
 descended from the same Irish progenitors, and nearly 
 related. As friend Teddy seems to be an honest, 
 merry rogue, we are sorry that we cannot admit his 
 claims to kindred : we thank him, however, for his 
 good will, and should he ever be inclined to favour 
 us with another epistle, we will hint to him, and at 
 the same time to our other numerous correspondents, 
 that their conununications will be infinitely more ac- 
 ceptable if they will just recollect Tom Shuftleton's 
 advice,—" pay the post-boy, Muggins." 
 
 Ko. XIV.— SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER tO, 1807. 
 LETTER 
 
 PROM MVSTAPHA RVB-A-DUB KELI KIIAN, 
 
 To Asem Hacchem, principal Slave-driver to his Highness 
 the Bashaw of Tripoli. 
 
 Health and joy to the friend of my heart!— May 
 the angel of peace ever watch over thy dwelling, and 
 the star of prosperity shed its lustre on all thy under- 
 takings. Far other is the lot of thy captive friend ; 
 
 I ! 
 
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 Sciences 
 
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 WIUTIR.N.Y. MSM 
 
 (716) •72-4303 
 
 

m 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 —his brightest hopes extend but to a lengthened pe- 
 riod of captivity, and memory only adds to the mea- 
 sure or his grieb, by holding up a mirror which re- 
 flects with redoubled charms the hours of past felicity. 
 In midnight slumbers my soul holds sweet converse 
 with the tender objects of its affections; — it is then 
 the exile is restored to his country; — it is then the 
 wide waste of waters that rolls between us disap- 
 pears, and I clasp to my bosom the companion of my 
 youth! I awake, and find it but a vision of the night. 
 The sigh will rise, — the tear of dejection will steal 
 adown my cheek : — I fly to my pen, and strive to 
 forget myself, and my sorrows, in conversing with 
 my friend. 
 
 In such a situation, my good As«>m, it cannot be 
 expected that I should be able so w.iolly to abstract 
 myself from my own feelings, as to give thee a full 
 and systematic account of the singular people among 
 whom my disastrous lot has been cast. I can only 
 And leisure, from my own individual sorrows, to en- 
 tertain thee occasionally with some of the most pro- 
 minent features of their character, and now and then 
 a solitary picture of their most preposterous eccen- 
 tricities. 
 
 I have before observed that, among the distin- 
 guished characteristics of the people of this logocracy, 
 is their invincible love of talking; and that I could 
 compare the nation to nothing but a mighty windmill. 
 Thou art doubtless at a loss to conceive how this mill 
 is supplied with grist; or, in other words, how it is 
 possible to furnish subjects for the peipetual exercise 
 of so many tongues. 
 
 The genius of the nation appears in its highest 
 lustre in this particular, in the discovery, or rather 
 the application, of a subject which seems to supply an 
 inexhaustible mine of words. It is nothing more, my 
 friend, than politics; a word which, I declare to 
 thee, has perplexed me almost as much as the re- 
 doubtable one of economy. On consulting a dic- 
 tionary of this language, I found it denoted the science 
 of government; and the relations, situations, and dis- 
 positions of states and empires.— Good, thought I; 
 for a people who boast of governing themselves there 
 could not be a more important subject of investiga- 
 tion. I therefore listened attentively, expecting to 
 hear from " the most enlightened people under the 
 sun," for so they n\odestly term themselves, sublime 
 disputations on the science of legislation, and precepts 
 of political wisdom that would not have disgraced our 
 great prophet and legislator himself; but alas, Asem ! 
 how continually are my expectaiions disappointed ! 
 how dignifled a meaning does this word bear in the 
 dictionary !— how despicable its common application ! 
 I find it extending to every contemptible discussion 
 of local animosity, and every petty altercation of in- 
 signiticant individuals. It end)races alike all manner 
 of concerns; from tlie organization of a divan, the 
 election of a bashaw, or the levying of an army, to 
 the appointment of a constable, the personal disputes 
 of two miserable slang-whangers, the cleaning of the 
 
 streets, or the economy of a dirt cart. A coopleJ 
 politicians will quarrel, with the most vociferousi 
 tinacity, about the character of a bum-baiiiiT vli 
 nobody cares for ; or the deportment of a little 
 man whom nobody knows— and this is called 
 politics : nay, it is but a few days since, that I ' 
 annoyed by a debate between two of my fell 
 lodgers, who were magnanimously employed fn( 
 demning a luckless wight to infamy, because he I 
 worn a red coat, and had entertained certain 
 neous opinions some thirty years before. Shockedl 
 their illiberal and vindictive spirit, I rebuked th 
 for thus indulging in slander and uncharitabler 
 about the colour of a coat which had doubtless! 
 many years been worn out ; or the belief in er 
 which, in alF probability, had been long since ato 
 for and abandoned; but they justified themselvesj 
 alleging that they were only engaged in politics,! 
 exerting that liberty of speech, and freedom oh 
 cussion, which was the glory and safeguard oft 
 national independence. " O Mahomet ! " tlioug 
 " what a country must that be, which builds ilsj 
 litical safety on the ruin of characters and the | 
 cution of individuals ! " 
 
 Into what transports of surprise and incrednlityj 
 I continually betrayed, as the character of this 
 centric people gradually developes itself to my ( 
 vation ! Every new research increases the perplenf 
 in which I am involved, and I am more than evt 
 a loss where to place them in the scale of my es 
 tion. It is thus the philosopher— in pursuing tn 
 through the labyrinth of doubt, error and mis 
 sentation — frequently finds hunself bewildered inj 
 mazes of contradictory experience; and almost m 
 he could quietly retrace his steps, steal back inlul 
 path of honest ignorance, and jog on once nwrej 
 contented indifference. 
 
 How fertile in contradictions is this lo 
 Men of different nations, manners, and langua 
 live here in the most perfect harmony; and not 
 more common than to see individuals, whose i 
 ive governments are at variance, taking each otli« 
 the hand and exchanging the oflices of friend 
 Nay, even on the subject of religion, in which, < 
 aflecls our dearest interests, our earliest opinions I 
 prejudices, some warmth and heart-burnings niij 
 excused; which, even in our enlightened counir 
 so fruitful in difference between man and man- 
 religion occasions no dissension among these 
 and it Iws even been asserted, by one of their i 
 that believing in one God or twenty Gods "neil 
 breaks a man's leg nor picks his pocket." The id 
 trous Pckdian may here bow down before his eve 
 ing Are and prostrate himself towards the glowingj 
 —the Chinese may adore his Fo, or his Josh 
 Egyptian his stork— and the Mussulman practise, 
 molested, the divine precepts of our immortal { 
 IVay, even the atheist, who lies down at night will 
 committing himself to the protection of Heaven, 
 rises in the morning without returning thanki r 
 
 rty— who hath no 
 il, like the sandy d 
 Ijiope to throw a s 
 views extend 
 us his cheerless ( 
 kilge in his despei 
 ! oilier emotion th: 
 land tolerating sp 
 |religion. Once difi 
 s, and chimeras, 
 I madness, and deat 
 i fire, every ton^ 
 f heart is filled wi 
 |At this period sevei 
 ies, on the part of 
 \i, have given a na 
 epen, and occasioni 
 (suppose, my frient 
 er and dignified e 
 On the contra 
 k)w, for "in the fu 
 nreth." But my lonj 
 |it people, who talk i 
 I fur affronts, gene 
 ^ing instead of reven 
 nen of this country, 
 .quietly sit down a 
 t to return: the rag 
 pence of the aggres! 
 gree far beyond wl 
 I the gardens of his 11 
 and bee-hives, tin 
 digious number of p 
 bre to thee, Asem, 
 I;, and chattering, is 
 ar, and war of w 
 I of this logocracy 
 ' village, every ten 
 jifersal question is, " 
 I of challenge to | 
 I think exactly alik 
 |e]r finish, all the polii 
 lausted by way of gi 
 nt. What renders i 
 ||is, that the people a{ 
 «r for the cure of 
 elves wilfully to 
 ley alarm each other 
 «hensions : as I ha 
 icountry entertain til 
 i goblins until their i 
 ' day begets some 
 i tile busy goddess, 1 
 uage of the Christi 
 I mounts her rattlin 
 ot the country, frei; 
 brmations," "extr. 
 ilemen," "observat 
 I," and "unquestio 
 iests, the slang- tiv 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 67 
 
 )inet ! " lliousi 
 
 ety— who liatli no deity but his own will — whose 
 
 il, like the sandy desert, is barren of every flower 
 
 Ibope to throw a solitary bloom over its sterility, 
 
 views extend not beyond the horizon that 
 
 I his cheerless existence — even he is suflered to 
 talge in his desperate opinions, without exciting 
 eotiier emotion than pity or contempt. Rut this 
 land tolerating spirit reaches not beyond the pale 
 |religion. Once differ in politics, in mere theories, 
 
 g, and chimeras, the growth of interest, of folly, 
 [madness, and deadly warfare ensues — every eye 
 
 i fire, every tongue is loaded with reproach, and 
 
 f heart is filled with gall and bitterness. 
 [Atthis period several unjustifiable and serious in- 
 8, on tlie part of the barbarians of the British is- 
 \i, have given a new impulse to the tongue and 
 [pen, and occasioned a terrible wordy fever. Do 
 (suppose, my friend, that I mean to condemn any 
 «r and dignified expression of resentment for in- 
 On the contrary, I love to see a word before 
 k)w, for "in the fulness of the heart the tongue 
 neth." But my long experience has convinced me 
 t people, who talk the most about taking satisfac- 
 I fur affronts, generally content themselves with 
 jling instead of revenging the insult : like the street- 
 nen of this country, who, after a prodigious scold- 
 ]f, quielSy sit down and fan themselves cool again, 
 tlo return : the rage for talking has now, in con- 
 pence of the aggressions I alluded to, increased to 
 gree fur beyond what I have observed heretofore. 
 |lhe gardens of his Highness of Tripoli are fifteen 
 
 and bee-hives, three hundred peacocks, and a 
 idigious number of parrots and baboons — and yet I 
 bre to thee, Asem, that their buzzing, and squnll- 
 
 and chattering, is nothing compared to the wild 
 ar, and war of words, now raging within the 
 
 I of this Iflgocracy. Politics pervade every city, 
 
 ' village, every temple, every porter-house— the 
 
 litersal question is, " what is the news ?" This is 
 
 11(1 of challenge to political delate ; and as no two 
 
 1 think exactly alike, 'tis ten to one but, before 
 
 |if Gnish, all the polite phrases in the language are 
 
 iiusted by way of giving fire and energy to argu- 
 
 »t. What renders this talking fever more alann- 
 
 ^u, that the people appear to nauseate the medicine 
 
 er for the cure of their disease, and to abandon 
 
 elves wilfully to their chattering epidemic. — 
 
 ley alarm each other by direful reports and fearful 
 
 ehensions : as I have seen a knot of old wives in 
 
 (country entertain themselves with stories of ghosts 
 
 1 goblins until their imaginations were in a (tanic. 
 
 rday begets some new tale, big with agitation; 
 i llie busy goddess, Humour, to speak in the poetic 
 uage of the Christians, is constantly in motion. 
 '■ nioiuits her rattling stage-waggon, and gallops 
 «l the country, freighted with a load of *' hints, " 
 kmations," "extracts of letters from respectable 
 nen," " observations of respectable correspond- 
 I," and "unquestionable authorities," which her 
 
 nests, the slang- whangers, retail to their sapient 
 
 followers, with all the solemnity and all the authen- 
 ticity of oracles. For in this country every man 
 adopts some particular slang- whanger as his standard 
 of judgment, and reads every thing he writes, if he 
 reads nothuig else; which is doubtless the reason why 
 the people of this logocracy are so marvellously en- 
 lightened. True it is, the slang-whangers are some- 
 times at a loss for food, to supply the insatiable appetite 
 of their disciples; and are not unfrequently reduced 
 to the necessity of manufacturing dishes suited to the 
 taste of the times, to be served up as morning and 
 evening repasts. 
 
 Politics is a kind of mental food that is soon digested; 
 it is thrown up again the moment it is swallowed. 
 Let but one of these quidnuncs take in an idea through 
 eye or ear, and it immediately issues out at his mouth 
 —he l)egins to talk. No sooner therefore is a politi- 
 cian full charged with the rumours I have mentioned, 
 but his tongue is in motion : he sallies forth to give it 
 exercise; and woe to every one he encounters. He 
 is like one charged with electricity; present but a 
 knuckle, and you draw a spark. Now it is a thou- 
 sand to one that every person he meets is just as highly 
 charged as himself; with the self-same rumours too; 
 and fully as eager to give them vent. The only dif- 
 ference is, that as each goes according to the doctrine 
 of his respective slang- whanger, their views of every 
 subject are diametrically opposite. Here then arisen 
 as fair an opportunity for a battle of words as heart 
 could wish; and thou mayest rely upon it, Asem, they 
 do not let it pass unimproved, 'i'hey sometimes begin 
 with argument, but in process of time, as the tongue 
 waxes wanton, recrimination commences — reproach 
 follows close at its heels — from political abuse they 
 proceed to personal, and thus often is a friendship of 
 years trampled down by this gigantic dwarf of poli- 
 tics— the mongrel issue of groveling ambition and 
 aspiring ignorance ! 
 
 There would Ite but little harm indeed in all this, 
 if it ended merely in a broken head— for this might 
 soon be healed, and the scar, if any remained, might 
 serve as a warning agamst future intemperance : at 
 the worst, the loss of such heads as these would lie a 
 gain to the nation. But the evil extends far deeper; 
 it threatens to impair all social intercourse, and even 
 to sever the sacred union of femily and kindred. The 
 convivial table is disturbed — tlie cheerful fire-side is 
 invaded — the smile of social hilarity i»cbased away— 
 the bond of social love is broken by the everlasting in- 
 trusion of this fiend ; who lurks in the sparkling bowl, 
 crouches by the fire-side, growls in the friendly circle, 
 infests every avenue to pleasure ; and like an incubus, 
 sits scowling on the bosom of society, pressing down 
 and smothering every throb of liberal philanthropy. 
 
 But thon wilt perhaps ask, " What can these people 
 dispute about? one would suppose that being all tree 
 and e4|ual they would harmonize as brothers, children 
 of the same parent, and equal heirs of the same inhe- 
 ritance." This in theory is most exquisite, my good 
 friend, but in practice il turns outthe very dreamofa 
 
68 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 madman. Equality, Asem, is one of the most con- 
 summate scoundrels tliat ever crept from tlie brain of 
 a political juggler — a fellow who thrusts his hand into 
 the pocket of honest industry, or enterprising talent, 
 and squanders their hard-earned profits on profligate 
 idleness or indolent stupidity. Tliere will always be 
 an inequality among mankind so long as a portion of 
 it is enlightened and industrious, and the rest idle and 
 ignorant. The one will acquire a larger share of 
 wealth, and the attendant comforts, refinements, and 
 luxuries of life, and the influence and power, which 
 those will always possess who have the greatest ability 
 of administering to the necessities of their fellow-crea- 
 tures. These advantages will inevitably excite envy, 
 and envy will as inevitably beget ill-will : — hence 
 arises that eternal warfare, which the lower orders of 
 society wage against those who have raised themselves 
 by their own merits, or have been raised by the me- 
 rits of their ancestors, above the common level. In a 
 nation possessed of quick feelings this hostility might 
 engender deadly broils and bloody contentions; but 
 in this nation of quick tongues it merely vents itself in 
 wordy riots ; in assassinations of character, and what 
 is termed "murder of the King's English." 
 
 I cannot help smiluig sometimes to see the solici- 
 tude with which the people of America ( so called 
 from the country having been first discovered by 
 Christopher Columbus ) battle about them when any 
 election takes place; as if they had the least concern 
 in the matter, or were to be benefited by an exchange 
 of bashaws ! — They really seem ignorant that none, 
 but the bashaws and their dependents, are at all in- 
 terested in the event; and that the people at large 
 will not find their situation altered in the least. I 
 formerly gave thee an account of an election, which 
 took place under my eye. The result has been, that 
 the people, as some of the slang-whangers say, have 
 obtained a glorious triumph; which, however, is flatly 
 denied by the opposite slang-whangers ; who insist 
 that their own party is composed of the true sovereign 
 people, and that the others are all jacobins, French- 
 men, and Irish rel)els. I ought to apprize thee, that 
 the last is a term of great reproach here; which, per- 
 haps, thou wouldst not otherwise imagine, considering 
 that it is not many years since this very people were 
 engaged in a revolution, the failure of which would 
 have subjected them to the same ignominious epithet, 
 and a participation in which is now the highest re- 
 commendation to public confidence. By Mahomet, 
 but it cannot be denied, that the consistency of this 
 people, like every thuig else appertaining to them, is 
 on a prodigious great scale ! To return, however, to 
 the event of the election— Tiie people triumphed ; and 
 much good has it done them. I, for my part, expect- 
 ed to see wonderful changes, and magical metamor- 
 phoses. I expected to sec the people all rich, that 
 they would be all gentlemen Iwsliaws, riding in their 
 coaches, emancipated from toil, and revelling in luxu- 
 rious ease. Wilt thou credit me, Asem, when I de- 
 clare to thee, that every thing remains exactly in the 
 
 state it was before the last wordy campaign ? A I 
 noisy retainers, it is true, have crept into office, aodj 
 few noisy patriots, on the other side, have been ki^ 
 ed out; otherwise there is not the least difTeren 
 The labourer still toils for his daily bread ; the 1 
 gar still lives on the charity of those who have j 
 charity to bestow ; and the only solid satisfaction i 
 multitude have reaped is, that they have got a r 
 governor, or bashaw, whom as usual they will praii 
 idolize, and exalt for a while ; and afterwards, i 
 withstanding the merits he may possess, tliey 
 abuse, calumniate, and pull down. 
 
 Such, my dear Asem, is the way in which i 
 people of ' ' the most enlightened country under i 
 sun" are puffed up with mighty conceits : like a c 
 tain fish I have seen here, which, having his I 
 tickled for a short time, will swell to twice his i 
 size, and become a mere bladder of wind and va 
 
 The Messing of a true Mussulman light on tin 
 good Asem! Ever while thou livest, be true loll 
 prophet; and rejoice, that, though the boasting; 
 tical chatterers of this logocracy cast upon thy i 
 trymcn the ignominious epithet of slaves, thou IItiJ 
 in a country where the people, instead of bemg atll 
 mercy of a tyrant with a million of heads, have I 
 to submit to tlie will of a bashaw of only three taili 
 
 Ever thine, 
 Mdstapha. 
 
 COCKLOFT-HALL. 
 
 BY LAUNCELOT LANGSTAFr, ESQ. 
 
 TriosR who pass their time immured in the sn 
 of the city, amid the rattling of carts, the brawling J 
 the multitude, and the variety of disconlant swinl 
 that prey insensibly upon the nerves, and beget I 
 weariness of the spirits, can alone understand andG 
 that expansion of the heart, that physical renovaliii^ 
 which a citizen experiences when he steals forth fnii 
 his dusty prison, to breathe the free air of heaven,a 
 enjoy the clear face of nature. Who that has rai 
 bled by the si<leof oneofourmajestic rivers, at thelio 
 of sun-set, when the wildly romantic scenery an 
 is softened and tinted by the voluptuous mist ofevi^ 
 ing; when the bold and swelling outlines of tlied 
 stant mountain seem melting into the glowing hori 
 and a rich mantle of refulgence is thrown over t 
 whole expanse of the heavens, but must have fehl 
 abundant is nature in sources of pure enjoyment; ) 
 luxuriant in all that can enliven the senses or deli; 
 the imagination. The jocund zephyr, full freiglilj 
 with native fragrance, sues sweetly to the senses ;ll 
 chirping of the thousand varieties of insects with wliij 
 our woodlands alwund forms a concert of simple i 
 lody ; even the barking of the farm dug, the iowiiij;! 
 the cattle, the tinkling of their bells, and the slrokesl 
 the woodman's a.\e from the opposite shore, scemj 
 partake of the softness of the scene, and fall tunefi 
 upon the ear ; while the voice of the villager, clu 
 ing some rustic ballad, swells from a distance, iuU 
 semblance of the very music of harmonious love. 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 69 
 
 [tsach time I am conscious of the influence of na- 
 
 Lapon Ike heart. I cast my eyes around, all. is 
 > and beautiful ; the sweet tranquillity, the hai- 
 led calm settle upon my soul. No jarring chord 
 ; in my bosom ; every angry passion is at rest; 
 at peace with the whole world, and hail all 
 Ijnd as friends and brothers — Blissful moments ! 
 
 Irecall the careless days of my boyhood, when 
 • existence was happiness, when hope was cer- 
 
 Ity, (his world a paradise, and every woman a mi- 
 ning angel! — Surely man was designed for a te- 
 ll of the universe, instead 'of being pent up in these 
 lal cages, these dens of strife, disease, and discord. 
 
 j were created to range the lields, to sport among 
 
 Igtuves, to build castles in the air, and have every 
 
 [ortliem realized. 
 
 i whole legion of reflections like these insinuated 
 dves into my mind, and stole me from the in- 
 of the cold realities before me, as I took my 
 Btomed walk, a few weeks since, on the battery. 
 «, watching the splendid mutations of one of our 
 ner skies, which emulated the boasted glories of 
 
 hlalian sun-set, I all at once discovered that it was 
 
 1 10 pack up my portmanteau, bid adieu for a while 
 ny ellMw-chair, and in a little time I should be 
 isported from tlie region of smoke, and noise, and 
 
 ^, to the enjoyment of a far sweeter prospect and 
 rigliter sky. The next morning I was off full tilt 
 
 ICocklofl-hall, leaving my man Pompey to follow 
 i leisure with my baggage. I love to indulge in 
 I transitions, which are prompted by the quick 
 (ilseof the moment ; — 'tis the only mode of guard- 
 
 I against that intruding and deadly foe to all parties 
 
 Measure, — anticipation. 
 
 paring now made good my retreat, until (he black 
 i commence, it is but a piece of civility due to my 
 \tti, who I trust are, ere this, my friends, to give 
 1 a proper introduction to my present residence. 
 I this as much to gratify them as myself; well 
 
 |oving a reader is always anxious to learn how his 
 or is lodged, whether in a garret or a cellar, a 
 
 |rel or a palace. At least an author is generally 
 ■ enough to think so; and an author's vanity ought 
 leUmes (o be gratiiied : poor devil ! it is often the 
 f graliiication he ever tastes in (his world ! 
 
 Cockloft-hail is the country residence of the family, 
 ither the paternal mansion ; which, like the mother 
 ■i(ry, sends forth whole colonies to people the face 
 
 |lhe earth. Pindar whimsically denominates it the 
 iiy hive, and there is at least as much truth as hu- 
 
 nr in my cousin's epithet ; — for many a swarm has 
 Juced. I don't recollect whether I have at any 
 (mentioned to my readers, for I seldom look back 
 
 [what I have written, that the fertility of the Cock- 
 I is proverbial. The female mend)ers of the fiuniiy 
 
 t incredibly fruitful ; and to use a favourite phrase 
 |old Cockloft, who is excessively addicted to back- 
 non, they seldom fail " to throw doublets every 
 I myself have known three or four very in- 
 urious young men reduced to great extremities, by 
 
 some of these capital breeders. Heaven smiled upon 
 their union, and enriched them with a nnmeroos 
 and hopeful ofl&pring — who eat them out of doors. 
 But to return to the hall.— It is pleasantly situated 
 on the bank of a pastoral stream ; not so near town as 
 to invite an inundation of idle acquaintance, who come 
 to loungeaway an afternoon, nor so distantasto render 
 it an absolute deed of charity or friendship to perform 
 the journey. It is one of the oldest habi(ations in 
 the country, and was built by my cousin Christopher's 
 grandfather, who was also mine by the mother's side, 
 in his latter days, to form, as the ol<l gentleman ex- 
 pressed himself, ''a snug retreat, where he meant to 
 sit himself down in his old days and be comfortable for 
 the rest of his life. " He was at this time a few years 
 over fourscore ; but this was a common saying of his, 
 with which he usually closed his airy speculations. 
 One would have thouglit, from the long vista of years 
 through which he contemplated many of his projects, 
 that the good man had forgotten that the age of the pa- 
 triarchs liai! long since gone by, and calculated upon 
 living a century longer at least. He was for a consi- 
 derable time in doubt, on the question of roofing his 
 house with sliingles or slate. — Shingles would not last 
 above thirty years, but then they were much cheaper 
 than slates. He settled the matter by a kind of com- 
 promise, and determined to build wi(h shingles first ; 
 " and when they are worn out, " said the old gen- 
 tleman, triumphantly, " 'twill be time enough to re- 
 place them with more durable materials. " But his 
 contemplated improvementssurpassed every thing; and 
 scarcely had he a roof over liLs head, when he dis- 
 covered a thousand things to be arranged before he 
 could "sit down comfortably." In the fust place, 
 every tree and bush on the place was cut down or 
 grubbed up by the roots, because they were not placed 
 to his mind ; and a vast quantity of oaks, chesnuts, 
 and elms, set out in clumps and rows, and labyrinths^ 
 which, he observed, iu about (ive-and-twenty or thirty 
 years at most, would yield a very tolerable shade, and. 
 moreover would shutout all the surrounding country; 
 for he was determined, he said, to have all his views 
 on his own land, and be beholden to no man for a pro- 
 spect. This, my learned readers will perceive, was 
 something very like the idea of Lorenzo de Medici, 
 who gave as a reason for preferring one of his seats 
 above all the others, " that all the ground within view 
 of it was his own. " Now, .whether my grandfather 
 ever heard of the Medici, is more than lean say; I 
 rather think, however, from (he characteristic original- 
 ity of the Cocklofts, that it was a whim-wham of his 
 own begetting. Another old no(ion of the old gen- 
 tleman was to blow up a large bed of rocks for the pur- 
 pose of having a fish-pond, aldiough the river ran at 
 about one hundred yucds distiuice from the house, and 
 was well stored with fish ; — but there was nothing, 
 he wiid, like having (iiings to one's self. So at it he 
 went with all the ardour of a projector, who has just 
 hit upon some splendid and useless whim-wham. As 
 he proccedeil, liis views enlarged ; he would have a 
 
70 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 summer-house built on the margin of the flsh-pond ; he 
 would have it surrounded with elms and willows ; and 
 he would have a cellar dug under it, for some incom- 
 prehensible purpose, which remains a secret to this 
 day. " In a few years, " he observed, " it would be 
 a delightful piece of wood and water, where he miglit 
 ramble on a summer's noon, smoke his pipe, and enjoy 
 himself in his old days : " — thrice honest old soul ! — 
 he died of an apoplexy in his ninetieth year, just as lie 
 had begun to blow up the fish-pond. 
 
 Let no one ridicule the whim-whams of my grand- 
 father. If— and of this there is no doubt, for wise 
 men have said it— if life be but a dream, happy is he 
 who can make the most of the illusion. 
 
 Since my grandfather's death, the hall has passed 
 through the liands of a succession of true old cavaliers, 
 like himself, who gloried in observing the golden 
 rules of hospitality ; which, according to the Cockloft 
 principle, consist in giving a guest the freedom of the 
 house, cramming him with beef and pudding, and, if 
 possible, laying him under the table with prime Port, 
 Claret, and Madeira. The mansion appears to have 
 been consecrated to the jolly god, and abounds with 
 monuments sacred to conviviality. Every chest of 
 drawers, clothes-press, and cabinet, is decorated with 
 enormous china punch-bowls, wliich Mrs Cockloft has 
 paraded with much ostentation, particularly in her 
 favourite red damask bed-chamber ; and in which a 
 projector might find room to practise his experiments 
 on fleets, diving-bells, and sub-marine boats. 
 
 I have before mentioned cousin Christopher's pro- 
 found veneration for antiiiue furniture; in consequence 
 of which the old hall is furnished in much the same 
 style with the house in town. Old-fashioned bed- 
 steads, with high testers ; massy clothes-presses, stand- 
 ing most majestically on eagles' claws, and ornament- 
 ed with a profusion of shining brass handles, clasps 
 and hinges; and around the grand parlour are solenm- 
 ly arranged a set of high-backed, leather-bottomed, 
 massy, mahogany chairs, that always remind me of 
 the formal long-waisted belles, who flourished in stays 
 and buckram, alwut the lime they were in fashion. 
 
 If I may judge from their height, it was not the 
 fashion for gentlemen in those days to loll over the 
 back of a lady's chair, and whisper in her ear what 
 might be as well spoken aloud;— at least they must 
 have been Patagonians to have effected it. Will Wi- 
 zard declares that he saw a little fat German gallant 
 attempt once to whisper Miss Barbara Cockloft in this 
 manner, but being unluckily caught by the chin, he 
 dangled and kicked about for half a minute, before hr 
 could And terra firma;— but Will is much addicted to 
 hyperbole, by reason of his having been a great traveller. 
 But what the Cocklofts more especially pride 
 themselves upon is the possession of several family 
 portraits, which exhibit as honest a set of square, 
 portly, well fed gentlemen, and gentlewomen, as ever 
 grew and flourished under the pencil of a Dutch 
 painter. Old Christopher, who is a complete ge- 
 nealogist, has a story to tell of each; and dilates with 
 
 copious eloquence on the great services of the g, 
 in large sleeves, during the old French war ; and] 
 the piety of the lady in blue velvet, who so attentii 
 peruses her book, and was once celebrated for a 
 liful arm ; but much as I reverence my illustrionsi 
 cestors, I find little to admire in their biograf 
 except my cousin's memory ; which is most pi 
 ingly retentive of every uninteresting particular. 
 
 My allotted chamber in the hall is the same thati 
 occupied in days of yore by my honoured uncle Jc 
 The room exhibits many memorials which recallj 
 my remembrance the solid excellence and amialijei 
 centricities of that gallant old lad. Over the mat 
 piece hangs the [lurtrait of a young lady dressed 
 flaring, long-waisted, blue silk gown ; be-flom 
 and be-furbelowed, and be-cuffed, in a most abui 
 manner. She holds in one hand a book, which i 
 very coiriplaisantly neglects, to turn and smile on I 
 spectator; in the other a flower, which I hope, 
 llie honour of dame Nature, was the sole prodi 
 of the painter's imagination ; and a little behind It 
 something tied to a blue ril)and ; but whether a I 
 dog, a monkey, or a pigeon, must be left to the ji 
 ment of future commentators. — This little d. 
 tradition says, was my uncle John's third flame; 
 he would infallibly have run away with her, couUl 
 have persuaded her into the measure; but at 
 time ladies were not quite so easily run away withj 
 Columbine; and my uncle, failing in the point, 
 a lucky thought, and with great gallantry ran ofTi 
 her picture ; which he conveyed in triumph to 
 loft-hall, and hung up in his bed-chamber as a 
 ment of his enterprising spirit. The old gentl* 
 prided himself mightily on his chivalric maixruv 
 always chuckled, and pulled up his stock when 
 contemplated the picture, and never related the 
 ploit without winding up—" I might, indeed, 
 carried off the original, had I chose to dangle a 
 longer after her chariot wheels; — for, to do lliei 
 justice, I believe she bad a liking for me ; but I ah 
 scorned to coax, my boy— always, — 'twas my way] 
 My uncle John was of a happy temperament; 
 would give half I am worth for his talent at sclf^ 
 lation. 
 
 The Miss Cocklofts have made several spirited 
 tempts to introiluce modern furniture into the 
 but with very indifferent success. Modern style 
 always been an object of great annoyance to 
 Christopher, and is ever treated by him with i 
 reign contempt, as an upstart intruder. It is a 
 mon observation of his, that your old-fashioned 
 stantial furniture bespeaks the respectability of i 
 ancestors, and indicates that the famil} has beem 
 to hold up its head for more than the present get 
 tion ; whereas the fragile appendages of modern 
 seem emblems of mushroom geutility;and,tolii8i 
 predict that the family dignity will moulder awayi 
 vanish with its transient finery. The same vl 
 wham makes him averse to having his house sun 
 ed with poplars; which lie stigmatizes as mere 
 
 g, just fit to on 
 dern gentry, and 
 nis they decorate. 
 JTenerationforantit 
 Isee the dust brushe 
 l-bsliioned testers, 
 from his anci( 
 , and I once saw 
 [Jeremy's knockiuj 
 with his tennis- 
 [ latter days of my 
 his peculiar affectio 
 kich leans against a 
 ■ liouse supports it, 
 , I believe, a questi( 
 
 held sacr«l by 
 
 nted and rearcil 
 
 I broken his neck b 
 
 sis one of his favou 
 
 elieve, that if the 
 
 I gentleman would 
 
 old be a great pi 
 
 ceased bearing, 
 
 1 tempest robs it ^ 
 
 e, from the lamenU 
 
 ons, that he had I 
 
 ktemplates it in a hs 
 
 niour.-*' Together 
 
 ^ and together shall \ 
 
 Ibothour heads wi 
 
 aldering bones may] 
 
 cdustof the tree 1 1 
 
 |8, he says, thatitrej 
 
 i the hall; and that 
 
 dure, as if to welcoi 
 
 llrareour tenderest; 
 
 Md tree had oblru 
 
 ) Barbara's windov 
 
 der the gardener 
 
 ;et the old man's an 
 
 biedit. "What,"( 
 
 J cherry-tree in its € 
 
 jihegray locks of yo 
 
 |Do my readers ya\ 
 
 ley are welcome to t 
 
 r resume it agam. 
 
 I spirits, and will 
 
 e of them. Full ofl 
 
 emcnt, and have 
 
 fown? Whoisth( 
 
 ) to linger round i 
 
 e haunt of his boyh( 
 
 I his head waxed gr 
 
 on the friends 
 
 1 his heart — ming 
 
 iMted to all his fe 
 
 ot relish these enj( 
 
 |ty have lieen so soile 
 
 I as to he incapah 
 
 wires that survive 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 Tl 
 
 wn; be-flowei 
 
 rls, just fit to ornament the sliingle palaces of 
 drm gentry, and characteristic of tlie establish- 
 ntii liiey decorate. Indeed, so far does he carry 
 Inneration for antique trumpery, that he can scarce- 
 |gee the dust brushe<l from its resting-place on the 
 t^fashionetl testers, or a gray-l)earded spider dis- 
 from his ancient inheritance, without groan- 
 t and I once saw him in a transport of passion, 
 ] Jerfmy's knocking down a mouldering martin- 
 p, with his tennis-hall, which had been set up in 
 (latter days of my grandfather. Another object 
 his peculiar affection is an old English cherry-tree, 
 ^kh leans against a corner of the hall ; and whether 
 t house supports it, or it supiMrts the house, would 
 [ I believe, a question of some difficully to decide. 
 ', held sacretl by friend Christopher because he 
 nted and reared it himself, and had once well 
 li broken his neck by a fall from one of its branches. 
 |isis one of his favourite stories ; and there is reason 
 lelieve, that if the tree were out of the way, the 
 I gentleman would forget the whole affair : which 
 aid be a great pity. The old tree has long 
 ! ceased bearing, and is exceedingly infirm ; — 
 f tempest robs it of a limb ; and one would sup- 
 , from the lamentations of my friend on such oc- 
 bons, that he had lost one of his own. He often 
 Wmplates it in a half-melancholy, half-moralizing 
 liiour.— " Together," he says, " have we tlourish- 
 [and together shall we wither away : — a few years, 
 I both our heads will be laid low ; and perhaps ray 
 aidering bones may, one day or other, mingle with 
 edust of the tree I have planted." He often fan- 
 y he says, that it rejoices to see him when he revi- 
 ^ die hall; and that its leaves assume a brighter 
 dure, as if to welcome his arrival. How whimsi- 
 lly are our tenderest feelings assailed ! At one time 
 Itold tree hail obtruded a withered branch liefore 
 ) Barbara's window, and she desired her father 
 der the gardener to saw it off. I shall never 
 ;et the old man's answer, and the look that accom- 
 lied it. " What," cried he, " lop off the limbs of 
 j cherry-tree in its old age ? — why do you not cut 
 llhe gray locks of your pour old father ? " 
 |Do my readers yawn at this long family detiiil ? 
 ley are welcome to throw down our work, and ne- 
 r resume it agam. I have no care for such ungra- 
 I spirits, and will not throw away a thought on 
 e of them. Full often have I contributed to their 
 eincnt, and have I not a right for once to consult 
 r own ? Who is there that does not fbndly turn at 
 I to linger round those scenes which were once 
 e haunt of his boyhood, ere his heart grew heavy 
 1 his head waxed gray; and to dwell with fond af- 
 on the friends who have twined themselves 
 Ihis heart — mingled in all his enjoyments — con- 
 uted to all his felicities? If there be any who 
 ot relish these enjoyments, let them despair— for 
 |ty have lieen so soiled in their intercourse with the 
 I as to he incapable of tasting some of the purest 
 Hires that survive the period of yonth. 
 
 To such as have not yet lost the rural feeling, I ad- 
 dress this simple family picture; and in honest sincer- 
 ity of heart I invite them to turn aside from bustle, 
 care, and toil, to tariy with me for a season ui the 
 hospitable mansion of the Cocklofts. 
 
 I was really apprehensive, on reading the following 
 effusion of Will Wizard, tliat he still retained that 
 pestilent hankering after puns of which we lately con- 
 victed him. He, however, declares that he is fully 
 authoiized by the example of the most popular critics 
 and wits of the present age, whose manner and mat- 
 ter he has closely, and he flatters himself successfully, 
 copied in the subsequent essay. 
 
 THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE. 
 
 BY nlLLIAM niZiBD, ESQ. 
 
 The uncommon healthiness of the season, occasion- 
 ed, as several learned physicians assure me, by the 
 prevalence of the influenza, has encouraged the chief- 
 tain of our dramatic corps to marshal his forces, and 
 commence the campaign at a much earlier day than 
 usual. He has been induced to take the field thus 
 suddenly, I am told, by the invasion of certain foreign 
 marauders, who pitched their tents at Yauxhall Gar- 
 den during the warm months, and taking advantage 
 of his army being disbanded and dispersed in summer- 
 quarters, committed sad depredations upon the bor- 
 ders of his territories — carrying off a considerable 
 portion of his winter harvest, and murdering some of 
 his most distinguished characters. 
 
 It is true these hardy invaders have been reduced 
 to great extremity by the late heavy rains, which in- 
 jured and destroyed much of their camp equipage, 
 besides spoiling the best part of their wardrobe. Two 
 cities, a triumphal car, and a new moon for Cinde- 
 rella, together with the barber's boy who was em- 
 ployed every night to powder it and make it shine 
 white, have been entirely washed away; and the sea 
 has become very wet and mouldy— insomuch that 
 great apprehensions are entertained that it will never 
 be dry enough for use. Add to this, the noble county 
 Paris had the misfortune to tear his corduroy breeches 
 in the scuffle with Romeo, by reason of the tomb being 
 very wet, which occasioned him to slip; and he and 
 his noble rival possessing but one poor pair of satin 
 ones between them, were reduced to considerable 
 shifts to keep up the dignity of their respective houses. 
 In spite of these disadvantages and untoward circum- 
 stances, they have continued to enact most intrepidly 
 — performing with much ease and confidence, inas- 
 much as they were seldom pestered with an audience 
 to criticise and put them out of countenance. It is 
 rumoured that the last heavy shower has absolutely 
 dissolved the company, and that our manager has 
 nothing further to apprehend from that quarter. 
 
 The theatre opened on Wednesday last with great 
 eclat, as we critics say, and almost vied in brilliancy 
 with that of my superb friend Consequa in Canton; 
 where the castles were all ivory, the sea mother-nf- 
 
7i 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 pearl, the skies gold and silver leaf, and Uie outside 
 of Uic boxes inlaid witii scallop shell-work. Those 
 who want a better description of the theatre may as 
 well go and see it, and then they can judge for them- 
 selves. For the gratilication of a highly respectable 
 class of readers, who love to see every thing on pa- 
 per, I had indeetl prepared a circumstantial and truly 
 incomprehensible account of it, such as your traveller 
 always fills his book with, and which I defy the most 
 intelligent architect, even the great Sir Christopher 
 Wren, to understand. I had jumbled cornices, and 
 pilaslers, and pillars, and capitals, and Iriglyplis, and 
 modules, and plinths, and volutes, and perspectives, 
 and fore-shnrtenini^'s, heller-skelter; and had set all 
 the orders of architecture, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, 
 etc. together by the ears, in order to work out a sa- 
 tisfactory description; but the manager having sent 
 me a polite note, requesting that I would not take off 
 the sharp edge, as be whimsically expresses it, of pu- 
 blic curiosity, thereby diminishing the receipts of his 
 house, I have willingly consented to oblige him, and 
 have left my description at the oflice of our publisher, 
 where any person may see it, provided he applies at 
 a proper hour. 
 
 I cannot refrain here from giving vent to the sa- 
 tisfaction I received from the excellent performances 
 of the different actors, one and all ; and particularly 
 the gentlemen who shifted the scenes, who acquitted 
 themselves throughout with great celerity, dignity, 
 pathos, and efTect. Nor must I pass over tlie peculiar 
 meritsof my friend John, who gallanted off the chairs 
 and tables in the most dignified and circumspect man- 
 ner. Indeed I have had fre(|uenl occasion to applaud 
 the correctness with which this gentleman fulfils the 
 parts allotted to him, and consider him as one of the 
 best general performers in the company. My friend, 
 (he Cockney, found considerable fault with the man- 
 ner in which John shoved a huge rock from behind 
 the .s::enes, maintaining that be should have put his 
 left foot forward and pushed it with his right hand, 
 that lieing the method practised by bis contemporaries 
 of the royal theatres, and universally approved by 
 their best critics. He also took exceptions to John's 
 coat, which he pronounced too short by a fool at 
 least— particularly when he turned bis back to the 
 compiuiy. But I look n|)on these objections in the 
 same light as new readings, and insist that John shall 
 be allowed to mameuvre his chairs and tables, shove 
 his rocks, and wear his skirts in that style which his 
 genius l)est affects. My hopes in the rising merit of 
 this favourite actor daily increase ; and I would hint 
 to the manager the propriety of giving him a benefit, 
 advertising in the usual style of play-bills, as a 
 " springe locatcli woodcocks," that between the play 
 and farce John will make a 6oic — for that night only ! 
 
 I am told that no pains have been spared to make 
 the exhibitions of this season as splendid as possible. 
 Several expert rat-catchers have been sent into dif- 
 ferent piirts of tlie country to catch white mice for the 
 grand pantomime of Cinderella. A nest-iUlI of little 
 
 sipiab Cupids have been taken in the neighboari 
 of Communifiaw : they are as yet but half tie 
 of the true Holland breed, and it is hoped will lie^ 
 to fly about by the middle of October— oUit^ 
 they will be suspended about the stage by the v^ 
 bimd, like little alligators in an apothecary's $lio| 
 the pantomime must [)osilively be [)erforme(l liy i 
 time. Great pains and expense have Ijeen incui 
 in the ini|)ortation of one of the most portly 
 kins in ]New-Englan<l, and the public may be as 
 there is now one on board a vessel from New-IUij 
 which will contain Cinderella's coach and six \vitli|i 
 feet ease, were the white mice even ten limesasln 
 
 Also several barrels of hail, rain, br'mstune, i 
 gunpowder, are in store for melo-drames — of wlj 
 a number are to be played off this winter. It is| 
 thermore wbispercil me that the great thunder-ilii 
 has been new braced, and an expert [)erforiner| 
 that instrument engaged, who will thunder in p 
 English, so as to lie understood by the most illiti 
 hearer. 'J'his will be infinitely preferable to the i 
 able Italian thunderer, employed last whiter by || 
 Ciceri, who performeil in such an unnatural andi 
 landish tongue, that none but the scholars of Sigi 
 Da Ponte could undei'sland him. It will be a furt 
 gratification to the patriotic audience to know I 
 the present thunderer is a fellow-countryman, I 
 at Dunderbergh among the echofs of the higlilanl 
 and that he thunders with peculiar emphasis) 
 |H)mpous enunciation, in the true style of a four|]i| 
 July orator. 
 
 In addition to all these additions, the manai^lj 
 provided an entire new snow-storm — the very i 
 of which will be sufficient to draw a shawl overeii 
 naked bosom in the theatre. The snow is pertt 
 fresh, having been manufactured last August. 
 
 N. I). The outside of the theatre has been i 
 mented with a new cliiimiey ! I 
 
 No. XV.— TIlUnSDAY, OCTOBER 1, <807. 
 SKETCHES FROM NATURE. 
 
 DV ANTHONY KVKIIRHKEN, UKNT. 
 
 Tiiu brisk north-westers, which prevailed noth 
 since, had a powerful effect in arresting the pn 
 of belles, beaux, and wild pigeons in their fasliioi 
 northern tour, and turning them back to the i 
 balmy region of the south. Among the rest, I \ 
 encounlereil, full butt, by a blast which set mp 
 chattering, just as I doubled one of the frownj 
 bluffs of the Mohawk mountains, in my route to I 
 gara; and facing about incontinently, I furlhij 
 scudded before the wind, and a few days since] 
 rived at my old quarters in New- York. My I 
 care on returning from so long an absence was tofi 
 the worthy family of the Cocklofts, whom I fol 
 safe burrowed in their country mansion. Onj 
 quiring for my highly-respected coadjutor, Lan 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 n 
 
 BER 1, 1807. 
 
 arned, with great concern, that he had relapsed 
 )one of liis eccentric fiU of tlie spleen, ever since 
 era of a turtle dinner given by old Cockloft to 
 ne of the neighbouring squires; wherein the old 
 kitlenian had achieved a glorious victory, in laying 
 «t Launcelot fairly under the table. Langstaff, 
 liou;;h fond of the social board, and cheerful glass, 
 atMininates any excess, and has an invincible 
 lenion to getting mellow; considering it a wilful 
 lirage on the sanctity of imperial mind, a senseless 
 >of the body, and an unpardonable, because a 
 luntary, prostration of both mental and personal 
 niiy. I have heard him moralize on the subject, 
 ■a style that would have done honoin- to Michael 
 pio himself; but I believe, if the truth were known, 
 s antipathy rather arises from his having, as the 
 kase is, but a weak head, and nerves so extremely 
 Lilive, that he is sure to suffer severely from a 
 Ijic; and will groan and make resolutions against it 
 I a week afterwards. He therefore took this wag- 
 1 exploit of old Christopher's, and the consecpient 
 zing which he underwent, in high dudgeon; had 
 ^t aloof from company ior a fortnight, and appeared 
 ; meditating some deep plan of retaliation upon 
 j mischievous old crony. He had, however, for 
 I last day or two, shown some symptom^ of conva- 
 *nce; had listened, without more than half a dozen 
 Itches of impatience, to one of Christopher's un- 
 donable long stories— and even was seen to smile, 
 Itlie one hundred and thirtielh time, at a venerable 
 6 originally Iwrrowed from Joe Miller, but which, 
 (iiiit of long occupancy, and frequent repetition, 
 [old gentleman now (irmly believes happened to 
 icif somewhere in New-Kngland. 
 ^s I am well acquainted with Launcelot's haunts, I 
 1 found him out. He was lolling on his favourite 
 icli, rudely constructed at the foot of an old tree, 
 ich is full of fantastical twists, and with its spread- 
 I branches forms a canopy of luxuriant foliage. 
 siree is a kind of chronicle of the short reigns of 
 Inncle John's mistresses ; and its trunk is sorely 
 pnded with carvings of true lover's knots, hearts, 
 names, and inscriptions! — frail memorials of 
 I variety of the fair dames who captivated the wan- 
 inj; fancy of that old cavalier in the days of his 
 Ithful romance. Launcelot holds this tree in par- 
 ]lar regard, as he does every thing else connected 
 ithe memory of his gooil uncle John. He was 
 lining, in one of his usual brown studies, against 
 nnk, and gazing pensively upon the river that 
 I just by, washing the drooping branches of the 
 |irt' willows that fringeil its bank. My appearance 
 1 him :— he grasped my hand with his usual 
 nth, and with a tremulous but close pressure, 
 |ch spoke that his heart entered uilo (he saluta- 
 After a number of affectionate inquiries and fe- 
 lations— such as friendship, not form, dictated, he 
 I to relapse .into his former (low of thought, and 
 ume the chaui of ideas my appearance had broken 
 I moment. •; .• ^ ,! - ,v. ..; ,, 
 
 " I was reflecting," said he, " my dear Anthony, 
 upon some oliscrvations I made In our last numlier; 
 and considering whether the sight of objects once dear 
 to the affections, or of scenes where we have passed 
 different happy periods of early life, really occasions 
 most enjoyment or most regret. Renewing our ac- 
 quaintance with well-known but long-separated ob- 
 jects revives, it is true, the recollection of former 
 pleasures, and touches the tenderest feelings of the 
 heart; as the flavour of a delicious beverage will re- 
 main upon the palate long after the cup has parted 
 from the lips. But, on the other hand, my friend, 
 these same objects are too apt to awaken us to a keener 
 recollection of what we were when they once delight- 
 cil us ; and to provoke a mortifying and melancholy 
 contrast with what we are at present. They act, in 
 a manner, as mile-stones of existence, showing us how 
 far we have travelled in the journey of life; — how 
 much of our weary but fascinating pilgrimage is ac- 
 complished. I look round me, and my eye fondly re- 
 cognises the fields I once sported over, the river in 
 which I once swam, and the orchard I intrepidly rob- 
 bed in the halcyon days of boyhood. The fields are 
 still green, the river still rolls unaltered and undimi- 
 nished, and the orchard is still flourishing and fruit- 
 ful ;— it is I only am changed. The thoughtless flow 
 of mad-cap spirits that nothing could depress ; — the 
 elasticity of nene that enabled me to bound over the 
 held, to stem the stream, and climb the tree; the 
 ' sunshine of the breast' that beamed an illusive charm 
 over every object, and created a paradise around me ! 
 — where are they ? — the thievish lapse of yeai-s has 
 stolen them away, and left in return nothing but gray 
 hairs, and a repining spirit." My friend Launcelot 
 concluded his harangue with a«igl), and as I saw he 
 was still under the influence of a whole legion of (he 
 blues, and just on the |)oint of sinking into one of his 
 whiiprV i| and unreasonable (its of melancholy abs- 
 tract T proposed a walk ; — he consented, and slip- 
 ped hit. 'it arm in mine ; and waving in the other a 
 gold-headed thorn cane, bequeathed him by his uncht 
 John, we slowly raml)led along the margin of the river. 
 Langstaff, though possessing great vivacity of tem- 
 per, is most wofully subject to these *' (hick-coming 
 fancies;" and I do not know a man whose animal 
 spirits de insult him with more jiltings, and cocpiet- 
 ries, and slippery tricks. In these moods he is often 
 visited by a whim-wham which he indulges in common 
 with the Cocklofts. It is that of looking back with 
 regret, conjuring up the phantoms of good old times, 
 and decking them in imaginary (inery, with the spoils 
 of his fancy : like a good widow lady, regretting the 
 loss of the "poor dear man," for whom, while living, 
 she cared not a rush. I have seen him and Pindar, 
 and old Cockloft, amuse themselves over a bottle with 
 their youthful days, until, by the time they had In- 
 come what is termed merry, they were the most mi- 
 serable beings in existence. In a similar humour Avas 
 Launcelot at present, and I knew the only way was 
 to let him moralize himself out of it. 
 
 iU 
 
74 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 1* 
 
 
 Our ramble was soon interrupted by the appearan<;e 
 of a pcrsonaKe of no little im|iorlanee at Cocklofl-liall : 
 — for, to let my reailrrs into a family secret, friend 
 Cliristoplier is notoriously Iien-{iecke4l by an olil negro, 
 who has whitened on the place, and is his niasU>r, al- 
 manac, and counsellor. My readers, if haply they 
 have sojourned in the country, and iHH'onie conver- 
 sant in rural manners, nnist have observed, that there 
 is scarce a little hamlet hut has one of these old wea- 
 ther-beaten wisea<<res of negroes, who ranks anions 
 the great characters of the place. He is always resort- 
 ed to as an oracle to resolve any (piesli(m alMMit the 
 weather, fishing, shooling, fanning, and horse-^loclor- 
 iiig ; and on such oc(;asions will slouch his remnant of a 
 hat on one side, fold his arms, roll his white eyes, and 
 examine (he sky, with a look as knowing as Peter Pin- 
 dar'smagpiewhenpeepingintuamarrow-lHHic. Sucha 
 sage ciu-uiudgcon is old (].-esar, whoacts as friend Cock- 
 loft's prime minister or grand vizier ; assumes, when 
 abroad, his master'sslyleand thie; to wit, 'Squire Cock- 
 loft; and is, in effect, absolute lord and ruler of (he soil. 
 
 As he iKissed us, he pidled off his hat with an air of 
 somethuig more (ban respect; — it partook, I thought, 
 of affection. " There, now, is another memento of 
 the kind I have l)een noticing," said Launcelot; 
 '' Cfl'sar was a bosom frienii and chosen playmate of 
 cousin Pindar and myself, when we were boys. Ne- 
 ver were we so happy as when, stealing away on a 
 holiday to the hall, we ranged alwuit the lields with 
 honest Caesar, lie was particularly adroit in making 
 our quail-traps and lishing rods ; was always the ring- 
 leader in the schemes of froiicksome mischief per- 
 |)elrated by the urchins of the iieigbbourhootl ; con- 
 sidered himself on an equality with the best of us; 
 and many a hard battle have I had with him, aiiout a 
 division of the spoils of an orchard, or the title to a 
 bird's nest. IVIany a smnmer evcningdo I rememlM>r, 
 when, huddled together on the steps of the hall door, 
 Cicsar, with his stories of ghosts, goblins, and witches, 
 would put us all in a panic, and people every lane, 
 and church-yard, and solitary wood, with imaginary 
 beings. In process of time, he became the constant 
 attendant and Man Friday of cousin Pindar, whenever 
 he went sparking among the rosy country girls of the 
 neighbouring farms; and brought up the rear at every 
 rustic dance, when he would mingle in the sable group 
 that always thronged the door of merriment; and it 
 was enough to put to the rout a host of splenetic imps 
 to see his mouth gradually dilate from ear to ear, with 
 pride and exultation, at seeing how neatly Master Pin- 
 dar footeil it over the floor. Copsar was likewise the 
 chosen confidant and special agent of Pindar in all his 
 love affairs, until, as hisevil stars would have it, on being 
 entrusted with the deliveiy of a poetic billet-doux toone 
 of bis patron's swectliearts, he took an unlucky notion 
 to send it to his own sable dulcinea; who, not being 
 able to read it, took it to her mistress; — and so the whole 
 affair was blown. Pindar was universally roasted, 
 and Ca>sar discharged for ever from his confidence. 
 
 "Poor Cn<sar!— he has now grown old, like his 
 
 young masters, bill lie still remembers old times;; 
 will, now and then, remind me of them as he li»||| 
 me to my nnnn, and lingers a little while to lijdi 
 a gooti night. — Helieve me, my dear Kvergrocn, ili 
 honest simple old creature has a warm corner in i 
 heart ; 1 don't see, for my part, why a iMxIy niayi 
 like a negro as well as a white man ! " 
 
 Ity the time these biographical anecdotes vq 
 ended, we had reached the stable, into which wei 
 ' uliintarily strolled, anil found Osar busily enipU 
 in rubbing down the horses — an oflice he woiiltln 
 entrust to any body else; having contracted an .iRi 
 tion for every lienst in the stable, from their Ik 
 descendants of the old race of animals, bis youllil 
 eoiiteinpornries. ( ]a'sar was very particular in i,'i\i| 
 us their pedigrees, together with a panegyric on d 
 swiftness, iKiltorn, blood, and spirit of their sin 
 From these he digressed into a variety of anecdol 
 in which Launcelot bore a conspicuous |>art, audi 
 which the old negro dwelt with all the garriilil?^ 
 age. Honest Langstaff stood leaning with liis { 
 over the hack of bis favourite steed, old Killdeerja 
 I could perceive he listened to Cn-sar's simple dfii 
 with that fond attention with which a feeling Im 
 will hang over narratives of lioyish days. Ills i 
 s|iarkled with aninialioii, a glow of youthful liresld 
 across his pale visage; — he nodded with smilinv^ 
 probation at every sentence — chuckled at even' i 
 ploit ; laughed heartily at the story of his once liati 
 smoked out a country siiigiug-school with brimsla 
 and assafo'tida; and slipping a piece of money 
 old Ca<sar's hand to buy himself a new tobacco-h 
 he seized me by the arm, and hurried out of Ihesia 
 brimful of gootl-nature. " 'Tis a pestilent old i 
 for talking, my dear fellow," cried he; " but yon n 
 not find fault with him, the creature means well." 
 knew, at the very moment that he made this ap(ilo{ 
 honest Cesar could not have given him half (lie s 
 tisfaction had he talked like a (Jicero or a Soioinon.! 
 
 Launcelot returned to the house with me in tlieb 
 possible humour :— the whole family, who in in 
 love and honour him from their very souls, wered 
 lighted to see the siinlieains once more play in hiso 
 tcnance. Kvery one seemed to vie who should talk li 
 most, tell the longest stories, and lie most agrecaU 
 and Will Wizard, who had accompanied me in my \ii 
 declared, as he lighted his cigar, which badgoneti 
 forty times in the coui'se of one of his oriental tales,! 
 that he had not passed so pleasant an evening sincellf 
 birth-night ball of the beauteous empress of llayli. j 
 
 ON GREATNESS. 
 
 BY LiUNCBLOT LiNGSTAFP, BgQ. 
 
 [ Tiie followin;; essay was writtrn by my frinnd Langstalf, iiij 
 of the paroxygins of liis splenetic complaint ; and, fur auKhtlb 
 may liavc liceii effectual in resturinf; hlin to good Iminuur.-j 
 mental discharge of Uie kind has a nmiarltable tendency la«i^ 
 sweetening the temper,— and Launcctol is at this momenta 
 the bcst-naturcd men in existence.— y^. Evergreen. ] 
 
 We have more than once, in the course of « 
 work, been most jocosely familiar with great; 
 
 'ii 
 
SALMAGUISDI. 
 
 75 
 
 s;aiKl, in truth, treated lliem willi as little cere- 
 
 )iiy, reiipect, and cunsideraliun, as ir lliey had l)cvn 
 
 rniosl |iarticular friends. Now, we would nut sufTer 
 
 > niortilieatiun of l>a\ ig our rcadcrH suspect us o( 
 
 inlinia(*y of the kind ; assuring thcni we arc cx- 
 
 Irmely eliuice in our intiiuales, and nnconunouly 
 
 TUiiispect in avoiding cunnexiuns with all doubtful 
 
 iraclers; particularly piin|>K, luiilifTs, lottery-hro- 
 
 's, chevaliers of industry, and great men. 'J'he 
 
 rill in general is pretty well aware of what is to 
 
 luiHlcrslood hy the former classes of delinquenls; 
 
 Lias the latter has never, 1 lielieve, l)een s|iecilically 
 
 jliiied, and as we are determine*! to instruct our 
 
 (lets to I he extent of our ahilities, and their limited 
 
 biprrliension, it may not he amiss here to let Ihem 
 
 ow what we understand hy a great man. 
 
 iFirst, therefore, let us (editors and kings are al- 
 
 lys plural ) premise, tliat there arc two kinds of 
 
 aliitss; — one conferred hy Heaven — the exalted 
 
 [lijity of the soul ; — the other, a spurious distinction, 
 
 fiuierud hy the mob, and lavished upon its fa- 
 
 tariles. 'I'he former of these distinctions we have 
 
 jeaily contemplated with reverence; the latter, we 
 
 pi lake this opportunity to strip naked before our 
 
 nliglilcned readers ; so that if by chance any of 
 
 I arc held in ignominious thraldom by this base 
 
 ulatiuu of false coin, Ihey may forthwith enianci- 
 
 ! themselves from such inglorious delusion. 
 
 ^tis a iictitioiis value given to iiulividuais by public 
 
 e, as Itankers give an impression to a worthless 
 
 torpa|)er; thereby gaining it a currency for inii- 
 
 m uiure than its intrinsic value. Every nation 
 
 iil$|ieculiar coin, and (icculiar great men ; neither 
 
 picii will, for the most part, [tass current out of 
 
 ! country where they are stamped. Your tine 
 
 created great man is like a note of one of the 
 
 ! New-England lianks, and his value depreciates 
 
 urtion to the distance from liome. In Eng- 
 
 |il, a great man is he who iias most rilrands and 
 
 r-gaws on his coat, most horses to his carriage, 
 
 It servants in his retinue, or most toad-caters at 
 
 jlable; in France, he who can most dexterously 
 
 ish his heel > above his head — Duport is most in- 
 
 islably the greatest man in France !— when the 
 
 leror is absent. The greatest man in China is he 
 
 I can trace his ancestry up to the moon ; and in 
 
 [country our great men may generally hunt down 
 
 r|)digree until it burrow in tlie dirt like a rabbit. 
 
 \k concise; our great men are those who are most 
 
 i at crawling, and have tlie happiest facility in 
 
 ll.'ging and winding themselves along in the dirt. 
 
 s may seem a |>aradox to many of my readers, 
 
 jo, with great g«)od-nature be it hinted, are too 
 
 I tu look beyond the mere surface of our inva- 
 
 lile writings; and often pass over the knowing al- 
 
 n, and poignant meaning, tiiat is slily couching 
 
 alh. It is for the benefit of such helpless igno- 
 
 wiio have no other creed but the opinion of 
 
 |nwb, that I shall trace, as far as it is possible to 
 
 him in his ascent from insigniflcancc, — the 
 
 rise, progress, and completion of a little great man. 
 
 In a logocracy, to use the sage Mustapha's phrase, 
 it is not absolutely necessary to the formation of a great 
 man that he shouhl be cither wise or valiant, upright 
 or honourable. On the contrary, daily experience 
 shows that these qualities rather impede his prefer- 
 ment; inasmuch as they are prone to render him too 
 inflexibly erect, and are directly at variance with that 
 wiHowy suppleness which enables a man to wind, 
 and twist, through i*ll the nooks and turns, and dark 
 winding passages, tliat lead to greatness. The grand 
 requisite for climbing the ruggetl hill of popularity, — 
 the summit of which is the seat of power, — is to be 
 useful. And here once more, for the sake of our 
 readers, who are of course not so wise as ourselves, I 
 must explain what we understand hy usefulness. The 
 horse, hi his native state, is wild, swift, impetuous, 
 full of majesty, and of a most generous sph-it. It is 
 then the aniinai is noble, exalted, and useless. But 
 entrap him, manacle him, cudgel him, break down his 
 lofty spirit, put the curb into his mouth, the load upon 
 his hack, and render him obedient to the bridle and 
 the lash, and he becomes useful. Your jackass is one 
 of the most useful animals in existence. If my read- 
 ers do not now understand what I mean hy usefulness, 
 I give them all up fur most absolute nincoms. 
 
 'i'o rise in this country a man must Tirst descend. 
 The aspiring politician may be compared to that inde- 
 fatigable insect, called the tumbler, pronounced liy a 
 distinguished personage to be the only industrious 
 animal in Virginia; which buries itself in filth, and 
 works in the dirt, until it forms a little IkiH, which it 
 rolls laboriously along, like Diogenes his tub; some- 
 times head, sometimes tail foremost, pilfering from 
 every mud hole, and increasing its ball of greatness 
 by the contributions of the kennel. Just so the can- 
 didate for greatness; — }ie buries himself in the mohj 
 labours in dirt and obscurity, and makes unto himself 
 the rudiments of a popular name from the admiration 
 and praises of the vulgar. His name once started, 
 onward he goes, pushing it before him ; collecting 
 new tributes from the dregs and offals of society as 
 he proceeds, until, having gathered together a mighty 
 mass of popularity, he mounts it in triumph; is hoist- 
 ed into oflice, and becomes a great man, and a ruler 
 in the land.— All this will be clearly illustrated by a 
 sketch of a worthy of the kind, who sprung up under 
 my eye, and was hatched from the dirt by the broad 
 rays of popularity, which, like the sun, can "breed 
 maggots in a dead dog." 
 
 Timothy Dabble was a young man of very promis- 
 ing talents; for he wrote a fau- hand, and had thrice 
 won the silver medal at a country academy ; he was 
 also an orator, for he talked with emphatic volubility, 
 and could argue a full hour, without taking either 
 side, or advancing a single opinion; he had still far- 
 ther requisites forelo<]uence ; for he made very hand- 
 some gestures, had dimples in his cheeks when he 
 smiled, and enunciated most harmoniously through 
 his nose. In short, nature had certainly marked him 
 
7G 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 m^ 
 
 out for a great man; for though lie was not tall, yet 
 he added at least half an inch to his stature by elevat- 
 ing his head, and assumed an amazing expression of 
 dignity by turning up his nose and curling his nostrils 
 in a style of conscious superiority. Convinced by 
 these unequivocal appearances, Babble's friends, one 
 and all, declared that he was undoubtedly born to be 
 a great man, and it would be his own fault if he were 
 not one. Dabble was tickled with an opinion which 
 coincided so happily with his own, — for vanity, in a 
 confidential whisper, had given him the like intima- 
 tion; and he reverenced the judgment of his friends 
 I)ecau8e they thought so highly of himself;— according- 
 ly he set out with a determination to become a great 
 man, and to start in the scrub-race for honour and 
 renown. IIow to attain the desired prize was how- 
 ever the question. He knew, by a kind of instinctive 
 feeling, which seems peculiar to groveling minds, 
 that honour, and its better part— profit, would never 
 seek him out ; that they would never knock at his 
 door and crave admittance; but must be courted, and 
 toiled after, and earned. lie therefore strutted forth 
 into the highways, the market-places, and the assem- 
 blies of the people ; ranted like a true cockerel orator 
 about virtue, |)atriolism, and liberty, and equality, 
 and himself. Full many a political windmill did he 
 battle with ; and full many a time did he talk himself 
 out of breath, and his hearers out of their patience. 
 But Dabble found to his vast astonishment, tliat there 
 was not a notorious political pimp at a ward meeting 
 but could out-talk him; — and what was still more 
 mortifying, there was not a notorious political pimp 
 but was more noticed and caressed than hunself. 
 The reason was simple enough; while he harangued 
 about principles, the others ranted about men ; where 
 he reprobated a political error, they blasted a political 
 character.-— They were, consequently, the most use- 
 ful ; for the great object of our political disputes is not 
 who shall have the honour of emancipating the com- 
 munity from the leading-strings of delusion, but who 
 shall have the profit of holding the strings and lead- 
 ing the community by the nose. 
 
 Dabble was likewise very loud in his professions 
 of integrity, incorruptibility, and disinterestedness ; 
 words, which, from being filtered and refined through 
 news-pa[)ers, and election hand-bills, have lost their 
 original signification ; and in the political dictionary 
 are synonymous with empty pockets, itching palms, 
 and interested ambition. He, in addition to all this, 
 declared that he would support none but honest men; 
 but unluckily, as but few of these offered themselves 
 to be supported, Dabble's services were seldom re- 
 quired. He pledged himself never to engage in party 
 schemes, or party politics, but to stand up solely for the 
 broad interests of his countiy.— So he stood alone ; 
 and what is the same thing, he stood still ; for, in this 
 country, he who does not side with either party is 
 like a body in a vacuum, and must for ever remain 
 motionless. 
 
 Dabble was immeasurably surprised that a man so 
 
 honest, so disinterested, and so sagacious withal, 
 one too who had the good of his country so niudij 
 heart, should thus remain unnoticed and unappiai 
 ed. A little worldly advice, whispered in his eatlj 
 a shrewd old politician, at once explained the vi\ 
 mystery. " He who would become great, " said \ 
 " must serve an apprenticeship to greatness ; andij 
 by regular gradation, like the master of a vessel, i 
 commences by being scrub and cabin-boy. He i 
 fag in the train of great men, echo all their sentime; 
 become their toad-eater and parasite, — laugh at { 
 their jokes ; and above all, endeavour to make th 
 laugh :— if you only make a great man laugh 
 and then, your fortune is made. Look about tm 
 youngster, and you will not see a single little | 
 man of the day but has his herd of retainers, whoyj 
 at his heels, come at his whistle, worry whoniever|| 
 points at, and think themselves fully rewarded) 
 snapping up the crumbs that fall from his table. T^ 
 of patriotism and virtue, and incorruptibility ! 
 man ! they are the very qualities that scare 
 ficence, and keep patronage at a distance. You in 
 as well attempt to entice crows with red rags i 
 gunpowder. Lay all these scarecrow virtues asi 
 and let this be your maxim, that a candidate fur } 
 litical eminence is like a dried herring; he never k| 
 comes luminous until he is corrupt. " 
 
 Dabble caught with avidity at these congenial d 
 trines, and turned into his predestined chaundj 
 action with the force and rapidity of a stream wli 
 has for a while been restrained from its natural ( 
 He became what nature had fitted him tobe;- 
 tone softened down from arrogant self-suflicienql 
 the whine of fawning solicitation. He mingled iii( 
 gatherings of the sovereign people ; assumed a } 
 triolic slovenliness of dress, argued most logically i 
 those who were of his own opinion ; and slandei 
 with all the malice of im|K)tence, exalted charad 
 whose orbit he despaired ever to approach :— jiisl| 
 that scoundrel midnight thief, the owl, hools at I 
 blessed light of tlie sun, whose glorious lustre | 
 dares never contemplate. He likewise applied I 
 self to discharge the honourable duties of a parlisi 
 he poached about for private slanders, and ribald aaj 
 dotes ; he folded hand-bills — he even wrote one or B 
 himself, which he carried about in his pocket) 
 read to every body ; he became a secretary at vaj 
 meetings ; set his hand to divers resolutions of pali 
 import, and even once went so far as to make a sp 
 in which he proved that patriotism was a virtue^ 
 that the reigning bashaw was a great man ;- 
 this was a free country, and he himself an arrantij 
 incontestable buzzard ! 
 
 Dabble was now very frequent and devout inj 
 visits to those temples of politics, popularity, i 
 smoke, the ward porter-house*; those true 
 equality, where all ranks, ages, and talents, arebroi 
 down to the level of rude familiarity .—'Twas heitl 
 talents expanded, and his genius swelled up ioloj 
 proper size ; like the toad, which shrinking from I 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 77 
 
 ; and Jocuiiil sunahine, finds his congenial home 
 [caves and dungeons, and there nourishes his venom, 
 bloats his deformily. 'Twas here he revelled 
 |ilb (lie multitude in their debauches on |Kitriotism 
 I porter ; and it became an even chance whetlier 
 bble would turn out a great man or a great drunk- 
 I.— But Dabble in all this kept steadily in his eye the 
 L|y deity he ever worship|>ed— his interest. Having 
 ^this familiarity ingratiated himself with the mob, 
 t became wonderfully potent and industrious at elec- 
 s; knew all the dens and cellars of profligacy and 
 tmperance ; brought more negroes to the polls, and 
 ew to a greater certainty where votes could l»e 
 ugfat for beer, than any of his contemporaries. His 
 ^ertions in the cause, his persevering industry, his 
 irading compliance, his unresisting humility, his 
 jeadfast dependence, at length caught the attention of 
 ! of the leaders of the party ; who was pleased to 
 «rve that Dabble was a very useful fellow, who 
 uld go all lengths. From that moment his fortune 
 made;— he was hand and glove with orators 
 Islang-whangers; basked in the sunshine of great 
 n's smiles, and had the honour, sundry times, of 
 laking hands with dignitaries— during elections. 
 1 1 will not fatigue myself with tracing this cater- 
 in his slimy progress from worm to butterfly ; 
 ^Ificeitthat Dabble bowed, and fawned, and sneaked, 
 dsmirked, and libelled, until one would havethought 
 everance itself would have settled down into des- 
 There was no knowing how long he might have 
 hgered at a distance from his hopes, had he not lucki- 
 j been tarred and feathered for some electioneering 
 euvre.— This was the making of him ! Let not 
 ^readers stare — tarring and feathering here is equal 
 I pillory and cropped ears in England; and either of 
 kinds of martyrdom will ensure a patriot the 
 athy and support of his faction. Hix partisans, 
 revenhe had his partisans, took his case into consi- 
 alion— he had been kicked and cuffed, and disgrac- 
 p, and dishonoured in the cause— he had licked the 
 tat the feet of the mob— he was a faithful drudge, 
 |dwIo anger, of invincible patience, of incessant as- 
 «ily— a thorough-going tool, who could be curbed, 
 1 spurred, and directed at pleasure— In short, he 
 1 all the important qualifications for a little great 
 an, and he was accordingly ushered into office amid 
 e acclamations of the party. The leading men com- 
 nented his usefulness, the multitude his republican 
 plicity, and the slang-whangers vouched for his pa- 
 pism. Since his elevation he has discovered indu- 
 ftabie signs of having been destii»ed for a great man. 
 snose has acquired an additional elevation of several 
 kgrees, so that now he appears to have bidden adieu 
 |lhis world, and to have set his thoughts altogether 
 I tilings above; and he has swelled and inflated him- 
 pfto such a degree, that his friends are under ap- 
 peiiensions that he will one day or other explode and 
 low up like a torpedo. 
 
 So. XVI.— TUIBSDAY, OCTOBER IS, IW7. 
 
 STYLE AT BALLSTON. 
 
 BT WILLIAM WIZilO, tSQ. 
 
 NoTwiTHSTANDiJiG Evergreen has never been a- 
 broad, nor had hb understanding enlightened, nor his 
 views enlarged by that marvellous sharpener of the 
 wits, a salt-water voyage, yet he is tolerably shrewd 
 and correct, in the limited sphere of his observations, 
 and now and then astounds me with a right pithy 
 remark, which would do no discredit even to a man 
 who had made the grand tour. 
 
 In several late conversations at Cocklofl-hall, he 
 has amused us exceedingly by detailing sundry par- 
 ticulars concerning that notorious slaughter-house of 
 time, Baliston Springs, where he spent a considerable 
 part of the last summer. The following is a sum- 
 mary of his observations. 
 
 Pleasure has passed through a variety of significa- 
 tions at Baliston. It originally meant nothing more 
 than a relief from pain and sickness ; and the patient 
 who had journeyed many aweary mile to the Springs, 
 with a heavy heart and emaciatetl form, called it 
 pleasure when he threw by his crutches, and danced 
 away from them with renovated spirits, and limbs 
 jocund with vigour. In process of time pleasure un- 
 derwent a refinement, and appeared in the likeness 
 of a sol)er unceremonious country-dance, to the flute 
 of an amateur, or the three-stringed fiddle of an iti- 
 nerant country musician. Still every thing bespoke 
 that happy holiday which the spirits ever enjoy, when 
 emancipated from the shackles of formality, ceremony, 
 and modern politeness. Things went on cheerily, 
 and Baliston was pronounced a charming humdrum 
 careless place of resort, where every one was at his 
 ease, and might follow unmolested the bent of his'hu- 
 mour — provided his wife was not there; when, lo! 
 all on a sudden. Style made its baneful appearance 
 in the semblance of a gig and tandem, a pair of lea- 
 ther breeches, a liveried footman, and a cockney! 
 Since that fatal era, pleasure has taken an entire 
 new signification, and at present means nothing but 
 
 STYLE. 
 
 The worthy, fashionable, dashing, good-for-nothing 
 people of every state, who had rather suffer the mar- 
 tyrdom of a crowd than endure the monotony of their 
 own homes, and the stupid company of their own 
 thoughts, flock to the Springs ; not to enjoy the plea- 
 sures of society, nor benefit by the qualities of the 
 waters, but to exhibit their equipages and wardrobes, 
 and to excite the admiration, or, what is much more 
 satisfactory, the envy of their fashionable competitors. 
 This of course awakens a spirit of noble emulation 
 between the eastern, middle, and southern states; 
 and evei7 lady hereupon finding herself charged in a 
 manner with the whole weight of her country's dig- 
 nity and style, dresses and flashes and sparkles, with- 
 out mercy, at her competitors from other parts of the 
 
78 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 S! 
 
 Union. This kind of rivalsbip naturally requires a 
 vast deal of preparation and prodigious quantities of 
 supplies. A sober citizen's wife will exhaust half a 
 dozen milliners' siiops, and sometimes starve her fa- 
 mily a whole season, to enable herself to make the 
 Springs' campaign in style. She repairs to the seal 
 of war with a mighty force of trun.ks and bandboxes, 
 like 80 many ammunition-chests, lillcd with ca|)s, 
 hals, gowns, ribands, shawls, and all the various ar- 
 tillery of fashionable warfare. The lady of a southern 
 planter will lay out 'he whole annual produce of a 
 rice plantation in silver and gold muslins, lace veils, 
 and new 'iveries, carry a hogshead of tobacco on her 
 head, anu trail a bale of Sea Island cotton at her heels; 
 while a lady of Boston or Salem will wrap herself up 
 in the net [>roceeds of a cargo of whale oil, and tie on 
 her hat with a quintal of cod-(ish. 
 
 The planters' ladies, however, have generally the 
 advantage in this contest; for, as it is an incontestable 
 fact, that whoever comes from the West or East In- 
 dies, or Georgia, or the Carolinas, or in fact any warm 
 climate, is immensely rich, it cannot be expected that 
 a simple cit of the north can cope with them in 
 plyle. The planter, therefore, who drives four horses 
 abroad and a thousand negroes at home, and who 
 flourishes up to the Springs followed by half a score 
 of black-a^moors, in gorgeous liveries, is unquestion- 
 ably superior to the northern merchant, who plods 
 on in a carriage and pair ; which being nothing more 
 than is (piite necessary, has no claim whatever to 
 style. He, however, has his consolation in feeling 
 superior to the honest cit, who dashes about in a 
 simple gig — he in return sneers at the country squire, 
 who jogs along with his scrubby long-eared pony and 
 saddle-bags ; and the squire, by way of taking satis- 
 faction, would make no scruple to run over the un- 
 obtrusive pedestrian, were it not that the last, being 
 the 'most independent of the whole, might chance to 
 break his head by way of retort. 
 
 The great mistbrtune is, that this style is supported 
 at sudi an expense as sometimes to encroach on the 
 pocket, and to occasion very awkward embarrass- 
 ments to the tyro of fashion. Among a number o( 
 instances. Evergreen mentions the fute of a dashing 
 blade from the south, who made his ciiMe with a 
 tandem and two outriders, by the aid of which be at- 
 tracted the attention of all the ladies, and caused a 
 coolness between several young couples who, it was 
 thought before Ids arrival, had a considerable kind- 
 ness for each other. In the course of a fortnight his 
 tandem disappeared! — the class of good folk, who 
 seem to have nothing to do in this world but pry into 
 other people's affairs, began to stare! in a little time 
 longer an outrider was missing! — this Increased the 
 alarm, and it was consequently whispered that he 
 had eaten the horses and drank the negro. — N. B. 
 Southern gentlemen are very apt to do this on an 
 emergency.— Serious apprehensions were entertained 
 about the fate of the remaining servant, which were 
 soon verified by his actually vaniahing; and in " one 
 
 little OMMith" the dashing Carolinian modestly i 
 his departure in tlie stage coacli— universally i 
 gretted by the friends who had generously relinj 
 him from iiis cumbrous load of style. 
 
 Evergreen, in the course of his detail, gave \fi 
 melancholy accounts of a famine which raged \ri| 
 great violence at the Springs. Whether this < 
 owing to the appetites of the company, or to the s 
 city which prevailed at the inns, he did not sceini 
 cl'ued to say ; but he declares that he was for sevei 
 days in imminent danger of starvation, owing to I 
 being a little too dilatory in his attendance al i 
 dinner-table. He relates a number of ' ' moving j 
 dents," which befell many of the company in lli 
 zeal to get a good seat at dinnc; ; on which oc^asbl 
 kind of scrub-race always took place, wherein a v^ 
 deal of jockeying and unfair play was shown, an|| 
 variety c luabbles and unseemly altercations t 
 curred. Hut when arrived at the scene of aclion,! 
 was tnd; an awful sight to liehold the confusion, i 
 to hear .he tumultuous uproar of voices cryini; u 
 some for one thing, some for another, to the tuiieij 
 accompaniment of knives and fork.s, rattling witliil 
 tj.e energy of hungry impatience. — The feast of i 
 Centaurs and the Lapithx was nothing when conip 
 ed wi' . i. dinner at the Great House. At one lini 
 an old gentleman, whose natural irascibility wasj 
 little sharpi^ned by the gout, had scalded his tiin 
 by gobbli'tg down a bowl of hot soup in a vast Iiun 
 in order j secure the first fruits of a roasted paitrii^ 
 before ' was snapped up by some hungry rival, wlia 
 just a! e was whetting his knife and fork, prepaii 
 tory f' a descent on the promised land, he liadt 
 mortf ;alion to see it transferred, bodily, to the plm 
 of e ^ueamisii little damsel who was taking the \ 
 te for debility and loss of appetite. This was l( 
 
 ich for the patience of old Crusty ; he thriisl I 
 jrk into the partridge, whipt it into his dish, aij 
 cutting off a wing of it—" Permit me. Miss, to k 
 ^u," cried he, presenting the morsel — then growlid 
 to himself, as he dispatched the remainder, '' Oonsl 
 what should such a little chalky-faced puppet do wil| 
 a whole partridge ! "—A t another time a mighty swa 
 disposed old dowager, who loomed magnilicenllyil 
 the table, had a sauce-boat launched upon llie capi 
 cious lap of a silver-sprigged muslin gown, hyiy 
 mannuivring of a little politic Frenchman, who w^ 
 dexterously attempting to make a lodgment iin 
 the covered way of a chicken-pie : — huiniin nalu 
 could not bear it! — the lady bounced round, ani 
 with one box on the ear, drove the luckless wij,'litl| 
 utter annihilation. 
 
 But these little cross accidents are amply cnnipcnsi 
 ed by the great variety of amusesnpr.is which alwiinl 
 at this charming resort of beauty and fashion.— In lli| 
 morning the company, each like a jolly bucclianHliii 
 with glass in hand, sally forth to the Springs ; wliet 
 the gentlemen, who wish to make themselves agn 
 able, have an opportunity of dipping theniselvcs iiil 
 the good opinion of the ladies; und it is tridy dde( 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 !e, wherein a vi 
 
 > to sec with what grace and adroitness they per- 
 
 nithis ingratialinia: feat. Anthony says that it is 
 
 liazin^ to behold the quantity of water the ladies 
 
 pnlc on this occasion, for the purpose of getting an 
 
 etite for breakfast. He assures me he has been 
 
 ent when a young lady, of unparalleled delicacy, 
 
 hI off, in the space of a minute or two, one-and- 
 
 Lnty tumblers and a wine-glass full. On my ask- 
 
 Aiilhony whether the solicitude of the by-stand- 
 
 I was not greatly awakened as to what might be 
 
 ! effects of this debauch , he replied, that the la- 
 
 ; at Ballston had become such great sticklers for 
 
 e doctrine of evaporation, that no gentleman ever 
 
 Uiiietl to remonstrate against this excessive drink- 
 
 ^, for fear of bringing his philosophy into contempt. 
 
 most notorious water-drinkers, in particular, 
 
 continually holding forth on the surprising 
 
 lickness with which the Ballston waters evaporated ; 
 
 I several gentlemen, who had the hardihood to 
 
 jeslion this female philosophy, were held in high 
 
 After breakfast, every one chooses his amusement. 
 ne take a ride into the pine woods, and enjoy the 
 ^ed and romantic scenery of burnt trees, post and 
 I fences, pine-Hats potatoe patches, and log huts; 
 m scramble up the surrounding sand-hills, that 
 ilike the abodes of a gigantic race of ants; take a 
 pat other sand-hills beyond them ; and then — come 
 irn again. Others who are romantic, and sundry 
 Ln; ladies insist upon being so whenever they visit 
 Lsprings, or go any where into the country, stroll 
 ng the borders of a little swampy brook that drags 
 ^r along like an alexandrine, and that so lazily, as 
 llamake a single murmur; — watching the little 
 Ipoles as they frolic, right flippantly, in the muddy 
 jeain, and listening to the inspiring melody of the 
 Ks that croak upon its Imrders. Some play at bil- 
 p, some play the fiddle, and some — play the fool ; 
 t latter being the most prevalent amusement at 
 Uslon. 
 
 [riiese, together with abundance of dancing, and a 
 Kligious deal of sleeping of afternoons, make up the 
 liely of pleasures at the iSprings. — A delicious life of 
 miale lassitude and fatigue ; of laborious dissipa- 
 
 , and listless idleness ; of sleepless nights, and days 
 
 111 in that dozing inseiKibility which ever succeeds 
 
 m. Now and then, indeed, the influenza, the 
 
 ]er-aiul-ague, or some such pale-faced intruder, 
 
 |y happen to throw a momentary dam[) on the 
 
 leral felicity; but on the whole. Evergreen de- 
 
 Irrsthat Ballston wants only six things; to wit — 
 
 air, good wine, good living, good beds, good 
 jnpany, and good humour, to be the most enchant- 
 jplace in llie world ;— excepting Botany Bay, Mus- 
 |lo Cove, Dismal Swamp, and the Black Hole at 
 
 utta. ■ 
 
 JTho Driti8li reader will liav(; Mt lilniRCirquilc at homn in llie 
 |iul (if IliU f ssay, as its satire is just as applicaltin to tlio society 
 Jur faihiuiialile waterinK places as to the notables of Rallston. 
 
 Pit. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 FBO.u MVSTAPHA RDB-A-DIIB KELI KDAX, 
 
 To Asem Hacchem. principal Slare-drirer to his Highness 
 the Bashaw of lYipoH. 
 
 [The foUowint; letter from the sase Miistapha has cost n« more 
 trouble to decipher and render into tolerable En;;lish, than any 
 hitherto published. It was full ofbkits and erasures, particularly 
 the latter part, which we have no doubt was penned in a moment 
 of great wrath and indignation. Muslapha has often a ramblinf; 
 mode of writing, and his thoui;hts take such unaccountable turns, 
 that it is difficult to *eU one moment where he will lead you the 
 next. This is |)articidarly obvious in the commen'-ument of his 
 letters, which seldom bear much analogy to the subseciuent parts ; 
 —he sets off with a llourish, like a dramatic hero,— assumes an 
 air of great pomposity, and struts up to his subject mounted most 
 loftily on stilts.—/.. Langsiaff. ] 
 
 Among the variety of principles by which mankind 
 are actuated, there is one, my dear Asem, which I 
 scarcely know whether to consider as springing from 
 grandeur and nobility of mind, or from a refined 
 species of vanity and egotism. It is that singular, 
 althougli almost universal, desire of living in the me- 
 mory of posterity ; of occupyuig a share of the world's 
 attention, when we shall long since have ceased to be 
 susceptible either of its praise or censure. Most of 
 the passions of the mind are bounded by the grave ; 
 — sometimes, indeed, an anxious hope or trembling 
 fear will venture beyond the clouds and darkness that 
 rest upon our mortal horizon, and expatiate in bound- 
 less futurity ; but it is only this active love of fame 
 which steadily contemplates its fruition, in the ap- 
 plause or gratitude of future ages. — Indignant at tiie 
 narrow limits which circumscribe existence, ambition 
 is forever struggling to soar l)eyond them ; — to triumph 
 over space and lime, and to hear a name, at least, 
 above the inevitable oblivion in which every thing 
 else that concerns us must be involved. It is this, 
 my friend, which prompts the patriot to his most 
 heroic achievements; which inspires the stiblimest 
 strains <o( the poet, and breathes ethereal lire into the 
 productions of the painter aiul the statuary. 
 
 Fortius the monarch rears the lofty column; the 
 laurelled cotupieror claims the triumphal arch ; while 
 the obscure individual, who has moved in an humbler 
 sphere, asks but a plain and simple stone to mark his 
 grave, and bear to the next generation this important 
 truth, that he was born, died — and was buried. It 
 was this passion which once erected the vast Ntimi- 
 dian piles, whose ruins we have so often regarded 
 with wonder, as the shades of evening — lit ciidilems 
 of oblivion — gradually stole over ami enveloped them 
 ill darkness.— It wa? this which gave Iwing to those 
 sublime monuments of Saracenic magnificence, which 
 nod in mouldering desolation, as the blast sweeps 
 over our deserted plains.— How futile are all our ef- 
 forts to evade the obliterating hand of time ! As I 
 traversed the dreary wastes of Kgypt, on my journey 
 to (>rand Cairo, I stopfied my camel for n while, and 
 contemplated, in awftil admiration, the stupendous 
 pyramids. An appalling silence prevaileil around- 
 such {» reigns in the wilderness when the tempest is 
 
80 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 II 
 
 M 
 
 hushed, and the beasts of prey have retired to their 
 dens. Tiie myriads tliat had once been employed in 
 rearing these lofly mementoes of human vanity, wliose 
 busy hum once enlivened the solitude of the desert — 
 had all been swept from the earth by the irresistible 
 arm of death— alt were mingled with their native 
 dust — all were forgotten ! Even the mighty names 
 which these sepulchres were designed to perpetuate 
 had long since faded from remembrance: history and 
 tradition aff(»rded but vague conjectures, and the py- 
 ramids imparted a humiliating lesson to the candidate 
 for immortality.— Alas! alas! said I to myself, how 
 mutable are the foundations on which our proudest 
 hopes of future fame are reposed ! He who imagines 
 he has secured to himself the meed of deathless re- 
 nown, indulges in deluding visions, which only be- 
 s])eak the vanity of thedreamer. The storied obelisk — 
 the triumphal arch— theswellingdome— shallcrumble 
 into dust, and the names they would preserve from 
 oblivion shall often pass away before their own dura- 
 tion is accomplished. 
 
 Yet this passion for fame, however ridiculous in the 
 eye of the philosopher, deserves respect and conside- 
 ration, from having been the source of so many il- 
 lustrious actions; and hence it has been the practice, 
 in all enlightened governments, to perpetuate, by 
 monuments, the memory of great men, as a testi- 
 mony of respect for the illustriousdead, and to awaken 
 in the bosoms of posterity an emulation to merit the 
 same honourable distinction. The people of the Ame- 
 rican logocracy, who pride themselves upon improv- 
 ing on every precept or example of ancient or modern 
 governments, have discovered a new mode of excit- 
 ing this love of glory— a mode by which they do ho- 
 nour to their great men, even in their life-lime. 
 
 Thou must have observed by this time, that they 
 manage every thing in a manner peculiar to them- 
 selves; and doubtless in the best possible manner, 
 seeing they have denominated themselves '' the most 
 enlightened people under the sun." Thou wilt there- 
 fore, perhaps, be curious to know how they contrive 
 to honour the name of a living patriot, and what un- 
 heard-of monument they erect in memory of his 
 achievenients. By the liery beard of the mighty 
 Barbarossa, but I can scarcely preserve the sobriety 
 of a true disciple of Mahomet while I tell thee ! — 
 Wilt thou not smile, O mussulnian of invincible gra- 
 vity, to learn that they honour their great men by 
 eating, and that the only trophy erecleil to their ex- 
 ploits is a public dinner! But.trust me, Asem, even 
 in this measure, whimsical as it may seem, the phi- 
 losophic and considerate spirit of this people is ad- 
 mirably displayed. Wisely concluding, that when 
 the hero is dead he becomes insensible to the voice 
 of fame, the song of adulation, or the splendid trophy, 
 they have deterniined that he shall enjoy his quantum 
 of celebrity while living, and revel in the full enjoy- 
 ment of a nine days' immortality. The luirlKirous 
 nations of antiquity immolated human victims to the 
 memory of their lamented dead, but the enlightened 
 
 Americans offer up whole hecatombs of geese ; 
 calves, and oceans of wine, in honour of the illu 
 ous living ; and the patriot has the felicity of heaiij 
 from every quarter the vast exploits in gluttony { 
 revelling that have been celebrated to the glory J 
 his name. 
 
 No sooner does a citizen signalize himself in at 
 spicuous manner in the service of his country, 
 all the gormandizers assemble, and discharge then 
 tional debt of gratitude— by giving him a diono| 
 not that he really receives all the luxuries provi 
 on this occasion — no, my friend, it is ten chances j 
 one that the great man does not taste a morsel fm 
 the table, and is, perhaps, five hundred miles distj 
 and, to let thee into a melancholy fact, a |)atriot, g 
 der this economic government, may be often in i 
 of a dinner, while dozens are devoured in his praaij 
 Neither are these repasts spread out for the liun^ 
 and necessitous, who might otherwise be filled \ 
 food and gladness, and inspired to shout forth thelj 
 lustrious name, which had been the means of tin 
 enjoyment — far from this, Asem, it is the rich ( 
 who indulge in the banquet : those who pay for il^ 
 dainties are alone privileged to enjoy them ; so ihi 
 while opening their purses in honour of the patriiJ 
 they, at the same time, fulfil a great maxim, whiij 
 in this country comprehends all the rules of prude 
 and all the duties a man owes to himself— nan 
 getting the worth of their money. 
 
 In process of time this mode of testifying pubi 
 applause has been found so marvellously agreeaU 
 that they extend it to events as well as characia 
 and eat in triumph at the news of a treaty — at lliei 
 niversary of any grand national era, or at the gaini^ 
 of that splendid victory of the tongue — an eleclio 
 Nay, so far do they carry it, that certain days are i 
 apart, when the guzzlers, the gormandizers, and tl 
 wine-bibl)ers meet together to celebrate a grand in 
 gestion, in memory of some great event; and evei 
 man, in the zeal of patriotism, gets devoutly druiik-| 
 "as the act directs." Then, my friend, mayest tlx 
 behold the sublime spectacle of love of country, 
 vating itself from a sentiment into an appetite, wbi 
 ted to the quick with the cheering prospect oft 
 loaded with the fat things of the land. On tiiiso 
 casion every man is anxious to fall to work, cramli 
 self in honour of the day, and risk a surfeit int 
 glorious cause. Some, I have been told, aclualj 
 fast for four-and-twenty hours preceding, that I 
 may be enabled to do greater honour to the feast ;i 
 certainly, if eating and drinking are patriotic rites,! 
 who eats and drinks most, and proves himself I 
 greatest glutton, is, undoubtedly, the most disliii;,'uy 
 ed patriot. Such, at any rate, seems to be the o 
 nion here ; and they act up to it so rigidly, that 1 
 the time it is dark, every kennel in the neisliM 
 hood teems with illustrious members of the soverekj 
 people, wallowing in their congenial element of i 
 and mire. 
 
 These patriotic feasts, or rather national mi 
 
 and when I s 
 
 ; or, what is more 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 81 
 
 ms, are patronised and promoted by certain infe- 
 r ciiiiji, called Aldermen, who are commonly coni- 
 nted with their <hrection. These dignitaries, 
 Ifar as I can learn, are generally a|)pointed on ac- 
 ]inlof their great lalenis for eating, — a qualiiication 
 uliarly necessary in the discliargc of their oflicial 
 ■its. They hold frequent meetings at taverns and 
 llels, where they enter into solemn consultations 
 the benefit of lobsters and turtles;— establish 
 filesome regulations for the safety and preserva- 
 I of fish and wild-fowl ;— appoint the season most 
 L[Kr for eating oysters ; — inquire into the economy 
 laveras, the character of publicans, and the abilities 
 heir cooks; and discuss, most learnedly, the merits 
 ^bowl of soup, a chicken-pie, or a haunch of veni- 
 In a word, the alderman has absolute control 
 ^11 matter of eating, and superintends the whole 
 > of— the belly. — Having, in the prosecution of 
 hr important office, signalized themselves at so ma- 
 ilic festivals; having gorged so often on patriot- 
 ami pudding, and entombed so many great 
 les in their extensive maws ; thou wilt easily 
 «ive that they wax portly apace, that they fatten 
 he fame of mighty men, and that their rotundity, 
 fthe rivers, the lakes, and the mountains of their 
 ntry, must be on a great scale! Even so, my 
 and when I sometimes see a portly alder- 
 \a, pufling along, and swelling as if he had the 
 tid under his wuisteoat, I cannot help looking upon 
 |as a walking monument, and am often ready to ex- 
 it— " Tell me, thou majestic mortal, thou breathing 
 nb! to what illustrious character, what mighty 
 nl, does tliat capacious carcass of thine bear testi- 
 hy?" 
 
 ut though the enlightened citizens of this logo- 
 
 f eat in honour of their friends, yet they drink 
 
 uclion to their enemies.— Yea, Aseni, woe unto 
 
 ! who are doomed to undergo the public ven- 
 
 |nce, at a public dinner. No sooner are the viands 
 
 lOved, than they prepare for merciless and exler- 
 
 aling hostilities. They drink the intoxicating 
 
 i of the grape, out of little glass cups, and over 
 
 idraught pronounce a short sentence or prayer. 
 
 tot such a prayer as thy virtuous heart would dic- 
 
 ), thy pious lips give utterance to, my good Asem ; 
 
 iota tribute of thanks to all bountiful Allah, nor an 
 
 lible supplication for his blessing on the draught ! 
 
 ko, my friend, it is merely a toast, that is to say, 
 
 [isome tribute of flattery to their demagogues;— 
 
 oured sally of affected sentiment or national ego- 
 
 Ji; or, what is more despicable, a malediction on 
 
 jr enemies; an empty threat of vengeance, or a 
 
 llion for their destruction ! For toasts, thou must 
 
 Iw, are another kind of missile weapon in a logo- 
 
 py, and are levelled from afar, like the annoying 
 
 bnsof the Tartars. 
 
 K Asem ! conldsl thou but witness one of these 
 jiolic, these monumental dinners;— how furiously 
 I llame of patriotism blazes forth, how suddenly 
 [Vanquish armies, subjugate whole countries, and 
 
 exterminate nations in a bumper, — thou wouldst 
 more than ever admire the force of that omnipotent 
 weapon the tongue. At these moments every coward 
 becomes a hero, every ragamuffin an invincible war- 
 rior; and the most zealous votaries of peace and quiet 
 forget, for a while, their cherisheti maxims, and join 
 in the furious attack. Toast succeeds toast; — kings, 
 emperors, bashaws, are like chaff before the tempest. 
 The inspired patriot vanquishes fleets with a single 
 gun-boat, and swallows down navies at a dranght; 
 until, overpowered with victory and wine, he sinks 
 upon the field of battle, dead drunk in his country's 
 cause. Sword of the puissant Khalid ! what a display 
 of valour is here! the sons of Afric are hardy, brave, 
 and enterprising, but they can achieve nothing like 
 this. 
 
 Happy would it be if this mania for toasting extend- 
 ed no farther than to the expression of national re- 
 sentment. Though we might smile at the impotent 
 vapouring and windy hyperljole, by which it is dis- 
 tinguished, yet we would excuse it, as the unguarded 
 overflowings of a heart glowing with national inju- 
 ries, and indignant at the insults offered to its coun- 
 try. But alas, my friend, private resentment, indi- 
 vidual haired, and the illiberal spirit of party, are let 
 loose on these festive occasions. Even the names of 
 individuals, of unoffending fellow-citizens, are some- 
 times dragged forth to undergo the slanders and exe- 
 crations of a distempered herd of revellers. ' — Head 
 of Mahomet! — how vindictive, how insatiably vin- 
 dictive must be that spirit, which can drug the man- 
 tling bowl with gall and bitterness, and indulge an 
 angry passion in the moment of rejoicing !— " Wine," 
 says their poet, " is like sunshine to the heart, which 
 under its generous influence expands with good-will, 
 and becomes the very temple of philanthropy." 
 Strange, that in a temple consecrated to such a divin- 
 ity there should remain a secret corner, polhilcd by 
 the lurkings of malice and revengo; strange, that in 
 the full flow of social enjoyment these votaries of 
 pleasure can turn aside to call down curses on the 
 iiead of a fellow-creature. — Despicable souls ! ye are 
 unworthy of being citizens of this " most enlightouHl 
 country under the sun : " rather herd with the mur- 
 derous savages who prowl the mountains of "Jlliesti ; 
 who stain their midnight orgies with the blood of the 
 innocent wanderer, and drink their infernal polatioas 
 from the skulls of the victims they have massacred. 
 And yet, trust me, Asem, this spirit of vindictive 
 
 Kote, by If illiam 17 izaid, rsq, 
 
 > It \^oul(l smii that In (liisfirntrncR the sage Mustnplia luid re* 
 trrcncc lu a pnti'iolic dinnrc, octeliraloil lust rourili uf July, by 
 Honic geiitloineii of Halthnot'o, wlioii (liey riRlitixiiiiily drank p<>r- 
 (litiun to iin unofTcnding individual, and really tlionKht " llioy hail 
 done tho alalr nonio scrvine." Tliis andabk; ciislom »f "oatiiif; 
 and drinlvinK damnation " to otlin-s, in not uonfinod .o any party i 
 for a monlli or two aflrr the (onrlh of July, Itii' dilTi'i-cnt newH- 
 l>a|MT!i llle olT their columns QtiMlriofio toasts aKainsl eaali other, 
 and take a pride In Miowinft how brilliantly their {wrtiiians can 
 vilify public characlerH In llieir cniM— "they do h\it Jest— (wliton 
 injtsl,"a» Hamlet nays, 
 
 11 
 
ttt 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 :; 
 
 
 If*- 
 
 mwardice is not owing to any inherent depravity of 
 mnl; for, on other occasions, I have \m\ ample proof 
 tliat this nation is mild and merciful, brave and ma- 
 gnanimous. — Neither is it owing to any defect in their 
 political or religious precepts. The principles in- 
 culcated by their rulers on all occasions breathe a 
 spirit of universal philanthropy ; and as to their reli- 
 gion, much as I am devoted to the Koran of our divine 
 prophet, still I cannot but acknowledge with admira- 
 tion the mild forbearance, the amiable benevolence, 
 the sublime morality bequeathed them by the founder 
 of their faith. Thou rememberest the doctrines of 
 the mild Nazarene, who preached peace and good- 
 will to all mankind; who when he was reviled, re- 
 viled not again ; who blessed those who cursed him, 
 and prayed for those who despitefully used and per- 
 secuted him ! What then can give rise to this un- 
 charitable, this inhuman custom among the disciples 
 of a master so gentle and forgiving ? — It is that fiend 
 Politics, Asem,— that baneful lien ', which bewil- 
 dereth every brain, and poisons ever social feeling; 
 which intrudes itself at the festive baii et, and like 
 the detestable harpy pollutes the very > lands of the 
 table ; which prompts the assassin to launch his poi- 
 soned arrows from liehind the social board; and which 
 renders the bottle, that boasted promoter of good fel- 
 lowship and hilarity, an infernal engine charged with 
 direful combustion. 
 
 Oh, Asem ! Asem ! how does my heart sicken when 
 I contemplate these cowardly barbarities; let me, 
 therefore, if possible, withdraw my attention from 
 them for ever. My feelings have borne me from my 
 subject; and from the monuments of ancient greatness, 
 I have wandered to those of modern degradation. 
 My warmest wishes remain with thee, thou most il- 
 lustrious of slave-drivers; mayest thou ever be sen- 
 sible of the mercies of our great prophet, who, in 
 compassion to human imbecility, has [.rohibited his 
 disciples from the use of (he deluding beverage of the 
 grape;— that enemy to reason — that promoter of de- 
 famation — that auxiliary of politics. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 MtSTAPHA.' 
 
 No. XVn.— WEDNESDAY, KOVEMBER U. I(W. 
 AUTUMNAL REFLECTIONS. 
 
 VV lAUISCELOT LAKOSTAFP, ESQ. 
 
 When a man is quietly journeying downwards 
 into the valley of the shadow of departed youth, and 
 begins to contemplate in a shortened perspective the 
 end of his pilgrimage, he becomes more solicitous 
 than ever that the remainder of his wayfaring should 
 be smooth and pleasant; ai'd that the evening of his 
 life, like the evening of a suminer's day, should fade 
 
 ' In this leUcr of llin sage Miiatapiia. (here arc sonic Hue moral 
 rcflecUonR! (lie Mtlrical porlioii of It in, likewise, excellent, and 
 we need «carccly add, is siMccptibIc of more exlcnsivc apiiilcatinii 
 lliiin lo llic iiHagm nf the rrpulillc— frfiJ. 
 
 away in mild uninterrupted serenity. If liaplJ 
 heart has escapeil uninjured through the dangers^ 
 seductive world, it may then administer to the | 
 of his felicities, and ils chords vibrate more musi 
 for the trials they have sustained : — like the i 
 which yields a melody sweet in proportion to ilsi 
 
 To a mind thus lemperalely harmonized, thuji) 
 tured and mellowed by a long lapse of years, I 
 something truly congenial in the quiet enjoyn 
 our early autumn in the tranquillity of the ( 
 There is a sober and chastened air of gaiety dilli 
 over the face of nature, peculiarly interesting itj 
 old man ; and when he views the sun-oundiag I 
 scape withering under his eye, it seems as if heij 
 nature were taking a last farewell of each other, i 
 parting with a melancholy smile : — like a coiipl 
 old friends, who, having sported away the springJ 
 summer of life together, part at the approach of i 
 with a kind of prophetic fear tliat they are nevq 
 meet again. 
 
 It is either my good fortune or mishap to bekee 
 susceptible to the intluence of the atmosphere;] 
 can feel in the morning, before I open my win 
 whether the wind be easterly. It will not then 
 I presume, be considered an extravagant instan 
 vain glory, when I assert, that there are few menij 
 can discriminate more accurately in (he dirfereinj 
 rielies of damps, fogs, iScotch mists, and nortb 
 storms, than myself. To the great discredit ofj 
 philosophy I confess, I seldom fail to anathem 
 and excommunicate the weather, when it sports| 
 rudely with my sensitive system; but then Iain 
 endeavour to atone therefore, by eulogizing it \ 
 deserving of approlintion. And as most of inyi 
 ers, simple folk, make but one distinction, to wil,d 
 and sunshine — living in most honest ignorance ofl 
 various nice shades which distinguish one linej 
 from another— I take the trouble, from time loli 
 of letting them into some of the secrets of natun 
 So will they be the better enabled to enjoy herb 
 ties, with (he zest of coimoisseui-s, and derive atl^ 
 as much information from my pages as from the i 
 ther-wise lore of the almanac. 
 
 Much of my recreation, since I retreated to tlieS 
 has consisted in making little excursions throu^| 
 neighbourhood ! which abounds in the variety of i 
 romantic, and luxuriant landscape that generallyd 
 racterizes the scenery in the vicinity of our riij 
 There is not an eminence within a circuit ofo 
 miles but commands an extensive range of divers 
 and enchanting prospect. 
 
 Often have I rambled to the summit of somel 
 vonrite hill, and thence, with feelings sweetlytranj 
 as the lucid expanse of the heavens that canopied j 
 have noted the slow and almost imperceptible dia 
 that mark the waning year. There are many feitj 
 peculiar to our autumn, and which give it aiii 
 dual character. The " green and yellow ineianchi 
 that 01*81 steals over the landsca|>e — the mild and slij 
 serenity of the wenther, and the Iranspiireiit piirt 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 m 
 
 I atmosphere, speak not merely to liie senses but 
 
 I heart,— it is the season of liberal emotions. To 
 
 1 succeeds a fantastic gaiety, a motley dress, which 
 
 (woods assume, where green and yellow, orange, 
 
 lie, crimson and scarlet, are whimsically blended 
 
 her.— A sickly splendour thb!— like the wild 
 
 I broken-hearted gaiety that sometimes precedes 
 
 ilation ; or that childish sportiveness of superan- 
 
 I age, proceeding, not from a vigorous flow of 
 
 spirits, but from the decay and imbecility of 
 
 I mind. We might, perhaps, be deceived by this 
 
 J garb of nature, were it not for the rustling of 
 
 Ibiling leaf, which, breaking on the stillness of the 
 
 e, seems to announce, in prophetic whispei's, the 
 
 winter that is approaching. When I have 
 
 limes seen a thrifty yoimg oak, changing its hue 
 
 ordy vigour for a bright but transient glow of red, 
 
 ; recalled to my mind the treacherous bloom that 
 
 I mantled the cheek of a friend who is now no 
 
 e; and which, while it seemed to promise a long 
 
 ^fjocund spirits, was the sure precursor of pre- 
 
 |gre decay. In a little while, and this ostentatious 
 
 disappears — the close of autumn leaves but 
 
 Ivide expnse of dusky brown, save where some 
 
 pet steals along, bordered with little strips of green 
 
 s,— The wiiodland echoes no more to the carols of 
 
 leatliered tribes that sported in the leafy covert. 
 
 Ills solitude and silence are uninterrupted except 
 
 Ihe plaintive whistle of the quail, the Itarking of 
 
 quirrel, or the still more melancholy wintry 
 
 ll, which, rushing and swelling through the hol- 
 
 lorihe mountains, sighs through the leafless bran- 
 
 1 of the grove, and seems to mourn the desolation 
 
 8 year. 
 
 Bone who, like myself, is fond of drawing com- 
 ons between the different divisions of life and 
 e of the seasons, there will appear a striking ana- 
 |which connects the feelings of the aged wiih tlie 
 e of the year. Often as I contemplate the mild, 
 irm,and genial lustre with wiiich the sun cheers 
 Invigorates us in the month of October; and the 
 ]6t imperceptible haze which, without okscuring, 
 i all the asperities of the landscape, and gives to 
 f object a character of stillness and repose ; I cau- 
 ^elp comparing it with that portion of existence, 
 1 the spring of youthful hope and the sununer of 
 isions having gone by, reason assumes an un- 
 ited sway, and lights us on with bright, but un- 
 |ing lustre, adown the hill of life. There is a full 
 nature luxuriance in tlxe fields that Fills the bosom 
 [generous and disinterested content. It is not 
 lioughtless extravagance of spring, prodigal only 
 oins; nor the languid voluptuousness of suiu- 
 Ifeverish in its enjoyments, and teeming only with 
 Vnre abundance — It is that certain fruition of the 
 pre of the past— that prospect of comfortable real- 
 which those will be sure to enjoy, who have 
 l^ved the Iwiintcous smiles of heaven, nor wasted 
 [ ilieir spring and summer in empty trifling or 
 Inal indulgence. 
 
 Cousin Pindar, who is my constant companion in 
 these expeditions, and who still possesses much of the 
 fii-e and energy of youthful sentiment, and a bnxom 
 hilarity of the spirits, often indeed draws me from 
 these half-melancholy reveries, and makes me feel 
 young again by the enthusiasm with which he con- 
 templates, and the animation with which he eulogizes, 
 the beauties of nature displayed before him. His en- 
 thusiastic disposition never allows him to enjoy things 
 by halves, and his feelings are continually breaking 
 out in notes of admiration, and ejaculations that sober 
 reason might perhaps deem extravagant. But for my 
 part, when I see a hale hearty old man, who has 
 jostled through the rough path of the world, without 
 having worn away the fine edge of his feelings, or 
 blunted his sensibility to natural and moral beauty, I 
 compare him to the evei^een of the forest, whose co- 
 lours, instead of fading at the approach of winter, seem 
 to assume additional lustre when contrasted with the 
 surrounding desolation. Such a man is my friend 
 Pindar;— yet sometimes, and [larticularly at the ap- 
 proach of evening, even he will fall in with my hu- 
 mour; but he soon recovers his natural tone of spirits; 
 and, mounting on the elasticity of his mind, like Ga- 
 nymede on the eagle's wing, he soars to the ethereal 
 regions of sunshine and fancy. 
 
 One afternoon we had strolled to the lop of a high 
 liill in the neighbourhood of the Hall, which commands 
 an almost boundless prospect ; and as the shadows 
 l)egan to lengthen around us, and the distant moun- 
 tains to fade into mists, my cousin was seized with n 
 moralizing fit. " It seems to me, " saiii he, laying 
 his hand lightly on my shoulder, " that there is just at 
 this season, and this hour, a sympathy between us and 
 the world we are now contemplating. The evening 
 is stealing upon nature as well as u|)on us; — the 
 shadows of the opening day have given place to those 
 of its close ; and the only difference is, that in the 
 morning they were before us, now they are behind ; 
 and that the first vanished in the splendours of noon- 
 day, the latter will be lost in the oblivion of night.— 
 Our 'May of life, ' my dear Launce, has fur ever fled; 
 our summer is over and gone: — but," continued he, 
 suddenly recovering himself and slapping me gaily 
 on the shoulder, — "but why should we repine? — 
 What though tlte capricious zephyrs of spring, the 
 heats and hurricanes of summer, have given place to 
 the sober sunshine of autumn — and though the woods 
 begin to assume the dappled livery of decay ! — yet 
 the prevailing colour is still green — gay, sprightly 
 green. 
 
 " Let us then comfort ourselves with this- reflect ion; 
 that though the shades of the morning have given 
 place to tliose of the evening,— though the spring is 
 past, the summer over, and the autumn come,— still 
 you and I go on our way rejoicing ; — and while, like 
 the lofty mountains of our Soiilhern America, our heads 
 are covered with snow, still, like them, we feel the 
 genial warmth of spring and summer playing upon 
 our bosoms, " ; . •, . 
 
 * 
 
81 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 BK LAtNUELOT LkSOStk¥r, eStf. 
 
 In the description which I gave some time since of 
 Cockloft- hall, I totally forgot to make honourable 
 mention of the library, which I confess was a most 
 inexcusable ovci-sight; for in truth it would bear a 
 comparison, in point of usefulness and eccentricity, 
 with the motley collection of the renowned hero of 
 La Mancha. 
 
 It was chiefly gathered together by my grandfather; 
 who spared neitlier pains nor expense to procure spe- 
 cimens of the oldest, most quaint, and insufferable 
 books hi the whole compass of English, Scotch, and 
 Irish literature. There is a tradition in the family, 
 that the old gentleman once gave a grand entertain- 
 ment in consequence of having got possession of a 
 copy of a philippic, by Archbishop Anselm, against the 
 unseemly luxury of long-toed shoes, as worn by the 
 courtiers in the time of William llufus ; which he 
 purchased of an honest brickmaker in the neighbour- 
 hood, for a little less than forty times its value. He 
 had undoubtedly a singular reverence for old authors, 
 and his highest eulogium on his library was, that it 
 consisted of books not to be met with in any other 
 collection ; and as the phrase is, entirely out of print. 
 The reason of which was, I suppose, that they were 
 not worthy of being reprinted. 
 
 Cousin Christopher preserves these relics with great 
 care, and has added considerably to the collection ; 
 for with the Hall he has inherited almost all the whim- 
 whams of its former possessor. He cherishes a re- 
 verential regard for ponderous tomes of Greek and 
 Latin ; though he knows about as much of these lan- 
 guages as a yoiuig Bachelor of Arts does a year or two 
 after leaving College. A worm-eaten work in eiglit 
 or ten volumes he compares to an old family, more 
 respectable fur its antiquity than its splendour; — a 
 lumbering folio he considers as a duke; a sturdy quarto, 
 as an earl ; and a row of gilded duodecimos, as so 
 many gallant knights of the garter. But as to modern 
 works of literature, they are thrust into trunks and 
 drawers, as intruding upstarts, and regarded with as 
 much contempt as musln-oom nobility in England; 
 who, having risen to grandeur merely by their talents 
 and services, are regaiiled as utterly unworthy to 
 mingle their blood with those noble currents that can 
 he traced without a single contamination through a 
 hmg line of, pci'haps, useless and profligate ancestors, 
 up to William the Bastard's couk, or butler, or groom, 
 or some one of Hollo's freebooters. 
 
 Will Wizard, whose studies are of a whimsical com- 
 plexion, takes great delight in ransacking the library; 
 and has been, during his late sojournings at the Hull, 
 very constant and devout in his visits to this recep- 
 tacle of obsolete learning. He seemed particularly 
 tickled with the contents of the great mahogany chest 
 of ilrawers mentioned in the beginnuig of this work. 
 This venerable piece of architecture has frowned, in 
 sullen majesty, from a corner of (he library, tune out 
 of mind; and isiiikd with musty manuscripts, some 
 
 in my grandfather's hand -writing, and others i 
 dently written long before liis day. 
 
 It was a sight worthy of a man's seeing, to I 
 Will, with his outlandish phiz, poring over old s 
 that would puzzle a whole society of anliquariansj 
 expound, and diving into receptacles of trump 
 which, for a century past, had been undisturbed J 
 mortal hand. He would sit for whole hours, wiijj 
 phlegmatic patience unknown ui these degen« 
 days, except, peradventure, among the High 
 Commentatoi-s, p^'ing into the quaint obscnrilrl 
 musty parchments, until his whole face seemed to j 
 converted into a folio leaf of black-letter ; and i 
 sionally, when the whimsical meaning of an oli 
 passage flashed on his mind, his countenance vrt^ 
 curl up into an expression of Gothic risibility, not^ 
 like the physiognomy of a cabbage leaf shrivellin;] 
 fore a hot lire. 
 
 At such times there was no getting Will tojoiil 
 our walks, or take any part in our usual recrealia 
 he hai .!ly gave us an Oriental tale in a week, i 
 would smoke so inveterately, that no one else i 
 enter the library under pain of suffocation. Tiiisij 
 more especially the case when he encountered i 
 knotty piece of writing; and he honestly confessH| 
 me that one worm-eaten manuscript, written i 
 pestilent crabbed hand, had cost him a box of tlielj 
 Spanish cigars before he could make it out ; and^ 
 all, it was not worth a tobacco stalk. Such is tliell 
 of my knowing iissociate; only let him get Kiiriyioj 
 track of any odd out-of-the-way whim-wham, { 
 away he goes, whip and cut, until he cither rumii 
 his game, or runs himself out of breath. — I ncvetl 
 my life met with a man who rode his hubl)y-l 
 more intolerably hard than Wizard. 
 
 One of his favourite occupations for some timeij 
 has been the hunting of black-letter, which iieb 
 in high regard; and he often hints that leariiingl 
 been on the decline ever since the introduction oil 
 Roman alphabet. An old book, printed three ( 
 dred years ago, is a treasure; and a ragsjcdsai 
 alM)ut one half unintelligible. Alls him with rapl 
 Oh! with what enthusiasm will he dwell on the J 
 covery of the Pandects of Justinian, and Livy'sll 
 tory! and when he relates the pious exertions of j 
 Medici, in recovering the lost treasures of Greek ( 
 Roman literature, his eye brightens, and his race| 
 sumcs all the splendour of an illuminated nianusc 
 
 Will had vegetated for a considerable liineiii|l 
 feet tranquillity among dust and cobwebs, wlienj 
 morning as we were gathered on the piazza, lislei 
 with exemplary patience to one of cousin Chi'ist(ipli| 
 long stories about the revolutionary war, wci 
 suddenly electrifled by an explosion of laughter li 
 the library. — My readers, unless peradventure ( 
 have heard honest Will laugh, can form no iil( 
 the prodigious uproar he makes. To hear iiiin \ 
 forest you would imagine, that is to say, if yom 
 classical enough, that the satyrs and the dryads I 
 just diswverod a pair of rural lovers in the M 
 
 methinir like that 
 
 m the Chronicles oft 
 
 !il 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 as 
 
 leafshrivellin;! 
 
 lary war, wci 
 
 I were deriding, with bursts of obstreperous laugh- 
 |r, tlie bluslies of the nympb and the indignation of 
 > swain; or if it were suddenly, as in the present 
 ance, to break upon (lie serene and pensive silence 
 ^an autumnal morning, it would cause a sensation 
 nething like that which arises from hearing a snd- 
 Jen clap of thunder in a summer's day, when not a 
 loud is to be seen aliove the horizon. In short, I 
 ommend Will's laugh as a sovereign remedy for 
 I spleen ; and if any of our readers are troubled 
 lilh that villanous complaint, which can hardly be, 
 I (hey make good use of our works, — I advise them 
 Lmestly to get introduced to him forthwith. 
 I This outrageous merriment of Will's, as may be 
 isily supposed, threw the whole family into a violent 
 It of wondering : we all, with the exception of Chris- 
 pher, wlio took the interruption in high dudgeon, 
 JQently stole up to the library ; and boiling in upon 
 lini, were fain at the first glance to join in his aspir- 
 k' roar. Ilis face, — but I despair to give an idea of 
 |is appearance !— and until his portrait, which is now 
 I (he hands of an eminent artist, is engraved, my 
 Hlers must be content : — I promise them they shall 
 ; (lay or other liave a striking likeness of Will's in- 
 cribable phiz, in all its native comeliness. 
 U[ion my inquiring the occasion of his mirth, he 
 hriist an old, rusty, musty, and dusty manuscript 
 |nto my hand, of which I could not decipher one word 
 ut often, without more trouble than it was worth. 
 his task, however, he kindly look off my hands ; 
 Ind, in little more than eight-and-forty hours, pro- 
 piiced a translation into fair Roman letters ; though 
 ! assured me it had lost a vast deal of its humour by 
 leing moilernised and degraded into plain English. 
 In return for the great pains be had taken, I could 
 lot do less than insert it in our work. Will informs 
 ne that it is but one sheet of a stupendous bundle 
 Irhich still remains uninvestigated; — who was the 
 Julhor we have not yet discovered ; but a note on the 
 lack, in my grandfather's hand-writing, informs us 
 liiat il was presented to him as a literary curiosity by 
 liJ!) parlicular friend, the illustrious Uip Van Dam, 
 Ibrmerly lieutenant-governor of the colony of New- 
 psterdam; and whose fame if ilhus never reached 
 llicse latter days, it is oidy because he was loo modest 
 1 man ever to do any thing worthy of being particu- 
 larly recorded. 
 
 criAi'. ci\. 
 
 \0(lhc Chronkks of the Ilnionncd and Ancient Cittj of 
 Gotham, 
 
 How G()(huiii cily C(m(|ii('r"(l was, 
 And liow tliu Mk turit'd upcs— because. 
 
 iJnk. Fid. 
 
 A1.BKIT, much about this lime it uid full out that 
 lie tliri(;e-renowned and delectable city of Gotham 
 lid suffer great discomliture, and was reduced to pc- 
 liioHs cxlrcmity, by the invasion and assaults of ihe 
 Hoppinglols. These are a people inhabiting a far di- 
 laiit country, exceedingly plcasatuUe and fertile; hut 
 ■icy Ijcing withal cgregiuusly addicted to migrations 
 
 do thence issue forth in mighty swarms, like the 
 Scythians of old, overi'unning divers countries, and 
 commonwealths, and committing great devastations 
 wheresoever they do go by their horrible and dread- 
 ful feats and prowesses. They are specially noted for 
 being right valorous in all exercises of the leg; and of 
 them it hath been rightly aflirmed that no nation in 
 all Christendom, or elsewhere, can cope with them in 
 the adroit, dexterous, and jocund shaking of the heel. 
 This engaging excellence doth stand unto them a 
 sovereign recommendation, by the which they do in- 
 sinuate themselves into nniversal favour and good 
 countenance; and it is a notable fact th.-)t, let a Hop- 
 pingtot but once introduce a foot into company, and 
 it goeth hardly if he doth not contrive to ijourish his 
 whole body in thereafter. The learned Linknm Fi- 
 delius, in his famous and unheard-of treatise on man, 
 whom he definetb, with exceeding sagacity, to be a 
 corn-cutting, tooth-drawing animal, is particularly 
 minute and elaborate in treating of the nation of the 
 Iloppinglots ; and betrays a little of Ihe Pythagorean 
 in bis llieory, inasmuch as he acconnteth for their 
 being so wonderously adroit in pedestrian exercises, 
 by supposing Ihat they did originally acquire this un- 
 accountable and unparalleled aptitude for huge and 
 unmatchable feals of the leg, by having heretofore 
 been condemned for their numerous offences against 
 that harmless race of bipeds, or quadrupeds (for herein 
 the sage Linknm appeareth to doubt and waver ex- 
 ceedingly), the frogs, to animate their hmlies for the 
 space of one or two generations. He also givelh it as 
 his opinion, Ihat Ihe name of Iloppingtols is mani- 
 festly derivative from this transmigration. Be this, 
 however, as it may, the matter, albeit it hath been the 
 subject of controversy among the learned, is but little 
 I)ertinent to the subject of this history; wherefore 
 shall we treat and consider it as naughle. 
 
 Now these people being thereto ini|)elled by a super- 
 fluity of appetite, and a plentiful deliciency of the 
 wherewithal to satisfy Ihe same, did take thought that 
 the ancient and venerable city of Gotham was, perad- 
 vcnlure, possessed of mighty treasures, and did, niove- 
 over, abound with all manner of iish and llesh, and 
 eatables, and drinkables, and such like delightsome 
 and wholesome excellencies withal. Whereupon, 
 calling a council of the most <iclive-heeled warriors, 
 they did resolve forlhwilh to put forth a mighty array, 
 make themselves masters of the same, and revel in Ihe 
 gootl things of the land. To this were they holly 
 stirred up, and wickedly incited, by two redoubtable 
 and renowned warriors, bight Pirouet and Rigadoon; 
 yclcped in such sort, by reason that they were two 
 mighty, valiant, and invincible lillle men; utterly fa- 
 mous for the victories of the leg, which they had, on 
 divei-s illustrious occasions, right gallaiuly achieved. 
 These doughlychampionsdid ambitiously and wick- 
 edly inllame the minds of their countrymen, with 
 gorgeous descriptions, in the which they tlid cunning- 
 lie set forlh the marvellous ri(;hes and luxuries of 
 Gotham; where Uoppingluls might have garments 
 
86 
 
 $4LMAGUNDI. 
 
 i 
 
 for Uieir bodies, shirts to their rullles, ami niii;;ht riot 
 most merrily every day in the week on beef, pudding, 
 and such like lusty dainties. — They, Pirouet and 
 Rigadoon, did likewise hold out liopes of an easy con- 
 quest; forasmuch as the Gothamites were as yet but 
 little versed in the mystery and science of handling 
 the legs; and being, moreover, like unto that notable 
 bully of antiquity, Achilles, most vulnerable to all 
 attacks on the heel, would doubtless surrender at the 
 very first assault. — Whereupon, on the hearing of 
 this inspiriting council, the Hoppingtols did set up a 
 prodigious great cry of joy, shook their heels in 
 triumph, and were all impatience to dance on to Go- 
 tliam and take it by storm. 
 
 The cunning Pirouet, and the arch caitiff Uigadoon, 
 knew full well how to profit by this enthusiasm. 
 They forthwith did order every man to arm himself 
 with a certain pestilent little weapon, called a fiddle; 
 — to pack up in his knapsack a pair of silk breeches, 
 the like of ruffles, a cocked hat the form of a half- 
 moon, a bundle of cat-gut — and inasmuch as in march- 
 ing to Gotham the army might, peradventure, be 
 smitten with scarcity of provisions, they did account 
 it proper that each man should take especial care to 
 carry with him a bunch of right merchantable onions. 
 Having proclaimed tliese orders by sound of liddle, 
 lliey, Pirouet and Rigadoon, did accordingly put their 
 army behind them, and striking up the right jolly and 
 sprightful tune of fa Ira, away they all capered 
 towards the devoted city of Gotham, with a most hor- 
 rible and appalling chattering of voices. 
 
 Of tlieir first appearance before the beleaguered 
 town, and of the various dinicuUies which did en- 
 counter them in their march, this history saith not : 
 being that other matters of more weighty import re- 
 quire to be written. When that the army of the Hop- 
 pingtols did peregrinate within sight of Gotham, and 
 the people of the city did behold the villanous and 
 hitherto unseen capers and grimaces which they did 
 make, a most horrific panic was stirred up among the 
 citizens ; and the sages of the town fell into great des- 
 pondency and tribulation, as supposing that these in- 
 vaders were of the race of the Jig-hees, who did 
 make men into baboons when they achieved a con- 
 quest over them. The sages, therefore, called upon 
 all the dancing men and dancing women, and exhort- 
 ed them, with great vehemency of speech, to make 
 heel against the invaders, and to put themselves upon 
 such gallant defence, such glorious array, and such 
 sturdy evolution, elevation, and transposition of the 
 foot, as might inconlinenlly impester the legs of the 
 Hoppingtols, and produce their complete discomfiture. 
 Rut 80 it did happen, by great mischance, that divers 
 light-heeled youth of Gotham, more especially those 
 who are descended ftom three wise men so renowned 
 of yore, for having most venturesomely voyaged over 
 sea in a bowl, were from time to time captured and 
 inveigled into the camp of the enemy ; where, being 
 foolishly cajoled and treated for a season with outland- 
 ish disports and pleasaunlries, they were sent back to 
 
 tlieir friends, entirely changed, degenerated, and lut 
 ed topsy-tuny, insomuch that they thought theni».| 
 forth of nothing but their heels, always essaying J 
 thrust them into the most manifest point of viev;. 
 and, in a word, as might truly be affirmed, did kH 
 ever after walk upon their heads outright. 
 
 And the Hoppingtots did day by day, and at iitel 
 hours of the night, wax more and more urgent in llii 
 their investment ofthe city. At one time they would, 
 in goodly procession, make an open assault by som 
 of fiddle in a tremendous contradance ; — and ami 
 I hey would advance by little detachments, and mi- 
 n(L>uvre to take the town by figuring in cotillons, 
 But tndy their most cunning and devilish craft, and 
 subtilty, was made manifest in their strenuous endf}- 
 voursto corrupt the garrison, by a most insidious anj 
 pestilent dance called the Waltz. This, in gooj 
 truth, was a potent auxiliary; for by it were the headi 
 of the simple Gothamites most villanously turned, 
 (heir wits sent a wool-gathering, and themselves og 
 the point of surrendering at discretion, even unlolhel 
 very arms of their invading foemen. 
 
 At length the lortilicalions of the town began itl 
 give manifest symptoms of decay; inasmuch aslbt 
 breastwork of decency was considerably broken down, 
 and the curtain work of proi)riety blown up. WIki 
 the cunning caitiff Pirouet beheld the ticklish and jeo- 
 I)ardized state of the city — " Now, by my leg," quotit 
 he, — he always swore by his leg, being that it wasao 
 exceeding goodlie leg—" Now, by my leg," quolh in, 
 "but this is no great matter of recreation ;— I will 
 show these people a pretty, strange, and new wan 
 forsooth, prcsentlie, and will shake the dust oFTmj' 
 pumps uiwn this most obstinate and uncivilized lown,"| 
 Whereupon he ordered, and did command his war- 
 riors, one and afi, that they should put themselves ill 
 readiness, and prepare to carry the town by a (jram 
 ball. They, in no wise to be daunted, do fortliwilh, 
 at the word, equip themselves for the assault; andip. 
 good faith, truly it was a gracious and glorious si .)(,[ 
 a most triumphant and incomparable spectacle, b 
 behold them gallantly arrayed in glossy and shinin; 
 silk breeches, tied with abundance of riband : willi 
 silken hose of the gorgeous colour of the salnion;- 
 right goodlie morocco pumps decorated with clasiKj 
 or buckles of a most eunninge and secret contri- 
 vance, inasmuch as they did of themselves grapple l>| 
 the shoe without any aid of fluke or tongue, marvel- 
 lously ensembling witchcraft and necromancy. The;! 
 had, withal, exuberant chitterlings ; which pulTed uiil 
 at the neck and bosom, after a most jolly fa$liioii,| 
 like unto the beard of an ancient he-turkey ; and awk- 
 ed hats, the which they did carry not on their heailsJ 
 after the fashion of tlie Gothamites, but under Iheirj 
 arms as a roasted fowl his gizzard. 
 
 Thus being equipped, and marshaUed, they do at- 
 tack, assault, batter and belabour the town witlil 
 might and main ; most gallantly displaying the vi|^r 
 oflheir legs, and shaking their heels at it most em- 
 phatically. And the manner of (heir attack was iu| 
 
 Ills sort;— first, t 
 I a contre-iemps ; 
 tossack dance, a I 
 bolliamites, in no 
 ^-stem of warfare 
 en their mouths 
 I bow shot, mean 
 apprehension 
 tourisbing his left 
 most magnifi 
 \\al wait we hen 
 Iron to our favour i 
 amsels wave to uj 
 kbeit there is some 
 slly converted in 
 ade no more ado, 
 light-shot, and era 
 anner of the Hop 
 iin, and with mig 
 iitright over the w 
 
 ny of Iloppingli 
 
 lieitain, with an e 
 
 I liorriflc blasting a 
 
 at the dogs did 1 
 
 kere (heir ears a 
 
 pme semblance of 
 
 en all won over 
 jiey were shortly r 
 Ussion : and delive 
 vfessors of the Ho 
 |er most ignominioi 
 ne, until they hai 
 
 I tlourish their lej 
 
 nquerors. And t 
 (ted, was the migli 
 
 vumvented, and t 
 kight be rendered, 
 I The conquerors s 
 p, sexes, and c( 
 pnce; and in a woi 
 ] become absolute 
 kgenlous Linkum ] 
 pture." And this 
 
 I hath been mosi 
 
 I example of the 
 islFoiis and unluck 
 fey have waxed U 
 
 I abandoned dan 
 
 |ttt how to gallanti: 
 
 -insomuch th« 
 
 lace, ever observ< 
 
 flifully devote theii 
 
 IS, and their days 
 pilication of the bet 
 (ik, who, whilome, 
 
 on the improvem 
 liiy abandoned thi 
 ] it were, settled i 
 Jiines, wound up I 
 liiddle-stick! 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 87 
 
 ■lis sort;— first, liiey did thunder and gallop forward 
 L a fonUe-temps ;— and anon, displayed column in a 
 [ossack dance, a fandango, or a gavot. Whereat the 
 olhamites, in no wise understanding this unknown 
 It'stem of warfare, marvelled exceedinglie, and did 
 en their mouths incontinently, the full distance of 
 I bow shot, meaning a cross-bow, in sore dismay 
 apprehension. Whereupon, sailh Rigadoon, 
 aurisbing his left leg with great expression of valour, 
 most magnific carriage — "My copesmales, for 
 that wait we here ; are not the townsmen already 
 ^00 to our favour ?— Do not their women and young 
 Jamsels wave to us from the walls in such sort that, 
 Pbelt there is some show of defence, yet is it mani- 
 stly converted into our interests ? " So saying, he 
 de no more ado, but leaping into the air about a 
 bht-shot, and crossing his feet six times, after the 
 annerof the Iloppingtots, he gave a short partridge 
 ^n, and with mighty vigour and swiftness did bolt 
 alright over the walls with a somerset. The whole 
 ny of Hoppinglots danced in after their valiant 
 lieftain, with an enormous squeaking of fiddles, and 
 Ihorrific blasting and brattling of horns; insomuch 
 at the dogs did howl in the streets, so hideously 
 lere Iheir ears assailed. The Golhamites made 
 pme semblance of defence, but their women having 
 «n all won over into the interest of the enemy, 
 key were shortly reduced to make most abject sub- 
 lissioM ; and delivered over to the coercion of certain 
 'ofessors of the Iloppingtots, who did put them un- 
 |er most ignominious durance, for the space of a long 
 ne, until they bad learned to turn out their toes, 
 bd flourish their legs after the true manner of their 
 Dnquerors. And thus, after the manner I have re- 
 lied, was the mighty and puissant city of Gotham 
 nimvented, and taken by a coup de pied : or, as it 
 Light be rendered, by force of legs. 
 I The conquerors showed no mercy, but did put all 
 bis, sexes, and conditions, to the fiddle and the 
 We; anil in a word, compelled and enforced them 
 i become absolute Hoppingtots. "Habit," as the 
 kgenious Linkum profoundly affinneth, " is second 
 We." And this original and invaluable observa- 
 I hath been most aptly proved and illustrated, by 
 i example of the Gothamites, ever since this di- 
 islFous and unlucky mischance. In process of time, 
 ^ey have waxed to be most flagrant, outrageous, 
 [abandoned dancers; they do ponder onnaughte 
 ^l how to gallantize it at balls, routs, and fandan- 
 s— insomuch that the like was, in no time or 
 lace, ever observed before. They do, moreover, 
 flifully devote their nights to the jollification of the 
 ;s, and their days forsooth to the instruction and 
 bification of the heel . And to conclude : their young 
 [lit, who, whilome, did bestow a modicum of leisure 
 ion the improvement of the head, have of late ut- 
 Iriy abandoned this hopeless task, and have quietly, 
 ] it were, settled themselves down into mere ma- 
 liines, wound up by n tune, and set in motion hy 
 iiddle-slick! ■ .> ■ ■■■. ■ •: i^r ^^ ' »:; 
 
 ?io. XVIII.— TUESDAY, NOVEMBEIl 24. IW7. 
 ' THE LITTLE MAN IX BLACK. 
 
 BT LAl'NGELOT L4NGSTAFF, ESQ. 
 
 The following story has been handed down by fa- 
 mily tradition fur more than a century. It is one on 
 which my coiLsin Christopher dwells with more than 
 usual prolixity; and, being in some measure con- 
 nected with a personage often quoted in our work, I 
 have thought it worthy of being laid before my 
 readers. 
 
 Soon after my grandfather, Mr Lemuel Cockloft, 
 had quietly settled himself at the Hall, and just about 
 the time that the gossips of the neighbourhood, tired 
 of prymg into his affairs, were anxious for some new 
 tea-table topic, the busy community of our little vil- 
 lage was thrown into a grand turmoil of curiosity 
 and conjecture — a situation very common to Kttle 
 gossiping villages — by the sudden and unaccountable 
 appearance of a mysterious individual. 
 
 The object of this solicitude was a little black-look- 
 ing man, of a foreign aspect, who took possession of 
 an old building, which, having long had the reputa- 
 tion of being haunted, was in a state of ruinous de- 
 solation, and an object of fear to all true believei-s 
 in ghosts. He usually wore a high sugar-loaf hat 
 with a naiTow brim, and a little black cloak, which, 
 short as be was, scarcely reached below his knees. 
 He sought no intimacy or acquaintance with any one 
 — appeared to take no interest in the pleasures or the 
 little broils of the village— nor ever talked, except 
 sometimes to himself in an outlandish tongue. He 
 commonly carried a large b(x>k, covered with sheep- 
 skin, under bis arm — appeared always to be lost in 
 meditation — and was often met by the peasantry, 
 sometimes watching the dawning of day, sometimes 
 at noon seated under a tree poring over his volume, 
 and sometimes at evening, gazing, with a look of so- 
 ber tranquillity, at the sun as it gradually sunk below 
 the horizon. 
 
 The good people of the vicinity beheld something 
 prodigiously singular in all this; a mystery seemed to 
 hang about the stranger which, with all their saga- 
 city, they could not penetrate; and in the excess of 
 worldly charity they pronounced it a sure sign "that 
 he was no better than he should be;" a phrase in- 
 nocent enough in itself; but which, as applied in 
 common, signifies nearly every thing that is bad. 
 The young people thought him a gloomy misanthrope, 
 because he never joined in their sports; the old men 
 thought still more hardly of him, because he followed 
 no trade, nor ever seemed ambitious of earning a far- 
 thing; and as to the old gossips, baffled by the in- 
 flexible taciturnity of the stranger, they unanimously 
 decreed that a man who could not or would not talk 
 was no better than a dumb beast. The little man in 
 black, careless of Iheir opinions, seemed resolved to 
 maintain the liberty of keeping his own secret ; and 
 the consequence was, that, in a little while, the whole 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 iM 
 
 i i ^ 
 
 village was in an uproar; for in little communities ot 
 this description, the niemliers have always the privi- 
 lege of being thoroughly verseil, and even of med- 
 dling, in all the affairs of each other. 
 
 A confidential conference was held one Sunday 
 morning after sermon, at the door of the village 
 church, and the character of the unknown fully in- 
 vestigated. The schoolmaster gave as his opinion 
 that he was the wandering Jew ; the sexton was certain 
 that he must be a free-mason from his silence ; a 
 third maintained, with great obstinacy, that he was a 
 High German doctor, and that the book which he 
 carried about with bun contained the secrets of the 
 black art; but the most prevailing opinion seemed to 
 be that he was a witch — a race of beings at that time 
 abounding in those parts : and a sagacious old ma- 
 tron, from Connecticut, proposed to ascertain the fact 
 by sousing him into a kettle of hot water. 
 
 Suspicion, when once afloat, goes with wind and 
 tide, and soon becomes certainty. Many a stormy 
 night was the little man in black seen by the Hushes of 
 lightning, frisking, and curveting in the air upon a 
 broom-stick; and it was always observed, that at those 
 times the storm did more mischief than at any other. 
 The old lady in particular, who suggested the humane 
 ordeal of the boiling kettle, lost on one of these occa- 
 sions a line brindled cow ; which accident was en- 
 tirely ascribed to the vengeance of the little man in 
 black. If ever a mischievous hireling rode bis mas- 
 ter's favourite horse to a distant frolic, and the animal 
 was observed to be lamed and jaded in the morning, 
 — the little man in black was sure to be at the bottom 
 of the affair ; nor could a high wind howl through the 
 village at night, but the old women shrugged up their 
 shoulders and observed, "the little man in black was 
 in his tantrums." In short he became the bugbear 
 of every house; and was as effectual in frightening 
 little children into obedience and hysterics, as the 
 redoubtable Ilaw-head-and-bloody-bones himself; nor 
 could a housewife of the village sleep in peace, except 
 under the guardianship of a horse-shoe nailed to the 
 door. 
 
 The object of these direful suspicions remained for 
 some tune totally ignorant of the wonderful quandary 
 he had occasioned ; but he was soon doomed to feel its 
 effects. An individual who is once so unfortunate as 
 to incur the odium of a village is in a great measure 
 outlawed and proscribed, and becomes a mark for in- 
 jury and hisult; particularly if he has not the power 
 or the disposition to recriminate. — The little venomous 
 passions, which in the great world are dissipated and 
 weakened by being widely diffused, act in the narrow 
 limits of a country town with collected vigour, and 
 become rancorous in proportion as they are conlined 
 in their sphere of action. The little man in black ex- 
 perienced (he truth of this : every mischievous urchin 
 rettn-ning front school had full liberty to break his 
 windows ; and this was considered as a most daring 
 exploit; for in such awe did they stand of him, that the 
 must adventurous schoolboy was never seen to ap- 
 
 proach his threshold, and at night would prefer g^ 
 round by the cross-roads, where a traveller had lie 
 murdered by the Indians, rather than pass by the do 
 of his forlorn habitation. 
 
 The only living creature that seemed to have ; 
 care or affection for this deserted being was an 4 
 turnspit, — the companion of his lonely mansion aij 
 his solitary wanderings; — the sharer of his scaoi 
 meals, and, sorry am I to say it, — the sharer ufl 
 persecutions. The tiu'nspit, like his master, vJ 
 peaceable and inoffensive; never known to bark at J 
 horse, to growl at a traveller, or to quarrel with u 
 dogs of the neighbourhood. He followed close atli 
 master's heels when he went out, and when lie i 
 turned stretched himself in the sunbeams at theda 
 demeaning himself in all things like a civil and ' 
 disposed turnspit. But notwithstanding bis exa 
 plary deportment, be fell likewise under the ill rep 
 of the village ; as being the familiar of the little i 
 in black, and the evil spirit that presided at his incii 
 talions. The old hovel was considered as the < 
 of their unhallowed rites, and its harmless teiu 
 regarded with a detestation which their inofTen 
 conduct never n^erited. Though pelted and jeen 
 at by the brats of the village, and frequently abust 
 by tlieir parents, the little man in black never tun 
 to rebuke them; and his faithful dog, when waiitoi 
 assaulted, looked up wistfully in his master's face, a 
 there learned a lesson of patience and forl)earanee. 
 
 The movements of this inscrutable being had I 
 been the subject of speculation at Cockloft-hall, I 
 its inmates were full as much given to wondering 
 their descendants, llie patience with Avhicli lie I 
 his persecutions particularly surprised them— for p 
 tience is a virtue but little known in the Cockloflb 
 mily. My grandmother, who, it appears, was ralli 
 superstitious, saw in this humility nothing but i 
 gloomy sullenness of a wizard, who restrained liii 
 self for the present, in hopes of midnight veiigeam 
 —the parson of the village, who was a man of s 
 reading, pronounced it the stubborn insensibility fi\ 
 stoic philosopher— my grandfather, who, worll 
 sold, seldom wandered abroad in search of coiiiii 
 sions, took datum from his own excellent heart, i 
 regarded it as the humble forgiveness of a Clirislii 
 But however different were their opinions as to Ikj 
 character of the stranger, they agreed in oiie| 
 cular, namely, in never intruding upon his solitiiik 
 and my grandmother, who was at tliat time nursid 
 my mother, never left the room without wisely | 
 ting the large family bible in the cradle— a sure lai 
 man, in her opinion, against witchcraft and nei 
 mancy. 
 
 One stormy winter night, when a bleak nortlw 
 wind moaned about the cottages, and howled an 
 the village steeple, my grandfather was retiimi^ 
 from club preceded by a servant with a lantern, li 
 as he arrived opposite the desolate alwde of tlieliul 
 man in black, he was arrested by the bowliiigofi 
 dog, which, heard in the pauses of a storm, wasd 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 H!) 
 
 ined to liave i 
 
 L||y monrnfui ; and he foncied now and then that 
 
 I caught the low and broken groans of some one in 
 ilress. He stopped for some minutes, hesitating 
 dween the benevolence of his heart and a sensation 
 
 nuine delicacy, which, in spite of his eccentricity, 
 
 [fully possessed,— and which forbade him to pry 
 
 the concerns of his neighlmurs. Perhaps, too, 
 
 hesitation might have been strengthened by a 
 
 jle taint of superstition ; for surely, if the unknown 
 
 II been addicted to witchcraft, this was a most pro- 
 I night for his vagaries. At length the old gen- 
 
 an's philanthropy predominated ; he approached 
 I hovel, and pushing open the door,— for poverty 
 I no occasion for locks and keys,— l)eheld, by the 
 htofthe lantern, a scene that smote his generous 
 trl to the core. 
 
 On a miserable bed, with pallid and emaciated vi- 
 > and hollow eyes ; in a room destitute of every 
 [ivenience ; without fire to warm or friend to console 
 n, lay this helpless mortal who had been so long 
 I terror and wonder of the village. His dog was 
 uching on the scanty coverlet, and shivering with 
 My grandfather stepped softly and hesitatingly 
 khe bed-side, and accosted the forlorn sufferer in 
 lusaal accents of kindness. The little man in black 
 recalled by the tones of compassion from the 
 argy into which he had fallen ; for, though his 
 krt was almost frozen, there was yet one chord that 
 ^wered to the call of the good old man who bent 
 rhim;— the tones of sympathy, so novel to his ear, 
 led back his wandering senses, and acted like a res- 
 jative to his solitary feelings. 
 He raised his eyes, but they were vacant and hag- 
 1;— he put forth his hand, but it was cold; he 
 |ayed to speak, but the sound died away in his 
 at;— he pointed to his mouth with an expression 
 |jreadful meaning, and, sad to relate ! my grand- 
 er understood that the harniless stranger, deserted 
 I society, was perishing with hunger !— With the 
 I impulse of humanity he disiMtched the servant 
 |he hall for refreshment. A little warm nourish- 
 nt renovated him for a short time, but not long ; it 
 s evident his pilgrimage was drawing to a close, 
 phe was almut entering that peaceful asylum where 
 he wicked cease from troubling." 
 BU tale of misery was short and quickly told ;— 
 Irmities had stolen upon him, heightened by the ri- 
 Irsorthe season ; he had taken to his bed without 
 |tngth to rise and ask for assistance; " and if I had," 
 1 be, in a tone of bitter despondency, " to whom 
 uld I have applied ? I have no friend that I know 
 itheworld ! — The villagers avoid me as something 
 klisome and dangerous; and here, in the midst of 
 Wians, should I have perished without a fellow 
 |ng to soothe the last moments of existence, and 
 ! my eyes, had not the bowlings of my faithful 
 (excited your attention." 
 
 |le seemed deeply sensible of the kindness of my 
 dfather ; and at one time, as he looked up into his 
 I benefactor's face, a solitary tear was observed to 
 
 steal adnwn the parched furrows of his cheek.— Poor 
 outcast!— it was the last tear he shed; but I warrant 
 it was not the first by millions! My grandfather 
 watched by him all night. Towards morning he gra- 
 dually declined ; and as the rising sun gleamed through 
 the window, be begged to be raised in his bed that 
 he might look at it for the last tune. He contemplat- 
 ed it for a moment with a kind of religious enthu- 
 siasm, and his lips moved as if engaged in prayer. The 
 strange conjectures concerning him rushed on my 
 grandfather's mind. '*He is an idolater!" thought 
 he, "and is worshipping the sun!" He listened a 
 moment, and blushed at his own uncharitable suspn 
 cion ; he was only engaged in the pious devotions of a 
 Christian. His simple orison being finished, the little 
 man in black withdrew his eyes from the east, and 
 taking my grandfather's hand in one of his, and mak- 
 ing a motion with the other towards the sun—" I 
 love to contemplate it," said he; "'tis an emblem of 
 the universal benevolence of a true Christian; — and 
 it is the most glorious work of him who is philan- 
 thropy itself! " My grandfather blushed still deeper 
 at his ungenerous surmises; he had pitied the stranger 
 at first, but now he revered him :— he turned once 
 more to regard him, but his countenance had under- 
 gone a change; the holy enthusiasm that had lighted 
 up each feature had given place to an expression of 
 mysterious import :— a gleam of grandeur seemed to 
 steal across his gothic visage, and he appeared full of 
 some mighty secret which he hesitated to impart. 
 He raised the tattered nightcap that had sunk almost 
 over his eyes, and waving his withered hand with a 
 slow and feeble expression of dignity— " In me," s?'d 
 he, with a laconic solemnity,—" In me you behold 
 the last descendant of the renowned Linkum Fide- 
 lius ! " My grandfather gazed at him with reverence ; 
 for though he had never heard of the illustrious per- 
 sonage thus pompously announced, yet there was a 
 certain black-letter dignity in the name that peculiarly 
 struck his fancy and commanded his respect. 
 
 " You have been kind to me," continued the little 
 man in black, after a momentary pause, " and richly 
 will I requite your kindness by making you heir to 
 my treasures ! In yonder large deal box are the vo- 
 lumes of my illustrious ancestor, of which I alone am 
 the fortunate possessor. Inherit them— ponder over 
 them, and be wise ! " He grew faint with the exer- 
 tion he had made, and sunk back almost breathless on 
 his pillow. His hand, which, inspired with the im- 
 portance of his subject, he had raised to my grand- 
 father's arm, slipped from its hold and fell over the 
 side of the bed, and his faithful dog licked it; as if 
 anxious to soothe the last moments of his master, and 
 testify his gratitude to the hand that had so often che- 
 rished him. The untaught caresses of the faithful 
 animal were not lost upon his dying master; he raised 
 his languid eyes,— turned them on the dog, then on 
 my grandfather; and having given this silent recom- 
 mendation — closed them for ever. 
 
 The remains of the little man in black, notwith- 
 
 12 
 
rj 
 
 •Ml 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 
 Standing the objeclionji or many pious people, were 
 decently interred in the churchyard of the village ; 
 and hi« spirit, harmless as the body it once animated, 
 has never been known to molest a living being. My 
 grandfather complied as far as possible with his last 
 request ; he conveyed the volumes of Linkum Fidelius 
 to his library ;— he pondered over them frequently ; 
 but whether he grew wiser, the tradition doth not 
 mention. This much is certain, that his kindness to 
 the poor descendant of Fidelius was amply rewarded 
 by the approbation of his own heart, and the devoted 
 attachment of the old turnspit ; who, transferring his 
 affection from his deceased master to his benefactor, 
 became his constant attendant, and was father to a 
 long line of curs that still flourish in the family. 
 And thus was the Cockloft library first enriched by 
 the invaluable folios of the sage Lmkum Fidelius. 
 
 ', LETTER 
 
 FIO<li HL1STAPB4 lUB-i-DUD KBtl KBAN, 
 
 To Asem Hacchem, principal Slave-driver to his Highness 
 the Bashaw of Tripoli. 
 
 Though I am often disgusted, my good Asem, 
 with the vices and absurdities of the men of this coun- 
 try, yet the women afford me a world of amusement. 
 Their lively prattle is as diverting as the chattering of 
 the red-tailed parrot ; nor can the green-headed mon- 
 key of Timandi equal them in whim and playfulness. 
 But, notwithstanding these valuablequalifications, lam 
 sorry to observe they are not treated with half the 
 attention bestowed on the before-mentioned animals. 
 These infidels put their parrots in cages and chain 
 their monkeys ; but their women, instead of being 
 carefully shut up in harems, are abandoned to the 
 direction of their own reason, and suffered to run 
 about in perfect freedom, like other domestic animals: 
 this comes, Asem, of treating their women as ra- 
 tional beings, and allowing them souls. The conse- 
 quence of this piteous neglect may easily be imagined; 
 —they have degenerated into all their native wildness, 
 are seldom to be caught at home, and , at an early age, 
 take to the streets and highways, where they rove 
 about in droves, giving almost as much annoyance to 
 the peaceable people as the troops of wild dogs that 
 infest our great cities, or the flights of locusts, that 
 sometimes spread famine and desolation over whole 
 regions of fertility. 
 
 This propensity to relapse into pristine wildness, 
 convinces me of the untameable disposition of the sex, 
 who may indeed be partially domesticated by a long 
 course of confinement and restraint, but the moment 
 they are restored to personal freedom, become wild as 
 the young partridge of this country, which, though 
 scarcely half hatched, will take to the fields and run 
 about with the shell upon its back. 
 
 Notwitlistanding their wildness, however, they 
 are remarkably easy of access, and suffer themselves 
 to be approached, at certain hours of the day, with- 
 out any symptoms of apprehension ; and I have even 
 
 happily succeeded in detecting them at tlieir (k 
 occupations. One of the most important of tlieacfl 
 sisis in thumping vehemently on a kind of mg 
 instrument, and producing a confused, hideous, i 
 indefinable uproar, which they call the descriptjoil 
 a battle — a jest, no doubt, for they are won 
 facetious at times, and make great practice ofii 
 jokes upon strangers. Sometimes they employ tb 
 selves in painting little caricaturesof landscapes, vh 
 in they display their singular drollery in bantt 
 nature fairly out of countenance — tricking her o«| 
 the finery of copper skies, purple rivers, calico i 
 red grass, clouds that look like old clothes set i 
 by the tempest, and foxy trees, whose foliage, < 
 ing and curling most fantastically, reminds one i\ 
 undressed periwig hanging on a stick in a Utl 
 window. At other times, they employ themselTsI 
 acquiring a smattering of languages spoken by luH 
 on the other side of the glolie, as they find their g 
 language not sufficiently copious to express their i 
 tifarious ideas. But their most important don 
 avocation is to embroider, on satin or muslin, flom 
 of a non-descript kind, in which the great art b| 
 make them as unlike nature as possible ; or to I 
 little bits of silver, gold, tinsel, and glass, on I 
 strips of muslin, which they drag after them < 
 much dignity whenever they go abroad— a fineli 
 like a bird of paradise, being estimated by the I 
 of her tail. 
 
 But do not, my friend, fall into the enormous e 
 of supposing that the exercise of these arts isalle 
 ed with any useful or profitable result : believe ■ 
 thou couldst not indulge an idea more unjust aodij 
 jurious; for it appears to be an established 
 among the women of this country, that a ladyli 
 iier dignity when she condescends to be useful, i 
 forfeits all rank in society the moment she can bca 
 victed of earning a farthing. Their labours, 
 fore, are directed not towards supplying their t 
 hold, but in decking their persons, and — gen 
 souls ! — they deck their persons, not so much to |i 
 themselves, as to gratify others, particularly strani 
 I am confident thou wilt stare at this, my good jji 
 accustomed as thou art to our eastern females, \ 
 shrink in blushing timidity even from the glan 
 a lover, and are so chary of their favours, tbatd 
 seem fearful of lavishing their smiles too profg 
 even on their husbands. Here, on the contrary, ( 
 stranger has the first place in female regard ; and,| 
 far do they cany their hospitality, that I haves 
 fine lady slight a dozen tried friends and real 
 rers, who lived in her smiles and made her happoj 
 their study, merely to allure the vague and wai 
 ing glances of a stranger, who viewed her 
 with indifference, and treated her advances wilhd 
 tempt.— By the whiskers of our sublime bashaw, | 
 this is highly flattering to a foreigner! and thoui 
 est judge how particularly pleasing to one who| 
 like myself, an ardent admirer of the sex. Farb 
 from me to condemn this extraordinary manife: 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 M 
 
 -will— let their own countrj'raen look to tliat. 
 
 I not alarmed, I conjure thee, my dear Asem, 
 1 1 should be tempted, by thetie beautiful barba- 
 te break the faith I owe to the tliree-and- 
 
 D(y wiveii, (h>m whom my unhappy destiny has 
 
 «ps severed me for ever : — no, Asem, neither 
 
 nor the bitter succession of misfortunes that 
 
 ues me, can shake from my heart the memory of 
 
 er aUaclimenls. I listen with tranquil heart lo 
 
 litrummingand prattling of these fair syrens : their 
 
 isical paintings touch not the tender chord of my 
 
 i ; and I would still defy their fascinations, 
 
 f\i they trailed after them trains as long as the 
 
 oos trappings which are dragged at the heels of 
 
 fholy camel of Mecca; nay, even though they 
 
 died the tail of (he great beast in our prophet's 
 
 1), which measured tliree hunilred and forty-nine 
 
 jm, two miles, three furlongs, and a hand's 
 
 dill in longitude. 
 
 be dress of these women is, if possible, more ec- 
 
 and whimsical than their deportment ; and 
 
 take an inordinate pride in certain ornaments 
 
 |cb are probably derived from their savage proge- 
 
 A woman of this country, dressed out for an 
 
 jjtion, is loaded with as many ornaments as a 
 
 an slave when brought out for sale. Their 
 
 tare tricked out with little bits of horn or shell, 
 
 Dlo fantastic shapes, and they seem to emulate 
 
 i other in the number of these singular baubles; 
 
 I the women we have seen in our journeys to 
 
 0, who cover their heads with the entire shell 
 
 Itortoise, and, thus equipped, are the envy of all 
 
 1 less fortunate acquaintance. They also decorate 
 
 [necks and ears with coral, gold chains, and glasis 
 
 |s, and load their fingers with a variety of rings ; 
 
 h, I must confess, I have never perceived that 
 
 [wear any in their noses — as has been afiirmed 
 
 my travellers. We have heard much of their 
 
 ng themselves most hideously, and making use 
 
 9i^s-grease in great profusion— but this, I so- 
 
 |lf assure thee, is a mis-statement; civilization, 
 
 ubi, having gradually extirpated these nauseous 
 
 It is true, 1 have seen two or three fe- 
 
 i who had disguised their features with paint, 
 
 en it was merely to give a tinge of red to (heir 
 
 s, and did not look very frightful ; and as to 
 
 «n(, (hey rarely use any now, except occasion- 
 
 ) little Grecian oil for their hair, which gives it 
 
 isy, greasy, and, as they think, very comely 
 
 BDce. The last-mentioned class of females, 
 
 it fur granted, have been but lately caught, 
 
 I retain s(rong traits of their savage propensi- 
 
 iinost flagrant and inexcusable fault, however, 
 
 I I find in these lovely savages, is the shameless 
 andoned exposure of their persons. Wilt thou 
 ispect me of exaggeration when I affirm — wilt 
 
 I blush for them, most discreet mussulman, 
 1 1 declare to thee — (hat (hey are so lost (o all 
 ! of modes(y, as to expose (he whole of their 
 
 faces from their forehead to the chin, and they even 
 go abroad with their Iiands uncovered!— Monstrous 
 indelicacy ! 
 
 But what I am going to disclose will doubtless ap- 
 pear to thee still more incredible. Though I cannot 
 forbear paying a tribute of admiration to the beauti- 
 ful faces of these fair infidels, yet I must give it as 
 my firm opinion that their persons are preposterously 
 unseemly. In vain did I look around me, on my first 
 landing, for those divine forms of redundant propor- 
 tions, which answer (o the true standard of eastern 
 beauty— not a single fat fair one could I behold among 
 the multitudes that thronged the streets : (he females 
 that {lassed in review before me, tripping sportively 
 along, resembled a procession of shadows, returning 
 to their graves at the crowing of the cock. 
 
 This meagreness I first ascribed to their excessive 
 volubility, for I have somewhere seen it advanced by 
 a learned doctor, that the sex were endowed with a 
 peculiar activity of tongue, in order that they might 
 practise talking as a healthful exercise, necessary to 
 their confined and sedentary mode of life. This 
 exercise, it was natural to suppose, would be carried 
 to great excess in a logocracy. " Too true," thought 
 I, "they have converted, what was undoubtedly 
 meant as a beneficent gift, into a noxious habit, that 
 steals the flesh from their bones and the rose from 
 their cheeks— they absolutely talk themselves thin ! " 
 Judge then of my surprise when I was assured, not 
 long since, that this meagreness was considered the 
 perfection of personal beauty, and (hat many a lady 
 starved herself, with all the obstinate perseverance of 
 a pious dervise, into a fine figure ! " Nay more," 
 said my informer, " (hey will often sacrifice their 
 healths in this eager pursuit of skeleton beauty, and 
 drink vinegar, and eat pickles, to keep themselves 
 widiin the scanty outlines of (he tashions." — Faugh ! 
 Allah preserve me from such beauties, who conta- 
 minate their pure blood with noxious reci|)es; who 
 impiously sacrifice the best gifts of Heaven to a pre- 
 posterous and mistaken vanity. Ere long I shall not 
 be surprised to see them scarring their faces like the 
 negroes of Congo, flattening their noses in imi(a(ion 
 of (he iIo((en(o(s, or like the barbarians of Ab-al-Ti- 
 mar, distorting their lips and ears out of all natural 
 dimensions. Since I received this information, I can- 
 not contemplate a fine figure, without thinking of a 
 vinegar cruet ; nor look at a dashing l)elle, without 
 fancying her a pot of pickled cucumbers ! What a 
 difference, my friend, between these shades and the 
 {•lump beauties of Tripoli, — what a contrast l)elween 
 an iniidel fair one and my favourite wife, Fatima, 
 whom I bought by (he hundred weight, and had 
 trundled home in a wheelbarrow ! 
 
 But enough for the present; I am promised a faith- 
 ful account of the arcana of a lady's toilette — a com- 
 plete initiation into the arts, mysteries, spells, and 
 potions, in short the whole chemical process, by which 
 she reduces herself down to the most fashionable 
 standard of insignificance ; (oge(her with specimens 
 
^ 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 ii'S. 
 
 K' 
 
 fi 
 
 ? 
 
 of the strait waistcoats, the lacings, the bandages, 
 and the various ingenious instruments with which she 
 puts nature to the rack, and tortures herself into a 
 proper figure to be admired. 
 
 Farewell, thou sweetest of slave-drivers! The 
 echoes that repeat to a lover's ear the song of his mis- 
 tress are not more soothing than tidings from those 
 we love. Let thy answer to my letters be speedy ; 
 and never, I pray thee, for a moment, cease to watch 
 over the prosperity of my house, and the welfare of 
 my beloved wives. Let them want for nothing, my 
 friend, but feed them plentifully on honey, boiled rice, 
 and water gruel ; so that when I return to the blessed 
 land of my fathers, if that shall ever be ! I may find 
 them improved in size and loveliness, and sleek as 
 the graceful elephants that range the green valley of 
 Abimar. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 MCSTAPHA. 
 
 No. XIX.— THUnSDAY, DECEMBER SI, <807. 
 raOH HV ELBOW-CHAIR. 
 
 Havixg returned to town, and once more taken 
 formal possession of my elbow-chair, it behoves me 
 to discard the rural feelings, and the rural sentiments, 
 in which I have for some time past indulged, and de- 
 vote myself more exclusively to the edification of the 
 town. As I feel at this moment a chivalric spark of 
 gallantry playing around my heart, and one of those 
 dulcet emotions of cordiality, which an old bachelor 
 will sometimes entertain towards the divine sex, I am 
 determined to gratify the sentiment for once, and de- 
 vote this number exclusively to the ladies. I would 
 not, however, have our fair readers imagine that we 
 wish to flatter ourselves into their good graces; de- 
 voutly as we adore them (and what true cavalier does 
 not ?) and heartily as we desire to flourish in the mild 
 sunshine of their smiles, yet we scorn to insinuate 
 ourselves into their favour, unless it be as honest friends, 
 sincere well-wishers, and disinterested advisers. If 
 in the course of this number they find us rather pro- 
 digal of our encomiums, they will have the modesty 
 to ascribe it to the excess of their own merits; if they 
 find us extremely indulgent to their faults, they will 
 impute it rather to the superabundance of our good- 
 nature than to any servile fear of giving offence. 
 
 The following letter of Mustapha falls in exactly 
 with the current of my purpose. As I have before 
 mentioned that his letters are without dates, we are 
 obliged to give them very irregularly, without any 
 regard to chronological order. 
 
 The present one appears to have been written not 
 long after his arrival, and antecedent to several al- 
 ready published. It is more in the familiar and col- 
 loquial style than the others. Will Wizard declares 
 he has translated it with fidelity, excepting that he has 
 omitted several remarks on the waltz, which the ho- 
 nest mussulman eulogizes with great enthusiasm; 
 
 comparing it to certain voluptuous dances of the I 
 rem. Will regretted exceedingly that the indelic 
 of several of these observations compelled their ii 
 exclusion, as he wishes to give all possible encoun 
 ment to this popular and amiable exhibition. 
 
 LETTER 
 
 rBOM Ml'STAPnA RUB-A-DUB KELI KUAN, 
 
 ToMuleg Hclim al Raggi, surnamed the agreeable id 
 muffin, chief mountebank and buffodancer to hi$l 
 ness. 
 
 The num«.rous letters which I have written toil 
 friend the slave-driver, as well as those to thy kin 
 the snorer, and which doubtless were read toll 
 honest Muley, have in all probability awakened 1 
 curiosity to know further particulars concerning j 
 manners of the barbarians who hold me in capliiji 
 I was lately at one of their public ceremonies, wlii 
 at first, perplexed me exceedingly as to its object;! 
 as the explanations of a friend have let me soinetl 
 into the secret, and as it seems to bear no small a 
 logy to thy profession, a description of it may ( 
 bute to thy amusement, if not to thy instruction, 
 
 A few days since, just as I had finished my ( 
 and was perfuming my whiskers preparatory I 
 morning walk, I was waited upon by an inliabili 
 this place, a gay young infidel, who has of late c 
 vated my acquaintance. He presented me vill| 
 square bit of painted pasteboard, which, he inroti 
 me, would entitle me to admittance to the cify| 
 sembly. Curious to know the meaning of a phi 
 which was entirely new to me, I requested ml 
 planation ; when my friend informed me that tlitj 
 sembly was a numerous concourse of young peopl 
 both sexes, who, on certain occasions, galliereii| 
 gether to dance about a large room with violent g 
 culation, and try to out-dress each other. " Insiia 
 said he, " if you wish to see the natives in all I 
 glory, there's no place like the city assemblyisai 
 must go there and sport your whiskers." TImi 
 the matter of sporting my whiskers was considenj 
 above my apprehension , yet I no w began , as I thoi 
 to understand him. I had heard of the war-danc^ 
 the natives, which are a kind of religious instilulj 
 and had little doubt but that this must be a snlem 
 of the kind. Anxious as I am to contemplate | 
 strange people in every situation, I willingly a« 
 to his proposal, and, to be the more at ease, I ( 
 mined to lay aside my Turkish dress, and appeij 
 plain garments of the fashion of this country, asii 
 custom whenever I wish to mingle in a crowd, « 
 out exciting the attention of the gaping multitude,! 
 
 It was long after the shades of night had rallenl 
 fore my friend appeared to conduct me to the assed 
 " These infidels," thought I, " shroud themselvj 
 mystery and seek the aid of gloom and darknes 
 heighten the solemnity of their pious orgies." 
 solving to conduct myself with that decent r« 
 which every stranger owes to the customs of tliel 
 in which he sojourns, I chaslfted my feuluros iii| 
 
 Imrou !" thought I, € 
 
 glios, or you'll have 
 Jour ears; for seragli( 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 95 
 
 ELI KUAN, 
 
 Ipressiou of sober reverence, and slrelchetl my face 
 |to a degree of longitude suitable to the ceremony I 
 s about to witness. Spite of myself, I felt an emo- 
 [)aorawe stealing over my senses as I approached 
 > majestic pile. My imagination pictured something 
 nilar to a descent into the cave of Dom-Daniel, 
 lliere tlie necromancers of the east are taught their 
 Ifernal arts. I entered with the same gravity of de- 
 leanour that I would have approached the holy 
 nple v' Mec<-2, and bowed my head three times 
 il passed the threshold. — ""lead of tlie mighty 
 Imrou ! " thought I, on being ushered into a splendid 
 loon, "what a display is here! surely I am trans- 
 jgrted to the mansions of the Ilouris, the elysium of 
 ifailhful!" — How tame appeared all the descrip- 
 lons of enchanted palaces in our Arabian poetry ! 
 liherever I turned my eyes, the quick glances of 
 aiity dazzled my vision and ravished my heart : 
 ively virgins fluttered by me, darting imperial looks 
 pnquest, or beaming such smiles of invitation, as 
 I Gabriel when he beckoned our holy prophet to 
 leaven. Shall I own the weakness of thy friend, 
 I Muley ? — while thus gazing on the enchanted 
 m before me, I for a moment forgot my country, 
 1 even the memory of my three-and-twenty wives 
 KJed from my heart; my thoughts were bewildered 
 lied astray, by the charms of these bewitching sa- 
 8, and I sunk, for a while, into that delicious state 
 imnd where the senses, all enchanted, and all striv- 
 pg for mastery, produce an endless variety of tumult- 
 s, yet pleasing emotions. Oh, Muley, never shall 
 |again wonder that an infldel should prove a recreant 
 Mlie single solitary wife allotted him, when even thy 
 ^end, armed with all the precepts of Mahomet, can 
 ^easily prove faithless to three-and-twenty! 
 "Whither have you led me?" said 1, at length, 
 gmy companion, "and to whom do these beautiful 
 reatures belong ? certainly this must be the seraglio 
 f the grand bashaw of the city, and a most happy 
 uhaw must he be, to possess treasures whicii even 
 I Highness of Tripoli cannot parallel," "Have a 
 e," cried my companion, "how you talk about se- 
 niles, or you'll have all these gentle nymphs about 
 lour ears; for seraglio is a word which, beyond all 
 [iIcts, they abhor:— most of them," continued he, 
 I'bave no lord and master, but come here to catch 
 If— they're in the market, as we term it." " Ha, 
 'saidl, exultingly, "then you really have a fair, or 
 Mave-niarket, such as we have in the east, where the 
 pilliful are provided with the choicest virgins of Geor- 
 i and Circassia ? — By our glorious sun of Afric, but 
 I should like to select some tenor a dozen wives from 
 lovely an assemblage! pray what do you suppose 
 
 fiey might be liought for?" 
 
 Before I could receive an answer, my attention was 
 [tlracted by two or three goo<l-looking middle-sized 
 Kn, who being dressed in black, a colour universally 
 fm in this country by the muftis and dervises, I 
 Wliided to lie bigli priests, and was conllrmed in 
 Py original opinion that this was a religious cere- 
 
 mony. These reverend personages are entitled ma- 
 nagers, and enjoy unlimited authority in the assem- 
 blies, being armed with swords, with which, I am 
 told, they would infallibly put any lady to death who 
 infrmged the laws of the temple. They walked 
 round the room with great solemnity, and, with an 
 air of profound importance and mystery, pu' . little 
 piece of folded paper in each fair hand, which I con- 
 cluded were religious talismans. One of them drop- 
 ped on the floor, whereu{)on I slily put my foot on it, 
 and, watching an opportunity, picked it up unobserv- 
 ed, and found it '.o contain some unintelligible words 
 and the mystic number 9. What were its virtues I 
 know not; except that I put it in my pocket, and have 
 hitherto been preserved from my fit of the lumbago, 
 which I generally have about this season of the year, 
 ever since I tumbled into the well of Z.im-zim on my 
 pilgrimage to Mecca. I enclose it to thee in this let- 
 ter, presuming it to be particularly serviceable against 
 the dangers of thy profession. 
 
 Shortly after the distribution of these talismans, 
 one of the high priests stalked into the middle of the 
 room with great majesty, and clapped his hands three 
 limes : a loud explosion of music succeeded from a 
 numberof black, yellow, and white musicians, perch- 
 ed in a kind of cage over the gi-and entrance. The 
 company were thereupon thrown into great confusion 
 and apparent consternation. — They hurried to and 
 fro about the room, and at length formed themselves 
 into little groups of eight persons, half male and half 
 female; — the music struck into something like har- 
 mony, and, in a rnoment, to my utter astonishment 
 and dismay, they were all seized with what I con- 
 cluded to be a paroxysm of religious phrensy, tossing 
 about their heads in a ludicrous style from side to side, 
 and indulging in extravagant contortions of figure; — 
 now throwing their heels into the air, and anon whirl- 
 ing round with the velocity of the eastern idolators, 
 ,;ho think they pay a grateful homage to the sun by 
 imitating his motions. I expected every moment to 
 see them fall down in convulsions, foam at the mouth, 
 and shriek with fancied inspiration. As usual the 
 females seemed most fervent in their religious exer- 
 cises, and performetl them with a melancholy expres- 
 sion of feature that was peculiarly touching; but I was 
 highly gratified by the exemplary conduct of several 
 male devotees, who, though (heir gesticulation would 
 intimate a wild merriment of the feelings, maintain- 
 ed throughout as inflexible a gravity of coimtenance 
 as so many monkeys of the island of Borneo at their 
 antics. 
 
 "And pray," said I, "who is the divinity that pre- 
 sides in this splendid mos(|uc ? "—The divinity ! Oh, 
 I understand— you mean the belle of the evening; 
 we have a new one every season.— The one at pre- 
 sent in fashion is that lady you see yonder, dressed in 
 white, with pink ribbons, and a crowd of adorers 
 around her." "Truly," cried I, "this is the plea- 
 santest deity I have encountered in the whole course 
 of my travels;— so familiar, so condescending, and so 
 
94 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 
 i i- 
 
 merry witlial;— why her very worsliippers lake her 
 by the hand, and whisper in her ear." — '' My good 
 miissulman," replied my friend with great gravity, 
 "I perceive you are completely in an error concern- 
 ing the intent of this ceremony. You are now^ in a 
 place of public amusement, not of public worship;— 
 and the pretty looking young men you see making 
 such violent and grotesque distortions are merely in- 
 dulging in our favourite amusement of dancing." "I 
 cry your mercy," exclaimed I, "these then are the 
 dancing men and women of the town, such as we 
 have in our principal cities, who hire themselves out 
 for the entertainment ofthe wealthy;— but, pray who 
 pays them for this fatiguing exhibition ? " — My friend 
 regarded me for a moment with an air of whimsical 
 perplexity, as if doubtful whether I was in jest or 
 in earnest— " 'Sblood, man," cried he, "these are 
 some of our greatest people, our fashionables, who are 
 merely dancing here for amusement." Dancing for 
 ammement! think of that, Muley! — thou, whose 
 greatest pleasure is to chew opium, smoke tobacco, 
 loll on a couch, and doze thyself into the regions of 
 the Houris ! — Dancing for amusement ! — shall I never 
 cease having occasion to laugh at the absurdities of 
 these barbarians, who are laborious in their recrea- 
 tions, and indolent only in their hours of business ? — 
 Dancing for amusement ! — the very idea makes my 
 Imnes ache, and I never think of it without being 
 obliged to apply my handkerchief to my forehead, and 
 fan myself into some degree of coolness. 
 
 "And pray," said I, when my astonishment had a 
 little subsided, "do these musicians also toil for amu- 
 sement, or are they confined to their cage, like birds, 
 to sing for the gratification of others? I should think 
 the former was the case, from the animation with 
 which they flourish their elbows." "Not so," re- 
 plied my friend, "they are well paid, which is no 
 more than just, for I assure you they are the most 
 important personages in (he room. The fiddler puts 
 the whole assembly in motion, and directs their move- 
 ments, like the master of a puppet-show, who sets 
 all his pastel)oard gentry kicking by a jerk of his lin- 
 gers.— There now— look at that dapper little gen- 
 tleman yonder, who appears to be suffering the pangs 
 of dislocation in every limb : he is the most expert 
 puppet in the room, and performs, not so much for 
 ills own amusement, as for that of the by-standers." 
 Just then, the little gentleman, having finished one 
 of his paroxysms of activity, seemed to be looking 
 round for applause from the spectators. Feeling my- 
 self really nnich obliged to him for his exertions, I 
 made him a low bow of thanks, but nobody followed 
 my example, which I thought a singular instance of 
 ingratitude. 
 
 Thou wilt |)erceive, friend Muley, that the dancing 
 of these barbarians is totally different from the science 
 professed by thee in Tripoli ; the country, in fact, is 
 afllicled by numerous epidemical diseases, which 
 travel from bouse to house, from city to city, with 
 the regularity of a caravan. Among these, the most 
 
 formidable is this dancing mania, which previ 
 chiefly throughout the winter. It at first seized (n\ 
 few people of fashion, and being indulged in moda 
 tion, was a cheerful exercise; but in a little time, 
 quick advances, it infected all classes of the corrii 
 nity, and became a raging epidemic. The do 
 immediately, as is their usual way, instead of deti] 
 ing a remedy, fell together by the ears, to do 
 whether it was native or imported, and the slicklt 
 for the latter opinion traced it to a cargo of trump 
 from France, as they had before hunted down i 
 yellow-fever to a bag of coffee from the West ludje 
 What makes this disease the more formidable h,[\t 
 the patients seem infatuated with their malady, ah 
 dou themselves to its unbounded ravages, and exp 
 their persons to wintry slorms and midnight ain 
 more fatal, in this capricious cVniate, than the witliei] 
 ing Simoom blast of the desert. 
 
 I know not whether it is a sight most whimsical g 
 melancholy, to witness a fit of this dancing malaitfj 
 The lady hops up to the gentleman, who stands at tbi 
 distance of about three paces, and then capers I 
 again to her place; — the gentleman of course ( 
 the same; — then they skip one way, then theyjuni 
 another;— then they turn their backs to each other;L 
 — then they seize each other and shake hands;— thegl 
 they whirl round, and throw themselves into a (lioo-l 
 sand grotesque and ridiculous attitudes;— sonietini(i| 
 on one leg, sometimes on the other, and sometiiwl 
 on no leg at all : — and this they call exhibiting ihtl 
 graces ! By the nineteen thousand capers of the grenl 
 mountebank of Damascus, but these graces must btl 
 something like the crookeil-backed dwarf Sliabrac,! 
 who is sometimes permitted to amuse his Highn«l 
 by imitating the tricks of a monkey. These fits conl 
 tinue at short intervals from four to five hours, till ill 
 last the lady is led off, faint, languid, exhausted, andj 
 panting, to her carriage; — rattles home; — passes 1 1 
 night of feverish restlessness, cold perspirations, and I 
 troubled sleep; rises late next morning, if she rises all 
 all; is nervous, petulant, or a prey to languid indilf 
 ference all day; a mere household spectre, neilherl 
 giving nor receiving enjoyment ; in the evening liur-l 
 ries to another dance; receives an unnatural exliilaf 
 ration from the lights, the music, the <^rowd, andlliel 
 unmeaning bustle; — flutters, sparkles, and blooiiisl 
 for a while, until, the transient delirium being pastj 
 the infatuated maid droops and languishes into apalli; I 
 again; — is again led off to her carriage, and the neill 
 morning rises to go through exactly the same juyleuj 
 routine. 
 
 And yet, wilt thou believe it, my dear Haggi, tliesel 
 are rational l)eings; nay, more, their countrymen I 
 would fain persuade me they have souls ! Is it not a I 
 thousand times to be lamented that Iwings, endowctll 
 with charms that might warm even the frigid heart I 
 of a dervise;— with social and endearing powers, lliat| 
 would render them the joy and pride of the haiem; 
 —should surrender themselves to a habit of heartless I 
 dissipation, which preys Imperceptibly on the rosesnil 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 OB 
 
 iciieek; which robs the eye of its lustre, the cheek 
 I its dimpled smile, the spirits of their cheerful hi- 
 Ly, and the limbs of their elastic vigour :— which 
 Lrries them off in the spring-time of existence; or, if 
 ley survive, yields to the arms of a youthful bride- 
 om a frame wrecked in the storms of dissipation, 
 struggling with premature infirmity. Alas, 
 juley ! may I not ascribe to this cause the number 
 llillle old women I meet with in this country, from 
 > age of eighteen to eight-and-twenty ? 
 |ln sauntering down the room, my attention was 
 Iracted by a smoky painting, which, on nearer exa- 
 [nalion, I found consisted of two female figures 
 jowning a bust with a wreath of laurel. " This, I 
 npose," cried I, "was some famous daicer in his 
 ine?"— "O, no," replied my friend, "he was only 
 «neral." — "Good; but then he must have been 
 J«at at a cotillon, or expert at a fiddlestick — or why 
 [his memorial here?"— "Quite the contrary," an- 
 gered my companion; "history makes no mention of 
 sever having flourished a fiddle-stick, or figured in 
 kingle dance. You have, no doubt, heard of him : 
 wan the illustrious Washington, the father and 
 hiverer of his country ; and as our nation is remark- 
 He for gratitude to great men, it always does honour 
 |lheir memory, by placing their monuments over 
 I doors of taverns, or in the corners of dancing- 
 
 OfflS." 
 
 iFrom thence my friend and I strolled into a small 
 
 larlment adjoining the grand saloon, where I beheld 
 
 ■number of grave-looking persons with venerable 
 
 lay heads, but without beards, which I thought very 
 
 Ibecomlng, seated round a table studying hierogly- 
 
 lics. I approached them with reverence, as so many 
 
 ■gi, or learned men, endeavouring to expound the 
 
 Weries of Egyptian science. Several of them threw 
 
 |wn money, which I supposed was a rewaitl pro- 
 
 I for some great discovery, when presenlly one 
 
 |lliem spread his hieroglyphics on the table, ex- 
 
 I triumphantly, " Two bullets and a bragger ! " 
 
 I swept all liie money into his pocket. He has dis- 
 
 |iereda key to the hieroglyphics, thought I— happy 
 
 rial! no doubt his name will be immortalized. 
 
 lining, however, to l)e satisfied, I looked round on 
 
 f companion with an inquiring eye : he understood 
 
 , and informed me, that these were a company of 
 
 lends, who had niet together to win each other's 
 
 (ley and l)e agreeable. " Is that all ? " exclaimetl 
 
 I" why then, I pray you, make way, and let me 
 
 ape from this temple of abominations; or who 
 
 |ovs but these people, who meet together to toil, 
 
 )fi), and fatigue themselves to death, and give it 
 
 I name of pleasure— and who win each other's 
 
 ey by way of being agreeable— may some one of 
 
 m lake a liking in me, and pick my pocket, or 
 
 *i my head in a paroxysm of hearty good-will ! " 
 
 Thy friend, 
 
 ; '. :: r. ' Mi;STAPHA. 
 
 BT AXTnONT EVERGBEEM, GEKT. 
 
 Nunc est blbendum, nunc pede libera 
 Pulsanda tcUiu. Hor. ^ 
 
 Now is the tyme for wine and myrthM sportes, 
 For daunce, and song, and disported of syche sortet. 
 
 Liuk. Fid. 
 
 The winter campaign has opened. Fashion has 
 summoned her numerous legions at the sound oi' 
 trumpet, tambourine, and drum, and all the harmo- 
 nious minstrelsy of the orchestra, to hasten from the 
 dull, silent, and insipid gla It > and groves, where they 
 have vegetated during th>^ summer; recovering from 
 the ravages of the last winter's campaign. Our fair 
 ones have hurried to town, eager to pay their devo- 
 tions to this tutelai7 deity, and to make an offering at 
 her shrine of the few pale and transient roses they 
 gathered in their healthful retreat. The fiddler rosins 
 his bow— the card-table devotee is shuftling her pack 
 — the young lady is industriously spangling muslins— 
 and the tea-party hero is airing his chapeau de bras, 
 and pea-blossom breeches, to prepare for figuring in 
 the gay circle of smiles, and graces, and beauty. Now 
 the fine lady forgets her country friends in the hurry 
 of fashionable engagements ; or receives the simple 
 intruder, who has foolishly accepted her thousand 
 pressing invitations, with such politeness, that the poor 
 soul determines never to come again : — now the gay 
 buck, who erst figured at Ballston and quaffed the 
 pure spring, exchanges the sparkling water for still 
 more sparkling champaign, and deserts the nymph of 
 the fountain, to enlist under the standard of jolly Bac- 
 chus. In short, now is the important time of the 
 year in which to harangue the bon ton reader ; and 
 like some ancient hero in front of the battle, to spirit 
 him up to deeds of noble daring, or still more noble 
 suffering, in the ranks of fashionable warfare. 
 
 Such, indeed, has been my intention; but the num- 
 ber of cases which have lately come Ijcfore me, and the 
 variety of complaints I have received from a crowd of 
 honest and well-meaning correspondents, call for more 
 immediate attention. A host of appeals, petitions, 
 and letters of advice, are now before me; and I believe 
 the shortest way to satisfy my petitioners, memorial- 
 ists, and advisers, will be to publish their letters, as 
 I suspect the object of most of them is merely lo get 
 into print. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 TO ANTHONY EVERGREEN, GENT. 
 
 As you appear to have taken to yourself the trouble 
 of meddling in (he concerns of the beau monde, I take 
 the liberty of appealing to you on a subject, which, 
 though considered merely as a very good joke, has 
 caused me gioat vexation and expense. Yon must 
 know I pride myself on being very useful to the ladies 
 —that is, I take boxes for them at the theatre, go 
 (hopping with them, supply them with bouquets, and 
 furnish them with novels from the circulating library. 
 In consequence of these attentions I am become a 
 great favourite, and there is seldom a party going on 
 
 i 
 
«9 
 
 in the city withont my having an invitation. The 
 grievance I have to mention is the excliange of hats 
 which takes place on these occasions; for, to speak 
 my mind freely, there are certain young gentlemen 
 who seem to consider fashionable parties as mere places 
 to barter old clothes; and I am informed, that a num- 
 ber of them manage by this great system of exchange 
 to keep their crowns decently covered without their 
 hatter suffering in the least by it. 
 
 It was but lately that I went to a private ball with a 
 new hat, and on returning in the latter part of the 
 evening, and asking for it, the scoundrel of a servant, 
 with a broad grin, informed me that the new hats had 
 been dealt out half an hour since, and they were then 
 on the third quality ; and I was in the end obliged to 
 borrow a young lady's beaver rather than go home 
 with any of the ragged remnants that were left. 
 
 Now I would wish to know if there is no possibility 
 of having these offenders punished by law ; and whe- 
 ther it would not be advisable for ladies to mention in 
 their cards of invitation, as a postscript, " Exchanging 
 hats and shawls positively prohibited." — At any rate, 
 I would thank you, Mr Evergreen, to discountenance 
 the thing totally, by publishing in your paper that 
 stealing a hat is no joke. 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 Walter Withers. 
 
 My correspondent is informed, that the police have 
 determined to take this matter into consideration, and 
 have set apart Saturday mornings for the cognizance 
 of fashionable larcenies. 
 
 MR RVERGHEEN, 
 
 Sir, — Do you think a married woman may lawfully 
 put her husband right in a story, before strangers, 
 when she knows him to be in the wrong ; and can any 
 thing authorize a wife in the exclamation of—" Lord, 
 my dear, how can you say so ! " 
 
 Margaret Timson. 
 dear anthony, 
 
 Going down Broadway this morning in a great hurry, 
 I ran full against an object which at first put me to a 
 prodigious nonplus. Observing it to be dressed in a 
 man's hat, a cloth overcoat, and spatterdashes, I fram- 
 ed my apology accordingly, exclaiming " My dear sir, 
 I ask ten thousand pardons; — I assure you, sir, it was 
 entirely accidental ; — pray excuse me. sir, etc. " At 
 every one of these excuses, the thing answered me 
 with a dow.iright laugh; at which I was not little sur- 
 prised, until, on resorting to my pocket-glass, I dis- 
 covered that it was no other than my old acquaintance 
 Clarinda Trollop. I never was more chagrined in my 
 life ; for, being an old bachelor, I like to appear as 
 young as possible, and am always l)oasting of the 
 goodness of my eyes. I beg of you, Mr Evergreen, 
 if you have any feeling for your contemporaries, to 
 liiscourage this hermaphrodite mode of dress; for 
 really, if the fashion take, we poor bachelors will be 
 utterly at a loss to distinguish a woman from a man. 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 Pray let me know your opinion, sir, whether a I 
 who wears a man's liat and spatterdashes before n 
 riage, may not be apt to usurp some other articlcj 
 his dress afterwards. 
 
 Your humble servant, 
 
 RODERIC WoRBtJ 
 DEAR MR EVERGREEN, 
 
 The other night, at Richard the Third, I sat behJ 
 three gentlemen, who talked very loud on the suU 
 of Richard's wooing Lady Ann directly in the facej 
 his crimes against that lady. One of them decli 
 such an unnatural scene would be booted at in ChJ 
 Pray, sir, was that Mr Wizard ? 
 
 Selina Badgeb, 
 
 P. S. — The gentleman I allude to had a 
 glass, and wore his hair fastened behind by a torto 
 shell comb, with two teeth wanting. 
 
 MR evergreen. 
 
 Sir, — Being a little curious in the affairs of tlieii 
 lette, I was much interested by the sage Mustapl 
 remarks, in your last number, concerning the aitj 
 manufacturing a modern fine lady. I would i 
 you caution your fair readers, however, to ue 4 
 careful in the management of their machinery, ai| 
 deplorable accident happened last assembly, in ( 
 sequence of the architecture of a lady's figure i 
 being sufficiently strong. In the middle of one nri|| 
 cotillons, the company was suddenly alarmed lif| 
 tremendous crash at the lower end of the room;i 
 on crowding to the place, discovered that it wasali 
 figure which had unfortunately broken down I 
 too great exertion in a pigeon-wing. By great ^ 
 luck I secured the corset, which I carried liontel 
 triumph; and the next morning had it publicly d 
 sected and a lecture read on it at Surgeons' Hall, 
 have since commenced a dissertation on the m]sd 
 in which I shall treat of the superiority of those j 
 gures manufactured by steel, stay-tape, and win 
 bone, to those formed by Dame Nature. I i 
 show clearly that the Venus de Medicis has no |i 
 tension to beauty of form, as she never wore sbl 
 and her waist is an exact proportion to the rest of ij^ 
 body. I shall inquire into the mysteries of compi 
 sion, and how tight a figure can be laced withi 
 danger of fainting; and whether it would not bed 
 visable for a lady, when dressing for a ball, to bej 
 tended by the family physician, as culprits are vkj 
 tortured on the rack, to know how much morei 
 ture will endure. I shall prove lliat ladies haved 
 covered the secret of that notorious juggler, wlioil 
 fered to squeeze himself into a quart bottle; aiid| 
 shall demonstrate, to the satisfaction of every f 
 able reader, that there is a degree of heroism inp 
 chasing a preposterously slender waist at the expi 
 of an old age of decrepitude and rheumatics, 
 dissertation shall be published as soon as Rm 
 and distributed gratis among boarding-school 
 (lams, and all worthy matrons who are ainbliii| 
 
 t vests, and long bn 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 VT 
 
 ,INA Badges, 
 
 their daughters should sit straight, move like 
 k-work, and *' do credit to their bringing up." 
 
 (he mean time, I have hung up the skeleton of the 
 et in the museum, beside a dissected weasel and 
 
 tiffed alligator; where it may be inspected by all 
 
 {naturalists who are fond of studying the " hu- 
 
 I form divine." 
 
 Yours, etc. 
 
 Julian Cognols. 
 
 S.— By accurate calculation I find it is danger- 
 |for a line figure, when full dressed, to pronoimce 
 onl of niore than three syllables. Fine Figure, 
 I love, may indulge in a gentle sigh ; but a sob is 
 ^rdous. Fine Figure may smile with safety, may 
 1 venture as far as a giggle ; but nuist never risk 
 jid laugh. Figure must never play the part of a 
 Edant; as at a tea-party, some the evenings since, 
 Lng lady, whose unparalleled impalpability of 
 ^t was the envy of the drawing-room, l)urst with 
 
 rporlant secret, and had three ribs of her corset 
 (aredon the spot! 
 
 MR liVEUGIlEEX, 
 
 r,— I am one of those industrious gemmen who 
 nr hard to obtain currency in the fashionable 
 |d. I have gone to great expense in little boots, 
 I vests, and long breeches : my coat is regularly 
 rted per stage from Philadelphia, duly insured 
 islall risks, and my boots are smuggled from 
 l-street. I have lounged in Broadway with one 
 ! most crooked walking-sticks I could procure, 
 I have sported a pair of salmon-coloured small- 
 les, and flame-coloured stockings, at every con- 
 land ball to which I could purchase admission, 
 ^affeared that I might possibly appear to less 
 ntage as a pedestrian, in consequence of my being 
 ^r short and a little bandy, I have lately hired a 
 orse with cropped ears and a cocked tail, on 
 1 1 have joined the cavalcade of pretty gemmen, 
 I exhibit bright stirrups every fine morning in 
 pway, and take a canter of two miles per day, 
 e rate of 300 dollars per annum. But, sir, all 
 ■expense has been laid out in vain, for I can 
 lely get a partner at an assembly, or an invitation 
 jlea-party. Pray, sir, inform me what more I 
 oto acquire admission into the true stylish circles, 
 k'helher it would not be advisable to charter a 
 pie for a month, and have my cypher put on it, 
 pone by certain dashers of my acquaintance. 
 
 Yours to serve, 
 
 Mai.volio DiinsTKu. 
 
 TEA, 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 PIOM TrE MUX OF PINDAR COCKLOFT, K.SQ. 
 
 ^esllg recommended to the attention of all Maidens 
 of a certain age. 
 
 » Time, my dear girls, la a knavfi wlio in tnilh 
 Mhe fairest of beauties will pilfer their yonlh ; 
 [by conalani attention and wily deceit. 
 V« Is coaxing some grace to retreat ! 
 
 And like crafty seducer, with subtle approach. 
 The further iudulged, will still further encroacli. 
 Since Uiis *' thierof the world " has made off with your bloom, 
 And left you some score of stale yea>'3 in its room- 
 Has deprived you of all those gay dreams, that would dance 
 In your brains at fifteen, and your bosoms entrance ; 
 And has forced you ahnost to renounce in despair 
 The hope of a husband's affection and care- 
 Since such is the case, and a case rather hard ! 
 Permit one who holds you in special regani 
 To furnish such hints in your loveless estate 
 As may shelter your names from detraction and hate. 
 Too often our maidens, grown aged I ween. 
 Indulge lo excess in the workings of spleen ; 
 And at times, when annoy'd by the slights of mankind. 
 Work off their resentment— by speaking their mind : 
 Assemble together in snuff-taking clan, 
 And hold round the tea-urn a solemn divan : 
 A conventinu of tattling— a tea-piirty bight, 
 Wliicli, like meeting of witches, is brew'd up at night : 
 Where each matron arrives, fk'aughtwith tales of surprise, 
 With knowing suspicion and doubtful surmise ; 
 Like the hroomstick-whiri'd hags that appear in Macbeth, 
 Each bearing some relic of venom or death. 
 "To stir up the toil and to double Uie trouble. 
 That fire may burn, and that caldron may bubble." 
 
 When Uie party commences, all starch'd and all glum. 
 They talk of the weather, their corns, or sit mum ; 
 They will tell you of camliric. of ribands, of lace. 
 How cheap they were sold — and will name you the place. 
 They discourse of their colds, and they hem and they cough. 
 And complain of their servants to pass the time off; 
 Or list to the talc of some doting mamma. 
 How her ten weeks old baby will laugh and say taa '. 
 
 lint tea, that enlivener of wit and of soul— 
 Klore loquacious by far than the draughts of the howl. 
 Soon unloosens the tongue and enlivens the mind. 
 And enlightens their eyes to the faults of mankind. 
 
 'Twas thus with the Pythia, who served at the fount 
 That llow'd near the far-famed Parnassian mount, 
 W hilc the steam was inhaled of the sulphuric spring, 
 Her vision expand«l, her fancy took wing; 
 By its aid she pronounced the oracular will 
 That Apollo commanded his sons to fulfil. 
 But alas.' the sad vestal, performing the rite. 
 Api)ear'd like a demon— terrific lo sight. 
 E'en the priests of AimUo averted their eyrs. 
 And the temple of Delphi resounded her cries. 
 But quilling the nymph of the tripod of yore, 
 We return to the dames of tie tea-itot once more. 
 
 In harmless chit-chat an ae(piaiiitancc they roast. 
 And serve up a friend, as they serve up a toast; 
 Some gentle faux pas, or some female mistake. 
 Is like sweetmeats delicious, or relished as cake : 
 A bit of bi'oad scandal is like a dry crust. 
 It would stick in the throat, so they butter it first 
 With a little affectcti good-nature, and cry 
 " NokKly regrets the thing deeiier than I." 
 Our young ladies nibble a good name in play, 
 As for past Inie they nibble a biscuit away : 
 While with shrugs and surmises, the toothless old dame. 
 As she nuimhles a crust she will mumble a name, 
 And as the fell sisters astonished the Scot, 
 In pnxlicting of llancpio's descendants the lot, 
 Making shadows of kings, amid flashes of light, 
 To appear in array and to frown in his sight, 
 .So they conjure up spectres all hideous in hue. 
 Which, as shades of their neighbours, are past in revimv. 
 
 The wives of our cits of inferior degree 
 W ill soak up repute in a little bohea ; 
 The potion is vulgar, and vulgar the slang 
 With which on their neighbours' defects Ihcy harangue ; 
 But the scandal Improves, a refinement in wrong! 
 As our matrons are richer, and rise to souchong. 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 with hymn— .1 bevrrage that'* still more irflmtil. 
 
 Our ladies (>rrasliiuii oiiliveii their iniml, 
 
 And by n(Kl!i, inniiendueH, and liintu, and what not, 
 
 ReputalioiM and tea Hrnd together to [lot. 
 
 While madam in cambries and laces array'd. 
 
 With her plate and her liveries in splendid |iarade, 
 
 Will drinli in iin|icrial a friend at a sup, 
 
 Or in Kiinpowder blow them by dozens all up. 
 
 Ah me ! bow I groan when with full swelling sail 
 Wafted stately along by the favouring gale, 
 A China ship proudly arrives in our bay. 
 Displaying her streamers and blazing away ! 
 Oh ! more fell to our port is the cargo she bears 
 Than grcnadoes, torix^loes, or warlike affairs : 
 Each chest is a bombshell thrown into our town, 
 To shatter repute and bring character down. 
 
 Yc Samcpias, ye Chinquas, ye Choui|uas, so free. 
 Who discharge on our coast your cursed cargoes of tea, 
 Oh ! think, as ye waft the sad weed fmni your strand. 
 Of the plagues and vexations ye deal to our land. 
 As the upas' dread breath, o'er the plain where it flies, 
 Knipoisons and blasts each green blade thai may ris(\ 
 No, wherever the leaves of this shrub lind tlu^r way, 
 The social affections soon suffer decay. 
 
 Ah, ladies, and was it by Heaven design 'd 
 That ye should be merciful, loving, and kind ! 
 Did it form you like ang)>l8, iind send you hekny 
 To prophesy pe,ici;— to bid charily How ! 
 And have yc thus left your primeval estate. 
 And wander'd so widely— so strangely of late? 
 Alas ! the sad cause I too plainly can see — 
 These evils have all eouie u|)on you through lea ! 
 (;urs(Hl weed, that ciui make our fair spirits resign 
 The character mild of their mission divine ; 
 That can blot from Ihcir Uxsoms that tenderness true, 
 Which from female to female forever is due! 
 O ! how nice is the texture— how fragile the frame 
 Of that delicate blossom, a fentile's fair fame ! 
 'Tis the sensitive plant, it recoils from the breath ; 
 And shrinks from the touch its if pregnant with death, 
 How often, how often, has innocence sigh'd. 
 Has beauty been reftof its honour— its pride. 
 Has virtue, though pure as an angel of light, 
 Been painted as dark as a demon of night, 
 All offer 'd up victims, an aula da fe, 
 At the gloomy ;abals— the dark orgies of tea ! 
 
 If I, in the remnant that's lelt nieoflife. 
 Am to suffer the torments of slanderous strife. 
 Let mc tall I implore in the slang-whauger's claw. 
 Where the evil is o|K<n, and subject to law ; 
 Not nibbled, .ind mumbled, and put to the rack. 
 By the sly underminings of tea-party clack -. 
 Omdenm me, ye g(Kls, to a news|)a|ier roasting. 
 But s|)arc me ! O s|>arc me, a tea-table toasting ! 
 
 No. XX.— MONIUV, JANUARY 23, tll08. 
 
 FROM MY EI.ROW-CIIAIH. 
 
 Extremum buno mihi concnle lahorem. rirg. 
 " Soft you, a wonl or two Ix-loi-e we |iart. " 
 
 In this season of festivity, when the gate of time 
 swings open on its liingcs, and an honest rosy-faced 
 New-Year conies waddling in, like u jolly fat-sided 
 butler, loaded with good wishes, good httmour, and 
 minced pies :— at this joyotis era it has iicen the cus- 
 tom, from time immemorial, in this ancient and res- 
 (leclable city, for periodical writers, from reverend, 
 grave, and potent essayisis like oiirseh es, down lo 
 
 the humble hut indu-strions editors of magazines,] 
 views, and news-papers, to tender their stiL 
 the compliments of the season ; and when tlicy | 
 slily lliawcd their hearts with a little of Ihe gur:]| 
 of (lattery, lo conchide by delicately duniiin>;i 
 for their arrears of subscription money. In | 
 manner the carriers of news-papers, who uiuloiiln 
 belong to the ancient and hoiiournble order ofliiQ 
 do regularly at the commencement of the year s^ 
 their patrons with abundance of excellent 
 conveyed in exceeding good |)oclry, for which i 
 aforesaid good-natured patrons arc well pleased io|j 
 them exactly twenty-live cents. In walkingj 
 streets I am every day saluted with good wisiifsli 
 old gray-headed negroes, whom I never recoll« 
 have seen before; and it was but a few days agolj 
 I was called out to receive the complimenls of and 
 oUI woman, who last spring was employed byj 
 CocklofI to whitewash my room and put liruig$ig| 
 der : a phrase which, if rightly underslmHl, i 
 little else than huddling every thing into bolts wA\ 
 nets, so that if I want lo iiiul any particular arlkl 
 is, in Ihe language of an bumble but expressive sajj 
 — "looking for a neetlle in a baysljick." Nutr 
 nisittg my visitor, I demanded by what autlioriljl 
 wished me a " Happy ^ew-Year?" ller claim/ 
 one of the weakest she t^oiild have urged, for \\ 
 an innate and mortal aniipalby lo this custom ofi 
 ting things to rights : — so giving the old witclit| 
 larcen, I desired her forthwilb to mount her bra 
 stick and ride off as fast as possible. 
 
 Of all the various ranks of society the bakers iri 
 to their immortal honour be it recoixied, deparllj 
 this praclice of making a market of congratulai 
 and, in addition lo always allowing thirleeiilo| 
 .dozen, do with great liberality, instead of draniii 
 the purses of their customers at the lNew-Vear,| 
 sent them with divers large, fair, spiced cakes;vi 
 like the shield of Achilles, or an Egyptian obeM 
 adorne<l with ligures of a variety of strange mi 
 that, in their conformation, out-marvel all lli(| 
 wonders of nature. 
 
 This honest gray-beard custom of seltiiij? ? 
 certain portion of this good-for-nothing exislem 
 purposes of cordiality, social merriment, andj 
 cheer, is one of the itieslimable relics banded doi 
 lis from our worthy Dutch ancestors. In | 
 one of the manuscripts from m> worthy grandb 
 mahogany chest of drawers, I lind the new yei 
 r*^!, :t. r'ed with great festivity during that goliifl 
 o! uur city, when the reins of government wetel 
 by the renowned Rip V m Dam, who alwaysJil 
 notir to Ihe season by s( eing out the old ycar;)l 
 mony which consisted in plying his guests willij 
 pers, until not one of them was capable of a 
 " Truly," observes my grandfather, who wasj 
 rally of these parties—" Truly, he was a tnost*[ 
 and magnificent burgomaster! inasmuch as I 
 right lustily carouse it with his friends about | 
 year; roasting huge (|iiantilies of turkeys; Iwiu 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 8B 
 
 Lierable minced pies; and 8niackin<i; the li|is ufall 
 
 [ladies the whicli he did meet, with such sturdy 
 
 Uiasis, that the same mig;ht have been heard the 
 
 lance of a stone's llirow." — In liis days, according 
 
 ny graiul-t'ather, were lirst invented those nolahle 
 
 «, liinht new-year-cookies, which originally were 
 
 iri'sseii on one side with the honest burly counte- 
 
 i of tlie illustrious Hip; and on the other with 
 
 t of (lie Noted St. INicholas, vulgarly called Sant.i- 
 
 ; :_of all the saints in (he calendar the most ve- 
 
 U(| iiy (rue Hollanders, and their unsophisticated 
 
 «ndants. These cakes are (o (his lime given on 
 
 I first of January to all visitors, together with a 
 
 i of cherry-lwunce, or raspberry-brandy. It is 
 
 i great regret, however, I observe that the sinipli- 
 
 I of (liis venerable usage has been much violated 
 
 nodern pretenders to style! and our respectable 
 
 i-year-cookies, and cherry-bounce, elltowed aside 
 
 ^Imii-cakc and outlandish luitwurs, in the same 
 
 [liialourwordiy «>ld Dutch families are out-daz- 
 
 Ibyiuodern upstarts, and mushroom Cockneys. 
 
 liidililion to this divine «>rigin of new-year festi- 
 
 I, there is something excpiisitely gra(eful, toa good- 
 
 jircd mind, in seeing every face dressed in smiles; 
 
 hearing the oft-repealed snlutnlions that How 
 
 fclaiicously from (he heart to liie lips;— in behold- 
 
 llhe poor, for once, enjoying the smiles of plenty 
 
 IrorgeKing the cares which press hard upon them, 
 
 )ie jovial revelry of (he feelings; (he young chil- 
 
 ^ decked out in their Sunday clothes, and freed 
 
 1 ihcir only cares, (he cares of the school, tripping 
 
 ugh Ihe streets on errands of pleasure; — and even 
 
 Ivery negroes, those holiday-loving rogues, gor- 
 
 ]isly arrayed in cast-off finery, collected in juntos 
 
 iriiers, displaying (heir while teeth, and making 
 
 welkin ring with bursts of laughter, — loud enough 
 
 lack even (he icy cheek of old winter, 'i'here is 
 
 letliiiig so pleasant in all this, (hall confess il would 
 
 line real pain to behold (he frigid intluence of mu- 
 
 ] style chcadng us of this jidiilee of the heart, and 
 
 Itrting it, as it does every other usage of social in- 
 
 Burse, into an idle and muneaning ceremony. 
 
 |the annual festival of good-humour : — il comes 
 
 edead of winter, when nature is without a charm ; 
 
 I our pleasures are con(rac(ed to the lire-side; 
 
 Iwliere every thing that unloi;ks (he icy fetters of 
 
 lirart, and sets the genial current (lowing, should 
 
 lierlsiied, as a stray lamb found in the wilderness, 
 
 IHowcr blooming among thorns and brici's. 
 
 jiiinated by these senlimenls, il was with peculiar 
 
 paction I perceived (hat the last new -year was 
 
 Iwilh more (ban ordinary enthusiasm. It seemed 
 
 jllie good old limes had rolled back again, and 
 
 pi with them all (he honest, unceremonious in- 
 
 pirse of those golden days, when people were 
 
 fopen and sincere, more moral, and more hos- 
 
 jile Ihati now ; when every object carried about it 
 
 prill which the hand of tin:c has stolen away, or 
 
 Ilea deformily; when the women were more 
 
 )k, more domestic, more lovely, and more true ; 
 
 and when even the sun, like a hearty old blade as he 
 is, shone with a genial lustre unknown in these de- 
 generate days :— in short, those fairy times when 
 I was a mad - cap boy, crowding every enjoyment 
 into the present moment ;— making of the past an 
 oblivion,— of the future a heaven; and careless of all 
 that was " over the hills and far away. " Only one 
 thing was wanting to make every part of (he celebra- 
 tion accord with its ancient simplicity.— The ladies, 
 who, I write il with the most piercing regret, are ge- 
 nerally at the head of all domestic innovations, most 
 fastidiously refused that mark of good-will, that chaste 
 and holy salute which was so fashionable in the happy 
 days of Governor Hip and the patriarchs.— Even the 
 Miss Cocklofts, who belong to a family that is the lasl 
 entrenchment behind which the manners of the good 
 old school have retired, made violent opposition ; and 
 whenever a gentleman entered the room, immediately 
 put themselves in a |H)sture of defence :— this Will 
 Wizard, with his usual shrewdness, insists was only 
 to give the visitor a hint that they expected an attack ; 
 and declares, he has uniformly observed that the re- 
 sis(ance of those ladies, who make the greatest noise 
 and bustle, is most easily overcome. This sad innova- 
 tion originaleil with my good aunt Charily, who was 
 as arrant a labby as ever wore whiskers ; and I am not 
 a little afllicted to lind that she has found so many fol- 
 lowers, even among the young and beautiful. 
 
 In compliance with an ancient and venerable cus- 
 tom, sanctioned by time and our ancestors, and more 
 especially by my own inclinations, I will take this op- 
 portunity to salute my readers with as many good 
 wishes as I can possibly spare ; for in truth I have 
 been so prodigal of late, that I have but few remain- 
 ing. I should have offered my congratulations sooner ; 
 but, to be candid, having made the lasl new-year's 
 campaign, according to custom, under cousin Chris- 
 topher, in which I have seen some pretty hard service, 
 my head has been somewhat out of order of late, and 
 my intellects rather cloudy for clear writing. Re- 
 sides, I may allege as another reason, that I have de- 
 ferred my greetings until (his day, which is exacdy 
 one year since we inlroduced ourselves to the public; 
 and surely periodical writers have the same right of 
 dating from the commencement of their works, that 
 monarchs have from the time of their coronnlioii ; or 
 our most puissant republic, from the declaration of its 
 independence. 
 
 These good wishes are wanned into more than 
 usual benevolence, by the thought that I am now 
 perhaps addressing my old friends for Ihe last time. 
 That we should (bus cut off our work in the very vi- 
 gour of its existence may excile some liltle matter of 
 wonder in (his eidightened community. Now though 
 we could give a variety of good reasons for so doing, 
 yet it would be an il'-nalurcd acl (o deprive the pu- 
 blic of such an admirable opportunity to indulge in 
 their favourite annisement of conjecturing. Resides, 
 we have ever considered it as beneath persons of our 
 dignity to account for our mov^menls or caprices. 
 
lOU 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 'I'liaiik lieavi'ii, we are not like the unhappy rulers of 
 this enlighleiied land, accountable to the niuli for our 
 actions, or dependent on their smiles for support! — 
 This much, however, we will s<'iy, it is not for want 
 of subjects that we stop our career. We are not in 
 the situation of poor Alexander the (Ireat, who wepi, 
 as well indeed he might, because there were no more 
 worlds to (;ou(|ucr; for, to do justice to this queer, 
 «Mld, ranlipole city, and this whimsical country, there 
 is matter enough in them to keep our risible muscles 
 and our pens going until doomsday. 
 
 Most people, in taking a farewell which may per- 
 haps l)c for ever, are anxious to part on gooil terms ; 
 and it is usual on such melancholy occasions for even 
 enemies to shake hands, forget their previous quarrels, 
 and bury all former animosities in parting regrets. 
 INow l)ecausc most people do this, I am determined to 
 act in (|uile a different way; for as I have lived, so 
 should I wish to die, in my own way, without imitat- 
 ing any person, whatever may lie his rank, talents, 
 or reputation, liesides, if 1 know our trio, we have 
 no enmities to obliterate, no hatchet to bury, and as 
 to all injuries— those we have long since forgiven. A I 
 this moment there is not an individual in the world, 
 not even the Pope himself, to whom we have any 
 personal hostility, liul if shutting their eyes to the 
 many striking proofs of good-nature displayed through 
 the whole course of this work, there should be any 
 persons so singularly ridiculous as to take offent'e at 
 our strictures, we heartily forgive their stupidity; 
 earnestly entreating them to ilcsisl from all manifes- 
 tations of ill-humour, lest they should, |>eradvenlure, 
 be classed under some one of the denominations of re- 
 creants we have fell it our duty to hold up to public 
 ridicule. Kven at this moment we feel a glow of part- 
 ing philanthropy stealing upon us; — a sentiment of 
 cordial good-will towards the niunei-ous host of read- 
 ers that have jogged on at our heels during the lust 
 year; and in justice to oinselves nuisl seriously pro- 
 test, that if at any time we have treated them a little 
 ungently, it was purely in that spirit of hearty affec- 
 tion with which a schoolmaster drubs an unlucky ur- 
 chin, or a luimano muleteer his recreant animal, at 
 the very moment when his heart is brimful of loving 
 kindness. If this be not considered an ample jiistifi- 
 oution, so much the worse; for in that case I fear we 
 shall remain for ever uiijuslilied : — a most desperate 
 extremity, and worthy of every man's conuniseration. 
 One circumstance, in particular, has tickled us 
 mightily as we jogged along; and that is, the astonish- 
 ing secrecy with which we have been able to carry 
 t>n our lucubrations ! Fully aware of the profound sa- 
 gucily of the public of Ootham, and their wondcrhd 
 faculty of distinguishing a writer by his style, it is 
 with great self-congratulation we tind that suspicion 
 has never pointed to us as the authors of Salmagundi. 
 Our gray-beard speculations have been most Itounti- 
 f(dly attributed to sundry smart young gentlemen, 
 who, for aught we know, have no beards at all; and 
 we have often been highly amuseii, when they were 
 
 charged with the sin of writing what their han 
 minds never conceived, to see them affect all the lilj 
 ing modesty and lieautiful embarrassment of deiei 
 virgin authors. — The profound and penetratiii|,'| 
 lie, having so long been led away from truth jtinij 
 tiire by a constant |>erusal of those delectable liisiq 
 and romances, from l)eyond seas, in which huiiianJ 
 ture is for the most part wickedly mangled iiiii|| 
 hauched, have never once imagined this worki 
 genuine and most authentic history ; that the Cmil 
 were a real family, dwelling in the city ;— payjn;; 
 and lot, entitled to the right of suffrage, anil liulj 
 several respectable oflices in the corporaliim, 
 little do they suspect that there is a knot of nierry^ 
 bachelors, seated siuigly in the old-fashioned [la 
 of an old-fashioned IJutch house, with a weallictg 
 on the top that came from Holland ; who amuse tl 
 selves of an evening by laughuig at their neighlx 
 in an honest way, and who manage to jog on tlin 
 the streets of our an(;ient and venerable city, v'A 
 ellmwing or iMMUg ellHiwcd by a living soul. 
 
 When we lirsl adopted the idea of discon(ini| 
 this work, we determined, in order to give tliec 
 a fair o|)portunily for dissection, to declare mm 
 one and all, absolutely defunct; for it is one uf J 
 rare and invaluable privileges of a periodical m 
 that by an act of innocent suicide he may iawU 
 consign himself to the grave, and cheat the wo 
 posthumous renown. Kut we abandoned this! 
 for many substantial reasons. In the first place, | 
 care but little for the opinion of critics, who wea 
 sider a kind of freebooters in the republic of kiig 
 who, like deer, goals, and divers other gramiiiivoi 
 animals, gain subsistence by gorging upon tiie I 
 and leaves of the yoinig shrubs of the forest, 
 robbing them of their verdure, and retanliiig I 
 progress to maturity. It also occurred to us tlialtiia 
 an author might law lully, in all countries, 
 self outright, yet this privilege does not extend li)| 
 raising himself from the dead, should he be cvet| 
 anxious; and all that is left him in such a cn.se ii 
 lake the benelil of the metempsychosis act, aiulr 
 under a new name and form. 
 
 Far be it , therefore, from us to condemn uiirs 
 to useless endiarrassnienis, should we ever bcdif 
 ed to resume the guardianship of this learned ciffl 
 CfOthani, and finish this invaluable work, Avliicii| 
 yet but half completed. We hereby openly 
 riously declare that we are not dead, but inleiidJ 
 please I'rovidencc, to live lor many years locoiinj 
 enjoy life with the geiniine relish of honest suul!i,ii 
 less of riches, honours, and every thing but aj 
 name, among good fellows; and with the full eij 
 tation of shuffling off the remnant of existence,! 
 the excellent fashion of that merry Grecian, whoj 
 laughing. 
 
 TO THE LADIES. 
 
 By ANTnONV EVEROnBEN, GENT. 
 
 Nkxt to our being a knot of independent ( 
 chelors, there is nothing on which we pride om 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 iOl 
 
 ore liiglily than upon possessing that true cliivalric 
 JHiit of gallantry, which distinguished the days of 
 [ing Arthur, and his valiant knighls of llie Round- 
 fable. We cannot, therefore, leave the lists wlicre 
 jre liave so long been tilting at folly, williout giving a 
 liiewell salutation to those noble dames and beauteous 
 biinsels who have honoured us with their presence at 
 lie tourney. Like true knights, the only recompense 
 jte crave is the smile of Iieauly, and the approbation 
 f those gentle fair ones, whose smile and whose ap- 
 irolKilion far excel all the trophies of honour, and all 
 lie rewards of ambition. True it is that we have 
 ufTered inlinitc perils, in standing forth as their chani- 
 koiis, from the sly attacks of sundry arch cailifs, who, 
 lithe overflowings of their malignity, have even ac- 
 Mseil us of entering the lists as defenders of the very 
 )ibles and faults of the sex. — Would that we couhl 
 ^eet with these recreants hand to hand; they should 
 iceive no more quarter than giants and enchanters in 
 vmance. 
 
 Had we a spark of vanity in our natures, here is a 
 jlorious occasion to show our skill in refuting these 
 lliberal insinuations. lint there is something manly, 
 ndingenuous, in makin;^ an honest confession of one's 
 ITenoes when about retiring from the world ; and so, 
 klilhotilany more ado, we doff our helmets, and thus 
 jiublicly plead guilty to the deadly sin of u()ui)-\ atijkk; 
 loping and expecting forgiveness from our go(Ml-na- 
 |ured readers, yet careless whether they l)estow it or 
 (A. And in (his we do but imitate sundry condemn- 
 Icriininals; who, finding themselves convicted of a 
 apilal crime, do generally in their last dying speech 
 nake a confession of all their previous offences, with 
 ^reatopenness and candour, which confession is always 
 mA with infinite delight by all true lovers of bio- 
 traphy. 
 
 Slill, however, notwithstanding our notorious de- 
 folion to the gentle sex, we have endeavoured, on 
 Bivers occasions, with all the [lolite and becoming de- 
 licacy of true respect, to reclaim them from many of 
 lliose delusive follies and unseemly peccadilloes in 
 ■liicii they are nidiuppily loo prone to indulge. We 
 liave warned them against the sad «;onse<picnces of 
 |iicoiintering midniglil damps and witiiering wintry 
 Jdasls— we have endeavoined, with pious hand, to 
 liiatch them from the wildering mazes of the waltz, 
 jiiul lliiis rescuing them from the arms of strangers, 
 restore them to the bosoms of their friends— to 
 ireserve them from the nakedness, the famine, the 
 lobweb muslins, the vinegar cruet, the corset, the 
 llay-tapo, the l)uckram, and all the other miseries and 
 lacks of a line figure. Ihil, above all, we have endca- 
 loiired to lure them from the mazes of a dissipated 
 world, wherethey wander aboutcarelcss of their value, 
 fcnlil Ihey lose their original worth; and to restore 
 peni, before i' Is too late, to the sacred asylum of home, 
 lliesoil most congenial to the opening blossom of female 
 Juveliness— where it blooms and expands in safety, in 
 (le fostering sunshine of maternal affection, and where 
 p heavenly sweets are best known and appreciated. 
 
 Modern philosopiiers may determine the proper des- 
 tination of the sex— they may assign to them an exten- 
 sive and brilliant orbit, in which to revolve, to the 
 delight of the million and the confusion of man's su- 
 [>erior intellect ; but when on this subject we disclaim 
 philosophy, and appeal to the higher tribunal of the 
 lieart — and what heart that has not lost its better feel- 
 ings would ever seek to reiH)sc its hap|iiness on the bo- 
 som of one, whose pleasures all lay without the thresh- 
 old of home — who snatched enjoyment only in the 
 whirl|H)ul of dissipation, and amid the thoughtless and 
 evanescent gaiety of a ball-room ? The fair one who 
 is for ever in the career of amusement may for a while 
 dazzle, astonish, and entertain, but we arc content 
 with cohlly admiring; and fondly turn from glitter and 
 noise, to seek the fire-side of social life, there to conlide 
 our dearest and best affections. 
 
 Yet some there are, and we delight to mention 
 them, who mingle freely with the world, unsullied 
 by its contaminations; whose brilliant minds, like the 
 stars of the firmament, are destined to shed their light 
 abroad and gladden every beholder with their ra- 
 diance. To withhold them from the world would 
 be doing it injustice : they are inestimable gems, 
 which were never formed to be shut up in caskets; 
 but to be the pride and ornament of elegant society. 
 
 We have endeavoured always to discriminate be- 
 tween a female of this superior order, and the thought- 
 less votary of pleasure ; who destitute of intellectual 
 resources, is servilely dependent on others for every 
 little pittance of enjoyment — who exhibits herself in- 
 cessantly amid the noise, the giddy frolic, and capri- 
 cious variety of fashionable assemblages— dissipating 
 her languid affections on a crowd— lavishing her ready 
 smiles with indiscriminate prodigality on the worthy, 
 or the undeserving— and listening, with equal va- 
 cancy of mind, to the conversation of the enlightened, 
 the frivolity of the coxcomb, and the flourish of the 
 fiddlestick. 
 
 There is a certain artificial polish— a common-place 
 vivacity acquired by perpetually mingling in the beau 
 moude: which, in the commerce of the world, sup- 
 plies tlie place of natural suavity and goml-humour, 
 but is purchased at the expense of all original and 
 sterling traits of character. By a kind of fashionable 
 discipline, the eye is taught to brighten, the lip to 
 smile, and the whole countenance to emanate with 
 the semblance of friendly welcome— while the bosom 
 is imwarmed by a single spark of genuine kindness, 
 or good-will. This elegant simulation may be ad- 
 mired as a perfection of art; but the heart is not to 
 be deceived by the superlicial illusion. It turns with 
 delight to the timid retiring fair one, whose smile is 
 the smile of nature; whose blush is the soft suffusion 
 of delicate sensibility; and whose affections, un- 
 blighted by the chilling effects of dissipation, glow 
 with the tenderness and purity of artless youth. 
 Hers is a singleness of mind, a native innocence of 
 manners, and a sweet timidity, that steal insensibly 
 \\[m\ the heart, and lead it a willing captive :— though 
 
102 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 .t 
 
 I 1 
 
 
 venturing occasionally among Ihe fairy haunts of plea- 
 sure, she shrinks from the hroad glare of notoriety, 
 and seems to seek refuge among her friends even 
 from the admiration of the world. 
 
 These observations bring to mind a little allegory 
 in one of the manuscripts of the sage Alustaplia, 
 which, being in some measure applicable to the sub- 
 ject of this essay, we transcribe for the benefit of our 
 fair readers. 
 
 Among the numerous race of the Bedouins, who 
 people the vast tracts of Arabia Deserta, is a small 
 tribe, remarkable for their habits of solitude and love 
 of independence. They are of a rambling disposi- 
 tion, roving from waste to waste, slaking their thirst at 
 such scanty pools as are found in those cheerless plains, 
 and glorying in the unenvied liberty they enjoy. A 
 youthful Arab of this tribe, a simple son of nature, 
 at length growing weary of his precarious and un- 
 settled mode of life, determined to set out in search 
 of a more permanent abode. " I will seek," said 
 he, " some happy region, some gePTOUs clime where 
 the dews of heaven diffuse fertility;— I will lind out 
 some unfailing stream ; and, forsaking the roving life 
 of my forefathers, will settle on its Iwrders, dispose 
 my minil to gentle pleasures and tranquil enjoyments, 
 and never wander more." 
 
 Enchanted with this picture of pastoral felicity, he 
 departed from the tents of his companions; and hav- 
 ing journeyed during five days, on the sixth, as the 
 Sim was just rising in all the splendours of the east, 
 he lifted up his eyes and beheld extended before him, 
 in smiling luxuriance, the fertile regions of Arabia 
 the Happy. Gently swelling hills, tufted with ».loom- 
 ing groves, swept down into luxuriant vales, ena- 
 melled with flowers of never-withering beauty. The 
 sun, no longer darting his rays with torrid fervour, 
 beamed with a genial M'armth that gladdened and 
 enriched the landscape. A pure and temperate se- 
 renity, an air of voluptuous repose, a smile of con- 
 tented abundance, pervaded the face of nature, and 
 every zephyr breathed a thousand delicious odours. 
 The soul of the youthful wanderer expanded with 
 delight; he raised his eyes to heaven, and almost 
 mingled, with his tribute of gratitude, a sigh of re- 
 gret that he ha<l lingered so long amid the sterile so- 
 litudes of the desert. 
 
 With fond impatience he hastened to make choice 
 of a stream where he might fix bis habitation, and 
 taste the promised sweets of this land of delight. — 
 Hut here commenced an unforeseen perplexity ; for, 
 though he beheld innumerable streams on every side, 
 yet not one could he find which completely answered 
 his high-raised expectations. One abounded with 
 wild and picturesque beauty, but it was capricious 
 and unsteady in its course; sometunes dashing its 
 angry billows against the rocks, and often raging and 
 overflowing its Iwiiks. Another flowed smoothly 
 along, without even a ripple or a murmur; but its 
 current was dull, turi)id, and sluggish. A third was 
 pure and transparent, but its watei-s were of a chilling 
 
 coldness, and it liad rucks and flints in its bosom, m 
 fourth was dulcet in its tinklings, and graceful In ||,f 
 nieanderings; — but it had a cloying sweetness i 
 palled upon the taste; while a iifth [assessed a spar) 
 ling vivacity and a pungency of flavour, that deten 
 the wanderer from repeating his draught. 
 
 The youthful Bedouin began to weary with rriiiilei 
 trials and repeated disap[iointments, when his alia 
 tion was suddenly attracted by a lively brook vlnj^ 
 dancing waves glittered in the sunbeams, and wIkd 
 prattling current communicated an air of bewitchiii;| 
 gaiety to the surrounding landscape. The heart t 
 the way-worn traveller beat with expectation; 1 
 on regarding it attentively in its course, he found tlDi| 
 it constantly avoided < he embowering shade; loiierl 
 ing with equal fondness, whether gliding through UkI 
 rich valley or over the barren sand ; — that the fn-l 
 grant flower, Ihe fruitful shrub, and worthlessbraniblel 
 were alike fostered by its waves, and that its curreal 
 was often interrupted by unprofitable weeds. Wul 
 idle ambition h at length expanded itself beyond ji 
 proper LK)i!nJs, and spread into a shallow waste i 
 water, v.'(jliiule of l)eauty or utility, and l)iil)l)lin;| 
 along -.v i I i ! unintcresluig vivacity and vapid turbiilenctl 
 
 The soil of the desert turned away with a sigho 
 regret, and pitied a stream which, if content wiilil 
 its natural limits, might have been the pride of ilxl 
 valley, and the object of all his wishes. PensiTtl 
 musing, and disappointed, he slowly pursued liis mil 
 almost hopeless pilgrimage, and had rambled lor sowl 
 time along the margin of a gen* !u rivulet, before btl 
 became sensible of its beauties. — It was a simple p^l 
 toral stream, which, shunning the noonday glare,! 
 pursued its unobtrusive course through retired anil 
 tranquil vaies ; — now dimpling among flowery banbl 
 and tufted shrubbeiy; now windmg among spinl 
 groves, whose aromatic foliage fondly bent down l| 
 meet the limpid wave. Sonnelimes, but not often, i 
 would ventuie from its covert to stray throiiglial 
 flowery meadow ; but quickly, as if fearful of beiii;! 
 seen, stole back again into its more congenial shadtJ 
 and there lingered with sweet delay. Wliercverill 
 bent its course, Ihe face of nature brightened inJ 
 smiles, and a perennial spring reigned upon its borl 
 ders. The warblers of the woodland deliglileil Itl 
 quit their recesses and carol among its bowers ; wliikr 
 the turtlenlove, the timid fawn, the soft-eyed gazd,! 
 and all the rural populace, who joy in the seqnester-[ 
 ed haunts of nature, resorted to its vicinity.— Its purt 
 transparent waters rolled over snow-white sands, aoi 
 heaven itself was reflected in its tranquil Irasom. 
 
 The simple Arab threw himself upon its verdanl 
 margin; — he tasted the silver tide, and it was like! 
 nectar to his lips ; — he bounded with transport, f«[ 
 he had found the object of his wayfaring. " Here,"| 
 cried he, "will I pitch my tent;— here will I| 
 my days; for pure, O! fair stream, is thy gentle cnt'l 
 rent; beauteous are thy borders, and the grove mi 
 be a paradise that is refreshed by thy nieanderings!' 
 
SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 iO," 
 
 PonJent 0|M!ra intemipla. f'ifij. 
 The work's all aback. Link. Fid. 
 
 "How hard it is," exclaims the divine Confutse, 
 «lter known anionf^ the illiterate by the name of 
 <)nfucius, "for a man to bite off his own nose!" 
 It lliis moment, I, William Wizard, Esq. feel the 
 kl force of this remark, and cannot but give vent to 
 Ly tribulation at being obliged, through the whim of 
 tjend Langstaff, to stop short in my literai7 career, 
 Jrhen at the very [toint of astonishing my country, 
 |nd reaping the brightest laurels of literature. We 
 laily hear of shipwrecks, of failures, and l)ankrupt- 
 lies; they are trifling mishaps which, from their fre- 
 [uency, excite but little astonishment or sympathy ; 
 utit is not often that we hear of a man's letting im- 
 ortaiity slip through his fingers; and when he does 
 lieet with such a misfortune, who would deny him 
 > comfort of bewailing his calamity ? 
 Next to the embargo laid upon our commerce, the 
 [reatest public annoyance is the embargo laid upon 
 urwork; in consequence of which the produce of 
 by wits, like that of my country, must remain at 
 tome; and my ideas, like so many merchantmen in 
 frt, or redoubtable frigates in the Potomac, moulder 
 Ivay in the mud of my own brain. I know of few 
 iings in this world more annoying than to be inter- 
 upled in the middle of a favourite story, at the most 
 hteresting part, where one expects to shine; or to 
 lave a conversation broken offjust when you are about 
 ning out with a score of excellent jokes, not one of 
 |fbich but was good enough to make every line figure 
 1 corsets literally split her sides with laughter. — In 
 ne such predicament am I placed at present; and I 
 J protest to you, my good-looking and well-beloved 
 leaders, by the chop-slicks of the immortal Josh, I was 
 I the very brink of treating you with a full broadside 
 ibe most ingenious and instructive essays that your 
 nous noddles were ever bothered with. 
 In the first place, I had, with infinite labour and 
 tins, and by consulting the divine Plato, Sanchonia- 
 «n, Apollonius Rhodius, Sir Jolm Harrington, Noah 
 IVebster, and others, fully refuted all those wild 
 |heories respecting the first settlement of our vene- 
 l)le country; and proved, beyond contradiction, that 
 Merica, so far from being, as the writers of upstart 
 Europe denominate it, the New- World, is at least as 
 bid as any country in existence, not excepting Egypt, 
 jChina, or even the land of the Assiniboils; which, 
 onling to the traditions of that ancient people, has 
 ^Iready assisted at the funerals of thirteen suns, and 
 bur hundred and seventy thousand moons ! 
 I had likewise written a long dissertation on cer- 
 lain hieroglyphics discovered on those fragments of 
 k moon, which have lately fallen, with singular 
 iropriety, in a neighbouring state, and have thrown 
 onsiderable light on the state of literature and the 
 firts in that planet— showing that the universal lan- 
 uage which prevails there is High Dutch, thereby 
 b)roviiig it to be the most ancient and original tongue, 
 pnd rnrrolK)rating the opinion of a celebrated poet, 
 
 that it is the langnage in which the serpent tempted 
 our grandmother Eve. 
 
 To support the theatric department I had several 
 very judicious critiques, ready written, wherein no 
 quarter was shown either to authors or actors ; and I 
 was only waiting to determine at what plays or per- 
 formances they should be levelled. As to the grand 
 spectacle of Cinderella, which is to \\e represented 
 this season, I had given it a most unmerciful handling ; 
 showing that it was neither tragedy, comedy, nor 
 farce— that the incidents were liighly improbable — 
 that the prince played like a perfect harlequin— that 
 the white mice were merely powdered for the occa- 
 sion — and that the new moon had a most outrageous 
 copper nose. 
 
 But my most profound and erudite essay in embryo 
 is an analytical, hypercritical review of these Salma- 
 gundi lucubrations; which I had written partly in 
 revenge for the many waggish jokes played off against 
 me by my confederates, and partly for the purpose of 
 saving much invaluable laliour to the Zoiluses and 
 Dennises of the age, by detecting and exposing all the 
 similarities, resemblances, synonymes, analogies, coin- 
 cidences, etc. etc., which occur in this work. 
 
 I hold it downright plagiarism for any author to 
 write, or even to think, in the same manner with any 
 other writer that either did, doth, or may exist. It 
 is a sage maxim of law — '^^ Iqnm-aniia neminem, exeu- 
 sat" — and the same has been extended to literature : 
 so that if an author shall publish an idea that has been 
 ever hinted by another, it shall be no exculpation for 
 him to plead ignorance of the fact. All, therefore, 
 that I had to do was to take a good pair of spectacles, 
 or a magnifying-glass, and with Salmagundi in hand 
 and a table-full of books before me, to mouse over 
 them alternately, in a corner of Cockloft library ; care- 
 fully comparing and contrasting all odd, ends, and 
 fragments of sentences. Little did honest Launce sus- 
 pect, when he sat lounging and scribbling in his elbow- 
 chair, with no other stock to draw upon than his own 
 brain, and no other authority to consult than the sage 
 Linkum ! — little did he think that his careless, un- 
 studied effusions would receive such scrupulous inves- 
 tigation. 
 
 By lalx)rious researches, and patiently collating 
 words, wliere sentences and ideas did not correspond, I 
 have detected sundry sly disguises and metamorphoses, 
 of which, I'll be bound, Langstaff himself is ignorant. 
 Thus, for instance — The Little Man in Black is evi- 
 dently no less a personage than old Goody Blake, or 
 Goody Something, filched from the Spectator, who 
 confessedly filched her from Otway's " wrinkled hag 
 with age grown double." My friend Launce has taken 
 the honest old woman, dressed her up in the cast-, 
 off suit worn by Twaits, in Lampedo, and endeavour- 
 ed to palm the imposture upon the enlightened in- 
 habitants of Gotham.— No further proof of the fact 
 need be given than that Goody Blake was taken for a 
 witch, and the little man in black for a conjuror ; and 
 that they Imth lived in villages, the inhabitants of 
 
104 
 
 SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 which v/ere distinguished by a most respectful ab- 
 horrence of hobgoblins and broomsticks : — to be sure 
 theastonisiiing similarity ends here, but surely that is 
 enough to prove that the little man in black is no other 
 than Goody lilake in the disguise of a white witch. 
 
 Tims, also, the sage Mustapha, in mistaking a brag- 
 party for a convention of magi studying hieroglyphics, 
 may pretend to originality of idea and to a familiar 
 acquaintance with the blackletter literati of the east ; 
 but this Tripolitan trick will not pass here. — I refer 
 those who wish to detect his larceny to one of those 
 wholesale jumbles, or hodge-podge collections of 
 science, wliich, like a tailor's pandemonium, or a gil)- 
 let pie. are receptacles for scientific fragments of all 
 sorts and sizes. The reader, learned in dictionary 
 studies, will at once perceive I mean an encyclopedia. 
 There, under the title of magi, Egypt, cards or hie- 
 roglyphics, I forget which, will be discovered an idea 
 similar to thatof Mustapha, as snugly concealed as truth 
 at the bottom of a well, or the misletoe, amid the shady 
 branches of an oak : — and it may at any time l)e 
 drawn from its lurking-place, by those hewers of 
 wood and drawers of water, who labour in the hum- 
 bler walks of criticism. This is assuredly a most un- 
 pardonable error of the sage Mustapha, who had been 
 the captain of a ketch : and of course, as your nau- 
 tical men are for the most part very learned, ought to 
 have known better. But this is not the only blunder 
 of the grave mussulman, who swears by the head of 
 Amrou, the beard of Barbarossa, and the sword of 
 Khalid, as glibly as our good Christian soldiers ana- 
 thematize body and soul, or a sailor his eyes and odd 
 limbs. ]Now I solemnly pledge myself to the world 
 that in all my travels through the east, in Persia, 
 Arabia, China, and Egypt, I never heard man, wo- 
 man, or cliild, utter any of those preposterous and 
 new fangled asseverations; and that so far from 
 swearing by any man's head, it is considered, through- 
 out tlie east, the greatest insult that can be offered 
 to eitiier the living or dead to meddle in any shape 
 even with his beard. — These are but two or three 
 specimens of the exposures I would have made ; but 
 I should have descended still lower, nor would have 
 spared the most insignificant and or hut, or neverthe- 
 less, provided I could have found a ditto in the Spec- 
 
 tator or the dictionary ; but all these minutix 1 
 queath to the Lilliputian literati of this sagaciog 
 community, who are fond of hunting " such sm^ 
 deer," and I earnestly pray they may find full en 
 ploymenl for a twelvemonth to come. 
 
 But the most outrageous plagiarisms of friei 
 Launcelot are those made on sundry living persi 
 ages. Thus : Tom Straddle has been evidently slulal 
 from a distinguished Brummagem emigrant, sin«l 
 they both ride on horseback ; Dabble, the little fnta 
 man, has his origin in a certain aspiring couiisellorl 
 wlio is rising in the world as rapidly as the heavineil 
 of his head will permit ; mine uncle John will IjearJ 
 tolerable comparison, particularly as it respects i 
 sterling qualities of bis heart, with a worthy yeonml 
 of Westchester-country ; and to deck out Aunt CIb.| 
 rity, and the amiable Miss Cocklofts, he has rifled ibtl 
 charms of half the ancient vestals in the city. JNafl 
 he has taken unpardonable liberties with my o\ri| 
 person ! — elevating me on the substantial pedeslalstll 
 a worthy gentleman from China, and trickin<; i 
 out with claret coats, tight breeches, and silrerJ 
 sprigged dickeys, in such sort that I can scarcely i^l 
 cognise my own resemblance — whereas I alisoluletil 
 declare that I am an exceeding good-looking imh,| 
 neither too tall nor too short, too old nor too younji 
 with a person indirferently robust, a head ratiierb-l 
 dining to be large, an easy swing in my walk, anil 
 that I wear my own hair, neither queued, nor mA 
 ped, nor turned up, but in a fair, pendulous, oscillat-l 
 ing club, lied with a yard of nine-penny black ribanil 
 
 And now, having said all that occurs to me on llie| 
 present pathetic occasion— having made my speech,! 
 written my eulogy, and drawn my portrait — I bidnjl 
 readers an affectionate farewell : exhorting them III 
 live honestly and soberly— paying their taxes, anil 
 reverencing the state, the church, and the corpon-l 
 tion — reading diligently the Bible, the almanac, (fail 
 newspaper, and Salmagundi, which is all the reading! 
 an honest citizen has occasion for — and esclievin^l 
 all spirit of faction, discontent, irreligion, and cri-| 
 ticism. 
 
 Which is all at present. 
 
 From their departed friend, 
 
 William Wizard. 
 
 BEGINNI? 
 
 Rcnn THE 
 
 ACCOUNT 
 
 END OF SALMAGUNDI. 
 
 I 
 
;<-f-7/M>' lO I 
 
 .-/■^ ;.■ :i. 
 
 u 
 
 A HISTORY 
 
 OF 
 
 NEW-YORK, 
 
 FROU THE 
 
 BEGINNING OF THE WORLD TO THE END OF THE DUTCH DYNASTY. 
 
 %*. 
 
 I COW*i:<ilJSG, AMOSIO MASiV KDRPUISnti AJiD C|;RI0IIS MATTEH.S, TUB imilTTEIARLE PO:\nEHi:«r.S OP WALTKR THE nOliBTKR, 
 THE DISASTROUS PROJECTS OF MltLIAH T|||i TESTY, AMD THE CHIVALRIC ACHIRVEMEMTS OF PETER TUB HE\DSTRO.'«r., 
 
 THE THREE niTCU GOVERNORS OF NEW-AMSTERDAM: 
 REMR THE OMM Al:THE^TIC HISTORY OF TUETIMES THAT EVER HATH BKEM OR EVER WILL BE PUDLISBED. 
 
 BY DIEDRIGH KIVIGKERBOCKER. 
 
 Dc maar^ctb Mc in iuistcr lag, 
 Bit komt rati klaarljtib aaii im bag. 
 
 ■'..Sb'V' 
 
 ACCOUNT OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 M Wizard. 
 
 I It was some time, if I recollect right, in the cariy part of 
 
 eaiitumii of iSOU, that a stranger applied for lodgings at 
 
 ! Independent Columbian Hotel, in Mullterrj-street, of 
 
 Ibicb I am landlord. He was a small, brisk-looking old 
 
 tnlieniao, dressed in a rusty black coat, a pair of olive vel- 
 
 ^1 breeches, and a small cocked hat. He had a few gray 
 
 i plaited and clubbed l>ohiiid, and his beard seemed to 
 
 bof some eight and forty hours' growth. The only piece 
 
 ■finery which he bore about hira was a bright pairof square 
 
 her shoe-buckles, and all his baggage was contained in a 
 
 pir of saddle-bags, which he can-ied under his arm. His 
 
 lole ap|)earance was something out of the common run ; 
 
 I my wife, who is a very shrewd body, at once set him 
 
 bvD for some eminent country schoolmaster. 
 
 I As the Independent Columbian Hotel is a very small 
 
 e, I was a little puzzled at first where to put him ; but 
 
 |;Kire, who seemed taken with his looks, would needs put 
 
 Din her best chamber, which is genteelly set off with the 
 
 rafiles of the whole family, done in black, by those two 
 
 painters, Jarvis and Wood; and commands a very 
 
 feasant view of the new grounds on the Collect, together 
 
 lilh tlierear of the Poor-house and Bridewell, and the full 
 
 pot of the Hospital; so that it is the cheerfullcst room in 
 
 eirhole house. 
 
 |During the whole time that he stayed with us we found 
 
 a a very worthy good sort of an old gentleman, though 
 
 lilUe queer ui bis ways. He would keep in his room for 
 
 fs together, and if any of the children cried, or made a 
 
 ! alwut his door, he would bounce out in a great pas- 
 
 ^n, with his hands full of papers, and say something about 
 
 leranging his ideas; " which made my wife believe somc- 
 
 |ies that he was not altogether cmnpos. Indeed there was 
 
 '■ than one reason to make her think so, for his room 
 
 8 always covered with scraps of paper and old mouldy 
 
 \ lying about at sixes and sevens, which he would 
 
 her let any body touch; for he said he had laid them all 
 
 tir in their proper places, so that be might know where 
 
 lOnd them; though for that matter, he was half his lime 
 
 worrying aI>out the house in search of some book or writing 
 which he had carefully put out of the way. I shall never 
 forget w hat a pother he once made, because my wife clean- 
 ed out his room when his back was turned, and put every 
 thing to rights; for he swore he would never be able to get 
 liLs papere in order again in a twelvemonth. Upon this my 
 wife ventured to ask him, what he did with so many liooks 
 and papers? and he told her, that he was "seeking for im- 
 mortality ; " w hich made her think more than ever tliat the 
 poor old gentleman's head was a little cracked. 
 
 He was a very inquisitive body, and when not in his room 
 was continually poking about town, hearing all the news, 
 and prying into every thing that was going on : this was 
 particularly the case alwut election time, when he did no- 
 thing but bustle aliout from poll to poll, attending all ward- 
 meetings and committee-rooms ; though I could never find 
 that be took part with either side of the question. On the 
 contrary, he would come home and rail at both parlies with 
 great wrath— and plaiidy proved one day, to thesatislaclion 
 of my wife and three old ladies who were drinking tea with 
 her, that the two parties were like two rogues, each tugging 
 at a skirt of the nation; and that in the end they would tear 
 the very coat off its back, and expose its nakedness. Indeed 
 he was an oracle among the neighbours, who would collect 
 around him to hear him talk of an afternoon, as he smoked 
 his pipe on the bench before the door; and I really believe 
 he would have brought over the whole neighbourhood to 
 his ow n side of the question, if they could ever have found 
 out what it was. 
 
 He was very much given to argue, or, as he called it, 
 philosophise, about the most trifling matter, and, to do him 
 justice, I never knew any liody that was a match for him, 
 except it was a grave-looking old gentleman w ho called now 
 and then to see him, and often posed him in an argument. 
 But this is nothing surprising, as I have since found out tliis 
 stranger is the city librarian, and of course must be a man 
 of great learning; andl have my doubts if be had not some 
 hand in the following history. 
 
 As our lodger had been a long time with us, and we had 
 never received any pay, my wife began to lie somewhat 
 uneasy, and cnrioiis to And out who and what he was. She 
 
 1i 
 
lUO 
 
 HISTORY OF NE\V-\ORK. 
 
 uvranlinf;!)' made Ik)MIo pill the question to his frknul, the 
 lilirarian, wlio rppliod in liis dry way tliat lie was one of llie 
 literati ; wliieli slie sup|M)S(Hl to mean some new |)ai'ty in 
 politics. I seorn to pnsli a lodger for Ills pa), so I let day 
 utter day pass on willioul dmming the old gentleman for a 
 farthing; but my wile, who alwa>s takes these niatlere on 
 hers«>lf, and is, as I said, a shrewd kind of a woman, at Inst 
 got out of patienre, and hinted that she thought it high time 
 "some iwople should have a sight of some jK^op'.e'? money." 
 I'o which the old gentleman replied, in a mighty touchy 
 manner, that she ueeil not make hersi<lf uneasy, for that he 
 had a ti-easwe there ( pointing to liis saddle-bags ) worth her 
 whole house put together. This was the only answer wc 
 could ever get from him ; and as my wife, by some of those 
 odd ways in which women find out every thing, learnt that 
 lie was of very gre^t connexions, lieing related to the Knic- 
 kerbockers of Scaghlikokc, and consin-gcrman to the Con- 
 gn«s-man of that name, she did not like to ti-eat him unci- 
 villy. What is more, she even offered, merely by way of 
 making things easy, to let him live scot-free, if he would 
 leach the children their letters; and to try her iNwt and get 
 the neighbours to send their children also : but the old 
 gentleman took it in such dudgeon, and seemed soafTronl<>d 
 at being taken for a schoolmaster, that she never dared 
 speak on the subjet^t again. 
 
 Alwut tw months ago, he went out of a morning, with 
 a bundle in his hand— and has never been heard of since. 
 All kinds of inquiries were made after him, but in vain. 1 
 wrote to his relations at Scaghtikoke, but they sent for 
 answer, that he had not Iteen there since the year l)cfore 
 last, when he had a great dispute with the Congress-man 
 alNHit politics, and left the place in a hulT, and they had 
 neither heaitl nor seen any thing of him from that time to 
 this. I must own I felt very nmch won-ied alK)ut the poor 
 old gentleman, for I thought something liad must have ha|>- 
 pcned to him, that he should Ite missing so long, and never 
 n'tuni to pay his bill. I therefore advertised him in the 
 newspapers, and though my melancholy advertisement was 
 pnblisheil by several humane printers, yet I have never been 
 able to learn any thing satisfactory about him. 
 
 My wife uovV said it was high time to lake care of our- 
 selves, and see if he had left any thing l)ehind in his nwm, 
 that would pay ns for bis iHwrd and lodging. Wc found 
 nothing, however, but some old lM)oks and musty writings, 
 and his saddle-bags; which, being opened in the pi-esence of 
 the librarian, contained only a few articles of worn-out 
 clothes, and a large bundle of blotted papei-. On looking 
 over this, the librarian told us, he bad no doubt it was the 
 Iraasure which the old gentleman had spoke about; as it 
 proved to lie a most excellent and faithful Histohy or INkw- 
 YoRK, which he advised us by all means to publish : assur- 
 ing IIS that it would lie so eagerly lionght up by a discerning 
 public, that he linil no doubt it would lie enough to pay our 
 nriH'ars ten limes over. Upon this we got a very learnvd 
 scliooliiiaslor, who l(>nclu>s our cliililreii, to prepaiv it for 
 the pivss, which he accordingly has done; and has, more- 
 over, added to it a numlier of valuable notes of his own. 
 
 This, tliei-cfore, is a true statement <if my irasons for 
 having this wiirk printed, without wailing for the consent of 
 the aullior : and I here declare, that if he ever returns 
 ( though I luiicli fear some unhappy accident has liefallen 
 him), I stand ready to account with him like a true ond 
 bunest man. W liich is ull at present — 
 
 From the public's liuinble servant, 
 
 Sktii llAMusmr. 
 /nrfcpcHrfrfif (oliimliIdH Hotel, 
 A'ctr-J'Dck. 
 
 TiiK foregoing account of the author was prefixed lo g 
 first eililioii of this work. Shortly after its publicaliniJ 
 letter was received from him, by Mr Ilandaside, daledaiJ 
 small IHilcli village on the luniks of the Hudson, whithnti 
 had travelled for the puiiMise of inspecting certain anrjq 
 records. As this was one of those few and happ) vil 
 iuto which newspapers never find their way, it is dm J 
 matter of surprise that Mr Knickerbocker should nevorh 
 seen the numcmiis advertisements that were made cod 
 iiig him ; and that be should learn of the publicatiou ot^ 
 history by mere accident. 
 
 He expressed much concern at its premature appeanu 
 as then>by he was prevented from making several imp 
 corrections and alterations; as well as fhim profllingk 
 many curious hints which he had collected during liislm^ 
 along the shores of the Tap|>aan Sea, and his sojuuroi 
 Haverstraw and Esopns. 
 
 Finding that there was no longer any immediate iie 
 for his return to New -York, be extended his journey ujid 
 the residence of his relations at Scaghtikoke. On Im \ 
 thither, he stopiHHl for some davs at AHiaiiy, fur which c 
 'le is known to have entertained a great partiality, 
 found it, however, considerably altered, and wasniucho 
 cernetlat the inroads and unprovements which the Yanl 
 were making, and the coiise<|iient diH'Uneof the gixxJo 
 Dutch manners. IndcMl he was informed that these il 
 truders were making sad innovations in all parts of the si 
 where they bad given great trouble and vexation to l 
 regular Dutch settlers, by the introduction of turnpike liiie 
 and country sch(Nilhougi>s. It is said also, that Mr Knid 
 bocker shmik his head sorrowfully at noticing the | 
 dec«iy of the great \ under Heytleii |ialac(< : lint was hi|d 
 indignant at liiutiiig that the ancient Dutch church, vhi 
 sIoimI in the middle of the street, had been pulled down m 
 his lust visit. 
 
 The fame of Mr Knickei-UM-ker's history having ivati 
 even to Alliun). he ivceivtHl much flattering alteiilionfra 
 its worthy burghers, some of whom, however, poinleda 
 two or three very great errors into which he had falli 
 particularly that of suspendinga lump of sugar over Ihtil 
 iNiny tea-tables, which, they assured him, had lH>eii itisc 
 tinued for some years past. Several families, inorroni 
 were somewhat piqued that their ancestors had luil I 
 mentioned in bis work, and showed great jealousy uf (In 
 neighlMini's who hud Ikhmi thus distinguished; wliilol 
 latter, it must 1h> confessed, plumed themselves vastly Ihi 
 upon ; considering these recordings in the light of Idln 
 IMtent of nobility, establishing their claims to aiicr*lii-j 
 which, ill this republican country, is a matter of uutlC 
 solicitude and vaiii-glory. 
 
 It is also said, that he enjoyed high favour and coiinleni 
 from the governor, who once aske«l him to dinner, and « 
 seen two or three times to shake hands w itii him, nh 
 they met in the street; which certainly was goiiiR i 
 lengths, considering that they differed in politics. IihIh 
 certain of the governor's confidential friends, to wiiomlj 
 could venture to speak his mind firely on such iiinllcrsj 
 assured us that he privately enterloined a coiisidernblo H 
 will for our autlioi^-nay, he even once went so fam^ 
 declare, and that openly too, and at his own table, jiistif 
 dinner, that " Kiiickeriiocker was a very well-nirnnini!" 
 of an old geiitleniaii, and no fool." Fitim oil which n* 
 have Ik'cii led to suppose, that had our author lieeiiofifiS 
 cut p4ilitics, and written for the newspaper iiistpmlj 
 wasting his talents on histories, he might have risen tuK 
 post of honour and profit : peradventure to lie a iwUf 
 pulilic, or even a jnslicc in the teu-pmmd court. 
 
IIISTOUY OF KEW-YOUK. 
 
 107 
 
 J Bcsiilc the honours niid civilitifs already menliuiied, he 
 l» much caressed by Uie lilerati urAlltaiiy ; partieularly by 
 jr John (^)M)k, who enterlaiii'.-d him very hospitably at his 
 Irrulaling library ami reading-nM)in, w here they used tu 
 \xai Spa water, aud talk alwul the nnrienls. He f«Hind 
 (r Cutii a man after his uw n lieart— of great literary rc- 
 utb, and a curioiLs collevtor of lHH)ks. At parting, the 
 liter, in li'sliniony of friendship, made him a pivsenl of the 
 )ri) oldest works in his colleelion; which were the earliest 
 Uilionuf the IlicdelburKh (^ateclhsm, and Adrian Vander 
 Lick's I'auioiis account of the New-Netherlands : by the 
 ^tof svhich, Mv Knickerbocker proOletl gi-eally in this his 
 nind edition. 
 
 lllavinK iNissetl some time very a|ire(>ably at Alltany, our 
 Lihur pnH'eiHted to Scaghtikoke ; w here, it is but justice to 
 \\, he was irveivcil with o|)en arms, and trealeil with won- 
 tIuI loving-kindness, lie was nuich looke«i up to by the fa- 
 |ilt, being the lii-st historian of the name ; and was ctmsidei^ 
 lilniost as great a man as his cousin the Congix>ss-man — 
 |ilh whom, by the by, be became iterfeclly reconciled, and 
 atriH'led a stntng friendship. 
 
 Ilu spite, however, of the kindness of his relations, and 
 jeir jin'at attention to bis comforts, the old gentleman 
 I beciiiue restless and discontentiHl. His history iH'ing 
 L|ilislu<d, he had no longer any business to occupy his 
 Mifilits, nor any scheme to excite his ho|H>s and ai>tici|)a- 
 This, to a busy mind like his, was a truly deplorable 
 iilion ; and, had he not Ih'cu a man oi inlle\ible morals 
 irrfiular habits, tliere would have iH>eu great danger of 
 I taking to politics, or diinking— both which pernicious 
 $wr daily sra men driven to by mera spleen and idleness, 
 litis true he sometimes employed himself in prc|HU'ing u 
 »nd edition of his liislor), whe>-e='i lie endeavoured to 
 ft and improve many passages with which he was dis- 
 ;fl(d, and to rratify some mistakes that had crept into it ; 
 ^lif was iMrtieularly anxious that his work should Im* uot- 
 Wv'\\s antheuticity— which, indee«l, is the very life and 
 jtlnf history. But the glow of couiposition had departed 
 ehad to leave many places untouched which he would 
 nhare altered; and even when; he did make alterations, 
 lwnie«l always in doubt whether tlu>y were fur the licttcr 
 Illif woi-se. 
 
 Iliftcr a residence of some time at Sraghtikokc, he U^gaii 
 'ejaslrong desire to return t(» New-York, which he ever 
 [anini with the warmest alTt^tion; not merely iK'causo it 
 ihiii native city, but iM^cause he really considennl it the 
 I lx>il city in the whole world. On his return, he enler- 
 |inlo the full enjoyuunit of the advantages of a literary 
 tilalion. He was conlinualh im|H)rtuned to write ad- 
 «ni(M)ts, petitions, haud-liills, and pi-oductions of similar 
 port; and, although he never meddled with the public 
 's.yct had he the credit of writing innmuerable essays 
 i tinart things, that app<>ared on all subjects, and all sides 
 lliie question; in all which he was clearly detected "by 
 |«l5le." 
 
 piecunhncted, moreover, a c«msiderable debt at tlie post- 
 
 f, ill consequence of the niimennu letters ho re(M)ived 
 
 I authors and priiiten soliciting his suliscription ; and 
 
 |»asaiiplii>d to by every charitable society for yearly dn- 
 
 lons, which he gave very cheerfully, cuusidering these 
 
 plicatioiis as s«) many compliments. Ho was once invited 
 
 <Krral corporation dinner; and was even twicefiiimmnn- 
 
 I to alleiul as a juryman at the court of quarter sessions. 
 
 ^tHl.soivnowneildid hclHTOine, tliathecould no longer 
 
 ] iInhiI, as foruieily, in all holes and comers of the cil) , 
 
 nling lo the lient of his hiinioiir, unnoticed and imiii- 
 
 mptnl ; but several Uiues, when he has been sauntering 
 
 the streets, on his usual rambles of obsenation, cqiiipiMHi 
 with his c^iiie and cocked bat, the little boys at {day liave 
 Ihh'u know u to cry, " There gws Diedrich ! "—at which the 
 old gentleman seenunl not a little pleased, looking upou 
 these salutations in the light of the praises of posterity. 
 
 Ill a woni, if wo take into consideration all these various 
 honours and distinctions, together with an eiulM^rant eulo- 
 giiim |>jiss(Hl on him in the Portfolio ( with w liicli. we are 
 told, the old gentleman was so much overpowered, that he 
 was sick for two or tbi-ee days ), it must tie confessed that few 
 authors have ever lived to receive such illustrious rewards, 
 or have so completely cujoyed in advance their own im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Ailer his return from Scaghtikoke, Mr Knickerbocker 
 took up bis residence at a little rural retreat, which the 
 Sliiy vcsaiils had granted him on the family domain, in gra- 
 titude for his honourable mention of their ancestor. It was 
 pleasantly sitiiatini on the iMnilers of one of the salt niai-slie.s 
 lH!yond Corlear's Hmik : subject, indeed, lo be o«Tasionally 
 oveiilowi>d, and much infested, in the summer time, with 
 ii<iis(|uitoes; but otherwise very agreeable, producing abun- 
 dant ci-ops of Malt-grass and bull-rushes. 
 
 Here, we are sorry tti say, the giMMl old gentleman fell 
 dangerously ill of a fever, tRTasioned by the neighlM)uriiig 
 inaKluvs. When he ftmnd his end approaching, he dispos- 
 ed of bis woi-ldly affairs, leaving the bulk of his fortune to 
 the New-York Historical Society; his HiiHlelhurgh liale- 
 chisin, and \'aiidcr Doiiek's work, to the city library ; aiul 
 his Middle-lNigs to Mr Handaside. He forgave all his ene- 
 mies,— that is losay, all who bore any enmity towaixis him ; 
 for as to himself, he declareil be died in goml will with all 
 the woi-ld. And, after dictating several kind messages lo 
 Ills relations at Scaghtikoke, as well as lo certain of our most 
 siilistantiul Dutch ritiiens, he expiivd in the anus of his 
 friend the librarian. 
 
 His remains were interred, arroi-diiig to his own re<|nest, 
 in St Murk's cluireh-yaitl, close by the iKines of his favourite 
 hero, Peter Stnyvesant ; and it is niiuoured, that the Histo- 
 rical SiH'iely have it in mind to eii>ct a wtiudeii munument 
 to his lueuiury iu the Buwiing-Uroeu. 
 
 TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 "To rescue h-om oblivion the memory offormer Incidents, 
 aiHl lo render a just tribute of renown to the many great and 
 wonderful transactions of our Hutch progenitors, Hiedrich 
 Knickerliocker, a native of the city of New-York, priMliices 
 this historical (>ssay." • Liko the great Father of History, 
 whose wortis I have just quoted, I treat of times long past, 
 over which the twilight of uncertainty had already thrown 
 its shadows, and the night of forgetriiliiess was aUint to des- 
 reml for ever. With great solicitude had 1 long iH'beld the 
 earfy history of this venerable and ancient city gradually 
 slipping tnnn our grasp, trembling on the lips of narrative 
 old age, and day by day dropping piivemeal into the tomb. 
 In a little while, thought I, and those reverend Dutch burgh- 
 ers, who serve as the tottering niiniiinients of gwMl old times, 
 will lie gathered to their lalhcrs; their children, engi-ossed 
 by the empty pleasures or insignillcant transactions of the 
 present age, will negleii to treasure up the recollect ions of 
 the past, and |iosterity w III search in vain for memorials of 
 the days of the PalHarehs. The origin of our city will Imi 
 buried in eternal oblivion, and even the names and uchicve- 
 
 > Hi<l(R<'« Ik'i'utluluii, 
 
1U8 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 If 
 
 I I 
 
 iiients of Wouter Van TwUlcr, VVillidmiis Kicit, and Peter 
 StuYvcsant, lie enveloped in doubt and flctioii, like llioso or 
 Hoinulus and Remus, of (Jliarleniague, King Arthur, Ri- 
 nuldo, and Gmlfrey of Kologne. 
 
 Detennined, tlierefore, to avert, if possible, this threaten- 
 ed misfortune, I industriously set myself to work, to gather 
 together all the frar^mebts of our infant history which still 
 eiisted, and, like my reveretl pixttotypc, llenxlolus, where 
 no written records could In; found, I have cndeovoured to 
 »)ntinue the chain of history by well authenticated tradi- 
 tions. 
 
 Ill this aniuous undcrtal!'-.^, which has l)ccn the whole 
 business of a long and solitary life, it is includible the number 
 of learned authors I have consulted ; and all to but little 
 purpose. Strange as it may seem, though such multitudes 
 of excellent works have \teen written aliout this country, 
 Ihera are none extant wliloii give any full and salisfuctory 
 account of the early history of ISew-York, or of its three first 
 Dutch governors. I have, however, gained much valuable 
 and curious matter fh)m an clalmratc manuscript writt(rn 
 in exceeding pure and clasislc Low Dutch, excepting a few 
 errors in orthography, which was found in the aiThives of 
 (tie Stuyvesant family. Many legends, letters, and other 
 documents, have I likewise gleaned in my researches among 
 the family chests and lumlH'r gp~-?t8 of our i-especlable 
 Dutch citizens ; and I have gathered a host of well-autlieii- 
 licated traditions from divers excellent old ladies of my ac- 
 quaintance, who re(|ucs(ed that their names might not be 
 mentioned. Nor must I neglect to acknowledge how great- 
 ly I have licen assisted by that admirable and praiseworthy 
 institution, the Nkw-Yohk IIiirroRiRAi. Society, to which I 
 here publicly return my sincere acknowledgments. 
 
 In the conduct of this inestimable work I have adopted no 
 indlvidnal model, Init on the contrary have simply contented 
 myself with combining and conccnlraliiig the excellencies 
 of the most approved ancient historians. Like Xenophon, 
 I have maintained the utmost impartiality and the strictest 
 adherence to truth throughout my history. I have enrich- 
 ed it, after the manner of Sallust, with voHoiis chnractei's 
 of ancient worthies, dratvn at full length and failhfiilly co- 
 loured. I have seasoiuHl it with profound political specula- 
 tioas like Thucydides, sweetened it with the graces of senti- 
 ment like Tacitus, and hifused into the whole the dignit} , 
 the grandeur, and inngnincrnceof Livy. 
 
 I am aware that T sliiill incur the censure of numerous very 
 learned and judicious critics, for indulging too fnH|neutly in 
 the iHtkl exciiraive manner of my favourite Herodotus. And 
 io be candid, I have found it impossible always to resist the 
 alhiremeiitii of those pleasing episodes, whieti, like flowery 
 Imiiks and fragrant Imwci-s, Iieset the dusty rond of the histo- 
 rian, and entice him to tin'n aside, and I'cfresh himself from 
 his wayfaring. Hut I trust It will be found that I have al~ 
 ways resumed my staff, and addressed myself to my weary 
 ioiirney with i-enovatcd spirits, so that both my readers, and 
 myself have been beiicliled by the relaxation. 
 
 Indeed, though it has been my constant wish and nnifoiiii 
 endeavour to rival Polybius himself, in observing the requi- 
 site unity of History, yet the loose and unconnected maimiT 
 in which many of the facts hei-ein i-eeoi-ded have come to 
 hand i-eiHlerwl such an attempt extremely <lil1i'"ilt. This 
 diflleulty was likewise iiiciTased hy one of the grand objects 
 rontemplated in my work, which was to trace llic rise of 
 sundry customs and institutions in this ImisI of i illes, and to 
 eompai-e them, when in the germ of iiilaney , wilh what they 
 aiv in the present okl ago of knowkHlge and impi-ovcmcnt. 
 
 But the chief merit on which I value myself, and found my 
 hopes (l)r fiiliire reganl, is that foilhful veracity with which 
 
 I have compiled this invaluable little work ; carefully winn 
 ing away the chaff of hypothesis, and discarding the lam J 
 fable, which ara too apt to spring up and choke the scedij 
 truth and wholesome kno\t ledge. — Had I been anxious | 
 captivate the superflcial tlmtng, who skim likeswalluntoigj 
 the surface of literature ; or had I lieen anxious to roninK 
 my writings to the pamperad palates of literary epirumj 
 might have availed myselfof the obscurity that ovcrshadt 
 the infant years of our city, to introduce a thousand plva 
 fictions. But I have scrupulously discarded many a piiji 
 tale and marvellous adventure, whereby the drowsy cir^ 
 siinniier-indolence might lie enthralled ; jealously maloti 
 Ing lliut fidelity, gravity, and dignity, which should cverdi 
 tingulsh the historian. " For a writer of this class," ol^mj 
 an elegant critic, " mustsiisialn the character of a wlscn 
 writing for the Instruction of posterity, one who hasslu 
 to inform himself well, who has pondered his siibjiftitid 
 care, and addresses himself to our judgment rather iiiMij 
 our imagination." 
 
 Thrice happy, therefore, is this our renowned city, in It 
 ing incidents worthy of swelling the theme of hlslor);i 
 doubly thrice happy is it in having such an historian as n 
 self to relate them. For, after all, gentle reader, ciiiesi| 
 themsrires, and in fact, empires of thenusekes, arc 
 without an historian. 1 1 is the patient nan-ator '«ho m 
 th(>lr prosperity as they ^is<^— who blazons forth thesiilon^ 
 of their noontide meridian — who props their feeltle ninu 
 rials as they tott(T to decay— who gathei's together I 
 scattered fragments as they rot — and who piously, at lenul 
 collecis their ashes into the mausoleum of his work,nn(ln 
 a monument that will transmit their renown to all succon 
 ages. 
 
 What has been the fate of many fair cities of anlii|iiil)j 
 whose nameless ruins encnmlKT the plains of Knro|)ci 
 Asia, and awaken the frullless impiiry of the travcllrr- 
 they have sunk into dust and silence— they have |)frish 
 from remembrance for want of an historian ! The phi 
 thrnpist may weep over their desolation— the poet i 
 wander among their mouldering arches and broken coIiin 
 and indulge the visionary flights of his fancy — but, olaslal 
 the modern historian, whose pen, like my own, is dwininif 
 conflne itself to dull matter of fact, seeks in vain ainoDK II 
 oblivious remains for some memorial that may trillheij 
 striictive tale of their glory and their niln. 
 
 "Wai-s, conflagrations, deluges," says Aristotle, "(!« 
 nations, and with them alttheirinonnments,theirdlsrtnn 
 and their vanities — Theton'h of science has morclhan« 
 been extinguished and rekindled— A few individuals,! 
 have escaped by accident, reunite the thread of generalioi 
 
 The same sad misfortune which has happened to son 
 ancient cities wilt happen again, and from thcsaniei 
 cause, to nine-tentlis of those which now flourish on I 
 face of the glolH>. With most of them the time forrerj)i 
 their early history is gone by ; their origin, their fniindilid 
 together w Ith the eventful period of their youth, are furr 
 buried in the rubbish of years ; and the same would lisvrh 
 the case with thisfair portion of the earih. If I had notsnild 
 ed it from obscurity in the very nick of time, at the iiion 
 that those matters herein i-ecorded were about entorln|iiil{ 
 the wide-spread insallahle maw of ohhvioii - if I hid i 
 dragged them out, us it were, by the very locks, jiislMl^ 
 monster's adnmanlinc fangs were closing u|>on Ihriul 
 twer. And here have I, asbefnitf observed, can^rullyi 
 lected, collated, and ariimgc<l them, scrip and srinp, "H 
 eH puHi. gnt vn (lat," and eommencetl in this IllllpnottI 
 histiH'y to serve as a foundation on which other hisliiriif 
 nioy hcreafler raise a noble 8U|H<nilr(ieture, swell 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 im 
 
 of time, until Knickerbocker's New-York may be 
 L||y volumiiious with (ribbon's Home, or Hume and 
 Jktl's England! 
 
 |iid now indulge inc for a moment, wbile I lay down my 
 I skip In ^^nc little cniiucnce at the distance of two or 
 
 ; huiidj'cd years a-licad ; and, casting bacic a bird - eye 
 Lcc over tbc waste of years that is to roll lietween, disco- 
 fmyscir— little I !— at this moment the pi-ogenitor, pruto- 
 \ and precursor of tbeni all, posted at the bead of this 
 I uf literary worthii>s, with my Iwok under my arm, and 
 
 r-Yorl( on my back, |)ressing fonvard, like a gallant com- 
 piler, to honour and immortality. 
 
 icli are the vaiu-iflorious imaginings that will now and 
 
 1 enter into the brnin of the author— that irradiate, as 
 li celestial light, his solitary chaniber,chcering his weary 
 Ills and animating him to persevei'e in his labours. And 
 Inctelv given utterance to these rhapsodies whenever 
 yliave occurred; not, I trust, from an unusual spirit of 
 Uisni, but merely that the reader may for once have an 
 ijiuw an author thinks and feels while he is wriling— a 
 liofknowledgc very rare and curious, and nmch to l)c 
 
 jiiiil- 
 
 «« ••««44 «««« •#«« 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 Ttni^U niVEIIS INCRMOUS TIIKOHIKS AINU PIIII.OSOPIIIC SPK- 
 ItUTIOKS, COINCKHMIMCi TUE CttKATIOM AMD POPULATION OF 
 hcnOHU), AS CON>KCTEU WITH TUE nistOHV OV MEW-yORK. 
 
 CIIAITER I. 
 
 Dcsei'iiitiuii uf the World. 
 
 Iarcoruing to the best aulliurities, tlie world in 
 jiicli we dwel' is a luige, opa(|iie, reflectinj?, inarii- 
 ■leraass, lloaling >>i the ethereal ocean of hiflnite 
 ■ce. It has the ■ >i-m of an orang;e, being an oblnte 
 jheroid, curiously tlallencd at opposite parts, for the 
 
 «rtion of two imaginary poles, which are supposed 
 Ipenetrate and unite at the centre ; thus forming an 
 
 son which the mighty orange turns with a regular 
 jimal revolution. 
 |Tlie transitions of light and darkness, whence pro- 
 
 1 the alternations of day and night, are produced 
 
 his diurnal revolution successively presenting the 
 
 jRerent parts of tho earth to the rays of the sun. The 
 
 jlleris, according to the best, t!ial is to say, llie latest 
 
 minis, a luminous or liery body, of a prodigious 
 bgniliKlc, from which this world is driven by a cen- 
 pgal or repelling power, and to which it is drawn 
 
 f a cenlripetr.i or attractive force; otherwise called 
 
 ! attraction of gravitation; the combination, or ra- 
 
 Ki'llie cotinteraclion of these two c;)posing impulses 
 iig a circular and annual revolution. Hence 
 
 siilt the different s(>asons of the year, viz. spring, 
 Inuiier, autumn, and winter. 
 I Tills I believe to be the most approved modern 
 
 ory on the subject— though there bo many plii- 
 
 pliers who have entertained very dilTerenl opl- 
 
 jons; some of them, too, entitled to much deference 
 
 pin tlieir great anlii|iiily and illuslrious diaraclers. 
 
 piii il Wits advanced by some uf the ancient sages. 
 
 that the earth was an extended plain, supported by 
 vast pillars; and by others, that it rested on the head 
 of a snake, or the l)ack of a huge tortoise— but as 
 they did not provide a resting-place for either the 
 pillars or the tortoise, the whole theory fell to the 
 ground, for want of proper foundation. 
 
 The Brahmins assert, that the heavens rest upon 
 the earth, and the sun and moon swim therein like 
 fishes in the water, moving from cast to west by day, 
 and gliding along the edge of the horizon to their ori- 
 ginal stations during the night; ■ while, according to 
 the Pauranicas of India, it is a vast plain, encircled by 
 seven oceans of milk, nectar, and other delicious li- 
 quids; that it is studded with seven moiinlains, and 
 ornamented in the centre by a mountainous rock of 
 burnished gold ; and that a great dragon occasionally 
 swallows up the moon, which accounts for the phe- 
 nomena of lunar eclipses.' 
 
 Reside these, and many other equally sage opi- 
 nions, we have the profound conjectures of Aboli.- 
 IIassan-Aly, son of Al Khan, son of Aly, son of 
 Alxierrahman, son of Abiia'iah, son of Masoud-el- 
 Hadheli, who is commonly called Masoldi, and sur- 
 named Cothlteddui, but who takes the humble title of 
 Laheb-ar-rasoul, which means the companion of the 
 ambassador of Goil. He has written an universal his- 
 tory, entitled " Mouroudge-cd-dharab, or the Ooldeii 
 Meadows, and the Mines of Precious Stones."' In 
 this valuable work he has related the history of the 
 world, from the creation down to the moment of 
 writing; which was under the Khaliphat of Mothi 
 Billah, in the month Dgioumadi-el-aoual of the 53(ith 
 year of the llegira or flight of the Prophet. He in- 
 forms us that the earth is a huge bird, Mecca and 
 Medina constituting the head, Persia and India the 
 right wing, the land of Gog the left wing, and Africa 
 the tail. He informs us, moreover, that an earth has 
 existed before the present, (which he considers as a 
 mere chicken of 70(10 years,) that it has undergone 
 divers deluges, and that, according to the opinion of 
 some well-informed Brahmins of bis acquaintance, it 
 will l)e renovated every seventy thousandth haza- 
 rounm; each hazarouam consisting of 42,(NNI years. 
 
 These are a few of the many contradictory opinions 
 of philosophers concerning the earth, and we find that 
 the learned have had equal perplexity as to the na- 
 ture of the sun. Some of the ancient philosophers 
 have aflirmed that it is a vast wheel of brilliant lire; * 
 others that il is merely a minor or s[)here of trans- 
 parent crystal ;° and a tiiird class, at the head of 
 whom stands Anaxagoras, maintained that it was no- 
 thing but a huge ignited mass of iron or stone — in- 
 deed,'hc declared the heavens to be merely a vault of 
 stone- and that the stars were stones whirled upwards 
 
 > Paiii y Son/.i. MIck. I,iis. note l>. 7. 
 -> sir W. MmcH, Dis^. Aiitiii. Iiid. Zutl. ) 
 
 1 MSS. lillillol. Ildi Vr. 
 
 4 I'liilai'cli do l>lacl(ls Plillnsupli. lit), il. cap. 20. 
 :> Anhill. Tat. I«IK. cap. )»• Ap. IN'tav. I. ill. p. SI. Slob. 
 KcIk-j. l'liy.i. lib. i. p. mi. I'lul. ill' I'lac, I'lill. 
 
110 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 from the earth, and set on fire by the velocity of its 
 revolutions.' But I give little attention to the doc- 
 trines of this philosopher, the people of Athens having 
 fully refuted them, by banishuig him from their city; 
 a concise mode of answering unwelcome doctrines, 
 much resorted to in former days. Another sect of 
 plulosophers do declare, that certain fiery particles 
 exhale constantly from the earth, which, concentrat- 
 ing in a single point of the firmament by day, con- 
 stitute tiie sun, but being scattered and rambluig 
 about in the dark at night, collect in various pouits , 
 and form stars. These are regularly burnt out and 
 extinguished, not unlike to the lamps in our streets, 
 and require a fresh supply of exhalations for the ne:a 
 occasion.' 
 
 It is even recorded, that at certain remote and ob- 
 scure periods, in consequence of a great scarcity of 
 fuel, the sun has been completely burnt out, and some- 
 times not rekindled for a month at a time :— a most 
 melancholy circumstance, the very idea of which gave 
 vast concern to Heraclitus, that worthy weeping phi- 
 losopher of antiquity. In addition to these various 
 speculations, it was the opinion of Ilcrschel, that the 
 sun is a magnificent habitable abode; the light it fur- 
 nishes arising from certain empyreal, luminous, or 
 phosphoric clouds, swimming in its transparent atmo- 
 sphere.' 
 
 But we will not enter fartiier at present into the 
 nature of the sun, that being an inquiry not imme- 
 diately necessary to the developement of this history ; 
 neither will we embroil ourselves in any more of the 
 endless disputes of philosophers touching the form of 
 this globe, but content ourselves with the theory ad- 
 vanced in the beginning of this chapter, and will pro- 
 ceed to illustrate by experiment the complexity of 
 motion therein ascribed to this our rotatory planet. 
 
 Professor Yon Poddingcoft (or Puddinghead, as the 
 name may be rendered into English) was long cele- 
 brated in the university of Leyden, for profoimd gra- 
 vity of deportment, and a talent at going to sleep in 
 the midst of examinations, to the infinite relief of his 
 hopeful students, who thereby worked their way 
 through college with great ease and little study. In the 
 course of one of hislectures, the learned professor, seiz- 
 ing a bucket of water, swung it round his head at arm's 
 length. The impulse with which he threw the ves- 
 sel fi-om him, being a centrif&gal force, the retention 
 of his arm operating as a centiipetal power, and the 
 Ducket, which was a substitute for the earth, describ- 
 ing a circular orbit round alwut the globular head 
 and ruby visage of Professor Von Potldingcoft, which 
 formed no bad representation of the sun. All of 
 these particulars were duly explained to the class of 
 gaping students around bun. He apprisetl them, 
 
 < niogrnm !i.ir<rliiiii In Anax.iR. 1. 11. sec. S. I>lat. Aiwl, I. I. 
 11.36. Pint. (Ii! Pla(\ l>liil. Xoimph. Mcni.l.iv. |i.RI,1. 
 
 > ArlMtul. Mclcor. 1. 11. e.. i. Idtiiii Pii)lil. upv. I.t. Sluli. Eel. 
 PhjK. I. i. |). rtX Biiick. niM. Phil. 1. 1. p.*l m, file. 
 
 I Pliiliwi. n-ni's. I7US. |). 7'J. Itltiii. 1801. |i. m. Nlvh. Plillos. 
 .luurii. 1. |i. 13. 
 
 moreover, that the same principle of graviuiij 
 which retained the water in the bucket, relalnj | 
 ocean from Hying from the earth in its rapid req 
 tio!is; and he further informed them that, should j 
 motion of the earth be suddenly checked, it wq 
 incontinently fall into the sun, through the ceu 
 petal force of gravitation; a most ruinous event lod 
 planet, and one which would also obscure, tlioiij^l 
 most probably would not extinguish, the solar I 
 nary. An unlucky stripling, one of those va^ 
 geniuses who seem sent into the world merely toi 
 noy worthy men of the puddinghead order, de 
 of ascertaining the correctness of the experin 
 suddenly arrested the arm of the professor, justati^ 
 moment that the bucket was in its zenith, witichg 
 mediately descended with astonishing precision uu 
 the philosophic head of the instructor of youth, 
 hollow sound, an a red-hot hiss, attended the i 
 tact ; but the theorv was in the amplest manner iili 
 trated, for the unlortunate bucket perished iiig 
 conflict; but the blazing countenance of Vnh 
 Von Poddingcoft emerged from amidst the wate 
 glowing fiercer than ever with unutterable 
 tion; whereupon the students were marvellouslyg 
 lied, departed considerably wiser than before. 
 
 It is a mortifying circumstance, which greatly; 
 plcxes many a pnins-laking philosopher, that nali 
 often refuses to second his most profound and ( 
 borate efforts; so that, after having invented m{ 
 the most ingenious and natural theories iinap;iii 
 she will have the perverseness to act directly in i 
 teeth of his system, and tlatly contradict his i 
 favourite positions. This is a manifest and unineril 
 grievance, since it throws the censure of the vul 
 and unlearned entirely upon the philosopher; wliei 
 the fault is not to be ascribed to his theory, whicbl 
 unquestionably correct, but to the waywardnesd 
 Dame INature, who, with the proverbial licklenea^ 
 her sex, is continually indulging in coquetries i 
 caprices, and seems really to take pleasure in viul 
 ing all philosophic rules, and jilting the most Ivan 
 and indefatigable of her adorers. Thus it liappi 
 with respect to the foregoing satisfactory expianatiij 
 of the motion of our planet. It appears that iheo 
 trifugal force has long since ceased t(» operate, wli 
 its antagonist remains in undiminished potency: 
 world, therefore, according to the theory as it i 
 nally stood, ought, in strict propriety, to tumble i 
 the sun; philosophers were convinced that it w« 
 do so, and awaited in anxious impatience the fuli 
 ment of their prognostics. But the untoward ] 
 pertinaciously continued her course, notwitlistan 
 that she had reason, philosophy, and a whole i;niva| 
 sity of learned professors opposed to her condni 
 The philosophers took this in very ill part, and iti| 
 thought •hey would never have pardoned (he $li|! 
 and nffi-ont which they conceived put upon llieinl 
 the world, had not a good-natured professor kin 
 officiated as a mediator between the parlies, and ( 
 feclcd a recuuciliatipn. 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ill 
 
 finding Ihe world would not acconimodate itself to 
 lliieory, lie wisely determined to accommodate the 
 to the world : he tliererore inrornied his bro- 
 rpliilosuphers, that the circular motion of the earth 
 I the sun was no sooner engendered by the con- 
 impulses above described, than it became a 
 liar revolution, independent of the causes which 
 > it origin. His learned brethren readily joined 
 bie opinion, being heartily glad of any explanation 
 t would decently extricate them from their em- 
 issment — and ever since that memorable era the 
 ^d has been left to take her own course, and to 
 Dive around the sun in such orbit as she thinks 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 jDny. or creation of tlic World; willi a multiliiilc of excel. 
 kl iheoriefi, by which (he creation of a world is shown (o be 
 Lguch difficult mailer as common folli would imagine. 
 
 lAviNG thus briefly introduced my reader to the 
 lid, and given hint some idea of its form and si- 
 lion, he will naturally be curious to know from 
 jcnce it came, and how it was created. And, in- 
 d, the clearing up of these points is absolutely es- 
 kial to my history, inasmuch as if this world had 
 I been formed, it is more than probable that this 
 JDvrned island, on which is sitnateil the city of New- 
 Ik, would never have had an existence. The re- 
 hr course of my history, therefore, rcipiires that 
 lould proceed to notice the cosmogony or forma- 
 I of this our globe. 
 
 [ltd now I give my readers fair warning, that I 
 [about to plunge, for a chapter or two, into as 
 ^lete a labyrinth as ever historian was perplexed 
 I : therefore, I advise tham to take fast hold of 
 [skirts, and keep close at my heels, venturing nei- 
 } to the right hand nor to the left, lest they get 
 fired in a slough of unintelligible learning, or have 
 r brains knocked out by some of those hard ( >reek 
 hes which will be flying about in all diicclions. 
 [should any of them be too indolent or chicken- 
 
 I to accompany me in this perilous undertak- 
 I they had better take a short cut round, and wait 
 ne at the beginning of some smoother chapter, 
 ftf Ihe creation of the world, we have a thousand 
 Iradictory accounts ; and though a very satisfac- 
 [oiie is furnished us by divine revelation, yet every 
 
 piicr feels himself in honour bound to furnish 
 kill) a better. As an impartial historian, I consi- 
 lit my duty to notice their several theories, by 
 jell mankind have been so exceedingly ediHed and 
 rueted. 
 
 bus it was the opinion of certain ancient sages, 
 lllieearlh and the whole system of the universe 
 jtiiedcity himself; ' a doctrine most strenuously 
 nlflined by /enophanes and the whole tribe of 
 lilies, as also by Strabo and ihc sect of peripatetic 
 
 pliers. Pythagoras likewise inculcated (he fa- 
 
 • Arlstol. np. Oic lib. i. cap. X 
 
 moiis numerical system of Ihe monad, dyad, and trad, 
 and by means of his sacred ipiaternary, elucidated the 
 formation of the world, the arcana of nature, and the 
 principles both of music and morals. ' Other sages 
 adhered to the mathematical system of squares and 
 triangles; the cube, the pyramid, and the sphere ; the 
 tetrahedron, the octahedron, the icosahedron, and 
 the dodecahedron. > While others advocatetl the 
 great elementary theory, which refers the construc- 
 tion of our globe and all that it contains to the combi- 
 nations of four material elements, air, earth, fire, and 
 water; with the assistance of a fifth, an immaterial 
 and vivifying principle. 
 
 Nor must I omit to mention the great atomic sys- 
 tem taught by old Moschus, before the siege of Troy ; 
 revived by Democritus of laughing memory ; improv- 
 ed by Epicurus, that king of good fellows, and mo- 
 dernised by the fanciful Descartes. But I decline in- 
 quiring, whether Ihe atoms, of which the earth is said 
 to be composed, are eternal or recent; whether they 
 are animate or inanimate; whether, agreeably to the 
 opinion of the atheists,, they were fortuitously aggre- 
 gated, or, as the theisis maintain, were arranged by 
 a Supreme Intelligence. ' Whether in fact the earth 
 be an insensate clod, or whether it lie animated by a 
 soul ; * which opinion was strenuously maintained by 
 a host of philosophers, at the head of whom stands 
 the great Plato, that temperate sage, who threw the 
 cold water of philosophy on the form of sexual inter- 
 course, and inculcated the doctrine of Platonic love — 
 an exquisitely refined intercourse, but much better 
 adapted to the ideal inhabitants of his imaginary island 
 of Atlantis than to the sturdy race, composed of re- 
 bellious flesh and blood, which populates the little 
 matter-of-fact island we inhabit. 
 
 Besides these systems, we have, moreover, Ihe 
 poetical theogony of old Ilesiod, who generated the 
 whole universe in the regular mode of procreation; 
 and the plausible opinion of others, that the earth was 
 hatched from the great egg of night, which floated in 
 chaos, and was cracked by the horns of the celestial 
 bull. To illustrate this lust doctrine, Burnet, in his 
 Theory of the Earth, ' has favoured us with an accu- 
 rate drawing and description, both of the form and 
 texture of this mundane egg; which is found to bear 
 a marvellous resemblance to that of a goose. Such 
 of my readers as take a proper interest in the origin of 
 this our planet will be pleased to learn, that the most 
 profound sages of antiquity, among the Egypli^ms, 
 Chaldeans, Persians, Greeks, and Latins, have altern- 
 ately assisted at the hatching of thin strange bird, and 
 
 • Aristot. Mctaph. lib. i. c. S. IdemdcCoelo, I. ill. c. I. Rons- 
 scan, Mi'm. Biir Muslquc ancicn. p. 3!). Plutarch de Plac. Philos. 
 lib. i. cap. 3. 
 
 ' Tim. Locr. ap. Plato, t. ill. p. 00. 
 
 3 Arislot. Nat. Auscult. I. ii. cap 6. Aristoph. Mctaph. lib. i. 
 cap. 3. CIc. dc Nat. Dear. lib. i. cap. 10. Justin. Mart. orat. ad 
 Kent. p. 20. 
 
 4 Mosheim in Cndw. lib. i. cap. 4. Tim. dc Anim. mnnd. ap. 
 Plat. lib. ill. Mi>m. dp I'Acad. des Belles Lettr. I. xxxil. p. II) et al. 
 
 1 Hook I. ch. .1. 
 
Ii2 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Hi 
 
 'i. 
 
 that their cacklings have been caught, and continued 
 ia different tones and inflections, from pliilosopher to 
 philosopher, unto the present day. 
 
 But while briefly noticing long celebrated systems 
 of ancient sages, let me not pass over with neglect 
 those of other philosophers; which, though less uni- 
 versal and renowi<ed, have equal claims to attention, 
 and equal chance for correctness. Thus it is recorded 
 by the Bralmiins, in the pages of their inspired Shastah, 
 that the angel Bistnoo, transforming himself into a 
 great boar, plunged into the watery abyss, and brought 
 up the earth on his tusks. Then issued from bun a 
 nrjghty tortoise, and a mighty snake; and Bistnoo 
 placed the snake erect upon the back of the tortoise, 
 and he placed the earth upon the head of the snake. ■ 
 
 The negro philosophers of Congo affirm that the 
 w^orld was made by the hands of angels, excepting 
 their own country, which the Supreme Being con- 
 structed himself, that it might be supremely excellent. 
 And he took great pains with the inhabitants, and 
 made them very black, and beautiful ; and when he 
 had flnished the first man, he was well pleased with 
 him, and smoothed him over the face, and hence his 
 nose, and (he nose of all his descendants, became flat. 
 
 The Mohawk philosophers tell us, that a pregnant 
 woman fell down from heaven, ar.d that a tortoise took 
 her upon its back, because every place was covered 
 with water; and that the woman, sitting upon the tor- 
 toise, paddled with her hands in the water, and raked 
 up the earth, whence it finally happened that the 
 earth became higher than the water. ' 
 
 But I forbear to quote a number more of these an- 
 cient and outlandish philosophers, whose deplorable 
 ignorance, in despite of all their erudition, compelled 
 them to write in languages which but few of my read- 
 ers can understand ; and I shall proceed briefly to no- 
 tice a few more intelligible and fashionable theories of 
 their modern successors. 
 
 And, first, I shall mention the great Buffon, who 
 conjectures that this globe was originally a globe of 
 liquid fire, scintillated from the body of the sun, by the 
 percussion of a comet, as a spark is generated by the 
 collision of flint and steel. That at first it was sur- 
 rounded by gross vapours, which, cjoling and condens- 
 ing in process of time, constituted, according to their 
 densities, earth, water, and air; which gradually ar- 
 ranged themselves, according to their respective gra- 
 vities, round the burning or vilrifial mass that formed 
 their centre. 
 
 Ilutton, on the contrary, supposes that the waters 
 at first were universally paramount; and he terrifies 
 himself with the idea that the earth must be eventually 
 washed away by the force of rain, rivers, and moun- 
 tain torrents, until it is confounded with the ocean, 
 or, in other words, absolutely dissolves into itself.— 
 Sublime idea ! far surpassing that of the tender-hearted 
 damsel of antiquity, who wept herself into a fountain; 
 
 ■ Holwcll. Gent. PhiloM)))hy. 
 "> Jut)annra Megapolcnsis, Jim. 
 Iiawk IntliaiM, 1644. 
 
 Account of Maqiiaas or Mo- 
 
 or the gooil dame of Narbonne in Fnnce, wlm,! 
 volubility of tongue unusual in her sex, was da 
 to peel five hundred thousand and thirty-nine n 
 of onions, and actually ran out at her eyes, befort j 
 the hideous task was accomplished. 
 
 Whiston, the s<ime ingenious philosopher whoinj 
 led Dillon in his researches after the longitude,! 
 which the mischief-loving Swift discharged on i 
 heads a most savoury stanza,) has distinguished! 
 self by a very admirable theory respecting the c 
 He conjectures that it was originally a chnotict 
 which being selected for the abode of man, wasj 
 moved from its eccentric orbit, and whirled; 
 the sun in its present regular motion; by whiciiclij 
 of direction ortler succeeded to confusion in the J 
 rangoment of its component parts. The phila 
 adds, that the deluge was produced by an un 
 eons salute from the watery tail of another ( 
 doubtless through sheer envy of its improved ( 
 tion : thus furnishing a melancholy proof thai jeal 
 may prevail, even among the heavenly bodies, ^ 
 discord interrupt that celestial harmony of the sptii 
 so melodiously sung by the poets. 
 
 Bull pass over a variety of excellent theories, ao 
 which are those of Burnet, and Woodward, 
 Whitehurst; regretting extremely that my tinie^ 
 not sufler me to give them the notice they desen 
 and shall conclude with that of the renowned I 
 Darwin. This learned Theban, who is as niucbij 
 tinguished for rhyme as reason, and for good-nali{ 
 credulity as serious research, and who has i 
 mended himself wonderfully to the good graces olj 
 ladies, by letting them into all the gallantries, am 
 debaucheries, and other topics of scandal of thee 
 Flora, has fallen upon a theory worthy of his con! 
 tible imagination. According to his opinion, theb 
 mass of chaos look a sudden occasion to explude,! 
 a barrel of gunpowder, and in that act exploded I 
 sun — which in its flight, by a similar convu]sion,t 
 ploded the earth— which in Uke guise explodedj 
 moon — and thus, by a concatenation of explosions,! 
 whole solar system was produced* and sel must( 
 tematically in motion ! ■ 
 
 By the great variety of theories here alludedj 
 every one of which, if thoroughly examined, mil 
 foi'.id surprisingly consistent in all its parts, iny{ 
 learned readers will perhaps be led lo conclude I 
 the creation of a world is not so difficult a taskasll 
 at first imagined. I have shown at least a i 
 ingenious methods in which a world could lie o 
 structed; and I have no doubt, that had any of| 
 philosophers above quoted the use of a good imni 
 able comet, and the philosophical warehouse tU^ 
 at his command, he would engage to manufactn 
 planet as good, or, if you would lake his wordi«| 
 better than this we iidiabit. 
 
 And here I cannot help noticing the kindneaj 
 Providence, in creating comets for the great rei 
 l)ewildered philosophers. By (heir assistance i 
 
 ■ Darw. Bot. Rardoii. Part I. Cant. i. 1. 10.1 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 113 
 
 ililen evoliilioiis and transitions are efTTCtetl in the 
 jsteni of nature tlian are wrought in a pantomimic 
 Uiibilion by the wonder-working sword of Harle- 
 ijn. Should one of our modern sages, in his theo- 
 Jlical flights among tlie stars, ever find himself lost 
 Itbe clouds, and in danger of tumbling into the abyss 
 I nonsense and absurdity, he has but to seize a comet 
 ] the beard, mount astride of its tail, and away he 
 jllops in triumph, like an enchanter on his hippogrifT, 
 |a Connecticut witch on her broomstick, " to sweep 
 > cobwebs out of the sky." 
 
 |lt is an old and vulgar sayuig, about a " beggar on 
 
 eback," which I would not for the world have 
 
 plied to these reverend philosophers ; but I must 
 
 nfess that some of them, when they are mounted 
 
 jone of those fiery steeds, are as wild in their cur- 
 
 jllings as was Phaeton of yore, when he aspired to 
 
 age the chariot of Phoebus. One drives his co- 
 
 ^t at full speed against the sun, and knocks the 
 
 irldoutof him with the mighty concussion; an- 
 
 ler, more moderate, makes his comet a kind of 
 
 ist of burden, carrying the sun a regular supply of 
 
 I and fagots — a third, of more combustible dispo- 
 
 ion, threatens to throw his comet Uke a bombshell 
 
 I tiie world, and blow it up like a powder maga- 
 
 e; while a fourth, with no great delicacy to this 
 
 mi and its inhabitants, insinuates tliat some day 
 
 lother his comet — my modest pen blushes while I 
 
 |tte it— shall alisolutely turn tail upon our world, 
 
 I deluge it with water !— Surely, as I have already 
 
 med, comets were bountifully provided by Pro- 
 
 lence for the benetit of philosophers, to assist them 
 
 Imanufacturing theories. 
 
 I now, having adduced several of the most pro- 
 ent theories that occur to my recollection, I leave 
 |f judicious readers at full liberty to choose among 
 They are all serious speculations of learned 
 n— all differ essentially from each other— and all 
 |re the same title to belief. It has ever been the 
 kof one race of philosophers to demolish the works 
 Jiheir predecessors, and elevate more splendid fan- 
 lies in their stead, which in their turn are demo- 
 led and replaced by the air-castles of a succeeding 
 litration. Thus it would seem that knowledge and 
 nius, of which we make such great parade, con- 
 put in detecting the errors and absurdities of those 
 ) have gone before, and devising new errore and 
 urdities, to be detected by those who are to come 
 jer us. Theories are the mighty soap bubbles with 
 ^1 the grown np children of science amuse tliem- 
 ^es— while the honest vulgar stand gazing in stupid 
 niralion, and dignify these learned vagaries with 
 jnameof wisdom!— Surely Socrates was right in 
 I opinion, that philosophers are but a soberer sort 
 admen, busying themselves in things totally in- 
 [iprehensible, or which, if they could be compre- 
 ded, would be found not worthy the trouble of 
 overy. 
 
 r'or my own part, until the learned have come to 
 jsgreement among themselves, I shall conleiil my- 
 
 self with the account handed down to us by Moses; 
 in which I do but follow the example of our inge- 
 nious neighbours of Connecticut, who, at their first 
 settlement, proclaimed that the colony should be go- 
 verned by the laws of God until they had tune to 
 make better. 
 
 One thing, however, appears certain— from the 
 unanimous authority of the before-quoted philoso- 
 phers, supported by the evidence of our own senses, 
 (which, though very apt to deceive us, may be cau- 
 tiously admitted as additional testimony,) it appears, 
 I say, and I make the assertion deliberately, with- 
 out fear of contradiction, that this globe really was 
 created, and that it is composed of land and water. 
 It further ap[)ears that it is curiously divided and 
 parcelled out into continents and islands, among 
 which I boldly declare the renowned Island of New- 
 York will be found by any one who seeks for it in 
 its proper place. 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 How that famous navigator, Noah, was shameliilly nick-named ; 
 and bow he committed an unpardonable ovenight in not hav- 
 ing four sons. With the great trouble of philosophers caused 
 thereby, and the discovery of America. 
 
 Noah, who is the first seafaring man we read of, 
 begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Japhet. Authors, 
 it is true, are not wanting, who affirm that the pa- 
 triarch had a number of other children. Thus Bero- 
 sus makes him father of the gigantic Titans; Metlio- 
 dius gives him a son called Jonithus, or Jonicus; and 
 others have mentioned a son, named Thuiscon, from 
 whom descended the Teutons or Teutonic, or in other 
 words the Dutch nation. 
 
 I regret exceedingly that the nature of my plan 
 will not permit me to gratify the laudable curiosity 
 of my readers, by investigating minutely the his- 
 tory of tlie great Noah. Indeed such an undertaking 
 would be attended with more trouble than many 
 people would imagine; for the good old patriarch 
 seems to have been a great traveller in his day, and 
 to have passed under a different name in every coun- 
 try that he visited, 'ae Chaldeans, for instance, 
 give us his story, merely altering his name into Xi- 
 suthrus— a trivial alteration, which, to an historian 
 skilled ui etymologies, will appear wholly unimport- 
 ant. It appears likewise that he had exchanged his 
 tarpawling and quadrant among the Chaldeans for 
 the gorgeous insignia of royalty, and appears as a 
 monarch in their annals. The Egyptians celebrate 
 him under the name of Osiris; the Indians as Menu; 
 the Greek and Roman writers confound him with 
 Ogyges, and the Theban with Deucalion and Saturn. 
 But the Chinese, who deservedly rank among the 
 most extensive and authentic historians, inasmuch as 
 they have known the world much longer than any 
 one else, declare that Noah was no other than Fold ; 
 and what gives this assertion some air of credibility 
 is, that it is a fact, admitted by the most enlightened 
 
iU 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 li 
 
 literati, that Noah Iravelleil into China, at the time 
 of the buihling of the tower of Baltel (probably to im- 
 prove himself in the study of languages) ; and the 
 learned Dr Shackford gives us the additional infor- 
 mation, that the ark rested on a monntain on the 
 frontiers of China. 
 
 From this mass of rational conjectures and sage 
 hypotheses many satisfactory deductions might be 
 drawn ; but I shall content myself with the simple fact 
 stated in the Bible, viz. that Noah begat three sons, 
 Shem, Ham, and Japhet. It is astonishing on what 
 remote and obscure contingencies the great affairs of 
 this world depend, and how^ events the most distant, 
 and to the common observer unconnected, are inevit- 
 ably consequent the one to the other. It remains to 
 the philosopher to discover these mysterious afiinities, 
 and it is the proudest triumph of his skill to detect 
 and drag forth some latent chain of causation, which 
 at first sight appears a paradox to the inexperienced 
 observer. Thus many of my readers will doubtless 
 wonder what connexion the family of Noah can pos- 
 sibly have with this history — and many will stare 
 when informed, that the whole history of this quarter 
 of the world has taken its character and course from 
 the simple circumstance of the patriarch's having but 
 three sons — but to explain. 
 
 Noah, we are told by sundry very credible historians, 
 becoming sole surviving heir and proprietor of the 
 earth, in fee simple, after the deluge, like a good fa- 
 ther, portioned out his estate among his children. 
 To Shem he gave Asia; to Ham, Africa; and to Ja- 
 phet, Europe. Now it is a thousand times to be la- 
 mented that he had but three sons, for had there been 
 a fourth, he would doubtless have inherited America; 
 which of course would have been dragged forth from 
 its obscurity on the occasion, — and thus many a hard- 
 working historian and philosopher would have been 
 spared a prodigious mass of weary conjecture respect- 
 ing the first discovery and population of this country. 
 Noah, howevt-r, having provided for his three sons, 
 looked in all probability upon our country as mere 
 wild, unsettled land, and said nothing about it; and 
 to this unpardonable taciturnity of the patriarch may 
 we ascribe the misfortune that x\merica did not come 
 into the world as early as the other quarters of the 
 globe. 
 
 It is true, some writers have vindicated him from 
 this misconduct towards posterity, and asserted that 
 he really did discover America. Thus it was the 
 opinion of Alark Lescarbot, a French writer, possess* 
 ed of that ponderosity of thought, and profoundness 
 of reflection, so peculiar to his nation, that the im- 
 mediate descendants of Noah peopled this quarter of 
 the globe, and that the old patriarch himself, who 
 still retained a passion for the seafaring life, superin- 
 tended the transmigration. The pious and enlight- 
 ened father Charlevoix, a French Jesuit, remarkable 
 for his aversion to the marvellous, common to all 
 frreat travellers, is conclusively of tlie same opinion; 
 nay, he goes still farther, and decides npon the man- 
 
 ner in which the discovery was efrecletl, which wasij 
 sea, and under the immediate direction of the; 
 Noah. "I have already observed," exclaims i 
 good father, in a tone of becoming indignation, "i^ 
 it is an arbitrary supposition that the grandchildi 
 of Noah were not able to penetrate into the i\tt 
 World, or that they never thought of it. In effet 
 I can see no reason that can justify such a notin 
 Who can seriously believe that Noah and his in 
 diate descendants knew less than we do, and thatil 
 builder and pilot of the greatest ship that ever vas,J 
 ship which was formed to traverse an unbouiu 
 ocean, and had so many shoals and quicksands i 
 guard against, should be ignorant of, or should) 
 have communicated to his descendants, the arti 
 sailing on the ocean?" Therefore they did saili 
 the ocean — therefore they sailed to America— tl 
 fore America was discovered by Noah ! 
 
 Now all this exquisite chain of reasoning, whidii| 
 so strikingly characteristic of the good father, 
 addressed to the faith rather than the understandiijl 
 is flatly opposed by Hans de Laet, who declares i| 
 real and most ridiculous paradox lo suppose lliatNoi 
 ever entertained the thought of discovering Ameri 
 and as Hans is a Dutch writer, I am inclined to ti 
 lieve he must have been much better acquainted i 
 the worthy crew of the ark than his competitors,) 
 of course possessed of more accurate sources of inll 
 mation. It is astonishing how intimate liisU 
 do daily become with the patriarchs and other j 
 men of antiquity. As intimacy improves with tii 
 and as the learned are particularly inquisitive) 
 familiar in their acquaintance with the ancienli,| 
 should not be surprised if some future writers sin 
 gravely give us a picture of men and manners asti 
 existed before the flood, far more copious and a 
 rate than the Bible; and that, in the course of i 
 other century, the log-hook of the good Noah sh 
 be as current among historians as the voyagei^ 
 Captain Cook, or the renowned history of Robi 
 Crusoe. 
 
 I shall not occupy my time by discussing the 1 
 mass of additional suppositions, conjectures, andp 
 babilities respecting the first discovery of thi$couflli| 
 with which unhappy historians overload theimelK 
 in their endeavours to satisfy the doubts of an i 
 dulous world. It is painful to see these lab 
 wights panting, and toiling, and sweating under j 
 enormous burden, at the very outset of their m 
 which, on being opened, turns out to be nothing l| 
 a mighty bundle of straw. As, however, bfi 
 wearied assiduity, Uiey seem to have established!] 
 fact, to the satisfaction of all the world, that i 
 country has been discovered, I shall avail niyscll| 
 their useful labours to be extremely brief upon ll 
 point. 
 
 I shall not therefore slop to inquire, whether Al 
 rica was first discovered by a wandering vessdoflk 
 celebrated PhiGnician fleet, which, according loilfH 
 dotus, circumnavigated Africa; or by that Carth 
 
 N 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YOKK. 
 
 11,") 
 
 lanexpeilitioii, whicli Pliny, the naturalist, informs 
 I discovered the Canary Islands; or whether it was 
 [tiled by a temporary colony from Tyre, as hinted 
 
 Aristotle and Seneca. I shall neither inquire 
 hetlier it was first discovered by the Chinese, as 
 
 sm with great shrewdness advances; nor by the 
 
 vegians in 10()2, under Biorn; nor by Behein, 
 
 German navigator, as Mr Otto has endeavouied 
 I prove to the savants of the learned city of Philadel- 
 liia. 
 
 |>ur shall I investigate the more modern claims of 
 
 • Welsh, founded on the voyage of Prince Madoc 
 
 I the eleventh centniy, who having never returned, 
 
 I lias since been wisely concluded tliat he must have 
 
 ne lo America, and that for a plain reason— if lie 
 
 I not go there, where else could he have gone? — a 
 
 ^estion which most socratically shuts out all further 
 
 pule. 
 
 liaying aside, therefore, all the conjectures above 
 jeiitioned, with a multitude of others, equally satis- 
 jctory, I shall lake tor granted the vulgar opinion, 
 jal America was discovered on the <2th of Octo- 
 |r, 1402, by Chrislovallo Colon, a Genoese, who 
 i been clumsily nicknamed Columbus, but for what 
 
 on I cannot discern. Of the voyages and adven- 
 
 i of this Colon, I shall say nothing, seeing that 
 ^y are already sufticiently known. Nor shall I un- 
 jrlake to prove that this country should have been 
 M Colonia, after his name, that being notoriously 
 bf-evident. 
 
 |llaving thus happily got my readers on this side of 
 ; Atlantic, I picture them to myself all imptience 
 I enter upon the enjoyment of the land of promise, 
 I in full expectation that I will immediately deliver 
 |intu llieir possession. But if I do, may I ever forfeit 
 erepulation of a regular-bred historian ! No— no — 
 Kl curious and thrice-learned readers, (for thrice- 
 Jirned ye are if ye have read all that has gone before, 
 
 I nine times learned shall ye be, if ye read that 
 liicli comes after,) we have yet a world of work 
 Ifore us. Think you the first discoverers of this fair 
 [arter of the globe had nothing to do but go on shore 
 
 1 find a country ready laid out and cultivated like 
 
 ■garden, wherein they might revel at th^ir ease ? 
 
 ) such thing — they had forests to cut down, nnder- 
 
 1 to grub up, marshes to drain, and savages to 
 tterminate. 
 
 jln like manner, I have sundry doubts to clear away, 
 
 ptions lo resolve, and paradoxes to explain, before 
 
 ermil you to range at random ; but these dilficullies 
 
 ; overcome, we shall be enabled to jog on right 
 [erriiy through the rest of our history. Thus my 
 flrk shall, in a manner, echo the nature of the sub- 
 let, in the same manner as the sound of poetry has 
 *n found by certain shrewd critics to echo the sense 
 hliis being an imprc 'ement in history, wlueh. I 
 pirn the merit of having invented. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Showing ttie great tliflicuKy Pliitoso|)hcrs have had in peopling' 
 America— and how the Aborigines came to be begoUen by ac- 
 cident—to the great relief and satisfaction of the Autlior. 
 
 The next inquiry at which we arrive in the ngular 
 course of our history is to ascertain, if possible, how 
 this country was originally peopled— a point fruitful 
 of incredible embarrassments ; for unless we prove 
 that the aborigines did absolutely come from some- 
 where, it will be immediately asserted in this age of 
 scepticism that they did not come at all ; and if they 
 did not come at all, then was this country never peo- 
 pled—a conclusion perfectly agreeable to the rules of 
 logic, but wholly irreconciliable to every feeling of hu- 
 manity, inasmuch as it must syllogistically prove fatal 
 to the innumerable aborigines of this populous region. 
 
 To avert so dire a sophism, and to rescue from lo- 
 gical annihilation so many millions of fellow-creatures, 
 how many wings of geese have been plundered ! what 
 oceans of ink have been benevolently drained ! ami 
 how many capacious heads of learned historians have 
 been addled, and for ever confounded ! I pause with 
 reverential awe when I contemplate the ponderous 
 tomes, in different languages, with which they have 
 endeavoured to solve this question, so important to 
 the happiness of society, but so involved in clouds of 
 impenetrable obscurity. Historian after historian has 
 engaged in the endlesscircle of hypothetical argument, 
 and after leading us a weary chase through octavos, 
 quartos, and folios, has let us out at the end of his 
 work just as wise as we were at the begiiming. It 
 was doubtless some philosophical wild goose chase of 
 the kind that made the old poet Macix)bius rail in such 
 a passion at curiosity, which he anathematizes most, 
 heartily, as, " an irksome agonizing care, a super- 
 stitious industry about unprofitable things, an itching 
 humour to see what is not to be seen, and to be doing 
 what signifies nothing when it is done. " But to 
 proceed. 
 
 Of the claims of the children of Noah to the original, 
 population of this country I shall say nothing, as they 
 have already been touched upon in my last chapter. 
 The claimants next in celebrity are tlie descendants of 
 Abraham. Thus Christoval Colon (vulgarly called 
 Columbus), when he first discovered the gold muies 
 of Hispaniola, immediately concluded, with a slu-ewd- 
 ness that would have done honour to a philosopher, 
 that he had found the ancient Ophir, from whence 
 Solomon procured the gold for embellishing the temple 
 at Jerusalem ; nay, Colon even imagined that he saw 
 the remains of fiunaces of veritable Hebraic construc- 
 tion, employetl in refining the precious ore. 
 
 So golden a conjecture, tinctured with such fas- 
 cinating extravagance, was too tempting not to be 
 immediately snapped at by the gudgeons of learning ; 
 and accordingly there were divers profound writers 
 ready to swear to its correctness, and to bring in their 
 usual load of authorities, and wise surmises, where- 
 withal lo prop it tip. Vetablus and Hobeitus Stephens 
 
116 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 M 
 
 declared nothing conid be more clear — Ariiis Mon- 
 tanus, without the least hesitation, asserts that Mexico 
 was the true Ophir, and the Jews the early settlers of 
 the country. While Possevin, Becan, and several 
 other sagacious writers, lug in a supposed prophecy 
 of the fourth book of Esdras, which being inserted in 
 the mighty hypothesis, like the keystone of an arch, 
 gives it, in their opinion, perpetual durability. 
 
 Scarce, however, have they completed their goodly 
 superstructure, than in trudges a phalanx of opposite 
 authors, with Kans de Laet, the great Dutchman, at 
 their head, and atone blow tumbles the whole fabric 
 about their ears. Hans, in fact, contradicts outright 
 all the Israelitish claims to the first settlement of this 
 country, attributing all those equivocal symptoms, and 
 traces of Christianity and Judaism, which have been 
 said to be found in divers provinces of the New World, 
 to the Devil, who has always affected to counterfeit 
 the worship of the true Deity. " A remark," says 
 the knowing old Padre D'Acosta, " made by all good 
 authors who have spoken of the religion of nations 
 newly discovered, and founded liesides on the author- 
 ity of the fathers of the church." 
 
 Some writers again, among whom it is with great 
 regret I am compelled to mention Lopez de Gomara 
 and Juan de Leri, insinuate that the Canaanites, being 
 driven from the land of promise by the Jews, were 
 seized with such a panic that they fled without looking 
 behind them, until stopping to take breath, they found 
 themselves safe in America. As they brought neither 
 their national language, manners, nor features with 
 them, it is supposed they left them behind in the 
 hurry of their flight— I cannot give my faith to this 
 opinion. 
 
 I pass over the supposition of the learned Grotius, 
 who, bemg both an ambassador and a Dutchman to 
 boot, is entitled to great respect, that North America 
 was peopled by a strolling company of Norwegians, 
 and that Peni was founded by a colony from China — 
 Manco or Mango Gapac, the first Incas, being him- 
 self a Chinese : nor shall I more than barely mention 
 that father Kircher ascribes the settlement of America 
 to the Egyptians, Rudbeck to the Scandinavians, 
 Cliarron to the Gauls, Juffredus Petri to a skating 
 party from Friesland, Milius to the Celtae, Marinocus 
 the Sicilian to the Romans, Le Compte to the Phoe- 
 nicians, Postel to the Moors, Martin d'Angleria to the 
 Abyssinians; together with the sage surmise of De 
 Laet, that England, Ireland, and the Orcades, may 
 contend for that honour. 
 
 Nor will I bestow any more attention or credit to 
 the idea that America is the fairy region of Zipangri, 
 described by that dreaming traveller, Marco Polo, the 
 Venetian ; or that it comprises the visionary island of 
 Atlantis, described by Plato. Neither will I slop to 
 investigate the heathenish assertion of Paracelsus, 
 that each hemisphere of the globe was originally fur- 
 nished with an Adam and Eve : or the more flattering 
 opinion of Dr Romayne, supported by many nameless 
 authorities, that Adam was of the Indian race— or 
 
 the startling conjecture of Buffon, Helvetius, 
 Darwin, so highly honourable to mankind, that i 
 whole human species is accidentally descended fn 
 a remarkable family of monkeys ! 
 
 This last conjecture, I must own, came uponi 
 very suddenly and very ungraciously. I have o 
 beheld the clown in a pantomime, while gazing | 
 stupid wonder at the extravagant gambols of a I 
 quin, all at once electrified by a sudden stroke ofit 
 wooden sword across his shoulders. Little (jidl 
 think at such times, that it would ever fall to mjk 
 to be treated with equal discourtesy, and that whii 
 was quietly beholdmg these grave philosophers, « 
 lating the eccentric transformations of the lien^ 
 pantomime, they would on a sudden turn upon i 
 and my readers, and with one hypothetical flo 
 metamorphose us into beasts ! I determined fn 
 that moment not to burn my fingers with any monJ 
 their theories, but content myself with detailing t 
 different methods by which they transported thed 
 cendants of these ancient and respectable monkeyiil 
 this great field of theoretical warfare. 
 
 This was done either by migrations by land ortn 
 migrations by water. Thus Padre Joseph D'Ao 
 enumerates three passages by land — first by thei 
 of Europe, secondly by the north of Asia, and tliird 
 by regions southward of the straits of Magellan, 
 learned Grotius marches his Norwegians, by a [ 
 sant route, across frozen rivers and arms of thei 
 through Iceland, Greenland, Estotiland, and Nare 
 berga : and various writers, among whom are An 
 De Horn, and Buffon, anxious for the accommcdalij 
 of these travellers, have fastened the two contii 
 together by a strong chain of deductions— by vli 
 means they could pass over dryshod. But should en 
 this fail, Pinkerton, that industrious old gentlei 
 who compiles books, and manutiactures geograpi 
 has constructed a natural bridge of ice, fromconliiii 
 to continent, at the distance of four or five miles li 
 Behring's straits — for which he is entitled to theg 
 ful thanks of all the wandering aborigines wlio e 
 did or ever will pass over it. 
 
 It is an evil much to be lamented, that none ofl 
 worthy writers above quoted could ever con 
 his work without immediately declaring liostiHl 
 against every writer who had treated of the same « 
 ject. In this particular, authors may be compaRdl 
 a certain sagacious bird, which, in building its nest,! 
 sure to pull to pieces the nests of all the birds iof 
 neighbourhood. This unhappy propensity 
 grievously to impede the progress of sound knowlR 
 Theories are at best but brittle productions, and vbi 
 once committed to the stream, they should take ( 
 that, like the notable pots which were fellow-voyagi 
 they do not crack each other. 
 
 My chief surprise is, that, among the many ' 
 ers I have noticed, no one has attempted to | 
 that this country was peopled from the moon— orti 
 the first inhabilanls floated hither on islands ofii 
 as white bears cruise alH>ut the northern oceans- 
 
 phicli (he Aiitlior puts 
 «iilance of the Man in 
 mis of people froi 
 Kludnthisintroducto 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 117 
 
 Lt they were conveyed hillier by balloons, as modern 
 
 (unauts pass from Dover to Calais — or by witchcraft, 
 
 [simon Magus posted among the stars — or after the 
 
 nner of tiie renowned Scytiiian Abaris, who, Uke 
 
 ^New-England witclies on full-bloodeti broomsticks, 
 
 demost unheard-ofjourneys on the back ofa gold- 
 
 J arrow, given him by tlie Hyperborean Apollo. 
 
 iBut there is still one mode left by which this coun- 
 
 r could have been peopled, which I have reserved 
 
 r tlie last, because I consider it worth all the rest : 
 
 -by accident ! Speaking of the islands of Solomon, 
 
 ^w-Guinea, and New-Holland, the profound father 
 
 arlevoix observes, " in fine, all these countries are 
 
 Lpled, and it is possible some have been so by acci- 
 
 L(. Now if it could have happened in that manner, 
 
 |iy might it not have been at the same time, and by 
 
 ; same means, with the othei- parts of the globe? " 
 
 |iis inf;;enious mode of deducing certain conclusions 
 
 ni possible premises is an improvement in syllogistic 
 
 111, and proves the good father superior even to Ar- 
 
 jimedes, for he can turn the world without any thing 
 
 jrest his lever upon. It is only surpassed by the 
 
 Kterity with which the sturdy old Jesuit, iu another 
 
 (ice, cuts the gordian knot — "Nothing," says he, 
 
 smore easy. The inhabitants of both hemispheres 
 
 {(certainly the descendants of the same father. The 
 
 punon father of mankind received an express order 
 
 I Heaven to people the world, and accordingly it 
 
 i been peopled. I'o bring this about it was neces- 
 
 ' to overcome all difficulties in the way, and they 
 
 tee also been overcome .' " Pious logician ! How 
 
 she put all the herd of laborious tlieorist^ to the 
 
 ish, by explaining, in five words, what it has cost 
 
 I volumes to prove they knew nothing about ! 
 
 From all the authorities here quoted, and a variety 
 
 ^thers which I have consulted, but which are omil- 
 
 ^ through fear of fatiguing the unlearned reader — 
 
 an only draw the following conclusions, which 
 
 kily, however, are sufficient for my purpose — 
 
 (St, that this part of the world has actually been 
 
 ^pled, (Q. E. D.) to support which we have living 
 
 ols in the numerous tribes of Indians that inhabit 
 
 ondly, that it has been peopled in five hundred 
 
 perent ways, as proved by a cloud of authors, who, 
 
 ithepositiveness of their assertions, seem to have 
 
 kn eye-witnesses to the fact — Thirdly, that the 
 
 kpleof this country had a variety of fathers, which, 
 
 jit may not be thought much to their credit by the 
 
 non run of readers, the less we say on the subject 
 
 fcbetter. The question therefore, I trust, is for ever 
 
 Irest. 
 
 CHAPTER V. ' 
 
 khlch the Author puts a mighty question to the rout, by the 
 Blstaiicc of the Man in tlie Moon— which not only delivci-s 
 Musaiuls of |)eople from great embarrassment, but likewise 
 wciudes this introductory book. 
 
 tm writer of a history may, in some res|>ect, be 
 lened unto an adventurous knight, who, having un- 
 
 dertaken a perilous enterprize by way of establishing 
 his fame, feels bound in honour and chivalry to turn 
 back for no difTiculty nor hardship, and never to shrink 
 or quail , whatever enemy he may encounter. Under 
 this impre&sion I resolutely draw my pen, and fall to, 
 with might and main, at those douglity questions ami 
 subtle paradoxes, which, like fiery dragons and bloody 
 giant«, beset the entrance to my history, and would 
 fain repulse me from the very threshold. A nd at this 
 moment a gigantic qtiestion has starte<l up, which I 
 must needs take by the beard and utterly subdue, 
 before I can advance another step in my historic un- 
 dertaking—but I trust this will be the last adversary 
 I shall have to contend with, and that in the next 
 book I shall be enabled to conduct my readers in 
 triumph into the body of my work. 
 
 Tlie question which has thus suddenly arisen is, 
 what right had the first discoverers of America to 
 land and take possession of a country, without first 
 gaining the consent of its inhabitants, or yielding 
 them an adequate compensation for their territory ? — 
 a question which has withstood many fierce assaults, 
 and has given much distress of mind to multitudes of 
 kind-hearted folk; and, indeed, until it l)e totally van- 
 quished and put to rest, the worthy people of America 
 can by no means enjoy the soil they inhabit, with 
 clear right and title, and quiet, unsullied consciences. 
 
 The flret source of right, by which property is ac- 
 quired in a country, is discovery. For as all man- 
 kind have an equal right to any tiling which has never 
 before been appropriated, so any nation that discovers 
 an uninhabited country, and takes possession thereof, 
 is considered as enjoying full property, and absolute, 
 unquestionable empire therein. ■ 
 
 This proposition being admitted, it follows clearly 
 that the Europeans who first visited America were 
 the real discoverers of the same ; nothing being ne- 
 cessary to the establishment of this fact but simply to 
 prove that it was totally uninhabited by mian. This 
 would at first appear to be a point of some difficulty ; 
 for it is well known that this quarter of the worid 
 abounded with certain animals that walked erect on 
 two feet, had something of the human countenance, 
 uttered certain unintelligible sounds, very much like 
 language, in short, had a marvellous resemblance to 
 human beings. But the zealous and enlightened fa- 
 thers, who accompanied the discoverers, for the pur- 
 pose of promoting the kingdom of heaven, by establish- 
 ing fat monasteries and bishoprics on eartii, soon 
 cleared up this point, greatly to the satisfaction of his 
 lioUness the pope, and of all Christian voyagers and 
 discoverers. 
 
 They plainly proved, and as there were no Indian 
 writers arose on the other side, the fact was consider- 
 ed as fully admitted and established, that the two- 
 legged race of animals before mentioned were mere 
 cannibals, detestable monsters, and many of them 
 giants — which last description of vagrants have, since 
 the times of Gog, IMagog, and Goliath, been consider- 
 
 > Gi'otius. I'ulfendorf, b. v. r. 1. Vattcl, b. 1. c. 18, etc. 
 
IfS 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 If 
 
 ed as outlaws, and have received no quarter in either 
 liislory, chivalry, or song. Indeed, even the philo- 
 sopliic Bacon declaretl the Americans to be people 
 proscribed by the laws of nature, inasniucii as they 
 had a barbarous custom of sacrificing men and feeding 
 upon man's flesh. 
 
 Nor are these all the proofs of their utter Imrbarism : 
 ' among many other writers of discernment, Ulloa 
 tells us, " their imbecility is so visible, that one can 
 hardly form an idea of them different from what one 
 has of the brutes. Nothing disturbs the tranquillity 
 of their souls, equally insensible to disasters and to 
 prosperity. Though half naked, they are as contented 
 as a monarch in his most splendid array. Fear makes 
 no impression on them, and respect as little. " — All 
 this is furthermore supported by the authority of 
 M. Bouguer. " It is not easy, " says he, " to describe 
 the degree of their indifference for wealth and all its 
 advantages. One does not well know what motives 
 to propose to them when one would persuade them to 
 any service. It is vain to offer them money ; they 
 answer that they are not hungry. " And Vanegas 
 confirms the whole, assuring us that " ambition they 
 have none, and are more desirous of being thought 
 strong than valiant. The objects of ambition with us, 
 honour, fame, reputation, riches, posts, and distinc- 
 tions, are unknown among them. So that this power- 
 ful spring of action, the cause of so much seeming 
 good and real evil in the world, has no power over 
 them. In a word, these unhappy mortals may lie 
 compared to children, in whom the developement of 
 reason is not completed. " 
 
 Now all these peculiarities, although in the un- 
 enlightened states of Greece they would have entitled 
 their possessors to immortal honour, as having reduc- 
 ed to practice those rigid and abstemious maxims, the 
 mere talking about which acquired certain old Greeks 
 the reputation of sages and philosophers ;— yet, were 
 they clearly proved in the present instance to betoken 
 a most abject and brutiiied nature, totally beneath the 
 human cha/acter. But the benevolent fathers, whohad 
 undertaken to turn these unhappy savages into dumb 
 beasts by dint of argument, advanced still stronger 
 proofs; for as certain divines of the sixteenth century, 
 and among the rest Lullus, affirm — the Americans go 
 naked, and have no beards !— " They have nothing, " 
 says Lullus, " of the reasonable animal, except the 
 mask. " — And even that mask was allowed to avail 
 them but little, for it was soon found that they were 
 of a hideous copper complexion — and being of a copper 
 complexion, it was all the same as if they were ne- 
 groes — and negroes are black, " and black, " said the 
 pious fathers, devoutly crossing themselves, " is the 
 colour of the Devil ! " Therefore, so far from being 
 able to own property; they had no right even to per- 
 sonal freedom — for liberty is too radiant a deity to in- 
 habit such gloomy temples. All which circumstances 
 plainly convinced the righteous followers of Cortes 
 and Pizarro, that these miscreants had no title to the 
 soil that they infested— that they were a perverse, 
 
 illiterate, dumb, beardless, black seed — nieie \ 
 beasts of the forests, and like them should eilh^r j 
 subdued or exterminated. 
 
 From the foregoing arguments, therefore, an 
 variety of others equally conclusive, which I fw 
 to enumerate, it was clearly evident that thbl 
 (|uarter of the globe, when first visited by Euro 
 was a howling wilderness, inhabited by nothin^l 
 wild beasts ; and that the trans-atlaiUic visiters i 
 quired an incontrovertible property therein, by) 
 riyht of riisvuvenj. 
 
 This right being fully establisheil, we now cuoiej 
 the next, which is the right acquireti by cu/firaiN 
 " The cultivation of the soil, " we are told, ' 
 obligation im|)Osed by nature on mankind. The wIk 
 world is appointed for the nourishment of its i 
 bitants : hut it would be incapable of doing it, «]i| 
 uncultivated. Every nation is then obliged by i 
 law of nature to cultivate the ground that has fallen J 
 its share. Those people, like the ancient Geriit 
 and modem Tartars, who, having fertile cuuniiiJ 
 disdain to cidtivate the earth, and choose to livelj 
 rapine, are wanting to themselves, and deserve k^ 
 cxterminuteU as savage and pernicious beasts."' 
 
 Now it is notorious that the savages knew nolbi 
 of agriculture, when first discovered by the Eui 
 peans, but lived a most vagabond, disorderly, unri 
 eous life, — rambling from place to place, and pn 
 gaily rioting upon the sfiontaneous luxuries of natui 
 without tasking her generosity to yield them anyijii 
 more; whereas it has been most unquestionably slm 
 that heaven intended the earth should be ploiig 
 and sown, and manured, and laid out into cities,] 
 towns, and farms, and country seals, and pleas 
 grounds, and public gardens, all which the IiHlia 
 knew nothing about — therefore they did not itnpi 
 the talents Providence had bestowed on them— tlie 
 fore they were careless stewards — therefore they h 
 no right to the soil — therefore they deserved to bee 
 terminated. 
 
 It is true the savages might plead that they i 
 all the benefits from the land which their sin 
 wants required — that they found plenty of gamelj 
 hunt, which, together with the roots and uncuilivalij 
 fruits of the earth, furnished a suflicient variely i 
 their frugal repasts; — and that as Heaven inetd 
 designed the earth to form the abode and satisfy I 
 wants of man, so long as those purposes were a 
 swered, the will of Heaven was accomplisheil.-Bi 
 this only proves how undeserving they were nfll 
 blessings around them — they were so much the dm 
 savages, for not having more wants; for knowlei 
 is in some degree an increase of desires, and ilj 
 this superiority lN)th in the number and niagiiiln 
 of his desires, that distinguishes the man from I 
 beast. Therefore the Indians, in not iiaviui;ini 
 wants, were very unreasonable animals ; and il i 
 but just that they should make way for the Europi 
 who had a thousand wants to their one, and then 
 
 > VaUet, I), i, cli. \7. 
 
 m ;'uni, gin, bran 
 
 I wants, of which 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 119 
 
 L|(l turn the earth to more account, and by cul- 
 
 Llinpil, mote truly fulfil the will of Heaven. Ite- 
 
 -Grotius, and Lauterbach, and Puffendorf, and 
 
 ijus and many wise men bfside, who have con- 
 
 jred the matter properly, have determined, that the 
 
 erty of a country cannot be acquired by hunting:, 
 
 llin" wood, or drawing water in it— nothing but 
 
 t^Lse demarcation of limits, and the intention of cul- 
 
 ^tion, can establish the possession. Now as the 
 
 fatres (prolwbly from never having read the authors 
 
 W quoted) had never complied with any of these 
 
 ressary forms, it plainly followed that they bad no 
 
 ht to the soil, but that it was completely at the dis- 
 
 al of the llrst comers, who had more knowledge, 
 
 ; wants, and more elegant, that is to say, artificial 
 
 Hres than themselves. 
 
 kii entering upon a newly-discovered, uncultivated 
 Llry, therefore, the new comers were but taking 
 «$sion of what, according to the aforesaid doc- 
 he, was their own property — therefore in opposing 
 Lm, the savages were invading their just rights, in- 
 jiging the immutable laws of nature, and counter- 
 |iii<; the will of Heaven — therefoie they were guilty 
 mpiety, burglary, and trespass on the case, — there- 
 ; they were hardened offenders against God and 
 L— therefore they ought to be exterminated. 
 Itul a more irresistible right than either that I have 
 fntioned, and one which will l)e the most readily 
 nitted by my reader, provided he be blessed with 
 irels of charity and philanthropy, is the riglit ac- 
 I by civilization. All the world knows the la- 
 kntable state in which these poor savages were 
 Lnd : not only deficient in the comforts of life, hut 
 jial is still worse, most piteously and unfortunately 
 lul to ilie miseries of their situation. But no sooner 
 I the benevolent inhabitants of Europe behold their 
 I condition than they immediately went to work to 
 diorate and improve it. They introduced among 
 km i'um, gin, brandy and the other comforts of 
 k-and it is astonishing to read how soon the poor 
 iages learned to estimate these blessings — they like- 
 ! made known to them a thousand remedies, by 
 kich the most inveterate diseases are alleviated and 
 jiled; and that they might comprehend the bene- 
 \ and enjoy the comforts of these medicines, they 
 piously introduced among them the diseases which 
 f were calculated to cure. By these and a variety 
 Kher methods was the condition of these pour sa- 
 ;es wonderfully improved ; they acquired a thou- 
 |id wants, of wliich they had before been ignorant ; 
 1 as he has most sources of happiness who has most 
 ^nls to be gralifit i, they were doubtlessly rendered 
 nuch happier race of beings. 
 But the most important branch of civilization, and 
 kich has most strenuously been extolled by the 
 Uout and pious fathers of the Romish Church, is 
 I introduction of the Christian faith. It was truly 
 ight that might well inspire horror, to behold these 
 |age8 stumbling among the dark mountains of pa- 
 ism, and guilty of the most horrible ignorance of 
 
 religion. It is true, they ncitlier stole nor defranded ; 
 they were solwr, frugal, continent, and faithful to 
 their word; but though they acted right habitually, 
 it was all in vain, unless they acted so from precept. 
 The new-comers therefore used every method to in- 
 duce them to embrace and practise the true religion 
 — except indeed that of setting them the example. 
 
 But notwithstanding all these complicated labours 
 for their good, such was the unparalleled obstinacy 
 of these stubborn wretches, that they ungratefully 
 refused to acknowledge the strangers as their bene- 
 factors, and persisted in disbelieving the doctrines 
 they endeavoured to inculcate; most insolently al- 
 leging, that from their conduct, the advocates of 
 Christianity did not seem to believe in it themselves. 
 Was not this too much for human patience? — would 
 not one suppose that the benign visitants from Eu- 
 rope, provoked at their incredulity, and discouraged 
 by their stiff-necked obstinacy, would for ever have 
 abandoned their shores, and consigned them to Iheu* 
 original ignorance and misery? — But no — so zealous 
 were they to effect the temporal comfort and eternal 
 salvation of these pagan infidels, that they even pro- 
 ceeded from the milder means of persuasion to the 
 more painful and troublesome one of persecution — 
 let loose among them whole troops of fiery monks 
 and furious bloodhounds— purified them by fire and 
 sword, by stake and fagot ; in consequence of which 
 itHlefatigable measures the cause of Christian love and 
 ch;.rity was so rapidly advanced, that in a very few 
 years not one fifth of the number of unbelievers 
 existed in South America that were found there at 
 the time of its discovery. 
 
 What stronger right need the European settlers 
 advance to the country than this ? Have not whole 
 nations of uninformed savages been made acquainted 
 with a thousand imperious wants and indispensable 
 comforts, of which they were before wholly ignorant? 
 Have they not been literally hunted and smoked out 
 of the dens and lurking-places of ignorance and infi- 
 delity, and absolutely scourged into the right path ? 
 Have not the temporal things, the vain baubles and 
 filthy lucre of this world, which were too apt to en- 
 gage their worldly and selfish thoughts, been bene- 
 volently taken from them? and have they not, instead 
 thereof, been taught to set their affections on things 
 above ? — And, finally, to use the words of a reverend 
 Spanish father, in a letter to his superior in Spain — 
 " Can any one have the presumption to say that these 
 savage pagans have yielded any thing more than an 
 inconsiderable recompense to their benefactors; in 
 surrendering to them a little pitiful tract of this dirty 
 sublunary planet, in exchange for a glorious inhe- 
 ritance in the kingdom of Heaven! " 
 
 Here then are three complete and undeniable sour- 
 ces of right established, any one of which vis more 
 than ample to establish a property m the nr vly-dis- 
 covered regions of America. Now, so it has happen- 
 ed in certain parts of this delightful quarter of the 
 globe, that the right of discovery has been so stre- 
 
120 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ,■' 
 
 I 
 
 niioiisly: asserted — the influence of cultivation so in- 
 dustriously extended, and the progress of salvation 
 and civilization so zealously prosecuted, that what 
 with their attendant wars, persecutions, oppressions, 
 diseases, and other partial evils that often hang on 
 the skirts of great benefits — the savage aborigines 
 have, somehow or another, been utterly annihilated 
 —and this all at once brings me to a fourth right, 
 which is worth all (the others put together— For the 
 original claimants to the soil being all dead and buri- 
 e*], and no one remaining to inherit or dispute the 
 soil, the Spaniards, as (he next immediate occupants, 
 entered upon the possession as clearly as the hang- 
 man succeeds to the clothes of the malefactor — and 
 as they have Blackstone* and all t!<e learned ex- 
 pounders of the law on their side, they may set all 
 actions of ejectment at defiance — and this last right 
 may be entitled the right by extermination,, or in 
 other words, the right by gunpowder. 
 
 But lest any scruples of conscience should remain 
 on this head, and to settle the question of right fur 
 ever, his holiness Pope Alexander YI. issued a bull, by 
 which he generously granted the newly discovered 
 quarter of the globe to the Spaniards and Portugueze; 
 who, thus having law and gospel on their side, and 
 being inflamed with great spiritual zeal, showed the 
 pagan savages neither favour nor affection, but pro- 
 seculeil the work of discovery, colonization, civiliza- 
 tion, and extermination, with ten times more fury 
 than ever. 
 
 Thus were the European worthies who first dis- 
 covered America clearly entitled to the soil ; and not 
 only entitled to the soil, but likewise to the eternal 
 thanks of these infidel savages, for having come so 
 far, endured so many perils by sea and land, and 
 taken such unwearied pains, for no other purpose but 
 to improve their forlorn, uncivilized, and heathenish 
 condition — for having made them acquainted with the 
 comforts of Ufe; for having introduced among them 
 the light of religion; and finally— for having hurried 
 them out of the world, to enjoy its reward I 
 
 Rut as argument is never so well understood by us 
 selfish mortals as when it comes home to ourselves, 
 and as I am particularly anxious that this question 
 should be put to rest for ever, I will suppose a paral- 
 lel case, by way of arousing the candid attention of 
 my readers. 
 
 Let us supiMse, then, that tlio inhabitants of the 
 moon, by astonishing advancement in science, and by 
 » profound insight into that lunar philosophy, the 
 mere fiickerings of which have of late years dazzle<l 
 tlie feeble optics and addled the shallow brains of the 
 good people of our globe— let us suppose, I say, that 
 llie inhabilanis of the moon, by these means, had ar- 
 rivctl at such a command of their energies, such an 
 enviable stale of perfectibility, as to c<mtrol the ele- 
 ments, and navigate the boundless regions of space. 
 Let us suppose a roving crew of these soaring philo- 
 sophers, in the course of an aerial voyage of discovery 
 
 < HI. Comm. B. it. o. I. ' 
 
 among the stars, should chance to alight uponii 
 outlandish planet. 
 
 And here I beg my readers wiU not have tliei 
 charitableness to smile, as is too frequently ilief 
 of volatile readers, when perusing the grave \ 
 tions of philosophers. I am far from indulging in| 
 sportive vein at present; nor is the supposition l|| 
 been making so wild as many may deem it. liy 
 long been a very serious and anxious question i 
 me, and many a time and oft, in the course of i 
 overwhelming cares and contrivances for the wd 
 and protection of this my native planet, have 1 1 
 awake whole nights debating in my mind, whet 
 it were most probable we should first discover i 
 civilize tlie moon, or the moon discover and civj 
 our globe. Neither would (he prodigy of saiiin^ij 
 the air and cruising among the stars be a whit g 
 astonishing and incomprehensible to us than was | 
 European mystery of navigating floating m 
 through the world of waters, to the simple savaf 
 We have already discovered the art of coaslin;;a 
 the aerial shores of our planet, by means of Italloi 
 as the savages had of venturing along their sea ( 
 in canoes ; and the disparity between the former a 
 the aerial vehicles of the philosophers from the m 
 might not be greater than that I)etween the bartij 
 noes of the savages and the mighty ships of their j 
 coverers. I might here pursue an endless f\m{ 
 similar speculations; but as they would be uiiimpt 
 ant to my sid)ject, I abandon them to niy re 
 particularly if he be a philosopher, as mallei's i 
 worthy his attentive consideration. 
 
 To return then to my supposition- let us supposed 
 aerial visitants I have mentioned possessed of vastlji 
 perior knowledge to ourselves ; that is to say, \m 
 ed of superior knowledge in the art of exteriiiinilij 
 — riding on hippogriffs — defended with inipeiiein 
 armour — armed with concentrated sunbeams, 
 provided with vast engines, to hurl enormous iiw 
 stones; in short, let us suppose them, if our va 
 will permit the supposition, as superior to us in km 
 ledge, and consequently in power, as the Enr 
 were to the Indians, when Ihey first discovered ll 
 All this is very possible; it is only our seir-suniriti 
 that makes us think otherwise; and I wiuranll 
 poor savages, before they had any knowledge off 
 white men, armed in all the terroi°s of glilleringsl 
 and tremendous gunpowder, were as perfeclly ( 
 vinccd that they themselves were the wisest, llien 
 virtuous, powcrhd, and perfect of created beinf$,l 
 are, at lliis present moment, the lordly inhahiUuitl 
 old England, the volatile populace of France, orei 
 the self-satisfied citizens of this most enlightened^ 
 public. 
 
 Let us suppose, moreover, that the aerial voya) 
 finding this planet to be nothing but a howlirijii 
 derness, inhabited by us poor savages and wild I 
 shall take formal possession of it, in the name ofll 
 most gracious and philosophic excellency the Mini 
 the Moon. Finditig, however, that their numu 
 
 Ifiien making suci 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 fil 
 
 > incompetent to hold It In complete subjection, on 
 ount of the ferocious barbarity of its inhabitants ; 
 
 lev siiall take our worthy President, the King of 
 k'laiul, the Emperor of Ilayti, the mighty Bona- 
 jrte and the great King of lianlam, and returning 
 ftlifir native planet, shall carry Iheni to court, as 
 \re tlie Indian chief's led about as spectacles in the 
 Jirts of Europe. 
 
 Iriien making such obeisance as the cli({uel(c of the 
 \xl requires, liiey shall address the puissant i\Ian in 
 
 > Moon, in, as near as I can conjecture, the follow- 
 [ terms : 
 
 I" Most serene and mighty potentate, whose donii- 
 
 lins extend as far as eye can reach, who ridelh on 
 
 (Great liear, useth tlic sun as a looking-glass, and 
 
 liiitaiiieth unrivalled control over (ides, madmen, 
 
 jsea crabs. We thy liege subjects have just re- 
 
 ned from a voyage of discovery, in the course of 
 
 kicii we have lauded and taken |)Ossessiun of that 
 
 tare little dirty planet, which thou beholdcst roll- 
 
 t at a distance. The five uncouth monsters, which 
 
 [have brought into this august presence, were once 
 
 f important chiefs among their fellow-savages, who 
 
 \a race of beings totally destitute of the common 
 
 [ributes of humanity; and differing in every thing 
 
 (11 the inhabitants of (he moon, inasmuch as they 
 
 J their heads upon their shoulders, instead of un- 
 
 tlieir arms — have two eyes instead of one — are 
 
 lerly destitute of tails, and of a variety of unseemly 
 
 nplexions, particularly of a horrible whiteness — 
 
 |tead of pea green. 
 
 ' We have moreover found these miserabh; savages 
 |ik iiito a state of the utmost ignorance and dcpra- 
 , every man shamelessly living with his own wife, 
 1 rearing his own children, instead of indulging in 
 (t comiuunity of wives enjoined by the law of na- 
 !e,as expounded by (he philosophers of the moon. 
 la word, they have scarcely a gleam of true phi- 
 pphy among them, but arc, in fact, utter heretics, 
 lorainuses, and barbarians. 'J'aking compassion, 
 Irefore, on the sad condition of these sublunary 
 lulclies, we have endeavoured, while we remained 
 [their planet, to introduce among Ihem the light of 
 ion, and the comforts of the moon. \\'e have 
 bted them to moutbfuls of moonshine, and draughts 
 pitroHS oxyde, which they swallowed with inere- 
 lle voracity, particularly the females; and we have 
 pise endeavoured to instil into them the precepts 
 jiuimr philosophy. We have insisted upon their 
 loimcing the contemptible shackles of religion and 
 hmion sense, and ailoriug the profound, onuii|)o- 
 |l, and all-perfect energy, and the ecstatic, iuumit- 
 ^, immovable perfection. lUit such was the un- 
 lalleled obstinacy of these wretched savages, that 
 ly persisted in cleaving to their wives, and adher- 
 ] to their religion, and absolutely set at nought the 
 lilime doctrines of the moon; nay, among other 
 kminable heresies, they even went so far as blas- 
 pously to declare, that this ineffable planet was 
 pe of nothing more nor less than green ciieese ! " 
 
 At these words, the great Man in the Moon (being 
 a very profound philosopher) shall fall into a terrible 
 passion, and possessing equal authority over things 
 that do not belong to him as did whilome his holiness 
 the pope, shall forthwith issue a formidable bull, spe- 
 cifying, " That, whereas a certain crew of Lunatics 
 have lately discovered and taken possession of a newly- 
 discovered planet called Ihe earth— am\ that whereas 
 it is inhabited by none but a race of two-legged ani- 
 mals that carry their heads on liieir shoulders instead 
 of under their arms; cannot talk the hmalie language; 
 have two eyes instead of one; are destitute of tails, 
 and of a horrible whiteness, instead of pea green; 
 therefore, anil for a variety of other excellent reasons, 
 they are considered incapable of possessing any pro- 
 perty in llu: planet they infest, and the right and title 
 to it are coniirmed to its original discoverers. And 
 furthermore, the colonists who are now about to de- 
 part to the aforesaid planet arc authorized and com- 
 manded to use every means to convert these inlidel 
 savages from the darkness of Christianity, and make 
 them thorough and iibsolute lunatics." 
 
 In consecpience of this benevolent bull, our philoso- 
 phic l)enefactoi-s go to work with hearty zeal. They 
 seize uiwn our fertile territories, scourge us from our 
 rightful possessions, relieve us from our wives, and 
 when we are unreasonable enough to complain, they 
 will turn upon us and say, '■' IMiscrablc barbarians ! un- 
 grateful wretches! have we not come thousands of 
 miles to improve your worthless planet? Have we 
 not fed you with moonshine ; have we not intoxicated 
 you with nitrous oxyde ; does not our moon give you 
 light every night, and have you the baseness to mur- 
 nun-, when we claim a pitiful retin-n for all these be- 
 nefits ? " But finding that we not only persist in abso- 
 lute contempt of their reasoning and disbelief in their 
 philosophy, but even go so far as daringly to defend 
 our property, their patience shall be exluuisted, and 
 they shall resort to their superior powers of argument; 
 hunt us with bippogrifls, transfix us with concentrated 
 sunbeams, demolish our cities with moon-stones; un- 
 til, Inving by main force converted us to the true 
 faith, they shall graciously permit us to exist in the 
 torrid deserts of Arabia, or the frozen regions of Lap- 
 land, there to enjoy the blessings of civilization and 
 Ihe charms of lunar philosophy, in nuich the same 
 manner as the reformed and enlightened savages of 
 this country are kindly suffered to inhabit the in- 
 hospitable forests of the north, or the iuipenclrable 
 wihlernesses of South America. 
 
 Thus, I hope, I have clearly proved, and strikingly 
 illustrated, the right of the early colonists to the pos- 
 session of this country, and thus is this gigantic ques- 
 tion completely van(|uished : so having manfully sur- 
 mounted all obstacles, and subdued all op()osition, 
 what remains but that I sbouhl forthwith conduct 
 my readers into the city which we have been so long 
 in a niaiuier besieging ?— Hut hold; before I prot'eed 
 another step, I nmst pause to lake breath, and rc(!over 
 from Ihe excessive fatigue I have undergone, in pre- 
 
 l(i 
 
i22 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ill 
 
 !l 
 
 paring to begin this most accurate of liistories. A nd 
 in tills I do but imitate the example of a renowned 
 Dutch tumbler of antiquity, who took a start of three 
 miles for the purpose of jumping over a hill; but 
 having run himself out of breath by the tune he 
 reached the foot, sat himself quietly down for a few 
 moments to blow, and llien walked over at liis lei- 
 sure. 
 
 BOOK U. 
 
 TRKATIISG OP TUE FIRST SKTTLKINEIVT OF TIIB PROVIKGE OF 
 NIEUW NEUEBLANDTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In which arf contained divers reasons why a man shonid not 
 write in a hurry. Also of Master liendricli Hudson, his dis- 
 covery of a strange country— and how he was inagniflcently 
 rewarded by the munificence of Uieir lligli Mightinesses. 
 
 My great grandfather, by the mother's side, Iler- 
 manus Van Clattercop, when employed to build the 
 large slone church at Rotterdam, which stands about 
 three hundred yards to your left, after you turn off 
 from the Boomkeys, and which is so conveniently 
 constructed, that all the zealous Christians of Rot- 
 terdam prefer sleeping through a sermon there to 
 any other church in the city — my great grandfather, 
 I say, when employed to build that famous church, 
 did in the first place send to Delft for a box of long 
 pipes; then having purchased a new spitting-box and 
 a hundred weight of the best Virginia, he sat him- 
 self down, and did nothing for the space of three 
 months but smoke most laboriously. Then did he 
 spend full three months more in trudging on foot, 
 and voyaging in trekschuyt, from Rotterdam to Am- 
 sterdam — to Delft — to Ilaerlem — to Leyden — to the 
 Hague, knocking his head and breaking his pipe 
 against eveiy church in his road. Then did he ad- 
 vance gradually nearer and nearer to Rotterdam, 
 until he came in full sight of the identical spot whereon 
 the church was to be built. Then did he spend 
 three months longer in walking round it and round 
 it, contemplating it, first from one point of view, and 
 then from another — now would he be paddled by it 
 on the canal— now would he peep at it through a te- 
 lescope from the other side of the Meiise — and now 
 would he take a bird's-eye glance at it from the top 
 of one of those gigantic wind-mills which protect the 
 gates of the city. The good folks of the place were 
 on the tiptoe of expectation and impatience— notwith- 
 standing all the turmoil of my great grandfather, not a 
 symptom of the church was yet to be seen ; they even 
 began to fear it would never be brought into the 
 ^orld, but that its great projector would lie down 
 and die in labour of the mighty plan he had con- 
 ceived. At length, having occupied twelve good 
 months in puffing and paddling, and talking and 
 walking— having travelled over all Holland, and even 
 
 taken a peep into France and Germany— liati 
 smoked five hundred and ninety-nine pipes, andila 
 hundred weight of the best Virginia tolmco 
 great grandfather gathered together all that kno« 
 and industrious class of citizens who prefer atten 
 to any body's business sooner than their own; ; 
 having pulled off his coat and five pair of bre 
 he advanced sturdily up, and laid the coiner sio 
 of the church, in the presence of the whole mul 
 tilde— just at the commencement of the tliirlei 
 month. 
 
 In a similar manner, and with the example ofi 
 worthy ancestor full before my eyes, have 1 1 
 ceeded in writing this most authentic history, 
 honest Rotterdamers no doubt thought my 
 grandfather was doing nothing at all to the pur] 
 while he was making such a world of prefatory 1 
 about the building of his church— and many of i| 
 ingenious inhabitants of this fair city will unqucstiv 
 abiy suppose that all the preliminary chapters, 
 the discovery, population, and final setlleinenl( 
 America, weic totally irrelevant and superfluoi 
 and that the main business, the histoiy of New-Yoi 
 is not a jot more advanced than if I had never I 
 up my pen. Never were wise people more niist]) 
 in their conjectures •. in conscipience of going tovgj 
 slowly and deliberately, the church came out ofi 
 great grandfather's hands one of the most sumpiiioi 
 gooilly, and glorious edifices in the known wort 
 excepting that, like our magnificent capito) at \Vi 
 uigton, it was begun on so grand a scale IliaU 
 good folks could not afford to finish more than H 
 wing of it. So likewise, I trust, if ever I am ablelj 
 finish this work on the plan I have coninienced, | 
 which, in simple truth, I sometimes have my doubt 
 it will be found that I have pursued the latest i 
 of my art, as exemplified in the writings of all ( 
 great American historians, and wrought a verjli 
 history out of a small siihjecl— which, no^v-a^la^!,J 
 considered one of the great triumphs of histories 
 To proceed, then, with the thread of my story. 
 
 In the ever-memorable year of our Lord, W,\ 
 a Saturday morning, the five-and-twentielh dayj 
 March, old style, did that " worthy and iriecovei 
 discoverer, (as he has justly been called,) Ma 
 Henry Hudson," set sail from Holland in a stout va 
 called the Half Moon, being employed by llie Dull 
 East India Company to seek a north-west passa^j 
 China. 
 
 Henry (or, as the Dutch historians call him, 1 
 drick) liudson was a seafaring man of renown, . 
 had learned to smoke tobacco under Sir Waiter B 
 leigli, and is said to have been tus first to introductj 
 Into Holland, which gained him much popularitjf 
 that country, and causeil him to find great ravoiitj 
 the eyes of their High Mightinesses, the LonlsSlai 
 General, and also of the honourable West IiuiiaC 
 paiiy. He was a short, brawny old gentleman, . 
 a double chin, a mastiff mouth, and a broad < 
 nose, which was supposed in tliose days to liavei 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 423 
 
 tired ib fiery hue from the constant neighbonrliood 
 
 [hislobacco-pipe. 
 
 I He wore a true Andrea Ferrara, tncke<l in a lea- 
 
 lern belt, and a commodure's cocked hat on one side 
 
 Ibis iiead. He was remarkable for always jerking 
 
 I liis breeches when he gave out his orders, and his 
 
 > sounded not unlike the brattling of a tin trumpet 
 
 owing to (he number of hard northwesters which 
 
 ] had swallowed in the course of his seafaring. 
 
 ■Such was Ilendrick Hudson, of whom we have 
 
 anl so much, and know so little . and I have been 
 
 s particular in his description for the benefit of mo- 
 irii painters and statuaries, that they may represent 
 
 I as he was; and not, according to Iheir common 
 
 ilom with moilcrn heroes, make him look like C;c- 
 
 y or Marcus Aurelius, or the Apollo of Itelvedere. 
 
 |j\s chief mate and favourite companion, the com- 
 
 HJore chose Master Robert Juet, of Limeliouse in 
 
 gland. By some his name has been s|)elled Chewit, 
 
 \ ascribed to the circumstance of his hiivini; been 
 etirst man (hat ever chewed tobacco; but Ibis I be- 
 |\eto be a mere flippancy; more especially as cer- 
 
 1 of his progeny arc living at this day, who write 
 tirnames Juet. lie was an old cunn'ade and early 
 
 oi-mate of the great Hudson, with whom he had 
 len played truant and sailed chip Iwats in a neigh- 
 iiring pond, when I hey were little boys— from 
 lience it is said the commodore first derived his bias 
 bitls a seafaring life. Certiiin it is, that the old 
 pple about Limehouse declaral Robert Juet to be 
 |unlucky urchin, prone lo mischief, that would one 
 
 f or other come to the gallows, 
 lie grew up, as boys of that kind often grow up, a 
 Liltiiiig, heedless varlet, tossed about in all quarters 
 llie world— meeting with more perils and wonders 
 (n did Sinbad the Sailor, without growing a whit 
 ; wise, prudent, or ill-nalurcd. Under every mis- 
 |lune, he comforted himself with a (|uid of tobacco, 
 
 I (he truly philosophic niaxhn, " it will be all the 
 
 he lliiiig a hundred years hence." He was skilled 
 Ihc art of carving anchors and true lovers' knots on 
 
 [bulkheads and (piarler-railings, and was consider- 
 |a great wit on board ship, in consc(piencc of his 
 
 yiiig pranks on every body around, and now and 
 In even making a wry face at old Hendrick, when 
 1 back was turned. 
 
 to this universal genius are we indebted for many 
 lliculars concerning Ibis voyage ; of which he wrote 
 [islury, at l!te reipiest of the commodore, who had 
 |uncon(|uerablc aversion to writing himself, from 
 |ing received so many floggings aliout it wlien at 
 loul. To supply the deficiencies of Master J net's 
 Imal, which is written with true log-book brevity, 
 
 m availed myself of divers family traditions, hand- 
 Idown from my great great grandfather, who ac- 
 
 ppanied the cxpeiUlion in the capacity of cabin- 
 
 pm all that I can learn, few incidenU worthy of 
 
 lark happened in the voyage; and it mortifies me 
 
 "ngly that I have to admit so noted an expedi- 
 
 tion into my work, without making any more of it. 
 Suffice it to say, the voyage was prosperous and 
 tranquil — the crew being a patient people, much given 
 to slumber and vacuity, and but little troubled with 
 the disease of thinking— a malady of the mind, which 
 is the sure breeder of discontent. Hudson had laid 
 in abundance of gin and sour crout, and every man 
 was allowed to sleep quietly at his pc^t unless the 
 wind blew. True it is, some slight dissatisfaction was 
 shown, on two or three occasions, at certain unreason- 
 Jible conduct of Commodore Hudson. Thus, for 
 instance, he forbore to shorten sail when the wind 
 was light, and the weather serene, which was consi- 
 dered among the most experienced Dutch seamen as 
 certain weather-breeders, or prognostics that the wea- 
 ther would change for the worse. He acted, more- 
 over, in direct contradiction to tliat ancient and sage 
 rule of the Dutch navigators, who always took in 
 sail at night— put the helm a-port, and turned in— by 
 which precaution they had a good night's rest — were 
 sure of knowing where they were the next morning, 
 and stood but little chance of running down a conti- 
 nent in the dark. He likewise prohibited the seamen 
 from wearing more than five jackets and six pair of 
 breeches, under pretence of rendering them more alert; 
 and no man was permitted to go aloft, and hand in 
 sails, with a pipe in liis mouth, as is the invariable 
 Dutch custom at the present day.— All these griev- 
 ances, though they might ruffle for a moment the 
 constitutional tranquillity of the honest Dutch tars, 
 made but transient impression ; they ate hugely, drank 
 profusely, and slept immeasurably, and being under 
 the especial guidance of I'rovidence, the ship was safe- 
 ly conducted to the coast of America; wliere, after 
 sundry unimportant touchings and standings off and 
 on, she at length, on the fourth day of September, en- 
 tered that majestic bay, which at this day ex[)auds its 
 ample bosom before the city of New- York, and which 
 had never before been visited by any European. ' 
 
 ■ Trim it is— and I am not ignnrant of the Tact— lliat in a certain 
 aiKicryplial Iwok of voyagfts, uoinpiletl by ow. Halvluyt, in to hf. 
 found a Ifllcr written to Francis tlie First, l)y one Tiiovannc, or 
 .lolni Vcrazzaiii, on which sonic writers arc inclined to found a 
 belief that this dcliglitful l>ay had liccn visited nearly u century 
 previous to llic voyage of the enterprising Hudson. Now this 
 ( albeit it lias met with the countenance of eerUiin very judicious 
 and learned men ) I hold in utter disbelief, and that for various 
 good and substantial reasons— Pirsl, Because on strict examina- 
 tion it will Im! found, that the de!ieri|ilion given by this Verazzani 
 apiilies about as well lo llie l>ay of New-York as it does to my night- 
 cap.— .Vrrotid/j/, Bccnuso that this John Verazzani, for whom I 
 ah'eady Ix^gin to feet a most bitter enmity, is a native of Florence ; 
 and every liwly knows the crafty wiles of these kiset Florentines, 
 by \vliicli they DIcIkhI away the laurels fltxii the brows of the im- 
 mortal Colon ( vulgarly culled Cohnnbns,) and iH-stowed them on 
 Iheir oflieioiis townsman, Amerigo Vespucci— and I make no 
 doubt they arc e(|ually ready to mb the illustrious Hudson of tlio 
 credit of discovering this iieauteoiis island, ailoriuHl by Uie city of 
 New- York, aiul placing it iM'side their usurped discovery of Soulli 
 America. And, thirdly, 1 award my decision in favour of the 
 prt^lensions of Ilendrick Hudson, Inasnnich as his nqtedition sail- 
 ed from Holland, being truly and absolutely a Dutch cntcr|irise— 
 and though all the proofs in the world were introtluced on the 
 other tide, I would set them at nouglit, as undcKrviiig ray atlen- 
 
iM 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 It has been traditionary ia our family, that when 
 Uie great navigator was lirst blessed with a view of 
 this enclianling island, he was observed, for tlie first 
 and only time in his lire, to exhibit strong symptoms 
 of astonishment and admiration. lie is said to have 
 turned to Master Juet, and uttered these remarkable 
 words, while he pointed towards this paradise of the 
 New World— "See! there!"— and thereupon, as 
 was always his way when he was uncommonly plead- 
 ed, he did puff out such clouds of dense tobacco 
 smoke, that in one minute the vessel was out of sight 
 of land, and Master Juet was fain to wait until the 
 winds dispersed this impenetrable fog. 
 
 It was indeed — as my great great grandfather used 
 to say— though in trutii I never heard him, for he 
 died, as might be expected, before I was born— "it 
 was indeed a spot on which the eye might have revel- 
 led for ever, in ever new and never ending beauties." 
 The island of Mannahata spread wide before them, 
 like some sweet vision of fancy, or some tair creation 
 of industrious magic. Its hills of smiling green swell- 
 ed gently one above another, crowned with lofty 
 trees of luxuriant growth; some pointing their taper- 
 ing foliage towards the clouds, which were gloriously 
 transparent; and others, loaded with a verdant bur- 
 then of clambering vines, bowing their branches to the 
 earth, that was covered with flowers. On the gentle 
 declivities of the hills were scattered in gay profusion 
 the dogwood, the sumach, and the wild brier , whose 
 scarlet berries and white blossoms glowed brighlly 
 among the deep green of the surrounding foliage; and 
 here and there u curling column of sniuke rising fioni 
 the little glens that opened along the shore, seemed 
 to promise the weary voyagers a welcome at the hands 
 »>f their fellow-creatures. As they stood gazing with 
 entranced attention on the scene before them, a red 
 man, crowned with feathers, issued from one of these 
 glens, and after contemplating in silent wonder the 
 gallant shii>, as she sal like a stately swan swimming 
 on a silver lake, sounded the war-whoop, and bound- 
 ed into the wootls, like a wild deer, to the utter asto- 
 nishment of the phlegmatic Dutchmen, who had never 
 heard such a noise or witnessed such a caper in their 
 whole lives. 
 
 Of the transactions of our adventurers with the sa- 
 vages, and how the latter smoked copper pipes and 
 ate dried currants; how they brought great store of 
 tobacco and oysters; how they shot one of the ship's 
 crew, and how he was buried, I shall say nothing, 
 being that I consider them unimportant to my history. 
 After tarrying a few days in the bay, in order to re- 
 fresh themselves after their seafaring, our voyagers 
 weighed anchor, to explore a mighty river which 
 emptied into the bay. This river, it is said, was 
 known among the savages by the name of the Shaie- 
 muck; though we are assured in an excellent litllo 
 
 liun. If IhciM! (Iirec rcasoiui be not suflicipiit to satisfy uvcry 
 burgher ot thi» ancient cily— all I can say i8 tliey arc dcRcnprato 
 dfuccndanli) from their venerable Dutch ancestors, and totally 
 unworthy the trouble of convincing. Thus, thrrefore, the title of 
 Ucndrick Hudson to his renowned discovery Is hilly vindicated. 
 
 histoiy published in 1G74, by John Josselyn, i 
 that it was called the Mohegan, ' and Master Hid 
 Blome, who wrote some time afterwards, asserts n 
 same— so that I very much incline in favour ofn 
 opinion of these two honest gentlemen. Be this at| 
 may, up this river did the adventurous Hendrick r 
 ceed, little doubting but it would turn out to beg 
 much-looked-for passage to China ! 
 
 The journal goes on to make mention of divers i| 
 terviews between the crew and the natives, ini| 
 voyage up the river; but as they would be imiK 
 nent to my history, I shall pass over them in silew 
 except the following dry joke, played off by ilieti 
 commodore and his school-fellow Robert Juet, whi 
 does such vast credit to their experimental p1uIo$o|i|it| 
 that I cannot refrain frQm inserting it. " Ourmai 
 and his mate determined to try some of the chiefen 
 of the countrey, whether they had any treaelierie i 
 them. So they tooke them downe into the cabin,i 
 gave them so much wine and aqua vitse, thai i 
 were all nterrie; and one of them had his wifev 
 him, which sate so modestly, as any of our couoin 
 women would do in a strange place. In the end,i 
 of them was drunke, which had been aboarde oFoi 
 ship all the time that we had beene there, and li 
 was strange to them, for tliey could not tell ho«i| 
 take it. " ' 
 
 ilaving satislied himself by this ingenious exjx 
 ment, that the natives were an honest, social race^ 
 jolly roysters, who had no objection to adrinkingb 
 and were very ni»;rry in their cups, the old cotninix 
 chuckled hugely to himself, and thrusting add 
 quid of tobacco in his cheek, directed Master Jurtll 
 have it carefully recorded, for the satisfaction of^ 
 the natural philosophers of the university of Leyda 
 which done, he proceeded on his voyage, with t 
 self-complacency. After sailing, however, abovej 
 hundred miles up the river, he found the mte 
 world around him begin to grow more shallow i 
 coiillned, the current more rapid, and perfectly fn 
 — phenomena not uncommon in the ascent of rivim 
 but which puzzled the honest Dutchmen pro(ligiousl|| 
 A consultation was therefore called, and having d 
 berated full six hours, they were brought to a del 
 ininatioii by the ship's ruiuiing aground — wliereujii 
 they unanimously concluded that there was but lill 
 chance of getting to China in this direction. A In 
 however, was dispatched to explore higher up ll 
 river, which, on its return, confirmed the opiii 
 Upon this the ship was warped off and put about i 
 great difficulty, being, like most of her sex, ex« 
 iugly hard to govern ; and the adventurous lludso 
 according to the account of my greatgreat grandfalii 
 returned down the river — with a prodigious Heal 
 his ear ! 
 
 Being salisfled that there was lillle likelihood^ 
 getting to China, unless, like the blind man, iier 
 
 ■ This river is liltewise laid down in Ogilvy's map as Hai 
 — NoordI— MontaiRne and Mauritius river. 
 ^ Jucl'sJourn. Purch. I'll. 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i25 
 
 nedfrom wlience he set out, and took a fresh start, 
 
 f fortliwith recrossed the sea to Holland, where he 
 i received with great welcome by the honourable 
 £t India Company, who were very much rejoiced to 
 
 ehini come back safe — with their ship ; and at a large 
 
 respectable meeting of the first merchants and 
 
 omasters of Amsterdam it was unanimously de- 
 
 nined, that as a munificent reward for the eminent 
 
 vices he had performed, and the important disco- 
 
 j he had made, the great river Mohegan should be 
 
 bled afler his name ! and it continues to be called 
 
 hdson-river unto this very day. 
 
 CHAPTER U. 
 
 nialning an account of a mighty Ark which floated, under the 
 irotection of St Nicholas, from Holland to Gibbet Island— thn 
 icent of the strange Animals therefrom— a great victory, and 
 Lewription of the ancient village of Cominuuipaw. 
 
 |Thr delectable accounts given by the great Hudson, 
 I Master Juet, of the country they had discovered, 
 jelled not a little talk and speculation among the 
 1 people of Holland. Letters-patent were granted 
 [government to an association of merchants, called 
 e West India Company, for the exclusive trade on 
 bdson-river, on which they erected a trading-house 
 jiled Fort Aurania, or Orange, from whence did 
 Iring the great city of Albany. But I forbear to 
 jrell on (he various commercial and colonizing en- 
 prizes which took place ; among which was that of 
 ^iilieer Adrian Block, who discovered and gave a 
 |me (0 Block Island, since famous for its cheese — 
 I shall barely confine myself to that which gave 
 nil to this renowned city. 
 
 |lt was some three or four years after the return of 
 
 e immortal Hendrick, that a crew of honest Low 
 
 [iteh colonists set sail from the city of Amsterdam 
 
 rthe shores of America. It is an irreparable loss 
 
 I hislory, and a great proof of the darkness of the 
 
 I and die lamentable neglect of the noble art of 
 
 ok -making, since so industriously cultivated by 
 
 owing sea-captains and learned supercargoes, that 
 
 expedition so interesting and important in its 
 
 [suits shoidd he passed over in utter silence. To my 
 
 [eat great grandfather am I again indebted for the 
 
 ' facls I am enabled to give concerning it — he hav- 
 
 ;once more embarked for this country, with a full 
 
 llermination, as he said, of ending his days hers — 
 
 ](lur begetting a race of Knickerbockers, that should 
 
 t to be great men in the land. 
 
 |Tliesbip in which these illustrious adventurers set 
 
 1 was called the Goede Vrouw, or good woman, in 
 
 npliment to Ihe wife of the President of the West 
 
 ilia Company, who was allowed by every botly (ex- 
 
 |)l her husband) to be a sweet-tempered lady — wlien 
 
 ( in liquor. It was in truth a most gallant vessel, of 
 
 ! most approved Dutch construction, and made by 
 
 ! ablest ship-carpenters of Amsterdam, who, it is 
 
 W known, always model their ships after the fair 
 
 forms of their countrywomen. Accordfaigiy, it had 
 one hundred feet in the beam, one lumdred feet in the 
 keel, and one hundred feet from the bottom of the 
 stern-post to the taffarel. Like the beauteous model, 
 who was declared to be the greatest belle in Amster- 
 dam, it was full in the bows, with a pair of enormous 
 cat-heads, a copper bottom, and withal a most prodi- 
 gious poop ! 
 
 The architect, who was somewhat of a religious 
 man, far fi om decorating the ship with pagan idols, 
 such as Jupiter, Neptune, or Hercules, (which heathen- 
 ish abominations, I have no doubt, occasion the mis- 
 fortunes and shipwreck of many a noble vessel,) he, 
 I say, on the contrary, did laudably erect for a head 
 a goodly image of St Nicholas, equippeil with a low, 
 broad-brimmed hat, a huge pair of Flemish trunk- 
 hose, and a pipe that reached to the end of the bow- 
 sprit. Thus gallantly furnished, the staunch ship 
 floated sideways, like a majestic goose, out of tlie 
 harbour of the great city of Amsterdam, and all the 
 bells, that were not otherwise engaged, rang a triple 
 bob-major on the joyful occasion. 
 
 My great great grandfather remarks that the voyage 
 was uncommonly prosperous, for, being imder the 
 especial care of the ever-revered St Nicholas, the Goede 
 Yrouw seemed to be endowed with qualities unknown 
 to common vessels. Thus she made as much lee-way 
 as head-way, could get along very nearly as fast with 
 the wind a-head as when it was a-poop — and was 
 particularly great in a calm; in consequence of which 
 singular advantages, she made out to accomplish her 
 voyage in a very few months, and came to anchor at 
 the mouth of the Hudson, a little to the east of Gibbet 
 Island. 
 
 Here, lifting up their eyes, they beheld, on what is 
 at present called the Jersey shore, a small Indian vil- 
 lage, pleasantly embowered in a grove of spreading 
 elms, and the natives all collected on the beach, gazing 
 in stupid admiration at the Goede Yrouw. A boat 
 was immediately dispatched io enter into a treaty 
 with them, and, approaching the shore, hailed them 
 through a trumpet in the most friendly terms ; but so 
 horridly confounded were these poor savages at the 
 tremendous and uncouth sound of the Low Dutch 
 language, (hat they one and all took to their heels, and 
 scampered over the Bergen hills; nor did they stop 
 until they had buried themselves, head and ears, in the 
 marshes on the other side, where they all miserably 
 perished to a man— and their bones being collected, 
 and decently coveretl by the Tammany Society of 
 that day, formed that singular mound called IIattle- 
 SNAKB-iiiLL, which riscs out of the centre of the sail 
 marshes, a little to the east of the Newark Causeway. 
 
 Animated by this unlooked-for victory, our valiant 
 heroes sprang ashore in triumph, took possession of the 
 soil as con(|uerors in the name of their High Mighti- 
 nesses Ihe Lords States-General ; and, marching fear- 
 lessy forward, carried the village of CoMMiKNnww by 
 storm, notwithstanding that it was vigorously defend- 
 ed by some half a score of old squaws and pop[K)08e6. 
 
126 
 
 UlSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 On looking about them they were so transported with 
 the excellencies of the place, that they had very little 
 doubt the blessed St Nicholas had guided them thither, 
 as the very spot whereon to settle their colony. The 
 softness of the soil was wonderfully adapted to the 
 driving of piles ; the swamps and marslies around 
 them afforded ample opportunities for the construct- 
 ing of dikes and dams; the shallowness of the shore 
 was peculiarly favourable to the building of docks— in 
 a word, this spot abounded with all the requisites for 
 the foundation of a great Dutch city. On making a 
 faithful report, therefore, to the crew of the Goede 
 Vrouw, they one and all determined that tiiis was the 
 destined end of their voyage. Accordingly they des- 
 cended from the Goede Yrouw^, men. women, and 
 children, in goodly groups, as did the animals of yore 
 from tlie ark, and formed themselves into a thriving 
 settlement, which they called by the Indian name 
 
 COHMUNIPAW. 
 
 As all the world is doubtless perfectly acquainted 
 witli Communipaw, it may seem somewhat super- 
 fluous, to treat of it in the present work ; but my 
 readers will please to recollect that, notwillistandiiig 
 it is my chief desire to satisfy the present age, yet I 
 write likewise for posterity, and have to consult the 
 understanding and curiosity of some half a score of 
 centuries yet to come ; by which time perhaps, were 
 it not for this invaluable history, the great Communi- 
 paw, like Babylon, Carthage, Nineveh, and other 
 great cities, might be perfectly extinct— sunk and for- 
 gotten in its own mud— its inhabitants turned into 
 oysters,' and even its situation a fertile subject of 
 learned controversy and hard-headed investigation 
 among indefatigable historians. Let me then piously 
 rescue from oblivion the humble relics of a place, 
 which was the egg from whence was hatclied the 
 miff hty city of New- York ! 
 
 Communipaw is at present but a small village, 
 pleasantly situated, among rural scenery, on tliat 
 beauteous part of the Jersey shore which w^as known 
 in ancient legends by the name of Pavonia,' and com- 
 mands a grand prospect of the superb bay of New- 
 York. It is within but half an hour's sail of the lat- 
 ter place, provided you have a fair wind, and may be 
 distinctly seen from the city. Nay, it is a well-known 
 fact, which I can testify from my own experience, that 
 on a clear still summer evening you may hear, from 
 the battery of New- York, the obslrei)erous peals of 
 broad-mouthed laughter of the Dutch negroes at Com- 
 munipaw, who, like most other negroes, are famous 
 for their risible powers. This is peculiarly the case 
 on Sunday evenings, when, it is remarked by an in- 
 genious and observant philosopher, who has made 
 great discoveries in the neighbourhood of this city, 
 that they always laugh loudest— which he attributes 
 to the circumstance of tlieir having tlieir holiday- 
 clothes on. 
 
 ■ Men by inaction dcRcncratc into oystera.— J(ra{m««. 
 > Pavonia, in Die ancient maps, \a ^ivcn to a tract ot couulry 
 extending from about Iluboken to Amboy. 
 
 These negroes, in fact, like the monks in thed 
 ages, engross all the knowledge of the place,) 
 being infinitely more adventurous and more kno« 
 than their masters, carry on all the foreign trade; u 
 ing frequent voyages to town in canoes loaded < 
 oysters, butter-milk, and cabbages. They are »„ 
 astrologers, predicting the different changes of «J 
 ther almost as accurately as an almanac— iher i 
 moreover exquisite performers on three-stringed j 
 dies : in whistling they almost boast Uie fur-ij 
 powers of Orpheus's lyre, for not a horse or an oijj 
 the place, when at tlie plough or before Uie waga 
 will budge a foot until he hears the well-kiioij 
 whistle of his black driver and companion. And G 
 their amazing skill at casting up accounts upon iIk 
 fingers, they are regarded with as much venerationJ 
 were the disciplesof Pythagorasof yore, when initu|(| 
 into tlie sacred quaternary of numbers. 
 
 As to the honest burghers of Communipaw, lil 
 wise men and sound philosophers, they never lo^ 
 beyond their pipes, nor trouble their heads aboutii 
 affairs out of their immediate neighbourluxxl; soli 
 they live in profound and enviable ignorance of allil 
 troubles, anxieties, and revolutions, of this distrai 
 planet. I am even told that many among ilieiii i 
 verily believe that Holland, of which they have lie« 
 so much from tradition, is situated somewhere g 
 Long-Island — thai Spikiiig-devil and the Narmcn 
 the two ends of the world— that the country b s 
 under the dominion of their High Mightinesses, i 
 that the city of New- York still goes by the named 
 Nieuw Amsterdam. They meet every Salunlaya 
 ternoon, at the only tavern in the place, which I 
 as a sign a square-headed likeness of the Prince d 
 Orange, where they smoke a silent pipe, by way (I 
 promoting social conviviality, and invariably (hink^ 
 mug of cider to the success of Admiral Van Ti'oii^ 
 who they imagine is still sweeping the British chaiuid 
 with a broom at his mast-head. 
 
 Communipaw, in short, is one of the numerous liiil^ 
 villages in the vicinity of this most beautiful of eilie 
 which are so many strong holds and fastnesses, wli 
 ther the primitive manners of our Dutch furel'atlia 
 have retreated, and where they are clici'ished willj 
 devout and scrupulous strictness. The dress of i 
 original settlers is handed down inviolate from falbi 
 to son — the identical broad-brimmed hat, broad-skiiti 
 ed coat, and broad-bottomeil breeches, continue fro 
 generation to generation; and several gigantic knn 
 buckles of massy silver are still in wear, that nia 
 gallant display in the days of the patriarchs of Gii 
 munipaw. The language likewise continues unadul 
 teratcd by barbarous innovations; and so crilica 
 correct is the village schoolmaster in his dialect, 
 his reading of a Low Dutch psalm has much tiiesam 
 effect on the nerves as the filing of a handsaw. 
 
 cbiography ot certain 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i^ 
 
 monks intheiL 
 of the place,, 
 and more knon 
 foreign trade; I 
 anoes loaded < 
 5. Tliey are j„ 
 nt changes or vg 
 almanac— tliey ) 
 three-stringed I 
 )ast Uie far-ij 
 I horse or an oii 
 )efore Uie wara 
 the well-knoj 
 panion. Andii 
 iccounts upon tin 
 much venerationj 
 ore, when initiu 
 ibers. 
 Jommunipaw, , 
 1, they never lod 
 eir heads about) 
 libourh(Mxl;$o|| 
 ignorance of all! 
 s, of this distra( 
 ly among iliein 
 ich they have kei 
 ed somewhere 1 
 \dthe Narromi 
 tiie country is j 
 Mightinesses, i 
 es by the name (I 
 every Saturday j 
 •lace, wiiieiil 
 of the Prince d 
 pipe, by wayl 
 invariably drink I 
 iiiral Yan Troini 
 le British chaiuitl 
 
 le numerous 11 
 
 beautiful ufcilie 
 
 d fastnesses, vli 
 
 Dutcli furel'aliie 
 re cherished «iii| 
 
 The dress of ll 
 'iolate from fallt 
 d tiat, broad-skirt' 
 les, continne fra 
 'al gigantic linn 
 
 wear, that nu 
 atriarchsorCoii 
 continues unadiil 
 
 and so critic; 
 
 this dialect,! 
 
 as much the 9 
 
 a handsaw. 
 
 CHAPTER ra. 
 
 Lbichis set forth Ihc true art of making a bargain— together 
 Klh the miraculous escape of a great Metropolis in a fog — and 
 ebio^pliy of certain Heroes of Communi|)aw. 
 
 ■lAViiNG, in the trifling digression which concluded 
 
 ] last chapter, dischargeil Ihc fllial duty which the 
 
 r of New- York owed the Coinnmnipaw, as lieing 
 
 I mother settlement; <ind having given a faithful 
 
 Lure of it as it stands at present, I return with a 
 
 Jibing sentiment of self-approbation, to dwell upon 
 
 Larlyltistory. The crew of the GoedeVronw being 
 
 I reinforced by fresh importations from Holland, 
 
 [settlement went jollily on, increasing in magni- 
 
 ( and prosperity. The neighbouring Indians in a 
 
 t lime became accustomed to the uncouth sound 
 
 lie Dutch language, and an intercourse gradually 
 
 t place between them and the new-c jmers. The 
 
 lians were much given to long talks, and the Dutch 
 
 long silence — in this particular, therefore, they 
 
 lonunotlated each other completely. The chiefs 
 
 laid make long speeches about the big bull, the 
 
 isli, and the Great Spirit; to which the others 
 
 iild listen very attentively, smoke their pipes, and 
 
 nt yah, mynheer — whereat the poor savages were 
 
 lidronsly delighted. They instructed the new 
 
 hers in the best art of curing and smoking tobacco ; 
 
 pie the latter, in return, made them drunk with 
 
 t Hollands— and then taught them the art of mak- 
 
 I bargains. 
 
 i brisk trade for furs was soon opened : the Dutch 
 hers were scrupulously honest in their dealings, 
 I purchased by weight, establishing it as an inva- 
 |)le table of avoirdupois, that the hand of a Dutch- 
 1 weighed one pound, and his foot two pounds. 
 i true, the simple Indians were often puzzled by 
 J great disproportion between bulk and weight; 
 [let them place a bundle of furs, never so large, in 
 1 scale, and a Dutchman put his hand or foot in 
 I other, the bundle was sure to kick the beam — 
 ler was a package of furs known to weigh more than 
 ^pounds in the market of Communipaw! 
 fhisis a singular fact— but I have it direct from my 
 111 great grandfather, who had risen to considerable 
 lortance in the colony, being promoted to the of- 
 jof weigh-master, on account of the uncommon 
 Inness of his foot. 
 
 the Dutch possessions in this part of the globe be- 
 
 jnowtoassume a very thriving appearance, and 
 
 e comprehended under the general title of Nieuw 
 
 Uerlandts, on account, as the sage Yander Donck 
 
 pes, of their great resemblance to the Dutch 
 
 herlands- which indeed was truly remarkable, 
 
 [epting that the former were rugged and moun- 
 
 lous, and the latter level and marshy. About this 
 
 t the tranquillity of the Dutch colonists was doom- 
 
 ) suffer a temporary interruption. In 1 61 4, Cap- 
 
 I Sir Samuel Argal, sailing under a commission 
 
 I Dale, governor of Yirginia, visited the Dutch 
 
 llements on Iliidson-river, and demanded their 
 
 submission to the English crown and Yii^ian do- 
 minion. To tliis arrogant demand, as they were in 
 no condition to resist it, they submitted for the time, 
 like discreet and reasonable men. 
 
 It does not appear that the valiant Ai^al molested 
 the settlement of Communipaw : on the contrary, I 
 am lold that when his vessel first hove in sight, the 
 worthy burghers were seized with such a panic, that 
 they fell to smoking their pipes with astonishing ve- 
 hemence; insomuch that they cpiiekly raised a cloud, 
 which combinmg with the surroundir.^ woods and 
 marshes, completely enveloped and concealed their 
 beloved village, and overhung the fair regions of Pa- 
 vonia — So that the terrible Captain Argal passed on, 
 totally unsuspicious that a sturdy little Dutch settle- 
 ment lay snugly couched in the mud, under cover of 
 all this pestilent vapour. In commemoration of this 
 fortunate escape, the worthy inhabitants have con- 
 tinued to smoke, almost without intermission, unto 
 this very day; which is said to be the cause of the re- 
 markable fog that often hangs over Conununipaw of 
 a clear afternoon. 
 
 Upon the departure of the enemy our magnani- 
 mous ancestors took full six months to reco> sr their 
 wind, having been exceedingly discomposed by the 
 consternation and hurry of affairs. They then called 
 a council of safety to smoke over the state of the pro- 
 vince. After six months more of mature delibera- 
 tion, during which nearly five hundred words were 
 spoken, and almost as much tobacco was smoked as 
 would have served a certain modern general through 
 a whole winter's campaign of hard drinking, it was 
 determined to fit out an armament of canoes, and 
 dispatch them on a voyage of discovery ; to search if 
 peradventure some more sure and formidable position 
 might not be found, where the colony would be less 
 subject to vexatious visitations. 
 
 This perilous enterprise was entnisted to the su- 
 perintendence of Mynheers Oloffe Yan Kortlandt, 
 Abraham Hardenbroeck, Jacobus Yan Zandt, and 
 Winant Ten Broeck — four indubitably great men, 
 but of whose history, although I have made diligent 
 inquiry, I can learn but little, previous to their leav- 
 ing Holland. Nor need this occasion much surprise; 
 for adventurers, like prophets, though they make 
 great noise abroad, have seldom much celebrity in 
 their own countries; but this much is certain, that 
 the overflowings and off-scourings of a country are in- 
 variably composed of the richest parts of the soil. 
 And here I cannot help remarking how convenient it 
 would be to many of our great men and great families 
 of doubtful origin, could Ibey have the privilege of 
 the heroes of yore, who, whenever their origin was 
 involved in obscurity, mixlestly announced them- 
 selves descended from a god —and who never visited 
 a foreign country but what they told some cock-and- 
 bull stories about their being kings and princes at 
 home. This venal trespass on the truth, though it 
 has occasionally been played off by some pseudo mar- 
 quis, baronet, and other illustrious foreigner, in our 
 
 ■i \: 
 
128 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 land of good-natured credulity, has been completely 
 discountenanced in this sceptical, matter-of-fact age 
 — and I even question whether any tender virgin, 
 who was accidentally and unaccountably enriched 
 with a bantling, would save her character at parlour 
 fire-sides and evening tea-parties by ascribing the 
 phenomenon to a swan, a shower of gold, or a river- 
 g«l. 
 
 Thus being denied the l)enefit of mythology and 
 classic fable, I should have been completely at a loss 
 as to the early biography of my heroes, had not a 
 ^leam of light been thrown upon their origin from 
 their names. 
 
 By this simple means have I been enabled to gather 
 some particulars concerning the adventurers in ques- 
 tion. Van Kortlandt, for instance, was one of those 
 peripatetic philosophers, who tax Providence for a 
 livelihood, and, like Diogenes, enjoy a free and unin- 
 cumbered estate in sunshine. He was usually ar- 
 rayed in garments suitable to his fortune, l)eing cu- 
 riously fringed and fangled by the hand of time; and 
 was helmeted with an old fragment of a hat, which 
 had acquired the shape of a sugar-loaf; and so far did 
 he carry his contempt for the adventitious distinction 
 of dress, that it is said the remnant of a shirt, which 
 covered his back, and dangled like a [HKket-handker- 
 chicf out of a hole in his breeches, was never washed, 
 except by the bountiful showers of heaven. In this 
 garb was he usually to be seen, sunning himself at 
 noon-day, with a heixl of philosophers of the same 
 sect, on the side of the great canal of Amsterdam. 
 Like your nobility of Europe, he took his name of 
 Kortlandt (or lack land) from his landed estate, which 
 lay somewhere in Terra Incognita. 
 
 Of the next of our worthies, might I have had the 
 benclit of mythological assistance, the want of which 
 I have just lamented, I should have made honourable 
 mention, as boasting equally illustrious pedigree with 
 the proudest hero of antiquity. His name was Van 
 Zandt, which being freely translated, signifies, from 
 the dirt, meaning, beyond a doubt, that like Tripto- 
 lemus, TItemis, the Cyclops, and the Titans, he sprang 
 from Dame Terra, or the earth ! This supposition is 
 strongly coiToborated by his size, for it is well known 
 that all the progeny of mother earth were of a gi- 
 gantic stature; and Van Zandt, we are told, was a 
 tall raw-boned man, almve six feet high — with an 
 astonishingly hard head. Nor is this origin of the 
 illustrious Van Zandt a whit more improbable or re- 
 pugnant to belief than what is related and univei'sally 
 admitted of certain of our greatest, or rather richest 
 men ; who, we are told with the utmost gravity, did 
 originally spring from a dunghill ! 
 
 Of the third hero but a faint description has reach- 
 ed to this time, which mentions that he was a sturdy, 
 obstinate, burly, bustling little man ; and from being 
 usually equipped with an old pair of buckskins, was 
 familiarly dubbed Harden Broeck, or Totigh Breeches. 
 
 Ten Broeck completed this junto of adventurers. 
 It Is a singular but ludicrous fact, which, were I not 
 
 scnipnions in recording the whole truth, 1 1 
 most be tempted to pass over in silence, as inc 
 tible with the gravity and dignity of history, that j 
 worthy gentleman should likewise have been j 
 named from the most whimsical part of his dreas, 
 fact, the small-clothes seems to have been a veryg 
 portant garment in the eyes of our venerated an 
 tors, owing in all probability to its really bein;'ii 
 largest article of raiment among them. The i 
 of Ten Broeck, or Tin Broeck, is indilTerenlly traj 
 lated into Ten Breeches and Tin Breeches— tlie |J 
 Dutch commentators incline to the former upinjn 
 and ascribe it to his being the first who inlrodui 
 into the settlement the ancient Dutch fashion of wg 
 ing ten pair of breeclics. But the most elegant) 
 ingenious writers on the subject declare ui favoutj 
 Tin, or rather Thin Breeches; from whence i 
 infer that he was a poor, but merry rogue, who$e«i 
 ligaskins were none of the soundest, and who wasil 
 identical author of that truly philosophical slaiua- 
 
 " Tlieii why slinultl wc quarrel for riclies, 
 
 t)r any sucli gtitturin^' toys ? 
 A liglit Iirart and lliin pair of breeches 
 
 Will gu Ihruugli tlic world, iiiy brave boys \ " 
 
 Such was the gallant junto chosen to conduct li 
 voyage into unknown realms, and the whole wasji 
 under the superintending care and direction of ( 
 Van Kortlandt, who was held in great revere 
 among the sages of Conimunipaw, for the varitlyi 
 darkness of his knowledge. Having, as I befoni^ 
 served, passed a great part of his life in the open a 
 among the peripatetic philosophers of Amster(laiii,|| 
 had become amazingly well acquainted with the( 
 peel of the heavens, and could as accurately deten 
 when a storm was brewuig, or a squall rising, nl 
 dutiful husband can foresee, from the brow oflf 
 spouse, when a tempest is gathering al)out liise 
 He was moreover a great seer of ghosts and guU 
 and a firm believer in omens; but what especiallrij 
 commended him to public conllilence was his man 
 lous talent at dreaming, for there never was anvil 
 of consequence happened at Conimunipaw butvkj 
 he declared he had previously dreamt it; being oh| 
 those infallible prophets, who always predict evo 
 after they ha> i come tc pass. 
 
 This supernatural gift was as highly valued am 
 the burghers of Pavonia as it was among the enli^ 
 ened nations of antiquity . The wise Ulysses was n 
 indebted to his sleeping than his waking niomeiilsf 
 all his subtle achievements, and seldom under! 
 any great exploit without first soundly sleeping u 
 it; and the same may truly be said of the good^l 
 Kortlandt, who was thence aptly denominated C 
 the Dreamer. 
 
 This cautious commander having chosen thee 
 that should accompany him in the protmsed eipi 
 tion, exhorted them to repair to their homes, tal^ 
 good night's rest, settle all family affairs, andt 
 their wills, before departing on this voyage inio^ 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 129 
 
 own realms. And indeed this Inst was a precan- 
 always taken by our forefathers, even in after- 
 
 nes, when they bec<ime more adventnroiis, and 
 Laged to Ilaverstraw, or Kaatskill, or (ii'oodt Eso- 
 L or any other far country that lay beyond the great 
 bters of the Tap()aan Zee. 
 
 . > CHAPTER IV. 
 
 r the Heroes of Communipaw voyajced to llcll-Gatc, and how 
 they were received llicre. 
 
 I And now the rosy blush of morn began to mantle in 
 eeasl,and soon the risingsun, emerging from amidst 
 
 ^den and puqile clouds, shed his blithesome rays on 
 I tin weathercocks of Communipaw. It was that 
 
 Vicious season of the year when nature, breaking 
 
 I the chilling thraldom of old winter, like a bloom- 
 
 5 damsel from the tyranny of a sordid old father, 
 
 «\v herself, blushing with ten thousand charms, 
 
 |lo llie arms of youthful spring. Every tufled copse 
 1 blooming grove resounded with the notes of hy- 
 
 Jeneal love. The very insects, as they sipped the 
 
 Iff that gemmed the tender grass of the meadows, 
 
 |ned in the joyous epithalamium— the virgin bud 
 ^idiy put forth its blushes, " the voice of the turtle 
 
 I iieaid in the land," and the heart of man dis- 
 Ivedaway in tenderness. Oh ! sweet Theocritus ! 
 
 I I Ihine oaten reed, wherewith thou erst didst 
 |armlhegay Sicilian plains— Or oh ! gentle Bion! 
 (•pastoral pipe, wherein the happy swains of the 
 
 jsbian isle so much delighted, then might I attempt 
 [sing, in soft Bucolic or negligent Idyllium, the rural 
 laulies of the scene — but having nothing, save this 
 1 goose-quill, wherewith to wing my flight, I 
 bst fain resign all poetic disportings of the fancy, 
 1 pursue my narrative in humble prose; comforting 
 kself with the hope, that though it may not steal so 
 [eelly upon the imagination of my reader, yet may 
 nmmend itself with virgin modesty to his better 
 ji^ent, clothed in the chaste and simple garb of 
 jilli. 
 
 INo sooner did the first rays of cheerful Phoebus 
 
 Jrl into the windows of Communipaw than the little 
 
 lllemeiit was all in motion. Forth issued from his 
 
 pie the sage Van Kortlandt, and seizing a conch 
 
 ell, blew a far-resounding blast, that soon summon- 
 
 I all his lusty followers. Then did they trudge 
 
 ioiulely down to the water-side, escorted by a mid- 
 
 |nde of relatives and friends, who all went down, as 
 
 t common phrase expresses it, "to see them off." 
 
 kI this shows the antiquity of those long family 
 
 ■essions, often seen in our city, composed of all 
 
 Jfs, sizes and sexes, laden with bimdies and band- 
 
 Jxes, escorting some bevy of country cousins, about 
 
 art for home in a market-boat. 
 
 riie good Oloffe bestowed his forces in a squadron 
 
 llhree canoes, and hoisted his flag on board a little 
 
 find Dutch boat, shaped not unlike a tub, which 
 
 I formerly been the jolly-l)oatof the Goede Vrouw. 
 
 # 
 
 And now, all being embarked, they bade farewel to 
 the gazing throng upon the beach, who contin I 
 shouting after them, even when out of hcariii:,', w li- 
 ing them a happy voyage, advising them to lake good 
 care of themselves, not to get drowned— with an 
 abundance of such-like sage and invaluable cautions, 
 generally given by landsmen to such as go down to 
 the sea in ships, and adventure upon the deep waters. 
 In the mean while the voyagers cheerily urged their 
 course across the crystal bosom of the bay, and soon 
 left Itebind them the green shores of ancient Pavonia. 
 
 And first they touched at two small islands which 
 lie nearly opposite Communipaw, and which are said 
 to have been brought into existence about the time of 
 the great irruption of the Hudson, when it broke 
 through the Highlands and made its way to the ocean.' 
 For in this tremendous uproar of the waters, we are 
 told that many huge fragments of rock and land were 
 rent from the mountains and swept down by this run- 
 away river for sixty or seventy miles; where some 
 of them ran aground on the shoals just opposite Com- 
 munipaw, and formed the identical islands in que.>> 
 tion, while others drifted out to sea, and were never 
 heard of more ! A suflicient proof of the fact is, that 
 the rock which forms the bases of these islands is 
 exactly similar to that of the Highlands; and moreover 
 one of our philosophers, who has diligently compared 
 the agreement of their respective surfaces, has even 
 gone so far as to assure me, in confidence, that Gibbet 
 Island was originally nothing more nor less tlian a 
 wart on Anthony's nose.* 
 
 Leaving these wonderful little isles, they next coast- 
 ed by Governor's Island, since terrible from its frown- 
 ing fortress and grinning batteries. They would by 
 no means, however, land upon this island, since they 
 doubted nuich it might be the abode of demons and 
 spirits, which in those days did greatly alMund 
 throughout this savage and pagan country. 
 
 Just at this time a shoal of jolly porpoises came 
 rolling and tumbling by, turning up their sleek sides 
 to the sun, and spouting up the briny element in 
 sparkling showers. No sooner did the sage Oloffe 
 mark this than he was greatly rejoiced. "This," 
 exclaimed he, "if I mistake not, augurs well— the 
 porpoise is a fat, well-conditionetl fish — a burgo- 
 master among fishes — his looks betoken ease, plenty, 
 and prosperity — I do greatly admire this round fat fish, 
 and doubt not but this is a happy omen of the suc- 
 cess of our undertaking." So saying, he directed his 
 
 > It is a matter long since cstablislicd by certain of our plillo- 
 sopliere, lliat is to say, liavius been ofleu advanced, and never 
 contradicted, it has grown to be prcUy nigh equal to a settled fact, 
 that tlie lliulson was originally a lake, dammed up by the nmun- 
 lains of the Highlands. In process of time, however, lieconiing 
 very mighty anil obstreiMuous, and the mountains waxing pursy, 
 droiisical, and weak in Uie back, by reason of their extreme old 
 age, it suddenly ii)se upon them, and after a violent slruggle ctfecl- 
 cd its esca[ie. This is said to have come to pass in vay remote 
 time, probably before that rivers had lost llic art of running up 
 hill. The foi-egoing is a theory in which I do not prelemi to be 
 skilled, notwithstanding that 1 do fully give it my belief. 
 
 ' A promontory in the liighlamls. 
 
 \7 
 
 ??!&■■ 
 
430 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Iff 
 
 t:: 
 
 sqaadron to steer in the track of these alderman fishes. 
 
 Turning, therefore, directly to the left, they swept 
 up the strait, vulgarly called the East River. And 
 here the rapid tide which courses through this strait, 
 seizing on the gallant tub in which Commodore Van 
 Korllandt had embarked, hurried it forward with a 
 velocity unparalleled in a Dutch boat navigated by 
 Dutchmen; insomuch that the good commodore, who 
 had all his life long been accustomed only to the 
 drowsy navigation of canals, was more than ever con- 
 vinced that they were in the hands of some superna- 
 tural power, and that the jolly porpoises were towing 
 them to some fair haven that was to fulfil all their 
 wishes and expectations. 
 
 Thus borne away by the resistless current, they 
 doubled that boisterous point of land, since called 
 Corlear's Hook,' and leaving to the right the rich 
 winding cove of the Wallabont, they drifted into a 
 magnificent expanse of water, surrounded by pleasant 
 shores, whose verdure was exceedingly refreshing 
 to the eye. While the voyagers were looking around 
 them, on what they conceived to be a serene and 
 sunny lake, they beheld at a distance a crew of paint- 
 ed savages, busily employed in fishuig, who seemeil 
 more like the genii of this romantic region — their 
 slender canoe lightly balanced like a feather on the 
 undulating surface of the bay. 
 
 At sight of these the hearts of the heroes of Com- 
 munipaw w^ere not a little troubled. But as good 
 fortune would have it, at the bow of the commodore's 
 boat was stationed a very valiant man, named Hen- 
 drick Kip (which being interpreted means chicken, a 
 name given him in token of his courage). No sooner 
 did he behold these varlet heathens than he trembled 
 with excessive valour, and although a good half mile 
 distant, he seized a musquetoon that lay at hand, and 
 turning away his head, fired it most intrepidly in the 
 face of the blessed sun. The blundering weapon 
 recoiled, and gave the valiant Kip an ignominious 
 kick, that laid him prostrate with uplifted heels in 
 the bottom of the boat. But such was the effect of 
 this tremendous fire, that the wild men of the woods, 
 struck with consternation, seized hastily upon their 
 paddles, and shot away into one of the deep inlets of 
 the Long Island shore. 
 
 This signal victory gave new spirits to the hardy 
 voyagers, and in honour of the achievement they gave 
 the name of the valiant Kip to the surrounding bay, 
 and it has continued to be called Kip's Bay from 
 that time to the present. The heart of the good 
 Van Korllandt— who, having no land of his own, 
 was a great admirer of other people's — expanded at 
 the sumptuous prospect of rich unsettled country 
 around him, and falling into a delicious reverie, he 
 straightway began to riot in the possession of vast 
 meadows of salt marsh and interminable patches of 
 cabbages. From this delectable vision he was all at 
 once awakened by the sudden turning of the tide, 
 
 • Properly Kpelt hoeck ( U e. a point ot land ). 
 
 which wouM soon have hurried him from this Um 
 of promise, had not the discreet navigator given ml 
 nal to steer for shore; where they accordingly lan(U| 
 hard by the rocky heights of Bellevue — tliat ban 
 retreat, where our jolly aldermen eat for the goodj 
 the city, and fatten the turtle that are sacriliced nl 
 civic solemnities. 
 
 Here, seate<I on the green sward, by the side of J 
 small stream that ran sparkling among the grass, thHl 
 refreshed themselves after the toils of the seas, m 
 feasting lustily on the ample stores which they I 
 provided for this perilous voyage. Thus having «J 
 fortified their deliberative powers, they fell intoal 
 earnest consultation what was further to be doati 
 This was the first council-dinner ever eaten at Bdl^| 
 vue by Christian burgliei's, and here, as tradition c 
 lates, did originate the great family feud between U 
 Hardenbroecks and the Tenbroecks, which 
 wards had a singular influence on the building of i| 
 city. The sturdy Uardenbroeck, whose eyes I 
 been wondrously delighted with the salt marshes t 
 spread their reeking bosoms along the coast, aid 
 bottom of Kip's Bay, counselled by all means to!»| 
 turn thither, and found the intended city. This i 
 strenuously opposed by the unbending Ten Bn 
 and many testy arguments passed between 
 The particulars of this controversy have not rea 
 us, which is ever to be lamented ; this much isc 
 tain, that the sage Oloffc put an end to the dispi 
 by determining to explore still farther in the i 
 which the mysterious porpoises had so clearly | 
 ed out — whereupon the sturdy Tough Breeches a 
 duned the expedition, took possession of a neighln 
 ing hill, and in a fit of great wrath peopled ail I 
 tract of country, which has continued to be inhal 
 by the Hardenbroecks unto this very day. 
 
 By this time the jolly Pluebus, like some waul 
 urchin sporting on the side of a green hill, beginlj 
 roll down the declivity of the heavens ; and now, tl 
 tide having once more turned iu their favour, then 
 solute Pavonians again committed themselves lo il| 
 discretion, and coasting along the western shoi 
 were borne towards the straits of BlackweH'sl 
 land. 
 
 And here the capricious wanderings of the cun 
 occasioned not a little marvel and peiplexity tothi 
 illustrious mariners. INow would they be cauglilkj 
 the wanton eddies, and, sweeping round a ju 
 point, would wind deep into some romantic I 
 cove, that indented the fair island of Manna-had 
 now were they hurried narrowly by the very \m^ 
 impending rocks, mantled with the flaunting j 
 vine, and crowned with groves that threw a I 
 shade on the waves beneath ; and anon they vi^ 
 borne away into the mid-channel, and wafted ', 
 with a rapidity that very much discomposed tlies 
 Van Kortlandt, who, as he saw the land swiftly ' 
 ceding on either side, began exceedingly to doi 
 that terra firma was giving them the slip. 
 
 Wherever the voyagei-s turned their eyes, a i 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 131 
 
 (tion seemed to bloom around. No signs of hu- 
 
 tn thrift appeared to check the delicious wildness of 
 
 iiture, who here revelled in all her luxuriant variety. 
 
 ! hills now bristled, like the fretful porcupine. 
 
 lith rows of poplars, (vain upstart plants ! minions of 
 
 lealth and fashion !) were then adorned with the vi- 
 
 Inrous natives of the soil; the lordly oak, the generous 
 
 snut, the graceful elm— while here and there the 
 
 L|ip-tree reared his majestic head, the giant of the 
 
 It.— Where now are seen the gay retreats of 
 
 xury— villas lialf buried in twilight-bowers, whence 
 
 > amorous flute oft breathes the sighings of some 
 
 llyswain — there the fish-hawk built his solitary nest, 
 
 isome dry tree that overlooked his watery domain. 
 
 be timid deer fed undisturbed along those shores 
 
 U hallowed by the lover's moonlight walk, and 
 
 [inted by the slender foot of beauty ; and a savage 
 
 Uilude extended over those happy regions, where 
 
 |)ff are reared the stalely towers of the Joneses, the 
 
 bermerhornes, and the Rhinelandei's. 
 
 JTlius gliding in silent wonder through these new 
 
 I unknown scenes, the gallant s(|uadron of Pavonia 
 
 Ireplby the foot of a promontory, that strutted forth 
 
 Udly into the waves and seemed to frown upon them 
 
 I they brawled against its base. This is the bluff 
 
 jell known to modem mariners by the name ofGra- 
 
 e's Point, from the fair castle, which, like anele- 
 
 i?nt, it carries upon its back. And here broke upon 
 
 [eirview a wild and varied prospect, where land 
 
 crater were beauteously intermingled, as though 
 
 |ey had coir-bined to heighten and set off each other's 
 
 larms. To the right lay the sedgy point of Rlack- 
 
 jtll's Island, dressed in the fresh garniture of living 
 
 «n— beyond it stretched the pleasant coast of 
 
 dswtch, and the small harbour well known by 
 
 t name of Ilallett's cove — a place infamous in latter 
 
 lys, by reason of its being the haunt of pirates who 
 
 H$t these seas, robbing orchards and water-melon 
 
 pes, and insulting gentlemen -navigators, when 
 
 paging in their pleasure-boats. To the left a deep 
 
 |y, or rather creek, gracefully receded between 
 
 ves fringed with forests, and forming a kind of vis- 
 
 [ llirough which were beheld the sylvan regions of 
 
 lierlem, Morrissania, and East-Chester. Here the 
 
 t reposetl with delight on a richly-wooded country, 
 
 kersified by tufted knolls, shadowy intervals, and 
 
 king lines of upland, swelling above each other; 
 
 jiile over the whole the purple mists of spring dif- 
 
 I a hue of soft voluptuousness. 
 jiust before them the grand course of the stream 
 ^king a sudden bend, wound among embowered 
 ontories and shores of emerald verdure, that 
 I to melt into the wave. A character of gentle- 
 and mild fertility prevailed around. The sun 
 I just descended, and the thin haze of twilight, 
 e a transparent veil drawn over the bosom of virgin 
 kuty, heightened the charms which it half con- 
 
 m. 
 
 i^h! witching scenes of foul delusion ! Ah! hapless 
 b'lgers, gazing with simple wonder on these Cir- 
 
 cean shores! Such, alas! are they, poor easy souls, 
 who listen to the seductions of a wicked world — 
 treacherous are its smiles ! fatal its caresses ! He who 
 yields to its enticements launches npon a whelming 
 tkle, and trusts his feeble bark among the dimpling 
 eddies of a whirlpool ! And thus it fared with tlie 
 worthies of Pavonia, who, little mistrusting the guile- 
 ful scene before them, drifted quietly on, until they 
 were aroused by an uncommon tossing and agitation 
 of their vessels. For now the late dimpling current 
 began to brawl around them, and the waves to boil 
 and foam with horrific fury. Awakened as if from a 
 dream, the astonisheil Oloffe bawled aloud to put 
 about — but his words were lost amid the roaring of 
 the waters. And now ensued a scene of direful con- 
 sternation — at one time they were Iwrne with dread- 
 ful velocity among tumultuous breakers, at anotlier 
 hurried down boisterous rapids. Now they were 
 nearly dashed upon the Hen and Chickens; (infamous 
 rocks ! — more voracious than Scylla and her whelps) 
 and anon they seemed sinking into yawning gulfs, 
 that threatened to entomb them beneath the waves. 
 All the elements combined to produce a hideous con- 
 fusion. The waters raged— the winds howled — and 
 as they were hurried along, several of the astonished 
 mariners beheld the rocks and trees of the neighbom:- 
 ing shores driving through the air! 
 
 At length the mighty tub of Commodore Van Kort- 
 landt was drawn into the vortex of that tremendous 
 wbiripool called the Pot, where it was whirled about 
 in giddy mazes, until the senses of the good command- 
 er and bis crew were overpowered by the horror of 
 the scene and the strangeness of the revolution. 
 
 How the gallant squadron of Pavonia was snatched 
 from the jaws of this modern Charybdis has never 
 been truly made known, for so many survived to tell 
 the tale, and, what is still more wonderful, told it in 
 so many different ways, that there has ever prevailed 
 a great variety of opinions on tlie subject. 
 
 As to the commodore and his crew, when they 
 came to their senses they found themselves stranded 
 on the Long Island shore. The worthy commodore, 
 indeed, used to relate many and wonderful stories of 
 his adventures in this time of peril; how that he saw 
 spectres flying in the air, and heard the yelling of 
 hobgoblins, and put his hand into the Pot when they 
 were whirled around, and found the water scalding 
 hot, and beheld several uncouth-looking beings seat- 
 ed on rocks and skimming it with huge ladles — but 
 particularly he declared with great exultation, that he 
 saw the losel porpoises, which had betrayed them into 
 this peril, some broiling on the Gridiron, aud others 
 hissing in the Fryingpan! 
 
 These, however, were considered by many as mere 
 phantasies of the commodore's imagination, while he 
 lay in a trance; especially as be was known to be 
 given to dreaming; and the truth of them has never 
 been clearly ascertained. It is certain, however, that 
 to the accounts of Olofl'e and his followiers may be 
 traced the various traditions handed down of this 
 
15^ 
 
 IIISTOUY OF NEW-YOUK. 
 
 n 
 
 I ) 
 
 inanellous strah— as how llie devil has been seen 
 thei'e, silling astriile of the Hog's Bacli and playing 
 on the (iddle — liow he broils lisli there before a storm; 
 and many otlier stories, in wliicli we must lie cautious 
 of putting too much faith. In conse(|uence of all 
 these terrific circumstances, tlie Pavonian commander 
 gave this pass the name of Helle-gat, or, as it has 
 been interpreted, Ilell-gate: ' which it continues to 
 bear at the present day. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 now the Heroes of Conimunipaw returned wmewhat wiser than 
 Ihcy went— and huw the sage OlofTe dreamed a dream— and 
 (he drcoin that lie dreamed. 
 
 The darkness of night had closed upon this disas- 
 trous day, and a doleful night was it to the ship- 
 wrecked Pavonians, whose ears were incessantly as- 
 sailed with the raging of the elements, and the howling 
 of the hobgoblins that infested this perfidious strait. 
 But when the morning dawned, the horrors of the 
 preceding evening had passed away; rapids, break- 
 ers, and whirlpools had disappeared; the stream again 
 ran smooth and dimpling, and having changed its 
 tide, rolled gently back towards the quarter where 
 lay their much-regretted home. 
 
 The woe-begone heroes of Communipaw eyed each 
 other with rueful countenances; their squadron had 
 been totally dispersed by the late disaster. Some 
 were cast upon the western shore, where, headed by 
 one Kuleff Hopper, they took possession of all the 
 country lying about the six mile-stone; which is held 
 by the Hoppers at this present writing. 
 
 The VValdrons were driven by stress of weather to 
 a distant coast, where, having with them a jug of 
 genuine Hollands, tliey were enabled to conciliate 
 the savages, selling up a kind of tavern; from whence, 
 it is said, did spring the fair town of Haerlem, in 
 M'hich their descendants have ever since continued to 
 be reputable publicans. As to the Suydams, they 
 were thrown upon the Long-Island coast, and may 
 still be found in those parts. But the most singular 
 luck attended the great Ten Broeck, who, falling 
 overboard, was miraculously preserved from sinking 
 by the multitude of his nether garments. Thus 
 buoyed up, he floated on the waves, like a merman, 
 
 • This is a narrow strait in the Sound, at tlie distance of six 
 miius above Kew-Yorl(. It is dangerous to shipping, uidess under 
 the care of slvilful pilots, by reason of numerous i-oclis, shelves, 
 and whiripoots. These have received sundry apiiellations, such 
 as the Gridiron^ Fryhigpan, Hog's Back , Pot, elc. and are very 
 violent and turbulent at certain times of tide. Certain wise men 
 who instruct these modern days ha', j softened tlie above charac- 
 teristic name into Hurl-gale, which means nothing. I leave them 
 to give their own etymology. The name as given by our author 
 is supiKjrted by the map in Vander IX)ncli.'8 history, publislied in 
 I6ji(i— by Ogilvc's Hintury of America, 1671— as also by a jownal 
 still extant, written in the 16th wntury, and to be found in Hazard's 
 State Papers. And an old IHS. written in French, speaking of 
 various alterations in names about this city, observes "Ue Helle- 
 gal, ti-on d'Eufer, lis ont bit Hell-gate, Porte d'Enfer." 
 
 until he landed safely on a rock, where he wag I 
 the next morning busily drying his many breechtsi 
 the sunshine. 
 
 I forbear to treat of the long consultation of onrj 
 venturers — how they determined that it would i 
 do to found a cily in this diabolical neighboiirho 
 and how at length, with fear and trembling, 
 ventured once more upon the briny element, j 
 steered their course back for Conununipaw. SuQ 
 it, in simple brevity, to say, that after loiliti;,' I 
 through the scenes of their yesterday's voyage, i 
 at length opened the southern point of Manna-I 
 and gained a distant view of their beloved Cuaii 
 nipaw. 
 
 And here they were opposed by an obstinate < 
 that resisted all (he efforts of the exliausted marin 
 Weary and dispirited, they could no longer i 
 head against the power of the tide, or rather, ass 
 will have it, of old INeptune, who, anxious to jnj 
 them to a spot, whereon should be founded his sir 
 hold in this western world, sent half a score of i 
 tent billows, that rolled tlie tub of Commodore V^ 
 Kortlandt high and dry on the shores of Manna- 
 
 Havuig thus in a manner been guided by sup 
 tural power to this delightful island, their first e 
 was to light a fire at the foot of a large tree, t 
 stood upon the point at present called the Ball 
 Then gathering together great store of oysters vbjj 
 abounded on the shore, and emptying the conte 
 of their wallets, they prepared and made a sumpia 
 council repast. The worthy Van Kortlandt wati 
 served to be particularly zealous in his devolionij 
 the trencher; for having the cares of the exp 
 especially committed to his care, he deemed itio 
 bent on him to eat profoundly for the public j 
 In proportion as he filled himself to the very I 
 with the dainty viands before him, did the heart j 
 this excellent burgher rise up towards his lliroal,i 
 til he seAiied crammed and aUnost choked will 
 eating and good-nature. And at sudi limes ilij 
 when a man's heart is in his throat, that he niayi 
 truly be said to speak from il, and his speeches a 
 with kindness and good fellowship. Thus the m 
 Oloffe having swallowed the last possible n)orsel,i^ 
 wasiied it down with a fervent potation, feltiiisli 
 yearning, and his whole frame in a manner ( 
 with unbounded benevolence. Every thing an 
 him seemed excellent and delightful ; and, layiii;l| 
 hands on each side of his capacious periphery, i 
 rolling his half-closed eyes around on the bead 
 diversity of land and water before hiui, he exclain 
 in a fat half smothered voice, "What a chan 
 prospect ! " The words died away in his tiiroal-l 
 seemed to ponder on the fair scene for a niomeilj 
 his eyelids heavily closed over their orbs— his I 
 drooped upon his bosom-^he slowly sunk upooj 
 green turf, and a deep sleep stole gradually i 
 him. 
 
 And the sage Oloffe dreamed a dream— andlu,! 
 good St. Nicholas came riding over the tups off 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 155 
 
 in that self same waggon wherein he brings 
 
 ] yearly presents to ciiildren; and he came and de- 
 
 ludeti liard by where the lieroes of Communipaw 
 
 I made tlieir late re|>a8t. And tlie shkc?;'! V^an 
 
 rtiaiult linew liim by his broad hat, liLs long pipe, 
 
 I ttie n'seniblance which he bore to the figure on 
 
 I uuw of the Goede Vrouw. And he lit his pipe 
 
 ] Ike fire, and sat himself down and smoked; and 
 
 |be sniuiceil, the smolvc from his pipe ascended into 
 
 air, and spread like a cloud o\ ?r head. And 
 
 jofTe bethought him, and he hastenetl and climbed 
 
 I to the top of one of the tallest trees, and saw that 
 
 tsDwke spread over a great extent of country— 
 
 I as he considered it more attentively, he fancied 
 
 Lt the great volume of smoke assumed a variety of 
 
 vellous forms, where in dim obscurity be saw 
 
 (lowed out palaces and domes and lofty spires, all 
 
 ^ii lasted but a moment, and then faded away, 
 
 lil (he whole rolled off, and nothing but the green 
 
 I were left. And when St Nicholas had smok- 
 
 Ibispipe, he twisted it in his hatband, and laying 
 
 ) finger beside his nose, gave the astonished Van 
 
 Uandt a very signiticant look; then mounting 
 
 \ waggon, he returned over the tree tops and dLs- 
 
 leared. 
 
 j^iid Van Kortlandt awoke from his sleep greatly 
 
 hructcd, and he aroused his companions, and re- 
 
 \i U) them his dream ; and interpreted it, that it 
 
 tlie will of St INicholas ihat they should settle 
 
 m and build the city here and Ihat the smoke of 
 
 > pipe was a type how vast should be the extent of 
 
 ; city ; inasmuch as the volumes of its smoke should 
 
 ni over a wide extent of country. And they all 
 
 I one voice assented to this interpretation, except- 
 
 ; Mynheer Ten Broeck, who declared the meaning 
 
 |i)e, tliat it should be a city wherein a little lire 
 
 uld occasion a great smoke, or in other words, a 
 
 r vapouring little city— both which interpretations 
 
 ke strangely come to pass ! 
 
 [I'he great object of their perilous expedition, there- 
 
 «, being thus happily accomplisIi.ed, the voyagers 
 
 lumed merrily to Communipaw, where they were 
 
 «ived with great rejoicings- And here,^ calling a 
 
 jneral meeting of the wise men and the dignitaries 
 
 IPavonia, they related the whole history of their 
 
 Jage, and the dream of Oloffe Van Kortlandt. And 
 
 [people lifted up their voices and blessed the gooil 
 
 J Mcholas, and from that tune forth the sage Van 
 
 plandt was held in more honour than ever, for his 
 
 at talent at dreaming, and was pronounceil a most 
 
 [efiil citizen and a right good man-^wheu he was 
 
 «p. 
 
 CHAPTER \1. 
 
 niog an attempt at etymology— ami of the founding of tlie 
 great City of New-Amsterdam. 
 
 Fhe original name of the island wherein thesqna- 
 I of Communipaw was thus propitiously (brown 
 
 is a matter of some dispute, and lias already under- 
 gone considerable vitiation — a melancholy proof of the 
 instability of all sublunary things, and the vanity of 
 all our hopes of lasting fame; for who can expect his 
 name will live to |i08terity, when even the names of 
 mighty islands are thus soon lost in contradiction and 
 uncertauity I 
 
 The name most current at the present day, and 
 which is Ukewise countenanced by the great historian 
 Vander Donck, is Manhattan ; which is said to have 
 originated in a custom among the Squaws, in the 
 early settlement, of wearing men's hats, as is still 
 done among many tribes. " Hence," as we are told 
 by an old governor who was somewhat of a wag, and 
 flourished almost a century since, and had paid a visit 
 to the wits of Philadelphia, " Hence arose the appel- 
 lation of man-hat-on, first given to the Indians, and 
 afterwards to the island" — a stupid joke! — but well 
 enough for a governor. 
 
 Among the more venerable sources of information 
 on this subject, is that valuable history of the American 
 possessions, written by Master Richard Blome in 
 1G87, wherein it is called Manhadaes and Manaha- 
 nent; nor must I forget the excellent little book, full 
 of precious matter, of that authentic historian John 
 Josselyn, Gent, who expressly calls it Manadaes. 
 
 Another etymology still more ancient, and sanction- 
 ed by the countenance of our ever-to-be-lamented 
 Dutch ancestors, is that found in certain letters still 
 extant,' which passed between the early governoi-s 
 and their neighbouring powers, wherein it is called 
 indifferently Monhattoes — Munhatos and Manhattoes, 
 wluch are evidently unimportant variations of the 
 same name; for our wise forefathers set little store 
 by those niceties either ui orthography or orthoepy, 
 which form the sole study and ambition of many 
 learned men and women of this hypercritical age. 
 This last name is said to be derived from the great 
 Indian spirit Manetho; who was supposed to make 
 tliis is>laiid his favourite abode, on account of its un- 
 common delights. For the Indian traditions afTirni 
 that the bay was once a translucid lake, filled with 
 silver and golden fish, in the midst of wliich lay this 
 beautiful island, covered with every variety of fruits 
 and Howei-s: but that the sudden irruption of the 
 Hudson laid waste these blissful scenes, and Manetho 
 took his flight beyond the great waters of Onlurio. 
 
 These, however, are fabulous legends, to which 
 very cautious credence must be given ; and although 
 I am willing to admit the last quoted orthography of 
 the name as very suitable for prose, yet is there an- 
 other one founded on still more ancient and indisput- 
 able authority, which I particularly delight in, seeing 
 that it is at once poetical, melodious, and significant 
 — and this is recorded in the before-mentioned voyage 
 of the great Hudson, written by Master Juet ; who 
 clearly and correctly calls it Manna-iiata -uvii » i^ 
 say, the island of Manna, or in other wo** <»: -- r, /..<it<l 
 flowing with milk and honey ! " 
 
 • Vid. Uazanl's Got. Stat. Pap. 
 
134 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 It Iiaving been solemnly resolved that tlie seat of 
 empire sliouid be transferred from the green shores 
 of Pavonia to tliis delectable island, a vast multitude 
 embarked, and migrated across the mouth of the 
 Hudson, under the guidance of Oloffe llie Dreamer, 
 who was appointed protector or patron to the new 
 settlement. 
 
 And here let me bear testimony to the matchless 
 honesty and magnanimity of our worthy forefalhere, 
 who purchased the soil of the native Indians before 
 erecting a single roof; a circumstance singular and 
 almost incredible in the annals of discovery and colo- 
 nization. 
 
 The first settlement was made on the southwest 
 point of the island, on the very spot where the good 
 St iNicholas had appeared in the dream. Here they 
 built a mighty and impregnable fort and trading- 
 house, called FoKT Amstkruam, which stood on that 
 eminence at present occupied by the custom-house, 
 with the open space now called the bowling-green in 
 front. 
 
 Around this potent fortress was soon seen a nume- 
 rous progeny of little Dutch houses, with tiled roofs, 
 all which seemed most lovingly to nestle under its 
 walls, like a brood of half-fledged chickens sheltered 
 under the wings of the mother hen. The whole was 
 surrounded by an inclosure of strong palisadoes, to 
 guard against any sudden irruption of the savages, 
 who wandered in hordes about the swamps and fo- 
 rests that extended over those tracts of country at pre- 
 sent called Broadway, Wall-street, William-street, 
 and Pearl-street. 
 
 No sooner was the colony once planted than it took 
 root, and throve amazingly; for it would seem that 
 this thrice-favoured island is like a munificent dung- 
 hill, where eveiy foreign weed finds kindly nou- 
 rishment, and soon shoots up and expands to great- 
 ness. 
 
 And now the infant settlement having advanced 
 in age and stature, it was thought higii time it should 
 receive an honest Christian name, and it was accord- 
 ingly called New-Amstebdam. It is true there were 
 seme advocates for the original Indian name, and 
 many of the l)est writers of the province did long 
 continue to call it by the title of " The Manhattoes; " 
 but this was discountenanced by the authorities, as 
 being heathenish anil savage. Besides, it was consi- 
 dered an excellent and ftraiseworthy measure to name 
 it after a great city of the old world ; as by that means 
 it was induced to emulate the greatness and renown 
 of its namesake— in the manner that little snivelling 
 urchins are called after great statesmen, saints, and 
 worthies, and renowned generals of yore, upon which 
 they all industriously copy their examples, and come 
 lo be very mighty nici In their day and generation. 
 
 1'he thriving slate of the selllement, and the rapid 
 increase of houses, gradually awakened the good 
 Oloffe from a deep lethargy, into which he had fallen 
 alter the building of the fort. He now l)egan to think 
 it was lime some plan should be devised, on which 
 
 the increasing town should be built. Sumn 
 therefore, his counsellors and coadjutors logd 
 tliey took pipe in mouth, and forthwith sunk ioi 
 vei-y sound deliberation on the subject. 
 
 At the very outset of the business an une.v 
 difference of opinion arose, and I mention it withn 
 sorrowing, as being the first altercation on recon|| 
 the councils of New-Amslenlam. It was a breati 
 forth of the grudge and heart-burning that had eq 
 ed Iwtween those two eminent burghers, Mynhi 
 Tenbroeck and Hardenbroeck, ever since their g 
 happy altercation on the coast of Bellevue. Tliea 
 Hardenbroeck had waxed very wealthy and pom 
 ful, from his domains, which embraced the ' 
 chain of Apulean mountains that stretched 
 the gulf of Kip's Bay, and from part of wliichlj 
 descendants have been expelled in latter ages, by t 
 powerful clans of the Joneses and the Sciiei 
 liornes. 
 
 An ingenious plan for the city was offered bylllj 
 beer Tenbroeck, who proposed that it should k'i 
 up and intersected by canals, after the manner olij 
 most admired cities in Holland. To this Myii 
 Hardenbroeck was diametrically opjwsed, sugges 
 in place thereof, that they should run out duckii 
 wharfs, by means of piles, driven into the botloii| 
 the river, on which the town should be built, 
 these means, said he triumphantly, shall we restnl 
 considerable space of territory from these imm 
 rivers, and build a city that shall rival Amslenl 
 Venice, or any amphibious city in Europe. Tol 
 proposition, Ten Broeck (or Ten Breeches) repi 
 witli a look of as much scorn as be could possiblj J 
 sume. He cast the utmost censure upon the \M 
 his antagonist, as being preposterous, and iigainmiif 
 very order of things, as he would leave to eveiylt 
 Hollander. " For what," said he, " is a towiu 
 out canals ? — it is like a body without veins andi 
 ries, and must perish for want of a free circulali(«| 
 the vital fluid."— Tough Breeches, on the conlii 
 retorted with a sarcasm ui>on his antagonist, wlioi 
 somewhat of an arid, dry-buned habit : he remariej 
 that as to the circulation of the blood being neo 
 to existence. Mynheer Ten Breeches wasa livinga 
 tradiction to bis own assertion; fur every body liH 
 there had not a drop of blood circulated thruiighlj 
 wind-drieil carcass for good ten years, and yetll 
 was not a greater busy body in the whole cold 
 Personalities have seldom much effect in making fl 
 verts in argument — nor have I ever seen a mano 
 vinced of error by being convicted of deformity, 
 least such was nut the case at present. Ten Mm 
 was very acrunonious in reply, and Tougli Bren 
 who was a sturdy little man, and never f;avej 
 the last word, rejoined with increasing s|iii'it-Tl 
 Breeches had the advantage of the greatest \o\m^ 
 but 'J'ough Breeches bad that invaluable coalufii 
 in argument called obstinacy — Ten Breeches I 
 therefore, the most mettle, but 'J'ough llreeelifsil 
 best bottom— so that though Ten Breeches mim 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 m 
 
 le, "is a town? 
 
 Ldful clattering abont his ears, and battered and 
 
 Lboiircd him with hanl words and sound ar^u- 
 
 hls, yet Tuiigh Hreeches hung on most resohilely 
 
 Ihe last. Tliey parted, llierefore, as is usual in 
 
 larniments where both parties are in the right, 
 
 out coming to any conclusion — hut they hated 
 
 1 other most heartily for ever after, and a simi- 
 
 «ach with that between the houses of Capulet 
 
 k Montague did ensue between the families of Ten 
 
 dies and Tough Breeches. 
 
 Iwould not fatigue my reader with these dull mat- 
 
 j of fact, but that my duty as a faithful historian 
 
 jiires that I should be particular— and in truth, as 
 
 unovv treating of the critical period, when our city, 
 
 I a young twig, fu'st received the twists and turns 
 
 Ihave since contributed to give it the present pic- 
 
 (lue irregularity for which it is celebrated, I can- 
 
 Ibetoo minute in detailing their first causes. 
 
 jflerthe unhappy altercation I have just mentioned, 
 
 I not liiul that any thing further was said on the 
 
 kect worthy of being nxorded. The council, con- 
 
 ngofthe largest and oldest heads in the commu- 
 
 \, met regularly oncea-week , to ponder on this mo- 
 
 blous subject. But either they were deterred by 
 
 |»ar of words they had witnessed, or they were 
 
 Irally averse to the exercise of the tongue, and 
 
 jcoiiseqiient exercise of the brains — certain it is, 
 
 Imost profound silence was maintained— the ques- 
 
 |as usual lay on the table — the nieml)ers quietly 
 
 M their pipes, making but few laws, without 
 
 [enforcing any, and in the mean time the affairs 
 
 be settlement went on— as it pleased God. 
 
 Is most of the council were but little skilled in the 
 
 ]tery of combming pot-books and hangers, they 
 
 niiied most judiciously not to puzzle either them- 
 
 I or posterity with voluminous records. The 
 
 [elary, however, kept the minutes of the council 
 
 1 tolerable precision, in a large vellum folio, fast- 
 
 I with massy brass clasps : the journal of each 
 
 king consisted but of two lines, stating in Dutch, 
 
 ] " the council sat this day, and smoked twelve 
 
 \s, on the affairs of the colony." By which it ap- 
 
 stliat the iii-st settlers did not regulate their lime 
 
 ours, but pipes, in the same manner as they mea- 
 
 '. distances in Holland at this very lime ; an ad- 
 
 kbly exact measurement, as a pipe in the mouth 
 
 llriie-born Dutchman is never liable to those acci- 
 
 Isand irregularities that are continually putting 
 
 Iclocks out of order. 
 
 1 this manner did the profound council of New- 
 kTERUAM smoke, and doze, and ponder, from week 
 leek, month to month, and year to year, in what 
 jiier they should construct their infant settlement 
 leanwhile, the town took care of itself, and like a 
 j(ly brat which is suffered to run about wild, un- 
 pled by clouts and lundages, and other abomina- 
 Bby which your notable nurses and sage old wo- 
 kcrippleanddisfigure the children of men, increased 
 ppidly in strength and magnitude, that before the 
 St burgomasters had dcleriniricd upon a plan, it 
 
 was too late to put it in execution — whereupon they 
 wisely abandoned Ihe subject altogether. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 How the city of New-Ainstenlam waxed great, under tlie protec- 
 tion of OlofTe tlie Dreamer. 
 
 There is something exceedingly delusive in thus 
 looking back, through the long vista of departed years, 
 and catching a glimpse of the fairy realms of antiquity 
 that lie beyond. Like some goodly landscape melt- 
 ing into distance, they receive a thousand charms 
 from their very obscurity, and the fancy delights to 
 fill up their outlines with graces and excellencies of 
 its own creation. Thus beam on my imagination 
 tliose banpier days of our city, when as yet New-Am- 
 sterdam was a mere pastoral town, shrouded in groves 
 of sycamore and willows, and surrounded by trackless 
 forestj) and wide-spreading waters, that seemetl to 
 shut out all the cares and vanities of a wicked world. 
 
 In those days did this embryo city present the rare 
 and noble spectacle of a community governed without 
 laws ; and thus being left to its own course, and the 
 fostering care of Providence, increased as rapidly as 
 though it had been burthened with a dozen panniers 
 full of those sage laws that are usually heaped on the 
 backs of young cities— in order to make them grow. 
 And in this particular I greatly admire the wisdom 
 and sound knowledge of human nature, displayed by 
 the sage Oloffe the Dreamer, and his fellow-legislators. 
 For my part I have not so bad an opinion of mankind 
 as many of my brother philosophers. I do not think 
 poor human nature so sorry a piece of workmanship 
 as they would make it out to be; and as far as I have 
 observed, I am fully satisfied that man, if left to him- 
 self, would about as regularly go right as wrong. 
 It is only this eternally sound in his cars that it is his 
 duty to go right, that makes him go the very reverse. 
 The noble independence of bis nature revolts at this 
 intolerable tyranny of law, and the perpetual inter- 
 ference of oflicious morality, whichisever besetting his 
 path with finger-posts and directions to " keep to the 
 right, as the law directs;" and like a spirited urchin, 
 he turns directly contrary, and gallops through mud 
 and mire, over hedges and ditches, merely to show 
 that he is a lad of spirit, and out of his leading-strings. 
 And these opinions are amply substantiated by what 
 I have alK>ve said of our worthy ancestors ; who never 
 being be-preachcd and lie-lectured, and guided and 
 governed by statutes and laws and by-laws, as are 
 their more enlightened descendants, did one and all 
 demean themselves honestly and peaceably, out of (Hire 
 ignorance, or, in other words— because they knew no 
 better. 
 
 Nor must I omit to record one of the earliest mea- 
 sures of this infant settlement, inasmuch as it shows 
 the piety of our forefathers, and that, like goodChris- 
 tians, they were always ready to serve God, after 
 they bad fii-st served themselves. Thus, liavinj,' 
 
i56 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 quietly settled themselves down, and provided for 
 their own comfort, tliey bethought themselves of tes- 
 tifying their gratitude to the great and good St Nicho- 
 las, for his protecting care, in guiding them to this 
 delectable abode. To this end they built a fair and 
 goodly chapel within the fort, which they consecrated 
 to his name; whereupon he immediately took the 
 town of New-Amsterdam under his peculiar patron- 
 age, and he has ever since been, and I devoutly hoite 
 will ever be, the tutelar saint of this excellent city. 
 
 I am moreover told that there is a little legendary 
 book, somewhere extant, written in Low Dutch, 
 which says, that the image of this renowned saint, 
 which whilome graced the bowsprit of the Goede 
 Yrouw, was elevated in front of this chapel, in the 
 very centre of what in modern days is called the 
 Bowling-Green. And the legend further treats of 
 divers miracles wrought by the mighty pipe, which 
 the saint held in his mouth ; a whiff of which was a 
 sovereign cure for an indigestion — an invaluable telic 
 in this colony of brave trenchermen. As, however, 
 in spite of the most diligent search, I cannot lay my 
 hands upon this little book, I must confess that I en- 
 tertain considerable doubt on the subject. 
 
 Thus benignly fostered by the good St Nicholas, 
 the burghei-s of New-Amsterdam beheld their settle- 
 ment increase in magnitude and population, and soon 
 become the metropolis of divers settlements, and an 
 extensive territory. Already had the disastrous pride 
 of colonies and dependencies, those banes of a sound- 
 hearted empire, entered into their imaginations ; and 
 Fort Aurania on the Hudson, Fort Nassau on the 
 Delaware, and Fort Goed Hoop on the Connecticut- 
 river, seemed to be the darling offspring of the vene- 
 rable council. ' Thus prosperously, to all appearance, 
 did the province of New-Netherlands advance in 
 power; and the early history of its metropolis pre- 
 sents a fair page, unsullied by crime or calamity. 
 
 Hordes of painted savages still lurked about the 
 tangled forests and rich bottoms of the unsettled part 
 of (he island — the hunter pitched his rude bower of 
 skins and bark lieside the rills that ran through the 
 cool and shady glens, while here and there might be 
 seen on some sunny knoll, a group of Indian wig- 
 wams, whose smoke arose above the neighbouring 
 trees, and floated in the transparent atmosphere. By 
 degrees a mutual good-will liad grown up between 
 these wandering beings and the burghers of New- 
 Amslerdam. Our benevolent forefathers endeavoured 
 as much as possible to ameliorate their situation, by 
 
 • The province, about this time, extended on the north to Fort 
 Aurania, or Orange (now the city of Albany ), situated almut IGO 
 miles up the Hudson-river. Indeed the province elaiiuc<l (piile 
 to the river St Lawrenee ; but this claim was not much insislitl on 
 at (lie time, as the country beyond Fort Aurania was a perfect 
 wilderiieii.s. Un the south, the province reached to Fort Nassim, 
 on the south river, since called tlie Delaware— ,ind on the east It 
 extended to th(! Varshe (or fresh) river, now tlic Connecllcut. 
 On this last frontier was likewise erected a fort or IradinK-houNe, 
 much aiNiul the spot where at present is situated the pleasant town 
 nf Hartford. This was called Fort Goed Hoop ( or Cood Hope ), 
 and was Intended as w ell fur tl e pur(KMt* of irado at of defence. 
 
 giving them gin, rum, and glass beads, in excit 
 for their peltries; for it seems the kind-hearted Dm 
 men had conceived a great friendship for their saq 
 neighbours, on account of their being pleasant i 
 to trade with and little skilled in the art of maJuttl 
 bargain. 
 
 Now and then a crew of these half human sonsj 
 the forest would make their appearance in the sin 
 of New-Amsterdam, fantastically painted, and d 
 rated with beads and flaunting feathers, sauntflij 
 about with an air of listless indifference— somdig 
 in the market-place instructing the little Dutch I 
 in the use of the Ijow and arrow— at other times, j 
 flamed with liquor, swaggering and whooping i 
 yelling about the town like so many fiends, toil 
 great dismay of all the good wives, who would hn 
 their children into the house, fasten the doors, i 
 throw water upon the enemy from the garret tJ 
 dows. It is worthy of mention here, that uur riq 
 fathers were very particular in holding up these i 
 men as excellent domestic examples — anil for rea,^ 
 that may be gathered from the history of master C 
 by, who tells us, that " for the least offence llieli 
 groom soundly beats his wife and turns lier uiitJ 
 doors, and marries another, insomuch that sonitj 
 Ihem have every year a new wife." "Whelheril 
 awful example had any influence or not, liisloiyd 
 not mention ; but it is certain that our grandniolli 
 were miracles of (idelity and obedience. 
 
 True it is, that the good understanding beim^ 
 our ancestors and (heir savage neighbours was U 
 to occasional interruptions, and I have heard i 
 grandmother, who was a very wise old woman, 
 well versed in the history of these parts, tell a I 
 story, of a winter's evening, about a battle klvij 
 the New-Amsterdammers and the Indians, vU 
 was known by the name of the Peach War,i 
 which took place near a peach orchard, in ail 
 glen, which for a long while went by the namej 
 Murderer's Valley. 
 
 The legend of this sylvan war was longcim 
 among the niu'ses, old wives, and other ancient c 
 niclers of the place; but lime and improvement I 
 almost obliterated l)oth (he tradition and lliesceoel 
 battle; for what was once (he blood-slained val 
 now in the centre of this populous city, and km 
 by the name of Dey-sireet. 
 
 The accumulating wealth and consequence of Nej 
 Amsterdam and its dependencies at length awakd 
 the tender solicitude of the mother country; i 
 finding it a thriving and opulent colony, and llul| 
 promised to yield great proiit and no irouble, allf 
 once became wonderl'iilly anxious about lis $alij 
 and began to loitd it with tokens of regani, in I 
 same manner that yotn- knowing people are suitl 
 overwhelm rich relations with their affeclion awllf 
 ing kindness. 
 
 The usual marks of protection shown by i 
 cotintries lo wealthy colonies were forlhwilli i 
 fested— Ihe llrsl care always being to semi rulfflj 
 
 niUCH IS BEOORDRD 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 m 
 
 > new settlement, with orders to squeeze as much 
 
 Irenue from it as it will yield. Accordingly, in the 
 
 rofour Loi-d <629, Mynheer Wouter Van Twil- 
 
 i was appointed governor of the province of Nieuw- 
 
 trlandts, under the commission and control of 
 
 Ljr High Mightinesses the Lords Slates-General of 
 
 ! United Netherlands, and the privileged West In- 
 
 I Company. 
 
 rbis renowned old gentleman arrived at New-Am- 
 dam in tlie merry month of June, the sweetest 
 oil) in all the year ; when Dan Apollo seems to 
 Lee up the transparent firmament — when the ruhin, 
 t thrush, and a thousand other wanton songsters 
 Ike tlie woods to resound with amorous ditties, and 
 (luxurious little boblincon revels among the clover- 
 
 oms of the meadows— all which happy coinci- 
 jice persuaded the old dames of New-Amsterdam, 
 (o were skilled in the art of foretelling events, that 
 
 was to be a happy and prosperous administra- 
 
 M as it would be derogatory to the consequence 
 ■be first Dutch governor of the great province of 
 W-Nederlandts to be thus scurvily introduced at 
 [end of a chapter, I will put an end to this second 
 i of my history, that I may usher him in with be- 
 ; dignity in the beginning of my next. 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 irucn IS BECORDED THE flOLDEN KKIGN OF WOVTKH Vi\ 
 TWILLEB. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ike renowned Wouter Van Twillcr, his unparalleled virtues—' 
 Ukewise his unutterable wisdom in the law case of Wandlc 
 felioonhovcn and Bai-cnt Bleecker— and the great admiration 
 pihe public thereat. 
 
 Prievous and very much to be commiserated is 
 I task of the feeling historian, who writes the his- 
 f of his native land. If it fall to his lot to be the 
 I recorder of calamity or crime, the mournful page 
 Mtered with his tears— nor can he recall the most 
 
 leroiis and blissful era, without a melancholy sigh 
 jlie reflection that it has passed away for ever ! I 
 bw not whether it be owing to an immoderate love 
 I the simplicity of former times, or to that certain 
 derness of heart incident to all sentimental histo- 
 ks; but I candidly confess that I cannot look back 
 yhe liappier days of our city, which I now describe, 
 lliout a deep dejection of the spirits. With falter- 
 jhanddo I withdraw the curtain of oblivion that 
 Is llie modest merit of our ancestors, and as their 
 ps rise to my mental vision, humble myself bc- 
 i the mighty shades. 
 luch are my feelings when I revisit the family 
 
 ision of the Knickerbockers, and spend a lonely 
 Irin the chamber where hang the portraits of my 
 kfathers, shrouded in dust, like the forms they re- 
 
 present. With pious reverence do I gaze on Uie 
 countenances of those renowned burghers, who have 
 preceded me in the steady march of existence — whose 
 sober and temperate blood now meanders through 
 my veins, flowing slower and slower in Us feeble 
 conduits, until its current shall soon be stopped for 
 ever! 
 
 These, say I to myself, are but frail memorials of 
 the mighty men who flourished in the days of the pa- 
 triarchs ; but who, alas ! have long since mouldered 
 in that tomb, towards which my steps are insensibly 
 and irresistibly hastening! As I pace the darkened 
 chamber and lose myself in melancholy musings, the 
 shadowy images around me almost seem to steal once 
 more into existence — their countenances to assume 
 the animation of life — their eyes to pursue me in 
 every movement ! Carried away by the delusions of 
 fancy, I almost imagine myself surrounded by the 
 shades of the departed, and holding sw ~ ' converse 
 with the worthies of antiquity! Ah, »,>less Die- 
 drich! born in a degenerate age, abandoned to the 
 buffetings of fortune — a stranger and a weary pilgrim 
 in thy native land— blest with no weeping wife, nor 
 family of helpless children; but doomed to wander 
 neglected through those crowded streets, and elbow- 
 ed by foreign upstarts from those fair abodes, where 
 once thine ancestors held sovereign empire ! 
 
 Let me not, however, lose the historian in the 
 man, nor suffer the doting recollections of age to 
 overcome me, while dwelling with fond garrulity on 
 the virtuous days of the patriarchs — on those sweet 
 days of simplicity and ease, which never more will 
 dawn on the lovely island of Manna-hata ! 
 
 The renowned Wouter (or Waller) Van Twiller 
 was descended from a long line of Dutch burgomas- 
 ters, who had successively dozed a ay their lives, and 
 grown fat upon the bench of magi ira'^'f in Rotterdam, 
 and who had comported themselver \\ith such singu- 
 lar wisdom and propriety that they were never either 
 heard or talked of— which, no- 1 t<^ being universally 
 applauded, should be the object of ambition of all sage 
 magistrates and rulers. 
 
 His surname of Twiller is said to be a corruption 
 of the original Ttcij/7er, which in English means 
 Doubter; a name admirably descriptive of his delibe- 
 rative habits. For though he was a man shut up 
 within himself like an oyster, and of such a profoundly 
 reflective turn, that he scarcely ever spoke except in 
 monosyllables, yet did he never make up his mind on 
 any doubtful point. This was clearly accounted for 
 by his adherents, who aflirmed that he always con- 
 ceived every subject on so comprehensive a scale, that 
 ho had not room in his head to turn it over and exa- 
 mine both sides of it ; so that he always remaineil in 
 doubt, merely in consequence of the astonishing mag- 
 nitude of his ideas! 
 
 There are two opposite ways by which some men 
 get into notice— one by talking a vast deal and think- 
 ing a little, and the other by holding their tongues 
 and not thinking at all. By the first, many a vapoiir- 
 
 I.S 
 
138 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ■( ,' 
 
 ing, superflcial pretender acquires the reputation of a 
 man of quick parts— by the other, jnany a vacant 
 dunderpate, like the owl, the stupidest of birds, comes 
 to be complimented by a discerning world with all 
 the attributes of wisdom. This, by the way, is a mere 
 casual remark, wY'ch I would not for the universe 
 have it thought I apply to Governor Van Twiller. On 
 the contrary, he was a very wise Dutchman, for he 
 never said a foolish thing — and of such invincible gra- 
 vity, that he was never known to laugh, or even to 
 smile, through the course of a long and prosperous 
 life. Certain, however, it is, there never was a 
 matter proposed, however simple, and on which your 
 common narrow-minded mortals would rashly deter- 
 jnine at the first glance, but the renowned Wouter 
 put on a mighty mysterious vacant kind of look, shook 
 his capacious head, and having smoked for five mi- 
 nutes with redoubled earnestness, sagely observed, 
 that " he had his doubts about tlie matter" — which 
 in process of time gained him the cl)aracter of a man 
 slow of belief, and not easily imposed on. 
 
 The person of this illustrious old gentleman was 
 as regularly formed, and nobly proportioned, as 
 though it had been moulded by the hands of some 
 cunning Dutch statuary as a model of majesty and 
 lordly grandeur. He was exactly five feet six inches 
 in height, and six feet five inches in circumference. 
 His head was a perfect sphere, and of such stupendous 
 dimensions, that Dame Nature, with all her sex's in- 
 genuity, would have been puzzled to construct a neck 
 capable of supporting it; wherefore she wisely declin- 
 ed the attempt, and settled it firmly on the top of his 
 back bone, just between the shoulders. His body 
 was of an oblong form, particularly capacious at bot- 
 tom; which was wisely ordered by Providence, seeing 
 that he was a man of sedentary habits, and very averse 
 to the idle labour of walking. His legs, though 
 exceeding short, were sturdy in proportion to the 
 weight they had to sustain ; so that when erect, he 
 liad not a little the appearance of a robustious beer- 
 barrel, standing on skids. His lace, that infallible 
 index of the mind, presented a vast expanse, perfectly 
 unfun'owed or deformed by any of those lines and 
 angles which disfigure tlie human countenance with 
 what is termed expression. Two small gray eyes 
 twinkled feebly in the midst, like two stars of lesser 
 magnitude in a hazy firmament; and his fullfed 
 cheeks, which seemed to have taken toll of every 
 thing that went into his mouth, were curiously mot- 
 tled and streaked with dusky red, like a Spitzcnberg 
 apple. 
 
 His habits were as regular as his person. He daily 
 look his four stated meals, appropriating exactly an 
 hour to each ; he smoked and doubted eight hours ; 
 and he slept the remaining twelve of the four-and- 
 twenty Such was the renowned Wouter Van 
 Twiller- a true philosopher; for his mind was either 
 elevated above, or tranquilly settled below, the cares 
 and perplexities of this world. He had lived in it for 
 years, without feeling the least curiosity to know 
 
 whether the sun revolved round it, or it round | 
 sun; and he had watched, for at least half a ( 
 the smoke curling from his pipe to the ceiling, will 
 once troubling his head with any of those nun 
 theories by which a philosopher would have | 
 ed his brain, in accounting for its rising aboTeH 
 surrounding atmosphere. 
 
 In his council he presided with great state andi 
 lemnity. He sat in a huge chair of solid oak hewijj 
 the celebrated forest of the Hague, fabricated byi 
 experienced Timmerman of Amsterdam, and cu 
 ly carved about the arms and feet into imitatioiMj 
 gigantic eagle's claws. Instead of a sceptre he svi; 
 a long Turkish pipe, wrought with jasmin and an 
 which had been presented to a stadtholder ofHoUj 
 at the conclusion of a treaty with one of the | 
 Barbary powers. — In this stately chair would ki 
 and this magnificent pipe would he smoke, sliaU 
 his right knee with a constant motion, and fim^i 
 eye for hours together upon a little printof Amsteit 
 which hung in a black frame against the opposilei 
 of the council-chamber. Nay, it has even beens 
 that when any deliberation of extraordinary 1« 
 and intricacy was on the carpet, the renowned Woi 
 would absolutely shut his eyes for full two bourse 
 time, that he might not be disturbed by externali 
 jects — at such limes the internal commotion <ii 
 mind was evinced by certain regular guttural sou 
 which his admirers declared were merely the noite] 
 conflict, made by his contending doubts and i 
 nions. 
 
 It is with infinite difficulty I have been enabledj 
 collect these biographical anecdotes of the great o 
 under consideration?- The facts respecting liimi 
 so scattered and vague, and divers of them soi 
 tionablein point of authenticity, that I have had | 
 give up the search after many, and decline Ihei 
 mission of still more, which would have tendedj 
 heighten the colouring of his portrait. 
 
 I have been the more anxious to delineate I 
 person and habits of the renowned Van Twiller, ft 
 the consideration that he was not only the first, 1 
 also the best governor that ever presided overll 
 ancient and respectable province; yea, so tra 
 and l)enevolent was his reign, that I do not i 
 throughout the whole of it a single instance ofi 
 offender being brought to punishment— a most iiJ 
 bitable sign of a merciful governor, and a casei 
 paralleled, excepting in the reign of the illustii 
 King Log, from whom, it is hinted, the renoi 
 Van Twiller was a lineal descendant. 
 
 The very outset of the career of this excellenti 
 gistrate was distinguished by an example oflegalu 
 men, that gave flattering presage of a wise and« 
 table administration. The morning after he had li 
 solemnly installed in office, and while he was i 
 his breakfast from a prodigious earthen diab, I 
 with milk and Indian pudding, he was suddenlyj 
 terrupted by the appearance of one WandleScbi 
 hoven,a very important old bnrgher ofNew-Ait 
 
 m&' 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 139 
 
 a who complained bitterly of one Barent Bleecker, 
 nocb as he fraudulently refused to come to a 
 [lleoient of accounts, seeing that there was a heavy 
 lance in favour of the said Wanuie. Governor Van 
 Ljjier, as I have already observed, was a man of few 
 s; he was likewise a mortal enemy to multi- 
 ' vritings— or to being disturbed at his break- 
 Having listened attentively to the statement of 
 luxlle Schoonboven, giving an occasional grunt as 
 lohovelled a spoonful of Indian pudding into his 
 Qtb— either as a sign that he relished the dish or 
 ehended the story — he called unto him his 
 istable ; and pulling out of his breeches-pocket a 
 i jack-knife, dispatched it after the defendant 
 la summons, accompanied by his tobacco-box as a 
 Irrant. 
 
 fhissununary process was as effectual in those simple 
 ia» was the seal-ring of the great Haroun Alras- 
 I among the true believers. The two parlies being 
 ODted before him, each produced a book of ac- 
 InU, written in a language and character that would 
 ■e pozzlcd any but a High Dutch commentator, or 
 iamed decipherer of Egyptian obelisks, to un- 
 [itand. The sage Wouter took them one after the 
 T, and having poised them in his hands, and at- 
 lively counted the number of leaves, fell straight- 
 f into a very great doubt, and smoked for half an 
 |r without saying a word ; at length, laying his 
 :er beside his nose, and shutting his eyes for a 
 nent, with the air of a man who has just caught a 
 tie idea by the tail, be slowly took his pipe from 
 I mouth, puffed forth a column of tobacco smoke, 
 Iwith marvellous gravity and solemnity pronounc- 
 |-that, having carefully counted the leaves, and 
 ghed the books, it was found that one was just as 
 land as heavy as the other — therefore it was the 
 opinion of the court that the accounts were 
 lilly balanced — therefore Wandle should give Ba- 
 la receipt, and Barent should give Wandle a re- 
 ]t-and the constable should pay the costs, 
 [his decision being straightway made known, dif- 
 1 general joy throughout New-Amsterdam, for 
 pie immediately perceived that they had a very 
 and etfuitable magistrate to rule over them. 
 Ills happiest effect was, that not another law-suit 
 ] pbce throughout the whole of his administration 
 I the oHice of constable fell into such decay, that 
 ! was not one of those losel scouts known in the 
 nee fur many years. I am the mure particular 
 Pwelling on this transaction, not only because I 
 1 it one of the most sage and righteous judgments 
 Old, and well worthy the attention of modern 
 [istrales; but because it was a remarkable event 
 I history of the renowned Wouter— being the 
 j time he was ever known to come to a decision in 
 ■whole course of his life. 
 
 GUAPIER II. 
 
 (»ntainlng mmc account of the grand council u( Ncw-Amster- 
 dam ; as also divers especial good philosophical reasons why an 
 alderman should be (at— with other particulars touching the 
 stale of the province. 
 
 In treating of the early governors of the province, 1 
 must caution my readers against confounding them, 
 in point of dignity and power, with those worthy 
 gentlemen, who are whimsically denominated go- 
 vernors in this enlightened republic — a set of unhappy 
 victims of |iopularity, who are in fact the most de- 
 pendent, hen-pecked Ik ings in the community : 
 doomed to bear the secret goadings and corrections 
 oftheir own party, and tie sneers and revilings of 
 the whole world beside. — Set up, like geese at 
 Christmas holidays, to be pelted and shot at by every 
 whipster and vagabond in the land. On the contrary, 
 the Dutch governors enjoyed that uncontrolled au- 
 thority, vested in all commanders of distant colonies 
 or territories. They were in a manner absolute des- 
 pots in their little domains, lording it, if so disposed, 
 over both law and gospel, and accountable to nont; 
 but the mother country ; which it is well known is 
 astonishingly deaf to all complaints against its go- 
 vernors, provided they discharge the main duty of 
 their station — squeezing out a good revenue. This 
 hint will be of importance, to prevent my readers 
 from being seized with doubt and incredulity, when- 
 ever, in the course of this autlientic history, they en- 
 counter the uncommon circumstance of a governor 
 acting with independence, and in opposition to the 
 opinions of the midtitude. 
 
 To assist the doubtful Wouter in the arduous bu- 
 siness of legislation, a board of magistrates was ap- 
 pointed, which presided immediately over the police. 
 This potent body consisted of a schout c bailifT, with 
 powers between those of the present mayor and she- 
 riff—five burgermeesters, who were equivalent to al- 
 dermen, and five schepcns, who officiated as scrubs, 
 sub-devils, or bottle-holders to the burgermeesters; 
 in the same manner as do assistant aldermen to their 
 principals at the present day; it being their duty to 
 fill the pipes of the lordly burgermeesters; to hunt 
 the markets for delicacies for corporation-dinners; 
 and to discharge such other little offices of kindness 
 as were occasionally required. It was, moreover, 
 tacitly understood, though not specifically enjoined, 
 that they should consider themselves as butts for the 
 blunt wits of the burgermeesters, and should laugh 
 most heartily at aU their jokes; but this last was a 
 duty as rarely called in action in those days as it is at 
 present, and was shortly remitted entirely, ui conse- 
 quence of the tragical death of a fat little sdiepen — 
 who actually died of suffiKation in an unsuccessful 
 effort to force a laugh at one of Burgermeester Van 
 Zandt's best jokes. 
 
 In return for these humble services, they were |)er- 
 niitted to say yes and iio at the council board, and to 
 have that enviable privilege, the run of the (lublir 
 
 
i40 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 kitchen — being gracioiialy permitted to eat, and drink, 
 and smoke, at all those snug junketings, and public 
 gormandizings, for which the ancient magistrates 
 were equally famous with their modern successors. 
 The post of schepen, therefore, like that of assistant 
 alderman, was eagerly coveted by all your burghers 
 of a certain description, who have a huge relish for 
 good feeding, and an humble ambition to be great 
 men, in a small way — who thirst after a little brief 
 authority, that shall render Ihem the terror of the 
 alms-house, and the bridewell — that shall enable 
 them to lord it over obsequious poverty, vagrant vice, 
 outcast prostitution, and hunger-driven dishonesty — 
 that shall give to their beck a hound-like pack of 
 catch-poles and bum-bailiffs — tenfold greater rogues 
 than the culprits they hunt down! — My readers will 
 excuse this sudden warmth, which I confess is unbe- 
 coming of a grave historian — but I have a mortal anti- 
 pathy to catch-poles, bum-bailifTs, and little great men. 
 
 The ancient magistrates of this city corresponded 
 with those of the present time no less in form, ma- 
 gnitude, and intellect, than in prerogative and pri- 
 vilege. The burgomasters, like our aldermen, were 
 generally chosen by weight — and not only the weight 
 of the body, but likewise the weight of the head. It 
 is a maxim practically observed in all sound thinking, 
 regular cities, that an alderman should be fat — and 
 the wisdom of this can be proved to a certainty. That 
 the body is in some measure an image of the mind, or 
 rather that the mind is moulded to the body, like 
 melted lead to the clay in which it is cast, has been 
 insisted on by many philosophers, who have made 
 human nature their peculiar study — For as a learned 
 gentleman of our own city observes, "there is a con- 
 stant relation between the moral character of all in- 
 telligent creatures, and their physical constitution — 
 between their habits and the structure of their bo- 
 dies." Thus we see, that a lean, spare, diminutive 
 body, is generally accompanied by a petulant, restless, 
 meddling mind — eilher the mind wears down the 
 body by its continual motion; or else the body, not 
 affording the mind sufficient house-room, keeps it 
 continually in a state of fretfulness, tossing and wor- 
 rying about from the uneasiness of its situation. 
 Whereas your round, sleek, fat, unwieldy periphery 
 is ever attended by a mind like itself, tranquil, torpid, 
 and at ease; and we may always observe, tliat your 
 well-fed, robustious burghers, are in general very 
 tenacious of their ease and comfort ; being great ene- 
 mies to noise, discord, and disturbance— and surely 
 none are more likely to study the public tranquillity 
 than those who are so careful of their own. Who 
 ever hears of fat men heading a riot, or herding to- 
 gether in turbulent mobs? — no — no — it is your lean, 
 hungry men, who are continually worrying society 
 and setting the whole community by the ears. 
 
 The divine Plato, whose doctrines are not suWi- 
 ciently attended to by philosophers of the present age, 
 allows to every roan three souls — one, immortal and 
 rational, seated in the brain, that it may overlook and 
 
 regulate the body — a second, consisting of the \ 
 and irascible passions, which, like belligerent potq 
 lie encamped around the heart — a third, mortaii 
 sensual, destitute of reason, gross and brutaljnj 
 propensities, and enchained in the belly, that it o 
 not disturb the divine soul by its ravenous howlig 
 Now, according to this excellent theory, whatcat| 
 more clear, than that your fat alderman ismostlikj 
 to have the most regular and well-conditioned t 
 His head is like a huge spherical chamber, contaii 
 a prodigious mass of soft brains, whereon the rati 
 soul lies softly and snugly couched, as on a feait 
 bed; and the eyes, which are the windows olg 
 bed-chamber, are usually half closed, that its siuni 
 ings may not be disturbed by external objscis, 
 mind thus comfortably lodged, and protected ( 
 disturbance, is manifestly most likely to perform l| 
 functions with regularity and ease. By dint of e 
 feeding, moreover, the mortal and malignant! 
 which is confined in the belly, and which, by itsn 
 ing and roaring, puts the irritable soul in the i 
 Imurhood of the heart in an intolerable passion, ; 
 thus renders men crusty and quarrelsome whenb 
 gry, is completely pacified, silenced, and put ton 
 — whereupon a host of honest good-fellow qualif| 
 and kind-hearted affections, which bad lain perd 
 slily peeping out of the loop-holes of the heart, fin 
 this Cerberus asleep, do pluck up their spirits, t 
 out one and all in their holiday suits, and gambolJ 
 and down the diaphragm — disposing their possessul 
 laughter, good humour, and a thousand friendij/ 
 fices towards bis fellow-mortals. 
 
 As a board of magistrates, formed on this i 
 think but very little, they are the les,s likely tod 
 and wrangle about favourite opinions — and astliejd 
 nerally transact business upon a hearty dinner,! 
 are naturally disposed to be lenient and indulgert| 
 the administration of their duties. Cluirlemagne 
 conscious of this, and, therefore, (a pitiful mm 
 for which I can never forgive him) ordered in liisa 
 tularies, that no judge should hold a court of jusH 
 except in the morning, on an empty stomacii : an 
 which, I warrant, bore hard upon all the poorcui 
 in his kingdom. The more enlightened and lium 
 generation of the present day have taken an oppt 
 coutse, and have so managed, that the aldeniieflij 
 the best ft ' men in the community ; feasting 1 
 on the fat thuigsof the land, and gorging so Im 
 oyster, ^d turtles, that in process of time llieya« 
 the activity of the .ne, and the form, the waddle,) 
 the green fat of the other. The consequence is,* 
 have just said, these luxurious feaslings ilo pro 
 such a dulcet equanimity and repose of tlie soai,i| 
 tional and irrational, that their transactions are |i 
 verbial for unvarying monotony — and the profe 
 laws, which they enact in their dozing moments, i 
 the labours of digestion, are quietly suffered lorfis 
 as dead letters, and never enforced when awaiie. 
 a word, your fair round-l)ellied burgomaster, I 
 full-fed mastiff, dozes quietly at the house-doorl 
 
fflSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i41 
 
 kvs at home, and always at hand to watch over its 
 
 |e(y— but as to electing a lean, meddling candidate 
 
 I the office, as has now and then been done, I would 
 
 I soon put a greyhound to watch the house, or a race- 
 
 I to drag an ox-waggon, 
 
 burgomasters, then, as I have already men- 
 
 ^ were wisely chosen by weight, and the sche- 
 
 is or assijtant aldermen, were appointed to attend 
 
 I (hem, and help them eat ; but tiie latter, in the 
 
 ! of time, when they had been fed and fattened 
 
 |o sufficient bulk of body and drowsiness of brain, 
 
 ame very eligible candidates for the burgomasters' 
 
 Lirs, having fairly eaten themseivvs into office, as a 
 
 > eats his way into a comfortable lodgment in 
 
 lly, blue-nosed, skimmed-milk, New-England 
 
 iNothing could equal the profound deliberations that 
 
 \jk place l)etween the renowned Wouter and these 
 
 ; vt'ortliy compeers, unless it be those of some of 
 
 r modern corporations. They would sit for hours 
 
 oking and dozing over public affairs, without speak- 
 
 ; a word to interrupt that perfect stillness, so ne- 
 
 ary to deep reflection. — Under their sober sway, 
 
 (infant settlement waxed vigorous apace, gradually 
 
 kerging from the swamps and forests, and exhibit- 
 
 ; that mingled appearance of town and country cus- 
 
 nary in new cities, and which at this day may be 
 
 Itnessed in the city of Washington ; that immense 
 
 jetropuiis, which makes so glorious an appearance on 
 
 «r. 
 |lt was a pleasing sight in those times to behold the 
 oest burgher, like a patriarch of yore, seated on the 
 nch at the door of his white-washed house, under 
 ! siiade of some gigantic sycamore or over-hanging 
 Here would he smoke his pipe of a sultry 
 lernoon, enjoying the soft southern breeze, and lis- 
 ping with silent gratulaiion to the clucking of his 
 18, the cackling of his geese, and the sonorous grunt- 
 ; of his swine; that combination of farm-yard me- 
 py, which may truly be said to have a silver sound, 
 ismuch as it conveys a certain assurance of prof i table 
 irketing. 
 
 |The modern spectator, who wanders through the 
 «ts of this populous city, can scarcely form an idea 
 [the different appearance they presented in the pri- 
 llive days of the Doubter. The busy hum of multi- 
 Ides, the shouts of revelry, the rumbling equipages 
 I fashion, the rattling of accursed carts, and all the 
 ril-giieving sounds of brawling commerce, were 
 Jknown in the settlement of New-Amsterdam. The 
 grew quietly in the highways— the bleating 
 «p and frolicsome calves sported about the verdant 
 e, where now the Broadway loungers take their 
 irninj; stroll— the cunning fox or ravenous wolf 
 ^Iked in the woods, where now are to be seen the 
 J of Gomez and his righteous fraternity of money- 
 kers— and flocks of vociferous geese cackled about 
 i fields, where now the great Tammany wigwam 
 1 the patriotic tavern of Martling echo with the 
 hngiingsofthemob. . .; ,„ . ; ;,» . ., 
 
 In these good times did a true and enviable equality 
 of rank and property prevail, equally removed from 
 the arrogance of wealth and the servility and heart- 
 burnings of repining poverty — and what in my mind 
 is still more conducive to tranquillity and harmony 
 among friends, a happy equality of intellect was like- 
 wise to be seen. The minds of the good burghers of 
 New-Amsterdam seemed all to have been cast in one 
 mould, and to be those honest, blunt minds, which, 
 like certain manufactures, are made by the gross, and 
 considered as exceedingly good fur common use. 
 
 Thus it happens that your true dull muids are ge- 
 nerally preferred for public employ, and especially 
 promoted to city honours; your keen intellects, like 
 razors, being considered too sharp for common ser- 
 vice. I know that it is usual to rail at the unequal dis- 
 tribution of riches, as the great source of jealousies, 
 broils, and heart-breakings ; whereas, for my part, I 
 verily believe it to be the sad inequality of intellect, 
 that embroils communities more than any thing else ; 
 and I have remarked that your knowing people, who 
 are so much wiser than any body else, are eternally 
 keeping society in a ferment. Happily for New-Am- 
 sterdam, nothing of the kind was known within its 
 walls — the very words of learning, education, taste, 
 and talents, were unheard of— a bright genius was an 
 animal unknown, "nd a blue-slocking lady would have 
 been regarded with as much wonder as a horned frog 
 or a fiery dragon. No man, in fact, seemed to know 
 more than his neighbour ; nor any man to know more 
 than an honest man ought to know, who has nobody's 
 business to mind but his own; the parson and the 
 council clerk were the only men that could read in the 
 community, and the sage Van Twiller always signed 
 his name with a cross. 
 
 Thrice-happy and ever-to-be-envied little burgh ! 
 existing in all the security of harmless insignificance ; 
 unnoticed and unenvied by the world; without ambi- 
 tion, without vain-glory, without riches, and all their 
 train of carking cares — and as of yore, in the better 
 days of man, the deities were wont to visit him on 
 earth and bless his rural habitations, so we are told, 
 in the sylvan days of New-Amsterdam, the good St 
 Nicholas would often make his appearance, in his be- 
 loved city, of a holiday afternoon ; riding joUily among 
 the tree tops, or over the roofs of the houses, now and 
 then drawing forth magniflcent presents from his 
 breeciies pockets, and dropping them down the chim- 
 neys of his favourites. Whereas in these degenerate 
 days of iron and brass he never shows us the light of 
 his countenance, nor ever visits us, save one night in 
 the year, when he rattles down the chimneys of the 
 descendants of the patriarchs ; but confines his presents 
 merely to the children, in token of the degeneracy of 
 the parents. 
 
 Such are the comfortable and thriving effects of a 
 fat government. The province of the New-Nether- 
 lands, destitute of wealth, possessed a sweet tranquil- 
 lity that wealth could never purchase. There were 
 neither public commotions, nor private quarrels; nei- 
 
142 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ther parties, nor sects, nor schisms; neither persecu- 
 tions, nor trials, nor panislunents; nor were there 
 counsellors, attorneys, catch-poles, ner hangmen. 
 Every man attended to what little business he was 
 lucky enough to have, or neglected it if he pleased, 
 without asking the opinion of his neighbour. In those 
 days nobody meddled with concerns above his com- 
 prehension; nor thrust his nose into other people's 
 aflairs; nor neglected to correct his own conduct, and 
 reform his own character, in his zeal to pull to pieces 
 the characters of others — but in a word, every res- 
 pectable citizen ate when he was not hungry , drank 
 when he was not tliirsty, and went regularly to bed, 
 when the sun set, and the fowls went to roost, whe- 
 ther he were sleepy or not; all which tended so re- 
 markably to the population of the settlement, that I 
 am told every dutiful wife throughout New-Amster- 
 dam made a point of enriching her husband with at 
 least one child a year, and very often a brace— this 
 superabundance of good things clearly constituting 
 the true luxury of life, according to the favourite Dutch 
 maxim, that "more than enough constitutes a feast." 
 Every thing therefore went on exactly as it should do, 
 and, in the usual words employed by historans to ex- 
 press the welfare of a country, "the pnfoundest 
 tranquiUity and repose reigned throughout the pro- 
 vince." 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 How the town of New-Amsterdam arose out of mud, and came to 
 be marvellously polished and polite— together with a picture of 
 the manners of our great great grandfathers. 
 
 Manifold are the tastes and dispositions of the en- 
 lightened literati, who turn over the pages of history. 
 Some there be whose hearts are brimful of the yeast 
 of courage, and whose bosoms do w^ork, and swell, 
 and foam, with untried valour, like a barrel of new 
 cider, or a train-band captain fresh from under the 
 hands of his tailor. This doughty class of readers 
 can be satisGed with nothing but bloody battles and 
 horrible encounters; they must be continually storm- 
 ing forts, sacking cities, springing mines, marching up 
 to the muzzles of cannon, charging hayonet through 
 every page, and revelling in gunpowder and carnage. 
 Others, who are of a less martial, but equally ardent 
 imagination, and who, withal, are a little given to the 
 marvellous, will dwell with wondrous satisfaction on 
 descriptions of prodigies, unheard-of events, hair- 
 breadth escapes, hardy adventures, and all those asto- 
 nishing narrations, that do just amble along the bound- 
 ary line of possibility.— A third class, who, not lo 
 speak slightly of them, are of a lighter turn, and skim 
 over tlie records of past times as they do over the 
 edifying pages of a novel, merely for relaxation and in- 
 nocent amusement, do singularly delight in treasons, 
 executions, Sabine rapes, Tarquin outrages, confla- 
 grations, murders, and all the other catalogues of hi- 
 deous crimes, which like cayenne in cookery, do give 
 
 a pungency and flavour to the dull detail of hk 
 while a fourth class, of more philosophical habiu, J 
 pore over the musty chronicles of time, to inve 
 the operations of the human mind, and watch ( 
 gradual changes in men and manners, effected btii 
 progress of knowledge, the vicissitudes of eveob,) 
 the influence of situation. 
 
 If the three first classes find but little wliere\i 
 to solace themselves in the tranquil reign of Woi 
 Van Twiller, I entreat them to exert their patt 
 for a while, and bear with the tedious picture of h 
 piness, prosperity, and peace, which my duty«J 
 faithful historian obliges me to draw; and I prw 
 them, tliat as soon as I can nossibly light upon i 
 thing horrible, uncommon, or impossible, it shalii 
 hard but I will make it afford them entertain 
 This being premised, I turn with great complai 
 to the fourth class of my readers, who are inen,i 
 if possible, women after my own heart : grave, phj 
 sophical, and investigating; fond of analyzing dun 
 ters, of taking a start from first causes, and so hoi 
 ing a nation down, through all the mazes of innovjti 
 and improvement. Such will naturally be an 
 to witness the first developement of the newly-haid 
 ed colony, and the primitive manners and cusio 
 prevalent among its inhabitants, during the 
 reign of Van Twiller, or the Doubter. 
 
 I will not grieve their patience, however, byde 
 ing minutely the increase and improvement oFNn 
 Amsterdam. Their own imaginations will dou 
 present to them the good burghers, like so i 
 pains-taking and persevering beavers, slowly i 
 surely pursuing their labours. They will behold ll 
 prosperous transformation from the rude log I 
 the stately Dutch mansion, with brick front, glu 
 windows, and tiled roof; from the tangled thidutlj 
 the luxuriant cabbage-garden ; and from the skulki 
 Indian to the ponderous burgomaster. In a wot 
 they will picture to themselves the steady, silent, i 
 undeviating march to prosperity, incident to a ( 
 destitute of pride or ambition, cherished by a I 
 government, and whose citizens do nothing in a iiun;| 
 
 The sage council, as has been mentioned in a | 
 ceding chapter, not being able to determine uponi 
 (>lan for the building of their city, the cows, in j 
 laudable fit of patriotism, look it under their | 
 charge ; and as they w ent to and from pasture, 
 blished paths through the bushes, on each sideil 
 which the good folks built their houses: whicliiso 
 cause of the rambling and picturesque turns and li 
 rinths, which distinguish certain streets of New-Yoi 
 at this very day. 
 
 The houses of the higher class were generallyo 
 stnicted of wood, excepting the gable end, whichi 
 of small black and yellow Dutch bricks, and al« 
 faced on the street, — as our ancestors, like their d 
 cendants, were very much given to outward six 
 and noted for putting the best leg foremost, 
 house was always furnished with abundance ofii 
 doors and small windows on every floor; the dale (I 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 143 
 
 lers, like so i 
 
 I erection was curiously designated by iron figures 
 
 jibe front; and on the top of the roof was perched 
 
 erce little weathercock, to let the family into the 
 
 ant secret which way the wind blew. These, 
 
 I the weathercocks on the tops of our steeples, 
 nted so many different ways, that every man could 
 Ire a wind to his mind;— the most stanch and loyal 
 
 «ns, however, always wen*, according to the wea- 
 ck on tlie top of the governor's house, which 
 
 I certainly the most correct, as he had a trusty 
 
 int employed every morning *o climb up and set 
 
 ) the right quarter, 
 those good days of simplicity and sunshine, a 
 for cleanliness was the leading principle in 
 
 ftic economy, and the universal test of an able 
 
 ewife— a character which formed the utmost am- 
 |ion of our unenlightened grandmothers. The front 
 
 r was never opened except on marriages, funerals, 
 
 J years' days, the festival of St Nicholas, or some 
 
 1 great occasion. It was ornamented with a gor- 
 |)us brass knocker, curiously wrought, sometimes 
 |be device of a dog, and sometimes of a lion's head, 
 
 1 was daily burnished with such religious zeal, that 
 
 ivas oft-times worn out by the very precautions 
 |en for its preservation. The whole house was 
 
 isuntly in a state of inundation, under the disci- 
 ^e of mops, and brooms, and scrubbing-brushes ; 
 
 I the good housewives of those days were a kind 
 lamphibious animal, delighting exceedingly to be 
 
 )lingin water— insomuch that an historian of the 
 J gravely tells us, that many of his townswomen 
 Iw to have webbed fingers like unto a duck ; and 
 ]te of them, he had little doubt, could the matter 
 lexamined into, would be found to have the tails of 
 aids— but this I look upon to be a mere sport 
 
 Eincy, or, what is worse, a wilful misrepresen- 
 
 ^he grand parlour was the sanctum sanctorum, 
 ! the passion for cleaning was indulged without 
 ktrol. In this sacred apartment no one was per- 
 iled to enter excepting the mistress and her conii- 
 ptial maid, who visited it once a-week, for the 
 ! of giving it a thorough cleaning, and putting 
 to rights — always taking the precaution of 
 king their shoes at the door, and entering devoutly 
 |lheir stocking feet. After scnibbing the floor, 
 flkling it with fine white sand, which was cu- 
 sly stroked into angles, and curves, and rhom- 
 |d$, with a broom — after washing the windows, 
 ing and polishing the furniture, and putting a 
 I bunch of evergreens in the fire-place — the win- 
 k-shutters were again closed to keep out the flies, 
 1 the room carefidly locked up until the revo- 
 of time brought round the weekly cleaning 
 
 pto the family, they always entered in at the gate, 
 1 most generally lived in the kitchen. To have 
 A a numerous household :;^enibled about the fire, 
 would have imagined that he was transported 
 ktothose happy days of primeval simplicity, which 
 
 float before our imaginations like golden visions. The 
 fire-places were of a truly patriarchal magnitude, 
 where the whole family, old and young, master and 
 servant, black and white, nay, even the very cat and 
 dog, enjoyed a community of privilege, and bad each a 
 right to a comer. Here the old burgher would sit in 
 perfect silence, puffing his pipe, looking in the fire with 
 half-shut eyes, and thinking of nothing for houi-s toge- 
 ther : the goede vrouw on the opposite side would em- 
 ploy herself diligently in spinning yarn, or knitting 
 stockings. The young folks would crowd around the 
 hearth, listening with breathless attention to some old 
 crone of a negro, who was the oracle of the family, and 
 who, perched like a raven in a corner of the chimney, 
 would croak forth for a long winter afternoon a string 
 of incredible stories about New-England witches 
 —grisly ghosts— horses without heads— and hair- 
 breadth escapes and bloody encounters among the 
 Indians. 
 
 In those happy days a well-regulated family always 
 rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed 
 at sun-down. Dinner was invariably a private meal, 
 and the fat old burghers showed incontestable sym- 
 ptoms of disapprobation and uneasiness at being sur- 
 prised by a visit from a neighbour on such occasions. 
 But though our worthy ancestors were thus singu- 
 larly averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the 
 social bands of intunacy by occasional banquetings, 
 called tea-parties. 
 
 These fashionable parties were generally confine<l 
 to the higher classes, or noblesse, that is to say, such 
 as kept their own cows, and drove their own wag- 
 gons. The company commonly assembled at three 
 o'clock, and went away about six ; unless in winter 
 time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, 
 that the ladies might get home before dark. The 
 tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish, well 
 stored with slices of fat pork fried brown, cut up into 
 morsels, and swimming in gravy. The company 
 being seated around the genial board, and each fur- 
 nished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in launch- 
 ing at the fattest pieces in this mighty dish — in much 
 the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, 
 or our Indians spear salmon in the takes. Sometimes 
 the table was graced with immense apple-pies, or 
 saucers full of preserved peaches and pears ; but it 
 was always sure to boast an enormous dish of balls 
 of sweetened dough, fried in hog's fat, and called 
 dough-nuts, or oly-koeks — a delicious kind of cake, 
 at present scarce known in this city, excepting in ge^ 
 nuine Dutch families. 
 
 The tea was served out of a majestic Delft teapot, or-< 
 namented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds 
 and shepherdesses tending pigs — with boats saiUng in 
 the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry 
 other ingenious Dutch fantasies. The beaux distin- 
 guished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing 
 this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which would 
 have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate 
 days sweat merely to look at it. To sweeten the be-> 
 
iU 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 verage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup — 
 and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with 
 great decorum, until an improvement was introduced 
 by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to sus- 
 pend a large lump directly over the tea-table, by a 
 string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from 
 mouth to mouth— an ingenious expedient, which is 
 still kept up by some families in Albany ; but which 
 prevails without exception in Communipaw, Bergen, 
 Fiat-Bush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages. 
 
 At these primitive tea-parties the utmost propriety 
 and dignity of deportment prevailed. No flirting nor 
 coquetting— no gambling of old ladies, nor hoyden 
 chattering and romping of young ones — no self-satis- 
 fied struttings of wealthy gentlemen, with their brains 
 in their pockets — nor amusing conceits, and monkey 
 divertisements, of smart young gentlemen, with no 
 brains at all. On the contrary, the young ladies seated 
 themselves demurely in their rush-bottomed chairs, 
 and knit their own woollen stockings; nor ever open- 
 ed their lips, excepting to say, yah. Mynheer, or yah 
 ya Vrouw, to any question that was asked them ; be- 
 having in all things, like decent, well-educated dam- 
 .'.els. As to the gentlemen, each of them tranquilly 
 smoked his pipe, and seemed lost in contemplation of 
 the bli^e and white tiles with which the fire-places 
 were decorated; wherein sundry passages of Scrip- 
 ture were piously portrayed — Tobit and his dog fi- 
 gured to great advantage; Ilaman swung conspi- 
 cuously on his gibbet; and Jonah appeared most 
 manfully bouncing out of the whale, like Harlequin 
 through a barrel of fire. 
 
 The parties broke up without noise and without 
 confusion. They were carried home fay their own 
 carriages, that is to say, by the vehicles nature had 
 provided them, excepting such of the wealthy as 
 could afford to keep a waggon. The gentlemen gal- 
 lantly attended their fair ones to their respective 
 abodes, and took leave of them with a hearty smack 
 at the door; which, as it was an established piece of 
 etiquette, done in perfect simplicity and honesty of 
 heart, occasioned no scandal at that time, nor should 
 it at the present— if our great grandfathers approved 
 of the custom, it woidd argue a great want of reve- 
 rence in their descendants to say a word against it. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Containing fiirthcr particulars of the Golden Age, and what con- 
 stituted a fine Lady and Gentleman In the days of Walter the 
 Doubter. 
 
 In this dulcet period of my history, when the beau- 
 teous island of Manna-hata presented a scene, the 
 very counterpart of those glowing pictures drawn of 
 the golden reign of Saturn, there was, as I have before 
 observed, a happy ignorance, an honest simplicity 
 prevalent among its inhabitants, which, were I even 
 able to depict, would be but little understood by the 
 degenerate age for which I am doomed to write. 
 
 Even the female sex, those arch innovators upood 
 tranquillity, the honesty, and gray-beard custookj 
 society, seemed for a while to conduct then 
 with incredible sobriety and comeliness. 
 
 Their hair, untortured by the abominations ofa 
 was scrupulously pomatumed back from their I 
 heads with a candle, and covered with a lillje capJ 
 quilted calico, which fitted exactly to their 
 Their petticoats of linsey-woolsey were striped 
 a variety of gorgeous dyes — though I must 
 these gallant garments were rathei* short, 
 reaching below the knee ; but then they made upij 
 the number, which generally equalled thalofti 
 gentlemen's small-clothes : and what is still 
 praiseworthy, they were all of their own manufac 
 ^f which circumstance, as may well be sup 
 they were not a little vain. 
 
 These were the honest days, in which every i 
 man staid at home, read the Bible, and wore [ 
 — ay, and that too of a goodly size, fashioned 
 patch-work into many curious devices, and o$te 
 tiously worn on the outside. These, in fact, 
 convenient receptacles, where all good honsevinj 
 carefully stored away such things as they wisi 
 have at hand ; by which means they often caineij 
 be incredibly crammed— and I remember there i 
 a story current when I was a boy, that the ladyj 
 Wouter Van Twiller had occasion once toempiyli 
 right pocket in search of a wooden ladle, andil 
 utensil was discovered lying among some ri 
 one corner — but we must not give too much faiili|| 
 all 'hese stories ; the anecdotes of those remote n 
 riods being very subject to exaggeration. 
 
 Besides these notable pockets, they likewise \ 
 scissors and pincushions suspended from their ^ 
 by red ribands, or among the more opulent and slw 
 classes, by brass, and even silver chains— indubilil 
 tokens of thrifty housewives and industrious spire 
 1 cannot say much in vindication of the shortna| 
 the petticoats; it doubtless was introduced fori 
 purpose of giving the stockings a chance to be i 
 which were generally of blue worsted, with i 
 ficent red clocks— or perhaps to display a well-tui 
 ankle, and a neat, though serviceable, foot ; set olll| 
 a high-heeled leathern shoe, with a large and spiei 
 silver buckle. Thus we find that the gentle sex h 
 in all ages, shown the same disposition to infrinj 
 little upon the laws of decorum, in order to betr 
 lurking beauty, or to gratify an innocent lovej 
 finery. 
 
 From the sketch here given, it will be seen tlialij 
 good grandmothers differed considerably in tlieirH 
 of a fine figure from their scantily dressed de 
 ants of the present day. A fine lady, in those t 
 waddled under more clothes, even on a fair siinioi 
 day, than would have clad the whole bevy of ai 
 dern ball-room. Nor were they the less admiredbj^ 
 gentlemen in consequence thereof. On the conir 
 the greatness of a lover's passion seemed to m 
 in proportion to the magnitude of its object-an' 
 
mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 145 
 
 pinous damsel, arrayed in a dozen uf petticoats, 
 I declared by a Low-Duicli soniietteer of tlie pro- 
 nto be radiant as a sunflower, and luxuriant as a 
 [.blown cabluge. Ceriainitis, tliatintliosedaysthe 
 ktof a lover could not contain more tlian one lady 
 [time; whereas the heart of a modern gallant has 
 [ti room enough to accommodate half a dozen — The 
 011 of which I conclude to be, that either the 
 I of the gentlemen have grown larger, or the 
 sof the ladies smaller — this, however, is a ques- 
 I for physiologists to determine. 
 ut there was a secret charm in these petticoats, 
 ich, no doubt, entered into the consideration of the 
 iilent gallants. The wardrobe of a lady was in 
 ;(lays her only fortune ; and she who had a good 
 1 of petticoats and stockings was as absolutely an 
 tss as is a Kainschatka damsel with a store of bear- 
 is, or a Lapland belle with a plenty of rein-deer. 
 [ ladies, therefore, were very anxious to display 
 ; powerful attractions to 'he greatest advantage ; 
 J the best rooms in the house, instead of being 
 ^ned with caricatures of Dame Nature, ui water- 
 ors an-i needle-work, were always hung round 
 I abundance of homespun garments, the nianu- 
 jure and the property of the females — a piece of 
 lable ostentation that still prevails among the 
 (esses of our Dutch villages. 
 Ike gentlemen, in fact, who figured in the circles 
 negay world in these ancient times, corresponded, 
 post particulars, with the beauteous damsels whose 
 Jestliey were ambitious to deserve. True it is, 
 merits would make but a very inconsiderable 
 jression upon the hsart of a modern fair; they 
 per drove their curricles nor sported their tandems, 
 syet those gaudy vehicles were not even dreamt 
 Incitlier did they distinguish themselves by their 
 Ancy at the table, and their consequent rencontres 
 I watclunen ; for our forefathers were of too pa- 
 la disposition to need those guardians of the night, 
 fsoul throughout the town being sound asleep 
 enine o'clock. Neither did they establish their 
 b to gentility at the expense of their tailors — for 
 n those offenders against the pockets of society, 
 ■the tranquillity of all aspiring young gentlemen, 
 punknown in New-Amsterdam; every good house- 
 made the clothes of her husband and family, 
 [even the goede vrouw of Van Twiller himself 
 gilt it no disparagement to cut out her husband's 
 '-woolsey galligaskins, 
 bt but that there were some two or tlwee young- 
 I fliio manifested the first dawnings of what is 
 li lire and spirit; w ho held all labour In contempt; 
 pi about docks and market-places ; loitered in the 
 line; squandered what little money they could 
 lireat hustle-cap and chuck-farthing ; swore, box- 
 jmght cocks, and raced their neiglibours' horses 
 Ishort, who promised to be the wonder, the talk, 
 pbomination of the town, had not their stylish 
 • been unfortunately cut short, by an affair of 
 br with a whipping-post. ■. . ■ 
 
 Far other, however, was tlie truly fashionable gen- 
 tleman of those days — his dress, which served for 
 both morning and evening, street and drawing-room, 
 was a linsey-woolsey coat, made, perhaps, by the fair 
 hands of tlie mistress of his affections, and gallantly 
 bedecked with abundance of large brass buttons. 
 Haifa score of breeches heightened the proportions of 
 his figure — his shoes were decorated by enormous 
 copper buckles — a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat 
 overshadowed his burly visage, and liis hair dangled 
 down his back, in a prodigious queue of eel-skin. 
 
 1'hus equipped, he would manfully sally forth with 
 pipe in moutli to besiege some fair damsel's obdurate 
 lieart— notsuchapipe, good reader, as that which Acis 
 did sweetly tune in praise of his Galatea, but one of 
 true Delft manufacture, and furnished with a charge 
 of fragrant tobacco. With this w^uld he resolutely 
 set himself down before the fortress, and rarely failed, 
 in the process of time, to smoke the fair enemy into a 
 surrender, upon honourable terms. 
 
 Such was the happy reign of Wouter Van Twiller, 
 celebrated in many a long-forgotten song as the real 
 golden age, the rest being nothing but counterfeit 
 copper- washed coin. In that delightful period , a sweet 
 and holy calm reigned over the whule province. The 
 burgomaster smoked his pipe in peace — the substantial 
 solace of liis domestic cares, after her daily toils were 
 done, sat soberly at the door with her arms crossed 
 over her apron of snowy white, without being insult- 
 ed by ribald street-walkers or vagabond boys— those 
 unlucky urchins, who do so infest our streets, display- 
 ing under the roses of youth the thorns and briers of 
 iniquity. Then it was that the lover with ten breech- 
 es, and the damsel with petticoats of half a score, in- 
 dulged in all the innocent endearments of virtuous 
 love, without fear and without reproach : for what 
 had that virtue to fear, which was defended by a shield 
 of good linsey-woolseys, equal at least to the seven 
 bull-hides of the invincible Ajax? 
 
 Ah blissful, and never-to-be-forgotten age! when 
 every thing was better than it has ever been since, or 
 ever will be again— when Buttermilk channel was 
 quite dry at low water— when the shad in the Hudson 
 were all salmon, and when the moon shone with a 
 pure and resplendent whiteness, instead of that me- 
 lancholy yellow light, which is the consequence of her 
 sickening at the abominations she every night wit- 
 nesses in this degenerate city ! 
 
 Happy would it have been for New-Amsterdam 
 could it always have existed in this state of blissful 
 ignorance and lowly simplicity : but, alas ! the days 
 of childhood are too sweet to last ! Cities, like men, 
 grow out of them in time, and are doomed alike to 
 grow into the bustle, the cares, and miseries of the 
 world. Let no man congratulate himself, when he 
 beholds the child of his bosom, or the city of his birth, 
 increasing ui magnitude and importance— let the his- 
 tory of his own life teach him the dangers of the one, 
 and let this excellent little history of Manna-hata con- 
 vince him of the calamities of the other. 
 
 19 
 
146 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the reader is he^uiled into a delfctablc waltc, which 
 rnds very dilTerciiUy from what it commenced. 
 
 In the year of our Lord one thousand eiglit hundred 
 and four, on a fine afternoon, in the glowing month 
 of September, I took my customary walk upon tlie 
 Battery, wliich is at once the pride and bulwark 
 of this ancient and impregnable city of New-York. 
 The ground on which I trod was hallowed by recol- 
 lections of the past, and as I slowly wandered through 
 the long alley of poplars, which like so many birch 
 brooms standing on end, diffused a melancholy and 
 lugubrious shade, my imagination drew a contrast 
 between the surrounding scenery, and what it was 
 in the classic days of our forefathers. Where the go- 
 vernment-house by name, but the custom-house by 
 occupation, proudly reared its brick walls and wooden 
 pillars, there whilome stood the low, but substantial, 
 red-tiled mansion of the renowned Wouter Van 
 Twiller. Around it the mighty bulwarks of Fort 
 Amsterdam frowned defiance to every absent foe; 
 but, like many a whiskered warrior and gallant mili- 
 tia captain, confined their martial deeds to frowns 
 alone. The mud breastworks had long been levelled 
 with the earth, and their site converted into the green 
 walls and leafy alleys of the Battery ; where the gay 
 apprentice sported his Sunday coat, and the laborious 
 mechanic, relieved from dirt and drudgery, poured 
 his weekly tale of love into the half-averted ear of the 
 sentimental chambermaid. The capacious bay slill 
 presented the same expansive sheet of water, stud- 
 ded with islands, sprinkled with fishing-boats, and 
 bounde<l by shores of picturesque beauty. But the 
 dark forests which once clothed these shores had been 
 violated by the savage hand of cultivation, and their 
 tangled mazes, and impenetrable thickets, had dege- 
 nerated into teeming orchards and waving fields of 
 grain. Even Governor's Island, once a smiling gar- 
 den, appertaining to the sovereigns of the province , 
 was now covered with fortifications, inclosing a tre- 
 mendous block-house— so that this once-peaceful 
 island resembled a fierce little warrior in a big cock- 
 ed hat, breathing gunpowder and defiance to the 
 world ! 
 
 For some time did I indulge in this pensive train of 
 thought; contrasting, in sober sadness, the present 
 day with the hallowed years behind the mountains; 
 lamenting the melancholy progress of improvement, 
 and praising the zeal with which our worthy burgh- 
 ers endeavour to preserve the wrecks of venerable 
 customs, prejudices, and errors, from the overwhelm- 
 ing tide of modem innovation — when by degrees my 
 ideas took a different turn, and I insensibly awakened 
 to an enjoyment of the beauties around me. 
 
 It was one of those rich autumnal days which 
 Heaven particularly bestows upon the beauteous is- 
 land of Manna-hata and its vicinity— not a floating 
 cloud obscured the azure firmament— the sun, rolling 
 in glorious splendour through his ethereal course, 
 
 seemed to expand his honest Dnich conntenanre i 
 an unusual expression of benevolence, as he j 
 his evening salutation upon a city, which lie dtUi 
 to visit with his most iNNinteoiis beams— (he i 
 winds seemed to hokl in their breaths in iniit ; j 
 tion, lest they should ruffle the tran(|uillitr otj 
 hour— and the waveless Imsom of the bay prK 
 a polished mirror, in which nature beheld heivlfj 
 smiled.— The standard of our city, reserved, 1 
 choice handkerchief, fur days of gala, liiin;> i 
 tionless on the flag-staff, which forms the liandltN 
 gigantic churn; and even the tremulous leaves of) 
 poplar and (he aspen ceased to vibrate to the bre| 
 lieaven. Every thing seemed to acquiesce in (Ik|J 
 found re|H)se of nature. — The formidable ei;^ 
 iwunders slept in the embrazures of the woodenh 
 teries, seemingly gathering fresh strength to O^J 
 battles of their country on the next foiirlh of ]A 
 the solitary drum on Governor's Island forgot to J 
 the garrison to their sJiovels — the evening guny 
 not yet sounded its signal for all the regular, i 
 meaning poultry througliout the country (o i 
 roost; and the fleet of canoes, at anchor heii( 
 Gibbet Island and Coinmiini[iaw, slumbered out 
 rakes, and suffered the innocent oysters to lie i 
 while unmolested in the soft mud of their nativeh 
 — IMy own feelings sympathized with (he conia 
 tranquillity, and I should infallibly have dozedq 
 one of those fragments of benches, which our I 
 volent magistrates have provided fur the ben 
 convalescent loungers, had not the extraur(linaiy| 
 convenience of the couch set all repose at defun 
 In the midst of this slumber of the soul, mj i 
 tion was attracted to a black speck, peering aboT(| 
 western horizon, just in the rear of Bergen s 
 gradually it augments and overhangs the vo 
 cities of Jersey, Ilarsimus, and Hoboken, wh 
 three jockeys, are starting on the course of eiisl 
 and jostling each other at the commencement o 
 race. Now it skirts the long shore of ancient F 
 nia, spreading its wide shadows from the lii^| 
 tleinents at Weehawk (piile to the lazaretto anil|[ 
 ranline, erected by the sagacity of our police, 
 embairassment of commerce— now it climbs ll 
 rene vault of heaven, cloud rolling over cloud, shi 
 ing the orb of day, darkening the vast e.\pan«,j 
 bearing thunder and hail and tempest in its 1 
 The earth seems agitated at the confusion tl| 
 heavens — the late waveless mirror is lashed iit 
 rious waves, that roll in hollow murmurs to tbeil 
 the oyster-boats, which erst sported in the pla 
 cinity of Gibbet Island, now hurry affrighted l»| 
 land— the poplar writhes and twists and wiiiS 
 the blast— torrents of drenching rain and i 
 hail deluge the Battery walks— the gates arelim^ 
 by apprentices, servant-maids, and little Frem 
 with pocket-handkerchiefs over tlieir hats, 
 ing from the storm— the late beauteous prosprtl 
 sents a scene of anarchy and wild uproar, as IM 
 old Chaos had resumed his reign, and was hd 
 
 dnto one vast ti 
 
 out flinching, ai 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 147 
 
 Unto one vast turmoil the conflicting elements of 
 
 V'liether I fled from the fury of the storm, or re- 
 ned boldly at my post, as our gallant train-band 
 Lains, who march their soldiers through the rain 
 
 out flinching, are points which I leave to the con- 
 
 llureofthe reader. It is possible he may be a little 
 
 plexed also to know the reason why I liave intro- 
 
 lliis tri'mendous tempest, to disturb the sere- 
 
 . of my work. On this latter p4)int I will gratuit- 
 
 ||y instruct his ignorance. The panorama view of 
 
 [Battery was given merely to gratify the reader 
 
 I a correct description of that celebrated place, 
 
 I liie parts adjacent : secondly the storm was play- 
 
 bff, partly to give a little bustle and life to tliis 
 
 quil part of my work, and to keep my drowsy 
 
 Iden from falling asleep, and partly to serve as an 
 
 riure to the tempestuous times that are about to 
 
 ^il the pacific province ot' INieuw-Nederlandls, and 
 
 i overhang the slumbrous administration of tlie 
 
 Uneil Wouler Van T wilier. It is thus the expe- 
 
 ^ced play-wright puts all the fiddles, the French 
 
 IS, the kettle-drums, and trumpets of his orcbes- 
 I in requisition, to usher in one of those horrible 
 I brimstone uproars called melo-drames; and it is 
 
 k discharges his thunder, his lightning, his 
 D, and saltpetre, preparatory to the rising of a 
 Ist, or the murdering of a hero. We will now 
 
 I with our history. 
 Vhatever may be advanced by philosophers to the 
 t[,iry, I am of opinion, that, as to nations, the old 
 rim, that "honesty is the best policy," is a sheer 
 Iniinous mistake. It might have answered well 
 ^gh in the honest times when it Avas made, but in 
 
 ! degenerate days, if a nation pretends to rely 
 «ly upon the justice of its dealings, it will fare 
 
 rtliing like an honest man among thieves, who, 
 
 > lie have something more than his honesty to 
 lend upon, stands but a poor chance of profiting by 
 ■company. Such at least was the case with the 
 Icless government of the New-Netherlands; which, 
 I a worthy unsuspicious old burgher, quietly set- 
 j itself down into the city of New-Amsterdam, as 
 I a snug elbow-chair, and fell into a comfortable 
 |; while, in the mean time, its cunning neighbours 
 in and picked its pockets. Thus may we 
 Kbe the commencement of all the woes of this 
 ^t province, and its magnificent metropolis, to the 
 quil security, or, to speak more accurately, to 
 lunfortunate honesty of its government. But as 
 plike to begin an important part of my history 
 prds the end of a chapter ; and as my readers, 
 [myself, must doubtless be exceedingly fatigued 
 I the long walk we have taken, and the tempest 
 have sustained, I hold it meet we shut up the 
 k, smoke a pipe, and having thus refreshed our 
 Its, take a fiiir start in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER W. 
 
 Faitlitkilly descrlblnf; tlio ingcnloua people of Connecticut and 
 Uiercaboiits— Showing, moreover, llie Irue meaning ofliiicrty 
 of cunsciencc, and a cirious dcvicu nmoag lliesc sturdy bar- 
 lariiuiH, (o keep up a liarmony of uitercouTM, and promote 
 |)0|iulatiun. 
 
 That my readers may llie more fully comprehend 
 the extent of the calamity at this very moment im- 
 pending over the lionest, unsuspecting province of 
 Nieuw-Nederlandts, and its dubious governor, it is 
 necessary that I should give some account of a horde 
 of strange barbarians bordering upon the eastern fron- 
 tier. 
 
 Now so it came to pass that many years previous 
 to the time of which we are treating, the sage cabinet 
 of England had adopted a certain national creed, a 
 kind of public walk of faith, or rather a religious turn- 
 pike, in which every loyal subject was directed to 
 travel to Zion— taking care to pay the toll-gatherers 
 by the way. 
 
 Albeit, a certain shrewd race of men, being very 
 much given to indulge their own opinions, on all 
 manner of subjecLs (a propensity exceedingly offen- 
 sive to your free governments of Europe), did most 
 presumptuously dare to think for themselves in mat- 
 ters of religion, exercising what they considered a 
 natural and unextinguishable right— the liberty of 
 conscience. 
 
 As, however, they possessed that ingenious habit 
 of mind which always thinks aloud ; which rides cock- 
 a-hoop on the tongue, and is for ever galloping into 
 other people's ears, it naturally followed that their li- 
 berty of conscience likewise implied liberty of speech, 
 which being freely indulged, soon put the country in 
 a hubbub, and aroused the pious indignation of the 
 vigilant fathers of the church. 
 
 The usual methods were adopted to reclaim them, 
 that in those days were considered so efficacious iu 
 bringing back stray sheep to the fold ; that is to say, 
 they were coaxed, they were admonished, they were 
 menaced, they were buffeted— line upon line, pre- 
 cept upon precept, lash upon lash, here a little and 
 there a great deal, were exhausted without mercy, 
 and without success ; until at length the worthy fias- 
 tors of the church, wearied out by their unparalleled 
 stubbornness, were driven, in the excess of their ten- 
 der mercy, to adopt the Scripture text, and literally 
 " heaped live embers on their heads." 
 
 Nothing, however, could sulnlue that invincible 
 spirit of independence which has ever distinguished 
 this singular race of people, so ttiat rather than sub- 
 mit to such horrible tyranny, they one and all em- 
 barked for the wilderness of America, where they 
 might enjoy, unmolested, the inestimable luxury of 
 talking. No sooner did they land on this loquacious 
 soil, than, as if they had caught the disease from the 
 climate, they all lifted up their voices at once, and 
 for the space of one whole year did keep up such a 
 joyful clamour, that we are told they frightened 
 every bird and beast out of the neighbourhood, and so 
 
448 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i- i] 
 
 N^ 
 
 completely dnmb-founded certain flsh, which ationnd 
 on their coast, tliat tliey liave been called dumb-fish 
 ever since. 
 
 From this simple circumstance, unimportant as it 
 may seem, did first originate that renowned privilege 
 so loudly boasted of throughout this country — which 
 is so eloquently exercised in newspapers, pamphlels, 
 ward-meetings, pot-house committees, and congres- 
 sional deliberations — which establishes the right of 
 talking without ideas and without information — of 
 misrepresenting public affairs— of decrying public 
 measures — of aspersing great characters, and destroy- 
 ing little ones; in short, that grand palladium of our 
 country, the liberty of speech. 
 
 The simple aborigines of the land for a while con- 
 templated these strange folk in utter astonishment, 
 but discovering that they wielded harmless though 
 noisy weapons, and were a lively, ingenious, good- 
 humoured race of men, they became very friendly 
 and sociable, and gave them the name of Yauokies, 
 which in the Mais-Tchusaeg (or Massachusett) lan- 
 guage signifies silent men — a waggish a[)pellation, 
 since shortened into the familiar epithet of Yankees, 
 which they retain unto the present day. 
 
 True it is, and my fidelity as an historian will not 
 allow me to pass it over in silence, that the zeal of 
 these good people to maintain their rights and privi- 
 leges unimpaired, did for a while betray them into 
 errors, which it is easier to pardon than defend. 
 Having served a regular apprenticeship in the school 
 of persecution, it behoved them to show that they 
 had become proficients in the art. They accordingly 
 employed their leisure hours in banishing, scourging, 
 or hanging, divers heretical papists, (|uakcrs, and ana- 
 l)aptisls, for daring to abuse the liberty of conscience; 
 which they now clearly proved to imply nothing 
 more than that every man should think as he pleased 
 in matters of religion— proi-irierf he thought right: 
 for otherwise it would be giving a latitude to damn- 
 able heresies. Now as they (the majority) were per- 
 fectly convinced that they alone thought right, it 
 consequently followed, that whoever thought dif- 
 ferent from them thought wrong — and whoever 
 thought wrong, and obstinately persisted in not being 
 convinced and converted, was a flagrant violator of 
 the inestimable liberty of conscience, and a corrupt 
 and infectious member of the body politic, and de- 
 served to be lopped off and cast into the lire. 
 
 Now I'll warrant there are hosts of my readers 
 ready at once to lift up their hands and eyes, with 
 that virtuous indignation with which we always con- 
 template the faults and errors of our neighbours, and 
 to exclaim at these well-meaning but mistaken peo|)le, 
 for iullieling on others the injuries they had suffered 
 themselves — for indulging the preposterous idea of 
 co.ivinciug the mind by lornienting the body, and 
 establishing the doctrine of charity and forbearance 
 by intolerant persecution. lUit, in simple truth, 
 what are we doing at this very day, and in this very 
 enlightened nation, but acting upon (he very sanu; 
 
 principle, in our political controversies? Havei 
 not within but a few years released ourselves I 
 the shackles iS a government which cruelly deii 
 us the privilege of governing ourselves, and usiii»| 
 full latitude that invaluable member, the tonf,'ue?>i 
 are we not at this very moment striving our Iks 
 tyrannise over the opinions, tie up the tongues i 
 ruin the fortunes of one another? What arej 
 great political societies hut mere political inquisiiJ 
 — our pot-house committees but little tribunals olj 
 nunciation — our newspapers but mere wliipping.p 
 and pillories, where unfortunate individuals arepeiJ 
 with rotten eggs — and our council of appointii 
 but a grand auto da fe, where culprits are aiuiu 
 sacrificed for their political heresies ? 
 
 Where, then, is the difference in principle betm 
 our measures and those you are so ready to conile 
 among the people I am treating of? There is r 
 the difierence is merely circumstantial.— Tlius J 
 denounce, instead of banishing — we libel, mm 
 scourging — we turn out of office, instead oflianJ 
 — and wliere they burned an offender in proiwkf 
 sona, we either tar or feather or burn himm^ 
 — this political persecution being, somehow oro 
 the grand palladium of oiu' liberties, and an iiicomi 
 vertlble proof that this is « free country! 
 
 But notwithstanding the fervent zeal with v/i 
 this holy war was proseculetl against the wliole t 
 of unbelievers, we do not find that the popiilalioul 
 this new colony was in any wise hindered therd)v;j 
 the contrary, they multiplied to a degree wliiclnvoi 
 be incredible to any man unacquainted with tlieii 
 vellous fecundity of this growing country. 
 
 This amazing increase may indeed be partly ase 
 ed to a singular custom prevalent among lliem,(i 
 monly known by the nanieof ftMHrf/itig— asujn 
 tions rite observed by the young people of bollised 
 with which they usually terminated their festi\iliil 
 and which was kept up with religious stricliie!i,| 
 the more bigoted and vulgar part of the coiiimuiiil 
 This ceremony was likewise, in those primitive liii 
 considered as an indis|)ensable preliminary to nul 
 niouy; their courtships commencing wliere i 
 usually finish— by which means they ac(|iiifeJ ll 
 intimate acquaintance with each other's good qui 
 ties before marriage, which has been pronoiiiiceilj 
 philosophers the sure basis of a happy union, 
 early did this cunning and ingetiious people disphi 
 shrewdness at making a bargaui, Mhicli 
 since distinguished them— and a strict ailliere 
 to the good old vulgar maxim altout " buying a || 
 in a poke." 
 
 To this sagacious custom, therefore, do I cliiil 
 attribute the unparalleled increase of the yanolii(| 
 yaiikee tribe ; for it is a certain fact, well i 
 cated by court recordsand parish registers, tliaHl^ 
 ever the practice of bundling prevailed, lliere i 
 an amazing number of sturdy brats annua 
 unto the state, without the licence of the lavvorj 
 l)euellt of clergy. Neither did the irregularity m 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 149 
 
 Irlli operate In the least to their disparagement. On 
 le contrary, tliey grew up a long-sided, raw-boned, 
 L(ly race of whoreson M'halers, woodcutters, lisher- 
 len, and pedlers, and strapping corn-fed wenches ; 
 [|,o by their united elTorls tended marvellously 
 fcwards popiila.nig those notable tracts of country 
 lUetl Nantucket, Piscataway, and Cape Cod. 
 
 CHAPTER \n. 
 
 low llipsc singular barbarians tlic Yanoliics turned out to be 
 fiolorioiis S(iuattcrs. How tliey built air casOrs, and attempted 
 Itoinitiatc tlie Jiedeilanders in tlie mystery of bundling. 
 
 In the last chapter I have given a faithful and un- 
 tfjudicfd account of the origin of that singular race of 
 opie, inhabiting the countiy eastward of Nieuw- 
 ledeilandts ; but I have yet to mention certain pe- 
 liliar habits which rendered them exceedingly ob- 
 loxious to oiu- ever-honotired Dutch ancestors. 
 I The most prominent of these was a certain rambling 
 ■opensily, with which, like the sons of Ishmael, 
 ley seem to have been gifted by heaven, and which 
 |)nliiuially goads them on to shift their residence 
 |om place to place, — so that a Yankee farmer is in 
 Iconslanl state of migration; tarry huj occasionally 
 We and there, clearing lands for other people to 
 iijoy, building houses for others to inliabil, and in 
 I manner may be considered the wandering Arab of 
 luierica. 
 
 I His lirst thoti^ht, on coming to the years of man- 
 [kkI, is to settle himself in the world — which means 
 jotliing more nor less than to begin his rambles. To 
 his end he takes unto himself for a wife some buxom 
 puiitry heiress, passing rich in red ribands, glass 
 pds, and mock tortoiseshcll combs, with a white 
 mvn and morocco shoes for Simday, and deeply 
 lillttl in the mystery of making apple sweetmeats, 
 Ing sauce, and pumpkin pie. 
 ] Having thus provided himself, like a pedler, with a 
 eavy knapsack, wherewith to regale his shoulders 
 kioiigh tlie journey of life, he literally sets out on 
 be peregrination. His whole family, liousehold fur- 
 tluro, and farming utensils, are hoisted uito a co- 
 ped cart; his own and his wife's wardrobe packed 
 )ina lirkiu— which done, he shoulders his axe, 
 IkesslalTin hand, whistles " yankee doodle," and 
 judges off to the woods, conlident of the protection 
 I I'lovidence, and relying as cheerfidly upon his 
 |ivii resources, as did ever a patriarch of yore when 
 ejmnneyed into a strange coinitry of the Gentiles. 
 laving buried himself in the wilderness, he builds 
 linscif a log hut, clears away a corn-Held and potatoc- 
 plcli, and, i'rovidcnce smiling upon his labours, is 
 m sunouudcd by a snug farm, and some half a 
 «ie of llaxcn-hcaded urchins, who, by Iheiretpialily 
 fsize, sccni to have sprung all at once out of the 
 ki'lli, like a crop of toadstools. 
 I Hilt it is not the nature of this most indefatigable of 
 ^'cidatorsto rest contented with any slate of sublu- 
 
 nary enjoyment — Improvement is his darling passion ; 
 and having thus improved his lands, the next care is 
 to provide a mansion worthy the residence of a land- 
 holder. A huge palace of pine boards immediately 
 springs up in the midst of (be wilderness, large enough 
 for a parish church, and furnished with windows of 
 all dimensions; but so rickety and flimsy withal, that 
 every blast gives it a lit of the ague. 
 
 By the time the outside of this mighty air castle is 
 completed, either the funds or the zeal of oin* adven- 
 turer are exhausted, so that he barely manages to half 
 finish one room within, where the whole family bur- 
 row together — while the rest of the house is devoted 
 to the curing of pumpkins, or storing of carrots and 
 potatoes, and is decorated with fanciful festoons of 
 ihled apples and peaches. The ouLside, remaining 
 unpainted, grows venerably black with time ; the fa- 
 mily wardrobe is laid under contribution for old hats, 
 petticoats, and breeches, to stuff into the broken win- 
 dows : while the four winds of heaven keep up a 
 whistling and howling about this aerial palace, and 
 play as many unruly gambols as they diil of yore in 
 the cave of old jEolus. 
 
 The humble log hut, which whilome nestled 
 this improvimj family snugly within its narrow but 
 comfortable walls, stands hard by, in ignominious 
 contrast, degraded into a cow-house or pig-sty ; and 
 the whole scene reminds one forcibly of a fable, which 
 I am surprised has never been recorded, of an aspir- 
 ing snail, who abandoned tlie humble habitation which 
 he had long lilled with great respectability, to crawl 
 into the empty shell of a lobster — where he would no 
 doubt have resided with great style and splendour, tlie 
 envy and hate of all the pains-taking snails of his 
 neighbomhood, had he not perished with cold, in one 
 corner of his stupendous mansion. 
 
 licing thus completely settled, and, to use his own 
 words, " to rights," one would imag'ne that he would 
 begin to enjoy the comforts of his situation ; to read 
 newspapers, talk ])olitics, neglect his own affaivs, and 
 attend to the affairs of the nation, like a uscfid and 
 patriotic citizen ; but now it is that his wayward dis- 
 position begins again to operate. He soon grows tired 
 of a spot where there is no longer any room for im- 
 provement—sells his farm, air caslle, petticoat win- 
 dows and all, reloads his cart, shoidders his axe, puts 
 himself at the heail of his family, and wanders away 
 in search of new lands— again to fell trees, again to 
 clear corn-fields, again to build a shingle palace, and 
 again to sell olT, and wander. 
 
 Such were the peiiplc of (-onnecticiil, who border- 
 ed upon the easterp. fiotilier of l*Jieuw-!Neiierland(s, 
 and my readers may easily imagine what neighbours 
 this light-hcarled but restless tribe must have been to 
 oin- traiKitiil progenitors. If I hey cannot, 1 would 
 ask them, if they have ever known one of our regular 
 well-organized Dutch lamilirs, whom it halh pleased 
 Heaven to alllict with the neighbourhood ofa French 
 boarding-house? The honest old burgher cannot 
 take Ills afternoon's pipe, on the bench before his door, 
 
luO 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 but he is persccnted with the scraping of fiddles, the 
 chattering of women, and the squalling of children 
 —he cannot sleep at night for the horrible'melodies of 
 some amateur, who chooses to serenade the moon, 
 and display his terrible proficiency in execution on 
 the clarionet, the hautboy, or some other soft-toned 
 instrument — nor can he leave the street-door open but 
 his house is defilal by the unsavoury visits of a troop 
 of pug dogs, who even sometimes carry their loath- 
 some ravages into the sanctum sanctorum, tiie par- 
 lour. 
 
 If my readers have ever witnessed the sufferings of 
 such a family, so situated, they may form some idea 
 how our worthy ancestors were distressed by their 
 mercurial neighbours of Connecticut. 
 
 Gangs of these marauders, we are told, penetrated 
 into the New-Nelherland selUcments, and threw 
 whole villages into consternation by their unparallel- 
 ed volubility, and their intolerable inquisiliveness — 
 two evil habits hitherto unknown in lliose parts, or 
 only known to be abhorred ; for our ancestors were 
 noted as being men of truly Spartan taciturnity, who 
 neither knew nor cared aught about any body's con- 
 cerns but their own. Many enormities were com- 
 mitted on the highways, where several unoffendini? 
 burghers were brought to a stand, and tortured with 
 questions and guesses ; which outrages occasioiietl as 
 much vexation and heart-burning as does the modern 
 right of search on the high seas. 
 
 (keat jealousy did they likewise stir up by their 
 internieddlings and successes among the divine .sex ; 
 for being a race of brisk, comely pleasant-tongued 
 varlets, they soon seduced the affections of the simple 
 damsels, from their ponderous Dutch gallants. Among 
 other hideous cuslonis, they attempted to introduce 
 among them Ihal oi buudling, which tiie Dutch lasses 
 of the Psederlaudts, with that eager passion for no- 
 velty and foreign fashions natural to their sex, seem- 
 ed very well inclined to follow ; but that their mothers, 
 being more experienced in the world, and belter ac- 
 quainted with men and things, strenu(»usly discoun- 
 tenanced all such outiiuidish innovations. 
 
 But what chielly operated to embroil our ancestors 
 with these strange folk was <m unw.irrantable liberty 
 which they occasionally took of entering in hordes 
 into the territories of the INew-Netherlands, and set- 
 tling themselves down, without leave or licence, to 
 improve the land, in the jnanner I have before no- 
 ticed. 'J'hisuncerenionions mode of taking possession 
 of new laud was technically termed squdliiiitj, and 
 hence is derived the appellation ofsiiiiatti'rs: a name 
 odious in the ears of all great landlioidcrs, and which 
 is given lo those enterprising worthies, who seize n[ton 
 land lirsl, and take their chance lo make good their 
 title lo it afterwards. 
 
 Alldiesc grievatKes, and many others wiiieli were 
 constantly aeeunuilating. tended loiorni that dark and 
 portentous cloud, wbich, as I olwerved in a former 
 chapter, was slowly gathering over the tranquil pro- 
 vince of INew-lNeli»erlaud8. The pacific cabinet of 
 
 Van T wilier, however, as will I)e perceivetl In ihes 
 quel, bore them all witJi a magnanimity that redouu 
 to their immortal credit— becoming by passive endu] 
 ranee inured to this increasing mass of wrongs •|i|] 
 that mighty man of old, who, by dint of carrying ah 
 a calf from the time it was born, continued to cair 
 it without difficulty when it had grown to Ire an oil 
 
 CHAPTER \m. 
 
 How Hie fort Gord Hoop was fearfully l)eleaguerc(l-h(m ( 
 renowned Wouter fell into a pi-ofound doubt, and liow he Gm 
 evaiwrated. 
 
 By this time my readers must fully perceive vii 
 an arduous task I have undertaken— colleclin!; anl 
 collating, with painful minuteness, the chronidesij 
 past times, who.se events almost defy the powersd 
 research — exploring a kind of little Herculaneiim ^ 
 history, which had lain buried under the rubbisli 
 years, and almost totally forgotten — raking up i 
 lind)s and fragments of disjointed facts, and emleavimj 
 ing to put them scrupulously together, so as loieslur 
 them to their original form and connexion— now ly>i 
 ging forth the character of an almosl-forgollen lierj 
 like a mutilated statue— now deciphering a liiilf-def* 
 ed inscri[ilion, and now lighting upon a inoiild™ 
 manuscript, which, alter painful study, scarce iqiaji| 
 the trouble of perusal. 
 
 In such case how much has the reader to (Ifpei^ 
 upon the honour and probity of his author, lesl, III 
 a cunning anti(inarian. lie eillier impose upoiilii^ 
 s(»me spurious faliriealiim for a precious relic iVoiiiaii| 
 li(|uity— or else dress up the dismembered I'lai,™ 
 with such false trappings, that it is scarcely possM 
 to distinguish the truth from tiie llction wilhwli 
 is enveloped. This is a grievance which I liavenioi 
 than once had to lament in llie cour.se ofniyweaiisoii 
 researches among the works of my fellow hisloiiai)i| 
 who have strangely disguised and distorted liie ladi 
 respecting this counlry, and particularly rospeotinj 
 the great province of Kew-Netherlandsj as wil 
 perceiveil by any who will take the Iroulile to m 
 pare their romaiilie effusions, tricked out in the mm 
 tricious gauds of fahle, willi this authentic liisloiy, 
 
 I have had more vexations of the kind to eiicoiiiil!^ 
 in those parts of my history wliieli ireatofliieliain 
 actions on the eastern itorder Hiaii in any other, iJ 
 conseipiencc of the troops of historians who l!,.vi'iii[ 
 tested those ipiarters, and have shown ilie i;i« 
 people of INieuw-INeilerlaiidls no mercy in liieirworki 
 Among Ihe rest, Mr Benjamin 'irunibiill airosiiillj 
 declares, that " tiie Diileli wore always iiici('ii!!:j| 
 ders."— ?Sow In this I, shall make no other rt'|ilyi!iii 
 to proceed in the steady narration of my hisloiy.wli 
 will conlain not only proofs that tin- Diilcli iimlclti 
 lille and [lossession in the fair valleys of (lie (loiiii« 
 ticul, and that lliey were wrongfully ili.siinssi's 
 thereof— but, likewise, that they have been .scJimlil 
 ously maltreated ever since, by the niisiTiiresfnlJ| 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YOKK. 
 
 l.'il 
 
 irceivedinthesi 
 lity that redouni 
 by passive ( 
 
 J of wrongs ;iijJ 
 of carrying al* 
 siitiniied tocair 
 )wn toljeaiioi'l 
 
 eleaguercd— hnw j 
 ibt, andliuwlii'li 
 
 i!ly perceive wli 
 n — collecting anl 
 the clironidesD 
 lefy the powersd 
 i Herculaneum rt 
 ler the nibbisii 
 n — raking tip i 
 ;ts,aiulemleavoiit^ 
 ler, so as to reslw 
 iiexion— now In,*] 
 Dsl-forgotleii here 
 lering a lialf-ilff» 
 ipon a nioiildcrigj 
 luly, scarce repijj 
 
 roailer to (Ippaii 
 li author, lesl, 
 impose upoiil 
 ions rdic from iij 
 einberetl fia!;n\e 
 s scarcely possiH 
 ion '^'itli whicliil 
 iviiichi have 1110 
 ieofiiiyweariwDi 
 fellow liistoiiaiiil 
 istortcd lilt facJ 
 cular'y respeclinj 
 lands; as wil 
 le trouhle to cot 
 out ill the men 
 icnlic liisldiy, 
 kind to eiicouiiiii 
 ireat of the tiaw 
 1 in any oilier, 
 lans who liavpinj 
 10 wn ilie 'lun 
 cy inllit'irwwt* 
 lunhuU arro;: 
 ways mere in!:!' 
 i» other reply 
 my history, wliidi 
 (> Duleh had rid 
 ys of IlieCoiiiif* 
 j'lijiy dispossess 
 ivc hecn scumlJ 
 lie nilsre|)restnW 
 
 ^iis of the crafty historians of New-England. And 
 this I sliall be guided by a spirit of truth and iin- 
 
 EirtialitY, and a regard to immortal fame — for I would 
 
 Kjt wittingly dishonour my work by a single false- 
 xl misrepresentation, or prejudice, though it should 
 
 lam our forefathers the whole country of INew-Eng- 
 
 iml. 
 It was at an early period of the province, and pre- 
 
 liuus to the arrival of the renowned VVoulcr, that 
 
 L cabinet of Nieuw-Nederlandls purchased the 
 
 Liuls alwut the Connecticut, and established, for 
 
 Lir superintendence and protection, a forlilicd post 
 
 1 the banks of the river, which was called Fort 
 
 koed Hoop, and was situated hard by the present 
 
 L cily of Hartford. 'J'he command of this ini- 
 
 Llaiit post, together with the rank, title, and ap- 
 
 )iiilmentof connnissary, were given in charge to the 
 
 Lllaiit Jacobus Van Curlel, or, as some historians will 
 
 Lveit, Van Curlis — a doughty soldic', of that slo- 
 
 taciiftil class of which we have such nundiers on pa- 
 
 wle (lays— who are famous for eaiing all they kill. 
 
 |e was of a very sohlierlike appearance, anil would 
 
 lave been an exceeding tall man, had his legs been 
 
 j proportion to his body ; but the latter being long, 
 
 lul the former uncommonly short, it gave him the 
 
 ^coutli appearance of a tall man's body mounted 
 
 wn a little man's legs. lie made up for this turnspit 
 
 [nslriictioii of body by throwing his legs lo such an 
 
 lilent when he marched, that you would have sworn 
 
 ■ iiaiionlhe identical seven-league Iniots of the far- 
 
 t ick the giant-killer : and so astonishingly high 
 
 1(1 he tread, on any great military occasion, that his 
 
 lldieis were oft-times alarmed, lest he should trample 
 
 uiiself under fool. 
 
 jliiilnotwithslamling tho erection of this fort, and 
 
 leappohitment of this ugly little man of war as a 
 
 Inimaniler, the intrepid Yankees continued those 
 
 Iriiig inlevlopings, which I have hinted at in my 
 
 jsl diapler ; ind taking advantage of the character 
 
 liiicli the cabinet of VVouter Van Twiller soon ae- 
 
 liired for profound and phleginatii; tranciiiillity, did 
 
 lidadodsly invade the territories of the Meuw-Ne- 
 
 fi'lamlls, and.sf/iia< themselves down within tlie vety 
 
 Irisdiction of I'orl (ioed Hoop. 
 
 1 On beholding this outrage, the long-liodicd Van 
 
 |urli'l proceeded as became a prompt and valiani of- 
 
 ler. lie immediately protested against these un- 
 
 lanaiilable encroachments, in Low Dutch, by way 
 
 [iiispi ifi^ more terror, and forthwith dispatched a 
 
 |ipy of ! ,(^ i)rotesl to the governor at New-A mslerdam, 
 
 ''( with a long and hitler account of the aggres- 
 
 toiis .iitlie enemy. This done, he ordered his men, 
 
 neaml all, to he of . lod cbeer— shut the gate of the 
 
 irl, smoked three |>iiK's, went to bed, and awaited 
 
 leresiitl with a resolute and intrepid trantpiillily, 
 
 lat greatly animated his adherents, and no doubt 
 
 jriick sore dismay into the hearts of the enemy. 
 
 Now it came to pass, that about this time the re- 
 
 bvvned VVouter Van Twiller, fidl of years and ho- 
 
 pms, and counc;' dinners, bad reached that period 
 
 of life and faculty which, according to the great Gnl- 
 liver, entitles a man to admission into the ancient 
 order of Slruldbruggs. He employed his time in 
 smoking his Turkish piiR>, amid an assemblage of 
 sages, eipially eiilii:hlened, and nearly as venerable 
 as himself, and who, for their silence, their gravity, 
 their wisdoni, and their raulious avcrsencNs to com- 
 ing to any conclusion in business,. are only lo be 
 equalled by certain prol'oimd eorporati<">s which I 
 have known in my time. I |ton reading the protest 
 of the gallant .lacoluis Van Curlet, therefore, his ex- 
 cellency I'ell straightway into one of I he deepest doubts 
 that ever he was known to en(.'ounler; his capacious 
 head gradually drooped (m his chest, he closed his 
 eyes, and inclined his ear lo one side, as if listening 
 with great attention to the discussion that was going 
 on in his belly : which all who knew him declared to 
 he the huge (»urt-house or coun(r:l-chan!l)er of his 
 thoughts ; forming lo his bead what the bouse of re- 
 presentatives does to the senate. An inarticulate 
 sound, very much resembling a snore, occasionally 
 escaped him— but Ihc naline of this internal cogita- 
 tion was never known, as he never opened his lips 
 on the subject lo man, woman, or child. In the 
 mean lime, the protest of Nan Curlet lay (piietly on 
 the table, where it served lo light the pipes of the ve- 
 nerable sages assembled in coinicil ; and in the great 
 smoke which they raised, the; gallant Jacobus, his 
 protest, and his mighty fori Goed Hoop, were soon 
 as complelely beclouded and forgotten, as is a (jiiiS- 
 tion of emergency swallowed up in the speeches and 
 resolutions of a session of (Congress. 
 
 There are certain emergencies when your profound 
 legislators and sage deliberative coun(;ils are mightily 
 in the way of a nation ; and when an oimce of hare- 
 brained decision is worth a pound of sage docht and 
 cautious discussion. Surh, at least, was the case at 
 present ; for while the renowned Wonter Van Twil- 
 ler was daily battling with his doubts, and his reso- 
 lution growing weakt and weaker in the contest, 
 the enemy jtiished farther and farther into his terri- 
 tories, and assinned a most formidable appearance in 
 llic neighbourhood oC Fort Goed Hoop. Here they 
 founded the mighty town of Pyifuag, or, as it has 
 since been called, ]Vmlhers field, a jdace which, if 
 we may credit the assertions of that worthy historian, 
 John Josselyn, gent, "hath been infamous by reason 
 of the witches t! "in." And so daring did these 
 men of Py(piag '..-•■come, thai Ihey extended those 
 plantations of onions, for whi(;h their town is illus- 
 trious, under the very noses of the garrison of Fort 
 Goed Hoop — insonuich that the honest Dutchmen 
 could not look Uiward that (juartcr without tears in 
 their eyes. 
 
 This crying injustice, was regarded with proper in- 
 dignation by the gallant Jacobus Van Curlet. He 
 absolutely trembled with the violence of his choler, 
 and the exacerbations of his valour; which seemed 
 lo be the more turbulent in their workings, from the 
 length of the body in which they were agitated. He 
 
452 
 
 raSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 forthwith proceeded to strengthen his redouhts, 
 heighten his breastworks, deepen Iris fosse, and for- 
 tify his position with a double row of abatis; after 
 wluch precautiors, he dispalclied a fresh courier 
 with tremendous accounts of his perilous situation. 
 
 The courier chosen to bear these alarming dis- 
 patches was a fat, oily little man, as being least liable 
 to be worn out, or to lose leather on the journey ; 
 and to insure his speed, he was mounted on the tteet- 
 esL waggon horse in the garrison, remarkable for his 
 length of limb, largeness of bone, and hardness of 
 trot ; and so tall, that the little messenger was oblig 'd 
 to climb on his Ijuck by means of his tail and crup- 
 per. Such extraordinai7 speed did he make, lliat be 
 arrived at Fort Amsterdam in little less than a month, 
 though the distance was full two hundi ed pipes, or 
 about one hundred and twenty miles. 
 
 The extraordinary appearance of this portentous 
 stranger would have thrown the whole town of New- 
 Amsterdam into a quandary had the good people 
 troubled themselves about any lliin;; more than Iheir 
 domestic affairs. With an ap(K>arance of great hurry 
 and business, and smoking a siiort travelling pipe, he 
 proceeded on a long swing I rot tluougb the muddy 
 lanes of the metropolis, demolishing whole batches of 
 dirt pies, which the Utile Dutch children were mak- 
 ing in the road; and for which kind of pastry the 
 children of this city have ever been famous. On ar- 
 riving at the governor's liouse, he climbed down 
 from bis steed in great trepidation ; roused the gray- 
 headed door-keeper, old Skaals, who, like his lineal 
 descendant and faithful represenlative, the venerable 
 crier of our court, was nodding at bis post— rallied 
 at the dooL of the council-eluunber, and slarlled the 
 members as they were dozing over a plan for esta- 
 blishing a pid)lic market. 
 
 At that very moment a gentle grunt, or rather a 
 di. op-drawn snore, was heard from the chair of the 
 governor ; a whiff of smoke was at the same instant 
 observed to escape from his lips, an<l a light cloud lo 
 ascend from the bowl of bis pipe. The council of 
 course supposed him engaged in deep sleep for the 
 good of the coniimmity, and according to custom in 
 all su(;h cases established, every man l)awled out si- 
 lence, in order to maintain trancpiillily ; when, of a 
 snilden, (he door Hew open, and the lillle courier 
 r.lraddled into the a|)artment, cased to the middle in 
 a pair of Hessian boots, which he had got into for llie 
 sake of expedition. In bis right hanil be held forth 
 the ominous dispatches, and with his left ho grasped 
 (irmly the waistband of his galligaskins, which had 
 unfortunately given way, in Ihi^ exertion of descend- 
 ing from his horse, lie slumped resolutely up lo the 
 governor, and with more hiury than perspicuity, de- 
 livered his message. Hut Ibrtuualely his ill tidings 
 came too late to ruflle the trantjuillity of this most 
 lran(|uil of rulers. His venerable excellency had just 
 breathed and smoked his last— his lungs and his pipe 
 having been exhausted together, and his peaceful soul 
 having escaped in the last whiff that curlctl from his 
 
 tobacco-pipe. In a word, the renowned Waken 
 Doubter, who had so often slumbered with his 
 temi>oraries, now slept with his fathers, and VVl 
 hehnus Kieft governed in his stead. 
 
 BOOK IV. 
 
 OOTiTAIMNG THE CHBOMCLES OP THE BEICN OF WIUUn i 
 TESTY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Sliowins the naiurc of lu.tory in general ; containint fiirlliern 
 till! universal aciiuirenieiils of William the Tesly, and lir,,! 
 man ni.>y learii so nuicli as to render himself good for noih^,! 
 
 WnKX the lofty Thucydides is about to enter up( 
 his description of the plague that desolated Atlien; 
 one of his modern commentators assures the reaiij 
 that the history is now going to be exceedingly s 
 lemii, serious, and pathetic; and hints, wilhtliaiij 
 of chuckling gralidalioii, with which a good djn 
 draws forth a choice morsel from a cupboard lo t 
 gale a favourite, that Ibis plague will give his liisi 
 a most agreeable variety. 
 
 In like manner did my heart leap within me. wIh 
 I came lo the dolorous dilemma of Fort Good liopi 
 which I at once perceived to be the forerunner ii\ 
 series of great events and enterlaiiiiug disasters. !j« 
 are Ibe true subjects for the historic pen; for wliaijj 
 history, in fact, but a kind of Newgale ealoiHlar,| 
 register of the crimes and miseries that man ii 
 Hided on his fellow man ? It is a huge liliel on I 
 natiu'e, to which we industriously add pjijie alli 
 page, volume after volume, as if we were iui 
 up a nionimieiil lo the honour, rather than to l 
 famy of our species. If we turn over Ihe pajreii 
 these chronicles which man has written of liinis 
 what are Ihe characters dignified by the appelLnio 
 of great, and hehl up to Ihe admiration of posterilyj 
 'J'yranls, robbers, contpierors, renowneil only furl 
 magnitude of their misdeeds, and the .sUipen 
 wrongs and miseries they have inflicted on niiin 
 — warriors who have hired themselves to the Ira 
 of bluod, not from motives of virtuous patriulisjin,! 
 lo prolect the injured and defenceless, but merely li 
 gain Ibe vaunted glory of being adroit and snccesil 
 in massacring their fellow beings ! What are tliejrt 
 events that conslilule a glorious era? — The 
 empires— the desolation of happy countries— spleiiil 
 cities smoking in Iheir ruins — the proudest woikso 
 art tumbled in the dust — the shrieks and gioiiiisi 
 whole nations a.scendiiig unto heaven ! 
 
 It is thus the historians may be said lo thrive ( 
 the miseries of mankind, like birds of [trey thai ^i 
 over the licld of battle, to fatten on the migiilydf* 
 It was ol)served by a great projector of inland 
 navij;alion, that rivers, lakes, and (Mieaus, wenonH 
 formed lo feed canals. In like manner I am Ii'ih|)K 
 to believe, that plots, conspiracies, wars, victonH 
 
fflSTORY OF NFAV-YORK. 
 
 iim 
 
 IGN OF WILimi 1 
 
 I massacres, are ordained by Providence only as 
 I for the historian. 
 lit is a source of great delight to the philosopher, in 
 Idying the wonderful economy of nature, to trace 
 mutual dependencies of things, how they are 
 taWl reciprocally for each otiier, and how the most 
 Isioiis, and apparently unnecessary niiimal has its 
 Thus lliose swarms of flies, which are so often 
 jecralcd as useless vermin, are created for (he 
 tifiiance of spiders— and spiders, on the other hand, 
 [ evidently made to devour flies. So those heroes 
 |o have heen such scourges to the world were 
 ^iileously provided as themes for the poet and the 
 iiiaii, wliile the poet and the historian were des- 
 Ito record the achievements of heroes ! 
 Ilifse, and many similar reflections, naturally arose 
 Imv miud, as I took up my pen to commence the 
 Ign of William Kieft : for now the stream of our 
 lory, which hitherto has rolled in a tran<|uil cur- 
 hl, is about to depart for ever from its peaceful 
 Lis, and to brawl through many a turbulent and 
 bed scene. Like some sleek ox, which, having 
 I ami fattened in a rich clover-field, lies sunk in 
 tii'ioiis repose, and will bear repeated taunts and 
 Jffs, before it heaves its unwieldy limbs, and clum- 
 j arouses from its slumbers ; so the province of the 
 m-Nederlandts, having long slept and grown fat 
 Jder the prosperous reign of the Doubter, was re- 
 llantiy cudgelled awake under the fidgetting reign 
 Ihis successor. The reader will now witness the 
 Inner in which a peaceful community advances 
 lards a state of war ; which it is loo apt to approach, 
 irse does a drum, with much prancing and pa- 
 le, luil with little progress — and too often with the 
 Wend foremost. 
 
 RVii.iii'LMi s Kieft, who in iC>!ii ascended the 
 ll)cnin((i»mJ chair ( to borrow a fuvourile, though 
 Jinsy, appellation of modern phraseologists), was 
 jform, feature, and character, the very reverse of 
 |reiiowued predecessor. He was of very respecl- 
 Bdeseent, his father being ruspeclor of Windmills 
 jliie ancient town of Saardam; and onr hero, we 
 il, made very curious investigations into the 
 lure and operations oflho.se machines when a boy, 
 llch is one reason why he af'crwards came to he so 
 pious a governor. His name, according to the 
 p InRenious etymologists, was a rorrnplion of 
 fier. that is to say, a n/diif/Zer or snildfr. and ex- 
 ■>;d the hereditary disposition of his family; which 
 Ini'ariy two centuries had kept the windy town of 
 Irdain in hot water, and produced more tartars and 
 pistones than any ten families in the place — and 
 Inilydid VVillielmus Kieft iidierit this family en- 
 piiuiit, that he had scarcely been a year in the 
 fciiarite of his government hefi)re he was universally 
 kwii by the appellation of \\ ii,i,i,VM tiik Tkstv. 
 pwiisabri.sk, waspish, little old gentleman, who 
 dried and withered away, partly through the 
 hral inocess of years, and partly from being parch- 
 laiidbmnl up by his licry soul; whicii l)la«e<l like 
 
 a vehement rush-light in his ))osom, constantly incit- 
 ing him to most valorous broils, altercations, and 
 misadventures. I have heard it observed by a pro- 
 found philosopher, that if a woman waxes fat as she 
 grows old, the tenure of her life is precarious; but if 
 haply she withers, she lives for ever — such was the 
 case with William the Testy, who grew tougher in 
 proportion as he dried. He was son:e such a little 
 Dutchman as we may now and then see stumping 
 briskly about the streets of our city, in a broad-skirted 
 coat, with huge buttons, an old-fashioned rocked hat 
 stuck on the back of his head, and a cane as high as 
 his chin. His visage was broad, and his features 
 sharp ; his nose tinned up with a most petulant curl ; 
 his cheeks were scorched into a dusky red — doubtless 
 in conse(|uence of the neighboiuhood of two fierce 
 little gray eyes, through which his torrid .soul beamed 
 with tropical fervour. The corners of his mouth 
 were curiously modelled into a kind of fret-work, 
 not a little resembling the wrinkled proboscis of an 
 irritable pug dog — in a word, he was on( of the most 
 positive, restless, ugly, little men, that ever put him- 
 self in a passion about notliing. 
 
 Such were the personal endowments of M illiam 
 the Testy, but it was the sterling riches of lis mind 
 that raised him to dignity and power. In his youth 
 he had passed with great credit through a celebrat- 
 ed academy at the Hague, noted for manufacturing 
 scholars with a dispatch unequalled, except by certain 
 of our American colleges. Here he skirmished very 
 smartly on the frontiers of several of the sciences, and 
 made so gallant an inroad into the dead languages, as 
 to bring off captive a host of Greek nouns and Nalin 
 verbs, together with divers pithy saws and apoph- 
 thegms, all which he constantly paraded in conver- 
 sation and writing, with as inueli vain-glory as would 
 a triumphant general of yore display the .spoils of 
 the coimtries he had ravaged. He had, moreover, 
 puzxied himself consideraldv \vith logic, in which he 
 bad advanccil so far as to attain a very familiar ac- 
 quaintance, by name at least, with the whole family 
 of syllogisms and dilemmas; but what he chiefly 
 valued himself on was his knowleilge of metaphysics, 
 in which, having once u|)on a time ventureu too 
 deeply, he caine «ell nigh b(;ing smothered in a 
 slough of unintelligible learning — a fearful peril, from 
 the effects of which he never perfectly recovered. 
 This, I nnist confess, was in some nicnsure a misfor- 
 tune, for he never engaged in argumenf. of which he 
 was exceedingly fond, btit what, between logical de- 
 ductions and metaphysical jargon, he soop involved 
 himself and his subject in a fog of contradictions and 
 perplexities, and then would get into a mighty pas- 
 sion with his adversary, for not being convinced 
 gratis. 
 
 II is in knowie 'gc, as in swimming : he who osten- 
 tatiously sports and flounders on the surface makes 
 more noise and splashing, and attiacts more atten- 
 tion, than the industrious pearl diver, who plunges 
 in search of treasures to the bolloin. The " univei.sal 
 
 2(» 
 
iia 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 .'icquircments" of William Kieft were the subject of 
 great marvel and admiration among his countrymen 
 — he figured about at tlie Hague with as much vain- 
 glory as does a profound bonze at Peliin, who has 
 mastered half tlie letters of the Chinese alphal)et ; 
 and, in a word, was unanimously pronounced an 
 u»i%'ersal genius f — I have known many universal 
 geniuses in my time, though, to speak my mind 
 freely, I never knew one who, for the ordinary pur- 
 poses of life, was worth his weight in straw — but for 
 4he purposes of government, a little sound judgment, 
 and plain common sense, is worth all the sparkling 
 genius that ever wrote poetry, or invented theories. 
 
 Strange as it may sound, therefore, the universal 
 aajuirements of Wilhelmus Kieft were very much 
 in his way ; and had he been a less learned man, it 
 is possible he would have been a much greater go- 
 vernor. He was exceedingly fond of trying philoso- 
 phical and political experiments ; and having stuffed his 
 liead full of scraps and remnants of ancient republics 
 and oligarchies, and aristocracies and monarchies, 
 and the laws of Solon and Lycurgus and Charondas, 
 and the imaginary commonwealth of Plato, and the 
 Pandects of Justinian, and a thousand other fragments 
 of venerable antiquity, he was for ever bent upon in- 
 troducing some one or other of them into use ; so that 
 between one contradictory measure and another, he 
 entangled the government of the little province of 
 Nieuw-Nederlandts in more knots during his admi- 
 nistration than lialf a dozen successors could have 
 untied. 
 
 No sooner had (his bustling little man been blown 
 by a whiff of fortune into the seat of government than 
 he called together his council, and delivered a very 
 anima'^l speech on th^^ affairs of the province. As 
 every body knows wha; a glorious opportunity a go- 
 vernor, a president, or even an emperor has, of drul> 
 bing his enemies in his speeches, messages, and bul- 
 letin, where he has the talk all on his own side, they 
 may be sure the high-mettled William Kieft did not 
 suffer so favourable an occasion to escape him of 
 evincing that gallantry of tongue, common to all able 
 legislators. Before he commenced, it is recorded 
 that he took out his pocket handkerchief, and gave a 
 very sonorous blast of the nose, according to the usual 
 custom of great orators. This, iti general, I believe, 
 is intended as a signal trumpet , to call the attention 
 of the auditors; but with William the Testy it boast- 
 ed a more classic cause, fur he had read of the sin- 
 gular expedient of that famous demagogue Caius 
 Gracchus, who, when he harangued the lloman 
 populace, modulated his tones by an oralorial tlute or 
 pitch-pipe. 
 
 This preparatory symphony being performed, he 
 commenced by expressing a humble se.ise of his own 
 want of talentS'-his utter unworlhiness of the ho- 
 nour conferred upon him, and his humiliating inca- 
 pacity to dischar " 'Ii^ important duties of his new 
 station— in shori, he (expressed so contemptible an 
 opinion of himsHf, that many simple country membere 
 
 present, ignorant that these were mere words J 
 course, always used on such occasions, were Tn 
 uneasy, and even felt wroth that he should accept i 
 office for which he was consciously so inadequate, j 
 
 He then proceetled in a manner highly classic 9 
 profoundly erudite, though nothing at all to the pg 
 pose, to give a pompous account of all the govetg 
 ments of ancient Greece, and the wars of Rome a 
 Carthage, together with the rise and fall of sundi 
 outlandish empires, about which the assembly km 
 no more than their great grandchildren yet unh 
 Thus having, after the manner of your learned ( 
 tors, convinced the audience that he was a man i 
 many words and great erudition, he at length caJ 
 to the less impartant part of his speech, the situ,ii 
 of the province — and here he soon worked him 
 into a fearful rage against the Yankees, whoml 
 compared to the Gauls who desolated Rome, andit 
 Goths and Vandals who overran the fairest plainsJ 
 Europe; nor did he forget to mention, in terms | 
 adequate opprobrium, the insolence with which il 
 had encroached upon the territories of New-Neilid 
 lands, and (he unparalleled audacity with wiiichll 
 had commenced the town of New-Plymoutli, jgj 
 planted the onion patches of Weathersfield under ll 
 very walls of Fort Goed Hoop. 
 
 Having thus artfully wrought up his tale of lerr 
 to a climax, he assumed a sell-satisfied look, andd 
 clared, with a nod of knowing import, that he I 
 taken measures to put a final stop to these encroaclJ 
 ments— that he had been obliged to have recourse I 
 a dreadful engine of warfare, lately invented, anf^ 
 in its effects, but authorized by direful necessity ; 
 a word, he was resolved to conquer the Yankees- 
 proclamation ! 
 
 For this purpose he had prepared a tremendoi 
 instrument of the kind, ordering, commanding, auj 
 enjoining the intruders aforesaid, forthwith to 1 
 move, depart, and withdraw from the districts, 1 
 giuns, and territories aforesaid, under pain of suiTerinj 
 all (he penalties, forfeitures, and punishments in sucj 
 case made and provided. This proclamation, lie a 
 sured them, would at once exterminate (he enem 
 from the face of the country; and he pledged iiis vJ 
 lour as a governor, that within two months after f 
 was published, not one stone should remain un i 
 other in any of the towns which they had built. 
 
 1'he council remained silent for some time after b 
 had fmished; whether struck dumb with admiralioi 
 at the brilliancy of his project, or put to sleep by ihj 
 length of his harangue, the minutes of the nieelin 
 do not mention. Suffice it to say, (hey a( lenglliga'l 
 a luiiversal grunt of accjuiescence, and the procianffl 
 (ion was inmietliately dispatched with due ceremonn 
 having the great seal of (he province, which tii 
 about the size of a buck-wheat pancake, attached l| 
 it by a broad red riband. Governor Kieft, havinj 
 thus vented his indignation, felt greatly relieved-] 
 adjourned the council — put on his cocked hat and f 
 dnroy small-clo(he8, an<i mounting a tall raw-lmi 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 155 
 
 urirer, ti'olled out lu liis country seat, which was 
 mated ill a sweet, sequestered swamp, now called 
 Igtch-street, but more commonly known by the 
 i„,e of Dog's Misery. 
 
 iHere, likt: the gotid Numa, he re|)osed from llie 
 
 jorieo>!il'iti')i^i taking lessons in government, not 
 
 L the iiymph Egeria, but from the honoured wife 
 
 lliis bosom ; who was one of that peculiar kind of 
 
 giales, sent upon earth a little after the Hood, as a 
 
 giislinient for the sins of iiiankind, and commonly 
 
 lown by the appellation of knouiiKj women. In 
 
 d, my duty as an historian obliges ine to make 
 
 Dvm a circumstance which was a great secret at 
 
 ciiine, and conse(|uently was not a subject of scan- 
 
 J at more than half the tea-tiibles in New-Amster- 
 
 u, but which, like many other great secrets, has 
 
 ikcd out in the lapse of years — and this was, that 
 
 }ilhelmus the Testy, though one of the most |)otent 
 
 lie men that ever breathed, yet submitted at home 
 
 la species of government neither laiil down in Aris- 
 
 (le or Plato; in short, it partook of the nature of a 
 
 ire unmixed tyranny, and is familiarly denouiinat- 
 
 ImUiroat (jovcrumeni — An absolute sway, which, 
 
 iougli exceedmgly comnio.'i in these motlern days, 
 
 Lvery rare among the ancients, if we may judge 
 
 1 tlie rout made about the domestic economy uf 
 
 Lnesl Socrates; which is the only ancient case on 
 
 »rtl. 
 
 IlliegreatKieft, however, wardetloffall the sneers 
 i sarcasms of his particular friends, who are ever 
 [ady to joke with a man on sore points of the kind, 
 f alleging that it was a government of his own elec- 
 n, to which he submitted through choice ; adding, 
 [lliesanie time, a profound maxim which he had 
 luml ill an ancient author, that " he who would as- 
 Ire lu (jovern should first leara to obey." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Uhluli arc recordwl the sage projects of a ruler of univei-sal 
 Ipnius. Ttic an of tighliii^ by proclamaUon,— and Iiow Uiaf 
 llbe valiant Jacobus Van Curlet coiuc to l)c foully disliunourrd 
 111 Furl Goed lluop. 
 
 I Never was a more comprehensive, a more expedi- 
 m, ur, what is still better, a more economical mea- 
 lire devised, than this of defeating the Yankees by 
 loolamalion — an expedient, likewise, so humane, so 
 Jenlle ami pacific, there were ten chances to one in 
 Ivniir of its succeeding; — but then there was one 
 lance to ten that it would not succeed : — as the ill- 
 Luired fates would have it, that single chance car- 
 Id llie day! The proclamation was perfecl in all 
 s parts, well conslniclcd, well writlen, well sealed, 
 Iwell piihlished— .ill that was wanting to insure 
 B tlTeti was thai the Yankees should stand in awe 
 (il; but, provoking lo ivlate, they treated it with 
 jieiiiost absolute (H)ni<>uipl, applied it to an nuscfinly 
 urpoHc, and iHiis did the tirsl warlike proclanialioii 
 mic to a shameful end — a fate which I am credibly 
 
 informed has befallen but too many of its successors. 
 
 It was a long lime before Wilbelmns Kieft could 
 be persuaded, by the united efforts of all his counsel- 
 lors, that his war measure liad failed in producing any 
 effect. — On the contrary, he Hew in a passion when- 
 ever any one dared to question its eflicacy ; and swore 
 that, though it was slow in operating, yet when once 
 it began to work, it would soon purge the land of these 
 rapacious intruders. Time, however, that test of all 
 experiments both in philosophy and politics, at length 
 convinced him that bis proclamation was abortive ; 
 and that notwithstanding be had waited nearly four 
 years, in a state of constant irritation, yet he was slill 
 farther off than ever from the object of bis wishes. 
 His implacable adversaries hi the east became more 
 and more troublesome in their encroachments, and 
 founded the thriving colony of Hartford close upon 
 the skirts of Fort Goed Hoop. They, moreover, 
 commenced the fair settlement of New-Haven (other- 
 wise called the Reil Hills), within thedomains of their 
 High Mightinesses — while the onion patches of Py- 
 (piag were a continual eye-sore to the garrison of Van 
 Curlet. Upon beholding, therefore, the ineflicacy of 
 his measure, the sage Kieft, like many a worthy prac- 
 titioner of physic, laid the blame, not to the medicine, 
 but to the quantity administered, and resolved to 
 double the dose. 
 
 lathe year iiiSS, therefore, that ))eing the fourth 
 year uf his reign, be fubnmated against them a second 
 proclamation, of heavier metal than the former ; writ- 
 ten in thmidering long sentences, not one word of 
 which was under live syllables. This, in fact, was a 
 kind of non-intercourse bill, prohibiting all conunerce 
 and connexion between any and every of the said 
 ^ ankee intruders, and the said fortified post of I'orl 
 Goed Hoop, and ordering, commanding, and advising 
 all his trusty, loyal, and well-beloved subjects, to fur- 
 nisli Miem with no supplies of gin, gingerbread, or sour 
 crout ; to buy none of their pacing horses, measly 
 pork, apple brandy, Yankee rum, cider w;.ter, apple 
 sweetmeats, Weathersfield onions, or woalen bowls, 
 but to starve and exterminate them from the face of 
 the land. 
 
 Another pause of a twelvemonth ensued, during 
 which the last proclamation received the same atten- 
 tion, and experienced the same fate as the first — at 
 the end of which term, the gallant Jacobus Van Cur- 
 let dispatched his annual messenger, with his custo- 
 mary budget of complaints and entreaties. Whe- 
 ther the regular interval of a year, intervening between 
 the arrival of Van Curlet's couriers, was occasioned 
 by the systematic regularity of his movements, or by 
 the immense distance at which he was stationed from 
 the seat of government, is a mailer of uncertainty. 
 Some have ascribed it to the slowness of his messen- 
 gers, who, as I have before nolici'tl, were chosen from 
 the sliortesi and faHist of his garrison, as least likely 
 to he w(»rnout on the road; and who, being pursy, 
 shorl-wiiHle<l lilllc men, generally travelled fifteen 
 miles a-day, and then laid by a whole week to rest 
 
156 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i,i; 
 
 All these, however, are matters of conjecture; and I 
 rather think it may be ascribed to the immemorial 
 maxim of tliis worthy country — and wliich lias ever 
 influenced all its public transactions — not to do things 
 in a hurry. 
 
 The gallant Jacobus Van Curlet in his dispatches 
 respectfully represented, that several years had now 
 elapsed since his lirsl application to his late excellency, 
 Wouter Van Twilltr; during which interval, his 
 garrison had been reduced nearly one-eighth by the 
 death of two of his most valiant and corpulent soldiers, 
 who had accidentally overeaten themselves on some 
 fat salmon, caught in the Yarsclie-river. He further 
 slated, that the enemy persisted in their inroads, 
 taking no notice of the fort or its inhabitants ; but 
 squatting themselves down, and forming settlements 
 all around it; so that, in a little while, he should find 
 himself enclosed and blockaded by the enemy, and 
 totally at their mercy. 
 
 But among the most atrocious of his grievances, I 
 find the following still on record, which may serve to 
 show the blootly-minded outrages of these savage 
 intruders. "In the mean time, they of Hartford have 
 not onely usurped and taken in the lands of Connec- 
 ticott, although unrighteously, and against the lawes 
 of nations, but have hindered our nation in sowing 
 theire owne purchased broken up lands, but have also 
 sowed them with corne in the night, which the Ne- 
 therlanders had broken up and intended to sowe : and 
 have beaten the servants of the high and mighty the 
 honored companie, which were labouring upon theire 
 master's lands, from theire lands, with sticks and 
 plow staves in hostile manner laming, and amongst 
 the rest, struck Ever Duckings ' a hole in his head, 
 with a slick, soe that the blood ran downe very 
 strongly downe upon his body." 
 
 But what is still more atrocious — 
 
 " Those of Hartford sold a hogg, that belonged to 
 the honored companie, under pretence that it had 
 eaten of theire grounde grass, when they had not 
 any foot of inheritance. They proffered the hogg 
 for Ss. if the commissioners would have given 5s. for 
 d-'iage; which the commissioners denied, because 
 noe man's owne hogg (as men used to say) can tres- 
 pass upon his owne master's ground."' 
 
 The receipt of this melancholy intelligence incensed 
 the whole community — there was something in it 
 that spoke to the dull comprehension, and touched the 
 obtuse feelings even of the puissant vulgar, who ge- 
 nerally require a kick in the rear to awaken their 
 slumbering dignity. I have known my profound 
 fellow-citizens bear without murmur a thousand es- 
 sential infringements of uieir rights, merely because 
 they were not immediately obvious to their senses; 
 but the moment the unlucky Pearce was shot upon 
 our coasts, ll»e whole body politic was in a ferment : 
 
 ' Tliis nanr . no doiiht iiils-spclf. In some old Dutcli MSS. of 
 ll»r lime, wf li.id llie name of Evert Duyckingli, wlio is unques- 
 li()fKtl)ly ilie uufoi'lnnatc liero tkboye alluded to. 
 
 ■" llaK. <:ol, S(«t. I'apers. 
 
 so the enlightened Nederlanders, though they 
 treated the encroachments of their eastern neij^hb 
 with but little regard, and left their quill-valiant i 
 vernor to bear the whole brunt of war with his sinj 
 pen — yet now every individual felt his head \m 
 in the broken head of Duckings — and the unliatu 
 fate of their fellow-citizen the hog, being imprei 
 carried, and sold into captivity, awakened a gruntj 
 sympathy from every bosom. 
 
 The governor and council, goaded by the dart 
 of the multitude, now set themselves earnesliy tod 
 liberate upon what was to be done. — Proclamalio( 
 had at length fallen into temporary disrepute ; : 
 were for sending the Yankees a tribute, as we niaH 
 peace-offerings to the petty Barbary powers, or asil 
 Indians sacrifice to the devil. Others wero for biiyij 
 them out; but this was opposed, as it would I 
 acknowledging their title to the land they had seized 
 A variety of measures were, as usual in such cas 
 proposed, discussed, and abandoned; and thecouix 
 liad at last to adopt the means, which, bein^iij 
 most common and obvious, had been ktio\viii°| 
 overlooked — for yotir amazing acute politicians j 
 for ever looking through telescopes, wliicli onl 
 enable them to see such objects as are far olT, aij 
 unattainable ; but which incapacitate them to ! 
 such things as are in their reach, and obvious | 
 all simple folks, who are content to look with i 
 naked eyes Heaven has given them. Tlie | 
 found council, as I have said, in their pursuit alli 
 Jack-o' lanterns, accidentally stumbled on tlievei 
 measure they were in need of; which was to raise! 
 body of ti oops, and dispatch them to the relief ai 
 reinforcement of the garrison. This measure vr| 
 carried into such prompt operation, that in lesslhi 
 twelve months ihc whole expedition, consisting cfl 
 sergeant and twelve men, was ready to niaicli; an 
 was reviewed for that purpose in the public sqiiarj 
 now known by the name of the Bowling-Green. Jij 
 at this juncture the whole community was tliron 
 into consternation by the sudden arrival of the galii 
 Jacobus Van Curlet, who came straggling; into tod 
 at the head of his crew of tatterdemaliotis, and brinj 
 ing the melancholy tidings of his own defeit, andl 
 capture of the redoubtable post of Fort Goed llo( 
 by the ferocious Yankees. 
 
 The fate of this important fortress is an imprtssil 
 warning to all military commanders. It was neilhT 
 carried by storm nor famine; no practicable br«J 
 was effected by cannon nor mines; no iitagazinj 
 wore blown up by red-hot shot ; nor were the I 
 racks demolished, nor the garrison destroyed, byi 
 bursting of bomb-shells. In fact, the place was lak(| 
 by a stratagem no less singular than effectual, i 
 otie that can never fail of success, whenever ano 
 porlunily occurs of putting it iti practice. Happy a 
 I to add, for the credit of ottr illustrious amesioi 
 that it was a stratagem which, though il iiiipwuii 
 the vigilance, yet left the bravery of the ititiepiil \^ 
 Ctirlet and his garrison perfectly free from K\tmA 
 
mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 157 
 
 III appears that the crafty Yankees, having heard of 
 
 1 regular liabita of the garrison, watched a favour- 
 
 t opportr.nity, and silently intrwiuceil themselves 
 
 gthe furt about tlie middle of a sultry day ; when 
 
 Itigilant defenders, having gorged tiieniselves with 
 
 larty dinner, and smoked out tl. -ir pipes, were 
 (and all snoring most obstreperously at their [tosis, 
 b (ireaming of su disastrous an occurrence. The 
 Ly most inhumanly seized Ja( obus Y.n Curlet 
 this sturdy myrmidons by the nape of the neck, 
 lanleil them to the gate of the fort, and dismissed 
 
 gseverally, with a kick on the crupper, as Charles 
 ^Twelfth dismissed the heavy-lwltomed Russians 
 
 ■ ilie battle of Narva— only taking care to give 
 okicks to Van Curlet, as a signal mark of distinction, 
 t strong garrison was immediately established in 
 ^fort, consisting of twenty long-sided, hard-fisted 
 nkecs, with VVeathersfield onions stuck in their 
 k by way of cockades and feathers — long rusty 
 m-pieces fur muskets — hasty pudding, dumb lish, 
 it, and molasses, for stores ; and a huge pumpkin 
 IS hoisted on the end of a pole, as a standard — li- 
 
 j'caps not having as yet co .ic into fashion. 
 
 CHAPTER HI. 
 
 bluing tlie fearful wratli of William ttic Testy, and the great 
 Hir of tlic New-Amsteitlainmci's, tecause of the affair of 
 rtGotfl Hoop.— And, moreover, how William the Testy did 
 igly fortify the city.— Together with the exploits of Stotfel 
 
 inlLCI'llufr. 
 
 |Luguage cannot express the prodigious fury into 
 icii Wilhelmus Kieft was thrown by this provok- 
 I inlclligence. For three good hours the rage of 
 ^liltle man was too great for words, or rather tiie 
 lis were too great for him; and he was nearly 
 U by some dozen huge, mis-shapen, nine cor- 
 1 Dutch oaths, that crowded ail at once into his 
 Uet. Having blazed off the first broadside, he kept 
 la runstanl firing for three whole days — anathe- 
 jilizing the Yankees, man, woman, and child, body 
 il, for a set of dieven, schobbejaken, deuge- 
 ^en, twist-zoekeren, loozen-schalken, blaes-kaken, 
 ilien-bedden, and a thousand other names of which, 
 fortunately for posterity, history dues not make 
 Mlion. Finally, he swore that he would have no- 
 log more to do with such a squatting, bundling, 
 tsiing, questioning, swapping, pumpkin - e<-iting, 
 [Masses -daubing, shingle-splilling, cider-watering, 
 w-jockeying, notion - peddUng crew — that they 
 k slay at Fort Goed Hoop and rot, before he 
 will dirty his hands by attempting to drive them 
 |ay; in jiroof of which he ordered the new-raised 
 »l>s to be marched forliivvith into winter-(|uarters, 
 ra;'ii it was not as yet quite midsummer. Co- 
 lor ivieft ffiiUifiilly kept his word, and his adver- 
 ts <is I'ailhfully kept their post; and thus the glo- 
 srivf r (Connecticut, and all the gay valleys through 
 ill) it rolls, together with the salmon, shad, and 
 
 other fish within its waters, fell into the hands of the 
 victorious Yankees, by whom they are lield at this 
 very day. 
 
 Great despondency seized upon the city of New- 
 Amsterdam, in consequence of these melancholy 
 events. The name of Yankee became as terrible 
 among our good ancestors as was that of Gaul among 
 the ancient Romans; and all the sage old women of 
 the province used it as a bugbear, wherewith to 
 frighten their unruly rhildren into obedience. 
 
 The eyes of all the province were now turned upon 
 the governor, to know what he would do for the pro- 
 tection of the common weal, in these days of darkness 
 and peril. Great apprehensions prevailed among the 
 reflecting part of the comnumity, especially the old 
 women, that these terrible warriors of Connecticut, 
 not content with the conquest of Fort Goed Hoop, 
 would incontinently march on to New-Amsterdam 
 and take it by storm — and as these old ladies, through 
 means of the governor's spouse, who, as has been al- 
 ready hinted, was "the better horse," had obtained 
 considerable influence in public affairs, keeping the 
 province under a kind of petticoat government, il was 
 determined that measures should be taken for the ef- 
 fective fortification of the city. 
 
 Now it happened that at this time there sojourned 
 in New-Amsterdam one Anthony Van Corlear, • a 
 jolly fat Dutch trumpeter, of a pleasant burly visage, 
 famous fur his long wind and his huge whiskers, and 
 who, as the story goes, could twang so potently upon 
 his instrument, as to produce an effect upon all within 
 bearing, as though ten thousand bag[>ipes were sing- 
 ing right lustily i' the nose. Him did the illustrious 
 Kieft pick out as the man of all the world most fitted 
 to be the champion of New-Amsterdam, and to gar- 
 rison its fort ; making little doubt but that his instru- 
 ment would be as etfectual and offensive in war as 
 was that of the Paladin Astolpho, or the more classic 
 horn of Alecto. It would have done one's heart good 
 to have seen the governor snapping his fingers and 
 fidgetting witli delight, while his sturdy trumpeter 
 strutted up and down the ramparts, fearlessly twang- 
 ing his trumpet in the face of the whole world, like a 
 thrice-valorous editor daringly insulting all the prin- 
 cipalities and powers — on the other sideof the Atlantic. 
 
 Nor was he content with thus strongly garrisoning 
 the fort, but he likewise added exceedingly to its 
 strength, by furnishing it with a formidable battery of 
 quaker guns— rearing a stupendous flagstaff in the 
 centre, which overtopped the whole city— and, more- 
 over, by building a great windmill on one of the bas- 
 tions. ^ This last, to be sure, was somewhat of a 
 novelty in the art of fortification; but as I have al- 
 
 > David Pitlrcz l)e rries inhis " llryze iiaer Nicuw-Ncderjandt 
 ondcr hot year IfiW," makes mention of one corlear, a trumpeter 
 iti Fort Amsterdam, who gave name to Corlear's lloolv, and who 
 was ( loubl le js this same champion described by M r Kniclierbocker. 
 -Edit. 
 
 ' 1)1! Vrios mentions that this windmill stood on the .-(uth-casi 
 bastion, and it is likewise to be seen, together with the flagstaff, in 
 Justus Danker 's View of New-Amsterdam. 
 
1.% 
 
 raSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ready observed, William Klefl was notorious for inno- 
 vations and experiments, and traditions do aflirm that 
 he was liiuch given to mechanical inventions— con- 
 structing (talent smoke-jacks — carts that went before 
 the horses, and fspecially crectinj^ windmills, for 
 wliich machines hu had ac(|uired a singular predilec- 
 tion in his native town of Saardam. 
 
 All these seienlific vagari(\s of the little governor 
 were cried up with ecstasy by his adherents, as proof 
 of his universal genius— but there were not wauling 
 ill-natured grumblers, who railed at him as employ- 
 ing his mind in frivolous pursuits, aiid devoting thai 
 time to smoke -jacks and windmills, which should 
 have been occupied in the more important concerns 
 of the province. iNay, they even went so far as l<> 
 hint once or twice that his head was turned by his ex- 
 periments, and thai lie really thouglil to manage his 
 government as he did his mills — by mere wind I — 
 such is the illiberality andslanderto which enlighten- 
 ed rulers are ever subject. 
 
 Notwithslanding all the measures, therefore, of 
 William Ihe Testy to place the city in a posture of de- 
 fence, the inhabilanis continued in great alarm and 
 despondency. But fortune, who seems always care- 
 ful, in the very nick of time, to throw a bone for hope 
 to gnaw upon, that the starveling elf may be kept 
 alive, did about this time crown the arms of Ihe pro- 
 vince with success in another quarter, and thus cheer- 
 ed the drooping hearts of the forlorn Nederlanders ; 
 otherwise there is no knowing to what lengths they 
 might have gone in the excess of their sorrowing — 
 '* for grief," says the profound historian of the seven 
 champions of Cluistendom, " is companion with des- 
 pair, and despair a procurer of infamous death!'* 
 
 Among the numerous iiu'oads of the moss-troopers 
 of Connecticut, which for some time past had occa- 
 sioned such great tribulation, I should particularly 
 have mentioned a seltlemenl made on the eastern 
 pari of Long-Island, at a place which, from the pe- 
 culiar excellence of its shell-lish, was called Oysl.'r 
 Bay. This was aUacking the province in a most sen- 
 sible part, and occasioned great agitation at JNew- 
 Amsterdam. 
 
 It is an incontrovertible fact, well known to phy- 
 siologists, that the high road to the affections is through 
 the throat; and this may be accounted for on 'he same 
 principles which I have already (|uoled in my stric- 
 tures on fat aldermen. Nor is the fact unknown to 
 the world at large ; and hence do we observe, that 
 the surest way to gain Ihe hearts of the million is to 
 feed them well — and that a man is never so disposed 
 to Halter, to fdease, and serve another, as when he is 
 feeding at his expense ; which is one reason why your 
 rich men, who give frequent dinners, have such abun- 
 dance of sincere and faithful friends. It is on this 
 principle that our knowing leaders of parlies secure 
 Ihe affections of their partisans, by rewarduig them 
 bountifully with loaves and iishes; and entrap Ihe 
 suffrages of the greasy mob, by treating them with 
 hull-feasts and roasted oxen. I have known many a 
 
 man in this same city acquire considerable iniportaj 
 in society, and usur[i a large share of the good wiil 
 his enlightened fellow-citizens, when the only i|w 
 that could be said in his eulogium was, that " |ie;rj| 
 a good iliuner, and kept excellent wine." 
 
 Since, then, Ihe heart and the sluniarh aresoneaj 
 allied, it lulluws couclusively, that wliut alTirl:.! 
 one must sympathelically atVeet the other. Now in 
 an equally incontrovertible fact, that, of all orirrjJ 
 to Ihe stomach, Ihere is none more {;ralefiil ihanii 
 testaceous marine animal, known connnonly In 
 vulgar name of oyster : and in such great rcveifij 
 has il ever been held by my gormandizing k\\m.{ 
 tizens, thai temples have been dedicated to ji, J 
 oiil of mind, in every sireet, lane, and alley, tlnouj 
 out this well-fed tily. It is not to he expw 
 Iherelore, lli.il Ihe seizing of Oyster Bay, a |j{J 
 abounding with their favourite delicacy, would be) 
 lerated by Ihe inhabilanis of New-Amsterdam. 
 attack upon their hoiiniir they might have punJunfJ 
 even the massacre of a few citizens might li 
 passed over hi silence; but an outrage that affecledil 
 larders of the great city of New-AuLsterdam, aiiiiilire| 
 ened the stomachs of ils corpulent burgomasters, v 
 loo serious to pass unrevenged. — The whole couij 
 was unanhnous in opinion, that Ihe intruders Am 
 be immediately driven by force of arms from Oysi 
 Bay and its vicinity ; and a detachment was arcordiiJ 
 ly dispatched for the purpose, under the coininandl 
 one Stoffel Brinkerhoff, or Brinkerhuofd, (i. e. SloHl 
 the head-breaker,) so called because he wasamanl 
 mighty deeds, famous throughout the wliole cxtej 
 ofNieuw-Nederlandts for his skill alquarler-sliirr;ai 
 for size, he would have been a match for Golbranj 
 the Danish champion, slain by Guy of Warwick. 
 
 Stoffel Brinkerhoff was a man of few words, I 
 prompt actions — one of your straight-going ollicei 
 who march directly forward, and do their ordej 
 without making any parade. He used no extra 
 dinary speed in his movements, hut trudged steadi| 
 on, through Nineveh and Babylon, and Jericliu, 
 various olher renowned cities of yore, which, bys 
 unaccountable witchcraft of the Yankees, have 1 
 strangely transplani.ed to Long-Island : neither did II 
 tarry at Puspanich, nor at Palchog, noratlliemi^hl 
 townof Qnag; but marched steadfastly forward, iinj 
 he arrived in Ihe neighbourhood of Oyster Bay. 
 
 Here was he encountered by a tumullnoii$liosl| 
 valiant warriors, beaded by Preserve:! Tisli, J 
 ilabbakuk Nutler, and Return Strong, andZeriiblJ 
 bcl l-'isk, and Jonathan Doolillle, and l)elei'niiii| 
 Cock ! — at the sound of whose names he verily I 
 ed that the whole parliament of Praise (iod liaicta 
 had been let loose to discomiil him. Fiiidini,', 
 ever, that Ibis formidable body was composed iiirrel 
 of Ihe "selectmen" of Ihesetllement, arniedwilliij 
 olher weapon but their tongues, and that lliey I 
 issued forth with no other intent than to nieel liin 
 the held of argument — he suce^etled in pulling llifj 
 to Ihe rout with little diflicidty, and complelelybir 
 
 [dieir settlement. 
 (Kint of his victory 
 [enemy slip through 
 [in; his own laurels, 
 dd have done, thebi 
 Lmpleling his ente 
 bees from the islam 
 lormrd in much the 
 Blomed to drive his 
 i> liim, he pulled u 
 jjy alter them, an( 
 1 into the sea, had 
 jaiieed to pay tribii 
 news of this ac 
 loralive to the spirits 
 m. To gratify th 
 olved lo astonish thei 
 ftacles known in th 
 laitminl of which la 
 J when a school-b 
 upli, therefore, wasi 
 omade his entrance 
 set pacer; live pui 
 Ijes, had served the ei 
 I before him— fifty 
 idred bushels of We; 
 ^tals of cod-fish, lw( 
 ions olher treasures, 
 i Irilnite of the Yan 
 ^terfeiters of Manhat 
 ! Ilie hero's trium| 
 med by martial musi 
 iny Van Corlear the ( 
 d of boys and negroe 
 Itniments of ratllehoix 
 isdevoured the spoils 
 I man did honour 
 |niatly drunk on N( 
 raed Wilhehoiis Kief 
 jotary fit of enlhusia 
 Is customary among t 
 jlorions generals with 
 B decree, by which t 
 1 lo paint the head 
 
 CIIA] 
 
 ipliical reflections on t 
 
 icrity. -Sundry troul)l( 
 
 piUiam tlie Testy had well 
 
 alislic word.— As also tl 
 
 Mam, iind his astoiiishi 
 
 ' we could but get 
 ^une, where, like a 
 
 [Chalks up the d°bl 
 Inkind, we should hn( 
 
 |This is one of those trivii 
 t in tlie course of this c 
 il Manhattan nolef lie co« 
 
HISTORY OF NEVVYORK. 
 
 1S() 
 
 jiiriromasters, 
 
 I tlieir selllement. Without waiting to write an 
 Mint of his victory on the spot, and thus letting 
 lenemy slip through his finfters, while he was se- 
 rins liis own laurels, as a more experienced general 
 mid have done, the hrave Stoffel thought of nothing 
 icnnipleling his enterprise, and utterly driving tlie 
 Lkees from the island. This hardy enterprise he 
 lormed in much the same manner as he had heen 
 jislnnied to drive his oxen; for, as the Yankees lied 
 > liim, he pulled up his hreeehes, and trudged 
 after them, and would infailihiy have driven 
 liiilo the sea, had they not begged for quarter, 
 lai'ieed to pay tribute. 
 
 news of this achievement was a seasonable 
 (oralive to the spirits of the citizens of New-Auis- 
 Idani. To gratify them still more, the governor 
 elvrd lo astonish them with one of those gorgeous 
 flacles known in the days of classic anli(|uily, a 
 llairniinl of which hatl been flogged into his me- 
 when a school-boy at the Hague. A grand 
 upli, liierefore, wasdecreed lo Stoffel Brinkerhoff, 
 omade his entrance into town riding on a Nara- 
 iet pacer; live pumpkins, which, like Roman 
 lj5, iiad served the enemy for standards, were ear- 
 before him — fifty cart-loads of oysters, live 
 inlred bushels of Wealhersfield onions, a hundred 
 intals of cod-fish, two hogsheads of molasses, and 
 ions other treasures, were exhibited as the spoils 
 I trilmie of the Yankees ; while three notorious 
 mterfeiters of Manhattan notes' were led captive to 
 ■ llie hero's triumph. The procession was en- 
 jtneJ by martial music, from the trumpet of An- 
 Hi) Van Corlear the champion, accompanied by a 
 Jof boys and negroes, performing on the national 
 liniments of ralllebones and clamshells. The cili- 
 sdevoured the spoils in sheer gladness of heart — 
 man did honour lo the conqueror, by gelling 
 |ioully drunk on New -England rum— and the 
 md VVilhelmus Kieft calling to mind, in a mo- 
 lolary fit of enthusiasm and generosity, that it 
 8 customary among the ancients to honour their 
 |lorioiis generals with public statues, passed a gra- 
 s decree, by which every tavern-keeper was per- 
 I to paint the head of the intrepid Stoffel on his 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 iphical rcdpctions on tlie folly of beinf? Jiappy in times of 
 
 lerlty. - Sundry troul)les on (lie southern frontiers.— How 
 
 l^illiam tlic Testy liad well ni^li ruined the province throui^h a 
 
 ilislic word.— As also the secret expedition of Jan Jansen 
 
 [leiKlam, and his astonishing reward. 
 
 ' we could but get a peep at the tally of Dame 
 ^iine, where, like a notable landlady, she regu- 
 f chalks up the d °blor and creditor accounts of 
 kkind, we should lind that, upon the whole, good 
 
 |Tliis is one of those trivial anachronisms that now and then 
 t in tbe course of this otherwise authentic history. How 
 il Manhattan note? be connterfeitcd, when as yet bankn were 
 
 and evil are pretty nearly balanced in this world ; and 
 that though we may for a long while revel in the very 
 lap of prosperity, the lime will at length come when 
 we must ruefully pay off the reckoning. Fortune, in 
 fact, is a pestilent shrew, and withal a most inex- 
 orable creditor; for though slif may indulge her fa- 
 vourites in long credits, and overwhelm them with 
 her favours, yet sooner or later she brings up her ar- 
 rears, with the rigour of an experienced publican, 
 and washes out her scores with their tears. "Since," 
 says good old Boetiiis, " no man can retain her at his 
 pleasure, and since her flight is so deeply lamented, 
 what are her favours but sure prognostications of ap- 
 proaching troid)le and calamity !" 
 
 There is nothing that more moves my contempt at 
 the stupidity and want of reflection of my fellow men 
 than lo behold them rejoicing, and indulging in se- 
 ciuily and self-confidence, in limes of prosperity. To 
 a wise man who is blessed with the light of reason, 
 those are the very moments of anxiety and appre- 
 hension; well knowing that, according to the system 
 of things, happintss is at best but transient — and that 
 the higher he is elevated by the capricious breath of 
 fortune, the lower must be his proportionate depres- 
 sion. Whereas he who is overwhelmed by calamity, 
 has the less chance of encountering fresh disasters, 
 as a man at the bottom of a ladder runs very little 
 risk of breaking his neck by tumbling to the top. 
 
 This is the very essence of true wisdom, which 
 consists in knowing when we ought to be miserable, 
 and was discovered much al)out the same time with 
 that invaluable secret, that "every thing is vanity and 
 vexation of spirit : " in consequence of which maxim, 
 your wise men have ever been the unhappiest of the 
 human race ; esteeming it as an infallible mark of ge- 
 nius to be distressed without reason — since any man 
 may be miserable in time of misfortime, but il is the 
 philosopher alone who can discover cause for grief in 
 the very hour of prosperity. 
 
 According to the principle I have just advanced, 
 we lind that the colony of New-Nelherlands, which, 
 under the reign of the renowned Van Twiller, had 
 flourished in such alarming and fatal serenity, is now 
 paying for its former welfare, and discharging the 
 enormous debt of coinforl which it contracteil. Foes 
 harass il from different quarters; the city of New- 
 Amsterdam, while yet in its infancy, is kept in con- 
 stant alarm; and its valiant commander, William the 
 Testy, answers the vulgar, but expressive idea, of "a 
 man in a peck of troubles." 
 
 While i)usily engaged repelling his bitter enemies 
 the Yankees, on one side, we find him suddenly mo- 
 lested in another quarter, and by other assailants. 
 A vagrant colony of Swedes, under the conduct of 
 Peter Minnewits, and professing allegiance to that 
 redoubtable virago, Christina, Queen of Sweden, had 
 settled themselves, and erected a fort on South (or 
 
 unknown in this country— and our simple progenitors had not 
 even dreamt of Iho^e ineihaustible mines of pnfer opulew^? 
 —Print. Dev. 
 

 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 
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 ■tt Ui2 12.2 
 
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 lllpS III 1.4 1 1.6 
 
 
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 6" 
 
 > 
 
 pm 
 
 
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 V 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 33 WIST MAIN STRUT 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14SI0 
 
 (716) S72-4S03 
 
 \ 
 
 ;V 
 
 4 
 
 •s^ 
 
 ^v 
 
 
 
 '.^ 
 
ino 
 
 HISTORY OF NKW-YOHK. 
 
 I)(>lnwnn>) i-ivnr— williin the l»nniidnii«'H claimtHl by 
 till! Kovi'i'iiineiil of llic Ncw-NiMIkm-IiiiuIn. liiNtory in 
 mute AM to llin pnrlinilfli'N of their Hrsi Iniiiiiiif^, and 
 their rcnl pri'tciiNioiiH to lh(* soil ; nnd this is tlie more 
 lu Im> himi'iiled, ns this snine colony n( Swfilcs will 
 hercnfter Ih> found most materiiilly to nfft'ti not only 
 the interests of llio Mvlhcrlandurs, hut of the worhl 
 nl Inr^e ! 
 
 In whatever manner, therefore, this va^alHtnd eo- 
 lony of Swetles lirst look |>ossessionof the eonntry, it 
 iseertain that in (((.W they established a fort, and 
 Minnewils, aeeoitlinp; to the off-hand nsa^e of his 
 eonteni|iorarh-s, deelared himself governor of all the 
 adjaeeni eonntry, under the name of the provinett of 
 N|':\v-SwI';i>I';n. ^o sooner did this reaeli the ears of 
 the eholeri(! Wilbehnus, than, like a true-spirited 
 ehieflaiii, he broke into a violent rai^e, and eallin^ 
 lUKether his eouneil, belalHturetl the Swedes most 
 lustily in the louKi-st speech that hail been heard in 
 Iho eohtny, sinee the memorable dispul(< of 'I'en 
 llreeehes and 'l'ou);b llreeehes. Having thus f;iven 
 vent to the lirst ebullitions of his intliKnaliou, he bad 
 resort lo his favourite measure of pnielamalion, and 
 dispatched one, |-ipin^ hot, in the lirst year of his 
 rei^n, iuforminK Peter IMiimewits that the wboUilcr' 
 rilory lionhTin^ou the South-river had, lime out of 
 mind, been in possession of the Dutch colonists, hav- 
 ing been " beset with forts, and sealed with their 
 
 bl<MNl." 
 
 The latter sauKuinary sentence would convey an 
 idea of ilircful war and bltHHlshed, were we not re- 
 lieved by the information that it uu'rely related to a 
 fray, in which sonu> half a dozen nntchmen had been 
 killed by the Indians, in their benevolent attenipis lo 
 esiabiish a colony, and promote civilization. Hy this 
 it will b(> seen that William Kieft, Ibou^h a very 
 small man, delii;hte<l in bi^; expressions, and was 
 nuich given to a praiseworthy liKiu-e in rhetoric, ge- 
 nerally cnltivatetl by your little )]:reat men, called hy- 
 (lerlHile : a limure wbieli has been found of inllnilc 
 service among many of his class, and which has 
 helped to swell the granilenr of many a mighty, self- 
 ini|K)rtant, hut windy chief magistrate. INor can I 
 resist in this placHt, from observing how nmeli my 
 beloved country is indebted to this same ligiu'c of by- 
 perltole for supporting certain of her greatest ehi;- 
 raeters— slatesnu^n, orators, civilians, and divines; 
 who, by dint of big words, inllaled perimls, and 
 windy (hHMrines, are kept alloat on the surface of so- 
 ciety, as ignorant swinnncrs are huuyed uphy blown 
 blatlders. 
 
 The pnM-lamation against Miimewits concluded by 
 ortlering the self-dublMul governor, and his gang of 
 Swedish adventurers, inuuediately lo leave the coun- 
 try, mider penally of the high dis|)leasiu'e and in- 
 evital>le vengeance of the puissant government of the 
 ^ienw-^wlcrlandts. This "stn)ng measure," how- 
 ever, d«H!s not seem lo have had a whit mor<^ effect 
 Ihflii il8 priHlecessors, which had been tUundereil 
 against the Yankifs— the Swedes resolutely held on 
 
 lu the territory they liad taken possession of— wh 
 u|H>n nuillers for the present remained in sUiiu i 
 
 That Wilhelmiis Kieft sliouhl put up witli||it,j 
 Solent obstinacy in the Swedes would appear \n(< 
 Itatible with his valorous lemperanuMit; hiitwc 
 that alHuit this time the litlli; man had bis lijiiulirj 
 and what witli oiut amioyance and another, vttisi 
 continually on tlw bounce. 
 
 There is a certain description of active It'itislaig 
 who, by shrewd management, contrive <ilwjn| 
 have a hundred irons on the anvil, every oneorwli] 
 uuist be inuuediately attended to; who coiisniim 
 are <-vcr full of temporary Nhifis and ex|MKlii>i 
 |)atcliing up tMe pidilie w<>lfare, and cobhliii;;!!^! 
 lioiial affairs, so as lo make nine holes wlmr i|j 
 mend one — snipping chinks and Haws with whaitt 
 conu's lirst to hanil, like the Yankees I litivc nij 
 lioiu'd, stufling oltl chtlhes in broken wintlous. 
 this i!lass of stalesux n was William the Traly- 
 had be only been ilcssed with powers ei|ii,'il lo | 
 zeal, or nis zeal been disciplined by a little disciiii 
 there is very little doubt but be would liiivc ini 
 the greatest governor of bis size on reconi— ihf | 
 nowned governor of the islan<i tif Huratariii nlone j 
 ceptcd. 
 
 The great defect of Wilbehnus Kiefl's poliryv 
 thai though no man could be more ready lo ; 
 forth in an hour of emergency, yet he was soinl^ 
 upon guariling the national p*M-kel, that lie siifri!^ 
 the enemy to break its head — in other wnnis, wh 
 ever prccanlion for public safety he adopted, liei 
 so intent upon rendering it cheap, that he iiiraria| 
 riMidercd it ineffectual. All this was a renuilei 
 sopu'uee of his education at the Hague; when', I 
 ing a(upiire<l a smattering of knowledge, Ik< 
 ever after a great Conner of indexes, coutiiuially ( 
 ping into books, without ever studying to tlic 
 of any subject; so that \w had the sciunofiillkiiHlj 
 authors fermenting in his pericranium. In soniel 
 these tille-pnge researches lie unluckily stuiiiiiNo 
 a graiul ixtlitical rnhalisiir tcorrf, which, willi 
 customary facility, be inuuediately incoriHiratnl 1 
 his great s(*heme of govermnent, lo the irrt'lriniT 
 injury and delusion uf the honest province ofMti 
 INederlandls, and the eternal misleading of nllnp 
 mental rulers. 
 
 In vain have I pored over tlie theurgia of IIipCIiI 
 deans, the cabalo of the Jews, the neeroiuaiicy iif| 
 Arabians, the magic of the Persians, the liomsf 
 of the I'^nglish, the wilcherafl of the Yankee!), nrj 
 pow-wowingoflhe Intlians, to discover wlinci 
 little man lirst laid eyes on this terrible w ril. ^t'ill| 
 the Sephir Jetzirah, that famous cabalistic voliiij 
 ascribed to the patriarch Abraham ; nor tliu ^ff 
 the /ohar, containing the mysteries of the caiMlaJ 
 cordtni by the learned rabbi Simeon Joclinidcs. )l 
 any light to my impiiricH. Nor nm I in tlit^ Mf 
 nellted by my painful reseorelies in the Sliein-li^ 
 phorali of Ilenjomin, the waiulering Jew, llioiii;! 
 enabled Davidus Elm lo make a ten days' .jooriwl 
 
IIISKmY OV INKW-YOIIK. 
 
 IM 
 
 nty-fuiir lioum. Nftitlicr can I pt>rc«ivv llio tiliKlit- 
 
 lilliiiily in tlio Tclrn^i-aniiiinloii, or Kiirml iiainr 
 
 tirlelli'tK, tlic profoiiiHlcNl word of lltu llcliriiw 
 
 ilia; a inyNtt'ry Niililiiiic, iiicflJiliU', nriil iiiconiiiiii- 
 
 blr— iiikI IIic iMt'VH of wliirli .l<Nl-ll«;-V'nii-lli', 
 
 ijiig \n'.en Hlol<!ii by lliu pji;f<iiiN, «-niiNtitiil<!<i llifir 
 
 liliiaiiiv Jiio, or .lov<>. In Nliorl, in till my cahn- 
 
 ic,liiriii'Ki<'i iiiTroinanlic, iiiiiKi<'iil, Jiixl aslrolo^irnl 
 
 iin'lifN, fntin llic 'rrlrnclyNol' i>yllia;;iM'iis lo llic 
 
 itlilt' works ontn'KlawaiHl Mollutr llinu*li, I liavc 
 
 |(liMWt'r<><l lilt' IininI vcsIIku of an origin of lliLs 
 
 d, nor have I (list^overtMl any wort! of siinirieiil 
 
 nicy lo <'onn(<n'a('l il. 
 
 kot lo k*T|> my rradrr III any Nns|H>nNC, llin won! 
 lichlind so wondrrfnlly arrrstfd llio altciilion of 
 paiiiliio 'IVsty, and wliirli inCieiiiian cliaraclcrs 
 jii|)aiiiri)lurly lilack and itniinoiis aspect, on licinK 
 h) IrniisiaU <l iiilo llu; JliiKlisli is no other lliaii 
 pvotir— a lalisinanie term, wliicli, liy eonslant iisn 
 |fr('(|ii(!iit mention, lias ceased lo Im formidalilu In 
 \ifjvs, litit wliif^li has as lerriliiu potency as any in 
 lirriina oriieeioinancy. 
 
 wIh'II |iroiioiinced in a national nssemhly it has an 
 NlialR elTect in closing the hearts, heeloiidiiiK Iliu 
 ^lccl!i,(li'a\vln);lhepnrse-sliiii;;s,andliiilloiiingtli<! 
 iolies-|M)ckels of all pliilosoplnc le;;islalors. Nor 
 |iL<«fli>('ls on III*; eyes less wonderful. II produces 
 mlnidioii of the relina, an obseiii ily of the cryslal- 
 ^leiis, a viseidily of Hie vitreous, and an inspissa- 
 loniin aipicoiis liumoiirs, an iiidnralion of the 
 ira scleroliea, and a eoiivcxily of the cornea; iiiso- 
 (lilliat the oi'Kan of vision loses its streiiKlli and 
 
 biily, and IIm; niiforttinalc palicnl hccomes 
 or in plain I'iiiKlisli, purblind; perceivinic 
 
 llic ainoiint of imnicdiale expense, without 
 ;alile to look farlhur, and ref^ard it in connexion 
 hllic iilliiiinlc object lo Im; effected. " So that." 
 kiioletliu words of llii! ehxpienl Itnrke, "a brier 
 piinsf is of greater niagiiiludc than an oak at live 
 Mlml yards <lislancc." Such an; its inslanlaneoiis 
 fnliuiiH, and Hk; results arc still tiiore aslonishiiig. 
 
 ill* niiiKic iiilliK^nce seventy-fours shrink into 
 !iic8, fripleH into sloops, and sloops into gun- 
 
 riiisall-polenl word, which served as his loiicb- 
 
 iin politics, at once explains the whole system of 
 
 domaliuns, protests, empty threats, windmills, 
 
 in|M>lers, and paper war, carried on by Wilhehniis 
 
 ^T(>8ty; and we may trace its operations in an ur- 
 
 «iil which lie fitted out in 10(2, in n inoiiient of 
 
 W wrath, consisting of two sliMtps and thirty men, 
 
 kr the command of Mynheer Jan Janscn Alpen- 
 
 Ki as admiral of the licet, and commaiKler-in- 
 
 f of ilie forces, 'riiis formidable expedition, 
 
 di can only Im; paralleled by some of Ibu daring 
 
 I of our infant navy ulmut the bay and up tlie 
 
 xli was inlended lo drive the Marylanders from 
 
 >>'H:liuylkill, of wiiicli they liad recently taken 
 
 iion, and whicli was claimed os part of the 
 
 tincc uf Miciiw-NislerlaiiUtsi for it ap^tears thai 
 
 at this timn our infant colony was Ui that cnvialilo 
 slate, HO much coveted liy ambitious nations, that is 
 to say, the government had a vast cxlenlof territory, 
 part of which it enjoyed, and the greater pari of 
 which it had cimtiniially toipiarrel about. 
 
 Admiral Jan Jansen Alpendam was a man of great 
 inetllc and prowess, and no way dismayed at the cha- 
 racter of Hie enemy, who were represenled as a gi- 
 gaiilii;, gunpowder race of men, who lived on hoe 
 cakes and bacon, drank mint juleps and apple UkI- 
 dy, and were exceedingly expert at boxing, biting, 
 gouging, tar ami fealhering, and a variety of other 
 athlelic aciMmiplishmeiits, which they had JHirrowed 
 from their cousins gtirman and |>rotolypes the Virgi- 
 nians, to wlioiii they have ever iHtriie considerable 
 resemblance. INotwilbslanding all these alarming 
 represciilalions, the admiral enlitred the Si^hiiylkill 
 most iiiidaunledty wilh bis Ibx-t, and arrived willi- 
 oiitdisast«>r or opposition at the place of destination. 
 
 Here he attacked tlu; enemy in a vigorous spueeb in 
 Low Diiti-h, which Ihe wary Kieftbad previously put 
 in bis pocket; wherein lie courleonsly commenced 
 by calling llienia pack of la/y,ioutiiig, dram-drinking, 
 ctH-k- lighting, horse-raeiiig, slave-driving, lavern- 
 haunting, sabbath-breakings, niulatlo-breuling up- 
 starts; and coneliided by ordering them to evaeuale 
 the country iinmedialely— lo which Ihey laconically 
 
 n'plied, in plain JMiglish, " they'd see bi:ii d d 
 
 lirst. " 
 
 Now this was a reply for which ncilber Jan Jansen 
 Alpendam nor Wilhelmus Ki(!fl bad made any calcii- 
 lalioii— and linding himself totally unprepared to 
 answer so terrible a rebuff with suitable hostility, he 
 concluded that his wisest course was to return home 
 and i'e|H)rt progn*ss. lie accordingly suileii liack lu 
 New-Amsterdam, where he was received wilh great 
 lionourM, and considered asa pattern for all command- 
 ers, having achieved a most hazardous enterprise at 
 a trilling ex|M>nse of treasure, and wilhoiil losing a 
 single man to the state ! He was unanimously called 
 the deliverer of his country (an appellation liberally 
 bestowed on all great men) ; bis two sloops, having 
 done their duty, were laid up (or dry d(H;kcd) In a 
 cove now called the Albany basin, were Ihey (piietly 
 rotted in Ihe mud ; and, to imiiiortali/e bis name, they 
 erected, by siiliM^ription, a magnilleent moiinment of 
 pine iMianIs on the top of flatten iiarrack Mill, which 
 lasted tbri^ whole years, when it fell tu pieces, and 
 was burnt for firewood. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Ilnw Willlnm llin Truly cnrlrlicd Ihn pmvlncfl liy a iniilliliHlo of 
 lawR, mill ciiiiio lo In> tlii! iMilitiii of lawyerN anil iMini-lMJIinii. 
 Ami liiiw tli« |Mii|ilu Im'ciiiiii exei-cdiiigjy viiligliluacd and iin. 
 Iiappy 'iniirr Ills liiNlniiUluiii. 
 
 A MONO the many wrecks and fragments of exalted 
 wisdom, which have floated down the stream of lime, 
 rrom venerable antiquity, and have been carefully 
 
1(»2 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 picked up by those liumble, but initustrious wights, 
 wlio ply along the shores of literature, we find the 
 following ordinance of Charondas, the Locrian legis- 
 lator. — Anxious to preserve the ancient laws of the 
 state from the additions and improvements of profound 
 " country members, " or ofllcious candidates for po- 
 pularity, he ordained, that whoever proposed a new 
 law should do it with a halter about his neck ; so that 
 in case his proposition were rejected, they just hung 
 him up — and there the matter ended. 
 
 This salutary institution had such an effect, that for 
 more than two hundred years there was only one 
 trifling alteration in the criminal code, — and the whole 
 race of lawyers starved to death for w^ant of employ- 
 ment. The conse(|uence of this was, that t he Locrians 
 being unprotected by an overwhelming load of ex- 
 cellent laws, and undefended by a standing army of 
 pettifoggers and sheriff's officers, lived very lovingly 
 together, and were such a happy people, that they 
 scarce make any figure throughout the whole Grecian 
 history— for it is well known that none but your un- 
 lucky, quarrelsome, rantipole nations make any noise 
 in the world. 
 
 Well would it have been for William the Testy, 
 had he haply, in the course of his " universal acquire- 
 mentJi, " stumbled upon this precaution of the good 
 Charondas. On the contrary, he conceived that the 
 true policy of a legislator was to multiply laws ; and he 
 went to work to secure the property, the persons, 
 and the morals of the people, by surrounding them in 
 a manner with men-traps and spring-guns, and be- 
 setting even the sweet sequestered walks of private 
 life with quickset hedges; so that a man could scarce- 
 ly turn without the risk of encountering some of 
 these pestiferous protectors. Thus was he continually 
 coining petty laws for every petty offence that occu- 
 red, until in time they became too numerous to be re- 
 membered, and remained, like those of certain modern 
 legislators, mere dead letters— revived occasionally 
 for the purpose of individual oppression, or to entrap 
 ignorant offenders. 
 
 Petty courts consequently began to appear, where 
 the law was administered with nearly as much wis- 
 dom and impartiality as in those august tribunals, the 
 aldermen's and justices' courts of the present day. 
 The plaintiff was generally favoured, as being a cus- 
 tomer, and bringing business to the shop ; the offences 
 of the rich were discreetly winked at — for fear of hurt- 
 ing the feelings of their friends;— but it could never be 
 laid to the charge of the vigilant burgomasters, that 
 they suffered vice to skulk unpunished under the dis- 
 graceful rags of poverty. 
 
 About this time may we date the first introduction 
 of capital punishments — a goodly gallows being erect- 
 ed on the water-side, about where Whitehall-stairs are 
 at present, a little to the east of the battery. Hard by 
 also was erected another gibbet of a very strange, un- 
 couth, and unmatchable description, but on which 
 the ingenious William Kiefl valued himself not a little, 
 being a punishment entirely of his own invention. 
 
 It was for loftiness of altitude not a whit infetj 
 that of Haman, so renowned in Bible history; baJ 
 marvel of the contrivance was, that the culprjij 
 stead of being suspended by the neck, acco 
 venerable custom, was hoisted by the waistband ] 
 was kept for an hour together dangling and spran 
 between heaven and earth— to the infinite entert 
 ment, and doubtless great edification, of the i 
 tudc of respectable citizens who usually attend i 
 cxiiibitions of the kind. 
 
 It is incredible how the little governor chuckled 
 beholding caitiff vagrants and sturdy beggars) 
 swinging by the crupper, and cutting antic gai 
 in the air. He had a thousand pleasantries and n 
 ful conceits to utter upon these occasions. Hec 
 them his dandle-lions — his wild fowl — his liigh-ji 
 — his spread eagles — his goshawks — his scarei 
 and finally his gallows-birds, which ingenious apl 
 lalion, though originally confined to worlliiesi 
 had taken the air in this strange manner, has s 
 grown to be a cant name given to all candidates! 
 legal elevation. This punishment, moreover, ifl 
 may credit the assertions of certain grave etyni 
 gists, gave the first hint for a kind of harnessiogJ 
 strapping, by which our forefathers braced up i 
 multifarious breeches, and which has of late yJ 
 been revived, and continues to be worn at the | 
 sent day. 
 
 Such were the admirable improvements of Will| 
 Kieft in criminal law — nor was his civil cude li 
 matter of wonderment ; and nuicli does it grieve I 
 that the limits of my work will not suffer nie to ei[ 
 tiate on both with the prolixity they deserve, 
 suffice then to say, that in a little while the ble 
 of imumierable laws became notoriously appan 
 It was soon found necessary to have a certain clasj 
 men to expound and confound them : divers { 
 foggers accordingly made their appearance, unj 
 whose protecting care the community was soon| 
 together by the ears. 
 
 I would not here be thought to insinuate any lU 
 derogatory to the profession of the law, or to Wsi 
 fied members. Well am I aware, that we bavJ 
 this ancient city innumerable worthy gentlemen v| 
 bless their souls ! have embraced that honour! 
 order, not for the soi-did love of filthy lucre, norj 
 selfish cravings of renown ; but through no < 
 •notives but a fervent zeal for the correct admiij 
 tration of justice, and a generous and desinten 
 devotion to the interests of their fellow -citiM 
 Sooner would I throw this trusty pen into the \ 
 mes, and cork up my ink-horn for ever, than I 
 fringe even for a nail's breadth upon the dignityj 
 this truly benevolent class of citizens. On the c 
 trary, I allude solely to that crew of caitiff ! 
 who, in these latter days of evil, have become so | 
 merous— who infest the skirts of the profession, 
 did the recreant Cornish knights the honounj 
 order of chivalry— who, under its auspices, 
 their depretlationson society— who thrive by quild 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 165 
 
 |j and chicanery, and, like vennin, swarm most 
 
 e there is most corruption. 
 ng so soon awakens tlie malevolent passions 
 
 I facility of gratification. The courts of law 
 
 I never be so constantly crowded with petty, 
 
 us, and disgraceful suits, were it not for the 
 ^of pettifogging lawyers that infest them. These 
 
 r witli tlie passions of the lower and more igno- 
 \i3sses; who, as if poverty were not a suflicient 
 
 J In itself, are always ready to heighten it by 
 Itilterness of litigation. They are in law what 
 
 sare in medicine — excituig the malady for the 
 I of proiiting by the cure, and retarding the 
 jlortlie purpose of augmenting the fees. Where 
 Idestroys the constitution, the other impoverishes 
 
 'se; and it may likewise be observed, that as a 
 who has once been under the hands of a 
 
 i, is ever after dabblmg in drugs, and poisoning 
 
 (If with infallible remedies; su an ignorant man, 
 \\m once meddled willi the law under the aus- 
 jiofoiie of these empirics, is forever after em- 
 
 ; himself with bis neighbours, and impoverish- 
 lljiiiself with successful law-suits. My readers 
 leiciise this digression, into which I have been 
 
 rily betrayed; but I could not avoid giving a 
 Unprejudiced account of an abomination too pre- 
 
 I in this excellent city, and with the etTects of 
 
 blam unluckily acquainted to my cost; having 
 ^nearly ruined by a law-suit, which was unjustly 
 
 I against me — and my ruin having been com- 
 
 j by another, which was decided in my favour. 
 lb been remarked by the observant writer of 
 
 iuyvesant manuscript, that under the adminis- 
 
 lof Wilheimus Kieft the disposition of the in- 
 
 ols of New-Amsterdam experienced an essen- 
 Idunge, so that they became very meddlesome 
 Iktiuus. The constant exacerbations of temper 
 I which the Ultle governor was thrown by the 
 
 duigs on his frontiers, and his unfortunate pro- 
 Iky to experiment and innovation, occasioned him 
 
 qi iiis council in a continual worry— and the 
 being to the people At large what yeast or 
 
 nistoa l)atch, they threw the whole community 
 lifermeHl — and the people at large l)eing to the 
 Idiat the mind is to the liody, the unhappy com- 
 
 ithey underwent operated most disastrously 
 l^ew-Amsterdam, insomuch that in certain of 
 kjaroxysnis of consternation and perplexity, (hey 
 Iteveral of the most crooked, distorted, and abo- 
 
 blc streets, lanes, and alleys, with which this me- 
 
 sisdisligured. 
 filihe worst of the matter was, that just about 
 llime the mob, since called the sovereign people, 
 
 , like Dalaani's ass, to grow more enlightened 
 kib rider, and exhibited a strange desire of go- 
 
 ; itself. This was another effect of the " uni- 
 
 d acquirements" ofWilliam (he Testy. Insome 
 
 I pestilent researches among the rubbish of an- 
 fiy, he was struck with admiration at the insti- 
 
 I of public tables among the Lacedsmonians, 
 
 where they discussed topics of a general and interest- 
 ing nature — at the schools of the philosophers, where 
 they disputed upon politics and morals— where gray- 
 beards were taught the rudiments of wisdom, and 
 youths learned (o become little men, before they were 
 boys.—" There is nothing," said the ingenious Kieft, 
 shutting up (he book, " (here is nodiing more essen- 
 (ial to the well management of a country than educa- 
 tion among the i)eople; the basis of a good govern- 
 ment should be laid in the public mind."— INow this 
 was true enough, but it was ever the wayward fate 
 of William (he Testy, that when he thought right, 
 he was sure to go to work wrong. In (he present 
 instance, he could scarcely eat or sleep until lie had 
 set on foot brawling debating societies among the 
 simple citizens of New-Amsterdam. This was the 
 one thing wanting to complete his confusion. 'J'be 
 honest Dutch burghers, though in truth but little 
 given to argument or wordy altercation, yet by dint 
 of meeting often together, fuddling themselves wi(h 
 strong drink, beclouding their brains with tobacco- 
 smoke, and listening to the harangues of some half a 
 dozen oracles, soon became exceedingly wise, and, as 
 is always the case where the mob is politically enlight- 
 ened, exceedingly discontented. They found out, 
 with wonderful quickness of discernment, the fearful 
 error in which they bad indulged, in fancying them- 
 selves (he happiest people in creation— and were for- 
 tunately convinced, that, all circumstances to (he 
 contrary notwilfistanding, they were a very unhappy, 
 deluded, and consequently ruined people. 
 
 In a short time the quidnuncs of New-Amsterdam 
 formed themselves into sage juntos of {lohtical croak- 
 el's, who daily met together to groan over political 
 affaii's, and make themselves miserable ; thronging to 
 these unhappy assemblages with the same eagerness 
 (hat zealots have in all ages abandoned (he milder 
 and more peaceful paths of religion, to crowd (o (he 
 howling convocadons of fanaticism. We are natu- 
 rally prone to discontent, and avaricious after ima- 
 ginary causes of lamentation — like lubberly monks, 
 we belabour our own shoulders, and seem to take a 
 vast satisfaction in the music of our own groans. Nor 
 is this said for the sake of paradox ; daily expei'ient;e 
 shows the truth of these olmervalions. It is almost 
 impossible to elevate the spirits of a man groaning 
 under ideal calamities; but nothing is more easy than 
 to render him wretched, though on the pinn;icle of 
 felicity ; as it is an Ilerculanean task (o hoist a man 
 (0 the top of a steeple, (bough the merest child can 
 topple him off from thence. 
 
 In the assemblages I have noticed, the reader will 
 at once perceive the fault germs of those sapient con- 
 vocations called popular meetings, [irevalent at our 
 day. Thither resorted all those idlers and " scpiires 
 of low degree," who, like rags, bang loose upon the 
 back of society, and are ready to be blown away by 
 every wind of doctrine. Cobblers abandoned their 
 stalls, and hastened (hi(her (o give lessons on poli- 
 (ical economy— blacksmiths left their handicraft, and 
 
1 i 
 
 164 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 suffered their own tires tu gu out, while they blew 
 the bellows and stirred up the lire of faction ; and 
 even tailors, though but the shreds and patches, the 
 ninth parts of humanity, neglected their own mea- 
 sures to attend to the measures of government. No- 
 thing was wanting but lialf a dozen newspapers and 
 patriotic editors to have completed this public illu- 
 mination, and to have thrown the whole province in 
 an uproar ! 
 
 I should not forget to mention, that these popular 
 meetings were held at a noted tavern : for houses of 
 Uiat description liave always been found the most 
 fostering nurseries of politics; abounding with those 
 genial streams which give strength and sustenance to 
 faction. We are told that the ancient Germans had 
 an admirable mode of treating any question of im- 
 portance ; they flrst deliberated upon it when drunk, 
 and afterwards reconsidered it when solter. The 
 shrewder mobs of America, who dislike having two 
 minds upon a subject, both determine and act upon 
 it drunk ; by which means a world of cold and tedious 
 speculations is dispensed with — and as it is univer- 
 sally allowed, that when a man is drunk he sees 
 double, it follows most conclusively that he sees twice 
 as well as his sober neighbours. 
 
 CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 of the ureat I'ijw Plot— and of the dolorous peiplexltlcs into w hicli 
 William the Testy was llirowii, by reason ofhis having eniiglit- 
 eneU llic nmllitude. 
 
 WiLHELMus KiEFT, as has already been made ma- 
 nifest, was a great legislator upon a small scale. lie 
 was of an active, or rather a busy mind; that is to 
 say, his was one of those small, but brisk minds, 
 which make up by bustle and constant motion for tlie 
 want of great scope and power. lie had, when quite 
 a youngling, been impressed with the advice of So- 
 lomon, " go to the ant, thou sluggard; consider her 
 ways, and be wise : " in conforinily to which, he had 
 ever been of a restless, ant-like turn, worrying hither 
 and thither, busying himself about little matters, with 
 an air of great importance and anxiety, laying up 
 wisdom by the morsel, and often toiling and pufling 
 at a grain of mustard-seed, under the full conviction 
 that he was moving a mountain. 
 
 Thus we are told, that once upon a time, in one of 
 his (its of mental bustle, which lie termed delibera- 
 tion, he framed an unlucky law, to prohibit the uni- 
 versal practice of smoking. This he proved, by ma- 
 thematical demonstration, to be not merely a heavy 
 tax on the public pocket, but an incredible consumer 
 of time, a great cncourager of idleness, and, of course, 
 a deadly banc to the prosperity and morals of the 
 people. Ill-fated Kieft ! had he lived in this enlight- 
 ened and libel-loving age, and attempted to subvert 
 the inestimable liberty of the press, he could not 
 have struck more closely on the sensibilities of the 
 million. 
 
 The populace were in as violent a turmoil as I 
 constitutional gravity of their deportment would/ 
 mit — a mob of factious citizens had even the 1 
 hood to assemble before the governor's house, vin 
 sitting themselves resolutely down, like a b«i« 
 army before a fortress, they one and all fell to si^ 
 ing with determined perseverance, as though iti 
 their intention to smoke him into terms. The i 
 William issued out of his mansion like a wrall 
 spider, and demanded to know the cause of ly 
 ditious assemblage, and this lawless fumigationl 
 which these sturdy rioters made no other reply i 
 to loll back phlegmatically in their seats, audi 
 away with redoubled fury ; whereby they raised J 
 a murky cloud, that the little man was faiti to | 
 refuge in the interior of his castle. 
 
 The governor immediately perceived the obj« 
 this unusual tumult, and that it would be iriip 
 to suppress a practice, which, by long indulgi 
 had become a second nature. And here I wouM 
 serve, partly to explain why I have so often i 
 mention of this practice in my history, that itvai 
 separably connected with all the affairs, both p 
 and private, of our revered ancestors. The pip 
 fact, was never from the mouth of the true-bom I 
 derlander. It was his companion in solitude,! 
 relaxation of his gayer hours, his counsellor, his( 
 soler, his joy, his pride; in a word, he seemed toll 
 and breathe through his pipe. 
 
 WhenAVilliam the Testy bethought himself o 
 these matters, which he certainly did, altlioiid 
 little too late, he came to a compromise with tliel 
 sieging multitude. The result was, that [\mm 
 continued to permit the custom of smoking, yetdi| 
 abolish the fair long pines v,'hic!i ^vere pi-evalentii 
 days of Wouter Vai; Twiller, ii'noling ease, \\ 
 quillity, and sobriety of deportment; anil, in[ 
 thereof, did introdiice little, captious, short pipe$,| 
 inches in length; which, he observed, could bei 
 in one corner of the mouth, or twisted inthebat-bi 
 and would not be in the way of business. By (hi^ 
 multitude seemed somewhat appeased, and disp 
 to their habitations. Thus ended this alarming in 
 reclion, which was long known by the name of| 
 Pipe Plot, and which, it has been somew hat qiiii 
 observed, did end, like most other plots, seditions,| 
 conspiracies, in mere smoke. 
 
 Hut mark, oh reader ! the deplorable consequel 
 V.uf did afterwards result. The smoke of tiiese| 
 lanous little pipes, contiimally ascending in a i 
 about the nose, penetrated into and befogged the| 
 rebellum, dried up all the kindly moisture of the I 
 and rendered the people that used them as vap 
 and testy as their renowned little governor-l 
 what is more, from a goodly, burly race of folk, Ij^ 
 l)ecamc, like our worthy Dutch farmers, wbo sn 
 short pipes, a lantern-jawed, smoke-dried, leatl 
 hided race of men. 
 
 Nor was this all; for from hence ntay we datej 
 rise of parlies In this province. Certain of the i 
 
HISTORY OF Pffi:W-YORK. 
 
 16r> 
 
 vas, tliat (lioiisl 
 
 hy and important burghers, adhering to the an- 
 
 i fashion, formed a Iwind of aristocracy, which 
 
 ft by liie appellation of the Long Pipes: while the 
 
 onlers, submitting to the innovation, which 
 
 r found to be more convenient in their liandicraft 
 
 Joyments, and to leave them more liberty of ac- 
 
 p were branded with the plelieian name of S/ior( 
 
 A third party likewise sprang up, differing 
 
 ] both the other, headed by the descendants of 
 
 I famous Robert Chewit, the companion of the 
 
 tat Hudson. These entirely discarded the use of 
 
 s, and took to chewing tobacco, and tience they 
 
 e called Quids. It is worthy of notice, that this 
 
 itappellation has since come to be invariably applied 
 
 Lihose mongrel or third parties, that will sometimes 
 
 king up between two great contending parties, as a 
 
 cis produced between a horse and an ass. 
 [And here I would remark the great benefit of these 
 /distinctions, by which the people at large are 
 ^ed the vast trouble of thinking. Hesiod divides 
 lalind into three classes — those who think for 
 elves, those who let others think for them, and 
 • who will neither do one nor the other. The 
 toad class, however, comprises the great mass of 
 iety, and hence is tlie origin of party, by which is 
 nt a large body of people, some few of whom 
 Ink, and all the rest talk. The former, who are 
 I the leaders, marshal out and discipline the lat- 
 , teaching them what they must approve— what 
 I must hoot at— what they must say— whom they 
 Bl support— but, above all, whom they must hate 
 for no man can be a right good partisan, unless he 
 II determined and thorough-going hater. 
 I Bat when the sovereign people are thus properly 
 iken to the harness, yoked, curbed, and reined, it 
 ^delectable to see with what docility and harmony 
 key jog onward through mud and mire, at the will of 
 eir drivers, dragging the dirlcarls of faction at their 
 How msny a patriotic member of congress 
 |ive I seen, who wouhl never have known how to 
 vkt np his mind on any question, and might have 
 1 a great risk of voting right by mere accident, had 
 tnot had others to think for him, and a lile leader 
 liTote after ! 
 
 Thus then the enlightened inhabitants of the Man- 
 
 ptloes, \mng divided into parties, were enabled to 
 
 anize dissension, and to oppose and hate one an- 
 
 «r with accuracy. And now the great business of 
 
 ilitics went bravely on ; the parties assembling in 
 
 urate beer-houses, and smoking at each other with 
 
 ipiacable animosity, to the great support of the state, 
 
 1 emolument of the tavern-keepers. Some, indeed, 
 
 ) were more zealous than the rest, went farther, 
 
 I began to bespatter one another with numerous 
 
 '\md names and scandalous little words, to be 
 
 vndin the Dutch language; every partisan believ- 
 
 ; religiously that he was serving liis country when 
 
 (traduced the character or impoverished the pocket 
 
 (apolitical adversary. But however they might 
 
 ^ between themselves, all parties agreed on one 
 
 point, to cavil at and condemn every measure of go- 
 vernment, whether right or wrong; for as the go- 
 vernor was by his station independent of their power, 
 and was not elected by their choice, and as he had 
 not decided in favour of either faction, neither of them 
 was interested in his success, nor in the prosperity of 
 the country while under his administration. 
 
 "Unhappy William Kiefl!" exclaims the sage 
 writer of the Stuyvesant manuscript, "doomed to 
 contend with enemies tou knnwlng to be entrapped, 
 and to reign over a people too wise to be governed ! " 
 All his expeditions against his enemies were baffled 
 and set at naught, and all his measures for the public 
 safety were cavilled al by the people. Did he pro- 
 pose levying an eflicient body of troops for internal 
 defence — the mob, that is to say, those vagabond 
 members of the community who have nothing to lose, 
 immediately took the alarm, vociferated that their 
 interests were in danger — that a standing army was 
 a legion of locusts, preying on society; a rod of iron 
 in the hands of government; and that a government 
 with a military force at its command would inevitably 
 swell into a despotism. Did he, as was but too com- 
 monly the case, defer preparation until the moment 
 of emergency, and then hastily collect a handful of 
 undisciplined vagrants — the measure was hooted at, 
 as feeble and inadequate, as trifling with the public 
 dignity and4afety, and as lavishing the public funds 
 on impotent enterprises. Did he resort to the economic 
 measure of proclamation — he was laughed at by the 
 Yankees; did he back it by non-intercourse — it was 
 evaded and counteracted by his own subjects. Which- 
 ever way he turned himself, he was beleaguered and 
 distracted by petitions of " numerous and respectable 
 meetings," consisting of some half a dozen brawling 
 pot-house politicians— all of which he read, and, what 
 is worse, all of which he attended to. The conse- 
 quence was, that, by incessantly changing his mea- 
 sures, he gave none of them a fair trial ; and by listen- 
 ing to the clamours of the mob, and endeavouring to 
 do every thing, he, in sober truth, did nothing. 
 
 I would not have it supposed, however, that he took 
 all these memorials and interferences good-naturedly, 
 for such an idea would do inj ustice to his valiant spirit : 
 on the contrary, he never received a piece of advice 
 in the whole course of his life without first getting 
 into a passion with the giver. But I have ever ob- 
 served that your passionate little men, like small boats 
 with large sails, are the easiest upset or blown out of 
 their course; and this is demonstrated by Governor 
 Kieft, who, though in temperament as hot as an old 
 radish, and with a mind, the territory of which was 
 subjected to perpetual whirlwinds and tornadoes, yet 
 never failed to be carried away by the last piece of ad- 
 vice that was blown into his ear. Lucky was it for 
 him that his power was not dependent upon the greasy 
 multitude, and that as yet the populace did not possess 
 the important privilege of nominating their chief ma- 
 gistrate. They did their best, however, to help along 
 public affairs; pestering their governor incessantly, 
 
I i 
 
 im 
 
 IlISTOKY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 by goading him on with harangues and petitions, and 
 then tbwaFling his fiery spirit with reproaches and me- 
 morials, like Sunday joelceys managing an unlucky 
 devil of a hack horse — so that Wilhelmus Kieft may 
 he said to have heen kept either on a worry or a hand- 
 gallop throughout the whole of his administration. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 ConUining diven foarhil accounts of Border wan, and tlic fla- 
 grant outragi-9 of the Musg-truo[)ei-9 of Couuccticut— with the 
 rise of the great Auipliictyonic council of the east, and the de- 
 cline of William the Testy. 
 
 It was asserted by the wise men of ancient times, 
 who were intimately acquainted with these matters, 
 that at tlie gate of Jupiter's palace lay two huge tuns, 
 the one filled with blessings, the other with misfortunes 
 —and it verily seems asif the latter had l)een completely 
 overturned, and left to deluge the unlucky province of 
 Nieuw-Nederlandts. Among the many internal and 
 external causes of irritation, the incessant irruptions 
 of the Yankees upon his frontiers were continually add- 
 uig fuel to the inflammable temper of William the 
 Testy. Numerous accounts of these molestations 
 may still be found among the recoi ds of the times ; 
 for the commanders on the frontiers were especially 
 careful to evince their vigilance and zeal, by striving 
 who should send home the most frequent and volu- 
 minous budgets of complaints, as your faithful servant 
 is eternally running with complainis to the parlour, of 
 the petty squabbles and misdemeanours of the kitchen. 
 
 Far be it from me to insinuate, however, that our 
 worthy ancestors indulged in groundless alarms ; on 
 the contrary, they were daily suffering a repetition of 
 cruel wrongs, not one of which but was a sufficient 
 reason, according to the maxims of national dignity 
 and honour, for throwing the whole universe into 
 hostility and confusion. From among a multitude of 
 bitter grievances still on record, I select a few of the 
 most atrocious, and leave my readers to judge if our 
 ancestors were not justifiable in getting into a very 
 valiant passion on the occasion. 
 
 " 24 June, 1641 . Some of Hartford have taken a 
 hogg out of the vlact or common, and shut it up out of 
 meer hate or other prejudice, causing it to starve for 
 hunger in the stye ! 
 
 " 26 July. The foremencioned English did againe 
 drive the Companies' hoggs out of the vlact of Sicojoke 
 Into Hartford; contending daily with reproaches, 
 blows, heating the people with all disgrace that they 
 could imagine. 
 
 " May 20, 4642. The English of Hartford have 
 violently cut loose a horse of the honoured Compa- 
 nies', that stood bound upon the common or vlact. 
 
 " May 0, 1643. The Companies' horses pastured 
 upon the Companies' ground were driven away by 
 them of Connecticott or Hartford, and the herdsmen 
 lustily beaten with hatchets and sticks. 
 
 " 16. Again they sold a young hogg belonging to 
 
 the Companie, which pigg had pastured on the I 
 panics' land.—" ' 
 
 Oh ye powers! into what indignation did ever>'« 
 of theseoulrages throw the philosophic William! ietij 
 after letter, protest after protest, proclamation al|( 
 proclamation, lud Lalin, worse English, and lijd;, 
 low Dutch, were exhausted in vain u|M>n the inexoraij 
 Yankees; and the four-and-twenty letters of iheali^ 
 liet, which, excepting his champion, the sturdy in 
 peter Van Corlear, composed the only standing ^ti 
 he had at his command, were never off duty lhruu;'tiQ 
 the whole of his administration.- Nor was AntlKi 
 the trumpeter, a whit behind his patron inderyzeji 
 but, like a faithful champion of the public safely, , 
 the arrival of every fresh article of news, he wass 
 to sound his trunipet from the ramparts, willi nm 
 disastrous notes, throwing the people into viol 
 alarms, and disturbing their rest at all times and s 
 sons — which caused him to be held in very ^reat t 
 gard, the public pampering and rewarding him, as « 
 do brawling eililors, for similar services. 
 
 lam well aware of the perils that environ ni(| 
 this part of my history. While raking, with curM 
 hand but pious heart, among the mouldering remain 
 of former days, anxious to draw therefrom the Itontj 
 of wisdom, I may fare somewhat like that valiai 
 worthy, Samson, who, in meddling with the cara 
 of a dead lion, drew a swarm of bees altout his eai^ 
 Thus while narrating the many ml<^leeds ofijj 
 Yanokie or Yankee tribe, it is ten chances to one li 
 I offend the morbid sensibilities of certain of their u 
 reasonable descendants, who may fly out and raise sue! 
 a buzzing aliout this unlucky head of mine, Ibai I 
 shall need the tough hide of an Achilles, or aiiOr| 
 lanilo Furioso, to protect me from their stings. 
 
 Should such be the case, I should deeply and t 
 cerely lament — not my misfortune in giving olfencj 
 —but the wrong-headed perverseness of an ill-nalutj 
 ed generation, in taking offence at any Ihiii!; I sa]f| 
 That their ancestors did use my ancestors ill is Irw 
 and I am very sorry for it. I would with all mj 
 heart the fact were otherwise ; but as I am recoixiin 
 the sacred events of history, I'd not bate one nail'j 
 breadth of the honest truth, though I were sure t 
 whole edition of my work should be bought up an 
 burnt by the conmion hangman of Connecticut. An 
 in sooth, now that these testy gentlemen have drawd 
 me out, I will make bold to go farther, and obser^d 
 that this is one of the grand pur|H)8es for whicln?^ 
 impartial historians are sent into the world— to r 
 dress wrongs and render justice on the heads of t 
 guilty. So that though a powerful nation may wr 
 its neighbours with temporary impunity, yet soond 
 or later an historian springs up, who wreaks ani( 
 chastisement on it in return. 
 
 Thus these moss-troopers of the east little thoughll 
 I'll warrant it, while tliey were harassing the inof| 
 fensive province of Nieuw-Nederlandls, and drivini 
 its unhappy governor to his wit's end, that an histoj 
 < Hai. Col. stale Papers. 
 
 [sarages, among whi 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 m 
 
 , should ever arise, and give them their own, willi 
 St. Since tlien I am but performing my liound- 
 Ijuiy as an historian, in avenging tlie wrongs of 
 ' revere<l ancestors, I sliall make no further apo- 
 j; and indeed, when it Ls considered that I liave 
 flbcse ancient borderers of llie east in my power, 
 ^at llie mercy of my pen, I trust tliat it will be ad- 
 ed I conduct myself with great humanity and mo- 
 on. 
 
 ITo resume then the course of my histoi7 — Appear- 
 s to the eastward began now to assume a more 
 ilable aspect than ever— for I would have you 
 (that hitherto the province had been chielly molest- 
 ||ir lis immediate neighbours, the people of Con- 
 licut, particularly of Hartford; which, if we may 
 efrom ancient chronicles, was the strong hold of 
 estunly moss-troopers, from whence they sallied 
 bon their daring incursions, carrying terror and 
 elation into tlie barns, the hen-roosts, and pig- 
 s of our revered ancestors. 
 IjUbeit about the year IG43, the people of the east 
 itry, inhabiting the colonies of Massachusetts, Con- 
 nil, New-Plymouth, and Kew-llaven, gathered 
 rther into a mighty conclave, and after buzzing 
 j debating for many days, like a political hive of 
 tin swarming time, at length settled themselves 
 ^afomiidable confederation, under the title of the 
 ml Colonies of New-England. By this union 
 f pledged themselves to stand by one another in 
 Iperiis and assaults, and to co-operate in all mea- 
 ts, ofTensive and defensive, against the surround- 
 [iivages, among which were doubtlessly included 
 ||ioiioured ancestors of the Manhattoes; and to 
 tnwre strength and system to this confederation, 
 leral assembly or grand council was to be an- 
 lUy held, composed of representatives from each 
 B provinces. 
 
 I receiving accounts of this combination, Wilhel- 
 iKieft was struck with consternation, and, for the 
 jttime in his whole life, forgot to bounce, at hear- 
 |in unwelcome piece Oi" intelligence — which a ve- 
 ii)le historian of the times observes was especially 
 I among the politicians of New-Amsterdam, 
 etnilh was, on turning over in his mind ail that 
 |y read at the Hague , about leagues and combi- 
 is, he found that this was an exact imitation of 
 I Amphictyonic council, by which the slates of 
 '. were enabled to attain to such power and at^ 
 Bcy, and the very idea made his heart to quake 
 |the safety of his empire at the Manhattoes. 
 e strenuously insisted, that the whole object of 
 f confederation was to drive the Nederlanders out 
 eir fair domains; and always ilew into a great 
 e if any one presumed to doubt the probability of 
 |0)njecture. Nor was he wholly unwarranted in 
 b suspicion; for at the very first annual meeting 
 e grand council, held at Boston (wliich Governor 
 Nenominated the Delphos of this truly classic 
 le), strong representations were made against 
 jNederlanders, forasmuch as that in their dealings 
 
 witli tlie Indians they carried on a traffic in " guns, 
 powther, and shott— a trade damnable and injurious 
 to the colonists." ■ Not but what certain of the Con- 
 necticut traders did likewise dabble a little in this 
 " damnal)le traffic"— but then they always sold the 
 Indians such scurvy guns, that they burst at the first 
 discliarge— and consequently hurl no one but these 
 pagan savages. 
 
 The rise of this potent confederacy was a death- 
 blow to the glory of William the Testy; for from that 
 day forward, it was remarked by many, lie never 
 held up his head, but appeared quite crest-fallen. 
 His subsequent reign, tlierefore, affords but scanty 
 food for the historic pen — we find the grand council 
 continually augmenting in power, and threatening to 
 overwhelm the province of Nieuw - Nederlandts ; 
 while Wilhelmus Kieft kept constantly fulminating 
 proclamations and protests, like a shrewd sea cap- 
 tain, firing off carronades and swivels, in order to 
 break and disperse a waterspout — but, alas! they 
 had no more effect than if they had Iieen so many 
 blank cartridges. 
 
 The last document on record of this learned, phi- 
 losophic, but unfortunate little potentate, is a long 
 letter to the council of the Amphictyons, wherein, in 
 the bitterness of his heart, he rails at the people of 
 New-Haven, or Red Hills, for their discourteous con- 
 tempt of his protest, levelled at them for squatting 
 within the province of their High Mightinesses. 
 From this letter, whicii is a model of epistolary wri- 
 ting, abounding witli pithy apophthegms and classic 
 figures, my limits will barely allow me to extract the 
 following recondite passage : ' — " Certainly when we 
 heare the inhabitants of New-Hartford complayninge 
 of us, we seem to heare ^sop's wolf complayninge 
 of tlie lamb, or the admonition of the younge man, 
 who cryed out to his mother, chideing with her 
 neighboures, 'Oh Mother, revile her, lest she first 
 take up that practice against you.' But being taught 
 by precedent passages, we received sue'- .in answer 
 to our protest from the inhabitants of i\«. ■ <a\en as 
 we expected : the Eagle always despiseth .'le lieetle- 
 fly: yet notwithstanding we doe undauntedly continue 
 on our purpose of pursuing our own right, by just 
 arms and righteous means, and doc hope without, 
 scruple to execute the express commands of our su- 
 periours." To show that this last sentence was not 
 a mere empty menace, he concluded his letter by in- 
 trepidly protesting against the whole council, as a 
 horde of squatters and interlopers, inasmuch as they 
 held their meeting at New-Haven, or the Red Hills, 
 which he claimed, as being within the province of the 
 New-Netherlands. 
 
 Thus end the authenticated chronicles of the reign 
 of William the Testy— for henceforth, in the troubles, 
 the perplexities, and the confusion of the tunes, he 
 seems to have been totally overlooked, and to have 
 slipped for ever through tlie fingers of scrupulous his- 
 
 ■ llai. Col. Slate Vapen, 
 
 > Vide llaz. Got. state Papen. ^ 
 
168 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 :? 
 
 tory. Indeed, for some canse or oHier, whicli I can- 
 not divine, there appears to have been a combination 
 among historians to sink his very name into oblivion, 
 in consetiuence of wliicli they have one and all for- 
 borne even to speak of his exploits. This shows 
 how important it is for great men to cultivate 
 the favour of the learned, if they are ambitious of 
 honour and renown. *' Insult not the dervise, " said 
 a wise caliph to his son, " lest thou offend thine his- 
 torian ; " and many a mighty man of the olden time, 
 had he observed so obvious a maxim, might have es- 
 caped divers cruel wipes of the pen which have been 
 drawn across his character. 
 
 It has been a matter of deep concern to me, that 
 such darkness and obscurity should hang over the 
 latter days of the illustrious Kiefl — for he was a mighty 
 and great little man, worthy of being utterly renown- 
 ed, seeing that he was the first potentate that intro- 
 duced into this land the art of fighting by proclamation, 
 and defending a country by trumpeters and windmills 
 — an economic and humane mode of warfare, since 
 revived with great applause, and which promises, if it 
 can ever be carried into full efTect, to save great trouble 
 and treasure, and spare infinitely more bloodshed than 
 either the discovery of gunpowder or the invention of 
 torpedoes. 
 
 It is true, that certain of the early provincial poets, 
 of whom there were great numbers in the Nieuw- 
 NederlaiTdls, taking advantage of the mysterious exit 
 of William the Testy, have fabled, that like Romulus, 
 he was translated to the skies, and that he forms a 
 very fiery little star, somewhere on the left claw of 
 the crab ; while others, equally fanciful, declare that 
 he has experienced a fate similar to that of the good 
 King Arthur ; who, we are assured by ancient bards, 
 was carried away to the delicious abodes of fairy land, 
 where he still exists in pristine worth and vigour, and 
 will one day or another return to restore the gallantry, 
 the honour, and the immaculate probity, which pre- 
 vailed in tlie glorious days of the Round Table. ' 
 
 All these, however, are but pleasing fantasies, the 
 cobweb visions of those dreaming varlets, the poets, 
 to which I would not have my judicious reader attach 
 any credibility. Neither am I disposed to yield any 
 credit to the assertion of an ancient and rather apo- 
 cryphal historian, who alleges that the ingenious Wil- 
 helmus was annihilated by the blowing down of one 
 of bis windmills— nor to that of a writer of later times, 
 who affirms that he fell a victim to a philosophical ex- 
 periment, which he had for many years been vainly 
 striving to accomplish ; having the misfortune to break 
 his neck from the garret window of thestadthouse, in 
 
 • The old Welsh bards believed that King Arthur was not dead, 
 but carried awaie by the faries into some pleasent place, where he 
 shold remaine for a time, and then returne agalne and rclgne in as 
 P'. It authority as ever.— Hni,LiNG.siiED. 
 
 The Britons suppose that be shall come yet and conquerc all 
 Britaigne, for certes this is the prophicye of Herlyn.— lie say'd 
 that hisdeth shall be doubteous; and said soth, for men thereof 
 yet have double and shuUen for ever more— (br men wyt not 
 whether that he lyveth or is dede.— Dk Lbew. Cubon . 
 
 an attempt to catch swallows, by sprinkling fresh i 
 upon their tails. 
 
 The most probable account, and to which I ami 
 dined to give my implicit faith, is contauied in a J 
 obscure tradition, which declares, that what \r| 
 the constant troubles on his frontiers — the ince: 
 schemings and projects going on in his own peric 
 niuin — the memorials, petitions, remonstrances, i 
 sage pieces of advice from divers respectable meetiJ 
 of the sovereign |)eople — togethe: with the refraclj 
 disposition of his council, wiiu were sure to (lifTerfiJ 
 him on every point, and uniformly to l)e in the vro 
 — all these, I say, did eternally operate to keep I 
 mind in a kind of furnace heat, until he at length U 
 came as completely burnt out as a Dutch family i 
 which has passed through three generations of I 
 smokers. In this manner did the choleric but i 
 gnanimous William the Testy undergo a kindofi 
 mal combustion, consuming away like a farlliingr 
 light— so that when grim death finally sniifTed I 
 out, there was scarce left enough of him to bury.' 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 CONTAIMNG THE FIRST PABT OF THE BEIGN OF PETER $nij 
 SANT, AND HIS TBOUBLES WITB TUE AMPUICTYONIC COIJU 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 In which the death of a great man is shown to be no vcn' m 
 sulablc matter of sorrow— and bow I'ctor Sliiyvrsaiit aapiir^ 
 great name from the uncommon strength of his head. 
 
 To a profound philosopher, like myself, wiio j 
 apt to see clear through a subject, where tliepenelj 
 tion of ordinary people extends but halfway, tiiei 
 no fact more simple and manifest than that thedcj 
 of a great man is a matter of very little iiiiportai 
 Much as we may think of ourselves, and much as I 
 may excite the empty plaudits of the million, itiscf 
 tain that the greatest among us do actually fill bull 
 exceeding small space in the world; and it is eqiii 
 certain, that even that small space is quickly sup 
 when we leave it vacant. " Of what consequencj 
 it," said Pliny, " that individuals appear, or makcllj 
 exit? the world is a theatre whose scenes and ad 
 are continually changing." Never did piiilos( 
 speak more correctly, and I only wonder llialsos 
 a remark could have existed so many ages, and i 
 kind not have laid it more to heart. Sage i 
 in the footsteps of sage; one hero just steps outor| 
 triumphal car, to make way for the hero who ( 
 after him; and of the proudest monarch it is met 
 said, that—" he slept with his fathers, and his J 
 cessor reigned in his stead." 
 
 The world, to tell the private truth, cares but l| 
 for their loss, and if left to itself would soon fon 
 grieve; and though a nation has often been ilguratl 
 ly drowned in tears on the death of a great man, 
 
mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 16!) 
 
 ^ten chances to one if an individual tear has been 
 
 Jon the occasion, excepting from tlie forlorn pen 
 
 hungry autlior. It is tlie historian, the bio- 
 
 «r, and the poet, wlio liave the whole burden of 
 
 f to sustain; who— kind souls !— like undertalcers 
 
 jgiriaml, act ihe part of cliief mourners — who in- 
 
 tination with sighs it never heaved, and dehige 
 
 1 tears it never dreamt of shedding. Thus, while 
 
 jpatriolic author is weeping and howling, in prose, 
 
 nk verse, and in rhyme, and collecting the drops 
 
 igMic sorrow into his volume, as into a Iachi7mal 
 
 >, it is more than proliable his fellow-citizens are 
 
 and drinking, fiddling and dancing, as utterly 
 
 intoflhe bitter lamentations made in their name, 
 
 e those men of straw, John Doe and Richard Roe, 
 
 (plaintiffs for whom they are generously pleased 
 
 Itfers occasions to become sureties. 
 
 t most glorious and praiseworthy hero that ever 
 
 baled nations might have mouldered into oblivion 
 
 pg the rubbish of his own monument, did not 
 
 rhistorian take him into favour, and benevolently 
 
 nil his name to jwsterity — and much as the va- 
 
 I William Kiefl worried, and bustled, and tur- 
 
 i while he had the destinies of a whole colony 
 
 ^liand, I question seriously whether he will not 
 
 ili^ to this authentic history for all his future 
 
 fily. 
 
 isevit occasioned no convulsion in the city of New- 
 
 |fleitlam or its vicinity : the earth trembled not, 
 
 rdid any stars shoot from their spheres — the 
 
 jrens were not shrouded in black, as poets would 
 
 Ipersuade us they have been, on the unfortunate 
 
 lof a hero — the rocks (hard-hearted varlets!) 
 
 I not into tears, nor did Ihe trees hang their 
 
 Is in silent sorrow; and as to the sun, he lay a-bed 
 
 |iiext night just as long, and showed as jolly a face 
 
 I ke rose, as he ever did on the same day of the 
 
 bin any year, either before or since. The good 
 
 ^of New-Amsterdam, one and all, declared that 
 
 I been a very busy, active, bustling little go- 
 
 f; that he was " the father of his country"— 
 
 |iwvas " the noblest work of God"— that " he 
 
 I man, take him for all in all, they ne'er should 
 
 luponhis like again"— together with sundry other 
 
 |iod affectionate speeches that are regularly said 
 
 (death of all great men ; after which they smok- 
 
 heir pipes, thought no more about him, and Peter 
 
 jresant succeeded to his station. 
 
 rStuyvesant was the last, and, like the renown- 
 fouter Van Twiller, he was also the best, of our 
 Bt Dutch governors. Wouter having surpassed 
 jibo preceded him, and Pieter or Piet, as he was 
 Wy called by the old Dutch burghers, who were 
 [jmne to familiarize names, having never been 
 Iby any successor. He was in fact the very 
 [lilted by nature to retrieve the desperate fortunes 
 (beloved province, had not the fates, those most 
 dand unrelenting of all ancientspinslers, destined 
 |to inextricable confusion. 
 Ny merely that he was a hero would be doing 
 
 him great injustice— he was in truth a combination 
 of heroes— for he was of a sturdy, rawlmne make like 
 Ajax elamon, with a pair of round shoulders that 
 Hercules would have given his hide for (meaning his 
 lion's hide) when he undertook to ease old Alias of 
 his load. He was moreover, as Plutarch describes 
 Coriolanus, not only terrible for the force of his arm. 
 but likewise of his voice, which sounded as though it 
 came out of a barrel ; and, like the self-same warrior, 
 he possessed a sovereign contempt for the sovereign 
 people, and an iron aspect, which was enough of it- 
 self to make the very bowels of his adversaries quake 
 with terror and dismay. All this martial excellency 
 of appearance was inexpressibly heightened by an ac- 
 cidental advantage, with which I am surprised that 
 neither Homer nor Virgil have graced any of their 
 heroes. This was nothing less than a wooden leg, 
 which was the only prize he had gained in bravely 
 Fighting the battles of his country, but of which he 
 was so proud, that he was often heard lo declare he 
 valued it more than all his other limbs put together; 
 indeed so highly did he esteem it, that lie had it gal- 
 lantly enchased and relieved with silver devices, which 
 caused it to be related in divers histories and legends 
 that he wore a silver leg. ' 
 
 Like that choleric warrior Achilles, he was some- 
 what subject to extempore bursts of passion, which 
 were oft-times rather unpleasant to his favourites and 
 attendants, whose perceptions he was apt to quicken, 
 after the manner of his illustrious imitator, Peter the 
 Great, by anointing their shoulders with his walking- 
 staff. 
 
 Though I cannot find that he had read Plato, or 
 Aristotle, or Hobbes, or Bacon, or Algernon Sydney, 
 or Tom Paine, yet did he sometimes manifest a 
 shrewdness and sagacity in his measures, that one 
 would hardly expect from a man who did not know 
 Greek, and had never studied Ihe ancients. True it 
 is, and I confess it with sorrow, that he had an un- 
 reasonable aversion to experiments, and was fond of 
 governing his province after the simplest manner- 
 hut then he contrived to keep it in better order than 
 did the erudite Kieft, though he had all the philoso- 
 phers, ancient and modern, to assist and perplex him. 
 I must likewise own that he made but very few laws, 
 but then again he took care that those few were ri- 
 gidly and impartially enforced— and I do not know 
 but justice on the whole was as well administered as 
 if there had been volumes of sage acts and statutes 
 yearly made, and daily neglected and forgotten. 
 
 He was, in fact, the very reverse of his prede- 
 cessors, being neither tranquil and inert, like Walter 
 the Doubter, nor restless and fidgeting, like William 
 the Testy ; but a man, or rather a governor, of such 
 uncommon activity and decision of mind, that he never 
 sought or accepted the advice of others ; depending 
 confidently upon his single head, as would a hero of 
 yore upon his single arm, to work his way through 
 all difficulties and dangers. To tell the simple truth, 
 
 ■ See the histories of Masters Josselyn and Biome. 
 
 22 
 
170 
 
 inSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 he wanted no other requisite for a perfect statesman 
 llian to tlunl( always ri^lit, for no one can deny tliat 
 lie always acted as lie thought ; and if he wanted in 
 correctness, he made up for it in perseverance — an 
 excellent quality ! since it is surely more dignified for 
 a ruler to be persevering and consistent in error than 
 wavering and contradictory in endeavouring to do 
 what is right. This much is certain, and it is a maxim 
 worthy the attention of all legislators, both great and 
 small, who stand shaking in the wind, without know- 
 ing which way to steer — a ruler who acts according 
 to his own will is sure ^of pleasing himself, while he 
 who seeks to satisfy the wishes and whims of others 
 runs a great risk of pleasing nobody. The clock that 
 stands still, and points steadfastly in one direction, is 
 certain of being right twice in the four-and-twenty 
 hours — while others may keep going continually, and 
 continually be going wrong. 
 
 Nor did this magnanimous virtue escape the dis- 
 cernment of the good people of Nieuw-Nederlandts ; 
 on the contrary, so high an opinion had they of the 
 independent mind and vigorous intellects of their new 
 governor, that they universally called him Hard-kop- 
 pig Piet, or Peter the Headstrong — a great compli- 
 ment to his understanding ! 
 
 If, from all that I have said, thou dost not gather, 
 worthy reader, that Peter Stuyvesant was a tough, 
 sturdy, valiant, weather-beaten, mettlesome, obsti- 
 nate, leathern -sided, lion-hearted, generous -spirit- 
 ed old governor, either I have written to but little 
 purpose, or thou art very dull at drawing conclu- 
 sions. 
 
 This most excellent governor, whose character I 
 have thus attempted feebly to delineate, commenced 
 his administration on the 29th of May 1647, a re- 
 markably stormy day, distinguished in all the alma- 
 nacs of the time which have come down to us by the 
 name of Windy Friday. As he was very jealous of 
 his personal and official dignity, he was inaugurated 
 into office with great ceremony; the goodly oaken 
 chair of the renowned Wouter "Van Twiller being care- 
 fully preserved for such occasions, in like manner 
 as the chair and stone were reverentially preserved at 
 Schone, in Scotland, for the coronation of the Caledo- 
 nian monarchs. 
 
 I must not omit to mention, that the tempestuous 
 state of the elements, together with its being that 
 unlucky day of the week termed " hanging day," did 
 not fail to excite much grave speculation and divers 
 very reasonable apprehensions among the more an- 
 cient and enlightened inhabitants ; and several of the 
 sager sex, who were reputed to be not a little skilled 
 in the mysteries of astrology and fortune-telling, did 
 declare outright that they were omens of a disastrous 
 administration— an event that came to be lamentably 
 verified, and which proves, beyond dispute, the wis- 
 dom of attending to those preternatural intimations 
 furnished by dreams and visions, the flying of birds, 
 falling of stones, and cackling of geese, on which the 
 sages and rulers of ancient times placed such reliance 
 
 — or to those shootings of stars, eclipses of the r 
 bowlings of dogs, and flarings of candles, can 
 noted and interpreted by the oracular sibyls of| 
 day ; who, in my humble opinion, are the legjti 
 inheritors and preservers of the ancient science o 
 vination. This much is certain, that Governors 
 vesant succeeiled to the chair of state at a turb 
 period; when foes thronged and threatened 
 without ; when anarchy and stiff-necked uppi 
 reigned rampant witltin; when the authority of tl 
 High Mightinesses the Lonis States-General, tit 
 founded on the broad Dutcli bottom of unofFeni 
 imbecility ; though supported by economy, andl 
 fended by speeches, protests and proclamations, | 
 tottered to its very centre ; and when the great [ 
 of New-Amsterdam, though fortified by flag-sul 
 trumpeters, and windmills, seemed, like some f 
 lady of easy virtue, to lie open to attack, and i 
 to yield to the first invader. 
 
 CHAPTER U. 
 
 showing how Peter the Headstrong bestirred hinudf a 
 rats and cobwebs on entiTing into oflice ; and the |)erilow| 
 take he was guilty of, in his dealings with the AinphictyM 
 
 The very first movements of the great PeterJ 
 taking the reins of government, displayed then 
 nimity of his mind, though they occasioned not all 
 marvel and uneasiness among the people of the I 
 hattoes. Finding himself constantly interroptM 
 the opposition, and annoyed by the advice of his|i 
 council, the members of which had acquired the| 
 reasonable habit of thinking and speaking for 
 selves during the preceding reign, he deterrob 
 once to put a stop to such grievous abomimll 
 Scarcely, tlierefore, had he entered upon his aul| 
 ity, than he turned out of oflice all those me( 
 some spirits that composed the factious cab 
 William the Testy; in place of whom he chose J 
 himself counsellors from those fat, somniferous, | 
 pectable families, tliat had flourished and slan 
 under the easy reign of Walter the Doubter. | 
 these he caused to be furnished with abundan 
 fair long pipes, and to be regaled with frequent I 
 poration dinners, admonishing them to smoke, 
 eat, and sleep, for the good of the nation, whiij 
 took the burden of government upon his own i 
 ders — an arrangement to which they all gave t 
 acquiescence. 
 
 Nor did he stop here, but made a hideoosj 
 among the inventions and expedients of his lei 
 predecessor — demolishing his flag-staves and ' 
 mills, which, like mighty giants, guarded the j 
 parts of New-Amsterdam— -pitching to the 
 whole batteries of quaker guns— rooting up iiisp 
 gallows, where caitiff vagabonds were suspendej 
 the waistband— and, in a word, turning topsy-t 
 the whole philosophic, economic, and windmills; 
 of the immortal sage of Saardam. 
 
 I tbe trumpeter, ^ 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Hi 
 
 ebonesl fulk ofNew-Amsterdam began to quake 
 
 llur the fate of their matcliless cliampiun, Aii- 
 
 f (be trumpeter, who liad acquired pruiligious 
 
 rill the eyes of the women, by means of his 
 
 ^g(s and his trumpet. Him did Peter the llead- 
 
 I cause to be brouglit into his presence, and 
 
 ; hiiii for a moment from head to foot, witli a 
 
 ieiiance that would have appalled any thing else 
 
 jas(Hinderof brass— "Pr'ythee, who and what 
 
 llhoui'" said be. "Sire," replied the other, in 
 
 ; dismayed, " for my name, it is Anthony Van 
 
 ar— fur my parentage, I am the son of my mo- 
 
 -fur my profession, I am champion and garrison 
 
 great city of New-Amsterdam." " I doubt 
 luucli," said Peter Stuyvesant, " that thou art 
 
 scurvy costard-monger knave : — how didst 
 ■ acquire this paramount honour and dignity?" 
 
 y, sir," replied the other, " like many a great 
 ibefore me, simply by sounding my own trum- 
 
 "Ay, is it so?" quoth the governor; " why 
 
 I let us have a relish of thy art." Whereupon he 
 
 Ibis uislrument to his lips, and sounded a charge 
 
 I such a tremendous outset, such a delectable 
 
 if, and such a triumphant cadence, that it was 
 
 I to make your heart leap out of your mouth 
 
 klobe witliin a mile of it. Like as a war-worn 
 
 while sporting in peaceful plains, if by 
 
 i he hear the strains of martial music, pricks 
 
 sears, and snorts, and paws, and kindles at tlie 
 
 ., so did the heroic soul of the mighty Peter joy 
 
 r the clangour of the trumpet; for of him might 
 [ be said, what was reconled of the renowned 
 
 ge of England, " there was nothing in all the 
 1 that more rejoiced his heart than to hear the 
 
 ot sound of war, and see the soldiers brandish 
 
 kibeir steeled weapons." Casting his eyes more 
 
 |lf, therefore, upon the sturdy Van Corlear, and 
 
 iDg him to be a jolly, fat, little man, shrewd in 
 
 |dkourse, yet of great discretion and immeasu- 
 
 ewind, he straightway conceived a vast kindness 
 
 Ihiai, and discharging him from the troublesome 
 
 f of garrisoning, defending, and alarming the 
 
 [,eYer after retained him alwut his person, as his 
 
 f bvourite, confidential envoy, and trusty squire. 
 
 of disturbing the city with disastrous no- 
 
 I he was instructed to play so as to delight the 
 
 mor while at his repasts, as did the minstrels of 
 jein the days of glorious chivalry — and on all pu- 
 loccasions to rejoice the ears of the people with 
 
 ike melody— thereby keeping alive a noble and 
 
 1 spirit. 
 
 ny other alterations and reformations, both for 
 Itetter and for the worse, did the governor make, 
 jthich my time will not serve me to record the 
 
 nlars; sufiice it to say, he soon contrived to 
 ^e the province feel that he was its master, and 
 
 I the sovereign people with such tyrannical ri- 
 |r,that they were all fain to hold their tongues, 
 ^ilhome, and attend to their business ; insomuch 
 I parly feuds and distinctions were almost for- 
 
 gotten, and many thriving keepers of taverns and 
 dram -shops were utterly ruined for want of busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Indeed, the critical state of public affairs at this 
 time demanded the utmost vigilance and promptitude. 
 The formidable council of the Amphictyons, which 
 had caused so much tribulation to the unfortunate 
 Kieft, still continued augmenting its forces, and 
 threatened to link witliin its union all the mighty 
 pruicipalities and powers of the east. In the very 
 year following the inauguration of Governor Stuyve- 
 sant, a grand deputation departed from the City of 
 Providence, (famous for its dusty streets and beau- 
 teous women,) in behalf of the puissant plantation 
 of Rhode Island, praying to be admitted into the 
 league. 
 
 The following mention is made of this application 
 in certain records of that assemblage of worthies, 
 which are still extant' 
 
 " Mr Will Cottington and Captain Partridg of 
 Rhoode-Iland presented this insewmg request to the 
 commissioners in wrighting. 
 
 " Our request and motion is in bebalfe of Rhoode- 
 Iland, that wee the Ilanders of Rhoode-Iland may be 
 rescauied into combination with all the united colo- 
 nyes of New-England in a flrme and perpetual league 
 of friendship and amity of ofence and defence, mu- 
 tuall advice and succor upon all just occasions for our 
 mutuall safety and wellfaire, etc. 
 
 Will Cottington, 
 Alicxsandeb Partridg." 
 
 There is certainly something in the very physio- 
 gnomy of this document that might well inspire 
 appreIien»on. The name of Alexander, however 
 mis-spelt, has been warlike in every age, and though 
 its fierceness is in some measure softened by being 
 coupled with the gentle cognomen of Partridge, still, 
 like the colour of scarlet, it bears an exceeding great 
 resemblance to the sound of a trumpet. From the 
 style of tlie letter, moreover, and tlie soldierlike igno- 
 rance of ortliography displayed by the noble captain 
 Alicxsander Partridg in spelling his own name, wo 
 may picture to ourselves tliis mighty man of Rhodes, 
 strong in arms, potent in the Held, and as great a 
 scholar as though he had been educated among that 
 learned people of Thrace, who, Aristotle assures us, 
 could not count beyond the number four. 
 
 But whatever might be the threatening aspect of 
 this famous confederation, Peter Stuyvesant was not 
 a man to be kept in a slate of incertitude and vague 
 apprehension ; be liked nothing so much as to meet 
 danger face to face, and take it by the beaitl. De- 
 tennuied, therefore, to put an end to all these petty 
 maraudings on the borders, he wrote two or three 
 categorical letters to the grand council ; which, though 
 neither couched in bad Latin, nor yet graced by rhe- 
 torical tropes about wolves and lambs, and beetle 
 flies, yet had more effect than all the elaborate epis- 
 
 > llaz. Cnl. Slat. Pap. 
 
172 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ties, protests, aud proclamations of his learned prede- 
 cessor put together. In consequence of his urgent 
 prqiositions, the great confederacy of the east agreed 
 to enter into a final adjustment of grievances and pet- 
 tlemont of boundaries, to the end that a perpetual and 
 happy peace might take place between the two 
 powers. For this purpose Governor Stuyvesant de- 
 puted two ambassadors to negotiate with commis- 
 sioners from the grand council of the league, and a 
 treaty was solemnly concluded at Hartford. On re- 
 ceiving mtelligence of this event, the whole conunu- 
 nit{r was in an uproar of exultation. The trumpet of 
 the sturdy Van Corlear sounded all day with joyful 
 clangour from the ramparts of Fort Amsterdam, and 
 at night tht. city was magnificently illuminated with 
 two hundred and fifty tallow candles; besides a bar- 
 rel of tar which was burnt before the governor's 
 house, on the cheering aspect of public affairs. 
 
 And now my worthy reader is, doubtless, like the 
 great and good Peter, congratulating himself with 
 the idea, that his feelings will no longer be molested 
 by afflicting details of stolen horses, broken heads, 
 impounded hogs, and all the other catalogue of heart- 
 rending cruelties that disgraced these border wars. 
 But if he should indulge in such expectations, it is a 
 proof that he is but little versed in the paradoxical 
 ways of cabinets; to convince him of which, I solicit 
 his serious attention to my next chapter, wherein I 
 will show that Peter Stuyvesant has already committed 
 a great error in politics; and by effecting a peace, has 
 materially hazarded the tranquilUty of the province. 
 
 CHAxTER m. 
 
 Containing divers speculations on war and negotiations— showing 
 that a treaty of peace is a great national evil. 
 
 It was the opinion of that poetical philosopher, 
 Lucretius, tli?>t v«dr was the original state of man, 
 whom he described as being primitively a savage beast 
 of prey, engaged in a constant state of hoslilily villi 
 his own species, and that this ferocious spirit was tam- 
 ed and ameliorated by society. The same opinion 
 has been advocated by Hobbes,' nor have there been 
 wanting many other philosophers to admit and de- 
 fend it. 
 
 For my part, though prodigiously fond of these 
 valuab'e speculations, so complimentary to human 
 nature, yet, in this instance, I am inclined to take the 
 proposition by halves, believing with Horace,' that 
 though war may have been originally the favourite 
 umusement and induslr'ous employment of our pro- 
 genitors, yet, like many other excellent habits, so far 
 from being ameliorated, it has been cultivated and 
 
 ■ IIolib<'N's Leviathan. I'arti. rliap. <X 
 
 • Qiium proropserunt primis animalia terris, 
 Miiliiuin ac tur|)c pecus, giamlcin atcpie cubilia propter, 
 Ungiiihiiset piignls, dcin riistibus, atcpie Ita porro 
 Piignabant armis, qua; post (abriuavcral mm. 
 
 HOR. Sal. L. i. S. .'. 
 
 confirmed by refinement and civilization, and! 
 creases in exact proportion as we approach lo«| 
 that state of perfection, which is the neplut u/J 
 modern philosophy. 
 
 Thefirst conflict between man and manwasthej. 
 exertion of physical force, unaided by auxiliary weaj 
 — his arm was his buckler, his fist was his mace 1 
 a broken head the catastrophe of his encounters, 
 battle of unassisted strength was succeeded b?| 
 more rugged one of stones and clubs, and wara 
 ed a sanguinary aspect. As man advanced in rel 
 ment, as his faculties expanded, and his sensibil 
 became more exquisite, he grew rapidly more i| 
 nious and experienced in the art of murdering his 
 low beings. He invented a thousand devia 
 defend and to assault — the helmet, the cuirass I 
 the buckler, the sword, the dart, and the javelin I 
 pared him to elude the wound as well as ' '-<iinci 
 blow. Still urging on, in the career of punanlii 
 invention, he enlarges and heightens Ins poweJ 
 defence and injury :— The Aries, the Scorpio," 
 Balista, and the Catapulta, give a horror and a 
 mity to war, and magnify ils glory, by increasin 
 desolation. Still insatiable, tho(';^Ii armed witji] 
 chinery that seemed to reach the limits of deslruj 
 invention, and to yield a power of injury arvm 
 even with the desires of revenge — still deen 
 searches must be made in the diabolical arcana, 
 furious zeal he dives into the bowels of the eartii j 
 toils midst poisonous minerals and dead' sails-j 
 sublime discovery of gunpowder bla' i upon I 
 world — and finally the dreadful art r figliti 
 proclamation seems to endow the deu) i of var ] 
 ubiquity and omnipotence ! 
 
 This, indeed, is grand!— this i^^ .^ed mariisl 
 powers of mind, and bespeaks tha' .vine endowif 
 of reason, wliich distinguishes from the aniq 
 our inferiors. The nnenligl' .led brutes 
 themselves with the native •" ct wiiitli Provm 
 has assigned tiiem. — The an^ ' bull bulls will 
 horns, as did his progenitors uefore him— tlie| 
 the leopard, and the tiger seek only with their t 
 and their fangs to gratify their sanguinary fury;! 
 even the subtle serpent darts the same venoin,[ 
 uses the same wiles, as did his sire before tlie I 
 Man alone, blessed with the inventive mind, { 
 from discovery to discovery — enlarges and niulli| 
 his powers of destruction; arrogates the Iremen 
 weapons of Deity itself, and tasks creation to a 
 him in murdering his brother worm ! 
 
 In proportion as the art of war has increasedinl 
 provement, has the art of preserving peace advaf 
 in equal ratio; and as we have discovered, intliis| 
 of wonders and inventions, that proclamation i 
 most formidable engine in war, so have we discol 
 ed the no less ingenious mode of maintaining peacf 
 perpetual negotiations. 
 
 A treaty, or, to speak more correctly, a nep 
 lion, therefore, according to the acceptation of eij 
 lienced statesmen, learned in these matters, ifl 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 175 
 
 injury nmansij 
 »se— still deeiK 
 
 i wiutii i'mm 
 
 ft an attempt to accommodate difTerences, to 
 rtain rights, and to establish an equitable exchange 
 lltind ofiices; but a contest of skill between two 
 «ers, which shall overreach-and lake in the other. 
 Jg a cunning endeavour to obtain by peaceful man- 
 e, and the chicanery of cabinets, those advanta- 
 itrhich a nation would otherwise have wrested by 
 e of arms : in the same manner as a conscientious 
 ^wayman reforms and becomes a quiet and praise- 
 riby citizen, contenting himself with cheating 
 I neighbour out of that property he would formerly 
 ire seized with open violence. 
 I In fact, the only time when two nations can be said 
 W ill a state of perfect amity is when a negotiation 
 |ii|ien, and a tre-ty pending. Then, when there are 
 ]islipuiations entered into, no bonds to restrain the 
 11, no specific limits to awaken the captious jealousy 
 krigbt implanted in our nature; when each party has 
 > advantage to hope and expect from the other, 
 I it is that the two nations are wonderfully gra- 
 sand friendly to each other; their ministers pro- 
 sing the highest mutual regard, exchanging liillets- 
 Hi, making fine speeches, and indulging in all those 
 kle diplomatic flirtations, coiiuelries, and fondlings, 
 ^tdo so marvellously tickle the good humour of the 
 ttive nations. Thus it may paradoxically be 
 in, that there is never so good an understanding 
 ^veen two nations as when there is a little misun- 
 rstanding — and that so long as they are on no terms 
 f are on the best terms in the world ! 
 lido not by any means pretend to claim the merit 
 jlliaving made the above discovery. It has in fact 
 'been secretly acted upon by certain enlightened 
 nets, and is, together with divers other notable 
 mes, privately copied out of the common-place 
 i of an illustrious gentleman, who has been mem- 
 ti of congress, and enjoyed the unlimited confidence 
 jlheads of departments. To this principle may be 
 ribed the wonderful ingenuity tliat has been shown 
 Hate years' in protracting and interrupting ne- 
 lations.— Hence the cunning measure of appointing 
 ■ ambassador some political pettifogger skilled in 
 jriays, sophisms, and misapprehensions, and dex- 
 m in the art of baffling argument — or some blun- 
 ring statesman, whose errors and misconstructions 
 Hf be a plea for refusing to ratify his engagements. 
 i bence too that most notable expedient, so popular 
 ^tlioiir government, of sending out a brace of am- 
 iadors; between whom, having each an individual 
 i to consult, character to establish, and interest to 
 note, you may as well look for unanimity and con- 
 as between two lovers with one mistress, two 
 i with one bone, or two naked rogues with one 
 of breeches. T';is disagreement therefore is 
 mlinually breeding delays and impediments, in 
 niiequence of which the negotiation goes on swim- 
 ^gly— inasmuch as there is no prospect of its ever 
 ning to a close. Nothing is lost by tliese delays and 
 Acles but time; and in a negotiation, according to 
 ellieory I have exposed, all lime lost is in reality 
 
 so much time gainetl:— with what delightful para- 
 doxes does modern political economy abound ! 
 
 Now all that I have here advanced is so notoriously 
 true, that I almost blush to take up the time of my 
 readers with treating of matters which must many a 
 time have stared them in the face. But the proposi- 
 tion to which I would most earnestly call their atten- 
 tion is this, that though a negotiation be the most 
 harmonizing of all national transactions, yet a treaty 
 of peace is a great political evil, and one of the most 
 fruitful sources of war. 
 
 I have rarely seen an instance of any special contract 
 between individuals that did not produce jealousies, 
 bickerings, and often downright ruptures between 
 them ; nor did I ever know of a treaty between two 
 nations that did not occasion continual misunder- 
 standings. How many worthy country neighbours 
 have I known who, after living in peace and good fel- 
 lowship for years, have been thrown into a state of 
 distrust, cavilling, and animosity, by some ill-starred 
 agreement about fences, runs of water, and stray 
 cattle! And how many well meaning nations, who 
 would otherwise have remained in the most amicable 
 disposition towards each other, have been brought to 
 swords' points about the infringement or misconstruc- 
 tion of some treaty, which in an evil hour they had 
 concluded, by way of makmg their amity more sure ! 
 
 Treaties at best are but complied with so long as 
 interest requires their fulfilment; consequently they 
 are virtually binding on the weaker party only; or, in 
 plain truth, they are not binding at all. No nation 
 will wantonly go to war with another if it has nothing 
 to gain thereby, and therefore needs no treaty to re- 
 strain it from violence ; and if it have any thing to 
 gain, I much question, from what I have witnessed of 
 the righteous conduct of nations, whether any treaty 
 could be made so strong that it could not thrust the 
 sword through — nay, I would hold ten to one, the 
 treaty itself would be the very source to which resort 
 would be had to find a pretext for hostilities. 
 
 Thus, therefore, I conclude— that though it is the 
 best of all policies for a nation to keep up a constant 
 negotiation witii its neighbours, yet it is the summit of 
 folly for it ever to be beguiled into a treaty; for then 
 comes on tlie non-fulfilment and infraction, then re- 
 monstrance, then altercation, then retaliation, then 
 reckimination, and finally open war. In a word, nego- 
 tiation is like courtship, a time of sweet words, gallant 
 speeches, soft looks, and endearing caresses — but the 
 marriage ceremony is the signal for hostilities. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 How PclcrSliiyvrsant was greatly Iwlictl by Ills adversaries llio 
 MoBs-li'uuitcrs'— and liii cuiidiict tliereiiiiun. 
 
 Iv my pains-taking reader be not somewhat per- 
 plexed, in the course of the ratiocination of my last 
 chapter, he will doubtless at one glance perceive, that 
 
174 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 1 
 
 the great Peter, in concluding a treaty witli his eastern 
 neighbours, was guilty of a lamentable error and he- 
 terodoxy in polities. To this unlucky agreement may 
 justly be ascribed a world of little infringements, al- 
 tercations, negotiations, and bickerings, which after- 
 wards took place between tiiat irr proachable poten- 
 tate and the evil-disposed council of Amphictyons. 
 All these did not a little disturb the constitutional se- 
 renity of the good burghers of Manna-hata ; but in 
 sooth they were so very pitiful in their nature and ef- 
 fects, that a grave historian, who grudges the time 
 spent in recording ai.y thing less than the fall of em- 
 pires, and the revolution of worlds, would think them 
 unworthy to be inscribed on his sacred page. 
 
 The reader is therefore to take it for granteil, though 
 I scorn to waste in the detail that time, which my 
 furrowed brow and trembling hand inform me is in- 
 valuable, that all the while the great Peter was occu- 
 pied in those tremendous and bloody contests that I 
 shall shortly reheai'se, there was a continued series 
 of little, dirty, snivelling skirmishes, scourings, broils, 
 and maraudings made on the eastern frontiers, by the 
 moss-troopers of Connecticut. But like that mirror 
 of chivalry, the sage and valorous Don Quixote, I leave 
 these petty contests for some future Sancho Panza of 
 an historian, while I reserve my prowess and my pen 
 for achievements of higher dignity. 
 
 Now did the great Peter conclude that his labours 
 had come to a close in the east, and that he had no- 
 thing to do but apply himself to the internal prospe- 
 rity of his beloved Manhattoes. Though a man of great 
 modesty he could not help boasting that he had at 
 length shut the temple of Janus, and that, were all 
 rulers like a certain person who should be nameless, 
 it would never be opened again. But the exultation 
 of the worthy governor was put to a speedy check ; 
 for scarce was the treaty concluded, and hardly was 
 the ink dried on the paper, before the crafty and dis- 
 courteous council of the league sought a new pretence 
 for realluming the flames of discord. 
 
 It seems to be the nature of confederacies, repu- 
 blics, and such like powers, that want the masculine 
 character, to indulge exceedingly in certain feminine 
 panics and suspicions. Like some good lady of deli- 
 cate and sickly virtue, who is in constant dread of 
 having her vestal purity contaminated or seduced, and 
 who, if a man do but lake her by the hand, or look 
 her in the face, is rea^^y to cry out, rape ! and ruin ! 
 — so these squeamish governments are perpetually on 
 the alarm for the virtue of the country : every manly 
 measure is a violation of the constitution— every mo- 
 narchy or other masculine government around them 
 is laying snares for their seduction ; and they are for 
 ever detecting infernal plots, by which they were 
 to be l)etrayed, dishonoured, and '' brought upon the 
 town." 
 
 If any proof were wanting of the truth of these opi- 
 nions, I would instance the conduct of a certain re- 
 public of our day ; who, gutxl dame, has already with- 
 stood so many plots and cons[ilracies against her vir- 
 
 tue, and has so often come near being made "iJ 
 better than she should be." I would notice her ( 
 stant jealousies of poor old England, who, by herou 
 account, has been incessantly trying to sap her | 
 nour ; though, from my soul, I never could belieJ 
 the honest old gentleman meant her any rudenes 
 Whereas, on the contrary, I think I have several tiii 
 caught her squeezing hands and indulging in cert 
 amorous oglings with that sad fellow Bonaparte— vi] 
 all the world knows to be a great despoiler of natioiij 
 virtue ; to have ruined all tlie empires in bis neisj 
 bourhood; and to have debauched every republic tlj 
 came m his way — but so it is, these rakes seem alvj^ 
 to gain singular favour with the ladies. 
 
 But I crave pardon of my reader for thus wand 
 ing, and will endeavour, in some measure, to m 
 the foregoing remarks; for in the year ItiSI we; 
 told that the great confederacy of the east accused U 
 immaculate Peter — the soul of honour and heart j 
 steel — that by divers gifts and promises he had 
 secretly endeavouring to instigate the Narrohigan 
 (or Narraganset), Mohaque, and Pequot Indians, 
 suiprise and massacre the Yankee settlements. "Fori 
 as the council slanderously observed, " the Indiai 
 round about for divers hundred miles cercute, seeoj 
 to have drunke deep of an intoxicating cupp, alt i 
 from the Manhattoes against the English, whoe liaJ 
 sought their good, both in bodily and spirituailref 
 pects." 
 
 History does not make mention how the greatcoui 
 cil of the Amphictyons came by this precious plo 
 whether it was honestly bought at a fair market pri 
 or discovered by sheer good fortune — It is ceitj 
 however, that they examined divers Indians, wlio^ 
 swore to the fact, as sturdily as though they had t 
 so many Christian troupers : and to be more sure] 
 their veracity, the sage council previously niadeevei 
 mother's son of them drunk, remembering an old a 
 trite proverb, which it is not necessary fur me tor 
 peat. 
 
 Though descended from a family which siifTet^ 
 much injury from the losel Yankees of those time! 
 my great grandfather having had a yoke of oxen aJ 
 his best pacer stolen, and having received a pair] 
 black eyes and a bloody nose in one of these bordf 
 wars; and my grandfather, when a very little t 
 tending pigs, having been kidnapped and severel 
 Hogged by a long-sided Connecticut school-niasler'j 
 Yet I should have passed over all these wrongs w| 
 forgiveness and oblivion — I could even have suffen 
 them to have broken Evert Ducking's head ; to kl 
 kicked the doughty Jacobus Van Curlet and his raf 
 ged regiment out of doors ; to have carried every li| 
 into captivity, and depopulated every hen-roost i 
 the face of the earth with perfect inipiniily-bj 
 this wanton attack upon one of the most gnllaiil i 
 irreproachable heroes of modern times, is loo iniif 
 even for me to digest ; and has overset, with a siiii 
 puff, the patience of the historian, and the forbearam 
 of the Dutchman. 
 
fflSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 173 
 
 reader, it was false! I swear to thee, it was 
 
 e!— If thou hast any respect to my word — if the 
 
 leviating character for veracity, which I have en- 
 
 gtfoured to maintain througliout this work, has its 
 
 eweiglit with thee, thou wilt not give thy faith to 
 
 I tale of slander f for I pledge my honour and my 
 
 ortai fame to thee, that the gallant Peter Stuy- 
 
 lant was not only innocent of this foul conspiracy, 
 
 : would have suffered his right arm or even his 
 
 (iei) leg to consume with slow and everlasting 
 
 s, rather than attempt to destroy his enemies in 
 
 f other way than open, generous warfare — beshrew 
 
 > caitiff scouts, that conspired to sully his honest 
 
 > by such an imputation ! 
 |peler Sluyvesant, though he perhaps had never 
 
 I of a knight errant, yet had as true a heart of 
 
 ^ralry as ever beat at the round table of King Ar- 
 Tliere was a spirit of native gallantry, a noble 
 i ^nerous hardihood diffused through his rugged 
 ners, which altogether gave unquestionable tokens 
 
 lin heroic mind. He was, in truth, a hero of chi- 
 
 jlry struck off by the hand of nature at a single heat; 
 d though she had taken no further care to polish 
 reline her workmanship, he stood forth a mi- 
 deof her skill. 
 
 iBalnot to be figurative (a fault in historic writing 
 ichi particularly eschew), the great Peter possess- 
 , in an eminent degree, the seven renowned and 
 ible virtues of knighthood; which, as he had never 
 ■suited authors in the disciplining and cultivating 
 
 [his mind, I verily believe must have been implant- 
 
 )inhis heart by Dame Nature herself— where they 
 nrislied among his hardy qualities, like so many 
 
 |[eet wild flowers, shooting forth and thriving among 
 
 om rucks. Such was the mind of Peter the 
 
 adstrong, and if my admiration for it has, on this 
 
 ision, transported my style beyond the sober gra- 
 
 whicli becomes the laborious scribe of historic 
 
 nts, I can only plead as an apology, that, though 
 
 iKtlle gray-headed Dutchman, arrived almost at the 
 (torn of the down-hill of life, I still retain some por- 
 loftliat celestial fue, which sparkles in the eye of 
 nth, when contemplating the virtues and achieve- 
 iils of ancient worthies. Blessed, thrice and nine- 
 bes blessed, be the good St Nicholas— that I have 
 aped the influence of that chilling apathy, which 
 Doften freezes the sympathies of age ; which, like a 
 irlish spirit, sits at the portals of the heart, repuls- 
 (every genial sentiment, and paralyzing every glow 
 
 leothusiasm. 
 
 I No sooner did this scoundrel imputation on his ho- 
 ar reach the ear of Peter Stuyvesant, than he pro- 
 ided in a manner which would have redounded to 
 bcredit, even though he had studied for years in the 
 bry of Don Quixote. He immediately dispatched 
 jvaiiant trumpeter and squire, Anthony Van Cor- 
 
 |ir, with orders to ride night and day, as herald to 
 eAmpiiiclyonic council, reproaching them in terms 
 
 jlnoble indignation, for giving car to the slanders of 
 allien infidels against the character of a Christian, 
 
 a gentleman, and a soldier— and declaring that, as to 
 the treacherous and bloody plot alleged against him, 
 whoever aflirmed it to be true lied in his teeth !— To 
 prove which, he defied the president of the council 
 and all of his compeers, or if they pleased, their puis- 
 sant champion. Captain Alicxsander Partridg, that 
 mighty man of Rhodes, to meet him in single combat; 
 where he would trust the vindication of his innocence 
 to the prowess of his arm. 
 
 This challenge lieing delivered with due ceremony, 
 Anthony Van Corlear sounded a trumpet of defiance 
 before the whole council, ending with a most horrific 
 and nasal twang, full in the face of Captain Partridg, 
 who almost jumpetl out of his skin in an ecstasy of as- 
 tonishment at the noise. This done, he mounted a 
 tall Flanders mare, which he always rode, and trotted 
 merrily towards the Manhattoes — passing through 
 Hartford, and Pyquag, and Middletown, and all the 
 other border towns — twanging his trumpet like a very 
 devil, so that the sweet valleys and banks of the Con- 
 necticut resounded with the warlike melody — and 
 stopping occasionally to eat pumpkin pies, dance at 
 country frolics, and bundle with the beauteous lasses 
 of those parts— whom he rejoiced exceedingly with 
 his soul-stirring instrument. 
 
 But the grand council, being composed of consi- 
 derate men, had no idea of running a tilting with such 
 a fiery hero as the hardy Peter — on the contrary, 
 they sent him an answer, couchetl in the meekest, 
 and most provoking terms, in which they assured him 
 thathis guilt wasproved to their perfect satisfaction, by 
 the testimony of divers sober and respectable Indians, 
 and concluding with this truly amiable paragraph — 
 '' For youre confidant denialls of tl.o Barbarous plott 
 charged will waigh little in balance agaiust such evi- 
 dence, soe that we must still re(|uire and seeke due 
 satisfaction and cecurilie ; so we rest. 
 
 Sir, 
 Youres in wayes of Righteousness, etc. " 
 
 I am aware that the above transaction has been dif- 
 ferently recorded by certain historians of the east, 
 and elsewhere ; who seem to have inherited the bitter 
 enmity of their ancestors to the brave Peter — and 
 much good may their inheritance do them ! I'hese 
 declare, that Peter Stuyvesant recpiested to have the 
 charges against him inquired into by commissioners 
 to be appointed for the purpose; and yet that when 
 such commissioners were appointed, he refbsed to 
 submit to their examination. In this artful account 
 there is but the semblance of truth — He did, indeed, 
 most gallantly offer, when that he found a deaf ear 
 was turned to his challenge, to submit his conduct tu 
 the rigorous inspection of a court of honour— but then 
 he expected to find it an august tribunal, composed of 
 courteous gentlemen, the governors and nobility of 
 the confederate plantations, and of the province of 
 New-Netherlands; where he .might be tried by his 
 peers, in u manner worthy of his rank and dignity— 
 Whereas, let me perish, if they did not send to the 
 
476 
 
 fflSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Manhattoes two lean-sided hungry pettifoggers, mount- 
 ed on Narraganset pacers^ with saddle-bags under 
 their bottoms, and green satchels under their arms, 
 as though they were about to beat the hoof from one 
 county court to anotlier in search of a law-suit. 
 
 The chivalric Peter, as might be expected, took no 
 notice of these cunning varlets; who with professional 
 industry fell to prying and sifting about, in quest of 
 ear jiarte evidence; perplexing divers simple Indians 
 and old women with their cross-questioning, until 
 they contradicted and forswore themselves most hor- 
 ribly. Thus having fuliilled their errand to their 
 own satisfaction, they returned to the grand council 
 with their satchels and saddle-bags stuffed full of 
 villanous rumours, apocryphal stories, and outra- 
 geous calumnies, — for all which the great Peter did 
 not care a tobacco-stopper; but, I warrant me, had 
 they attempted to play off the same trick upon Wil- 
 liam the Testy, he would have treated them both to 
 an aerial gambol on his patent gallows. 
 
 The grand council of the east held a solemn meet- 
 ing on the return of their envoys, and after ihcy had 
 pondered a longtime on the situation of affairs, were 
 upon the point of adjourning without being able to 
 agree upon any thing. At this critical moment, a 
 pale, bilious, meddlesome orator took the floor. He 
 was a man who passed for an able politician, because 
 he had made his way to a seat in council by cnlum- 
 nialing all his opponents. He was, in fact, one of 
 those worrying, though windy spirits, who evince 
 their patriotism by blowing the bellowi> of faction, 
 until the whole furnace of politics is red-hot with 
 sparks and cinders : one of those disinterested zealots, 
 who are ready at any time to set the house on fire, so 
 they may boil their pots by the blaze. He saw at 
 once that here was a fit opfiortunity for striking a 
 blow that should secure his popularity among his con- 
 stituents, who lived on the borders of Nieuw-Neder- 
 landts, and were the greatest poachers in Christen- 
 dom, excepting the Scotch border nobles. Like a 
 second Peter the Hermit, therefore, he stood forth 
 and preached up a crusade against Peter Stuyvesant, 
 and his devoted city. 
 
 He made a speech which lasted six hours, accord- 
 ing to the ancient custom in these parts, in which he 
 represented the Dutch as a race of impious heretics, 
 who neither believed in witchcraft nor the sovereign 
 virtuesof horse-shoes— who left their country for the 
 lucre of gain, not like themselves, for the liberty of 
 conscience — who, in short, were a race of mere can- 
 nibals and anthropophagi, inasmuch as they never 
 ate codfish on Saturdays, devoured swine's flesh 
 without molasses, and held pumpkins in utter con- 
 tempt. 
 
 This speech had the desired effect, for the council, 
 being awakened by the sergeant-at-arnis, rubbed 
 their eyes, and declared that it was just and politic 
 to declare instant war against these unchristian anli- 
 pumpkinites. But it was necessary that the people at 
 large should first be prepared for this measure, and 
 
 for this purpose the arguments of the orator \rj 
 preached from the pulpit for several Sundays 
 sequent, and earnestly recommanded to the consii 
 ration of every good Clu-istian, who professed I 
 well as practised, the doctrine of meekness, cliari 
 and the forgiveness of injuries. This is the first j 
 hear of the " Drum Ecclesiastic " beating up ( 
 political recruits in our country; and it proved] 
 such signal efficacy, that it has since been 
 into frequent service throughout our union. A ( 
 ning politician is often found sculking under the elei 
 robe, with an outside all religion, and an inside] 
 rancour. Things spiritual and things temporal ) 
 strangely jumbled together, like poisons and anlkl 
 on an apothecary's shelf; and instead of a devout s 
 mon, the simple church going folk have often a poliiiJ 
 pamphlet thrust down their throats, labelled villi 
 pious text from Scripture. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 How the New-Amstcn imers I)ocamc great in arms, andotj 
 direful calastro|ilic o . mighty army — tngcllier willi Pej 
 Stuyvesant's measures to tortify the city— and how lie nuj 
 original founder of the Battery. 
 
 But notwithstanding that the grand council, 
 I have already shown, were amazingly discreet I 
 their proceedings respecting the New-Neliieiiani| 
 and conducted the whole with almost as niucli j 
 lence and mystery as does the sage Britisli cabin 
 one of its ill-starred secret erpeditions—yel did I 
 ever-watchful Peter receive as full and accurate ii 
 formation of every movement as does the court I 
 France of all the notable enterprises I have menlioj 
 ed. — He accordingly set himself to work, to reiki 
 the machinations of his adversaries abortive. 
 
 I know that many will ceusuro the precipitation] 
 this stout-hearted old governor, in that he liun 
 into the expenses of fortification, without ascerlaiJ 
 ing whether they were necessary, by prudently wail 
 ing until the enemy was at the door. But they sliouj 
 recollect that Peter Stuyvesant had not the benefit | 
 an insight into the modern arcana of politics, and wj 
 strangely bigoted to certain obsolete maxiiiis uf tij 
 old school; among which he firmly believed, llial, 
 render a country respected abroad, it was necessaij 
 to make it formidable at home — and that a natiof 
 should place its reliance for peace and security moil 
 upon its own strength than on the justice or good-wf 
 of its neighbours. — He proceeded, therefure, wii 
 diligence, to put the province and metropolis in| 
 strong posture of defence. 
 
 Among the few remnants of ingenious inventioij 
 which remained from the days of William the Test* 
 were those impregnable bulwarks of public safeti 
 militia laws; by which the inhabitants were obligtj 
 to turn out twice-a-year, with such military equin 
 ments— as it pleased Gm] ; and were put under In 
 command of very valiant tailors and man-millinen| 
 
 per-snees, crowbari 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Iff' 
 
 I thongh on ordinary occasions the meekest, pip- 
 learted little men in the world, were very de- 
 
 ^ at parades and court-martials, when they had 
 I bats on their heads and swords by their sides. 
 ■ the instructions of these periodical warriors, 
 
 IjiaHant train-bands made marvellous proRciency 
 J mystery of gunpowder. They were taught to 
 
 f\A the right, to wheel to the left, to snap off 
 
 r flrelocks without winking, to turn a corner 
 
 at any great uproar or irregularity, and to 
 
 through sun and rain from one end of the 
 
 I to the other without flinching — until in the 
 
 I they l)ecanie so valorous that they fired off 
 t cartridges, without so much as turning away 
 r heads — could hear the largest field-piece dis- 
 I without stopping their ears, or falling into 
 i confusion— and would even go through all the 
 igesand perils of a summer day's parade, without 
 ; their ranks much thinned by desertion ! 
 lue it is, the genius of this truly pacific people 
 
 |i so little given to war, that during the intervals 
 til occurred between field-tlays, they generally 
 lived to forget all the military tuition they had 
 
 bed; so that when they re-appeared on parade, 
 
 Warcely knew the butt-end of the musket from 
 
 Imuzzle, and invariably mistook the right shoulder 
 
 llbe left — a mistake which, however, was soon ob- 
 
 I by chalking their left arms. But whatever 
 
 [btbe their bUmders and awkwardness, the saga- 
 
 sKieft declared them to be of but little import- 
 
 -since, as he judiciously observed, one cam- 
 
 iwouldbeof more instruction to them than a 
 
 M parades; for though two -thirds of them 
 
 [kibe food for powder, yet such of the other third 
 
 Inot run away would become most experienced 
 
 le great Stuyvesant had no particular veneration 
 
 |lbe ingenious experiments and institutions of his 
 
 f(l predeceofior, and among other things held the 
 
 1 system in very considerable contempt, which 
 
 |ias often heard to call in joke — for be was some- 
 
 ifond of a joke — Governor Kieft's broken reed. 
 
 I however, the present emergency was pressing, 
 
 [fas obliged to avail himself of such means of de- 
 
 e as were next at hand, and accordingly appoint- 
 
 li general inspection and parade of train-bands. 
 
 |ohl Mars and Bellona, and all ye other powei-s 
 
 rboth great and small, what a turning out was 
 e!-Ilere came men without officers, and oflicers 
 
 ut men— long fowling-pieces and short blunder- 
 -niuskets of all sorLs and sizes, some without 
 loets, others without locks, others without stocks, 
 fniany without lock, stock, or barrel— cartridge- 
 is, shot-l)elts, powder-horns, swords, hatchets, 
 [ker-snees, crowbars, and broomsticks, all min- 
 I higgledy-piggledy— like one of our continental 
 
 i at the breaking out of the revolution. 
 
 ! sudden transformation of a pacific community 
 [a band of warriors is doubtless what is meant, in 
 
 I days, by " putting a nation in armour," and 
 
 " fixing it in an attitude : " in which armour and atti- 
 tude it makes as martial a figure, and is likely to ac- 
 quit itself with as much prowess, as the renowned 
 SanchoPanza, when suddenly equipped to defend his 
 Island of Barataria. 
 
 The sturdy Peter eyed this ragged regiment with 
 some such rueful aspect as a man would eye the devil ; 
 but knowing, like a wise man, that all he had to do 
 was to make the iKst out of a bad bargain, he deter- 
 mined to give his heroes a seasoning. Having, 
 therefore, drilled them through the manual exercise 
 over and over again, he ordered the fifes to strike np 
 a quick march, and trudged his sturdy boots back- 
 wards and forwards about the streets of New- Amster- 
 dam, and the fields adjacent, until their short legs 
 ached, and their fat sides sweated again. But this 
 was not all; the martial spirit of the old governor 
 caught fire from the sprightly music of the fife, and 
 he resolved to try the mettle of his troops, and give 
 them a taste of the hardships of iron war. To this 
 end he encamped them, as the shades of evening fell, 
 upon a hill formerly called Bunker's bill, at some di- 
 stance from the town, with a full intention of initiating 
 them into the discipline of camps, and of renewing 
 the next day the toils and perils of the field. But so 
 it came to pass, that in the night there fell a great 
 and heavy rain, which descended in torrents upon the 
 camp, and the mighty army strangely melted away 
 before it ; so that when Gaffer Pho;bus came to shed 
 his morning beams upon the place, saving Peter Stuy- 
 vesant and his trumpeter Van Corlear, scarce one was 
 to be found of all the multitude that had encamped 
 there the night before. 
 
 This awful dissolution of his army would have ap- 
 palled a commander of less nerve than Peter Stuyve- 
 sant; but he considered it as a matter of small 
 importance, though he thenceforward regarded the 
 militia system with ten times greater contempt than 
 ever, and took care to provide himself with a good 
 garrison of chosen men, whom he kept in pay, and of 
 whom he boasted, that they at least possesscil the qua- 
 lity, indispensable in soldiers, of being water-proof. 
 
 The next care of the vigilant Stuyvesant was to 
 strengthen and fortify New-Amsterdam. For this 
 purpose he caused to be built a strong picket fence 
 that reached across the island, from river to river, 
 being intended to protect the city, not merely from 
 the sudden invasions of foreign enemies, but likewise 
 from the incursions of the neighbouring savages. ■ 
 
 Some traditions, it is true, have ascribed the build- 
 ing of this wall to a later period, but they are wholly 
 incorrect, for a memorandum in the Stuyvesant ma- 
 
 ■ In an antique view of Ncw-Amstcrtlain, taken soni(^ years after 
 tliealiuvc |)crlo<], is a representation oftliis wall, wliieli sta>lclii>d 
 along the course of WalWrcet, so called in comnu'inorallon of 
 tills great bulwark. One gale, calle<l llio Lanil-Poorl, opcnet) 
 n|)on Hroailway, liai-d by where at present stands the Triiiitsr 
 Chureh ; and another, called the Water-Poort. stood alniut where 
 the Tontine Colfee-honse is at present— opening upon Sinils Vley(', 
 or, as it is commonly called. Smith Fly, then a marshy valley, wilh 
 a creek or inlet extending up what we call Maiden-lane. 
 
 83 
 
178 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 niucript, dated towards the middle of the governor's 
 reign, mentions this wall particularly, as a very strong 
 and carious piece of workmanship, and the admira- 
 tion of all the savages in the neighbourhood. And it 
 mentions, moreover, the alarming circumstance of a 
 drove of stray cows breaking through the grand wall 
 of a dark night; by which the whole community of 
 New-Amsterdam was thrown into a terrible panic. 
 
 In addition to this great wall, he cast up several 
 outworks to Fort-Amsterdam, to protect the seaboard, 
 at the pouit of the Island. These consisted of formi- 
 dable mud batteries, solidly faced, after the manner 
 of the Dutch ovens conmian in those days, with clano- 
 shells. 
 
 These frowning bulwarks, in process of time, came 
 to be pleasantly overrun by a verdant carpet of grass 
 and clover, and their high embankments overshadow- 
 ed by wide-spreading sycamores, among whose fo- 
 liage the little birds sported about, rejoicing the ear 
 with their melodious notes. The old burghers would 
 repair of an afternoon to smoke their pipes under the 
 shade of their branches, contemplating the golden sun 
 as he gradually sunk into the west, an emblem of that 
 tranquil end toward which themselves were hasten- 
 ing — while the young men and the damsels of the 
 town would take many a moonlight stroll among these 
 favourite haunts, watching the silver beams of chaste 
 Cynthia tremble along the calm bosom of the bay, or 
 light up the white sail of some gliding bark, and inter- 
 changing the honest vows of constant affection. Such 
 was the origin of that renowned walk the battery, 
 which, though ostensibly devoted to the purposes of 
 war, has ever been consecrated to the sweet delights 
 of peace — The favourite walk of declining age — 
 the healthful resort of the feeble invalide — the Sunday 
 refreshment of the dusty tradesman — the scene of 
 many a boyish gambol — the rendezvous of many a 
 tender assignation— the comfort of the citizen — the 
 ornament of New- York — and the pride of the lovely 
 island of Manna-hata. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 How the people ot the east country were suddenly afflicted with a 
 diabolical evil— and their Judicious measures for the extirpation 
 thereof. 
 
 Hating thus provided for the temporary security 
 of New- Amsterdam, and guarded it against any sud- 
 den surprise, the gallant Peter took a hearty pinch 
 of snuff, and snapping his fingers, set the great coun- 
 cil of Amphictyons, and their champion, the doughty 
 Alicxsander Partridg, at defiance. It is impossible to 
 say, notwithstanding, what might have been the issue 
 <4>f this affair, had not the council been all at once in- 
 volved in sad perplexity, and as much dissension sown 
 among its members as of yore was stirred up in the 
 camp of the brawling warriors of Greece. 
 
 The councit^the league, as I have shown in my 
 last chapter, had already announced its hostile deter- 
 
 minations, and already was the mighty colony of N^ 
 Haven and the puissant town of Pyquag, othe 
 called Weathersneld— famous for its onions ant) | 
 witches— and the great trading-honse of Hartford,! 
 all Iheother redoubtable border towns, in a prodigi(| 
 turmoil, furbishing up their rusty fowling-pieces, s 
 shouting aloud for war; by which they anticip 
 easy conquests and gorgeous spoils from the little | 
 Dutch villages. But this joyous brawling was s 
 silenced by the conduct of the colony of Massachiis( 
 Stnick with the gallant spirit of the brave old fa 
 and convinced by the chivalric frankness and I 
 warmth of his vindication, they refused to believet 
 guilty of the infamous plot most wrongfully laid at| 
 door. With a generosity for which I would 
 them immortal honour, they declared, that node) 
 mination of the grand council of the league sb 
 bind the general court of Massachusetts to join in| 
 offensive war, which should appear to suchj 
 court to be unjust. ■ 
 
 This refusal immediately involved the colonyl 
 Massachusetts and the other combined coloniesinTl 
 serious difliculties and disputes, and wnukl no( 
 have produced a dissolution of the confederacy', 
 that the council of Amphictyons, Hnding that I 
 could not stand alone, if mutilated by the loss ol| 
 important a meml)er as Massachusetts, were fain 
 abandon for the present their hostile machinali| 
 against the Manhattoes. Such is the marvellousen 
 and the puissance of those confederacies, compi 
 of a number of sturdy, self-willed, discordant [ 
 loosely banded together by a puny general govej 
 ment. As it was, however, the wariike lovi 
 Connecticut had no cause to deplore this disappi 
 ment of their martial ardour; for by my faith— llw 
 the combined powers of the league might have 1 
 too potent in the end for the robustious warrioi 
 the Manhattoes — yet in the interim would the li 
 hearted Peter and his myrmidons have choked [ 
 stomachful heroes of Pyquag with their own ( 
 and have given the other little border (owns m 
 scouring, that I warrant they would have liad| 
 stomach to squat on the land or invade the hen-i 
 of a New-Netheriander for a century to come. 
 
 Indeed there was more than one cause to divert| 
 attention of the good people of the east from i 
 hostile purposes; for just about this time weretj 
 horribly beleaguered and harassed by the inroi 
 the prince of darkness, divers of whose liege sukj 
 they detected lurking within their camp, all of wlj 
 they incontinently roasted as so many spies andf 
 gerous enemies. Not to speak in parables, we I 
 informed tliat at this juncture the New-England [T 
 vinces were exceedingly troubled by multitudej 
 losel witches, who wrought strange devices to l 
 and distress the multitude; and notwithstanding! 
 merous judicious and bloody laws had been em 
 against all "solem conversing or compacting' 
 
 ■ Hoiard's Col. Stat. Pap. 
 
flISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 179 
 
 Uvil, by way ofconjuracion or the like," ' yet did 
 
 L(|irk crime of witchcraft continue to increase to 
 
 [ilarming degree, that would almost transcend 
 
 , were not the fact too well authenticated to be 
 
 i doubted for an instant. 
 
 ffhat is particularly worthy of admiration is, that 
 
 ^terrible art, which so long has baffled the painful 
 
 thes and abstruse studies of philosophers, as- 
 
 fts, alchyrnists, theurgisis, and other sages, 
 
 I chiefly confined to the most ignorant, decrepit, 
 
 I ugly old women in the community, who had 
 
 xly more brains than tlie broomsticks they rode 
 
 «n once an alarm Ls sounded, the public, who 
 (dearly to be in a panic, are not long in want of 
 s (0 support it — raise but the cry of yellow -fever, 
 I immediately every head-ache, and indigestion, 
 {joverflowing of the bile, is pronounced the terrible 
 
 nic— In like manner in the present instance, 
 gever was troubled with a cholic or lumbago was 
 [ to be bewitched, and woe to any unlucky old 
 lan that lived in his neighbourhood. Such a 
 
 j abomination could not be suffered to remain 
 j unnoticed, and it accordingly soon attracted 
 Uery indignation of the sober and reflective part 
 (ihe community— more especially of those, who, 
 
 ne, had evinced so much active benevolence in 
 
 conversion of quakers and anabaptists. The 
 
 1 council of the Amphiclyons publicly set their 
 i against so deadly and dangerous a sin, and a 
 
 e scrutiny took place after those nafarious witch- 
 [who were easily detected by devil's pinches, 
 kcats, broomsticks, and the circumstance of their 
 J being able to weep three tears, and those out of 
 ^lelt eye. 
 
 t is incredible the number of offences that were 
 [Cled, "for every one of which," says the reve- 
 1 Cotton Mather, in that excellent work, the Ilis- 
 r of New-England— "we have such a suflicient 
 
 nee, that no reasonable man in this whole coun- 
 [ererdid question them; and it will be unreason- 
 Hodoit in my other." ^ 
 
 ideed, that authentic and judicious historian, 
 
 I Josselyn, Gent, furnishes us with unquesliun- 
 efacls on this subject. "There are none," ob- 
 
 ilie, "that beg ui this country, but there be 
 
 > too many— bottle-bellied witches and others, 
 
 (produce many strange apparitions, if you will 
 
 ieve report of a shallop at sea manned with women 
 
 I of a ship and great red horse standing by the 
 
 Hnast; the ship Iwing in a small cove to the east- 
 
 i vanished of a sudden," etc. 
 |[lie number of delinquents, however, and their 
 pcai devices, were not more remarkable than their 
 
 loiical obstinacy. Though exhorted in the most 
 
 n, persuasive, and affectionate manner, to con- 
 
 ithemselves guilty, and be burnt for the good of 
 
 ipun, and the entertainment of the public, yet did 
 
 • New^Plymouth record. 
 
 > Mather's llUt. Ncw-Eng. B. 6. cli. 7. 
 
 they most pertinacloasly persist bi asserting their in- 
 nocence. Such incredible obstinacy was in itself 
 deserving of immediate punishment, and was suffi- 
 cient proof, if proof were necessary, that they were 
 in league with the devil, who is perverseness itself. 
 But their judges were just and merciful, and were 
 determined to punish none that were not convicted 
 on the best of testimony; not that they needed any 
 evidence to satisfy their own minds, for, like true and 
 experienced judges, their minds were perfectly made 
 up, and they were thoroughly satisfied of the guilt of 
 the prisoners before they proceeded to try them : but 
 still something was necessary to convince the com- 
 munity at large — to quiet those prying quidnuncs 
 who should come after them — in short, the world 
 must he satisfied. Oh the world— the world !— all 
 the world knows the world of trouble the world is 
 eternally occasioning ! — The worthy judges, there- 
 fore, were driven to the necessity of sifting, detect- 
 ing, and making evident as noon-day, matters which 
 were at the commencement all clearly understood and >; 
 firmly decided upon in their own pericraniums — so 
 that it may truly be said, that the witches were burnt 
 to gratify the populace of the day — but were tried for 
 the satisfaction of the whole world that should come 
 after them ! 
 
 Finding therefore, that neither exhortation, sound 
 reason, nor friendly entreaty, had any avail on these 
 hardened offenders, they resorted to the more urgent 
 arguments of the torture, and having thus absolutely 
 wrung the truth from their stubborn lips — they con- 
 demned them to undergo the roasting due unto the 
 heinous crimes they had confessed. Some even car- 
 ried their perverseness so far as to expire under the 
 torture, protesting their innocence to the last ; but 
 these were looked upon as thoroughly and absolutely 
 possessed by the devil, and the pious by-standers only 
 lamented that they had not lived a little longer, to 
 have perished in the flames. 
 
 In the city of Ephesus, we are told that the plague 
 was expelled by stoning a ragged old beggar to death, 
 whom ApoUonius pointed out as being the evil spirit 
 that caused it, and who actually showed himself to be 
 a demon, by changing into a shagged dog. In like 
 manner, and by measures equally sagacious, a salutary 
 check was given to this growing evil. The witches 
 were all burnt, banished, or panic-struck, and in a 
 little while there was not an ugly old woman to be 
 found throughout New-England — which is doubtless 
 one reason why all the young women there are so 
 handsome. Those honest folk who had suftered from 
 their incantations gradually recovered, excepting such 
 as had been afflicted with twitches and aches, which, 
 however, assumed the less alarming aspects of rheu- 
 matisms, scialics, and luinbagos— and the good people 
 of New-England, abandoning the study of the occult 
 sciences, turned their attention to the more profitable 
 hocus-pocus of trade, and soon became expert in the 
 legerdemain art of turning a penny. Still, however, 
 a tinge of the old leaven is discernible, even unto this 
 
i80 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 day, in their characters— vritches occasionally start 
 up among them in difTerent disguises, as physicians, 
 civilians, and divines. The people at large show a 
 keenness, a cleverness, and a profundity of wisdom, 
 that savours strongly of witchcraft — and it has been 
 remarked, that whenever any stones fall from the 
 moon, the greater part of them is sure to tumble 
 into New-England ! 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Which records the rise and renown of a valiant comniander, show- 
 ing that a man, like a bladder, may be pulfed up to greatness 
 and importance by mere wind. 
 
 Whe!« treating of these tempestuous times, the 
 unknown writer of the Stuyvesant manuscript breaks 
 out into an apostrophe in praise of the good St Ni- 
 cholas ; to whose protecting care he entirely ascribes 
 the dissensions that broke out in the council of the 
 Amphictyons, and the direful witchcraft tli<it prevail- 
 ed in the east country — whereby the hostile machi- 
 nations against the Nederlanders were for a time frus- 
 trated, and his favourite city of New- Amsterdam 
 preserved from imminent peril and deadly warfare. 
 Darkness and superstition hung lowering over the 
 fair valleys of the east ; the pleasant banks of the Con- 
 necticut no longer echoed with the sounds of rustic 
 gaiety ; direful phantoms and portentous apparitions 
 were seen in the air — gliding spectruins haunted every 
 wild brook and dreary glen— strange voices, made by 
 viewless forms, were heard in desert solitudes — and 
 the border towns were so occupied in detecting and 
 punishing the knowing old women that had produced 
 these alarming appearances, that for a while the pro- 
 vince of Nieuw-Nederlandts and its inhabitants were 
 totally forgotten. 
 
 The great Peter, therefore, finding that nothing 
 was to be immediately apprehended from his eastern 
 neighbours, turned himself about, with a praiseworthy 
 vigilance that ever distinguished him, to put a stop to 
 the insults of the Swedes. These freebooters, my 
 attentive reader will recollect, had begun to l)e very 
 troublesome towards the latter part of the reign of 
 William the Testy, having set the proclamations of 
 that doughty little governor at naught, and put the 
 intrepid Jan Jansen Alpendam to a perfect nonplus ! 
 
 Peter Stuyvesant, however, as has alreiidy been 
 shown, was a governor of different habits and turn of 
 mind— without more ado he immediately issued or- 
 ders for raising a coips of troops to be stationed on 
 the southern frontier, under the command of brigadier- 
 general Jacobus Yon Poffenburgh. This illustrious 
 warrior had risen to great importance during the 
 reigu of Wilhelmus Kieft, and if histories speak true, 
 was second in command to the hapless Van Curlet, 
 when he and his ragged regiment were inhumanly 
 kicked out of Fort Good Hope by the Yankees. In 
 consequence of having been in such a '* memorable 
 aftair, " and of having received more wounds on a 
 
 certain honourable part that shall be nameless i 
 any of his comrades, he was ever after considei 
 a hero, who had " seen some service. " Ceii 
 is, he enjoyed the unlimited confidence and frien 
 of William the Testy, who would sit for hours g 
 listen with wonder to his gunpowder narratJTnl 
 surprising victories — which he had never gain 
 and dreadful battles— from which he had run an 
 
 It was tropically observed by honest old Socnj 
 that heaven had infused into some men at their 1 
 a portion of intellectual gold ; into others of intellj 
 tual silver ; while others were bounteously fumis) 
 out with abundance of brass and iron :— now off 
 last class was undoubtedly the great general 
 Poffenburgh, and from the display be continn 
 made thereof, I am inclined to think that Dame 1 
 ture, who will sometimes be partial, had blessed^ 
 with enough of those valuable materials to havefij 
 up a dozen ordinary braziers. But what is most l 
 admired is, that he contrived to pass off all hisli 
 and copper upon Wilhelmus Kieft, who was nogii 
 judge of base coin, as pure and genuine gold. 
 consequence was, that, upon the resignation of jJ 
 busVan Curlet, who, after the loss of Fort Good HoJ 
 retired like a veteran general, to live under the sli( 
 of his laurels, this mighty " copper captain"^ 
 promoted to his station. This he filled with gii 
 importance, always styling himself" commander-l 
 chief of the armies of the New-Netherlands ;"thoii[ 
 to tell the truth, the armies, or rather army, cons 
 ed of a handful of hen-stealing, Irattle-bniisingl 
 gamuftins. 
 
 Such was the character of the warrior appoiiilei 
 Peter Stuyvesant to defend his southern frontier,] 
 may it be uninteresting to my reader to have a glin 
 of his person. He was not very tall, but notn 
 standing a huge, full-bodied man, whose bulk] 
 not so much arise from his being fat, as windy; 1 
 so completely inflated with his own importance, ll 
 he resembled one of those bags of wind, which !^ 
 in an incredible fit of generosity, gave to lliat wai 
 ing warrior Ulysses. 
 
 His dress comported with his character, forhel 
 almost as much brass and copper without as nal| 
 bad stored away within : his coat vms crossed r 
 slashed, and carbonadoed with stripes of copper! 
 and swathed round the body with a crimson sashl 
 the size and texture of a fishing net — doubtless! 
 keep his valiant heart from bursting through his r 
 Mis head and whiskers were profusely powderj 
 from the midst of which his full-blooded faceglo^ 
 like a fiery furnace; and his magnanimous souls 
 ed ready to bounce out at a pair of large glassy blif 
 ing eyes, which projected like those of a lolisler. 
 
 I swear to thee, worthy reader, if report belie j 
 this warrior, I would give all the money in my |hj 
 to have seen him accoutred cap-a-pie, in marlialaij 
 —booted to the middle— sashed to the chin— collal 
 to the ears— whiskered to the teeth- crowned ' 
 an overshadowing cocked hat— and giixled witlj 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 181 
 
 belt ten Inches broad, from which trailed a 
 II, of a length that I dare not mention. Thas 
 kI, he strutted about, as bitter-looking a man 
 Ifar as the far-famed More of More-IIall, when he 
 I forth, armed at all points, to slay the Dragon 
 jWantley. ' 
 
 [[jotwiihstanding all the great endowments and 
 «ndent qualities of this renowned general, I 
 (confess he was not exactly the kind of man that 
 e valiant Peter would have chosen to command his 
 -but the truth is, that in those days the pro- 
 ; did not abound, as at present, in great military 
 icters ; who, like so many Cincinnatuses, people 
 ^ little village— marshalling out cabbages instead 
 lioldiers, and signalizing themselves in the corn-field, 
 ladof the field of battle: — who have surrendered 
 (toils of war for the more useful but inglorious arts 
 Ipeace; and who so blend (he laurel with the olive, 
 uyou may have a general for a landlord, a colo- 
 j br a stage-driver, and your horse shod by a va- 
 |Bt"captain of volunteers." The redoubtable Gene- 
 iVon Poffenburgh, therefore, was appointed to the 
 ^nd of the new-levied troops, chiefly because 
 ; were no competitors for the station, and partly 
 taose it would have been a breach of military eti- 
 elte to have appointed a younger oflicer over his 
 KJ-an injustice which the great Peter would have 
 Iherdied than have conmiitted. 
 |No sooner did this thrice-valiant copper captain re- 
 ive inarching orders, than he conducted his army 
 lanntedly to the southern frontier; through wild 
 sand savage deserts ; over insurmountable moun- 
 ts, across impassable floods, and through impene- 
 ble forests; subduing a vast tract of uninhabited 
 ntry, and encountering more perils, according to 
 lioirn account, than did Xenophon in his far-famed 
 at with his ten thousand Grecians. All this ac- 
 npiished, he established on the South (or Delaware) 
 kra redoubtable redoubt, named lM>iti (Lvsimir, 
 jbononr of a favourite pair of In iuistone-culoured 
 mk-breeches of the governor. As this fort will be 
 Did to give rise to very important and interesting 
 nls, it may be worth while to notice that it was 
 lerwards called Nieuw-Amstel, and was the origi- 
 Jgerm of the present flourishing town of New- 
 TLE, an appellation erroneously substituted for No 
 WIe, there neither being nor ever having been a 
 tie, nor any thing of the kind, ui>on the premises. 
 iThe Swedes did not suffer tamely this menacing 
 pment of the Nederlanders; on the contrary, Jan 
 iitz, at that time governor of New-Sweden, issued 
 vtest against what he termed an encroachment 
 
 > "Had you but seen liiin in (his dress 
 Ilow fierce lie hmWd and how big, 
 
 You would liavc tlioiiKlit liiiii for to be ' 
 Some E^yiitian Poicupig. 
 
 He frif^lited ail, cats, dogs and all, 
 Each cow, each horse, and each hog ; 
 
 For tear they did flee, for (hey (ooli him to be 
 Some Dlraiige outtandish hp<lgc-hog." 
 i . . J. Ballad of Drug, of n'anl.. 
 
 upon his jarisdictlon.— But Yon PofTenburgh had be- 
 come too well versed in the nature of proclamations 
 and protests, while he served under William the 
 Testy, to be in any-wise daunted by such paper war- 
 fare. His fortress being finished, it would have done 
 any man's heart good to behold uito what a magni- 
 tude he immediately swelled. He would stride in and 
 out a dozen times a day, surveying it in front and in 
 rear, on this side and on that. Then would he dress 
 himself in full regimentals, and strut backwards and 
 forwards, for hours together, on the top of his little 
 rampart — like a vain-glorious cockpigeon vapouring 
 on the top of his coop. In a word, unless my read- 
 ers have noticed, with curious eye, the petty com- 
 mander of one of our little, snivelling, military posts, 
 swelling with all the vanity of new regimentals, and 
 the pomposity derived from commanding a handful of 
 tatterdemalions, I despair of giving them any ade- 
 quate idea of the prodigious dignity of General Yon 
 Poffenburgh. 
 
 It is recorded in the delectable romance of Pierce 
 Forest, that a young knight being dubbed by king 
 Alexander, did incontinently gallop into an adjoining 
 forest, and belabour the trees with such might and 
 main, that the whole court was convinced that he was 
 the most potent and courageous gentleman on the 
 face of the earth. In like manner, the great Yon Pof- 
 fenburgh would ease off that valorous spleen, which, 
 like wind, is so apt to grow unruly in the stomachs of 
 new-made soldiers, impelling them to box-lobby 
 brawls and broken-headed quarrels; for at such times, 
 when he found his martial spirit waxing hot within 
 him, he would pnidently sally forth into the fields, 
 and lugging out liis trusty sabre, would lay about him 
 most lustily ; decapitating cabbages by platoons; hew- 
 ing down whole phalanxes of sunflowers, which he 
 termed gigantic Swedes; and if peradventure he 
 espied a colony of honest big-bellied pumpkins quietly 
 basking themselves in the sun, "Ah, caitiff Yankees!" 
 would he roar, "have I caught ye at last?" So 
 saying, with one sweep of his sword he would cleave 
 the unhappy vegetables fix>in their chins to their 
 waistbands : by which warlike havoc his choler being 
 in some sort allayed, be would return to his garrison 
 with a full conviction tliat he was a very miracle of 
 military prowess. 
 
 The next ambition of General Yon Poffenburgh 
 was to l)e thought a strict disciplinarian. Well know- 
 ing that discipline is the soul of all military enterprise, 
 he enforced it with the most rigorous precision ; oblig- 
 ing every man to turn out his toes, and hold up his 
 head on parade, and prescribing the breadth of their 
 ruffles to all such as had any shirts to their backs. 
 
 Having one day, in the course ofhis Bible researches 
 (for the pious yEneas himself could not exceed him in 
 outward religion), encountered the history of Absa- 
 lon and his melancholy end, the general, in an evil 
 hour, issued orders for cropping the hair of lioth offi- 
 cers and men throughout the garrison. Now it came 
 to pass, that among his officers was one Kildenncce- 
 
 i! !! 
 
i»2 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 m 
 
 I 
 
 ter— a Blurdy veteran, who had cherished throngh 
 the course of a long life a rugged mop of hair, not a 
 little resembling the shag of a Newfoundland dog, 
 terminating with an immoderate queue like the handle 
 of a frying-pan, and queued so lightly to his head that 
 his eyes and mouth generally stood ajar, and his 
 eyebrows were drawn up to the top of his forehead. 
 It may naturally be supftosed that the possessor of so 
 goodly an appendage would resist with abhorrence an 
 order condemning it to the shears. On hearing the 
 general orders, he discharged a tempest of veteran, 
 soldier-like oaths, and dunder and blixunis — swore he 
 would break any man's head who attempted to roetldle 
 with his tail — queued it stiffer than ever, and whisk- 
 ed it about the garrison as fiercely as the tail of a cro- 
 codile. 
 
 The eel-skin queue of old Kildermeester became 
 instantly an affair of the utmost importance. The 
 commander-in-chief was to<» enlightened an ofiicer 
 not to perceive that the discipline of the garrison, 
 the subordination and good order of the armies of the 
 Nieuw-Nederlandts, the consequent safety of the 
 whole province, and ultimately the dignity and pro- 
 sperity of their High Mightinesses the Lords Stales- 
 General, but above all, the dignity of the great Ge- 
 neral Yon PofTenburgh, all imperiously demanded 
 the docking of that stubborn queue. He therefore 
 determined that old Kildermeester should be publicly 
 shorn of bis glories in presence of the whole garrison 
 — the old man as resolutely stood on the defensive — 
 whereupon the general, as became a great man, was 
 highly exasperated, and the offender was arrested 
 and tried by a court-martial for mutiny, desertion, 
 and all the other list of offences noticed in the articles 
 of war, ending with a "videlicet in wearing an eel- 
 skin queue, three feet long, contrary to ortlers." 
 Then came on arraignments, and trials, and plead- 
 ings; and the whole country was in a ferment about 
 this unfortunate queue. As it is well known that 
 the commander of a distant f ron tier post has the power 
 of acting pretty much after his own will, there is little 
 doubt but that the veteran would have been hanged 
 or shot at least, had he not luckily fallen ill of a fever, 
 through mere chagrin and niortiiication — and desert- 
 ed from all earthly command, with his beloved locks 
 unviolated. His obstinacy remained unshaken to the 
 very last moment, when he directed that he should 
 be carried to his grave with his eel-skin queue slickuig 
 out of a hole in his cofTm. 
 
 This magnanimous affair obtained the general great 
 credit as an excellent disciplinarian; but it is hinted 
 that he was ever after subject to bad dreams, and 
 fearful visitations in the night — when the grisly spec- 
 trum of old Kildermeester would stand sentinel by 
 his bed-side, erect as a pump, his enormous queue 
 tiitrulting out like the handle. 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 GONTillllNO THB 8KC0ND PiBT OP THE 111091 OP Pni|| 
 IIEADSTBOMO — iXD U18 GALLANT ACUIBVENEMTS Oj 
 DELAWARK. 
 
 1 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In which 18 exhibited a warlilie portrait ot the great Peter- 
 how Gcucral Voa I'offenburgh dbtiDguished himself it j 
 Casiniir. 
 
 Hitherto, most venerable and courteous rea 
 have I shown thee the administration of the valoi 
 Stuyvesant, under the mild moonshine of peace, I 
 rather the grim tranquillity of awful expeclatiun; 1 
 now the war-drum rumbles from afar, the 
 trumpet brays its thrilling note, and the rude c 
 of hostile arms speaks fearful prophecies of coni 
 troubles. The gallant warrior starts from sc 
 pose, from golden visions, and voluptuous «» 
 where, m the dulcet, " piping time of peace," J 
 sought sweet solace after all his toils. INo morel 
 beauty's siren lap reclined, he weaves fair garlad 
 for his lady's brows; no more entwines with tluvrj 
 his shining swoitl, nor through the live-long \ai)m 
 mer's day chants forth his lovesick soul in madrigi 
 To manhood roused, he spurns the amorous Hi 
 doffs from his brawny back the robe of peace, 
 clothes his pampered limbs in panoply of steel, 
 his dark brow, where late the myrtle waved, vth 
 wanton roses breathed enervate love, he rears il 
 beaming casque and nodding plume ; grasps tliebri°j 
 shield, and shakes the ponderous lance; or iiioi 
 with eager pride his fiery steetl, and burns fur (let 
 of glorious chivali7 ! 
 
 But soft, worthy reader ! I would not have yf 
 imagine that any preux chevalier, thus hideously li 
 girt with iron, existed in the city of New-ArasterdaJ 
 — This is but a lofty and gigantic mode, in which ( 
 heroic writers always talk of war, thereby to girel 
 a noble and imposing aspect; equipping ourwarriq 
 with bucklers helms, and lances, and such-like ( 
 landisii and obsolete weapons, the like of which [ 
 chaiAce t'vdy had never seen or heard of; in thes 
 niani.'cr tiiat <: cunning statuary arrays a modem ^ 
 neral or an adiMiral in the accoutrements of a i 
 or an Alexander. The simple truth then of all I 
 oratorical flourish is this — that the valiant Peter Stul 
 vesant all of a sudden found it necessary to scour U 
 trusty blade, which too long had rusted in its scahbaij 
 and prepare himself to undergo those hardy toils | 
 war, in which liLs mighty soul so much deligliled, 
 
 Methinks I at this moment behold him in my in 
 gination — or rather, I behold hLs goodly porin 
 which still hangs up in the family mansiun of I 
 Stuyvesanis — arrayed in all the terrorsof a true Diitj 
 general. His regimental coat of German blue, { 
 geously decorated with a goodly show of large 1 
 buttons, reaching from his waistband to bis chin : t 
 voluminous skirls tiu'ned up at the corners, aud s 
 rating gallantly behind, so as to display the seat c 
 
 i descending in a r 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i83 
 
 )tuous pair of brimstone-coloured trunk-breeches 
 
 ] graceful style still prevalent among the warriors 
 
 Iwrtlay, and which is in conformity to the custom 
 
 Itfcient heroes, who scorned to defend themselves 
 
 I Kir. His face rendered exceeding terrible and 
 
 lilie by a pair of black mustachios; his hair strut- 
 
 ;out on each side in stiffly pomatumed ear-locks, 
 
 j descending in a rat-tail queue below his waist; 
 
 ^inin^ stock of black leather supporting his chin, 
 
 iaiiltle but flerce cocked hat, stuck with a gal- 
 
 (awl liery air over his left eye. Such was the 
 
 ilric port of Peter the Headstrong; and when he 
 
 > a sudden halt planted himself firmly on his so- 
 
 Ippporter, with his wooden leg inlaid with silver a 
 
 tin advance, in order to strengthen his position, 
 
 L right hand grasping a gold-headed cane, his left 
 
 ;;upon the pummel of his sword, his head dress- 
 
 Uiritedly to the right, with a most appalling and 
 
 |.favoured frown upon his brow — he presented 
 
 >etlier one of the most commanding, bilter-look- 
 
 ||, and soldier-like figures that ever strutted upon 
 
 Kass.— Proceed we now to inquire the cause of 
 
 ■warlike preparation. 
 
 I encroaching disposition of the Swedes on the 
 ith or Delaware river has been duly recorded in 
 t chronicles of the reign of William the Testy. 
 ; encroachments having been endured with that 
 fortitude which is the corner-stone of true 
 rage, had been repeated, and wickedly aggra- 
 
 lie Swedes, who were of that class of cunning 
 
 lenders to Christianity that read the Bible upside 
 
 nil whenever it interferes with their interest, in- 
 
 I the golden maxim, and when their neighbour 
 
 Ihem to smite him on the one cheek, they 
 
 leraliy smote him on the other also, whether turn- 
 
 |lo (hem or not. Their repeated aggressions had 
 
 I among the numerous sources of vexation that 
 
 ipired to keep the irritable sensibilities of Wilhel- 
 
 sKleft in a constant fever ; and it was only owing 
 
 llhe unfortunate circumstance, that he had always 
 
 nndred things to do at once, that he did not lake 
 
 1 unrelenting vengeance as their offences merited. 
 
 tthey had now a chieflain of a different character 
 
 Ideal with; and they were soon guilty of a piece of 
 
 Khery that threw his honest blood in a ferment, 
 
 i precluded all further sufferance. 
 
 iPiinlz, the governor of the province of New- 
 
 ■eden, being either deceased or removed, for of 
 
 |ii fact some uncertainty exists, was succeeded by 
 
 iRisingh, a gigantic Swede; and who, had he not 
 
 rather knock-kneed and splay-footed, might 
 
 lie served for the model of a Samson or a Hercules. 
 
 jtwas no less rapacious than mighty, and withal as 
 
 Ay as he was rapacious; so that, in fact, there is 
 
 rliule doubt, had he lived some four or Ave cen- 
 
 s before, he would have been one of those wicked 
 
 nts who took such a cruel pleasure in pocketing 
 
 damsels, when gadding about the world, 
 
 I locking them up in enchanted castles, without a 
 
 toilet, a change of linen, or any other convenience.— 
 In consequence of which enormities they fell under 
 the high displeasure of chivalry, and all true, loyal, 
 and gallant knights were instructeil to attack and slay 
 outright any miscreant they might happen to lind 
 above six feet high; which is doubtless one reason why 
 the race of large men is nearly extinct, and the gene- 
 rations of latter ages so exceeding small. 
 
 No sooner did Governor RLsingh enter upon his 
 oflice than he immediately cast his eyes upon the im- 
 portant post of Fort Casimir, and formed the righteous 
 resolution of taking it into his possession. The only 
 thing that remained to consider was the mode of 
 carrying his resolution into effect; and here I must 
 do him the justice to say, that he exhibited a human- 
 ity rarely to be met witli among leaders, and which 
 I have never seen equalled in modern times, except- 
 ing among the English, in their glorious affair at 
 Copenhagen. Willing to spare the effusion of blood, 
 and the miseries of open warfare, he benevolently 
 shunned every thing like avowed hostility or regular 
 siege, and resorted to the less glorious but more mer- 
 ciful expedient of treachery. 
 
 Under pretence therefore of paying a neighbourly 
 visit to General Yon Poffenburgh, at his new post of 
 Fort Casimir, he made requisite preparation, sailed 
 in great state up the Delaware, displayed his Hag with 
 the most ceremonious punctilio, and honoured the 
 fortress with a royal salute previous to dropping an- 
 chor. The unusual noise awakened a veteran Dutch 
 sentinel, who was napping faithfully at his post, and 
 who, having suffered his match to go out, contrived 
 to return the compliment by discharging his rusty 
 musket with the spark of a pi|)e, which he borrowed 
 from one of his comrades. The salute indeed would 
 have been answered by the guns of the fort, had they 
 not unfortunately been out of order, and the magazine 
 deticient in ammunition — accidents to which forts 
 have in all ages been liable, and which were the more 
 excusaUe in the present instance, as Fort Casimir 
 had only been erected about two years, and General 
 Yon Poffenburgh, its mighty commander, had been 
 fully occupied with matters of much greater import- 
 ance. 
 
 Risingh, highly satisfied with this courteous reply 
 to his salute, treated the fort to a second, for he well 
 knew its commander was marvellously delighted with 
 these little ceremonials, which he considered as so 
 many acts of homage paid unto his greatness. He 
 then landed in great state, attended by a suite of 
 thirty men — a prodigious and vain-glorious relinue 
 for a petty governor of a petty settlement in those 
 days of primitive simplicity ; and to the full as great 
 an army as generally swells the pomp and marches 
 in the rear of our frontier commanders at the pre- 
 sent day. 
 
 The number in fact might have awakened suspi- 
 cion, had not the mind of the great Yon Poffenburgh 
 been so completely engrossed with an all-pervading 
 idea of himself, that he had not room to admit a 
 
 -1 ; 
 
184 
 
 inSTORY OF PrtlW-YORK. 
 
 thought besides. In fact, he consitlered the concourse 
 of Kisingh's followers as a compliment to himself— 
 80 apt are great men to stand between themselves and 
 the sun, and completely eclipse the tnith by their own 
 shadow. 
 
 It may readily be imagined how much General Yon 
 Poffenburgh was flattered by a visit from so august 
 a personage : his only embarrassment was how he 
 should receive him in such a manner as to appear to 
 the greatest advantage, and make the most advanta- 
 geous impression. The main-guard was ordered im- 
 mediately to turn out, and the arms and regimentals 
 (of which the garrison possessed full half a dozen suits) 
 were equally distributed among the soldiers. One 
 tall lank fellow appeared in a coat intended for a small 
 man, the skirts of which reached a little below his 
 waist, the buttons were between his shoulders, and 
 the sleeves half way to his wrists, so that his hands 
 looked like a couple of huge spades — and the coat not 
 being large enough to meet in front, was linked to- 
 gether by loops made of a pair of red worsted garters. 
 Another had an old cocked hat stuck on the Itack of 
 his head, and decorated with a bunch of cocks' tails 
 — a tliird had a pair of rusty gaiters hanging about his 
 heels — while a fourth, who was short and duck-leg- 
 ged, was equipped in a huge pair of the general's cast- 
 off breeches, which he held up with one hand, while 
 he grasped his firelock with the other. The rest were 
 accoutred in similar style, excej)ting three graceless 
 ragamuffins, who had no shirts, and but a pair and a 
 half of breeches between them, wherefore they were 
 sent to the black-hole, to keep them out of view. There 
 is nothing in which the talents of a prudent command- 
 er are more completely testified than in thus setting 
 matters otTto the greatest advantage; and it is for this 
 reason that our frontier posLs at the present day (that 
 of Niagara for example) display their best suit of re- 
 gimentals on the back of the sentinel who stands in 
 sight of travellers. 
 
 His men being thus gallantly arrayed— those who 
 lacked muskets shouldering spades and pickaxes, and 
 every man being ordered to tuck in his shirt-tail and 
 pull up his brogues, General Yon Poffenburgh first 
 took a sturdy draught of foaming ale, which, likv the 
 magnanimous More of More-hall, ' was his invariable 
 practice on all great occasions — which done, he put 
 himself at their head, ordered the pine-planks, which 
 served as a drawbridge, to be laid down, and issued 
 forth from his castle, like a mighty giant, just refresh- 
 ed with wine. But when the two heroes met, then 
 began a scene of warlike parade and chivalric courtesy 
 that beggars all description. Risingh, who, as I be- 
 fore hinted, was a shrewd, cunning politician, and had 
 grown gray much before his time, in consequence of 
 his craftiness, saw at one glance tlie ruling passion of 
 
 
 -As soon as he rose, 
 
 To make him strong and mighty, 
 lie ilranli, by llie tale, six pots of ale, 
 And a quart of aqua vitx." 
 
 Dragon of ij ant. 
 
 the great Yon Poffenburgh, and humonred him in J 
 his valorous fantasies. 
 
 Their detachments were acconlingly drawn npl 
 front of each other ; they carried arms and theyp 
 sented arms ; they gave the standing salute txA l 
 passing salute — They rolled their drums, they gJ 
 rished their fifes, and they waved their colours] 
 They faced to the left, and they faced to the r^ 
 and they faced to the rightabout— They wheeled ( 
 wanl, and they wheeled ackwanl, and they wha 
 into echelon — They marched and they counternurt 
 ed, by grand divisions, by single divisions, and | 
 sub-divisions— by platoons, by sections, and by [ 
 —in quick time, in slow time, and in no time at i 
 for, having gone through all the evolutions oftJ 
 great armies; including the eighteen mana>uvm| 
 Dundas ; having exhausted all that they could i 
 lect or imagine of military tactics, including sun 
 strange and irregular evolutions, the like of vk 
 were never seen before nor since, excepting an 
 certain of our newly-raised militia, the two pi 
 commanders and their respective troops came atleit 
 to a dead halt, completely exhausted by the i 
 war— Never did two valiant train-band captains,] 
 two buskined theatric heroes, in the renowned ti 
 gedies of Pizarro, Tom Thumb, or any other hen 
 and fighting tragedy, marshal their gallows-lookiij 
 duck-legged, heavy-heeledniyrmidons with iiioregl 
 and self-admiration. 
 
 These military compliments being finished, Gen(( 
 Yon Poffenburgh escorted his illustrious visitor, vl 
 great ceremony, into the fort ; attended him tlirog^ 
 out the fortifications; showed him the horn-wori 
 crown-works, half-moons, and various other oiitworii 
 or rather the places where they ought to be erectej 
 and where they might be erected if he pleased; plaiii 
 demonstrating that it was a place of " great cup 
 ty," and though at present but a little redoubt, 
 that it evidently was a formidable fortress, in enibr; 
 This survey over, he next had the whole garrison p 
 under arms, exercised, and reviewed ; and coiielud^ 
 by ordering the three Bridewell birds to be hauled m 
 of the black -hole, brought up to the hnlbeids, ; 
 soundly flogged, for the amusement of his visiig| 
 and to convince him that he was a great disciplinarii 
 
 The cunning Risingh, while he pretended lo | 
 struck dumb outright with the puissance of the gn 
 Yon Poffenburgh, took silent note of the incooipl 
 tency of his garrison, of which he gave a hint lolj 
 trusty followers, who tipped each other the wink, a 
 laughed most obstreperously — in their sleeves. 
 
 The inspection, review, and flogging being i 
 eluded, the party adjourned to the table ; for am 
 his other great qualities, the general was remariial 
 addicted to huge carousals, and in one afternw 
 campaign woidd leave more dead men on the I 
 than he ever did in the whole course of his milil) 
 career. Many bulletins of these bloodless victo 
 do still remain on record; and the whole pronnl 
 was once thrown in amaze by the return of one of N 
 
 I a great dinner t 
 
 ion tiible groaned 
 
mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 isa 
 
 nonred liimloLaigns; wherein it was stated, that thouijh, like 
 gin Bobadil, he had only twenty men lo back 
 , yet in the short space of six niontlis he had con- 
 aiid utterly annihilated sixty oxen, ninety 
 , one hundred sheep, ten thousand cabbages, one 
 aiKl bushels of potatoes, one hundred and fifty 
 irkiiis of small beer, two thousand seven hundred 
 ^Ibirty-five pi[)es, seventy-eight pounds of sugar- 
 is, and forty bars of iron, besides sundry small 
 L|j,game, poultry, and garden-stuff: — an achieve- 
 t unparalleled since the days of Pantagruel and 
 [all-devouring army, and which showed that it was 
 r necessary to let belli-potent Von PofTenburgh 
 ) garrison loose in an enemy's country, and in 
 lie while (hey would breed a famine, and starve 
 libe inhabitants. 
 D sooner, therefore, had the general received in- 
 m of the visit of Governor Risingh, than he or- 
 I a great dinner to be prepared ; and privately 
 Uit a detachment of his most experienced vete- 
 L tu rob all the hen-roosts in the neighbourhood, 
 ||ay the pigsties under contribution ; — a service to 
 1 they had been long inured, and which they 
 irged with such zeal and promptitude, that the 
 on table groaned under the weight of their 
 
 (iL>h, with all my heart, my readers could see the 
 
 ml Von Poffenburgh, as he presided at the head 
 
 [banquet; it was a sight worth beholding: — 
 
 the sat, in his greatest glory, surrounded by his 
 
 iers, like that famous wine-bibber, Alexander, 
 
 ; thirsty virtues he did most ably imitate— tell- 
 
 letounding stories of his hair-breadth adventures 
 
 |heroic exploits; at which, though all his auditoi's 
 
 r them lo be incontinent lies and outrageous gas- 
 
 «, yet did they cast up their eyes in admira- 
 
 i,anil utter many interjections of astonishment. 
 
 \m\A the general pronounce any thing that bore 
 
 jmnolest semblance to a joke, but the stout Ri- 
 
 1 would strike his brawny fist up^n the table till 
 
 jty glass rattled again, throw himself back in the 
 
 |ir, utter gigantic peals of laughter, and swear 
 
 illiorribly it was the best joke he ever heard in 
 
 |Efe.— Thus all was rout and revelry and hideous 
 
 al williin Fort Casimir, and so lustily did Yon 
 
 burgh ply the bottle, that in less than four short 
 
 s he made himself and his whole garrison, who 
 
 dulously emulated the deeds of tlieir chieftain, 
 
 ddrunk, with singing songs, quaiTmg bumpers, 
 
 [drinking patriotic toasts, none of which but was 
 
 ! as a Welsh pedigree or a plea in chancery. 
 
 osooner did things come to this pass, than the 
 
 f Risingh and his Swedes, who had cunningly 
 
 |l themselves sober, rose on their entertainers, tied 
 
 I neck and heels, and look formal possession of 
 
 [fort, and all its dependencies, in the name of 
 
 1 Christina of Sweden : administering at the 
 
 Mime an oath of allegiance to all the Dutch sol- 
 
 5 who could be made sober enough to swallow it. 
 
 ingh then put the fortifications in ortler, appointed 
 
 his discreet and vigilant friend Suen Scutx, a tall, 
 wind-dried, water-drinking Swede, to the command, 
 and departetl, bearing with him this truly amiable 
 garrison and its puissant commander; wlio, w^hen 
 brought to himself by a sound dmbbling, bore no 
 little resemblance to a " deboshed lish," or bloated 
 sea-monster, caught upon dry land. 
 
 The transportation of the gairison was done to pre- 
 vent the transmission of intelligence to New- Amster- 
 dam ; for much as the cunning Risingh exulted in his 
 stratagem, yet did he dread the vengeance of the 
 sturdy Peter Stuyvesant; whose name spread as much 
 terror in the neighbourhood as did whilom that of the 
 unconquerable Scanderberg among his scurvy enemies 
 the Turks. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 showing how profound aecreU are often brouglit to light ; with 
 ttin proceeding!! of Peter the Headstrong when he heard of the 
 niLsfortunes ofueneral Von Poffenburgli. 
 
 Whoever first described common fame, or ru- 
 mour, as belonging to (he sager sex, was a very ovfl 
 for shrewdness. She has in truth certain feminine 
 (lualities to an as(onishing degree ; particularly that 
 Itenevolent anxiety to take care of the affairs of others, 
 which keeps her continually hunting after secrets, 
 and gadding al)out proclaiming them. Whatever is 
 done openly and in the face of (he world, she takes 
 but transient notice of; but whenever a (ransacdon 
 is done in a corner, and at(emp(ed to be shrouded in 
 mystery, then her goddess-ship is at her wits' end to 
 lind it out, and takes a most mischievous and lady- 
 like pleasure in publishing it to (he woild. 
 
 It is this truly feminine propensity (hat induces her 
 continually to be pi7ing into cabinets of princes, lis- 
 tening at the key-holes of senate-chambers, and peer- 
 ing through chinks and crannies, when our worthy 
 congress are sitting with closed doors, deliberating 
 Itetween a dozen excellent modes of ruining the na- 
 tion. It is this which makes her so baneful (o all 
 wary statesmen and intriguing commanders — such a 
 stumbling-block lo private negotiations and secret ex- 
 peditions; which she often betrays by means and in- 
 struments which never would have been thought of 
 by any but a female head. 
 
 Thus it was in the case of the affair of Fort Casi- 
 mir. No doubt the cunning Risingh imagined, that 
 by securing the garrison he should for a long time 
 prevent the history of its fate from reaching the ears 
 of the gallant Stuyvesant; but his exploit was blown 
 to the world when he least expected ; and by one of 
 the last beings he would ever have suspected of en- 
 listing as trumpeter to (he wide mou(hed deity. 
 
 This was one Dirk Schuiler (or Skulker), a kind of 
 hanger-on to the garrison, who seemed to belong to 
 nobody, and in a manner to be self-outlawed. He 
 was one of those vagabond cosmopolites who shark 
 about the world, as if they had no right or business 
 in it, and who infest the skirts of society like poachers 
 
 2^ 
 
mi 
 
 inSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 and interlopers. Every garrison and country village 
 has one or more scnpe-goats of this kind, whose 
 life is a kind of enigma, whose existence is with- 
 out motive, who comes from the Lord knows where, 
 who lives the Lord knows how, and who seems 
 created for no other earthly purpose hut to keep 
 up the ancient and honourable order of idleness. 
 — This vagrant philosopher was supposed to have 
 some Indian blood in his veins, which was manifested 
 by a certain Indian complexion and cast of counte- 
 nance ; but more especially by his propensities and 
 habits. He was a tali, lank fellow swift of foot, and 
 long-winded. He was generally equipped in a half 
 Indian dress, with belt, leggings, and moccasons. 
 His hair hung in straight gallows locks about his ears, 
 and udded not a lilllc to his sharking demeanour. It 
 is an old remark, that persons of Indian mixture are 
 half civilized, half savage, and half devil— a third half 
 being expressly provided for their particular conve- 
 nience. It is for similar reasons, and probably with 
 equal truth, that the back-wood-men of Kentucky are 
 styled half man, half horse, and half alligator, by the 
 seuiers on the Mississippi, and held accordingly in 
 great respect and abhorrence. 
 
 The above character may have presented itself to 
 the garrison as applicable to Dirk Schuiler, whom 
 they familiarly dubbed Gallows Dirk. Certain it is, 
 he acknowledged allegiance to no one— was an utter 
 enemy to work, holding it in no manner of estimation 
 —but lounged about the fort, depending upon chance 
 for a subsistence, getting drunk whenever he could 
 get liquor, and stealing whatever he could lay his 
 hands on. Eveiy day or two he was sure to get a 
 sound rib-roasting for some of his misdemeanours ; 
 which, however, as it broke no bones, he made very 
 light of, and scrupled not to repeat the offence when- 
 ever another opportunity presented. Sometimes, in 
 consequence of some flagrant villany, he would ab- 
 scond from the garrison, and be absent for a month 
 at a time ; skulking about the woods and swamps, 
 with a long fowling-piece on his shoulder, lying in 
 ambush for game — or squatting himself down on the 
 edge of a pond catching fish for hours together, and 
 hearing no little resemblance to that notable bird of 
 the crane family, ycleped the Mudpoke. When he 
 thought his crimes had been forgotten or forgiven, 
 he would sneak back to the foi-t with a bundle of 
 skins, or a load of poultry, which, perchance, he had 
 stolen, and would exchange them for liquor, with 
 which having well soaked his carcass, he would lie 
 in the sun and enjoy all the luxurious indolence of 
 that swinish philosopher Diogenes. He was the terror 
 of all the farm-yards in the country, into which he 
 made fearful inroads ; and sometimes he would make 
 his sudden appearance in the garrison at day-break, 
 with the whole neighbourhood at his heels ; like the 
 scoundrel thief of a fox, detected in bis maraudings 
 and hunted to his hole. Such was this Dirk Schuiler; 
 and bom the total indifference he showed to the world 
 and its concerns, and from his truly Indian stoicism 
 
 and taciturnity, no one would ever have dreamtii 
 he would have been the publisher of the treacherrl 
 Risingh. 
 
 When the carousal was going on, which provedl 
 fatal to the brave Yon Poffenburgh and his wald 
 garrison. Dirk skulked about from room to ro( 
 being a kind of privileged vagrant, or useless houi 
 whom nobody noticed. But though a fellow oflj 
 words, yet, like your taciturn people, his eyes i 
 ears were always open, and in the course of his r 
 ings he overheard the whole plot of the Sv, 
 Dirk immediately settled in his own mind how | 
 should turn the matter to his own advantage, 
 played the perfect jack-of-both-sides— that is to s 
 he made a prize of every thing that came in liLs real 
 robbed both parlies, stuck the copper-bound 
 hat of the puissant Von Poffenburgh on his |J 
 whipped a huge pair of Risingh's jack -boots under! 
 arms, and took to his heels, just before the calaslrol 
 and confusion at the garrison. 
 
 rinding himself completely dislodged from I 
 haunt in this quarter, he directed his flight tovi 
 his native place, New-Amsterdam, from wliencel 
 had formerly been obliged to abscond precipilaiT 
 in consequence of misfortune in business— tlial iJ 
 say, having been delected in the act of sheep-steal] 
 After wandering many days in the woods, tol 
 through swamps, fording brooks, swimming vai 
 rivers, and encountering a world of haixlships I 
 would have killed any other being but an India 
 back-wood-man, or the devil, he at length arriJ 
 half famished, and lank as a starved weasel, at ( 
 munipaw, where he stole a canoe, and paddled il 
 to New-Amsterdam. Immediately on landin^l 
 repaired to Governor Stuyvesant, and in more w| 
 than he had ever spoken before in tiie whole ( 
 of his life, gave an account of the disastrous afTairl 
 
 On receiving these direful tidings, the valiant F 
 started from his seat — dashed the pipe he was snj 
 ing against the back of the chimney— thrust a | 
 gious quid of tobacco into his left cheek— pulle( 
 his galligaskins, and strode up and downtliet 
 humming, as was customary with him when inaj 
 sion, a hideous north-west ditty. Rut, as I haveli 
 shown, he was not a man to vent his spleen in| 
 vapouring. His first measure, after the paroxys 
 wrath had subsided, was to stump up stairs toah 
 wooden chest, which served as his armoury, I 
 whence he drew forth that identical suit ofregini 
 als described in the preceding chapter. In these j 
 lentous habiliments he arrayed himself, like Ad 
 in the armour of Vulcan, maintaining all the whUj 
 appalling silence, knitting his brows, and drawiii{ 
 breath through his clinched teeth. Being liaj 
 equipped, he strode down into the parlour and jei 
 down his trusty sword from over the fin -place, wl 
 it was usually suspended ; but before he girded J 
 his thigh, he drew it from its scabbard, and asl 
 coursed along the rusty blade, a grim smile stolei 
 his iron visage— It was the first smile that had r 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 187 
 
 ^countenance Ibr Ave long weeks; but every one 
 (beheld it prophesied that there would soon be 
 I work in the province ! 
 Ilhus armed at all points, with grisly war depicted 
 leacb feature, his very cocked hat assuming an air 
 lincoiiirnon defiance, lie instantly put himself upon 
 lalert, and dispatched Anthony Van Corlear hither 
 Itliither, tliis way and that way, through all the 
 dy streets and crooked lanes of the city, sunimon- 
 Uy sound of trumpet his trusty peers to a!C»inl;;e 
 liistant council. — This done, by way of expediting 
 Iters, according to the custom of people in a hurry, 
 I kept in continual bustle, shifliiig from chair to 
 ir, popping his head out of every window, and 
 ping up and down stairs with his wooden leg in 
 b brisk and incessant motion, that, as we are in- 
 by an authentic historian of the times, the 
 jiiual clatter Imre no small resemblance to the 
 ;ofa cooper hooping a flour-barrel. 
 |A summons so peremptory, and from a man of the 
 jiernur's mettle, was not to be trilled with : the 
 s forthwith repaired to the council-chamber, seat- 
 [lliemselves with the utmost tranquillity, and light- 
 \tbeir long pipes, gazed with unruffled composure 
 Ibis excellency and his regimentals; being, as all 
 «llors should be, not easily flustered, nor taken 
 Iwrprise. The governor, looking around for a mo- 
 ot with a lofty and soldierlike air, and resting one 
 Ion the ponmiel of his sword, and flinging the 
 r Torlh in a free and spirited manner, addressed 
 I in a short but soul-stirring harangue, 
 ^im extremely sorry that I have not the advan- 
 sofLivy,Thucydides, Plutarch, and others of my 
 essors, who were furnished, as I am told, with 
 tspeeches of all their heroes, taken down in sliort 
 iby the most accurate stenographers of the time; 
 iereby they were enabled wonderfully to enrich 
 r histories, and delight their readers with sublime 
 lins of eloquence. Not having such importimt 
 DJiaries, I cainiot possibly pronounce what was the 
 r of Governor Stnyvesant's speech. I am bold, 
 tever, to say, from the tenor of his character, that 
 not wrap his rugged subject in silks and er- 
 s, and other sickly trickeries of phrase ; but spoke 
 I like a man of nerve and vigour, who scorned to 
 |inl( in words from those dangers which he stood 
 idy to encounter in very deed. This much is cer- 
 y lliat he concluded by aimouncing his determi- 
 ion to lead on his troops in person, and rout these 
 lartl-inonger Swedes from their usurped quarters 
 iForl Casimir. To this hardy resolution, such of 
 pcouncil as were awake gave their usual signal of 
 Kurrence ; and as to the rest, who had fallen asleep 
 «ltlie middle of the harangue (their "usual custom 
 jtlie afternoon "), they made not the leastobjcction. 
 |Aiid now was seen in the fair city of New-Ants- 
 III a prodigious bustle and preparation for iron 
 pr. Ilecruiting parties marched hither and thither, 
 ; lustily u|M)n all the scrubs, the rimagates, and 
 lenlenialions of the Manhaltues and its vicinity. 
 
 who had any ambition of six-pence a day, and im- 
 mortal fame into the bargain, to enlist in the cause of 
 glory : — for I would have you note that your warlike 
 heroes who trudge in the rear of conquerors are ge- 
 nerally of that illustrious class of gentlemen, who are 
 equal candidates for the army or the bridewell — the 
 halberds or the whipping-post— for whom Dame For- 
 tune has east an even die, whether they shall make 
 their exit by the sword or the halter— and whose 
 deaths shall, at all events, be a lofly example to their 
 countrymer 
 
 But notwithstanding all this martial rout and ip^ i- 
 tation, the ranks of honour were but scantily sup- 
 plied ; so averse were the peaceful burghers of New- 
 Amsterdam from enlisting in foreign broils, or stir- 
 ring beyond that home, which rounded all their 
 earthly ideas. Upon beholding this, the great Peter, 
 whose noble heart was all on lire with war and 
 sweet revenge, determined to wait no lunger for 
 the tardy assistance of these oily citizens, but to muster 
 up his merry men of the Hudson, who, brought up 
 among woods, and wilds, and savage beasts, like our 
 yeomen of Kentucky, delighted in nothing so much 
 as desperate adventures and perilous expeditions 
 through the wilderness. Thus resolving, he ordered 
 his trusty squire Anthony Van Corlear to have his state 
 galley pivpared and duly victualled ; which being per- 
 formed, he attended public service at the great church 
 of St Nicholas, like a true and pious governor ; and 
 then leaving peremptory orders with his council to 
 have the chivalry of the Manhattoes marshalleil out 
 and appointed against his return, departed upon hii 
 recruiting voyage, up the waters of the Hudson. 
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 Containing Peter Stuyvesant's voyafic u "le Hudson, and Mie 
 wonders and duliglits of lliat reL')wncd river. 
 
 Now did the soft breezes of the south steal sweetly 
 over the face of nature, tempering the panting heats 
 of summer into genial and piolilic warmth; when 
 that miracle of hardihood and chivalric virtue, the 
 dauntless Peter Stuyvesant, spread his canvass to the 
 wind, and departed from the fair island of Mainia- 
 hata. The galley in which he embarked was sump- 
 tuously adorned with pendants and streamers of gor- 
 geous dyes, which fluttered gaily in the wind, or 
 drooped their ends into the bosom of the stream. 
 The bow and poop of this majestic vessel were gal- 
 lantly bedight, after the rarest Dutch fiishion, with 
 ligures of little pursy Cupiils with |)eri\vigs on their 
 heads, and hearing in their hands garlands of flowers, 
 the like of which are not to l)« found in any book of 
 botany; l)eing the matchless flowei-s which flourished 
 in the golden age, and exist no longer, unless it be in 
 the imaginations of ingenious carvers of wood and 
 discolourers of canvass. 
 
 Thus rarely decorated, in style befllting the puis- 
 
 'I 
 
 Ai 
 
 I'': 
 
188 
 
 mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 -1 
 
 il 
 
 satnt potentate of the Manliattoes, did the galley of 
 Peter Stuyvesant launch foith upon the bosom of the 
 loitlly Hudson, which, as it roiled its broad waves to 
 the ocean, seemed to pause for a while and swell 
 with pride, as if conscious of the illustrious burthen 
 it sustained. 
 
 But trust me, gentlefolk, far other was the scene 
 presented to the contemplation of the crew from that 
 which may be witnessed at this degenerate day. 
 Wildness and savage majesty reigned on the borders 
 of this mighty river— the hand of cultivation had not 
 as yet laid low the dark forest, and tamed the features 
 of the landscape — nor had the frequent sail of com- 
 merce broken in upon the profound and awful soli- 
 tude of ages. Here and there might be seen a rude 
 wigwam percheil among the cliffs of the mountains, 
 with its curling column of smoke mounting in the 
 transparent atmosphere — but so lofUly situated that 
 the whoopings of the savage children, gamboling on 
 the margin of the dizzy heights, fell almost as faintly 
 on the ear as do the notes of the lark, when lost in the 
 azure vault of heaven. Now and then, from the 
 beetling brow of some precipice, the wild deer would 
 look timidly down upon the splendid pageant as it 
 passed below; and then, tossing liis antlers in the air, 
 would hound away into the thickeU of the forest. 
 
 Through such scenes did the stalely vessel of Peter 
 Stuyvesant pass. Now did they skirt the bases of the 
 rocky heights of Jersey, which spring up like ever- 
 lasting walls, reaching from the waves unto the hea- 
 vens, and were fashioned, if tradition may he believ- 
 ed, in times long past, by the mighty spirit Manetho, 
 to protect his favourite abodes from the unhallowed 
 eyes of mortals. Now did they career it gaily across 
 the vast expanse of Tappaan Bay, whose wide extend- 
 ed shores present a variety of delectable scenery — 
 here the bold promontoi-y, crowned with en^.bowering 
 trees advancing into the bay — there the long wood- 
 land slope, sweeping up from the shore in rich luxuri- 
 ance, and terminating in the upland precipice- 
 while at a distance a long waving line of rocky heights 
 threw their gigantic shades across the water. Now 
 would they pass where some modest little interval, 
 opening among these stupendous scenes, yet retreat- 
 ing as it were for protection into the embraces of the 
 neighbouring mountains, displayed a rural paradise, 
 fraught with sweet and pastoral beauties ; the velvet- 
 tufted lawn— the bushy copse— the tinkling rivulet, 
 stealing through the fresh and vivid verdure- on 
 whose banks was situated some little Indian village, 
 or peradventure, the rude cabin of sonre solitary 
 hunter. 
 
 The dilTerent periods of (he revolving day seemed 
 each, with cunning magic, to diffuse a different charm 
 over the scene. Now would the jovial sun break 
 gloriously from the east, blazing from the sumniils of 
 the hills, and sparkling the landscape with a thousand 
 dewy gems; while along the borders of the river 
 were seen heavy masses of mist, which, like midnight 
 caitiffs, disturbed at his approach, made a sluggish 
 
 retreat, rolling in sullen reluctance up the mouniiii^ 
 At such times all was brightness, and life, and gaje 
 — the atmosphere was of an indescribable puren 
 and transparency — the birds broke forth in wanii 
 madrigals, and the freshening breezes wafted 
 vessel merrily on her course. But when the i 
 sunk amid a flood of glory in the west, mantling i 
 heavens and the earth with a thousand gorgeous drl 
 —then all was calm, and silent, and magniljceif 
 The late swelling sail hung lifelessly against the i 
 — the seaman, with folded arms, leaned against i 
 shrouds, lost in that involuntary musing whicli i 
 sober grandeur of nature commands in the rudest] 
 her children. The vast bosom of the Hudson \ 
 like an unruffled miiTor, reflecting the golden spiel 
 dour of the heavens; excepting that now and tlien| 
 bark canoe would steal across its surface, lllled 
 painted savages, whose gay feathers glared brighlj 
 as perchance a lingering ray of the setting sungleai 
 ed upon them from the western mountains. 
 
 But when the hour of twilight spread its niji 
 mists around, then did the face of nature assunid 
 thousand fugitive charms, wliich to the worthy hea 
 that seeks enjoyment in the glorious works of | 
 Maker are inexpressibly captivating. The 
 did)ious light that prevailed just served to tinge wJ 
 illusive colours the softened features of the scenej 
 The deceived but delighted eye sought vainly tod 
 cern in the broad masses of shade, the separating lij 
 between the land and water; or to distinguish! 
 failing objects that seemed sinking into chaos. M 
 did the busy fancy supply the feebleness of visiJ 
 producing with industrious craft a fairy creation | 
 lier own. Under her plastic wand the barren m 
 frowned upon the watery waste, in the senibiancel 
 lofty towers, and high embattled castles— trees assoj 
 ed the direful forms of mighty giants, and tlieio:( 
 cessible summits of the mountains seemed 
 with a thousand shadowy beings. 
 
 Now broke forth from the shores the notes of j 
 innumerable variety of insects, which filled tiie 
 with a strange but not inharmonious concert— wh| 
 ever and anon was heard the melancholy plaint 
 the Whip-poor-will, who, perched on some loiic In 
 wearied the ear of night with his incessant inoi 
 ings. The mind, soothed into a hallowed melduciiol 
 listened with pensive stillness to catch and distinguil 
 each sound that vaguely echoed from the sliore-nij 
 and then startled perchance by the whoop of s«J 
 straggling savage or by the dreary howl of a vo] 
 stealing forth upon his nightly prowlings. 
 
 Thus happilydid they pursue theircour.se, unlilllil 
 entered upon those awful deiiles denominated t^ 
 iiiuiiLANns, where it would seem that the gigani 
 Titans had erst waged their impious war willihcarei 
 piling up clilTs on cliffs, and hurling vast masses of ro^ 
 in wild confusion. But in sooth very dirferent is!) 
 history of these cloud-capt mountains.— These in a 
 cicntdays, before the llud.sun poured its waters fro 
 the lakcS; formed ono vast prison, within wiiose ro 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 I«) 
 
 i the omnipotent Manetho conflned the rebel- 
 gspirits who repined at liis control. Here, bound 
 lidainantine chains, or jammed in rifled pines, or 
 I by ponderous roclcs, they groaned for many 
 [age.— At fenglh tlie conquering Hudson, in its 
 towards the ocean, burst open their prison- 
 le, rolling its tide triumphantly through the slu- 
 lous ruins. 
 Istili, however, do many of them lurk about tlieir 
 labodes ; and these it is, according to venerable le- 
 , that cause the echoes which resound through- 
 llbese awful solitudes; which are nothing but their 
 J clamours when any noise disturbs the profound- 
 i of their repose. — For when the elements are 
 laied by tempest, when the winds are up and the 
 luderiolls, then horrible is the yelling and howling 
 llliese troubled spirits, making the mountains to 
 kIIow with their hideous uproar; for at such times 
 8 said that they think the great Manetho is return- 
 ronceniore to plunge them in gloomy caverns, and 
 Kv their intolerable captivity. 
 IHulall these fair and glorious scenes were lost upon 
 jt^llant Stuyvesant ; naught occupied his mind but 
 Nghlsof iron war, and proud anticipations of hardy 
 nk of arms. Neither did his honest crew trouble 
 |iir heads with any romantic speculations of the kind. 
 t pilot at the helm quietly smoked his pipe, tliink- 
 jjof nothing either past, present, or to come — those 
 |liis comrades who were not industriously snoring 
 ier the hatches were listening with open mouths 
 lAnliiony Van Corlear ; who, seated on the wind- 
 It, vras relating to them the marvellous history of 
 e myriads of Hre-flies, that sparkled like gems and 
 gies upon the dusky robe of night. These, ac- 
 iling to tradition, were originally a race of pestilent 
 pitemous beldames, who peopled these parts long 
 s the memory of man; being of that abominated 
 templiatically called brimstones: and who for their 
 kumerable sins against the children of men,, and to 
 nislian awful warning to the beauteous sex, were 
 nied to infest the earth in the shape of these threat- 
 ; and terrible little bugs; enduring the internal 
 luients of that fire, which they formerly carried in 
 r hearts and breathed forth in their words; but 
 ' are sentenced to bear about for ever — in their 
 
 And now am I going to tell a fact, which I doubt 
 liny readers will hesitate to believe; but if they 
 \ Ihey are welcome not to believe a word in this 
 Weliistory— for nothing which it contains is more 
 It must be known then that the nose of An- 
 loy tiie trumpeter was of a very lusty size, strul- 
 \ Iwldly from his countenance like a mountain of 
 »nda; being sumptuously bedecked with rubies 
 1 other precious stones — the true regalia of a king 
 I fellows, which jolly Uacchus grants to all who 
 eitheartily at the ilagon. Now thus it happened, 
 I bright and early in the morning, the gtiod An- 
 ny, having washeil his burly visage, was leaning 
 r the quarter railing of the galley, contemplating 
 
 it in the glassy wave below. — Jost at this moment the 
 illustrious sun, breaking in all liis splendour from be- 
 hind a high bluff of the highlands, did dart one of his 
 most potent beams full upon the refulgent nose of the 
 sounder of brass— the reflection of which shot straight- 
 way down, hissing hot, into the water, and killed a 
 mighty sturgeon that was sporting beside the vessel ! 
 This huge monster being with iniinile labour hoisted 
 on board, furnished a luxurious repast to all the crew, 
 being accounted of excellent flavour, excepting alx)ut 
 the wound, where it smacked a little of brimstone — 
 and this, on my veracity, was the first time that 
 ever sturgeon was eaten in these parts by Clu-istian 
 people. • 
 
 When this astonishing miracle came to be made 
 known to Peter Stuyvesant, and that he tasted of the 
 unknown fish, he, as may well be supposed, marvel- 
 led exceedingly ; and as a monument thereof, he gave 
 the name of Anthony's Nose to a stout promontory in 
 the neighbourhood — and it has continued to be called 
 Anthony's Nose ever since that time. 
 
 But hold : whither am I wandering ? By the mass, 
 if I attempt to accompany the good Peter Stuyvesant 
 on this voyage, I shall never make an end; tor never 
 was there a voyage so fraught with marvellous inci- 
 dents, nor a river so abounding with transcendent 
 beauties, worthy of being severally recorded. Even 
 now I have it on the point of my pen to relate how 
 his crew were most horribly frightened, on going on 
 shore above the highlands, by a gang of merry rois- 
 tering devils, frisking and curvetting on a flat rock, 
 which projected into the river— and which is called 
 the Duyvel's Dans-Kamer to this very day— But no ! 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker— it becomes thee not to idle 
 thus in thy historic wayfaring. 
 
 Recollect that while dwelling with the fond garruli- 
 ty of age over these fairy scenes, endeared to thee by 
 the recollections of thy youth, and the charms of a 
 thousand legendary tales which beguiled the simple 
 ear of thy childhood; recollect that thou art trifling 
 with those fleeting moments which should be devoted 
 to loftier themes.— Is not Time— relentless Time! 
 shaking, with palsied hand, his almost exhausted hour- 
 glass before thee?— hasten then to pursue thy weary 
 task, lest the last sands be run ere thou hast iiiiished 
 thy history of the Manhattoes. 
 
 Let us then commit the dauntless Peter, his bnive 
 galley, and his loyal crew, to the protection of liie 
 blessed St Nicholas; who, I have no iloubt, will pro- 
 sper him in his voyage, while we await his return at 
 the great city of New-Amsterdam. 
 
 " Tlio loameil Hans MegaiHileiiais, ti-patina; of the rouiili-y alwut 
 Albany, lii a letter wlilcli was wiilleii some time after Uie setUo- 
 ment theieof, says, " There Is in tin,' river fiieat plenty of slurKeon, 
 which wc CinUtians do not make use of, bul the Indians eat Uiem 
 srocdillc." 
 
i90 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 I ''- CHAPTER IV. , . , i 
 
 ■i 
 
 % Describing the powerful army that assembled at the city of Ne\r- 
 
 • Amsterdam— logctlier with the interview between Peter the 
 
 1 Ueadstronft and General Von PutTvnbursh, and Peter's senti- 
 
 ments touching unfortunate great men. 
 
 While lliiis the enterpiising Peter was coasting, 
 I with flowing sail, up the shores of the lordly Hudson, 
 
 ij and arousing all the phlegmatic little Dutch sellle- 
 
 I inenls upon its horders, a great and puissant concouise 
 
 I of warriors was assembling at the city of New-Ams- 
 
 I terdam. And here that invaluable fragment of anli- 
 
 % (juity, the Stuyvesanl manuscript, is more than coin- 
 
 I inonly particular; by which means I am enabled to 
 
 i record the illustrious host that encamped itself in the 
 
 ' J p-i'-'ic square in front of the fort, at present denomi- 
 
 nated the Bowling Green. 
 
 In the centre, then, was pitched the tent of the 
 men of battle of the Manhattoes, who being the in- 
 mates of the metropolis, composed the life-guards of 
 the governor. These were commanded by the valiant 
 Sloffel Brinkerhoof, who whilom had acquired such 
 immortal fame at Oyster Bay,— they displayed as a 
 standard a beaver rampant on a field of orange; being 
 the arms of the province, and denoting the persever- 
 ing industry and the amphibious origin of the Neder- 
 landers.' 
 
 On their right hand might be seen the vassals of 
 that renowned Mynher, Michael Paw,* who lorded it 
 over the fair regions of ancient Pavonia, and the lands 
 away south, even unto the Navesink mountains,^ 
 and was moreover patroon of Gibbet-Island. His 
 standard was borne by his trusty s(|uii-e, Cornelius 
 Van Vorst; consisting of a huge oyster recumbent 
 upon a sea-green field ; being the armorial bearings 
 ofhis favourite metropolis, Communipaw. He brought 
 to the camp a stout force of warriors, heavily armed, 
 being each clad in ten pair of linsey-woolsey breeches, 
 .; and overshadowed by broad-brimmed beavers, with 
 
 ; short pipes twisted in their hatbands. These were 
 
 the men who vegetated in the mud along the shores 
 of Pavonia ; being of the race of genuine copperheads, 
 and were fableil to have sprung from oysters. 
 At a little distance Avas encamped the tribe of 
 I warriors who came from the neighboiu'hood of Hell- 
 
 Gate. These were commanded by the Suy Dams, 
 and the Van Dams, incontinent hard swearers, as their 
 names betoken — they were terrible looking fellows, 
 clad in broad-skirted gabardines, of that curious co- 
 
 ' This was lilccwise the great soal of tlic New-Metherlands, as 
 may still he seen in ancient records. 
 
 ' Besides what is related in the Stuyvesanl MS. I have foimd 
 mention made uf (his illiistriuuii patriKiu in aniillier manuscript, 
 which says : " I)e ileer (or the situirc) Michael Puw, a Dutch suli- 
 Ject, alwut lOth Aug, 1030, by deed iiurchnscd Slaten-Island. 
 N. B. The same Michael Paw had what the Dutch call a culoiii(> 
 nt Pavonia, on the Jei-sey shore, opposite New-York, and his 
 oveitieer in 1630 was named Corns. Van Vorst— a person of thn 
 same name in <7C9, owned Pawles Hook, and a large farm at 
 ' Pavonia, and is a lineal descendant from V.in Vorsl." 
 
 < > 80 calltMl from the Navesink tribe of Indians that inhabited 
 
 these parts— at present they am erroneously denominated the 
 Vivcrstnk, or Neversuuk monnlalns. 
 
 loured cloth called thunder and lightning— and 1 
 as a standard three Devil's darning needles, volaj 
 in a flame-coloured field. 
 
 Hard by was the tent of the men of battle fromt 
 marshy Iwrders of the Waale-Boght ' and the counti 
 thereabouts — these were of a sour aspect, by rp* 
 that they lived on crabs, which abound in these pan 
 They were the first institutors of that honourable onJ 
 of knighthood, called Fly market shirks, and if tj 
 dition speak true, did likewise introduce the far-ram 
 step in (lancing, called " double trouble." They wej 
 commanded by the fearless Jacobus Vana Van»b 
 and had, moreover, a jolly band of Breuckeleu' fet 
 men, who performed a brave concerto on cooj 
 shells. 
 
 But I refrain from pursuing this minute de; 
 tion, which goes on to describe the warriors of Bio] 
 men dael, and We<^-hawk, and Hoboken, and siui 
 other places, well known in history and song- 
 now do the notes of martial music alarm the 
 of New-Amsterdam, sounding afar from beyond (I 
 walls of the city. But this alarm was in a little vli 
 relieved, for lo, from the niidstof a vast cloud of duj 
 they recognised the brimstone-coloured breeches j 
 splendid silver leg of Peter Stuyvesanl, glaring in i| 
 sunbeams; and beheld him approaching at the I 
 of a formidable army, which he had mustered ala 
 the banks of the Hudson. And here the excellentlj 
 anonymous writer of the Stuyvesanl manuscript breaj 
 out into a brave and glorious description of the fort 
 as they defiled through the principal gate of Ihe cil| 
 that stood by the head of Wall-street. 
 
 First of all came the Van Bimmiels, who inha| 
 the pleasant borders of the Bronx : these were shi 
 fat men, wearing exceeding large trunk -breecb^ 
 and were renowned for feats of the trencher-lli 
 were the first inventors of suppawn or mush aiidn 
 — Close in their rear marched the Van YIoteii$,| 
 Kaats-kill, horrible qnalTers of new cider, and an 
 braggarts in their liquor. — After them came the \1 
 Pelts, of Groodt Esopus, dexterous horsemen, im 
 ed upon goodly switch-tailed steeds of the £$o{ 
 breed— these were mighty hunters of minks i 
 musk rats, whence came the word Peltry.— Tlmi 
 Van Nests, of Kinderhoeck, valiant robbers of bitj 
 nests, as their name denotes ; to these, if report t 
 be believed, are we indebted for the iiivenlion offi 
 jacks, or buck-wheat cakes. — Then the Van Hid 
 bottoms, of Wapping's creek; these came armed n| 
 ferules and birchen rods, being a race of schuohnasKT 
 who first discovered the marvellous sympathy be l»i 
 Ihe seat of honour and Ihe seat of inlelleet— and ll| 
 the shortest way lo get knowledge into the lieadi 
 to hammer it into the bottom. — Then the Van On 
 of Anthony's Nose, who carried their liquor in I 
 round little potlles, by reason they could nut buu!^ 
 out of their canteens, having such rare long no 
 
 • since corrupted Into the lyallabout; the bay wlim| 
 Navy- Yard is situated, 
 
 • Now »|(clt Brooklyn, 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 i9i 
 
 tut; Iho bay where I 
 
 Kn the Gardeniers, of Hudson and thereabouts, 
 Ijngnished by many triumphant feats, such as rob- 
 ; water-melon patches, smoking rabbits outof their 
 s, and the Hke ; and by being great lovers of roast- 
 b pigs' tails; these were the ancestors of the renown- 
 Icongress-man of that name.— Then the Van Hoe- 
 is, of Sing-Sing, great choristers and players upon 
 Kjew's harp; these marched two and two, singing 
 
 I great song of St Nicholas.— Then the Couenho- 
 , of Sleepy Hollow; these gave birth to a jolly 
 
 e of publicans, who first discovered the magic arti- 
 
 (of cunjuring a quart of wine into a pint bottle. — 
 
 ken the Van Kortlandts, who lived on the wild banks 
 
 lllie Croton, and were great killers of wild ducks, 
 
 Lg much spoken of for their skill in shooting with 
 
 lelong bow. — Then the Van Bunschotens, of Nyack 
 
 dKakiat, who were the first that did ever kick with 
 
 (left foot; they were gallant bush-whackers and 
 
 Biers of racoons by moonlight. — Then the Van 
 
 Irmkles, of Haerlem, potent suckers of eggs, and noted 
 
 r running of horses, and running up of scores at 
 
 Jftms; they were the first that ever winked with 
 
 heyesatonce. — Lastly came the Kmckerbockebs, 
 
 like great town of Scaghlikoke, where Uie folk lay 
 
 nes upon the houses in windy weather, lest they 
 
 I be blown away. These derive their name, as 
 
 Lesay, from Knicker, to shake, and lieker, a goblet, 
 
 aling thereby that they were sturdy toss-pots of 
 
 «; but, in truth, it was derived from Knicker, to 
 
 , and iioefccn, books; plainly meaning that they 
 
 ; great nodders or dozers over books — from them 
 
 ddescend the writer of this history. 
 
 I Such was the legion of sti.rdy bush-beaters that 
 
 ired in at the grand gate of New-Amsterdam ; the 
 
 |gmant manuscript indeed speaks of many more, 
 
 'names I omit to mention, seeing that it behoves 
 tic hasten to matters of greater moment. Nothing 
 Mid surpass the joy and martial pride of the lion- 
 Brted Peter as he reviewed tliis mighty host of war- 
 fs, and he determined no longer to defer the 
 |ililication of his much-wished-for revenge, upon 
 e scoundrel Swedes at Fort Casimir. 
 I But before I hasten to record those unmatchable 
 His, which will be found in the ser{uel of this 
 hful history, let mo pause to notice the fate of Ja- 
 ms Von Poffenburgh, the discomfited commander- 
 rthief of the armies of the New-Netherlands. Such 
 llhe inherent uncharitableness of human nature, 
 ]il scarcely did the news become public of his de- 
 irable discomfiture at Fort Casimir, than a thou- 
 i scurvy rumours were set afloat in New-Amster- 
 ^, wherein it was insinuated, that he had in reality 
 feacherous understanding with the Swedish com- 
 |inder; that he had long been in the practice of pri- 
 lely communicating with the Sweiies ; together with 
 krs hints about "secret service money."— To all 
 jhich deadly charges I do not give a jot more credit 
 
 I I think they deserve. 
 
 |Certain it is, that the general vindicated his cha- 
 tter by the most vehement oaths and protestations, 
 
 and put every man out of the ranks of honour who 
 dared to doubt his integrity. Moreover, on return- 
 ing to New-Amsterdam, he paraded up and down 
 the streets with a crew of hard swearers at his heels 
 —sturdy bottle companions, whom he gorged and 
 fattened, and who were ready to bolster him through 
 all the courts of justice— Heroes of his own kidney, 
 fierce- whiskered, broad-shouldered, colbrand-looking 
 swaggerers— not one of whom but looked as though 
 he could eat up an ox, and pick his teeth with the 
 horns. These life-guard men quarrelled all his quar- 
 rels, were ready to fight all his battles, and scowled 
 at every man that turned up his nose at the general, 
 as though they would devour him alive. Their con- 
 versation was interspersed with oaths like minute- 
 guns, and every bombastic rodomontado was round- 
 ed off by a thundering execration, like a patriotic 
 toast honoured with a discharge of artillery. 
 
 All these valorous vapourings had a considerable 
 effect in convincing certain profound sages, who l)e- 
 gan to think the general a hero of unmatehable lofti- 
 ness and magnanimity of soul ; particularly as he was 
 continually protesting on the honour of a soldier— a 
 marvellously high-sounding asseveration. Nay, one 
 of the members of the council went so far as to pro- 
 pose they should immortalize him by an imperishable 
 statue of plaster of Paris. 
 
 But the vigilant Peter the Headstrong was no thus 
 to be deceived. Sending privately for the command- 
 er-in-chief of all the armies, and having heard all his 
 story, garnished with the customary pious oaths, pro- 
 testations, and ejaculations—" Harkee, comrade," 
 cried he, " though by your own account you are the 
 most brave, upright, and honourable man in the 
 whole province, yet do you lie under the misfortune 
 of being damnably traduced, and immeasurably des- 
 pised. Now, though it is certainly hard to punish a 
 man for his misfortunes, and though it is very possible 
 you are totally innocent of the crimes laid to your 
 charge , yet as Heaven, doubtless for some wise pur- 
 pose, sees fit at present to withhold all proofs of your 
 innocence, far be it from me to counteract its sove- 
 reign will. Beside, I cannot consent to venture my 
 armies with a commander whom they despise, nor to 
 trust the welfare of my people to a champion whom 
 they distrust. Retire tlierefore, my friend, from the 
 irksome toils and cares of public life, with this com- 
 forting reflection— that if guilty, you are but enjoying 
 your just reward— and if innocent, you are not the 
 first great and gootl man who has most wrongfully 
 been slandered and maltreated in this wicked world 
 —doubtless to be better treated in a better world, 
 where there shall be neither error, calumny, nor per- 
 secution.— In the mean lime let me never see your 
 face again, for I have a horrible antipathy to the coun- 
 tenances of unfortunate great men like yourself." 
 
am 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 , CHAPTER V. 
 
 In which the Author discourses very ingenuously of himself— 
 After which is to be found much interesting history about Peter 
 the Ueadstrong and his foUowcrs. 
 
 As my readers and myself are about entering on as 
 many perils as ever a confederacy of meddlesome 
 knights-errant wilfully ran their heads into, it is meet 
 that, like those hardy adventurers, we should join 
 hands, bury all differences, and swear to stand by 
 one another, in weal or woe, to the end of the enter- 
 prise. My readers must doubtless perceive how com- 
 pletely I have altered my tone and deportment since 
 we first set out together. I warrant they then thought 
 me a crabbed, cynical, impertinent little son of a 
 Dutchman; for I scarcely ever gave them a civil word, 
 nor so much as touched my beaver, when I had oc- 
 casion to address them. But as we jogged along to- 
 gether in the high road of my history, I gradually 
 began to relax, to grow more courteous, and occa- 
 sionally to enter into familiar discourse, until at length 
 I came to conceive a most social, companionable kind 
 of regard for them. This is just my way— I am al- 
 ways a little cold and reservetl at first, particularly to 
 people whom I neither know nor care for, and am 
 only to be completely won by long intimacy. 
 
 Besides, why should I have been sociable to the 
 crowd of how-d'ye-do acquaintances that flocked round 
 me at my first appearance ! Many were merely at- 
 tracted by a new face; and having stared me full in 
 the title-page, walked off without saying a word ; 
 while others lingered yawningly through the preface, 
 and, having gratified their shoit-lived curiosity, soon 
 dropped off one by one. But, more especially to try 
 their mettle, I had recourse to an expedient, similar 
 to one which we are told was used by that peerless 
 flower of chivalry. King Arthur ; who, before he ad- 
 mitted any knight to his intimacy, first required that 
 he should show himself superior to danger or hard- 
 ships, by encountering unheard-of mishaps, slaying 
 some dozen giants, vanquis'.iing wicked enchanters, 
 not to say a word of dwarfs, hippogriffs, and liery 
 dragons. On a similar principle did I cunningly lead 
 my readers, at the first sally, into two or three knotty 
 <;hapters, where they were most wofully belaboured 
 and buffeted, by a host of pagan philosophers and in- 
 fidel writers. Though naturally a very grave man, 
 yet could I scarce refrain from smiling outright at 
 seeing the utter confusion and dismay of my valiant 
 cavaliers. Some dropped down dead (asleep) on the 
 field ; others threw down my book in the middle of 
 the first chapter, look to their heels, and never ceas- 
 ed scampering until they had fairly run it out of sight; 
 when they stopped to take breath, to tell their friends 
 what troubles they had undergone, and to warn all 
 others from venturing on so thankless an expedition. 
 Every page thinned my ranks more and more ; and 
 of the vast multitude that first set out, but a compa- 
 ratively few made shift to survive, in exceedingly let- 
 tered condition, through the five introductory chapters. 
 
 Wliat, then! would you have had me take i 
 sunshine, faint-hearted recreants to my bosom at o 
 first acquaintance ? No — no; I reserved my friend 
 for those whodeserved it, for those who undauntn 
 bore me company, in despite of difficulties, dangei 
 and fatigues. And now, as to those who adhere | 
 me at present, I take them affectionately by ihel 
 — Worthy and thrice-beloved readers! brave 
 well-tried comrades ! who have faithfully followed^ 
 footsteps through all my wanderings — I salute yi 
 from my heart— I pledge myself to stand by youf 
 the last ; and to conduct you (so Heaven speed i 
 trusty weapon which I now hold between iny lingeij 
 triumphantly to the end of this our stupendous i 
 dertaking. 
 
 But, hark ! while we are thus talking, the cit)- 1 
 New-Amsterdam is in a bustle. The host of warrb 
 encamped in the Bowling-Green are striking ||J 
 tents ; the brazen trumpet of Anthony Van Corl^ 
 makes the welkin to resound with portentous clangi 
 — the drums beat— the standards of the Manliatlo 
 of Ilell-gate, and of Michael Paw, wave proudly] 
 the air. And now behold where the mariners i 
 busily employed, hoisting the sails of yon topi 
 schooner, ami those clump-built sloops, which are | 
 waft the army of the Nederlanders to gather inui 
 tal honours on the Delaware ! 
 
 The entire population of the city, man, worn 
 and child, turned out to behold the chivalry of JNeJ 
 Amsterdam, as it paraded the streets previous to eJ 
 barkation. Many a handkerchief was waveduutl 
 the windows; many a fair nose was blown in meJ 
 dious sorrow on the mournful occasion. The griefl 
 the fair dames and beauteous damsels of Gran 
 could not have been more vociferous on the 
 ment of the gallant tribe of Abencerrages, than ' 
 that of the kind-hearted fair ones of New-Anisten 
 on the departure of their intrepid warriors. Evej 
 lovesick maiden fondly crammed the pockets ufii 
 hero with gingerbread and dough-nuts— manyl 
 copper ring was exchanged, and crooked six-penj 
 broken, in pledge of eternal constancy— and liiej 
 remain extant to this day some love-verses written j 
 that occasion, sufficiently crabbed and incoin[irelie( 
 sible to confound the whole universe. 
 
 But it was a moving sight to see the buxom lass 
 how they iumg about the dotighty Anthony YanCij 
 lear — for he was a jolly, rosy-faced, lusty baelifl(j 
 fond of his joke, and withal a desperate rogue amoi 
 the women. Fain would they ha\e kep* liinil 
 comfort them while the army was a^'-.i) ; I'^.besid 
 what I have said of him, it is no more man juslice| 
 add, that he was a kind-hearted soul, noted tor t 
 benevolent attentions in comforting disconsolate viij 
 during the absence of their Imsbands — and this i 
 him to be very much regarde<l by the honest burgW 
 of the city. But nothing could keep the valiant A| 
 thony from following the heels of the old gcvern 
 whom he loved as he did his very soul— so enibraci^ 
 all llie young vroaws, and giving evei7 one of tb 
 
 t was sailing in a ( 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 195 
 
 I had good teeth and rosy lips a dozen hearty 
 ij,he departed loaded with their kind wishes. 
 ' was the departure of the gallant Peter among 
 lleast causes of public distress. Though the old 
 ' was by no means indulgent to the follies and 
 vardness of his subjects, yet somehow or other he 
 I become strangely |>opular among the people. 
 eis something so captivating in personal bravery, 
 I with the common mass of mankind, it takes the 
 Ijofniost other merits. The simple folk of New- 
 lerdam looked upon Peter Stuyvesant as a pro- 
 It of valour. His wooden leg, that trophy of his 
 ial encounters, was regarded with reverence and 
 alion. Every old burgher had a budget of mi- 
 lous stories to tell about the exploits of Ilard- 
 Uig Piet, wherewith he regaled his children of a 
 I vinter night; and on which he dwelt with as 
 idelight and exaggeration, as do our honest 
 Irj- yeomen on the hardy adventures of old Gene- 
 Ipntnam (or, as he is familiarly termed. Old Put) 
 |jDg our glorious revolution — Not an individual but 
 f believed the old governor was a match for Bel- 
 Hiimself ; and there was even a story told, with 
 (mystery, and under the rose, of his having shot 
 levil with a silver bullet one dark stormy night, 
 t was sailing in a canoe through Hell-gate— But 
 Ido not record as being an absolute fact. Perish 
 Iman who would let fall a drop to discolour the 
 leslream of history ! 
 
 ttain it is, not an old woman in New-Amsterdam 
 leonsidered Peter Stuyvesant as a tower of strength, 
 I rested satisfied that the public welfare was se- 
 i,solongashe was in the city. It is not sur- 
 in^, then, that they looked upon his departure as 
 B affliction. With heavy hearts they draggled 
 e heels of his troop, as they marched down to the 
 I side to embark. The governor from the stern 
 s schooner gave a short but truly patriarchal ad- 
 8to [lis citizens, wherein he recommended them 
 uport like loyal and peaceable subjects — to go to 
 ich regularly on Sundays, and to mind their bu- 
 8 all the week besides — That the women should 
 luliful and affectionate to their husbands — looking 
 r nobody's concerns but their own : eschewing 
 sipings, and morning gaddings— and carrying 
 I tongues and long petticoats. That the men 
 )M abstain from intermeddling in public concerns, 
 isting the cares of government to the officers ap- 
 I to support them- -staying at home, like good 
 )m, making money for themselves, and getting 
 jdren for the benefit of their country. That the 
 tomaslers should look well to the public interest 
 (oppressinf, the poor nor indulging the rich— 
 I tasking the r security to devise new laws, but 
 nully enforcing those which were already made 
 piher bending their attention to prevent evil than 
 jonish it ; ever recollecting that civil magistrates 
 Iconsider themselves more asguardians of public 
 ilslhan rat-catchers employed to entrap public de- 
 Finally, he exhorted them, one and all, 
 
 high and low, rich and poor, to conduct themselves 
 as well as they could, assuring them that if they faith- 
 fully and conscientiously complied with this golden 
 rule, there was no danger but that they would all 
 conduct themselves well enough — This done, he gave 
 them a paternal benediction; the sturdy Anthony 
 sounded a most loving farewell with bis trumpet, the 
 jolly crews put up a shout of triumph, and the invin- 
 cible armada swept off proudly down the bay. 
 
 The good people of New-Amsterdam crowded 
 down to the battery — that blest resort, from whence 
 so many a tender prayer has been wafted, so many a 
 fair hand waved, so many a tearful look been cast by 
 love-sick damsel, after the lessening bark, bearing 
 her adventurous swain to distant climes ! — Here the 
 populace watched with straining eyes the gallant 
 squadron, as it slowly floated down the bay, and 
 when the intervening land at the Narrows simt it 
 from their sight, gradually dispersed with silent 
 tongues and downcast countenances. 
 
 A heavy gloom hung over the late bustling city — 
 the honest burghers smoked their pipes in profound 
 thoughtfulness, casting many a wistful look to the 
 weathercock on the church of St Nicholas; and all 
 the old women, having no longer the presence of Pe- 
 ter Stuyvesant to hearten them, gathered their chil- 
 dren home, and barricadoed the doors and windows 
 every evening at sundown. 
 
 In the mean while the armada of the sturdy Peter 
 proceeded prosperously on its voyage, and after en- 
 countering about as many storms, and water-spouts, 
 and whales, and other horrors and phenomena, as 
 generally befall adventurous landsmen in perilous 
 voyages of the kind; and after undergoing a severe 
 scouring from that deplorable and unpitied malady 
 called sea-sickness, the whole squadron arrived safely 
 in the Delaware. 
 
 Without so much as dropping anchor and giving 
 his wearied ships time to breathe, after labouring so 
 long in the ocean, the intrepid Peter pursued his 
 course up the Delaware, and made a sudden appear- 
 ance before Fort Casimir. Having summoned the 
 astonished garrison by a terrific blast from the trum- 
 pet of the long-winded Van Corlear, he demanded, 
 in d tone of thunder, an instant surrender of the fort. 
 To this demand, Suen Scutz, the wind-dried com- 
 mandant, replied in a shrill whiflling voice, which, 
 by reason of his extreme spareness, sounded like the 
 wind whistling through a broken bellows—" that he 
 had no very strong reason for refusing, except that 
 the demand was particularly disagreeable, as he had 
 been ordered to maintain bis post to the last extre- 
 mity." He requested time, therefore, to consult with 
 Governor Risingh, and proposed a truce for that pur- 
 pose. 
 
 The choleric Peter, indignant at having his rightful 
 fort so treacherously taken from him, and thus perti- 
 naciously withheld, refused the proposed armistice, 
 and swore by the pipe of St Nicholas, which, like the 
 sacred Are, was never extinguished, that unless the 
 
 2.'i 
 
 .J& 
 
194 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 fort were surrendered in ten minntes, he wonld in- 
 continently storm (he works, malce all the garrison 
 run the gauntlet, and split their scoundrel of a com- 
 mander like a pickled shad. To give this menace 
 the greater effect, he drew forth his trusty sword, 
 and shook it at them with such a fierce and vigorous 
 motion, that doubtless, if it had not been exceeding 
 rusty, it would have lightened terror into the eyes 
 and hearts of the enemy. He then ordered his men 
 to bring a broadside to bear upon the fort, consisting 
 of two swivels, three muskets, a long duck fowling- 
 piece, and two brace of horse-pistols. 
 
 In the mean time the sturdy Van Corlear mar- 
 shalled all his forces, and commenced his warlike ope- 
 rations. Distending his cheeks like a very Boreas, 
 he kept up a most horrific twanging of his trumpet — 
 the lusty choristers of Sing-Sing broke forth into a 
 hideous song of battle — the warriors of Breuckelen 
 and the Wallabout blew a potent and astounding 
 blast on their conch shells, altogether forming as 
 outrageous a concerto as though live thousand French 
 fiddlers were displaying their skill in a modern over- 
 ture. 
 
 Whether the formidable front of war thus sudden- 
 ly presented smote the garrison with sore dismay — 
 or whether the concluding terms of the sunnnous, 
 which mentioned that he should surrender " at dis- 
 cretion," were mistaken by Suen Scutz, who, though 
 a Swede, was a very considerate, easy-tempered man 
 — as a compliment to his discretion, I will not take 
 upon me to say ; certain it is he found it impossible to 
 resist so courteous a demand. Accordingly, in the 
 very nick of time, just as the cabin-boy had gone 
 after a coal of fire, to discharge the swivel, a cha- 
 made was beat on the rampart by the only drum in 
 the garrison, to the no small satisfaction of both par- 
 ties; who, notwithstanding' their great stomach for 
 fighting, had full as good an inclination to eat a quiet 
 dinner as to exchange black eyes and bloody noses. 
 
 Thus did this impregnable fortress once more re- 
 lurn to the domination of their High Mightinesses; 
 Scutz and his garrison of twenty men were allowed 
 to march out with the honours of war, and the vic- 
 torious Peter, who was as generous as brave, per- 
 mitted them to keep possession of all their arms and 
 ammunition— the same on insfjection being found to- 
 tally unlit for service, having long rusted in the ma- 
 gazine of the fortress, even before it was wrested by 
 the Swedes from the windy Von Poffenburgh. But 
 I must not omit to mention, that the governor was 
 so well pleased with the service of his faithful squire 
 Van Corlear, in the reduction of this great fortress, 
 that he made him on the spot lord of a goodly do- 
 main in the vicinity of New-Amsterdam — which 
 goes by the name of Corlear's Hook unto tliis very 
 day. 
 
 The unexampled liberality of the valiant Stuyvesant 
 towards the Swedes, occasioned great surprise in the 
 city of New-Amsterdam— nay, certain of those factious 
 individuals, who had been enlightened by the politica/ 
 
 meetings that prevailed during the days of waj 
 the Testy, but who had not dared to indulge i 
 meddlesome habits under the eye of their pro 
 niler, now, emboldened by his absence, dared i 
 to give vent to their censures in the street. Mun 
 were lieai-d in the very council-chamber of Ne\v-A| 
 terdam ; and there is no knowing whether (jiey t 
 not have broken out into downright speeches and| 
 vectives, had not Peter Stuyvesant privately sent I 
 his walking staff, to be laid as a mace on the i 
 the council-chamber, in the midst of his counsellj 
 who, like wise men, took the hint, and for ever^ 
 held their peace. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Showing the great advantage that the author has over tiisn 
 in time ot lialtle — together with divers portentous moTei 
 which betolien tliat something terrible is altout to liajipd). I 
 
 Like as a mighty alderman, when at a corpon 
 feast the first spoonful of turtle soup salutes iiij 
 late, feels his impatient appetite but tenfold iinicka 
 and redoubles his vigorous attacks upon tlie inn 
 while his voracious eyes, projecting from his I 
 roll greedily round, devouring every thing at I 
 so did the mettlesome Peter Stuyvesant fee! tliatl 
 lerable hunger for martial glory, which raged w| 
 his vei7 bowels, inflamed by the capture of Fortl 
 simir, and nothing could allay it but the conqoeT 
 all New-Sweden. No sooner therefore had hes 
 ed his conquest, than he stumped resolutely on, II 
 ed with success, to gather fresh laurels at FortC 
 tina. ' 
 
 This was the grand Swedish post, establishcdj 
 small river (or, as it is improperly termed, m 
 the same name ; and here that crafty governor| 
 Risingh lay grimly drawn up, like a gray-b 
 spider in the citadel of his web. 
 
 But before we hurry into the direful scenes | 
 must attend the meeting of two such potent cliiefli 
 it is advisable that we pause for a moment, andj 
 a kind of warlike council. Battle should not be r 
 ed into precipitately by the historian and his reaJ 
 any more than by the general and his soldiers. 
 great commanders of anli({uity nevct engajedl 
 enemy without previously preparing the minds of| 
 followers by animating harangues; spiriting tlH 
 to heroic feelings, assuring them of liic protedid 
 the goils, and inspiring them with a confidence ill 
 prowess of their leaders. So the historian sh[ 
 awaken the attention and enlist the passions ( 
 readers; and having set them all on (ire withliifj 
 portancc of his subject, he should put himself at | 
 iiead, flourish his pen, and lead them on to llietlj 
 est of the fight. 
 
 An illustrious example of this rule may be i 
 
 ' This is at present a flourishing town, called Cliristii 
 Christccn, about thirty-seven niiles trom Philadelphia, c 
 post-road to Baltimore. 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 Idf> 
 
 I mirror of historians tlie immortal Thucydides. 
 arrived at the brealiing out of the Pelopon- 
 var, one of his commentators observes that 
 (sounds tlie charge in all the disposition and spirit 
 lonier. He cataiogiit's the allies on hoth sides, 
 livakens our expectations, and fast engages our 
 \lion. All mankind are concerned in the iniport- 
 liioiiit now going to he decidwi. Emieavours are 
 eto disclose futurity. Heaven itself is interested 
 tdispute. The earth tott«rs, and nature seems 
 lour with the great event. This is his solemn 
 ; manner of setting out. Thus he magnifies a 
 [between two, as Rnpin styles them, petty states; 
 us artfully he supports a little subject by treat- 
 It in a great and noble method." 
 lilike manner, having conducted my readers into 
 Ivery teeth of peril — having followed the advenlu- 
 I Peter and his hand into foreign regions — sur- 
 tledby foes, and stunned by the horrid din of arms 
 kiliiti important moment, wliile darkness and doubt 
 I o'er each coming chapter, I hold it meet to ha- 
 ! them, and prepare them for the events that 
 |lo follow. 
 I here I would premise one great advantage 
 ii,as the historian, I possess over my reader; and 
 litis, that though I cannot save the life of my fa- 
 lile hero, nor absolutely contradict the event of 
 Jjllie (both which liberties, though often taken by 
 |French writers of the present reign, I hold to be 
 lly unworthy of a scrupulous historian) , yet I 
 Idow and then make him bestow on his enemy 
 dy back stroke sufficient to fell a giant; though, 
 nest truth, he may never have done any thing 
 ekind — or I can drive his antiigonist clear round 
 |[Ound the field, as did Homer make that fine 
 F Hector scamper like a poltroon round the walls 
 ifly; for which, if ever they have encountered one 
 rin the Elysian fields, I'll warrant the prince 
 Klslias had to make the most humble apology. 
 |iin aware that many conscientious readers will 
 ady to cry out " foul play ! " whenever I render 
 t assistance to my hero — but I consider it one of 
 t privileges exercised by historians of all ages — 
 |oiie which has never been disputed. In fact, an 
 I is, as it were, bound in honour to stand by 
 iero— the fame of the latter is entrusted to his 
 k, and it is his duty to do the best by it he can. 
 rwas there a general, an admiral, or any other 
 lander, who, in giving an account of any battle 
 1 fought, did not sorely belabour the enemy; 
 [IhaYe no doubt that, had my heroes written the 
 f of their own achievements, they would have 
 kmuch harder blows than any that I shall re- 
 Standing forth, therefore, as the guardian of 
 tfame, it behoves me to do them the same justice 
 h'ould have done themselves; and if I happen to 
 jiilUe hard upon the Swedes, I give free leave to 
 J of their descendants, who may write a history of 
 jStale of Delaware, to take fair retaliation, and 
 ur Peter Stuyvesant as bard a? they please. 
 
 Therefore stand by for broken heads and bioodj 
 noses !— My pen hath long itched for a battle— siege 
 after siege liave I carried on without blows or blood- 
 shed; but now I have at length got a chance, and I 
 vow to Heaven and St Nicholas, that, let the chroni- 
 (;le8 of the times say what they please, neither Sallust, 
 Livy, Tacitus, Polybius, nor any other historian, did 
 ever recoitl a fiercer fight than that in which my va- 
 liant chieftains are now about to engage. 
 
 And you, oh most excellent readers, whom, for 
 your faithful adherence, I could cherish in the warm- 
 est corner of my heart — be not uneasy — trust the 
 fate of our favourite Stuyvesant to me— for by the 
 rood, come what may, I'll stick by Hardkopping Piet 
 to the last. I'll make liim drive alraut these losels 
 vile, as did the renowned Launcelol of the Lake a herd 
 of recreant Cornish knights— and if he does fall, let 
 me never draw my pen to fight another battle, in 
 behalf of a brave man, if I don't make these lubberly 
 Swedes pay for it. 
 
 No sooner had Peter Stuyvesant arrived before Fort 
 Christina than he proceeded without delay to mtrench 
 himself, and immediately on running his first parallel, 
 dispatched Anthony Van Corlear to summon the fort- 
 ress to surrender. Van Corlear was received with 
 all due formality, hoodwinked at the [lortal, and con- 
 ducted through a pestiferous smell of salt fish and 
 onions to the citadel, a substantial hut built of pine logs. 
 His eyes were here uncovered, and he found himself 
 in the august presence of Governor Risingh. This 
 chieftain, as I have before noted, was a very giantly 
 man; and was clad in a coarse blue coat, strapped 
 round the waist with a leathern belt, which caused the 
 enormous skirts and pockets to setoff with a very war- 
 like sweep. His ponderous legs were cased in a pair 
 of foxy-coloured jack boots, and he was straddling in 
 the attitude of the Colossus of Rhodes, before a bit of 
 broken looking-glass, shaving himself with a villan- 
 ously dull razor. This afllicthig operation caused 
 him to make a series of horrible grimaces, that height- 
 ened exceedingly the grisly terrors of his visage. On 
 Anthony Van Corlear's being announced, the grim 
 commander paused for a moment, in the midst of one 
 of his most hard-favoured contortions, and after eye- 
 ing him askance over the shoulder, with a kind of 
 snarling grin on his countenance, resumed his labours 
 at the glass. 
 
 This iron harvest being reaped, he turned once 
 more to the trumpeter, and demanded the purport of 
 his errand. Anthony Van Corlear delivered in a few 
 words, being a kind of short-hand speaker, a long 
 message from his excellency, recounting the whole 
 history of the province, with a recapitulation of griev- 
 ances, and enumeration of claims, and concluding 
 with a peremptory demand of instant surrender; 
 which done, he turned aside, took his nose between 
 his thumb and finger, and blew a tremendous blast, 
 not unlike the flourish of a trumpet of defiance — 
 which it had doubtless learned from a long and inti- 
 mate neiglibourhood with that melodious instrument. 
 
 % 
 
i9a 
 
 HISTORY OF JNEW-YORK. 
 
 
 |3 
 
 Governor llisingh heard him ttirough, trumpet 
 and all, but with inflnite impatience; leaning at 
 times, as was his usual custom, on the pommel of his 
 sword, and at limes twirling a huge steel watch- 
 chain, or snapping his fingers. Van Corlear having 
 finished, he hluntly replied, that Peter Stuyvesant and 
 his summons might go to the d 1, whither he hop- 
 ed to send him and his crew of ragamuffins before 
 supper -time. Then unsheathing his brass-hilted 
 sword, and throwing away the scabbard — "'Fore 
 gad," quod he, "but I will not sheathe thee again 
 until I make a scabbard of the smoke-dried leathern 
 
 hide of this 
 
 nmagate 
 
 Dutchman." Then having 
 
 flung a fierce defiance in the teeth of his adversary, 
 by the lips of his messenger, the latter was reconduct- 
 ed to the portal, with all the ceremonious civility due 
 to the trumpeter, squire, and ambassador of so great 
 a commander; and l}eing again unblinded, was cour- 
 teously dismissed with a tweak of the nose, to assist 
 him in recollecting his message. 
 
 No sooner did the gallant Peter receive this inso- 
 lent reply than he let fly a tremendous volley of red- 
 hot execrations, that would infallibly have battered 
 down the fortifications, and blown up the powder 
 magazine, about the ears of the fiery Swede, had not 
 the ramparts been remarkably strong, and the maga- 
 zine bomb-proof. Perceiving that the works with- 
 stood this terrific blast, and that it was utterly im- 
 possible (as it really was in those unphilosophic days) 
 to carry on a war with words, he ordered his merry 
 men all to prepare for an immediate assault. But 
 here a strange murmur broke out among his troops, 
 beginning with the tribe of the Van Bummels, those 
 valiant trencher-men of the Bronx, and spreading 
 from man to man, accompanied with certain mutinous 
 looks and discontented murmurs. For once in his 
 life, and only for once, did the great Peter turn pale, 
 for he verily thought his warriors were going to falter 
 in this hour of perilous trial, and thus to tarnish for 
 ever the fame of the province of New-Netherlands, 
 
 But soon did he discover, to his great joy, that in 
 this suspicion he deeply wronged this most undaunt- 
 ed army; for the cause of this agitation and uneasiness 
 simply was, that the hour of dinner was at hand, 
 and it would have almost broken the hearts of these 
 regular Dutch warriors to have broken in upon the 
 invariable routine of their habits. Beside, it was an 
 established rule among our ancestors always to fight 
 upon a full stomach; and to this may be doubtless 
 attributed the circumstance that they came to be so 
 renowned in arms. 
 
 And now are the hearty men of the Manhattoes, 
 and their no less hearty comrades, all lustily engaged 
 under the trees, buffeting stoutly with the contents of 
 their wallets, and taking such affectionate embraces 
 of their canteens and pottles, as though they verily 
 believed they were to be the last. And as I foresee 
 we shall have hot work in a page or two, I advise 
 my readers to do the same, for which purpose I will 
 bring this chapter to a close; giving them my word 
 
 of honour, that no advantage shall be taken of] 
 armistice to surprise, or in any wise molest, the! 
 Nederlanders, while at their vigorous repast. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Containing the moat horrible battle ever recorded In poein 
 prose; with tlic adniii-able exploits of Peter the Hcailsiru 
 
 " Now had the Dutchmen snatched a huge rep 
 and finding themselves wonderfully encouraged | 
 animated thereby, prepared to take the field. Eji 
 tation, says the writer of the Stuyvesant mamis 
 —Expectation now stood on stilts. The world foj 
 to turn round, or rather stood still, that it might] 
 ness the affray; like a round-bellied alderman, wal 
 ing the combat of two chivalric flies upon liisjetf 
 The eyes of all mankind, as usual in such cases, 
 turned upon Fort Christina. The sun, like a I 
 man in a crowd at a puppet-show, scampered ; 
 the heavens, popping his head here and there, j 
 endeavouring to get a peep between the iinrjan 
 clouds, that obtruded themselves in his way. 
 historians filled their inkhorns — the poets went? 
 out their dinners, either that they mifiht buy [ 
 and goose-quills, or because they could not get | 
 thing to eat — Antiquity scowled sulkily out m 
 grave, to see itself outdone — while even Posts 
 stood mute, gazing in gaping ecstasy of retros|) 
 on the eventful field. 
 
 The immortal deities, who whilom had seen | 
 vice at the "affair" of Troy— now mounledl 
 feather-bed olouds, urd sailed over the plainJ 
 mingled among tlie combatants in different disgii] 
 all itching to have a finger in the pie. Jr tersei 
 his thunderbolt to a noted coppersmith, tu \id 
 furbished up for the direful occasion. Venus sJ 
 by her chastity she would patronize the Swedes,! 
 in semblance of a blear-eyed trull paraded the baj 
 ments of Fort Christina, accompanied by Diana, [ 
 sergeant's widow, of cracked reputation— The nj 
 bully. Mars, stuck two horse-pistols into his 1 
 shouldered a rusty firelock, and gallantly swagg( 
 at their elbow, as a drunken corporal— while Ad 
 trudged in their rear, as a bandy-legged lifer, pla| 
 most villanously out of tune. 
 
 On the other side, the ox-eyed Juno, who I 
 gained a pair of black eyes over night, in onJ 
 her curtain lectures with old Jupiter, displayedj 
 haughty beauties on a baggage-waggon— Minen 
 a brawny gin-sutller, tucked up her skirts, brandiij 
 her lists, and swore most heroically, in exci 
 bad Dutch (having but lately studied the languaj 
 by way of keeping up the spirits of the soldiei^; \ 
 Vulcan halted as a club-footed blacksmith, 
 promote<l to be a captain of militia. All wass 
 horror, or hustling preparation : war reared liishd 
 front, gnashed loud his iron fangs, and shook | 
 direful crest of bristling bayonets. 
 
 And now the mighty chieftains marshalled oultl 
 
 "BrimtUlol 
 
HISTORY OF IVEW-YORK. 
 
 197 
 
 Here stood stout Risingh, flrni as a thousand 
 -incrusted with stockades, and intrenched to 
 (cbin in mud batteries. Ilis valiant soldiery lined 
 t breast-work in grim array, each having his mus- 
 fiercely greased, and his hair pumatnmed 
 ick, and queued so stiHly, that he grinned above the 
 giparls like a grisly death's head. 
 I There came on the intrepid Peter — his brows knit, 
 (leetli set, his flsls clinched, almost breathing Torth 
 ^uines of smoke, so fierce was the fire that raged 
 litbin his bosom. Ilis failhful squire Van Gurlear 
 idged valiantly at his heels, with his trumpet gor- 
 
 isly bedecked with red and yellow ribands, the 
 giembrances of his fair mistresses at the Man- 
 Itloes. Then came waddling on the sturdy chivalry 
 fihe Hudson. There were the Van Wycks, and 
 (Van Dycks, and the Ten Eycks— the Van Nesses, 
 e Van Tassels, the Van Grolls; the Van Hoesens, 
 (Van Giesons, and the Van Blarcoms— tlie Van 
 Ifarls, the Van Winkles, the Van Dams; the Van 
 tils, the Van Rippers, and the Van Brunts. There 
 
 J the Van Homes, the Van Hooks, the Van Bun- 
 lotens; the Van Gelders, the Van Arsdales, and 
 
 Van Bummels; the Vander Bells, the Vander 
 »fs, the Vander Voorts, the Vander Lyns, the 
 inder Pools, and the Vander Spiegels— there came 
 ellofrmans, the Hooghlands, the Hoppers, the Glop- 
 rs, the Ryckmans, the Dyckmans, the Hogebooms, 
 eRflsebooms, the Oothouts, the Quackenbosses, the 
 lerbacks, the Garrebranlzs, the Bensons, the Brou- 
 [s, the Waldrons, the Ondeidonks, the Varra Van- 
 is, the Schernjorhorns, the Stoutenburgs, the Brin- 
 Ihe Bontecous, the Knickerbockers, the 
 ickslrassers, the Ten Breecheses and the Tough 
 lecheses, with a host more of worthies, whose 
 mes are too crabbed to be written, or if they could 
 britten, it would be impossible for man to utter — 
 llfortifled with a mighty dinner, and to use the words 
 |la great Dutch poet, 
 
 ' ' Brimlhl of wrath and cabl)age ! " 
 
 I For an instant the mighty Peter paused in the 
 1st of his career, and mounting on a stump, ad- 
 d his troops in eloquent Low Dutch, exiiorting 
 kem to fight like duyvels, and assuring them that if 
 liey conqueretl, they should gel plenty of booty— if 
 key fell, they should be allowed the satisfaction, 
 ie dying, of reflecting that it was in the service of 
 keir country — and after they were dead, of seeing 
 keir names inscribed in the temple of renown, and 
 tided down, in company with all the other great 
 Kn of the year, for the admiration of posterity. — 
 ally, he swore to them, on the word of a governor 
 ud they knew him too well to doubt it for a mo- 
 ot), that if he caught any mother's son of them 
 *ing pale, or playing craven, he w^ould curry his 
 Uetlll he made him run out of it like a snake in 
 |ring time.— Then lugging out his trusty sabre, he 
 RDdished it three times over his liead, ordered Van 
 irlear to sound a charge, and shouting the words 
 
 "St Nicholas and the Manhattoes!" conrageonsly 
 dashed forwards. His warlike followers, who had 
 employed the interval in lighting their pipes, instantly 
 stuck them in their mouths, gave a furious puff, and 
 charged gallantly, under cover of the smoke. 
 
 The Swedish garrison, ordered by the cunning Ri- 
 singh not to fire until they could distinguish the 
 whites of their assailants' eyes, stootl in horrid silence 
 on the covert-way, until the eager Dutchmen had as- 
 cended the glacis. Then did they pour into them 
 such a tremendous volley, that the very hills quaked 
 around, and were terrified even unto an incontinence 
 of water, insomuch that certain springs burst forth 
 from their sides, which continue to run unto the pre- 
 sent day. Not a Dutchman but would have bitten 
 the dust beneath that dreadful lire, had not the pro- 
 tecting Minerva kindly taken care that the Swedes 
 should, one and all, observe their usual custom of 
 shutting their eyes and turning away their heads at 
 the moment of discharge. 
 
 The Swedes followed up their fire by leaping the 
 counterscarp, and falling tooth and nail upon the foe 
 with furious outcries. And now might be seen pro- 
 digies of valour, of which neither history nor song 
 have ever recorded a parallel. Here was beheld the 
 sturdy Stoffel Brinkerhoff brandishing his lusty quar- 
 ter-staff, like the terrible giant Blanderon his oak tree 
 (for he scorned to carry any other weapon), and 
 drumming a horrific tune upon the heads of whole 
 squadrons of Swedes. There were the crafty Van 
 Kortlandts, posted at a distance, like the Locrian ar- 
 chers of yore, and plying it most potently with the 
 long-bow, for which they were so justly renowned. 
 At another place were collected on a rising knoll the 
 valiant men of Sing-Sing, who assisted marvellously 
 in the fight, by chanting forth the great song of 
 St Nicholas; but as to the Gardeniers of Hudson, they 
 were absent from the battle, having been sent out on 
 a marauding party, to lay waste the neighbouring 
 water-melon patches. In a different part of the field 
 might be seen the Van Grolls of Anthony's Nose; 
 but they were horribly perplexed in a defile between 
 two little hills, by reason of the length of their noses. 
 There were the Van Bunschotens of Nyack and Ka- 
 kiat, so renowned for kicking with their left foot; but 
 their skill availed them little at present, being short 
 of wind in consequence of the hearty dinner they had 
 eaten, and they would irretrievably have been put to 
 rout had they not been reinforced by a gallant corps 
 of vbltigeurs, composed of the Hoppers, wlw advan- 
 ced to their assistance nimbly on one foot. Nor must 
 I omit to mention the incomparable achievements of 
 Anthony Van Corlear, who, for a good quarter of an 
 hour, waged stubborn fight with a little pursy Swe- 
 dish drummer, whose hide he drummed most ma- 
 gnificently; and had he not come into the battle with 
 no other weapon but his trumpet, would infallibly 
 have put him to an untunely end. 
 
 But now the combat thickened.— On came the 
 mighty Jacobus Varra Vanger and the fighting men 
 
198 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 1 'i 
 
 M 
 
 of the Wallabout; after them thuiulered the Van 
 Pelts of Esbpus, togetlier with the Van Rippers and 
 the Van Brunts, bearing down all liefore tlieni— then 
 the Suy Danis, and the Van Danis, pressing forward 
 with many a blustering oatii, at the head of the war- 
 riors of llcll-gate, clad in their thunder and lighl- 
 mng gabardines ; and lastly, the slantlnrd-licarers and 
 body-guards of Peter Stuyvesant, bearhig the great 
 beaver of the Manhatloes. 
 
 And now commenced the horrid din, the desperate 
 struggle, the maddening ferocity, the frantic des|>era- 
 tion, the confusion and self-ahandoiunenl of war. 
 Dutchman and Swede cununingled, tugged, panted, 
 and biowed. The iieavens were darkened willi a 
 tempest of missives, liang ! went the guns — wiiack ! 
 went the broad-swords — thinnp I went die cudgels— 
 crasli ! went the nuiskel-stocks — blows — kicks — cuffs 
 — scratches — black eyes and bloody noses swelling 
 the horrors «if the scene ! Thick-thwack, cut and 
 hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, luuly-burly, 
 head over heels, rough and tumble ! — Dunder and 
 blixuni ! swore the Dutchmen — s|ililter and splutter ! 
 cried the Swedes — Sturm the works! sliouled Ilard- 
 kopping Peter — fire the mine ! roared stout llisingh 
 — Tanta-ra-ra-ra ! twanged the trumpet of Anthony 
 Van Corlear— until all voice and sound became unin- 
 telligible — grunts of pain, yells of fury, and shouts of 
 triumph mingling in one hhleous clamour. The earth 
 shook as if struck with a paralytic stroke — Trees 
 shrunk aghast, and withered at the sight — Rocks 
 burrowed in the ground like rabbits, — and even 
 Christina Creek turned from its course, and ran up a 
 mountain in breathless terror ! 
 
 Long hung the conquest duubtful, for though a 
 heavy shower of rain, sent by the " cloud-compelling 
 Jove," in some measure cooled their ardour, as doth 
 a bucket of water thrown on a group of lighting mas- 
 tiffs, yet did they but pause for a moment, to return 
 with tenfold fury to the charge, belabouring each 
 other with black and bloody bruises. Just at this 
 juncture was seen a vast and dense column of smoke, 
 slowly rolling towards the scene of battle, which for 
 a while made even the furious combatants to stay 
 their arms in mute astonishment — but the wind for a 
 moment dispersing the murky cloud, from the midst 
 thereof emerged the flaunting banner of the immortal 
 Micliael Paw. This noble chieftain came fearlessly 
 on, leading a solid phalanx of oyster-fed Pavonians, 
 who had remained behind, partly as a corps de r6- 
 serve, and partly to digest the enormous dinner they 
 hadealen. 'J'hese sturdy yeomen, nothing daunted, did 
 truilge manfully forward, smoking their pipes with 
 outrageous vigour, so as to raise the awful cloud that 
 has been mentioned; but inarching exceedingly slow, 
 being short of leg, and of great rotundity in the belt. 
 
 And now the protecting deities of the army of New- 
 Amsterdam having unthinkingly left the field and 
 stept into a neighlmuring tavern to refresh themselves 
 with a pot of beer, a direful catastrophe had well nigh 
 clianced to befall tlie Nederlanders. Scarcely liad the 
 
 myrmidons of the puissant Paw attained the from J 
 battle, before the Swedes, instructed by the eiiiiuij 
 Risingh, levelled a shower of blows full at their t 
 bacco-pi|»es. Astounded at this unexpecte«l asvnill 
 and totally discondited at seeing their pipes limkeJ 
 the valiant f^utchnien fell in vast confusiDii— {i||>;i| 
 they begin to lly — like a frightene<l drove of luiwirid 
 elephants they throw their own army in an npriu 
 bearing <lown a whole legion of little lloppi-rsHl 
 sacred Imnner on which is blazoned the gigaiiiieovj 
 ter of Conununi|Kiw is tranipleil in the din. j|[ 
 Swedes pluck up new spirits, and pressing on i 
 rear, a|iply their feel a piirte poste with a vi;;()iir i|t 
 prodigiously accelerates their motions — nor dolii i|| 
 renowned I'aw himself fail to receive divers grievB 
 and dishonourable visitations of shoe-leather. 
 
 Hut what, oh muse ! was the rage of the gallj 
 Peter, when from afar he saw his army yield? \Vi| 
 a voice of thunder did he roar after his recreoiit wai 
 riors. 'J'he men of the I^lanluittoes plucked upnJ 
 courage when they heard their leader — or rather iIk[ 
 dreaded his fierce displeasure, of which they slmHlij 
 more awe than of all the Swedes in Christeiiduni- 
 Bnt the daring Peter, not waiting for their aid, plunj 
 ed, sword in hand, into the thickest of the fu<,-. Tit 
 did he display some such incredible achievemeiils^ 
 have never been known since the miraculous clays( 
 the giants. Wherever he went the enemy sliniol 
 before him. — With lierce impetuosity he pushed fo^ 
 ward, driving the Swedes, like dogs, into their m 
 ditch ; but as he fearlessly advance<l, the foe lliruii^ 
 in his rear, and hung upon his flank with Itarr 
 ril. At one tune a crafty Swede, advancing wai 
 on one side, drove his dastard sword full at the lierol 
 heart; but the protecting power that watches over tlf 
 safety of all great and good men, turned ^side tlielia 
 tile blade, and directed it to a side-pocket, where r 
 posed an enormous iron tobacco-l)ox, endowed, lid 
 the shield of Achilles, with supernatural powers-ij 
 doubt in conse(|uence of its being piously decoralej 
 with a portrait of the blessed St Mcliolas. ThuMti 
 the dreadful blow repelled, but not without occasio 
 ing to the great Peter a fearful loss of wind. 
 
 Like as a furious bear, when gored by curs, tun 
 fiercely round, gnashes his teeth, and springs up 
 the foe, so did our hero turn upon the tieaciien 
 Swede. The miserable varlet sought in tli;;lit I 
 safety — but the active Peter, sei/irig him by an in 
 measurable queue that dangled from his head— "Ahj 
 whoreson caterpillar!" roared he, " here is wli 
 shall make dog's meat of thee!" So saying, 
 whirled his trusty sword, and made a blow tin 
 would have decapitated him, but that the pitying ste^ 
 struck short, and shaved the queue for ever from 1 
 crown. At this very moment a cunning arciucbiisier 
 perched on tlie summit of a neighbouring inoun 
 levelled his deadly instrument, and would have s 
 the gallant Stuy vesant a wailing ghost to haunl I 
 Stygian shore — had not the watchful Minerva, win 
 had just stopped to tie up her garter, seen the { 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 19!) 
 
 ailvaiK^iii^' wa 
 d full ul the lieroj 
 
 I uT lier favoHrite chief, and iV etched old Doreas 
 
 ihb litfilows, who in the ve. . lick of time, just 
 
 [ibe ni<t(ch descendetl to the pan, gave surh ;> 'iiicky 
 
 Bl, as blew all (he |»rimin^ from the loiich-hole ! 
 
 iTIius wflfyod the horritl fiplil— when llie stout 
 
 Hiiulii surveying the lialllr from llie top of a little 
 
 villi, |)ei°ceiveil his faithful tr(M)ps l)aii;;e«l, Iteaten, 
 
 I kicked by the inviiieihie Peter. Lan;;tiii);e oan- 
 
 l(if«cribe the clioler with which he wns seized at 
 
 (si^lit — be only stopped for a moment to disbiirthen 
 
 ^Klfof live thousand anathemas; and then draw- 
 
 rliis falchion straddled down to the Held of comlMt, 
 
 lilli some such thundering strides as Jupiter is said 
 
 filesiwl to have taken when he strode down the 
 
 «res, to hurl his thunderbolts at the Titans. 
 
 |(io sooner did these two rival heroes come face to 
 
 >llian they each made a prwli^ious start, such as 
 
 Isaiie by your most experienced sla^e champions. 
 
 [did they re!,Mrd each other for a moment with 
 
 aspect, like two furious ram cats on the vety 
 
 int of a clapper-clawing. Then did they throw 
 
 jiselves into one attitude, then into another, strik- 
 
 (llieir swords on the ground, iiist on the right side, 
 
 Jim the left— at last at it they went Avith incredible 
 
 city. W Olds cannot tell the prodigies of strength 
 
 I valour displayed on this direful encounter — an 
 
 jiinter compared to which the far-famed battles 
 
 JAjax with Hector, of Apneas with Tiirnus, Orlando 
 
 I llwlomoiit, Guy of Warwick with Colbraiul the 
 
 , or of that renowned Welsh Knight, Sir Owen 
 
 [llie Mountains, with the giant Guylon, were all 
 
 glle sports and holiday recreations. At length the 
 
 liiint Peter, watching his opiwrtunily, aimed a blow, 
 
 I the full intention of cleaving his adversary to the 
 
 fcliine; but Risingh, nimbly raising his sword, 
 
 dwl it off so narrowly, that glancing on one side, 
 
 jshaved away a huge canteen that he always carried 
 
 ung on one side ; tlience pursuing its trenchant 
 
 arse, it severed off a «leep coal iK)cket, stored with 
 
 tead ^nd cheese— all which dainties rolling among 
 
 [armies, occasioned a fearful scrambling between 
 
 I Swedes and Dutchmen, and made the general 
 
 illle lo wax ten times more furious than ever. 
 
 [Enraged to see his military stores thus wofully laid 
 
 Ble, the stout Risingh, collecting all his forces, 
 
 id a mighty blow full at the liero's crest. In vain 
 
 ihis fierce little cocked hat oppose its course; the 
 
 ng steel clove through the stubborn ram beaver, 
 
 1 would infallibly have cracked his crown, but that 
 
 ! skull was of such adamantine hardness, that the 
 
 I weapon shivered into pieces, shedding a thou- 
 
 I sparks, like beams of glory, round his grisly vi- 
 
 had he not lieen received into a cushion softer than 
 velvet, which Providence, or Minerva, or St Nicholas, 
 or some kimlly cow hail benevolently prepared for 
 his reception. 
 
 The furious Risingh, in despite of that noble maxim, 
 cherished by all true knights, that '■'■ fair play is a 
 jewel," hastened to take advantage of the hero's fall; 
 but just as he was stooping to give the fatal blow, the 
 ever vigilant Peter liestowed him a sturdy thwack 
 over the sconce with his wootlcn leg, that set some 
 dozen chimes of bells ringing triple lH)b-maj«)rs in his 
 cerebellum. The bewildered Swede staggt-red with 
 the blow, ami in the nu'an time the wary Peter espy- 
 ing a |M)cket pistol lying hard by (which had dropped 
 from the wallet of his faithful s(iuire and trum|>eter 
 Van Corlear during his furious encounter with the 
 drummer) discharged it full at the head of the reeling 
 Risingh — Let not my reader mistake — it was not a 
 nuirderous weapon loaded witlj powder and ball, but 
 a little sturdy stone pottle, chargeil to the muzzle 
 with a double dram of tme Dutch courage, which the 
 knowing Van Corlear always carried alMut him by 
 way of replenishing his valour. The hideous missive 
 sung through the air, and true to its course, as was 
 the fragment of a rock discharged at Hector by bully 
 Ajax, encountered the head of the gigantic Swede 
 with matchless violence. 
 
 This heaven-directed blow decided the battle. The 
 ponderous pericranium of General Jan Risingh sunk 
 upon his breast; his knees tottered under him; a 
 death-like torpor seized upon his frame, and be tum- 
 bled lo the earth with such tremendous violence, that 
 old Pluto started with affright, lest he should have 
 broken through the roof of his infernal palace. 
 
 His fall was the signal of defeat and viclory— The 
 Swedes gave way— the Dutch pressed forward ; the 
 former took lo their heels, the latter hotly pureued. 
 — Some enteretl with them, pell-mell, through the 
 sally-port — others ilormetl the bastion, and others 
 scrambled over the curtain. Thus in a li.tlc while 
 the fortress of Fort Christina, which, like another 
 Troy, had stood a siege of full ten hours, w.is carried 
 by assault, without the loss of a single man on either 
 side. ' Viclory, in the likeness of a gigantic ox-fly, 
 sal perched upon the cocked hat of the gallant Sluy- 
 vesant, and it was declared, by all the writers whom 
 he hired lo write the history of his expedition, that 
 on this memorable day he gained a suflicient (piantity 
 of glory to immortalize a dozen of the greatest heroes 
 in Christendom! 
 
 |Slanned with Ihe blow, the valiant Peter reeled, 
 Tied up his eyes, and beheld fifty thousand suns, 
 Bides moons and stars, dancing about the firma- 
 nt-at length, missing his footing, by reason of his 
 deii leg, down he came on his seat of honour, 
 ilh a crash that shook the surrounding hills, and 
 nid infallibly have wrecked his anatomical system, 
 
 CHAPTER Vffl. 
 
 In wliicli llie author and ttie reader, wliilc reposing after tlie battle, 
 fall into a very grave discourse— after wliicti is recorded llic 
 conduct of Peter Stuyvesant after his victory. 
 
 Thanks to St Nicholas, we have safely flnislied 
 this tremendous battle : let us sit down, my worthy 
 reader, and cool ourselves, for I am in a prodigious 
 
 
200 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 
 sweat and ggitalion— Truly tliis fighting of battles is 
 hot work ! and if your great commanders did but 
 know what trouble they give their historians, they 
 would not have the conscience to achieve so many 
 horrible victories. But methinks I hear my reader 
 complain, that throughout this boasted battle there 
 
 is not the least slaughter, nor a 
 
 single 
 
 individual 
 
 maimed, if we except the unhappy Swede, who was 
 shorn of his queue by the trenchant blade of Peter 
 Stuyvesant; all which, he observes, is a great outrage 
 on probability, and highly injurious to the interest of 
 the narration. 
 
 This is certainly an objection of no little moment, 
 but it arises entirely from the obscurity that enve- 
 lopes the remote periods of time about which I have 
 undertaken to write. Thus, though doubtless, from 
 the importance of the object, and the prowess of the 
 parties concerned, there must have been terrible car- 
 nage, and prodigies of valour displayed before the 
 walls of Christina; yet, notwithstanding that I have 
 consulted every history, manuscript and tradition, 
 touching this memorable though long-forgotten l)altle, 
 I cannot find mention made of a single man killed or 
 wounded in llie whole affair. 
 
 This is, without doubt, owing to the extreme mo- 
 desty of our forefathers, who, like their descendants, 
 were never prone to vaunt of their achievements ; but 
 it is a virtue that places their historian in a most em- 
 barrassing predicament; for, having promised my 
 readers a hideous and unparalleled battle, and having 
 worked them up into a warlike and blood-thirsty state 
 of mind ; to put them off without any havoc and 
 slaughter would have been as bitter a disap[)ointment 
 as to summon a multitude of good people to attend 
 an execution, and then cruelly balk them by a re- 
 prieve. 
 
 Had the fates only allowed me some half a score 
 dead men, I had been content; for I would have made 
 them such heroes as abounded in the olden time, but 
 whose race is now unfortunately extinct; any one of 
 whom, if we may believe those authentic writers, the 
 poets, could drive great armies like sheep before him, 
 and conquer and desolate whole cities by his single 
 arm. 
 
 But seeing that I had not a single life at my dis- 
 posal, alt that was left me was to make the most I 
 could of my battle, by means of kicks, and cuffs, and 
 bruises, and such like ignoble wounds. And here I 
 cannot but compare my dilemma, in some sort, to 
 that of the divine Milton, who, having arrayed with 
 sublime preparation his immortal hosts against each 
 other, is sadly put to it tiv)w to manage them, and 
 how he shall make the end of his battle answer to the 
 beginning; inasmuch as, being mere spirits, he can- 
 not deal a mortal blow, ncr even give a flesh wound 
 to any of his combatants. For my part, the greatest 
 difficulty I found was, when I had once put my war- 
 riors in a passion, and let them loose into the midst 
 of the enemy, to keep them from doing mischief. 
 Many a time had I to restrain the sturdy Peter from 
 
 cleaving a gigantic Swede to the very waistband, ( 
 spitting half a dozen little fellows on his sword, lii 
 so many sparrows. And when I had set some hiu 
 dred of missives flying in the air, I did not dare i 
 suffer one of them to reach the ground, lest it shoiil 
 have put an end to some unlucky Dutchman. 
 
 The reader cannot conceive how mortifying it igj 
 a writer thus in a manner to have his hands tied, aij 
 how many templing opportunities I had to wink j 
 where I might have made as fine a death-blow as a 
 recorded in history or song. 
 
 From my own experience I begin to doubt most j 
 tently of the authenticity of many of Homer's storiej 
 I verily believe, that when he had once launcli^ 
 one of his favourite heroes among a crowd of ( 
 enemy, he cut down many an honest fellow, withoi 
 any authority for so doing, excepting that he pre! 
 ed a fair mark — and that often a poor devil was s 
 to grim Pluto's domains, merely because he liad| 
 name that would give a sounding turn to a perio 
 But I disclaim all such unprinnpled liberties— let n 
 but have truth and the law on my side, and no i 
 would fight harder than myself— but since the variix 
 records I consulted did not warrant it, I had toomu 
 conscience to kill a single soldier. — By St Nicliol^ 
 but it would have been a pretty piece of business! 
 enemies, the critics, who I foresee will be read 
 enough to lay any crime they can discover at i 
 door, might liave charged me with murder outrigl 
 — and I should have esteemed myself lucky toesca|| 
 with no harsher verdict than manslaughter ! 
 
 And now, gentle reader, that we are tranquill 
 sitting down here, smoking our pipes, permit me | 
 indulge in a melancholy reflection which at this i 
 ment passes across my mind. — How vain, how h 
 ing, how uncertain are all those gaudy bubbles afli 
 which we are panting and (oiling in this world of fi| 
 delusions ! The wealth which (he miser has amass 
 with so many weary days, so many sleepless iiijhij 
 a spendthrift heir may squander away in joyless pr( 
 digality — The noblest monuments which pride 
 ever reared to perpetuate a name, the hand of lid 
 will shortly tumble into ruins— and even the briglilej 
 laurels, gained by feats of arms, may wither, aiullj 
 for ever blighted by the chilling neglect of mankini 
 — "How many illustrious heroes," says the 
 Boetius, "who were once the pride and glory of I 
 age, hath the silence of historians buried in etert 
 oblivion ! " And this it was that induced the Spi 
 tans, when they went to battle, solemnly to sacri 
 to the Muses, supplicating that their acliievemeii| 
 might be worthily recorded. Had not Homer tun 
 his lofty lyre, observes the elegant Cicero, the valoi 
 of Achilles had remained unsung. And such toj 
 after all the toils and perils he had braved, aflerij 
 the gallant actions he had achieved, such too 
 nearly been the fate of the chivalric Peter Sluyvesaii] 
 but that I fortunately stepped in and engraved I 
 name on the indelible tablet of history, just as tbeo 
 tiff Time was silently brnshing it away for ever ! 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 201 
 
 emore I reflect, the more am I astonished at tiie 
 rtant character of the historian. He is the so- 
 I censor, to decide upon the renown or infamy 
 i fellow-men. He is the patron of kings and 
 gicrors, on whom it depends wliellier they shall 
 jin after-ages, or be forgotten as were tlieir ances- 
 lliefore tliem. The tyrant may oppress while the 
 It of ills tyranny exists, but the historian possesses 
 ior might, for his [tower extends even beyond 
 The sliades of departed and long-forgot- 
 Iberoes anxiously bend down from alwve, while 
 Iriles, watching each movement of his pen, whe- 
 lk shall pass by their names with neglect, or in- 
 eiliem on the deathless pages of renown. Even 
 Idrop of ink that hangs trembling on his pen, 
 Uiemay either dash upon the floor, or waste in 
 Ijcrawlings— that very drop, which to him is not 
 nil the twentieth part of a farthing, may be of in- 
 ilable value to some departed worthy — may ele- 
 |balf a score, in one moment, to immortality, who 
 i have given worlds, had they possessed them, 
 ure the glorious meed. 
 
 tnot my readers imagine, however, that I 'am 
 
 ^ng in vain-glorious boastings, or am anxious 
 
 izoD forth the importance of my tribe. On the 
 
 y, I shrink when I reflect on the awfid res- 
 
 ility we historians assume — I shudder to think 
 
 |l direful commotions and calamities we occasion 
 
 e world— I swear to thee, honest reader, as I am 
 
 u, I weep at the very idea! Why, let me ask, 
 
 |uniaiiy illustrious men daily tearing themselves 
 
 ffrom the embraces of their families — slighting 
 
 jsmiies of beauty — despising the allurements of 
 
 me, and exposing themselves to the miseries of 
 
 |?-W'hy are kings desolating empires, and depo- 
 
 Dgwhole countries? In short, what induces all 
 
 I mrn, of all ages and countries, to commit so 
 
 ^f victories and misdeeds, and inflict so many mi- 
 
 I upon mankind and upon themselves, but the 
 
 eliope that some historian will kindly take them 
 
 Inotice, and admit them into a corner of his vo- 
 
 ]e? For, in short, the mighty object of all their 
 
 , their hanlships, and privations, is nothing but 
 
 mtal fame— and what is immortal fame? 
 
 J,lialfa page of dirty paper! alas! alas! how 
 
 ilialiiig the idea — that the renown of so great a 
 las Peter Sluyvesant should depend upon tlie pen 
 Villle a man as Diedricli Knickerlwcker ! 
 i now, having refreshed ourselves after the fa- 
 sand perils of the field, it behoves us to return 
 [iinore to the scene of conflict, and inquire what 
 ! the results of this renowned conquest. Tlie 
 i of Christina being the fair metropolis, and in 
 |>nner the key to New-Sweden, its capture was 
 dily followed by the entire subjugation of the 
 nee. This was not a little promoted by the gal- 
 |«nd courteous deportment of the chivalric Peter. 
 ^h a man terrible in battle, yet in the hour of 
 fy was he endued with a spirit generous, mer- 
 fi and humane. He vaunted not over his ene- 
 
 mies, nor did he make defeat more galling by un- 
 manly insults; for like that mirror of knightly virtue, 
 the renowned paladin Orlando, he was more anxious 
 to do great actions than to talk of them after they 
 were done. He put no man to death; ordered no 
 houses to be burnt down ; permitted no ravages to be 
 perpetrated on the property of the vanquished ; and 
 even gave one of his bravest officers a severe admo- 
 nishment with his walking-staff, for having been de- 
 tected in the act of sacking a hen-roost. 
 
 He moreover issued a proclamation, inviting the in- 
 habitants to submit to the authority of their High 
 aiightinesses; but declaring, with unexampled cle- 
 mency, that whoever refuse<l should be lodged at the 
 public expense, in a goodly castle provided for the 
 purpose, and have an armed retinue to wait on them 
 in tite bargain. In consequence of these beneficient 
 terms, alwut thirty Swedes stepped manfully forward 
 and took the oath of allegiance ; in reward for which 
 they were graciously permitted to remain on the banks 
 of the Delaware, where their descendants reside at 
 this very day. I am told, however, by divers ob- 
 servant travellers, that they have never been able to 
 get over the chap-fallen looks of their ancestors ; but 
 that they still do strangely transmit from father to son 
 manifest marks of the sound drultbing given them by 
 the sturdy Amsterdammers. 
 
 The whole country of New-Sweden, having thus 
 yielded to the arms of the Iriumphani Peter, was re- 
 duced to a 0' 'ony called South-river, and placed un- 
 der the superintendence of a lieutenant-governor, sub- 
 ject to the control of the supreme government at New- 
 Amsterdam. This great dignitary wascalled Mynheer 
 William Beekman, or rather Beck-man, who derived 
 his surname, as did Ovidius Naso of yore, from the 
 lordly dimensions of his nose, which projected from 
 the centre of his countenance, like the beak of a par- 
 rot. He was the great progenitor of the tribe of the 
 Ikekmans, one of the most ancient and honourable 
 families of the province ; the members of which do 
 gratefully commemorate the origin of their dignity, 
 not as your noble families in England would do, 
 by having a glowing proboscis emblazoned in their 
 escutcheon, but by one and all wearing a right goo<l- 
 ly nose, stuck in the very middle of their faces. 
 
 Thus was this perilous enterprise gloriously ter- 
 minated, with the loss of only two men,— Wolfert 
 Van Home, a tall spare man, who was knocked over- 
 board by the boom of a sloop in a flaw of wind; and 
 fat Brom Van Buinmel, who was suddenly carried 
 off by an indigestion; both, however, were immor- 
 talized, as having bravely fallen in the service of their 
 country. True it is, Peter Stuyvesant had one of his 
 limbs terribly fractured in the act of storming the fort- 
 ress; but as it was fortunately his wooilen leg, the 
 wound was promptly and effectually healed. 
 
 And now nothing remains to this branch of my 
 history tut to mention that this immaculate hero, and 
 his victorious army, returned joyously to the Man- 
 hattoes, where they made a solemn and triumphant 
 
 26 
 
2()2 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 entry, bearing with them the conquered Bisingli, 
 and the remnant of liis battered crew, who had re- 
 fused allegiance ; for it appears that the gigantic Swede 
 had only fal'en into a swoon, at the end of the battle, 
 from whence he was speedily restored by a whole- 
 some tweak of the nose. 
 
 These captive heroes were Imlged, according to iht 
 promise of the governor, at the public expense, in a 
 fair and spacious castle ; being the prison of state, of 
 which Stoffel Brinkerhoff, the immortal conqueror of 
 Oyster Bay, was appointed governor; and which has 
 ever since remained in the possession of his descend- 
 ants. ■ 
 
 It was a pleasant and goodly sight to witness the 
 joy of the people of New-Amsterdam, at beholding 
 their warriors once more return from this war in tiie 
 wilderness. The old women thronged round An- 
 thony Van Corlear, who gave the whole history of 
 the campaign with matchless accuracy ; saving that 
 he took the credit of fighting the whole battle him- 
 self, and especially of vanquishing the stout Risingh; 
 which he considered himself as clearly entitled to, 
 seeing that it was effected by his own stone pottle. 
 
 The schoolmasters throughout the town gave holi- 
 day to their little urchins, — who followed in droves 
 after the drums, with paper caps on their heads, and 
 sticks in their breeches, thus taking the first lesson in 
 the art of war. As to the sturdy rabMe, they throng- 
 ed at the heels of Peter Stuyvesant wherever he went, 
 waving their greasy hats in the air, and shouting 
 " Hardkopping Piet for ever ! " 
 
 It was indeed a day of roaring rout and jubilee. 
 A huge dinner was prepared at the Stadthouse in ho- 
 nour of the conquerors, where were assembled in one 
 glorious constellation the great and the little lumi- 
 naries of New-Amsterdam. There were the lordly 
 Sellout and his ol)sequious deputy — the burgomasters 
 with their officious schepens at their elbows — the 
 subaltern officers at the elbows of the schepens, and 
 so on down to the lowest hanger-on of police; every 
 tag having his rag at his side, to finish his pipe, drink 
 off his heel-taps, and laugh at his flights of immortal 
 dulness. In short — for a city feast is a city feast all 
 the world over, and has been a city feast ever since 
 the creation — the dinner went off much the same as 
 do our great corporation junketings and fourth of July 
 banquets. Loads of fish, llesh, and fowl were de- 
 voured, oceans of liquor drunk, thousands of pipes 
 smoked, and many a dull joke honoured with nuich 
 obstreperous fat-sided laughter. 
 
 I must not omit to mention, that to this far-famed 
 victory Peter Stuyvesant was indebted for another of 
 his many titles — for so hugely delighted were the 
 honest burghers with his achievements, that they 
 unanimously honoured him with the name of Pieler 
 rtf. Oroodt, that is to say, Peter the Great; or, as it 
 was translated by the people of New-Amsterdam, 
 
 ' This castlf. (houKh vrry much altered and modernized, Is 
 Ktill in brini;, and alands at Ihe comer of Pearl'«lreel, racing 
 Coenlie'N slip. 
 
 Piet depig—an appellation which he maintained e 
 unto the day of his death. 
 
 BOOK VII. 
 
 C0NTAiIS'l>« THB TBIBD PAHT OF THK nVIGN OV Fn«) 
 HKADSTBOIVC— niS TBOUUI.ES WITH THB KHITISH lyATKuJ 
 THE DECMNB AND VALL OP THK DUTCH DVNASTV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 How Peter Stuyvesant relieved the sovereign people I 
 burthen of taking care of the nation— with sundry partict 
 his conduct in time of peace. 
 
 TIII3 history of the reign of Peter Stuyvesant 1 
 nishes a melancholy picture of the cares and vexal| 
 inseparable from government; and may seneasi 
 lemn warning to all who are ambitious of attaiJ 
 the seat of power. Though crowned with viciJ 
 enriched by conquest, and returning in triurapl 
 his metropolis, his exultation was checked bybehf 
 ing the sad abuses that had taken place duringl 
 short interval of his absence. 
 
 The populace, unfortunately for their own c 
 had taken a deep draught of the intoxicating ( 
 power during the reign of William the Testy;] 
 though upon the accession of Peter Stuyvesant, i 
 felt, with a certain instinctive perception, whiclin 
 as well as cattle possess, that the reins of govemiJ 
 had passed into stronger hands ; yet could theyj 
 help fretting, and chafing, and champing uponl 
 bit, in restive silence. 
 
 It seems, by some strange and inscrutable fatj 
 to be the destiny of most countries, (and nioree 
 cially of your enlightened republics,) always toll 
 verned by the most incompetent man in the natf 
 so that you will scarcely find an individual tlira 
 out the whole community who cannot point oulii 
 merable errors in administration, and convince yo| 
 Ihe end, that had he been at the head of affaire, i 
 ters would have gone on a thousand times morej 
 sperously. Strange! that government, which s 
 to be so generally understood, should invariably li 
 erroneously administered— strange, that the talei 
 legislation, so prodigally bestowed, should bei 
 to the only man in the nation to whose station iti 
 quisite ! 
 
 Thus it was in the present instance; nota i 
 all the herd of i>seudo-politicians in New-Amstei 
 hut was an oracle on topics of state, and could | 
 directed public affairs incomparably better than P 
 Stuyvesant. But so severe was the old goverm 
 his disposition, that he would never suffer one« 
 multitude of ablv, oounscllors by whom he was] 
 rounded to intrude his advice, and save the conj 
 from destruction. 
 
 Scarcely, ther« lore, had he departed on his ei] 
 tioii against the Swedes, than the old factions of 1 
 linm Kieft's rdgn began to thrust their heads al 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 905 
 
 ler, aiul lo gather lugether in political meetings, to 
 "the state of the nation." At these asseni- 
 
 sthe busy burgomasters and llieir officious sche- 
 s made a very considerable figure. Tliese worthy 
 milaries were no longer the fat, well-fed, tranquil 
 [gliiiirates who presided in the peaceful days of 
 juter Van Twiller. On the contrary, being elecl- 
 |tir the people, they formed, in a manner, a sturdy 
 vark between tlie mob and the administration. 
 kr vere great candidates for popularity, and stre- 
 
 s advocates for the rights of the rabble ; resem- 
 £, in disinterested zeal, the wide-moulhed tribunes 
 
 icient Home, or those virtuous patriots of modern 
 Lempliatically denominated " the friends of the 
 
 kle." 
 
 lunderthe tuition of these profound politicians, it is 
 dishing how suddenly enlightened the swinish 
 ^litude became in matters above their comprehen- 
 Cobblers, tinkers, and tailors, all at once felt 
 
 lelves inspired, like those religious idiots in the 
 
 sof monkish illumination; and without any pre- 
 
 s study or experience, became instantly capable 
 
 ctiiig all the movements of government. Nor 
 1 1 neglect to mention a > 'mber of superannuat- 
 [vrong-headed old burghers, who had come over 
 
 nboys in the crew of the Goede Vrouw, and were 
 i up as infallible oracles by the enlightened mob. 
 Lsuppose that a man who had helped to discover a 
 utiy did not know how it ought to be governed 
 (preposterous in the extreme; it would have been 
 ned as much a heresy as at the present day to 
 (slion the political talents and universal infallibility 
 tiirold " heroes of '70"— and to doubt that he who 
 drought for a government, however stupid he mijriit 
 lurally be, was not competent to fill any station un- 
 til. 
 
 IBuI as Peter Stuy vesant had a singular inclination 
 Ifovern his province without the assistance of his 
 
 :cts, he felt highly incensed, on his return, to 
 
 dllie factious appearance they had assumed during 
 
 I absence. His first measure, therefore, was to 
 
 lore perfect order, by prostrating the dignity of 
 
 J sovereign people. 
 
 |He accordingly watched his opportunity, and one 
 ning when the mob were gathered together, lis- 
 ^iig to a patriotic speech from an inspired cobbler, 
 e intrepid Peter all at once appeared among them, 
 
 I a countenance sufficient to petrify a millstone. 
 e wiiule meeting was thrown into consternation — 
 I orator seemed to have received a paralytic strcAC 
 \ht very middle of a sublime sentence, and stood 
 
 i8t with o()en mouth and trembling knees ; while 
 ! words horror ! tyranny I liberty ! rights ! taxes ! 
 mh! destruction! and a deluge of other patriotic 
 irises, came roaring from his throat before he had 
 fffcr to close his lips. The slu'ewd Peter took no 
 
 e of the skulking throng around him, but advanc- 
 ! to the brawling bully-ruffian, and drawing out a 
 
 ! silver watch, which might have served in times 
 [yore as a town-clock, and which is still retained hy 
 
 his descendants as a family curiosity, re<]uested the 
 orator to mend it, and set it going. The orator hum- 
 bly confessed it was utterly out of his power, as he 
 was unacquainted with the nature of its constrnction. 
 "Nay, but," said Peter, " try your ingenuity, man : 
 you see all the springs ami wheels, and how easily 
 the clumsiest hand may stop it, and pull it to pieces ; 
 and why should it not be equally easy to regulate as 
 to stop it?" The orator declared that his trade was 
 wholly different— that he was a poor cobbler, and 
 had never meddled with a watch in his life — that there 
 were men skilled in the art, whose business it was to 
 attend to those matters; but for his part, he should 
 only mar the workmanship and put the whole in con- 
 fusion " Why, Iiarkee, master of mine," cried 
 
 Peter, turning suddenly upon him, with a counte- 
 nance that almost petrified the patcher of shoes into a 
 perfect lapslone— " dost thou pretend to meddle wMh 
 the movements of government — to regulate, and cor- 
 rect, and patch and cobble a complicated machine, 
 the principles of which are above thy comprehension, 
 and its simplest operations too subtle for thy under- 
 standing, when thou canst not correct a trilling error 
 in a common piece of mechanism, the whole mystery 
 of which is open to thy inspection? — Ilcnce with thee 
 to the leather and stone, which are emblems of thy 
 head; cobble thy shoes, and confme thyself to the vo- 
 cation for which Heaven has fitted thee — But," ele- 
 vating his voice until it made the welkin ring, " if 
 ever I catch thee, or any of thy tribe, meddling again 
 with affairs of government, by St Nicholas, but I'll 
 have every mother's bastard of ye flay'd alive, and 
 your hides stretched for drum-heads, that ye may 
 thenceforth make a noise to some purpose ! " 
 
 This threat, and (he tremendous voice in which it 
 was uttered, caused the whole multitude to quake 
 with fear. The hair of the orator arose on his head 
 like his own swine's bristles, and not a knight of the 
 thimble present but his heart died within him, and 
 he felt as though he could have verily escaped through 
 the eye of a needle. 
 
 But though this measure produced the desired ef- 
 fect in reducing the community to order, yet it tended 
 to injure the popularity of the great Peter among the 
 enlightened vulgar. Many accused him of entertain- 
 ing highly aristocratic sentiments, and of leaning too 
 much in favour of the patricians. Indeed there ap- 
 peared to be some ground for such an accusation, as 
 he always carried himself with a very lofty, soldier- 
 like port, and was somewhat particular in his dress; 
 appearing, when not in uniform, in simple, but rich 
 apparel; and was especially noted for having his 
 sound leg (which was a very comely one) always 
 arrayed in a red stocking, and high -heeled shoe. 
 Though a man of great simplicity of manners, yet 
 (here was something about him that repelled rude 
 familiarity, while it encouraged frank and even social 
 Intercourse. 
 
 He likewise observed some appearance of court ce- 
 remony and etiquette. He received the common class 
 
 n;!i 
 
SM 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 of visitors on the stoop' before his door, according to 
 the custoAi of our Dutch ancestors. But when visi- 
 tors were formally received in his parlour, it was ex- 
 pected they would appear in clean linen , by no means 
 barefooted, and always take their hats off. On public 
 occasions he appeared with great pomp of equipage, 
 ( for, in truth, his station required a little show and 
 dignity,) and always rode to church in a yellow wag- 
 gon with (laming red wheels. 
 
 These symptoms of state and ceremony occasioned 
 considerable discontent among the vulgar. They had 
 been accustomed to lind easy access to their former 
 governors, and in particular had lived on terms of ex- 
 treme familiarity with William the Testy. They 
 were therefore very impatient of these dignified pre- 
 cautions, which discouraged intrusion. But Peter 
 Stuyvesanl had his own way of thinking in these mat- 
 ters, and was a stanch upholder of the dignity of of- 
 fice. 
 
 He always maintained that government to be the 
 least popular which is most open to popular access and 
 control ; and liiat the very brawlers against court ce- 
 remony, and the reserve of men in power, would soon 
 despise rulers among whom they found even them- 
 selves to be of consequence. Such, at least, had been 
 the case with the administration of William the Testy ; 
 who, bent on making himself popular, had listened to 
 every man's advice; suffered every body to have ad- 
 mittance to his person at all hours; and, in a word, 
 treated every one as iiis thorough equal. By this 
 means every scrub politician and public busy-body 
 was enabled to measure wits with him, and to find out 
 the true dimensions, not only of his person, but of his 
 mind. — And what great man can stand such scrutiny ? 
 — It is the mystery that envelopes great men, that gives 
 them half their greatness. We are always inclined to 
 think highly of those who hold themselves aloof from 
 our examination. There is likewise a kind of super- 
 stitious reverence for office, which leads us to exag- 
 gerate 'he merits and abilities of men in power, and 
 to suppose that they must be constituted different from 
 other men. And, indeed, faith is as necessary in 
 politics as in religion. It certainly is of the first im- 
 portance that a country should he governed by wise 
 men — but then it is almost equally important that the 
 people should believe them to be wise ; for this belief 
 alone can proiluce willing subordination. 
 
 To keep up, therefore, this desirable confidence in 
 rulers, the people should be allowed to see as little of 
 them as possible. He who guns access to cabinets 
 soon finds out by what foolish .less the world is govern- 
 ed. He discovers that there k < quackery in legislation, 
 as well as in everything else; 'hat many a measure, 
 v'hicli is supposed by the millioi; to he the result of 
 great wisdom and deep deliberation, is the effect of 
 mere chance, or perhaps of hare-brained experiment 
 — That rulers have their whims and errors as well as 
 other men, and after all are not so wonderfully superior 
 
 ■ I'riipcrly spelled sloeb : the iwrcli commonly built in front of 
 I)ntt;Ii houirs. with benches on each side. 
 
 to their fellow-creatures as he at first imagined; ; 
 he finds that even his own opinions have had s 
 weight with them. Thus awe subsides into confidei 
 confidence inspires familiarity, and familiarity i 
 duces contempt. Peter Sluyvesant, on the conti 
 by conducting himself with dignity and loftiness,, 
 looked up to with great reverence. As he nerer« 
 his reasons for any thing he did, the public ajw 
 gave him credit for very profound ones — Every r 
 ment, however intrinsically unimportant, was a i 
 ler of speculation ; and his very red stocking excj 
 some respect, as being different from the stock| 
 of other men. 
 
 To these times may we refer the rise of fa 
 pride and aristocratic distinctions; ' and indeed I o 
 not but look back with reverence to the early p|J 
 ing of those mighty Dutch families which haveiaj 
 such vigorous root, and branched out so luxutim 
 in our state. The blood which has flowed down! 
 contaminated through a succession of steady, virli{ 
 generations, since the times of the patriarchs of C 
 munipaw, must certainly be pure and worthy. 
 if so, then are the Van Rensellaers, the Van Zan 
 the Van Homes, the Rutgers, the Bensons, tlieE 
 kerhoffs, the Schermerhornes, and all the true i 
 cendants of the ancient Pavonians, the only legitiio 
 nobility and real lords of the soil. 
 
 I have been led to mention thus particularly I 
 well authenticated claims of our genuine Diilclij 
 milies, because I have noticed with great sorrow) 
 vexation, that they have been somewhat 
 aside in latter days by foreign intruders. It is r 
 astonishing to behold how many great families li 
 sprung up of late years, who pride themselves eia 
 ively on the score of ancestry.' Thus he who ( 
 look up to his father without humiliation assuinesi 
 a little importance — he who can safely talk of| 
 grandfather is still more vain-glorious — but he \ 
 can look back to his great grandfather without bin 
 ing, is absolutely intolerable in his pretensionsl 
 family.— Bless us ! what a piece of work is bef 
 between these mushrooms of an hour and 
 mushrooms of a day ! 
 
 But from what I have recounted in the former p 
 of this chapter, I would not have my reader inia^ 
 that the great Peter was a tyrannical governor, i 
 his subjects with a rod of iron — on the contrary, whi 
 the dignity of authority was not implicated, lieab 
 ed with generosity and condescension. In ract,^ 
 really believed, though I fear my more enliglilei 
 republican readers will consider it a proof of his i^ 
 ranee and illiberality, that in preventing the cupl 
 social life fron) being dashed with the intoxicalingj 
 gredient of politics, he promoted thetranqnillitya 
 happiness of the people— and that by detaching I 
 
 ■ In ii work pnblislied many years after the time here (reileii| 
 ( in 1701 , by C. W. A. M. ) it is mentioned that Freilericlt Ptiitf 
 wns counted tlic richest Mynheer in Mew-Yori(, ami wat^ 
 hav(! whole hogsheads of Indian money or wampum-.itAi 
 ■I son and daughter, who, according to the Dutch cuatoin, ilioj 
 divide it equally. 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 205 
 
 ) fromsubjects which they could not understand, 
 Iffliich only tended to intlame their passions, he 
 
 Med them to attend more faithfully and industrious- 
 ^10 their proper callings ; becoming more useful ci- 
 
 \s, and more attentive to their families and for- 
 
 [So far from having any unreasonable austerity, he 
 
 jjfflited to see the poor and (he labouring man re- 
 
 , and for this purpose was a great promoter of ho- 
 
 jirsand public amusements. Under his reign was 
 
 I introduced the custom of cracking eggs at Paas 
 
 ^Easter. New-year's day was also observed with 
 jravagant festivity — and ushered in by the ringing 
 lells and firing of guns. Every house was a temple 
 
 I lie jolly god — Oceans of cherry-brandy, trueHol- 
 ids, and mulled cider were set afloat on the occa- 
 n; and not a poor man in town but made it a point 
 
 Ut drunk, out of a principle of pure economy — 
 ^r, in liquor enough to serve him for half a year 
 
 herwards, 
 
 I It would have done one's heart good also to have 
 ilhc valiant Peter, seated among the old burghers 
 Jiheir wives of a Saturday atternoon, under the 
 lit trees that spread their shade over the Batterj', 
 Inlching (he young men and women as they danced 
 pilie green. Here he would smoke his pipe, crack 
 sjoke, and forget the rugged toils of war in the 
 
 |ieet oblivious festivities of peace. He would occa- 
 
 mally give a nod of approbation to those of the 
 
 nngmen who shuffled and kicked most vigorously, 
 
 Inow and then give a hearty smack, in all honesty 
 
 il, to the buxom lass that held out longest, and 
 
 1 down all her competitors ; which he considered 
 
 linfallible proofs of her being the best dancer. Once, 
 
 [is true, the harmony of the meeting was rather in- 
 uptetl. A young vrouw, of great figure in the 
 
 |nworkl, and who, having lately come from Hol- 
 , of course led the fashions in the city, made her 
 learance in not more than half a dozen petticoats, 
 1 these too of most alarming shortness. An uni- 
 lal wiiisper ran through the asseniMy ; the old la- 
 s all felt shocked in the extreme ; the young ladies 
 il,and felt excessively for the "poor thing," 
 i even the governor himself was observed to be a 
 lie troubled in mind. To complete the astonish- 
 ntoftlie good folks, she undertook, in the course 
 
 |fa jig, to describe some astonishing figures in alge- 
 1, which she had learned from a dancing-master at 
 
 (lotteiiian).— Whether she was too animated in flour- 
 ting her feet, or whether some vagabond ze[ihyr 
 1 the liberty of obtruding his services, certain it is, 
 lit in the course of a grand evolution, which would 
 I have disgraced a modern ball-room, she made a 
 Kt unexpected display — whereat the whole assem- 
 
 jiywas thrown into great admiration, several grave 
 nntry members were not a little moved, and the 
 I Peter himself, who was a man of unparalleled 
 dMiy, felt himself grievously scandalized. 
 
 I The shortness of the female dresses, which had 
 nlinued in fashion ever since the days of William 
 
 Kieft, had long offended his eye; and though ex- 
 tremely averse to meddling with the petticoats of the 
 ladies, yet he immediately recommended (hat every 
 one should be furnished with a flounce to the bottom. 
 He likewise ordered that the ladies, and indeed the 
 gentlemen, should use no other step in dancing than 
 " shuffle and turn," and "double trouble;" and for- 
 bade, under pain of his high displeasure, any young 
 lady .henceforth to attempt what was termed "exhi- 
 biting the graces." 
 
 These were (ne only res(rictions he ever imposed 
 upon (he sex, and (hese were considered by them as 
 tyrannical oppressions, and resisted with (hat becom- 
 ing spirit always manifested by the gentle sex when- 
 ever their privileges are invaded. — In fact, Peter 
 Stuyvesant plainly perceived, that if he attempted to 
 push the matter any further, (here was danger of 
 their leaving off petticoats al(oge(her; so like a wise 
 man, experienced in the ways of women, he held his 
 peace, and suffered them ever after to wear their pet- 
 ticoats and cut their capers as high as they pleased. 
 
 CHAPTER n. 
 
 How Peter Stiiyvcsant was mucli molrsted by (tie moss-troopers 
 of tlie East, and tlic Giants of Merrylantl— and liow a dark and 
 IioitUI conspiracy was carried on in (lie Britisli Cabinet against 
 tlic prosperity odiic Slauhaltocs. 
 
 We are now approaching towards the crisis of our 
 work, and if I be not mistaken in my forebodings, we 
 shall have a world of business to dispatch in the ensu- 
 ing chapters. 
 
 It is with some communities as it is with certain 
 meddlesome individuals, they have a wonderful faci- 
 lity at getting into scrapes ; and I have always remark- 
 ed that those are most liable (o get in who have the 
 least talent at getting out again. This is, doubtless, 
 owing (0 the excessive valour of (hose states; for I 
 have likewise noticed ihat this rampant and ungovern- 
 able quality is always most unridy where most con- 
 fined ; which accounts for its vapouring so amazingly 
 in li(tle states, little men, and more especially in ugly 
 litde women. 
 
 Thus, when one reflects that the province of the 
 Manhattoes, though of prodigious impor(ance in (he 
 eyes of its inhabi(ants and its historian, was really of 
 no very great consequence in the eyes of the rest of 
 the world ; that it had but lidle wealth or other s|)oils 
 to reward the trouble of assailing it ; and that it had 
 nothing to expect from running wantonly into war, 
 save an exceeding gootl beating— On pondering these 
 things, I say, one would utterly despair of finding in 
 its history ei(her battles or bloodshed, or any other of 
 those calamities which give importance to a nation, 
 and entertainment to (he reader. But, on the con- 
 trary, we find, so valiant is this province, that it has 
 already drawn u|)oni(self o host of enemies; has had 
 as many buffetings as would gratify the ambition of 
 the most warlike nation ; and is, in sober sadness, a 
 
aoG 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 very forlorn, distressed, and wol)egone little province ! 
 — all which was, no doubt, kindly ordered by Provi- 
 dence, to give interest and sublimity to this pathetic 
 history. 
 
 But I forbear to enter into a detail of the pitiful 
 maraudings and harassments, that for a long while 
 after the victory on the Delaware continued to insult 
 the dignity and disturb the repose of the Neder- 
 landers. Sufiice it in brevity to say, that the impla- 
 cable hostility of the people of the east , which had so 
 miraculously been prevented from breaking out, as 
 my readers must remember, by the sudden prevalence 
 of witchcraft, and the dissensions in the council of 
 Amphictyons, now again displayed itself in a thou- 
 sand grievous and bitter scourings upon the borders. 
 
 Scarcely a month passed without the Dutch settle- 
 ments on the frontiers being alarmed by the sudden 
 appearance of an invading army from Connecti- 
 cut. This would advance resolutely through the 
 country, like a caravan of the deserts, the women 
 and children mounted in carts loaded with pots and 
 kettles, as though they meant to boil the honest 
 Dutchmen alive, and devour them like so many lob- 
 sters. At the tail of these carts would stalk a crew 
 of long-limbed, lank-sided varlets, with axes on their 
 shoulders and packs on their backs, resolutely bent 
 upon improving the country in despite of its pro- 
 prietors. These settling themselves down would in 
 a short time completely dislodge the unfortunate 
 Nederlanders ; elbowing them out of those rich 
 bottoms and fertile valleys, in which our Dutch 
 yeomanry are so famous for nestling themselves — 
 For it is notorious, that, wherever these shrewd men 
 of the east get a footing, the honest Dutchmen do 
 gradually disappear, retiring slowly, like (he Indians 
 before the whites; being totally discomfited by the 
 talking, chaffering, swapping, bargainuig disposition 
 of their new neighbours. 
 
 All these audacious infringements on the territories 
 of their High Mightinesses were accompanied, as has 
 before been hinted, by a world of rascally brawls, 
 rib-roastings, and bundlings, which would doubtless 
 have incensed the valiant Peter to wreak immediate 
 chastisement, had he not at the very same time been 
 perplexed by distressing accounts from Mynheer Beck- 
 man, who commanded the territories at South-river. 
 
 The restless Swedes, who had so graciously been 
 suffered to remain about the Delaware, began al- 
 ready to show signs of mutiny and disalTeclion. 
 What was worse, a peremptory claim was laid to the 
 whole territory, as tlie rightful properly of Lord Bal- 
 timore, by one Fendal. This latter was a chieftain 
 who ruled over the colony of Maryland, or, as it was 
 anciently called, Merryland; so termed because that 
 Uie inhabitants, not having the fear of the Lord 
 before their eyes, were notoriously prone to get 
 fuddled and make merry with mint julep and apple 
 toddy. So hostile was this bully Fendal, that he 
 threatened, unless his claim were instantly complied 
 with, to march incontinently at the head of a potent 
 
 force of the roaring Iwys of Merryland, togelher « j 
 a great and mighty train of giants, who infested i 
 banks of the Susquehanna '—and to lay waste a] 
 depopulate the whole country of South-river. 
 
 By this it is manifest, that this boasted colony |J 
 all great acquisitions of territory , soon became a jjreaj 
 evil to the conqueror than the loss of it was to thee 
 (|uered ; and caused greater uneasiness and trouble til 
 all the territoryof the New-Netherlands besides. TM 
 Providence wisely orders that one evil shall balaj 
 another : the conqueror who wrests the propertyofl 
 neighbour, who wrongs a nation and desolates a coJ 
 try, though he may acquire increase of empire, ai 
 immortal fame, yet ensures his own inevitable punij 
 ment. He takes to himself a cause of endless anslj 
 — he incoiporates with his late sound domain a I 
 part — a rotten disaffected member; whi^i is anij 
 haustless source of internal treason and disunion, j 
 external altercation and hostility. — Happy is tbati 
 tion, which compact, united, loyal in all its pails, a 
 concentrated in its strength, seeks no idle acquisiiil 
 of unprofitable and ungovernable territory— wjiiij 
 content to be prosperous and happy, has no anibitl 
 to be great. It is like a man well organized inf 
 system, sound in health, and full of vigour ; uoi 
 cumbered by useless trappings, and fixed in an i 
 shaken attitude. But the nation insatiable of terriloi 
 whose domains are scattered, feebly united, and wh 
 ly organized, is like a senseless miser sprawlingair 
 golden stores, open to every attack, and unable tod 
 fend the riches he vainly endeavours to oversliadol 
 
 At the time of receiving the alarming dispalcll 
 from South-river, the great Peter was busily emploj 
 ed in quelling certain Indian troubles that had brokl 
 out about Esopus, and was moreover meditating lio| 
 to relieve his eastern borders on the Conneclici 
 He sent word, however, to Mynheer Beckmanlol 
 of good heart, to maintain incessant >igilance, andj 
 let him know if matters wore a more threatening a 
 pearance ; in which case he would incontinently i 
 pair with his warriors of the Hudson, to spoO I 
 merriment of these Merry-landers; for he covelj 
 exceedingly to have a bout, hand to hand, with son 
 half a score of these giants — having never encoiinterj 
 a giant in his whole hfe, unless we may so < 
 stout Kisingh, and he was but a little one. 
 
 Nothing further, however, occurred to moleslll 
 tranquillity of Mynheer Beckman and his coionj 
 Fendal and his myrmidons remained at home, can 
 
 ■ We find very curious and woiidcrlul accounts of tlicsc slra 
 people, ( wlio were doulrtlcss tlie anccstoi-s of llie present Mi^ 
 landers,) made by Master Harlot. In his interesting tiistory. 
 Sus<]ucsalianocl48 "—observes he— " are a giantly people, slra 
 in pro|K)rtion, behaviour, and attire— llieir voice wjiiiuliiigfi 
 tlicui as if out a cave. Their tobaceo-piiws were tlirceH|uarten| 
 a yard Iouk, carved at the great end with a bint, beaic, orotlT 
 device, suflieient to beat out the braincs of a horse, (and liuw iiu^ 
 asses braincs arc Iwatcn out, or rattier men's braincs siiiokcilo 
 and asses braines haled in, by our lesser pipes at tionic.) Thee; 
 of one of their IcgRcs measured three-quarters of a yard about, ( 
 rest of his limbs proportionable." 
 
 Master Harlot's Journ. riirdi, fiLj 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 207 
 
 Jourii. I'lirdi. Hi 
 
 KJlsoundfy upon hoe-tiakes, bacon, and mint jnlep, 
 Ininning horses, and fighting cocks; for which 
 were greatly renowned. At Iiearing of this 
 ler Stuyvesant was very well pleased, for nolwith- 
 (lin<; his inclination to measure weapons with 
 monstrous men of the Susquehanna, yet he 
 j already as much employment nearer home as he 
 I turn his hands to. Little did he think, worthy 
 ,tliat this southern calm was but the deceitful 
 elude to a most terrible and fatal storm, thenbrew- 
 , which was soon to burst forth and overwhelm 
 (Unsuspecting city of New- Amsterdam! 
 I^ow so it was, that while this excellent governor 
 skiving his little senate laws, and not only giving 
 n, but enforcing them too — while he was inces- 
 iilly]travelling the rounds of his beloved province 
 rting from place to place to redress grievances, 
 1 while busy at one corner of his dominions, all the 
 jgelting in an uproar — At this very time, I say, a 
 iand direful plot was hatching against him in 
 |il nursery of monstrous projects, the British cabi- 
 The news of his achievements on the Delaware, 
 tording to a sage old historian of INew-Amsterdam, 
 I occasioned not a little talk and marvel in the 
 lorte of Europe. And the Same profound writer 
 mres us that the cabinet of England began to en- 
 laln great jealousy and uneasiness at the increasing 
 liver of the Manhattoes, and the valour of its sturdy 
 oianry. 
 
 I Agents, the same historian observes, were sent by 
 eAmphictyonic council of the east, to entreat the 
 glance of the British cabinet in subjugating this 
 hty province. Lord Sterling also asserted his 
 ihl to Long-Island, and, at the same time. Lord 
 ytimore, whose agent, as has before been mention- 
 |ii,had so alarmed Mynheer Beckman, laid his claim 
 bre the cabinet to the lands of South-river, which 
 ! complained were unjustly and forcibly detained 
 I him by these daring usurpers of the Nieuw-Ne- 
 trlandts. 
 
 I Thus did the unlucky empire of the Manhattoes 
 
 nd in imminent danger of experiencing the fate of 
 
 uland, and being torn limb from limb to be shared 
 
 ong its savage neighbours. But while these rapa- 
 
 ioiis powers were whetting their fangs, and waiting 
 
 r Ihe signal to fall tooth and nail upon this delicious 
 
 |klle fat Dutch empire, the lordly lion, who sat as 
 
 npire, all at once settled the claims of all parties, by 
 
 lying his own paw upon the spoil ; for we are told 
 
 lat his Majesty, Charles the Second, not to l)e per- 
 
 Uexed by adjusting these several pretensions, made 
 
 [ipresentof a large tract of North-America, includ- 
 
 [Ihe province of New-Netherlands, to his brother, 
 
 le Duke of York — a donation truly royal, since none 
 
 Hit great nionarchs have a right to give away what 
 
 les not belong to them. 
 
 Tiiat this munificent gift might not be merely no- 
 il, his Majesty, on the 42th of March, 4«64, or- 
 kred that an armament should be forthwith pre- 
 ured to invade the city of New- Amsterdam by land 
 
 and water, and put his brother in complete possession 
 of the premises. 
 
 Thus critically are situated the affairs of the New- 
 Netherlanders. The honest burghers, so far from 
 thinking of the jeopardy in which their interests are 
 placed, are soberly smoking their pipes, and thinking 
 of nothing at all— the privy councillors of Ihe pro- 
 vince are at this moment snoring in full quorum; 
 while the active Peter, who takes all the labour of 
 thinking and acting upon himself, is busily devising 
 some methoil of bringing the grand council of Am- 
 phictyons to terms. In the mean while an angry 
 cloud is darkly scowling on the horizon — soon 'will it 
 rattle about the ears of these dozing Nederlanders, 
 and put the mettle of their stout-hearted governor 
 completely to the trial. 
 
 But come what may, I here pledge my veracity 
 that in all warlike conllicts and subtle perplexities, he 
 shall still acquit himself with the gallant bearing and 
 spotless honour of a noble-minded, obstinate old ca- 
 valier — Forward then to the charge! — Shine out, 
 propitious stars, on the renowned city of the Man- 
 hattoes; and may the blessing of St Nicholas go with 
 thee — honest Peter Stuyvesant. 
 
 CHAPTER ra. 
 
 of Peter Stuyvesant's expedition into Ihe East Country, shnwlnf; 
 that, though an old bird, he did not understand trap. 
 
 Great nations resemble great men in this particu- 
 lar, that their greatness is seldom known until they 
 get in trouble ; adversity, therefore, has been wisely 
 denominated the ordeal of true greatness, which, like 
 gold, can never receive its real estimation until it has 
 passeil through the furnace. In proportion, there- 
 fore, as a nation, a community, or an individual 
 (possessing the inherent quality of greatness) is in- 
 volved in perils and misfortunes, in proportion does 
 it rise in grandeur — and even when sinking under ca- 
 lamity, makes, like a house on fire, a more glorious 
 display than ever it did hi the fairest period of its pro- 
 sperity. 
 
 The vast empire of China, though teeming with 
 population and imbibing and concentrating the 
 wealth of nations, has vegetated through a succes- 
 sion of drowsy ages; and were it not for its internal 
 revolution, and tlie subversion of its ancient govern- 
 ment by the Tartars, might have presented nothing 
 but an uninteresting detail of dull, monotonous pro- 
 sperity. Pompeii and Ilerculaneum might have pass- 
 ed into oblivion, with a herd of their contemporaries, 
 if they had not been fortunately overwhelmeil by a 
 volcano. The renowned city of Troy has acquired 
 celebrity only from its ten years' distress, and final 
 conflagration— Paris rises in importance by the plots 
 and massacres which liave ended in the exaltation of 
 the illustrious Napoleon— and even the mighty London 
 itself has skulked through the records of time, cele- 
 bratal for nothing of moment excepting the plague, 
 
 Mii 
 
208 
 
 mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 the great fire, and Guy Fanx's gunpowder plot! 
 Thus cities and empires seem to creep along, enlarg- 
 ing in silent obscurity, until at length they burst forth 
 in some tremendous calamity — and snatch, as it were, 
 immortality from the explosion ! 
 
 The above principle being admitted, my reader 
 will plainly perceive that the city of New-Amsterdam 
 and its dependent province are on the high road to 
 greatness. Dangers and hostilities threaten from every 
 side, and it is really a matter of astonishment, how so 
 smsil a state has been able, in so short a time, to en- 
 tangle itself in so many difficulties. Ever since the 
 province was first taken by the nose, at the Fort of 
 Good Hope, in the tranquil days of Wouter Van 
 Twiller, has it been gradually increasing in historic 
 importance; and never could it have had a more ap- 
 propriate chieftain to conduct it to the pinnacle of 
 grandeur than Peter Stuyvesant. 
 
 In the fiery heart of this iron-headed old warrior 
 sat enthroned all those five kinds of courage describ- 
 ed by Aristotle; and had the philosopher mentioned 
 five hundred more to the back of them, I verily believe 
 he would have been found master of them all. The 
 only -misfortune was, that he was deficient in <he 
 l)etter part of valour called discretion, a cold-blooded 
 virtue, which could not exist in the tropical climate 
 of his mighty soul. Hence it was that he was conti- 
 nually hurrying into those unheard-of enterprises 
 which give an air of chivalric romance to all his his- 
 tory; and hence it was that he now conceived a pro- 
 ject worthy of the hero of La Mancha himself. 
 
 This was no other than to repair in person to the 
 great council of the Amphictyons, bearing the sword 
 in one hand and the olive-branch in the other— to 
 require immediate reparation for the innumerable 
 violations of that treaty which in an evil hour he had 
 formed — to put a stop to those repeated maraudings 
 on the eastern borders — or else to throw his gauntlet 
 and appeal to arms for satisfaction. 
 
 On declaring this resolution in his privy-council, 
 the >f nerable members were seized with vast asto- 
 nishment; for once in their lives they venturetl to 
 remonstrate, setting forth the rashness of exposing 
 his sacred person, in the midst of a strange and bar- 
 barous people, with sundry other weighty remon- 
 strances — all which had about as much influence 
 upon the determination of the headstrong Peter as 
 though you were to endeavour to turn a rusty wea- 
 thercock with a broken-winded bellows. 
 
 Summoning therefore to his presence his trusty 
 follower, Anthony Van Corlear, he commanded him 
 to hold himself in readiness to accompany him the 
 following morning on this his hazardous enterprise. 
 Now Anthony the trumpeter was by this time a little 
 stricken in years, yet by dint of keeping up a good 
 heart, and having never known care or sorrow, (hav- 
 ing never been married,) he was slill a hearty, jocund, 
 rubicund, gamesome wag, and of great capacity in 
 the doublet. This last was ascribed to his living a 
 jolly life on those domains at the Hook, which Peter 
 
 Stuyvesant had granted to him for his gallantry i 
 Fort Casimir. 
 
 Be this as it may, there was nothing that 
 delighted Anthony than this command of the i 
 Peler, for he could have followed the stout-hearted o 
 governor to the world's end, with love and loyaltyJ 
 and he moreover still remembered the frolicking, a 
 dancing, and bundling, and other disports of the en 
 country, and entertained dainty recollection of nuir 
 rous kind and buxum lasses, whom he longed excei 
 ingly again to encounter. 
 
 Tlius then did this mirror of hardihood set fort 
 with no other attendant but his trumpeter, upon ( 
 of the most perilous enterprises ever recorded in tl^ 
 annals of knight-errantry.— For a single warrior t 
 venture openly among a whole nation of foes— bui] 
 above all, for a plain downright Dutchman to \\w 
 of negotiating with the whole council of New-Eu 
 land ! — never was there known a more desperal 
 undertaking ! — Ever since I have entered upon i 
 chronicles of this peerless but hitherto uncelebrate 
 chieftain, has he kept me in a state of incessant aclioi 
 and anxiety with the toils and dangers he is constanti 
 encountering — Oh ! for a chapter of the tranquil reid 
 of Wouter Van Twiller, that I might repose on it j 
 on a feather-bed ! 
 
 Is it not enough, Peler Stuyvesant, that I haij 
 once already rescued thee from the machinations « 
 these terrible Amphictyons, by bringing the powa 
 of witchcraft to thine aid? — Is it not enough, IJiatl 
 have followed thee undaunted, like a guardian s|)irill 
 into the midst of the horrid battle of Fort Ghristinal 
 — That I have been put incessantly to my trumps I 
 keep thee safe and sound— now warding off with nij 
 single pen the shower of dastard blows that fell up 
 thy rear — now narrowly shielding thee from a deadl 
 ly thrust, by a mere tobacco-box — now casing thl 
 dauntless skull with adamant, when even thy stubbotf 
 ram beaver failed to resist the sword of the stoi 
 Risingh — and now, not merely bringing thee off alivtl 
 but triumphant, from the clutches of the giganlij 
 Swede, by the desperate means of a paltry stoi 
 pottle? — Is not all this enough, but must thou slill t 
 plunging into new difiiculties, and hazarding in he; 
 long enterprises, thyself, thy trumpeter, and thy iiis] 
 torian ? 
 
 And now the ruddy-faced Aurora, like a bnxoi 
 chambermaid, draws aside the sable curtains of tin 
 night, and out bounces from his bed the jolly redf 
 haired Phirbus, startled at being caught so late in tit 
 embraces of Dame Thetis. W ith many a stable oallj 
 he harnesses his brazen-footed steeds, and whips, an 
 lashes, and splashes up the firmament, like a loiterini 
 coachman, half an hour behind his lime. And noyi| 
 behold that imp of fame and prowess the headstronj 
 Peter, bestriding a rawboned, switch-tailed cliarger| 
 gallantly arrayed in full regimentals, and bracing ( 
 his thigh that trusty brass-hilled sword, which hai 
 wrought such fearful deeds on the banks of the I 
 laware. 
 
 , with his faithful 
 
 m in the clear coi 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 209 
 
 Igehold hard after him his doughty trumpeter, Van 
 
 r, mounted on a broken-winded, wall-eyed, 
 
 )mare ; his stone pottle, which had laid low the 
 
 tty Risingh, slung under his arm ; and his trum- 
 
 (displayed vauntingly in his right hand, decorated 
 
 I a gorgeous banner, on which is emblazoned the 
 
 tat beaver of the Manhattoes. See them proudly 
 
 og out of the city gate, like an iron-clad hero of 
 
 , with his faithful squire at his heels; the popu- 
 
 e following them with their eyes, and shouting 
 
 loy a paiting wish and hearty cheering — Farewell, 
 
 Ikopping Piet! Farewell, honest Anthony! — 
 
 ant be your wayfaring — prosperous your return ! 
 
 e stoutest hero that ever drew a sword, and the 
 
 hiest trumpeter that ever trod shoe-leather. 
 
 [Legends are lamentably silent about the events that 
 
 II our adventurers in this their adventurous travel, 
 
 ^ing the Stuy vesant Manuscript, which gives the 
 
 iance of a pleasant little heroic poem, written on 
 
 leoccasion by Dominie ^gidius Luyck,' who ap- 
 
 s to have been the poet-laureat of New-Amster- 
 
 This inestimable manuscript assures us, that 
 
 s a rare spectacle to behold the great Peter and 
 
 kloyal follower hailing the morning sun, and re- 
 
 jiinginlhe clear countenance of nature, as they 
 
 it through the pastoral scenes of Bloemcn 
 
 d;' which, in those days, was a sweet and rural 
 
 ), beautified with many a bright wild flower, 
 
 bed by many a pure streamlet, and enlivened 
 
 eand there by a delectable little Dutch cottage, 
 
 Jdtered under some sloping hill, and almost buried 
 
 leoibowering trees. 
 
 |Sow did they enter upon the confines of Connec- 
 
 il, where they encountered many grievous difti- 
 
 i and perils. At one place they were assailed 
 
 |) troop of country squires and militia colonels, 
 
 I, mounted on goodly steeds, hung upon their rear 
 
 [several miles, harassing them exceedingly with 
 
 and questions, more especially the worthy 
 
 sr, whose silver-chased leg excited not a little 
 
 wl. At another place, hard by the renowned 
 
 |rn of Stamford, they were set upon by a great and 
 
 |hty legion of church deacons, who imperiously 
 
 nded of them five shillings, for travelling on 
 
 day, and threatened to carry them captive to a 
 
 hbouring church, whose steeple peered above 
 
 [trees; but these the valiant Peter put to rout with 
 
 idifliculty, insomuch that they bestrode their 
 
 s and galloped off in horrible confusion, leaving 
 
 r cocked hats behind in the hurry of their flight. 
 
 jlnotso easily did he escape from the hands of a 
 
 flyman of Pyquag; who, with undaunted perse- 
 
 ince, and repealed onsets, fairly bargained him 
 
 [ of his goodly switch-tailed charger, leaving in 
 
 ethereof a villanous, foimdered INaraganset pacer. 
 
 |Thl8Lnycli wa« moreover rector of the Latin School in 
 r-Nc(lcrtandl8, I665.. There are two pieces addressed to 
 llliiiLuycli in D. Sclyn's MSS. of poesies, upon his marriage 
 ^Mitli isendoom. Old MS. 
 I Now called Blooming Dale, about four miles from New- York. 
 
 But, mangre all these hardships, they pursued their 
 journey cheerily along the course of tlie soft-flowing 
 Connecticut, whose gentle waves, says the song, roll 
 through many a fertile vale and sunny plain ; now 
 reflecting the lofty spires of the bustling city, and 
 now the rural beauties of the humble hamlet; now 
 echoing with the busy hum of commerce, and now 
 with the cheerful song of the peasant. 
 
 At every town would Peter Stuy vesant, who was 
 noted for warlike punctilio, order the sturdy Anthony 
 to sound a courteous salutation ; though the manu- 
 script observes, that the inhabitants were thrown into 
 great dismay when they heard of his approach. For 
 the fame of his incomparable achievements on the De- 
 laware had spread throughout the east country, and 
 they dreaded lest he had come to take vengeance on 
 their manifold transgressions. 
 
 But the good Peter rode through these towns with 
 a smiling aspect ; waving his hand with inexpressible 
 majesty and condescension; for he verily believed 
 that the old clothes which these ingenious people had 
 thrust into their broken windows, and the festoons of 
 dried apples and peaches which ornamented the fronts 
 of their houses, were so many decorations in honour 
 of his approach; as it was the custom in the days of 
 chivalry to compliment renowned heroes by sump- 
 tuous displays of tapestry and gorgeous furniture. 
 Tlie women crowded to the doors to gaze upon him 
 as he passed, so much does prowess in arms delight 
 the gentle sex. The little children, too, ran after 
 him in troops, staring with wonder at his regiment- 
 als, his brimstone breeches, and the silver garniture 
 of his wooden leg. Nor must I omit to mention the 
 joy which many strapping wenches betrayed at be- 
 holding the jovial Van Corlear, who had whilom de- 
 lighted them so much with his trumpet, when he bore 
 the great Peter's challenge to the Amphiclyons. The 
 kind-hearted Anthony alighted from his calico mare, 
 and kissed them all with infinite loving-kindness — 
 and was right pleased to see a crew of little trum- 
 peters crowding round him for his blessing; each 
 of whom he patted on the head, bade him be a 
 good boy, and gave him a penny to buy molasses 
 candy. 
 
 The Stuyvesant Manuscript makes but little fur- 
 ther mention of the governor's adventures upon this 
 expedition, excepting that he was received with ex- 
 travagant courtesy and respect by the great council 
 of the Amphictyons, who almost talked him to death 
 with complimentary and congratulatory harangues. 
 I will not detain my readers by dwelling on his ne- 
 gotiations with the grand council. Suffice it to men- 
 lion, it was like all other negotiations— a great deal 
 was said, and very little done ; one conversation led 
 »o another ; one conference begat misunderstandings 
 which it took a dozen conferences to explain; al the 
 enu of whicii the parties found themselves just where 
 they were at first; excepting that they had entangled 
 themselves in a host of' questions of etiquette, and 
 conceived a cordial distrust of each other, that ren- 
 
 27 
 
210 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 dered their future negotiations ten times more difli- 
 cult than ever.' 
 
 In the midst of all these perplexities, which be- 
 wildered the brain and incensed the ire of the sturdy 
 Peter, who was perhaps of all men in the world least 
 fitted for diplomatic wiles, he privately received in- 
 timation of the dark conspiracy which had been ma- 
 tured in the cabinet of England. To this was added 
 the astounding intelligence that a hostile s(]uadrun 
 had already sailed from England, destined to reduce 
 the province of New-Netherlands, and that the grand 
 council of Amphictyons had engaged to co-operate, by 
 sending a great army to invade New-Amsterddn by 
 land. 
 
 Unfortunate Peter! did I not enter with sad fore- 
 bodings upon this ill-starred expedition? Did I not 
 tremble when I saw thee, with no other counsellor 
 but thine own head, with no other armour but an 
 honest tongue, a spotless conscience, and a rusty 
 sword ; with no other protector but St Nicholas, and 
 no other attendant but a trumpeter— did I not tremble 
 when I beheld thee thus sally forth to contend with 
 all the knowing powers of New-England ? 
 
 Oh, how did the sturdy old warrior rage and roar, 
 when he found himself thus entrapped, like a lion in 
 the hunter's toil ! Now did he determine to draw his 
 trusty sword, and manfully to fight his way through 
 all the countries of the east. Now did he resolve to 
 break in upon the council of the Amphictyons, and 
 put every mother's son of them to death. At length, 
 as usual, when the foam and froth of passion had Imil- 
 ed over, prudence which lay at the bottom came up- 
 permost; and he determined to resort to less violent 
 but more wary expedients. 
 
 Concealir>; frc-ai the council his knowledge of their 
 machinations, he privately dispatched a trusty mes- 
 senger, with missives, to bis counsellors at New-Ams- 
 terdam, apprising them of the impending danger, and 
 commanding them immediately to put the city in a 
 posture of defence ; while, in the mean time, he would 
 endeavour to elude his enemies, and come to their as- 
 sistance. This done, he felt himself marvellously re- 
 lieved, rose slowly, shook himself like a rhinoceros, 
 and issued forth from his den, in much the same man- 
 ner as Giant Despair is described to have issued from 
 Doubling Castle, in the chivalric history of the Pil- 
 grim's Progress. 
 
 And now much does it grieve me that I must leave 
 the gallant Peter in this imminent jeopardy : but it 
 behoves us to hurry back and see what is going on at 
 New-Amsterdam, for greatly do I fear that city is al- 
 ready in a turmoil. Such was ever the fate of Peter 
 Stuyvesant; while doing one thing with heart and 
 soul, he was too apt to leave every thing else at sixes 
 and sevens. While, like a potentate of yore, he was 
 absent attending to those things in person which in 
 modern days are trusted to generals and ambassadors, 
 
 ' For certain of the particulars ot this ancient negotiation see 
 Haz. Col. Stat. Pap. It fs singular that Smith is entirely silent 
 with respect to this memorable expedition of Peter stnyresant. 
 
 bis little territory at home was sure to get in an np 
 — All which was owing to that uncommon stren^ 
 of intellect, which induced him to trust to nobody [ 
 himself, and which had acquired him the renovm 
 appellation of Peter the Headstrong. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 How the people of New-Amsterdam were thrown into a |, 
 |)anic, by the news of a threatened invasion, and tlie luaonn 
 which they fortified tliemselvcs. 
 
 There is no sight more truly interesting to a pjj 
 losopher than to contemplate a community, wliJ 
 every individual has a voice in public affairs; vhj 
 every individual thinks himself the Atlas of the nalig 
 and where every individual thinks it his duty tot 
 himself for the good of his country— I say, there 
 nothing more interesting (o a philosopher (lian loJ 
 such a community in a sudden bustle of war. SiJ 
 clamour of tongues — such bawling of patriotism- 
 running hither and thither- every Iwdy in a liun 
 every body up to the ears in trouble — every bodyj 
 the way, and every body interrupting his imliislriij 
 
 neighbour who is busily employed in doing i 
 
 thing ! It is like witnessing a great fire, where ev^ 
 man is at work like a hero— some dragging ah 
 empty engines— others scampering with full buck^ 
 and spilling the contents into their neighbour's ii 
 — and others ringing the church hells all nielli, I 
 way of putting out the lire. Little liremen-i 
 sturdy little knights storming a breach, clambeij 
 up and down scaling-ladders, and bawling liin 
 tin trumpets, by way of directing the attack.-ilj 
 one busy fellow, in his great zeal to save the pro|K 
 of the unfortunate, catches up an anonymous ciian] 
 utensil, and gallants it off with an air of as much si 
 im])ortance as if he had rescued a pot of mm 
 another throws looking-glasses and china out of | 
 window, to save them from the flames— wiiilst I 
 who can do nothing else to assist in the great calani 
 run up and down the streets with open throats, iiij 
 ing up an incessant cry of Fire.' Fire! Fire! 
 
 "When the news arrived at Sinope," says tlieg 
 and profound Lucian— though I own the story isj 
 ther trite, ** that Philip was about to attack tli6iii,| 
 inhabitants were thrown into violent alarm, 
 ran to furbish up their arms; others rolled stonej 
 build up the walls— every body, in short, wasj 
 ployed, and every body was in the way of liisiiei 
 hour. Diogeiics alone was the only man who ( 
 find nothing to do— whereupon, determining i 
 be idle when the welfare of his country was als 
 he tucked up his robe, and fell to rolling his tuh| 
 might and main up and down the Gymnasium." J 
 like manner did every mother's son in the palrt 
 community of New-Amsterdam, on receiving the ij 
 sives of Peter Stuyvesant, busy himself most migl 
 in putting things in confusion, and assisting thej 
 neral uproar. " Every man"— saith the Stuyvt^ 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 iif 
 
 (iDSCript— " flew to arms!"— by which is meant, 
 
 inot one of our honest Dutch citizens would ven- 
 
 etocluirch or to market without an old-fashioned 
 
 tofa sword danglini; at his side, and a long Dutch 
 
 jrliniJ-piece on his shoulder — nor would he go out of 
 
 |iii<!lit without a lantern; nor turn a corner without 
 
 ipeeping cautiously round, lest he should come 
 
 dwarps upon a British army— And we are informed 
 
 htStoffel Brinkerhoff, who was considered by the 
 
 tvunien almost as brave a man as the governor 
 
 leir, actually had two one-pound swivels mount- 
 
 \\a bis entry, one pointing out at the front door, and 
 
 (Other at the back. 
 
 IBuI the most strenuous measure resorted to on this 
 Hil occasion, and one which has since been found 
 Ivoiiderful efiicacy, was to assemble popular meet- 
 These brawling convocations , I have already 
 [iwn, were extremely offensive to Peter Stuyvesant; 
 I as tliis was a moment of unusual agitation, and 
 [llie old governor was not present to repress them, 
 broke out with intolerable violence. Hither, 
 [efore, the orators and politicians repaired; and 
 ; seemed to be a competition among them who 
 wki bawl loudest, and exceed the others in hyper- 
 ;al bursts of patriotism, and in resolutions to 
 old and defend the government. In these sage 
 I all-powerful meetings it was determined nem. 
 [[.tiiat they were the most enlightened, the most 
 ;nifle<l, the most formidable, and the most ancient 
 luinily upon the face of the earth. Finding that 
 (resolution was so universally and readily carried, 
 ler was immediately proposed — whether it were 
 ll possible and politic to exterminate Great Britain? 
 nwiiich sixty-nine members spoke most eloquently 
 eafllrmative, and only one arose to suggest some 
 -who, as a punishment for his treasonable 
 umplion, was immediately seized by the mob, 
 llarred and feathered — which punishment being 
 liifaleiit to the Tarpeian Rock, he was afterwards 
 idered as an outcast from society, and his opinion 
 lot for nolliing. The question, therefore, being 
 limously carried in the affirmative, it was recom- 
 iled to the grand council to pass it into a law ; 
 icli was accordingly done. By this measure the 
 I of the people at large Avere wonderfully en- 
 gaged, and they waxed exceedingly choleric and 
 ous. Indeed, the first paroxysm of alarm having 
 |»nie measure subsided — the old women having 
 I all the money they could lay their hands on, 
 I their husbands daily getting fuddled with what 
 I left— the community began even to stand on 
 I offensive. Songs were manufactured in Low 
 Icli and sung about the streets, wherein the Eng- 
 were most wofully beaten, and shown no 
 rter; and popular addresses were made, wherein 
 l^as proved to a certainty that the fate of Old Eng- 
 I depended upon the will of the New-Amster- 
 ners. 
 poally, to strike a violent blow at the very vitals 
 Kreat Britain, a multitude of the wiser inhabitants 
 
 assembled, and having purchased all the British ma- 
 nufactures they could find, they made thereof a huge 
 bonfire; and, in the patriotic glow of the moment, 
 every man present, who had a hat or breeches of 
 English workmanship, pulled it off, and threw it into 
 the flames — to the irreparable detriment, loss, and 
 ruin, of the English manufacturers. In commemora- 
 tion of this great exploit, they erected a pole on the 
 spot, with a devise on the top intended to represent 
 the province of Nieuw-Nederlandts destroying Great 
 Britain, under the similitude of an Eagle picking the 
 little Island of Old England out of the globe; but 
 either through the unskilfulness of the sculptor, or 
 his ill-timed waggery, it bore a striking resemblance 
 to a goose, vauily striving to get hold of a dumpling. ' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Showing how the Grand Council of the New-Netherlands came to 
 l)c miraculously gifted witli long tongues.— Together with a 
 great triumph of Economy. 
 
 It will need but very little penetration in any one 
 acquainted with the character and habits of that most 
 potent and blustering monarch, the sovereign people, 
 — to discover, that, notwithstanding all the bustle 
 and talk of war that stunned him in the last chapter, 
 the renowned city of New-Amsterdam is, in sad 
 reality, not a whit better prepared for defence than 
 before. Now, though the people, having gotten over 
 the first alarm, and finding no enemy immediately at 
 hand, had, with that valour of tongue for which your 
 illustrious rabble is so famous, run into the opposite 
 extreme, and by dint of gallant vapouring and rodo- 
 niontado had actually talked themselves into the opi- 
 nion that they were the bravest and most powerful 
 people under the sun, yet were the privy councillors 
 of Peter Stuyvesant somewhat dubious on that point. 
 They dreaded moreover lest that stern hero sliould 
 return, and find, that, instead of ol)eying his peremp- 
 tory orders, they had wasted their time in listening 
 to the hectorings of the mob, than which, they well 
 knew, there was nothing he held in more exalted 
 contempt. 
 
 To make up, therefore, as si)eedily as possible for 
 lost time, a grand divan of the councillors and burgo- 
 masters was convened, to talk over the critical state 
 of the province, and devise measures for its safety. 
 Two things were unanimously agreed upon in this 
 venerable assembly :— first, that the city required to 
 be put in a state of defence; and secondly, that as the 
 danger was imminent, there should be no time lost 
 —which points being settled, they immediately fell to 
 naking long speeches and belabouring one another in 
 endless and intemperate disputes. For about this 
 time was this unhappy city first visited by that talking 
 endemic, so prevalent in this country, and which so 
 
 ' This is levelled at the absurd proceedings of the rabble at 
 Baltimore, during a time of popular exasperation against England. 
 —Many of the mob were Irish.— £<{<(. 
 
212 
 
 mSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 
 invariably evinces itself, wherever a number of wise 
 men assemble together; breaking out in long, windy 
 speeches, caused, as physicians suppose, by the foul 
 air which is ever generated in a croAvd. Now it was, 
 moreover, that they first introduced the ingenious 
 method of measuring the merits of an harangue by 
 the hour-glass; he being considered the ablest orator 
 who spoke longest on a question. For which excel- 
 lent invention, it is recorded, we are indebted to the 
 same profound Dutch critic who judged of books by 
 their size. 
 
 This sudden passion for endless harangues, so little 
 consonant with the customary gravity and taciturnity 
 of our sage forefathers, was supposed by certain phi- 
 losophers to have been imbibed, together with divers 
 other barbarous propensities, from their savage neigh- 
 bours; who where peculiarly noted for long talks and 
 council fires, and never undertook any affair of the 
 least importance, without previous debates and ha- 
 rangues among their chiefs and old men. But the 
 real cause was, that the people, in electing their re- 
 presentatives to the grand council, were particular in 
 choosing them for their talents at talking, without 
 inquiring whether they possessed the more rare, diOi- 
 cult, and oft-times important talent of holding their 
 tongues. The consequence was, that this deliberative 
 body was composed of the most loquacious men in 
 the community. As they considered themselves 
 placed there to talk, every man concluded that his 
 duty to his constituents, and, what is more, his popu- 
 larity with them, required that he should harangue 
 on every subject, whether he understood it or not. 
 There was an ancient mode of burying a chieftain, 
 by every soldier throwing his shield full of earth on 
 the corpse, until a mighty mound was formed; so 
 whenever a question was brought forward in this 
 assembly, every member pressing forward to throw 
 on his quantum of wisdom, the subject was quickly 
 buried under a huge mass of words. 
 
 We are told, that when disciples were admitted 
 into the school of Pythagoras, they were for two years 
 enjoined silence, and were neither permitted to ask 
 questions nor make remarks. After they had thus 
 acquired the inestimable art of holding their tongues, 
 they were gradually permitted to make inquiries, and 
 finally to communicate their own opinions. 
 
 What a pity is it, that, while superstitiously hoard- 
 ing up the rubbish and rags of antiquity, we should 
 suffer these precious gems to lie unnoticed ! What a 
 beneficial effect would this wise regulation of Pytha- 
 goras have, if introduced in legislative bodies — and 
 how wonderfully would it have tended to expedite 
 business in the grand council of the Manhattoes ! 
 
 Thus, however, did Dame Wisdom (whom the 
 wags of antiquity have humorously personified as a 
 woman) seem to take mischievous pleasure in jilting 
 the venerable councillors of New-Amsterdam. The 
 old factions of Long Pipes and Short Pipes, which had 
 been almost strangled by the Herculean grasp of Peter 
 Sluyvesant, now sprung up with tenfold violence. 
 
 Not that the original cause of difference still exfa 
 — but, it has ever been the fate of parly names ij 
 party rancour to remain long after the principles lit 
 gave rise to them have been forgotten. To comn 
 the public confusion and bewilderment, the fatal woi 
 Economy, which one would have thought was (!« 
 and buried with William the Testy, was once i 
 set afloat, like the apple of discord, in the gnJ 
 council of Nieuw-Nederlandts— according to whjj 
 sound principle of policy, it was deemed more ein 
 dient to throw away twenty thousand guilders nn 
 an inefficacious plan of defence than to expend thii^ 
 thousand on a good and substantial one— the 
 vince thus makmg a clear saving of ten thou 
 guilders. 
 
 But when they came to discass the mode of deret 
 then began a war of words that baffles all descripti 
 The members being, as I observed, enlisted in ( 
 posite parties, were enabled to proceed with an 
 system and regularity in the discussion of the qutj 
 tions before them. Whatever was proposed by a 1 
 Pipe was opposed by the whole tribe of Short Pip 
 who, like true politicians, considered it their ijij 
 duty to effect the downfal of the Long Pipes-ll 
 second, to elevate themselves — and their iliird,! 
 consult the welfare of the country. This at leasli 
 the creed of the most upright among the part 
 for as to the great mass, they left the third con 
 ration out of the question altogether. 
 
 In this great collision of hard heads, it is asloni^ 
 ing the number of projects for defence that vej 
 struck out, not one of which had ever been heard) 
 before, nor has been heard of since, unless it lie { 
 very modern ilays ; projects that threw the windi 
 system of the ingenious Kieft completely in the t 
 gr->und. Still, however, nothing could be dei 
 on ; for so soon as a formidable array of air-cast 
 were reared by one parly, they were demolisliedlj 
 the other. The simple iwpulace stood gazinn 
 anxious expectation of the mighty egg that wastolj 
 hatched with all this cackling, but they gazed in vai 
 for it appeared that the grand council was delen 
 ed to protect the province as did the noble and gigai 
 Pantagruel his army— -by covering it with his tongi 
 
 Indeed there was a portion of the members cons 
 ing of fat, self-important old burghers, who smob 
 their pipes and said nothing, excepting to negal 
 every plan of defence that was offered. These ^ 
 of that class of wealthy old citizens, who, lui\ii 
 amassed a fortune, button up their pockets, shut tin 
 mouths, look rich, and are good for nothing all I 
 rest of their lives : like some phlegmatic oyster, niiicl 
 having swallowed a pearl, closes its shell, settles don 
 in the mud, and parts with its life sooner than i| 
 treasure. Every plan of defence seemed to tin 
 worthy old gentlemen pregnant with ruin. An an 
 ed force was a legion of locusts, preying upon tlie|i 
 lie properly— to fit out a naval armament was! 
 throw their money into the sea — to build fortiflciitiii^ 
 was to bury it in the dirt. In short, they seM\ 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 215 
 
 , sovereign maxim, so long as their poclceU were 
 ^DO matter how much tiiey were drubbed. — A 
 Heft no scar — a brolcen head cured itself— but an 
 ■IV purse was of all maladies tiie slowest to lieal, 
 lone in wliicii nature did notliing for the pa- 
 did this venerable assembly of sages lavish 
 
 f that time which the urgency of affairs rendered 
 giuable, in empty brawls and long-winded speeches, 
 
 ul ever agreeing, except on the point with which 
 (Started, namely, that there was no time to be 
 l,and delay was ruinous. At length St ISicholas, 
 
 ; compassion on their distracted situation, and 
 jous to preserve them from anarchy, so ordered, 
 iiinthe midst of one of their most noisy debates on 
 liiubject offorlilication and defence, when they had 
 rlr fallen to loggerheads in consequence of not 
 ^able to convince each other, the question was 
 l|)ily settled by a messenger, who bounced into the 
 
 er and informed them, that the hostile fleet 
 liirrived, and was actually advancing up the bay ! 
 
 Iius was all further necessity of cither fortifying 
 IdLfuting completely obviated, and thus was the 
 
 1 council saved a world of words, and the pro- 
 
 ea world of expense — a most absolute and glo- 
 
 s triumph of economy ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Iihicli the trouble!) of New-Ainstcrdam appear to thicken— 
 loKing tlie bravery, in time of peril, of a people who defend 
 lelves by resolution. 
 
 Like as an assemblage of politic cats, engaged in 
 ous gibberings, and caterwaulings, eyeing one 
 
 erwith hideous grimaces, spitting in each other's 
 s, and on the point of breaking forth into a 
 leral clapper-clawing, are suddenly put to scamper- 
 I rout and confusion by the appearance of a house- 
 ;so was the no less vociferous council of New- 
 slerdam amazed, astounded, and totally dispersed, 
 jthe sudden arrival of the enemy. Every member 
 
 t the best of his way home, waddling along as 
 las his short legs could fag under their heavy 
 hben, and wheezing as he went with corpulency 
 Men'or. When he arrived at his castle, he bar- 
 nloed Ihe street-door, and buried himself in the 
 er-celiar, without daring to peep out, lest he should 
 lehis head carried off by a cannon-ball. 
 fhe sovereign people all crowded into the mar- 
 place, herding together with the instinct of sheep, 
 ) seek for safety in each other's company, when 
 [shepherd and his dog are absent, and the wolf is 
 ffling round the fold. Far from finding relief, 
 Nver, they only increased each other's terrors. 
 Bi man looked ruefully in his neighbour's face 
 
 arch of encouragement, but only found in its 
 one lineaments a condrmation of his own dis- 
 Not a word now was to be heard of conquer- 
 iGreat Britain, not a wlii^er about the sovereign 
 
 virtues of economy — wliile the old women heightened 
 Ihe general gloom by clamorously bewailing their 
 fate, and calling fur protection on St Nicholas and 
 Peter Stuyvesant. 
 
 Oh, how did they bewail Ihe absence of the lion- 
 hearted Peter! — and how did they long for the com- 
 forting presence of Anthony Van Corlear ! Indeed a 
 gloomy uncertainty hung over the fate of these ad> 
 venturous heroes. Day afterday had elapsed since the 
 alarming message from the governor, without bring- 
 ing any further tidings of his safety. Many a fearful 
 conjecture was hazarded as to what had Ijefallen him 
 and his loyal squire. Had they not been devoured 
 alive by the cannibals of Marblehead and Cape Cod ? 
 — Had they not been put to the question by the great 
 council of Amphictyons? — Had they not been smo- 
 thered in onions by the terrible men of Pyqnag ? — In 
 the midst of this consternation and perplexity, when 
 horror, like a mighty night-mare, sat brooding upon 
 the little, fat, plethoric city of New-Amsterdam, the 
 ears of the multitude were suddenly startled by a 
 strange and distant sound — it approached — it grew 
 louder and louder— and now it resounded at the city 
 gate. The public could not be mistaken in the well- 
 known sound — A shout of joy burst from their lips, 
 as the gallant Peter, covered with dust, and followed 
 by his faithful trumpeter, came galloping into the 
 market-place. 
 
 The first transports of the populace having subsid- 
 ed, they gathered round the honest Anthony, as he 
 dismounted from his horse, overwhelming him with 
 greetings and congratulations. In breathless accents 
 he related to them the marvellous adventures through 
 which the old governor and himself had gone, in mak- 
 ing their escape from the clutches of the terrible Am- 
 phictyons. But though the Stuyvesant Manuscript, 
 with its customary minuteness where any thing touch- 
 ing the great Peter is concerned, is very particular 
 as to the incidents of this masterly retreat, yet the 
 stale of the public affairs will not allow me to indulge 
 in a full recital thereof. Let it suffice to say, that, 
 while Peter Stuyvesant was anxiously revolving in his 
 mind how he could make good his escape with honour 
 and dignity, certain of the ships sent out for the con- 
 quest of the Manhattoes toucheil at the eastern ports 
 to obtain needful supplies, and to call on the grand 
 council of the league for its promised co-operation. 
 Upon hearing of this, the vigilant Peter, perceiving 
 that a moment's delay were fatal, made a secret and 
 precipitate decampment; though much did it grieve 
 ids lofty soul to be obliged to turn his back even upon 
 a nation of foes. Many hair-breadth 'scapes and di- 
 vers perilous mishaps did they sustain, as they scour- 
 ed, without sound of trumpet, through the fair 
 regions of the east. Already was the country in an 
 uproar with hostile preparation, and they were oblig- 
 ed to take a large circuit in their ilight, lurking along 
 through the woody mountains of the Devil's backbone; 
 from whence the valiant Peter sallied forth one day 
 like a lion, and put to rout a whole legion of squat- 
 
214 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 I 
 
 m 
 
 11 ? 
 
 !■• 
 
 lets, consisling of three generations of a prolific fa- 
 mily, wlio were already on their way to take posses- 
 sion of some corner of the New-Netherlands. Nay, 
 the faithful Anthony had great difliciilty, at sundry 
 times, to prevent him, in the excess of his wrath, 
 from descending down from the mountains, and fall- 
 ing, sword in hand, upon certain of the border-towns, 
 who were marshalling forth their draggle-tailed mi- 
 litia. 
 
 The first movement of the govf rnor, on reaching 
 his dwelling, was to mount the roof, from whence he 
 contemplated with rueful aspect the hostile squadron. 
 This had already come to anchor in the bay, and 
 consisted of two stout frigates, having on board, as 
 John Josselyn, gent, informs us, "(hree hundred 
 valiant red-coats." Having taken this survey, he sat 
 himself down and wrote an epistle to the commander, 
 demanding the reason of his anchoring in the harbour 
 without obtaining previous permission so to do. This 
 letter was couched in the most dignified and cour- 
 teous terms, though I have it from undoubted au- 
 thority that his teeth were clinched, and he had a 
 bitter sardonic grin upon his visage all the while he 
 wrote. Having dispatched his letter, the grim Peter 
 stumped to and fro about the town with a most war- 
 betokening countenance, liis hands thrust into his 
 breeches pockets, and whistling a Low Dutch Psalm- 
 tune, which bore no small resemblance to the music 
 of a north-east wind, when a storm is brewing. — 
 The very dogs as they eyed him skulked away in dis- 
 may; while all the old and ugly women of New- 
 Amsterdam ran howling at his heels, in)ploring him 
 to save them from murder, robbery, and pitiless ra- 
 vishment ! 
 
 The reply of Colonel Nichols, who commanded the 
 invaders, was couched in terms of equal courtesy with 
 the letter of the governor; declaring the right and 
 title of his British Majesty to the province, where he 
 aflirmed the Dutch to be mere interlopers ; and de- 
 manding that the town, forts, etc. should be fortli- 
 Avith rendered into his Majesty's obedience and pro- 
 tection; promising, at the same time, life, liberty, 
 estate, and free trade, to every Dutch denizen who 
 should readily submit to his Majesty's government. 
 
 Peter Sluyvesant read over this friendly epistle with 
 some such harmony of aspect as we may suppose a 
 crusty farmer, who has long been fattening upon his 
 neighbour's soil, reads the loving letter of John Stiles, 
 that warns him of an action of ejectment. The old 
 governor, however, was not to be taken by surprise; 
 but, thrusting the summons into his breeches pocket, 
 stalked three times across the room, look a pinch of 
 snuff with great vehemence, and then, loftily waving 
 his hand, promised to send an answer the next morn- 
 ing. In the mean time he called a general council 
 of war of his privy councillors and burgomasters, not 
 for the purpose of asking their advice, for that, as has 
 been already shown, he valued not a rush, but to 
 make known unto them his sovereign determination, 
 and require their prompt adherence. 
 
 Before he convened liis council, however, he rej 
 ed upon three important points : first, never to | 
 np the city without a little hard fighting; for hedei 
 ed it highly derogatory to the dignity of so renon 
 a city to suffer itself to be captured and strip 
 without receiving a few kicks into the biirgain- 
 coniUij, that the majority of his grand council \ 
 composed of arrant poltroons, utterly destitute oFU 
 bottom— and, thirdhj, — that he would not ihereH 
 suffer them to see the summons of Colonel l\ic|j 
 lest the easy terms it held out might induce theni| 
 clamour for a surrender. 
 
 His orders being duly promulgated, it was a pitn 
 sight to behold the late valiant burgomasters, 
 had demolished 'he whole British empire in tiieirj 
 rangues, peeping ruefully out of their hiding-plai 
 and then crawling cautiously forth, dodging tiin 
 narrow lanes and alleys — starting at every Iitlle( 
 that barked, as though it had been a discliargeofl 
 tillery — mistaking lamp-posts for British grenadie 
 and, in the excess of their panic, metauioiphoj 
 pumps into formidable soldiers, levelling blun 
 busses at their bosoms ! Having, however, indei 
 of numerous perils and difficulties of the kind, arri'l 
 safe, without the loss of a single man, at the halll 
 assembly, they look their seats, and awaited in fq 
 fid silence the arrival of the governor. ] 
 moments the wooden leg of the intrepid Peter i 
 heard in regular and slout-hearied thumps upon! 
 staircase. He entered the chamber, arrayed in ( 
 suit of regimentals, and carrying his trusty told 
 not girded on his thigh, but tucked under his ar| 
 As the governor never equipped himself in this | 
 tentous manner unless something of martial mt| 
 were working within his pericranium, his coun 
 regarded him ruetully, as if they saw lire and swij 
 in his iron countenance, and forgot to light tl^eirp 
 in breathless suspense. 
 
 The great Peter was as eloquent as he was valJ 
 ous. Indeed, these two rare (pialilies seemed to| 
 hand in haiul in his composition ; and, unlike i 
 great statesmen, whose victories are only conGnedl 
 the bloodless field of argument, he was ever readrj 
 enforce hL hardy words by no less hardy deeds. 
 speeches were generally marked by a siinplicilr i 
 pruaching to bluntuess, and by truly categorical dej 
 sion. Addressing the grand council, he tuud 
 briefly u\m\ the perils and hardships he had sustaj 
 ed, in escaping from his crafty foes, lienexlrepn 
 ed the council, for wasting in idle debate and | 
 feuds that time which should have been devutedl 
 their country. He was particularly indignaiitj 
 those brawlers, who, conscious of individual securl 
 had disgraced the councils of the province byim 
 tent hectorings and scurrilous invectives again! 
 noble and a powerful enemy — those cowardly i 
 who were incessant in their barkings and ycl|iiii|'i| 
 the lion, while distant or asleep, but, the niuinenl| 
 approached, were the first to skulk away. Hen 
 called on those who had been so valiant in 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 m 
 
 Dts against Great Britain to stand forth and sup- 
 jtlbeir vaunlings by their actions— for it was deeds, 
 [tords, that bes|M)ke tlie spirit of a nation. He 
 ded to recall the ^'olden days of former prosper- 
 [ which were only to be gained by manfully with- 
 iding their enemies; for the peace, he observed, 
 ich is efTecteil l)y force of arms, is always more 
 (and durable than that whici) is patched up by 
 lorary accommodations. lie endeavoured, more- 
 ,to arouse their martial fire, by reminding them 
 ; time when, before the frowning walls of Fort 
 slina, he had led them on to victory. He strove 
 to awaken their confidence, by assuring 
 I of (he protection of St Nicholas, wlio had hi- 
 grto maintained them in safety, amid all the savages 
 J wilderness, the witches and squatters of the 
 [md (he giants of Merry-land. Finally, he in- 
 I them of the insolent summons he had received 
 mrrender, but concluded by swearing to defend 
 Iprovince as long as Heaven was on his side, and 
 ||i»l a wooden leg to stand u|ion. Which noble 
 Itnce he emphasized by a tremendous thwack with 
 Ibroad side of his sword upon the table that totally 
 Iririlied his auditors. 
 [ privy councillors, who had long been accus- 
 i to the governor's way, and in fact had been 
 Lglit into as perfect discipline as were ever the 
 iers of the great Frederick, saw that there was no 
 I in saying a word — so lighted their pipes, and 
 ltd away in silence, like fat and discreet coun- 
 But the burgomasters, being less under the 
 ■nor's control, considering themselves as repre- 
 lalires of the sovereign people, and being more- 
 I inflated with considerable importance and self- 
 iciency, which they had acquired at those notable 
 ols of wisdom and morality, the popular meetings, 
 (notso easily satisfied. Mustering up fresh spi- 
 Iwlien they found there was some chance of escap- 
 |(rom (heir present jeopardy without the disagree- 
 hllernadve of lighting, they requested a copy of 
 hnmmons (o surrender, (hat (hey might show it 
 } general meeting of the peojde. 
 ) insolent and mutinous a request would have 
 nrnoiigh to have roused the gorge of (he tranquil 
 nTwilier himself— what then must have been its 
 Jxtupon the great Stuyvesant, who was not only a 
 pman, a governor, and a valiant wooden-legged 
 jlier to boot, but withal a man of the most sto- 
 1 and gunpowder disposition ? He burst forth 
 la blaze of noble indignation,- swore not a mo- 
 t's son of them should see a syllable of it— that 
 ' deserved, every one of them, to be hanged, 
 |vn, and quartered, for traitorously daring to 
 dion (he infallibility of government— that as to 
 r advice or concurrence, he did not care a whiff of 
 ) for either— that be had long been liarassed 
 I thwarted by their cowardly counsels; but that 
 f might thenceforth go home, and go to l)ed like 
 J women; for he was determined to defend the co- 
 i himself, witlioiit the assistance of them or their 
 
 adherents! So saying, he tucked his sword under his 
 arm, cocked his hat upon his head, and girding up his 
 loins, stumped indignantly out of the council-chamber 
 —every body making room for him as he passed. 
 
 No sooner had he gone than the busy burgomasters 
 called a public meeting in front of the Stadt-house, 
 where they appointed as chairman one Dofue Iloer- 
 back, a mighty gingerbread-baker in the land, and 
 formerly of the cabinet of William the Testy. He 
 was looked up to with great reverence by the popu- 
 lace, who considered him a man of dark knowledge, 
 seeing he was (he first that imprinted new-year cakes 
 with the mysterious hieroglyphics of the Cock and 
 Breeches, and such like magical devices. 
 
 This great burgomaster, who still chewed (he cud 
 of ill-will against the valiant Stuyvesant, in conse- 
 quence of having been ignominiously kicked out of 
 his cabinet at (he time of his taking the reins of go- 
 vernment — addressed (he greasy muKitude in what 
 is called a patriotic speech, in which he informed 
 them of the courteous summons to surrender — of the 
 governor's refusal to comply therewith, and of his 
 denying the public a sight of the summons, which, 
 he had no doubt, contained conditions highly to the 
 honour and advantage of the province. 
 
 He then proceeded to speak of his Excellency in 
 high-sounding terms, suitable to the dignity and 
 grandeur of his station, comparing him to Nero, Ca- 
 ligula, and those other great men of yore, who are 
 generally quoted by [wpular orators on similar occa- 
 sions. Assuring the people, that the history of the 
 world did not contain a despotic outrage to equal the 
 present for atrocity, crueUy, tyranny, and blood- 
 thirstiness. That it would be recorded in letters of 
 fire, on the blood-stained tablet of history ! That 
 ages would roll back with sudden honor when they 
 came to view it! That the womb of time (by the 
 way, your orators and writers take strange liberties 
 with the womb of time, though some would fain have 
 us believe (hat time is an old gentleman) — (hat the 
 womb of time, pregnant as it was with direful hor- 
 rors, would never produce a parallel enormity ! — 
 With a variety of other heart-rending, soul-stirring 
 tropes and figures, which I cannot enumerate. — Nei- 
 ther indeed need I, for (hey were exactly (he same 
 (hat are used in all popular harangues and patriotic 
 orations at the present day, and may be classed in 
 rhetoric under the general title of Uigmarole:. 
 
 The speech of this inspired burgomaster being fi- 
 nished, the meeting fell into a kind of popular fer- 
 mentation, which produced not only a string of right 
 wise resolutions, but likewise a most resolute memo- 
 rial, addressed to the governor, remonstrating at his 
 conduct— which was no sooner handed to him, than 
 he handed it into the fire; and thus deprived poste- 
 rity of an invaluable document that might have served 
 as a precedent to the enlightened cobblers mul tailors 
 of the present day, in their sage intermeddlings with 
 
 politics. ■'■: V 
 
216 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Containing a doleful disaster of Anthony the Trumpeter— And 
 how Peter Stuyvcsant, like a second Cromwell, suddenly dis- 
 solved a Rump Parliament. 
 
 Now did the high-minded Pieter de Groodt shower 
 down a pannier load of maledictions upon his burgo- 
 masters for a set of self-willed, obstinate, headstrong 
 varlets, who would neither be convinced nor per- 
 suaded; and determined thenceforth to have nothing 
 more to do with them, but to consult merely the opi- 
 nion of his privy councillors, which he knew from 
 experience to be the best in the world — inasmuch as 
 it never differed from his own. Nor did he omit, 
 now that his hand was in, to bestow some thousand 
 left-handed compliments upon the sovereign people, 
 whom he railed at for a herd of poltroons, who had 
 no relish for the glorious hardships and illustrious 
 misadventures of battle — but would rather stay at 
 home, and eat and sleep in ignoble ease, than gain 
 immortality and a broken head, by valiantly fighting 
 in a ditch. 
 
 Resolutely bent, however, upon defending his be- 
 loved city, in despite even of itself, he called unto 
 him his trusty Van Corlear, who was his right-hand 
 man in all times of emergency. Him did he adjure 
 to take his war-denouncing trumpet, and, mounting 
 his horse, to beat up the country night and day — 
 sounding the alarm along the pastoral borders of the 
 Bronx — startling the wild solitudesofCroton— arous- 
 ing the rugged yeomanry of Weehawk and Iloboeken 
 — the mighty men of battle of Tappaan Bay — and the 
 brave Iwys of Tarry Town and Sleepy Hollow — to- 
 gether with all tiie other warriors of the country round 
 about; charging them one and all to sling their pow- 
 der horns, shoulder their fowling-pieces, and march 
 merrily down to the Manhattoes. 
 
 Now there was nothing in all the world, the di- 
 vine sex excepted, that Anthony Van Corlear loved 
 better than errands of this kind. So just slopping to 
 take a lusty dinner, and bracing to his side his junk 
 bottle, well charged with heart-inspiring Hollands, 
 lie issued jollily from the city gate, that looked out 
 upon what is at present called Broadway; sounding 
 as usual a farewell strain, that rung in sprightly 
 echoes through the winding streets of New-Amster- 
 dam — Alas! never more were they to be gladdened 
 by the melody of their favourite trumpeter! 
 
 It was a dark and stormy night when the goml 
 Anthony arrived at the creek (sagely denominated 
 Haerlem rieer) which separates the island of Manna- 
 hala from the main land. The wind was high, the 
 elements were in an uproar, and no Charon could 
 be found to ferry the adventurous sounder of brass 
 across the water. For a short time he vapoured like 
 an impatient ghost upon the brink, and then bethink- 
 ing himself of the urgency of his errand, took a hearty 
 embrace of his stone-liottle, swore most valorously 
 that he would swim across, en spijt den Duyvel, (in 
 Hpite of the devil!) and daringly plunged into tiie 
 
 stream. — Luckless Anthony ! scarce had he baflJ 
 half-way over, when he was observed to straggle T 
 lently, as if battling with the spirit of the wateij 
 instinctively he put his trumpet to his moulh 
 giving a vehement blast— sunk for ever to the I 
 tom! 
 
 The potent clangour of his trumpet, like the itj 
 horn of the renowned paladin Orlando, when eii 
 ing in the glorious field of Roncesvalles, rung far j 
 wide through the country, alarming the neiglib 
 round, who hurried in amazement to the spot. I| 
 an old Dutch burgher, famed for his veracity, and \ 
 had lieen a witness of the fact, related to them I 
 melancholy affair; with the fearful addition (to vij 
 I am slow of giving belief) that he saw the dur 
 in the shape of a huge moss-bonker, seize thestgi 
 Anthony by the leg, and drag him beneath the vai 
 Certain it is, the place, with the adjoining prom 
 tory, which projects into the Hudson, has been caj 
 Spijt den duyvel, or Spiking devil, ever since 
 restless ghost of the unfortunate Anthony still liaJ 
 the surrounding solitudes, and his trumpet has ol 
 been heard by the neighbours, of a stormy nia 
 mingling with the howling of the blast. H 
 ever attempts to swim over the creek after dark;| 
 the contrary, a bridge has been built to guard agal 
 such melancholy accidents in future — and as to hi 
 bonkers, they are held in such abhorrence, tliatj 
 true Dutchman will admit them to his table. i 
 loves good fish and hates the devil. 
 
 Such was the end of Anthony VanCorlear-ai 
 deserving of a better fate. He lived roundly ( 
 soundly, like a true and jolly bachelor, until the] 
 of his death; but though he was never married, I 
 did he leave behind some two or three dozen cliildq 
 in different parts of the country — fine, chubhy, 1 
 ing, flatulent little urchins ; from whom, if le^ 
 speak true (and they are not apt to lie) did desc 
 the innumerable race of editors, who people andl 
 fend this country, and who are bountifully paid| 
 the people for keeping up a constant alarm— and n 
 ing them miserable. Would that they inhcrileill 
 worth, as they do the wind, of their renowned |[ 
 genitor ! 
 
 The tidings of this lamentable catastropiie inf 
 a severer pang to the bosom of Peter Stnyvesanll 
 did eA'en the invasion of his beloved Anislei'dani.| 
 came ruthlessly home to those sweet affections i 
 grow close around the heart, and are noiu'ishe(llj|| 
 warmest current. As some lorn pilgrim, while j 
 tempest whistles through his locks, and dreary i 
 is gathering around, sees stretched cold and lifel 
 his faithful dog— the sole companion of his jonrneyl 
 who had shared his solitary meal, and so often Ik^ 
 his hand in humble gratitude — so did llie genen 
 hearted hero of the Manhattoes contemplate the I 
 timely end of his faithful Anthony. He lind be(D| 
 humble attendant of his footsteps— he had olio 
 him in many a heavy hour, by his honest gaicly.i 
 had followed him in loyalty and alfcction tim 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 217 
 
 J a scene of direful peril and mishap^he was 
 [forever— and that too, at a moment when every 
 [el cur seemed skulking from his side. — This 
 f Stuyvesant— this was the moment to try thy 
 KJe; and (his was the moment when thou didst 
 j shine forth — Peter the Headstrong. 
 e glare of day had long dispelled the horrors of 
 
 ny night ; still all was dull and gloomy. The 
 Kial Apollo hid his face behind lugubrious clouds, 
 ^outnow and then for an instant, as if anxious, 
 irful, to see what was going on in his favourite 
 < This was the eventful morning when the great 
 [wastogive his reply to the summons of the in- 
 Already was he closeted with his privy coun- 
 |tin^ in grim state, brooding over the fate of his 
 pie trumpeter, and anon boiling with indigna- 
 lilhe insolence of his recreant burgomasters flash- 
 
 n his mind. While in this state of irritation, a 
 tarrived in all haste from Winthrop, the subtle 
 lor of Connecticut, counselling him, in the most 
 litnate and disinterested manner, to surrender 
 iDTJnce, and magnifying the dangers and cala- 
 ^10 which a refusal would subject him. — What 
 
 lit was this to intrude officious advice upon a 
 
 irho never took advice in his whole life ! — The 
 
 tiki governor strode up and down the chamber 
 
 li vehemence that made the bosoms of his coun- 
 
 ^toquake with awe — railing at his unlucky fate, 
 
 s made him the constant butt of factious sub- 
 |and Jesuitical advisers. 
 
 (at this ill-chosen juncture the officious burgo- 
 rs, who were now completely on the watch, and 
 teard of the arrival of mysterious dispatches, 
 Imarching in a resolute body into the room, with 
 
 1 of schepens and toad-eaters at their heels, 
 
 vptly demanded a perusal of the letter. Thus 
 
 Ibroken in upon by what he esteemed a " rascal 
 
 8," and that too at the very moment he was 
 
 ing under an irritation from abroad, was loo 
 
 [for the spleen of the choleric Peter. He tore 
 
 let in a thousand pieces '—threw it in the face 
 bearest burgomaster- broke his pipe over the 
 [of the next — hurled his spitting-box at an un- 
 jschepen, who was just making a masterly re- 
 joatat the door, and finally prorogued the whole 
 
 I sine die, by kicking them down stairs with 
 
 Mien leg. 
 
 Isoon as the burgomasters could recover from the 
 ■ion into which their sudden exit had thrown 
 I and had taken a little time to breathe, they 
 {Hed against the conduct of the governor, which 
 
 1 not hesitate to |.ronounce tyrannical, uncon- 
 
 nal, highly indecent, and somewhat disrespect- 
 
 jThey then called a public meeting, where they 
 
 protest, and, addressing the assembly in a 
 
 ich, related at full length, and with appropriate 
 |tingand exaggeration, the despotic and vindic- 
 
 ortment of the governor; declaring that, for 
 |own parts, they did not value a straw the being 
 ■ Smith's IlUlory of N.V. 
 
 kicked, cuffed, and mauled by the timber toe of his 
 Excellency, but that they felt for the dignity of the 
 sovereign people, thus rudely insulted by the outrage 
 committed on the seat of honour of their representa- 
 tives. The latter part of the harangue had a violent 
 effect upon tlie sensibility of the people, as it came 
 home at once to that delicacy of feeling, and jealous 
 pride of character, vested in all true mobs; who, 
 though they may bear injuries without a murmur, yet 
 are marvellously jealous of their sovereign dignity — 
 and there is no knowing to what act of resentment they 
 might have been provoked against the redoubtable 
 Peter, had not the greasy rogues been somewhat more 
 afraid of their sturdy old governor than they were of 
 St Nicholas, the English — or the d— 1 himself. 
 
 CHAPTER Vin. 
 
 
 '^*> 
 
 How Peter Stnyvcsant defended tlic city of New-Amsterdam for 
 several days, by dint of tlie slrengtli ofliis liead. 
 
 There is something exceedingly sublime and me- 
 lancholy in the spectacle which the present crisis of 
 our history presents. An illustrious and venerable 
 little city— the metropolis of an immense extent of 
 uninhabited country — garrisoned by a doughty host 
 of orators, chairmen, committee-men, burgomasters, 
 schepens, and old women — governed by a determined 
 and strong-headed warrior, and fortified by mud bat- 
 teries, palisadoes, and resolutions — blockaded by sea, 
 beleaguered by land, and threatened with direful de- 
 solation from without; while its very vitals are torn 
 with internal faction and commotion! Never did 
 historic pen record a page of more complicated dis- 
 tress, unless it be the strife that distracted the Israel- 
 ites during the siege of Jerusalem — where discordant 
 parties were cutting each other's throats, at the mo- 
 ment when the victorious legions of Titus had toppled 
 down their bulwarks, and were carrying fire and 
 sword into the very sanctum sanctorum of the temple. 
 
 Governor Stuyvesant having triumphantly, as has 
 been recorded, put his grand council to the rout, and 
 thus delivered himself from a multitude of imperti- 
 nent advisers, dispatched a categorical reply to the 
 commanders of the invading squadron; wherein he 
 asserted the right and title of their High Mightinesses 
 the Lords States-General to the province of New-Ne- 
 therlands, and trusting in the righteousness of his 
 cause, set the whole British nation at defiance ! 
 
 My anxiety to extricate my readers and myself from 
 these disastrous scenes prevents me from giving the 
 whole of this gallant letter, which concluded in tliese 
 manly and affectionate terms : 
 
 " As touching the threats in your conclusion, we 
 " have nothing to answer, only that we fear nothing 
 " but what God (who is as just as merciful) shall lay 
 " upon us; all things being in his gracious disposal, 
 " and we may as well be preserved by him with 
 " small forces as by a great army, which makes us 
 " to wish you all happiness and prosperity, and re> 
 
 28 
 
218 
 
 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 " commend you to his protection.— My lords, your 
 " thrice humble and affectionate servant and friend, 
 "P. Stuyvesant." 
 
 Thus having resolutely thrown his gauntlet, the 
 brave Peter stuck a pair of horse pistols in his belt, 
 girded an immense powder -horn on his side — thrust 
 his sound leg into a Hessian Iwot, and clapping his 
 fierce little war hat on the top of his head— paraded 
 up and down in front of his house, determmed to de- 
 fend his beloved city to the last. 
 
 While all these woful struggles and dissensions were 
 prevailing in the unhappy city of New-Amsteidani, 
 and while its worthy but ill-starred governor was 
 framing the above-quoted lelter, the English com- 
 manders did not remain idle. They had agents se- 
 cretly employed to foment the fears and clamours of 
 the populace; and moreover circulated far and wide, 
 through the adjacent country, a proclamation, re- 
 peating the terms they had already held out in their 
 summons to surrender, at the same time beguiling 
 the simple Nederlanders with the most crafty and con- 
 ciliating professions. They promised that every man 
 who voluntarily submitted to the authority of his Bri- 
 tish Majesty should retain peaceable possession of his 
 house, his vrouw, and his cabbage-garden. That he 
 should be suffered to smoke his pipe, speak Dutch, 
 wear as many breeches as he pleased, and import 
 bricks, tiles, and stone jugs from Holland, instead of 
 manufacturing them on the spot. That he should on 
 no account be compelled to learn the English lan- 
 guage, nor keep accounts in any other way than by 
 casting them up on his fingers, and chalking them 
 down upon the crown of his hat; as is still observed 
 among the Dutch yeomanry at the present day. That 
 every man should be allowed quietly to inherit his 
 father's hat, coat, shoe-buckles, pipe, and every other 
 personal appendage ; and that no man should be oblig- 
 ed to conform tu any improvements, inventions, or 
 any other modern innovations; but, on the contrary, 
 should be permitted to build his house, follow his 
 trade, manage his farm, rear his hogs, and educate 
 his children, precisely as his ancestors had done be- 
 fore him from time immemorial.— Finally, that he 
 should have all the lienelits of free trade, and should 
 not be required to acknowledge any other saint in the 
 calendar than St Nicholas, who should thenceforward, 
 as before, be considered the tutelar saint of the city. 
 
 These terms, as may be supposed, appeared very 
 satisfactory to the people, who had a great disposition 
 to enjoy tlieir property unmolested, and a most sin- 
 gular aversion to engage in a contest, where they 
 could gain little more than honour and broken heads 
 —the first of which they held in philosophic ituliffe- 
 rence, the latter in utter detestation. By these insi- 
 dious means, therefore, did the English succeed in 
 alienating the confidence and aiTcctions of the popu- 
 lace from their gallant old governor, whom they con- 
 si'' red as obstinately bent upon running them into 
 hideous misadventures; and did not hesitate tn speak 
 
 their minds freely, and abuse him most hean 
 behind his back. 
 
 Like as a mighty grampus, who, though i 
 and buffeted by roaring waves and brawling suj 
 still keeps on an undeviating course; and ih 
 overwhelmed by boisterous billows, still em 
 from the troubled deep, spouting and blowing I 
 tenfold violence— so did the inflexible Peter J 
 unwavering, his delerminetl career, and risej 
 temptuous, above the clamours of the rabble. 
 
 But when the British warriors found, by ihe j 
 of his reply, that he set their power at defiance,! 
 forlhwilh dispatched recruiting officers to hi 
 and Jericho, and Nineveh, and Quag, and PaJ 
 and all those towns on Long-Island which hadl 
 subdued of yore by the immortal Stoffel BrinkeJ 
 stirring up the valiant progeny of Preserved Fisif 
 Determined Cock, and those other illustrious s 
 ters, to assail the city of New-Amsterdam byl 
 In the mean while the hostile ships made awfuf 
 paration to commence an assault by water. 
 
 The streets of New-Amsterdam now prescij 
 scene of wild dismay and consternation. In Ta] 
 the gallant Stuyvesant order the citizens to an 
 assemble in the public square or market-place. I 
 whole party of Short Pipes in the course of a I 
 night had changed into arrant old women-al 
 morphosis only to be paralleled by the prodij 
 corded by Livy as having happened at Rome | 
 approach of Hannibal, when statues sweated id 
 affright, goats were converted into sheep, and] 
 turning into hens, ran cackling about the strei 
 The harassed Peter, thus menaced from \ 
 and tormented from within— baited by the 1 
 masters, and hooted at by the rabble, cliafe^ 
 growled and raged like a furious bear tied to al 
 and worried by a legion of scoundrel curs. Fuf 
 however, that all further attempts to defend I 
 were vain, and hearing that an irruption of li 
 and moss-troopers was ready to deluge him fro 
 east, he was at length compelled, in spite of lm| 
 heart, which swelled in his throat until it 1 
 choked him, to consent to a treaty of surrenda 
 Words cannot express the transports of the p 
 on receiving this agreeable intelligence; 
 obtained a conquest over their enemies, lhey| 
 not have indulged greater delight. The i 
 sounded with their congratulations— they d 
 their governor as the father and deliverer of hiij 
 try—they crowded to his house to testify tliei 
 titude, and were ten times more noisy in theirpf 
 than when he returned, with victory percln 
 his beaver, from the glorious capture of Forlj 
 lina.— But the indignant Peter shut his dw 
 windows, and took refuge in the innermoslr 
 of his mansion, that he might not hear the i^ 
 rejoicings of the rabble. 
 
 In consequence of this consent of the gov( 
 parley was demanded of the besieging forces f 
 of I he terms of surrender. Accordingly a depi 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 21!) 
 
 [ conimissioners was appuinted on both sides, 
 
 g the 27th of August, 1604, a capitulation highly 
 
 fible to tlie provin<^e, and iionourable to Peter 
 
 ant, was agreed to by tiie enemy, wlio liad 
 
 tved a lii^li opinion of Uie valour of llie Man- 
 is, and the magnanimity and unbounded discre- 
 flheir governor. 
 
 > thing alone remained, which was, that the 
 sof surrender should l^e ratified, and signed by 
 
 i)?ernor. When the coniniissiuners respectfully 
 1 upon him for this purpose, they were received 
 I bardy old warrior with the most grim and 
 
 ^courtesy. liis warlike accoutrements were laid 
 ■m old Indian night-gown was wrapped about 
 «ed limbs, a red night-cap overshadowed his 
 Ing brow, an iron gray beard of three days' 
 iigave additional grimness to his visage. Thrice 
 ^seize a little worn out stump of a pen, and essay 
 gllie loathsome paper — thrice did he clinch his 
 ,an(l make a most horrible countenance, as 
 b a pestiferous dose of rhubarb, senna, and ipe- 
 ia, had been offered to his lips; at length, 
 gk from him, he seized his brass-hilted sword, 
 eiking it from the scabbard, swore by St Ni- 
 i,he'(l sooner die (ban yield to any power under 
 
 |nin was every attempt to shake this sturdy re- 
 
 -menaces, remonstrances, revilings, were 
 
 sled to no purpose — for two whole days was 
 
 ! of the valiant Peter besieged by the clamur- 
 
 e, and for two whole days did he partake 
 
 jrif to his arms, and [lersist in a magnanimous 
 
 ilto ratify the capitulation. 
 
 Ilen^tii the populace linding that bo!s!<>rous mea- 
 
 jilid but incense mure determined oppttsilion, 
 
 iglit themselves of an humble expedient, by 
 
 ^, happily, the governor's ire might be soothed, 
 
 sresolution undermined. And now a solenm 
 
 nurnful procession, headed by the biu-gonias- 
 
 lad schepens, and followed by the populace, 
 
 |»slowly to the governor's dwelling, bearing the 
 
 lalion. Here they found the stout old hero, 
 
 ■ up like a giant into his castle, the doors slrong- 
 
 licadued and himself in full regimentals, with 
 
 |cked hat on his head, iirmly posted with a blun- 
 
 i at the garret window. 
 
 |(re was something in this lurmidable position 
 
 uck even the ignoble vulgar with awe and ad- 
 
 Tlie brawling multitude could nut but re- 
 
 ^itliself-abasemenl upon their own pusillanimous 
 
 Kt, when they beheld their hardy but deserted 
 
 lovernor, thus faithful to his pitst, like a furlurn 
 
 [and I'ully prepared to defend his ungrateful city 
 
 ! last. These compunctions, however, were 
 
 Hverwhelmed by the recurring tide of public ap- 
 
 usion. The populace arranged themselves be- 
 
 |liehoH§c, taking off their hats with most respect- 
 
 Wniility— Ikugomaster lloerbock, who was of 
 
 pnlar class of orators described by Sallust, as 
 
 I" talkative rather than eloquent," stepped forth 
 
 and addressed the governor in a speech of three hours' 
 length, detailmg, in the most pathetic terms, the ca- 
 lamitous situation of the province, and urging him, 
 in a constant repetition of the saniii arguments and 
 words, to sign the capitulation. 
 
 The mighty Peter eyed him from his little garret 
 window in grim silence— now and then his eye would 
 glance over the surrounding rabble, and an indignant 
 grin, like that of an angry mastiff, would mark his 
 iron visage. But though he was a man of most un- 
 daunted mettle — though he had a heart as big as an 
 ox, and a head that would have set adamant to scorn 
 — yet after all he was a mere morta' — wearied out by 
 these repeated oppositions, and this eternal haran- 
 guing, and perceiving that unless he complied, the 
 inhabitants would follow their own inclination, or 
 rather their fears, without wailing for his consent, he 
 testily ordered them to hand up the paper. It was 
 accordingly hoisted to him on the end of a pole, and 
 having scrawled bis name at the bottom of it, he ana- 
 thematized them all fur a set of cowardly, mutinous, 
 degenerate poltroons— threw the capitulation at their 
 heads, slammed down the window, and was heard 
 stumping down stairs with the most vehement indi- 
 gnation. The rabble incontinently took to then- 
 heels; even the burgomasters were not slow in eva- 
 cuating the premises, fearing lest the sturdy Peter 
 might issue from his den, and greet them with some 
 unwelcome testimonial of his displeasure. 
 
 Within three hours after the surrender, a legion of 
 British beef-fed warriors poured into New-Amster- 
 dam, lakingpossessionof the fort and batteries. And 
 now might be beard, from all quarters, the sound of 
 hammers made by the old Dutch burghers, who were 
 busily employed in nailing up their doors and win- 
 dows, to protect their vrouws from these fierce bar- 
 barians, whom they contemplated in silent sullenness 
 from the garret window, as they paraded through the 
 streets. 
 
 Thus did Colonel Richard Nichols, the commander 
 of the British forces, enter into (|uiet possession of the 
 coiMiuered realm, as locum tenens tor the Duke of 
 York. The victory was attended with no other out- 
 rage than that of changing the name of the province 
 and its metropolis, which Ihenceforlh were denomi- 
 nated Nkw-Youk, and so have continued to he call- 
 ed unto the present day. The inhabitants, according 
 to treaty, were allowed to maintain cpiiet possession 
 of their properly; but so inveterately did they retain 
 their abhorrence of the British nation, that in a pri- 
 vate meeting of the leading citizens, it was unanimous- 
 ly determined never to ask any of their conquerors 
 to diimer. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 CoiUalalng Uic Uigiiificd rcliriMnnit, and mortal surrender of 
 I>i>ter lliu lleadiitrung. 
 
 Tmis then have I concluded this great historical en- 
 terprise ; but before I lay aside my weary pen, there 
 
2!^ 
 
 fflSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 ilf^ ' 
 
 yet remains to be performed one pious duty. If 
 among tlie variety of readers tliat may peruse this 
 book, there should haply be found any of tliose souls 
 of true nobility, which glow with celestial lire at the 
 history of the generous and tlie brave, they will doubt- 
 less be anxious to know the fate of the gallant Peter 
 Stuyvesant. To gratify one such sterling heart of 
 gold I would go more lengths than to instruct the 
 cold-bi'M)ded curiosity of a whole fraternity of philo- 
 sophers. 
 
 No sooner had that high-mettled cavalier signed 
 the articles of capitulation, than, determined not to 
 witness the humiliation of his favourite city, he turn- 
 ed his back on its walls and made a growling retreat 
 to his houwery, or country seat, which was situated 
 about two miles off; where he passed the remainder 
 of his days in patriarchal retirement. There he en- 
 joyed that tranquillity of mind, which he had never 
 known amid the distracting cares of government; and 
 tasted the sweets of absolute and uncontrolled author- 
 ity, which his factious subjects had so often dashed 
 with the bitterness of opposition. 
 
 Mo persuasions could ever induce him to revisit the 
 city — on the contrary, he would always have his great 
 arm-chair placed with its back to the windows which 
 looked in that direction ; until a thick grove of trees 
 planted by his own hand grew up and formed a screen 
 that effectually excluded it from the prospect. He 
 railed continually at the degenerate innovations and 
 Improvements introduced by the conquerors — forbade 
 a word of their detested language to be spoken in his 
 family, a prohibition readily obeyed, since none of the 
 household could speak any thing but Dutch — and 
 even ordered a fine avenue to bo cut down in front of 
 his house because it consisted of English cherry-trees. 
 The same incessant vigilance, that blazed forth 
 when he had a vast province under his care, now 
 showed itself with equal vigour, though in narrower 
 limits. He patrolled with unceasing watchfulness 
 round the boundaries of his little territory; repelled 
 every encroachment with intrepid promptness ; pu- 
 nished every vagrant depredation upon his orchard or 
 his farm-yard with inflexible severity ; and conducted 
 every stray hog or cow in triumph to the pound. But 
 to the indigent neighbour, the friendless stranger, or 
 the weary wanderer, his spacious doors were ever 
 Ven, and his capacious fire-place, that emblem of 
 his own warm and generous heart, had always a 
 corner to receive and cherish them. There was an 
 exception to this, I must confess, in case the ill-starred 
 applicant were an Englishman or a Yankee; to whom, 
 though he might extend the hand of assistance, he 
 could never be brought to yield the rites of hospital- 
 ity. Nay, if peradventure some straggling merchant 
 of the east should stop at his door, with his cart-load 
 of tin wnre or wooden bowls, the fiery Peter would 
 issue forth like a giant from his castle, and make 
 such a furious clattering among his pots and kettles, 
 that the vender of "tioHoiis " was fain to betake him- 
 self to instant fliL'lif. 
 
 His suit of regimentals, worn threadbare ; 
 brush, were carefully hung up in the state bed-i 
 her, and regularly aired the first fair day of « 
 month ; and his cocked hat and trusty sword \ 
 suspended in grim repose over the parlour i 
 piece, forming supporters to a full-length porir 
 the renowned admiral Yon Tromp. In hisdooi 
 empire he maintained strict discipline, and a \_ 
 organized, despotic government; but thougli his| 
 will was the supreme lavv, yet the good of his [ 
 jects was his constant object. He watched oveH 
 merely their immediate comforts, but their i 
 and their ultimate welfare; for hegavetlieinalil 
 ance of excellent admonition, nor could any of J 
 complain, that, when occasion required, he wj 
 any means niggardly in bestowing wholesomel 
 rection. 
 
 The good old Dutch festivals, those periodia 
 monstrations of an overflowing heart and a tliaJ 
 spirit, which are falling into sad disuse among 
 fellow-citizens, were faithfully observed in tlie j 
 sion of Governor Stuyvesant. New year was! 
 a day of open-handed liberality, of jocund rei( 
 and warm-hearted congratulation, when tlie I 
 swelled with genial good-iellowship, and the | 
 teous table was attended with an uncereuio 
 freedom, and honest broad-mouthed merniiientj 
 known in these days of degeneracy and refineq 
 Paas and Pinxler were scrupulously observed ihn 
 out his dominions ; nor was the day of St Mcj 
 suffered to pass by, without making presents, li 
 ing the stocking in the chimney, and coinplying 
 all its other ceremonies. 
 
 Once a-year, on the first day of April, he i 
 array himself in fiiU regimentals, being the an 
 sary of his triumphal entry into New-Amstet 
 after the conquest of New-Sweden. This nasail 
 a kind of saturnalia among the domestics, wiienl 
 considered themselves at liberty, in some measiii 
 say and do what they pleased ; for on this darj 
 master was always observed to unbend, and I 
 exceeding pleasant and jocose, sending the ( 
 headed negroes on April-fool's errands for pi^ 
 milk ; not one of whom but allowed himself ( 
 taken in, and humoured his old master's jokes,! 
 came a faithful and well-disciplined dependant. 1 
 did he reign, happily and peacefully, on hisowoj 
 — injuring no man — envying no man— niolesteT 
 no oulwaixl strifes; perplexed by no internal i 
 motions — and the mighty monarclis of the earll)| 
 were vainly seeking to maintain peace, and pni 
 the welfare of mankind, by war and desolation,' 
 have done well to have made a voyage to tlie I 
 island of Manna-hata, and learned a lesson in^l 
 ment from the domestic economy of Peter Stiiyvff 
 In process of time, however, the old governorj 
 all other children of mortality, begun to exliil)i 
 dent tokens of decay. Like an aged oak, 
 though it long has braved the fury of the elei 
 and still retains its gigantic proportions, yet Ik 
 
HISTORY OF PflEW-YORK. 
 
 221 
 
 jte and groan with every blast— so was it with the 
 
 pliant Peter; for though he still bore the port and 
 
 blance of what he was, in the days of his hardi- 
 
 I and chivalry, yet did age and infirmity begin to 
 
 ) the vigour of his frame— but his heart, that most 
 
 onquerable citadel, still triumphed unsubdued. 
 
 Viih matchless avidity would he listen to every ar- 
 
 de of intelligence concerning the battles between 
 
 English and Dutch— still would his pulse beat 
 
 Ui, whenever he heard of the victories of De Ruyter 
 
 jnd his countenance lower, and his eye-brows knit, 
 
 ^hen fortune turned in favour of the English. At 
 
 mgili, as on a certain day he had just smoked his 
 
 I pipe, and was napping after dinner, in his arm- 
 ilr, conquering the whole British nation in his 
 teams, he was suddenly aroused by a ringing of 
 ells, rattling of drums, and roaring of cannon, that 
 mtall his blood in a ferment. But when he learnt 
 ibat these rejoicings were in honour of a great victory 
 blaliied by the combined English and French fleets 
 
 Iter the brave De Ruyter, and the younger Von 
 Iromp, it went so much to his heart, that he took to 
 
 i bed, and, in less than three days, was brought 
 death's door, by a violent cholera morbus ! But 
 treninthis extremity he still displayed the uncon- 
 perable spirit of Peter the Headstrong ; holding out 
 tllie last gasp, with the most hiHexible obstinacy, 
 igainsl a whole army of old women who were bent 
 Igpon driving the enemy out of his bowels, after a 
 lie Dutch mode of defence, by inundating the seat 
 ivir with catnip and penny-royal. 
 
 While he thus lay, lingering on the verge of disso- 
 lution, news was brought him, that the brave De 
 fluyter had suffered but little loss — had made good 
 
 s retreat— and meant once more to meet the enemy 
 
 II battle. The closing eye of the old warrior kindled 
 kttbe words — he partly raised himself in bed — a flash 
 
 ifmartial fire beamed across his visage — he clinched 
 lis withered hand, as if he felt within his gripe that 
 pord which waved in triumph before the walls of 
 f ort Cluislina, and giving a grim smile of exultation, 
 uk back upon his pillow, and expired. 
 
 Thus died Peter Stuyvesant, a valiant soldier— a 
 loyal subject— an upright governor, and an lionest 
 Dutchman- who wanted only a few empires to de- 
 olate, to have been immortalized as a hero ! 
 
 His funeral obsequies were celebrated with the ut- 
 
 st grandeur and solenmity. The town was per- 
 iclly emptied of its inhabitants, who crowded in 
 |brongs to pay the last sad honours to their good old 
 fovernor. All his sterling qualities rushed in full tide 
 
 on their recullecliun, while the memory of his 
 l)ibles and his faults had expired with him. The an- 
 ient biu'gheis contended who should have the pri- 
 ^ieij'cur bearing the pall, the populace strove who 
 
 ould walk nearest to the bier, and the melancholy 
 ission was closed by a number of gray-headed 
 
 groes, who had wintered and summered in the 
 
 isehold of, their departed master, for the greater 
 M of a century. 
 
 With sad and gloomy countenances, the multitude 
 gathered round the grave. They dwelt with mourn- 
 ful hearts, on the sturdy virtues, the signal services, 
 and the gallant exploits of the brave old worthy. 
 They recalled, with secret upbraidings, their own 
 factious oppositions to his government; and many an 
 ancient burgher, whose phlegmatic features had ne- 
 ver been known to relax, nor his eyes to moisten, 
 was now observed to puff a pensive pipe, and the 
 big drop to steal down his cheek; while he muttered, 
 with affectionate accent, and melancholy shake of 
 
 the head "Well den! — Uardkopping Peter ben 
 
 gone at last." 
 
 His remains were deposited in the family vault, 
 under a chapel which he had piously erected on bis 
 estate, and dedicated to St INicholas — and which stood 
 on the identical spot at present occupied by St Mark's 
 church, where his tombstone is still to be seen. His 
 estate, or bouwery, as it was called, has ever conti- 
 nued in the possession of his descendants, who, by 
 the uniform integrity of their conduct, and their strict 
 adherence to the customs and manners that prevailed 
 in the " good old times." have proved themselves 
 worthy of their illustrious ancestor. Many a lime 
 and oft has the farm been haunted at night by enter- 
 prising money-diggers, in quest of pots of gold, said 
 to have been buried by the old governor— though I 
 cannot learn that any of them have ever been enrich- 
 ed by their researches — and who is there, among my 
 native-born fellow-citizens, that does not remember 
 when, in the mischievous days of his boyhood, he 
 conceived it a great exploit to rob " Stuyvesant's or- 
 chard " on a holiday afternoon ? 
 
 At this strong-hold of the family may still be seen 
 certain memorials of the immortal Peter. His full- 
 length portrait frowns in martial terrors from the 
 parlour wall— his cocked hat and sword still hang 
 up in the l)est bed -room— his brimstone- coloured 
 breeches were for a long while suspended in the ball, 
 until some years since they occasioned a dispute be- 
 tween a new-married couple— and bis silver-mounted 
 wooden leg is still treasured up in the store-room, as 
 an invaluable relique. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The author's rellcctions upon what has been said. 
 
 Among the numerous events, which are each in 
 their turn the most direfid and melancholy of all pos- 
 sible occurrences, in your interesting and authentic 
 history, there is none that occasions such deep and 
 heart-rending grief as the decline and fall of your re- 
 nowned and mighty empires. Where is the reader 
 who can contemplate without emotion the disastrous 
 events by which the great dynasties of the world have 
 been extinguished? While wandering, in imagina- 
 tion, among the gigantic ruins of states and empires, 
 anil marking the tremendous convulsions that wrought 
 

 HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 their overthrow, the bosom of the melancholy inquirer 
 swells with sympathy commensurate to tlie surround- 
 ing desolation. Kingdoms, principalities, and powers, 
 have each had their rise, their progress, and their 
 downfall — each in its tnrn has swayed a potent scep- 
 tre — each has returned to its primeval nothingness. 
 And thus did it fare with the empire of their High 
 Mightinesses, at the Manhattoes, under the peaceful 
 reign of Walter the Doubter — the fretful reign of 
 William the Testy, and the chivakic reign of Peter 
 the Headstrong. 
 
 Its history is fruitful of instruction, and worthy of 
 being pondered over attentively ; for it is by thus rak- 
 ing among the ashes of departed greatness, that the 
 sparks of true knowledge are to be found, and the 
 lamp of wisdom illuminated. Let then the reign of 
 Walter the Doubter warn against yielding to that 
 sleek, contented security, and that overweening fond- 
 ness for comfort and repose, which are produced by 
 a state of prosperity and peace. These tend to un- 
 nerve a nation ; to destroy its pride of character ; to 
 render it patient of insult, deaf to the calls of honour 
 and of justice; and cause it to cling to peace, like the 
 sluggard to bis pillow, at the expense of every va- 
 luable duty and consideration. Such supineness en- 
 sures the very evil from which it shrinks. One right 
 yielded up produces the usurpation of a second ; one 
 encroachment passively suffered makes way for an- 
 other; and the nation which thus, through a doting 
 love of peace, has sacrificed honour and interest, will 
 at length have to fight for existence. 
 
 Let the disastrous reign of William the Testy serve 
 as a salutary warning against that fitful, feverish 
 mode of legislation, which acts without system, de- 
 pends on shiHs and projects, and trusts to lucky con- 
 tingencies. Which hesitates, and wavers, and at 
 length decides with the rashness of ignorance and 
 imbecility. Which stoops for popularity by courting 
 the prejudices and Haltering the arrogance, rather 
 than commanding the respect of the rabble. Which 
 seeks safety in a multitude of counsellors, and dis- 
 tracts itself by a vai iety of contradictory schemes and 
 opinions. Which mistakes procrastination for wari- 
 ness — hurry for decision — parsimony for economy — 
 bustle for business, and vapouring for valour. Which 
 is violent in council— siuiguine in expectation, preci- 
 pitate in action, and feeble in execution. Which un- 
 dertakes enterprises without forethought — enters 
 upon them without preparation — conducts them with- 
 out energy, and ends them in confusion and defeat. 
 
 Let the reign of the good Stuyvesant show the ef- 
 fecls of vigour and decision, even when destitute of 
 cool judgment, and surrounded by perplexities. Let 
 it show how frankness, probity, and liigh-souled cou- 
 rage will command respect, and secure honour, even 
 where success is unattainable. But at the same time, 
 let it caution against a too ready reliance on the good 
 faith of others, and a too honest confidence in the 
 loving professions of powerful neighbours, who are 
 most friendly when they most mean to betray. Let 
 
 it teach a judicious attention to tlie opiniung an 
 wishes of the many, who, in times of peril, must I 
 soothed and led, or apprehension will overpower tit 
 deference to authority. 
 
 Let the empty wordiness of his factious subjecis j 
 their intemperate harangues; their violent "resolul 
 tions ; " their hectorings against an absent enemy, an 
 their pusillanimity on his approach, teach us to dig 
 trust and despise those clamorous patriots, vrha 
 courage dwells but in the tongue. Let them senJ 
 as a lesson to repress that insolence of speech, desJ 
 titute of real force, which too often breaks forth id 
 popular bodies, and bespeaks the vanity rather liiaj 
 the spirit of a nation. Let them caution us a;;ain 
 vaunting too much of our own power and prowessj 
 and reviling a noble enemy. True gallantry ofs 
 would always lead us to treat a foe with courtesy an 
 proud punctilio; a contrary conduct but takes fronj 
 the merit of victory, and renders defeat doubly ( 
 graceful. 
 
 But I cease to dwell on the stores of excellent exam 
 pies to be drawn from the ancient chronicles of ilij 
 Manhattoes. He who reads attentively will discovd 
 the threads of gold, which run throughout the ve 
 of history, and are invisible to the dull eye of ignoj 
 ranee. But, before I conclude, let me point uuti 
 solemn warning, furnished in the subtle chain 
 events by which the capture of Fort Gasimir has pn 
 duced the present convulsions of our globe. 
 
 Attend then, gentle reader, to this plain deduction! 
 which, if thou art a king, an emperor, or olher po\v(r| 
 ful potentate, I advise thee to treasure up in tiiy I 
 —though little expectation have I that my worli will 
 fall into such hands, for well I know the careofciaD{ 
 ministers, to keep all grave and edifying books uf ll 
 kind out of the way of unhappy inonarchs— lest perJ 
 adventure they should read tliem and learn wisdom.! 
 
 By the treacherous surprisal of Fort Casiinir, llienl 
 did the crafty Swedes enjoy a transient tiiunipli; m 
 drew upon their heads the vengeance of Peter Stuy! 
 vesant, who wrested all New-Sweden from tiieii 
 hands. By the conquest of New-Sweden, Peter Sluy| 
 vesant aroused the claims of Lord Baltimore, wiioai)' 
 pealed to the Cabinet of Great Britain ; who sulxiun 
 the whole province of New-Netherlands. By Ihi 
 great achievement the whole extent of North Auie 
 rica, from Nova Scotia to the Floridas, was renden 
 one entire dependency upon the British crown.— B 
 mark the consequence : the hitherto scattered coluniej 
 being thus consolidated, and having no riv.1l colonid 
 to check or keep them in awe, waxed great and |)owef| 
 ful, and finally becoming too strong for the inolli 
 country,' were enabled to shake off its lionds, and III 
 a glorious revolution l)ecame an independent (oi| 
 pire. But the chain of effects stopped not here ; 1 
 successful revolution in America proiluced the sanj 
 guiiiary revolution in France; which produced < 
 puissant Bonaparte; who produced the French (let 
 potism ; which has thrown the whole world in ( 
 fusion !— Thus have these great powers been suo 
 
HISTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
 225 
 
 Uy punished for their ill-starred conquests— and 
 liiis, as I asserted, have all the present convulsions, 
 ivolutions, and disasters that overwhelm mankind, 
 ^nated in the capture of the little Fort Casimir, as 
 orded in this eventful history. 
 And now, worthy reader, ere I take a sad farewell, 
 .vhich, alas ! must be for ever— willingly would I 
 irtin cordial fellowship, and bespeak thy kind-heart- 
 j remembrance. That I have not written a better 
 story of the days of the patriarchs is not my fault — 
 I any other person written one as good, I should 
 i have attempted it at all. That many will here- 
 ttt spring up and surpass me in excellence, I have 
 little doubt, and still less care ; well knowing 
 lat, when the great Christovallo Colon (who is vul- 
 irly called Columbus) had once stood his egg upon 
 send, every one at table could stand his up a thou- 
 ^nd times more dexterously. — Should any reader 
 1 matter of offence in this history, T should hearti- 
 f grieve, though I would on no account question his 
 lenetration by telling him he was mistaken — his good 
 Hlnre by telling him he was captious — or his pure 
 oience by telling him he was startled at a shadow. 
 Surely if he were so ingenious in flnding offence 
 Uere none was intended, it were a thousand pities 
 
 he should not be suffered to enjoy the benefit of his 
 discovery. 
 
 I have too high an opinion of the understanding of 
 my fellow-citizens, to think of yielding them instnic- 
 tion, and I covet too much their good will, to forfeit 
 it by giving them good advice. I am none of those 
 cynics who despise the world, because it despises them 
 —on the contrary, though but low in its regard, I look 
 up to it with the most perfect good nature, and my 
 only sorrow is, that it does rot prove itself more worthy 
 of tlie unlwunded love I bear it. 
 
 If however in this my historic production — the 
 scanty fruit of a long and laborious life — I have failed 
 to gratify the dainty palate of the age, I can only la- 
 ment my misfortune— for it is too late in the season 
 for me even to hope to repair it. Already has wi- 
 thering age showered his sterile snows upon my brow ; 
 in a little while, and this genial warmth which still 
 lingers around my heart, and throbs — worthy reader 
 — throbs kindly towards thyself, will be chilled for 
 ever. Haply this frail compound of dust, which while 
 alive may have given birth to naught but unprofitable 
 weeds, may form a humble sod of the valley, from 
 whence may spring many a sweet wild flower, to 
 adorn my beloved island of Manna-hata ! 
 
 \:M. 
 
 KND OF THE IHSTORY OF NEW-YORK. 
 
f 
 
 /" 
 
 SIR WALTI 
 
 THIS WOB 
 
 liiTuriMoriT or tbe , 
 THE 
 
 ADVEK 
 
 I following desultory 
 
 s country, liut pubiis 
 
 tof the austerity witt 
 
 1 have hitherto beei 
 
 m, too, that much < 
 
 jleresling only in the e 
 
 sinleiilion, therefoi' 
 
 He has, howeve 
 
 olime inserted in p( 
 
 tslood that it was pro 
 
 l(ollectiT6 form. lie 
 
 Kandbringthcraforwi 
 
 fcorrcclly before the 
 
 jfsufliclcnt importanni 
 
 e solicits for them Ihi 
 
 l^er has some right t( 
 
 Esboldofahospitabl 
 
 lelnury, (820. 
 
 fUTHOR'S ACC( 
 
 1 of (his mind with I 
 lliershcl was turned eft 
 Jlomakeastoole to sit 
 aowne country is in 
 wasliape, that he is 
 candle live where he 
 
 FAS always fond of 
 pg strange character 
 echildlbeganmyl 
 »very into foreign I 
 
THE SKETCH BOOR 
 
 OF 
 
 ^toUte^ Crajjoit) <f^tnt. 
 
 " I have no wife nor children, good or bad, lo provide 
 for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes and 
 adventures, and how they play their parts : which, 
 niethinks, arc diversely presented unto me, as from a 
 common theatre or scene." Burton. 
 
 
 :^-<- 
 
 TO 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, Rart. 
 
 THIS WOBK IS DEDICATED, 
 lllTUriMONT OF TBB ADMIRATION AND AFFECTION OF 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 I following desultory papers are part of a scries writtcc 
 
 s country, but published in America. The auibor is 
 
 tof the austerity with which Ihe writings ofhs couii- 
 
 g haTC hitherto been treated by British critics : be is 
 
 jous, too, that much of the contents of his papers can 
 
 keresting only in the eyes of American readers. It was 
 
 ^liinleution, therefore, to have them reprinted in this 
 
 Irv. He has, however, observed several of them from 
 
 llolime inserted in periodiral works of merit, and has 
 
 rslood that it was probable they would be republished 
 
 Itollective form. He has been induced, therefore, to 
 
 pad bring them forward himself, that they may at least 
 
 t correctly before the public. Should they be deein- 
 
 Jfsuflicicnt importance to attract the attention of cri- 
 
 IIk solicits for them that courtesy and candour which a 
 
 f/tt has some right to claim, who presents himself at 
 
 ishold of a hospitable nation. 
 
 lelinury, 1820. 
 
 THE 
 
 llUTHORS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 1 of this mind with Homer, that as the snalle that crept 
 
 Ihershcl was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was 
 
 llo malie a stoolc to sit on; so Ihe traveller that straglelh 
 
 |his owne country is in a short time Iraasformed into so 
 
 > a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his 
 
 (.ami lo live where he can, not where he would." 
 
 Lvly's Eupbues. 
 
 FAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and ob- 
 ig strange characters and manners. Even when 
 « child I began my travels, and made many lours 
 »very 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 liistory or fable. I knew 
 every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- 
 mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited tlie neighbouring 
 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 di- 
 stant hill, from whence I stretched my eye over many 
 a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find 
 how vast a globe I inhabited. 
 
 This rambling propensity strengthened with my 
 years. Books of voyages and travels became my pas- 
 sion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the 
 regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would 
 I wander about the pier heads in flne weather, and 
 watch the parting ships bound to distant climes ! with 
 wliat longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening 
 sails, and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the 
 earth ! 
 
 Farther reading and thinking, though they brought 
 this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, 
 only served to make it more decided. I visited various 
 parts of my own country : and had I been merely in- 
 fluenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have felt 
 little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification : for on 
 no country have the charms of nature been more pro- 
 digally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of 
 liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial 
 tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tre- 
 mendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes ; her 
 boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure; 
 her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the 
 ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
 forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the 
 magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine .—no, 
 never need an American look beyond his own country' 
 for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. 
 
226 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and 
 poetical association. There were to be seen the mas- 
 terpieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated 
 society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local 
 custom. ]VIy native country was full of youthful pro- 
 mise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures 
 of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone 
 by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I 
 longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achieve- 
 ment — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of anti- 
 quity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate 
 on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from lite 
 common-place realities of (he present, and iuse myself 
 among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 
 
 I had, besides 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 notliing so l)aleful 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 philo- 
 sophers, 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 ob- 
 serving the comparative importance and swelling mag- 
 nitude 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 lias 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 say that I have studied them 
 with the eye of a philosopher ; but rather with the 
 sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the pic- 
 turesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to 
 another; caught, sometimes by the delineations of 
 beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and 
 sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the 
 fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, 
 and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I 
 am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of 
 my friends. When, however, I look over the hints 
 and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, 
 my heart almost fails me at finding how my idle hu- 
 mour has led me aside from the great objects studied by 
 every regular traveller who would make a book. I 
 fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky 
 landscape painter, who had travelled on the continent, 
 but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had 
 sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His 
 sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, 
 and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglect- 
 ed to paint St Peter's, or the Coliseum; the cascade of 
 Temi, or the bay of Naples; and had not a single gla- 
 cier or volcano in bis whole collection. 
 
 THE VOYAGE. 
 
 Ships, ships. I wilt descrie you 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 I will come and try you. 
 What you are protecting, 
 And|irojecliuR, 
 What's your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandize and trading. 
 Another slays to keep his country from invadin;, 
 A third Is coming home with rich and w eallhy ladin;. 
 Ualio ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 
 
 OiDPon 
 
 To an American visitiitg Europe, the long voyj 
 he has to make is an excellent preparative. The li 
 p»»rary absence of worklly scenes and emplojn 
 pioduces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to m 
 new and vivid impressions. The vast spaceof waJ 
 that separates the hemispheres is like a blank pa^ 
 existence. There is no gradual transition by vli 
 as in Europe, the features and population ofoneo 
 try blend almost imperceptibly with those of anolhl 
 From the moment you lose sight of the land you lij 
 left, all is vacancy until you step on the opposite sh 
 and are launched at once uito the bustle and norel 
 of another world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity ofs( 
 and a connected succession of persons and incidi 
 that carry on the story of life, and lessen the efTeo 
 absence and separation. We drag, it is true, | 
 lengthening chain" at each remove of our pilu'rin 
 but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it backlj 
 by link ; and we feel that the last of them slill ;i3p| 
 us to home. But a wide sea voyage severe i 
 once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose fi 
 the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adj 
 upon a doubtful world. It interposes a 
 merely imaginary, but real, between us aiitlj 
 homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, <inii| 
 certainty, that makes distance palpable, and i 
 precarious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. AsH 
 the last blue line of my native land fade awayli 
 cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closedj 
 volume of the world and its concerns, and iiad t 
 for meditation, before I opened another. Tiiatlil 
 too, now vanishing from my view, which conlail 
 all that was most dear to me in life ; what viciisiiif 
 might occur in it — what changes might talie plai 
 me, before I should visit it again ! Who can I 
 when he sets forth to wander, whither he majj 
 driven by the uncertain currents of existenctl 
 when he may return; or whether it may everl)e| 
 lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should ( 
 the expression. To one given to day-dreaming,! 
 fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage isj 
 of subjects for meditation; but then they artj 
 wondei-s of the deep, and of the air, and ratherj 
 to abstract the mind from worldly themes. U 
 ed to loll over the quarter-railing, or climb to I 
 
 , of n calm da 
 
 utii L'ainbuls. Sin 
 
THE 8KETCH BOOR. 
 
 , of si calm day, and muse for hours logelliei 
 
 [llie tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; to gaze 
 
 I the piles of golden clouds just peering above the 
 
 »n, fancy tliem some fairy realms, and people 
 
 igi with a cre.ition of my own; — to watch the 
 
 [||euiuiuiating billows, rolling their silver volumes, 
 
 If 10 (lie away on those happy shores. 
 
 Ilbere was a delicious sensation of mingled secu- 
 
 tami awe with which I looked down, from my 
 
 iilv liei;,'ht, on the monsters of the deep at their 
 
 ;outli {s;anibuls. Shoals of por[>oises tumbling about 
 
 ^liow of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his 
 
 ifurm above tlie surface; or the ravenous shark, 
 
 iin^r, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My 
 
 iginalion would conjure up all that I had heard or 
 
 I of the watery world beneath me; of the finny 
 
 s that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless 
 
 liters that lurk among the very foundations of the 
 
 ^b;and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales 
 
 Jiermen and sailors. 
 
 iometiincs a distant sail, gliding along the edge of 
 ( ocean, would be another theme of idle specula- 
 
 How interesting 
 
 this fragment of 
 
 world, 
 
 ftening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What 
 l^orious monument of human invention; that has 
 ilriuniphed over wind and wave; has brought 
 jeemlsof the world into communion ; has established 
 I interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile 
 jfionsof the north all the luxuries of the south; has 
 ed the light of knowledge and the charities of 
 lltivaled life ; and has thus bound together those scat- 
 i portions of the human race, between which ne- 
 'e seemed to have thrown an insurniountablebarrier! 
 IWe one day descried some shapeless object drifting 
 la distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the 
 Motony of the surrounding expanse attracts atten- 
 It proved to be the mast of a ship that must 
 |Tebeen completely wrecked; for there were the 
 lains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 
 1 fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their 
 ; washed off by the waves. There was no trace 
 [wbich the name of the ship could be ascertained, 
 wreck had evidently drifted about for many 
 ntlis; clusters of shell-lish had fastened about it, 
 i long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
 niglil I, is the crew? Their struggle has long 
 |en over— they have gone down amidst the roar of 
 ! tempest— their bones lie wliitening among the 
 herns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the 
 pes, have closed over them, and no one can tell 
 e story of their end. What sighs have been wafted 
 lertliat ship! what prayers offered up at the desert- 
 I fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, 
 t wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to 
 Icii some casual intelligence of this rover of the 
 |(p ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — 
 (iely into dread— and dread into despair ! Alas ! 
 I one memento shall ever return for love to cherish, 
 i that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from 
 r 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 Eair, began to look wild and threatening, and 
 gave indications of one of those sudden storms that 
 will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a sum- 
 mer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a 
 lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, 
 every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I 
 was particularly struck with a short one related by 
 the captain. 
 
 " As I was once sailing," said he, " In a fine stout 
 ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those 
 heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered it im- 
 possible for us to see far a-head even in the day-time; 
 but at night the weather was so thick that we could 
 not distinguish any object at twice the length of the 
 ship. I kept lights at the mast head, and a constant 
 watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which 
 are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The 
 wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were 
 going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly 
 the watch gave the alarm of 'a sail a-head!' — it 
 was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She 
 was a iimall schooner, at anchor, with her broadside 
 towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had ne- 
 glected to hoist a light. We struck her just a-mid- 
 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 v, as sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two 
 or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin; 
 they just started from their beds to be swallowed 
 shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
 mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to 
 our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall 
 never forget that cry I It was some time before we 
 could put the ship about, she was under such head- 
 way. 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 confu- 
 sion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing 
 waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. 
 At times the black volume of clouds over head seemed 
 rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered 
 along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding 
 darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed 
 over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and 
 prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship 
 staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, 
 it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, 
 or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip 
 into the water : her bow was almost burietl beneath 
 the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
 
niE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ready to overwhelm her, and nolhing but a dexter- 
 ous tnovement of tlie helm preserved her from the 
 
 .shock. 
 " When I retired to my cabin, tlie awful scene still 
 followed me. The whistling of the wind through the 
 rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creak- 
 
 . ;|ng of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk 
 heads, as the ship laboured in the weltering sea, 
 were friglitfid. As I heard the waves rushing along 
 the side of (he ship, and roaring in my very ear, it 
 seemed as if Death were raging round this floating 
 prison, seeking fur his prey : the mere starting of a 
 nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him en- 
 trance. 
 
 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and fa- 
 vouring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections 
 to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening in- 
 fluence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When 
 the ship is decked out in all her canvass, every sail 
 swelled, and careering gaily over the curling waves, 
 how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems 
 to lord it over the deep! I might fill a volume 
 with the reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it 
 is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to 
 shore. 
 
 It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry 
 of "land!" was given from the mast head. None 
 but those who have experienced it can form an idea of 
 the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an 
 American's bosom, when he first comes in sight of 
 Europe. There is a volume of associations with the 
 very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with 
 every thing of which his childhood has heard, or on 
 which his studious years have pondvned. 
 
 From that time until the moment of arrival, it was 
 all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that 
 prowled like guardian giants along the coast^ the 
 headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; 
 the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all 
 were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the 
 Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. 
 My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with 
 their trim 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 neighbouring hill— all were characteristic of 
 England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favourable that the ship 
 was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was 
 thronged with people; some, idle lookers-on, others 
 eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could dis- 
 tinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consign- 
 ed. I knew him by his calculating brow and restless 
 air. His hands were thrust into his potket.s ; he was 
 whistling thouglufully, and walking to and fro, a 
 small space having been accorded him by the crowd, 
 in deference to his temporary iniporlaiice. .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 interestine i 
 meanour. She was leaning forward irom amonsl 
 crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it nearedl 
 shore, to catch some wished-for countenance, 
 seemed disap|)ointed and agitated ; when I JieaJ 
 faint voice call her name. — It was from a poor i 
 who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited I 
 sympathy of every one on board. When the weail 
 was fine, his messmates had spread a mattressl 
 him on deck in the shade, but of late his IIIdcss j 
 so increased, that he had taken to his hanimock 
 only breathed a wish that he might see his \\\f^ j 
 fore he died. He had been helped on deck as I 
 came up the river, and was now leaning againsil 
 shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale] 
 ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of aJ 
 tion did not recognize him. But at the sotind of| 
 voice, her eye darted on his features; it read, alo 
 a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her haij 
 uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing ilieig 
 silent agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The nieelin^ 
 acquainli-'uces— the greetings of friends— tlie coiu 
 talions of men of business. I alone was solitary i 
 idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering lo | 
 ceive. I stepped upon the land of my forefelhcr 
 but felt that I was a stranger in the land. 
 
 ROSCOE. 
 
 -In llic sprvicc of mankind tolw 
 
 A guardian gud l)elow ; still lo employ 
 Tlic mind's brave ardour in heroic aims, 
 Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever— that is life. 
 
 TboisoiI 
 
 0>E of the first places lo which a stranger isti 
 in Liverpool is the Athe;.a;um. It is establisliedl 
 a liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good libi 
 and spacious reading-room, and is the great I 
 resort of the place. Go there at what hour yoiii 
 you are sure lo find it filled with grave-lookinv|i 
 sonages, deeply absorbed in (he study of new^ 
 pers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the lean 
 my attention was attracted to a person just eiiK 
 the room. He was advanced in life, tail, anil ( 
 form that might once have been coinmamling, I 
 was a little boweil by lime— perhaps hy care, 
 had a noble Roman style of countenance; a lieailll 
 would have pleased a painter ; and though somesli| 
 furrows on his brow sliowed that wasting llioiij,'lil 
 been busy there, yet his eye still beamed willi 
 lire of a poetic soul. There was sometliing in | 
 whole appearance that indicated a being of a ( 
 order from the bustling race around him. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that lit 
 RoscoE. I drew back witli an involuntary fee 
 
 . mingling amoiij 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 229 
 
 (feneration. This, tlien, was an author of cele- 
 lity; this was one of those men , whose voices have 
 ; forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds 
 [liave communed even in tlie solitudes of America. 
 Icciislomed, as we are in our country, to Itnow Eu- 
 
 lean writers only hy their works, we cannot con- 
 nive of llieni, as of other men, engrossed by trivial 
 r sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of 
 
 nnion minds in the dusly paths of life. Tliey pass 
 Ure our imaginalions like superior beings, radiant 
 tiili (he eniiinations of their own genius, and sur- 
 oiintol by a lialo of literary glory. 
 
 Tolind, therefore, the elegant historian of (he Me- 
 , mingling among the busy sons of (rafiic, at first 
 
 icked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very 
 
 tumslances and situation in which lie has been 
 Laced, that Mr Roscoe derives his highest claims (o 
 tjiniradon. It is in(eresting to notice how some 
 lojnds seem almost to create themselves, springing up 
 
 der every disadvantage, and working (heir soli(ary 
 loi irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. 
 ^'alure seems to delight in disappointing (he assidu- 
 lliesof art, with which it would rcarlegidmatedulness 
 Umaturity ; and to glory in the vigour and luxuriance 
 (her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of 
 genius to the winds, and though some may perish 
 
 inung (he stony places of (he world, and some be 
 
 loked by the thorns and brambles of early adversily, 
 
 1(1 olliers will now and then strike root even in the 
 
 (lefts of (he rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, 
 
 indspread over their sterile birth-place all the beauties 
 
 IvpRPladon. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr Roscoe. Born in 
 i place apparently ungenial (o the growth of literary 
 uleiU; in (he very market-place of trade; without 
 ^une, family connexions, or patronage ; self-prompl- 
 d,$eir-$us(ained, and almost self-taught, he has con- 
 [uereil every obsOcle, achieved his way to eminence. 
 Bid, iiaving become one of the ornaments of the na- 
 bn, has turned the whole force of his talents and in- 
 lueiice (0 advance and embellish his na(ivc (own. 
 
 Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which 
 us given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and 
 Induceil nie particularly to puint him out to my cuun- 
 
 ymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is 
 jiul one among the many disdngiiished authors of (his 
 liitel!ee(ual na(ion. They, however, in general, live 
 l)ii(fortheirown fame, ortheir own pleasures. Their 
 pivate hi8(ory piescnts no lesson to the world, or, 
 lerliaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and in- 
 !()ii.sis(ency. At best, (hey are prone (o sleal away 
 from (he bustle and common-place of busy exislence; 
 
 I indulge in the sellishness of leKered ease; and (o 
 «vel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoyment. 
 
 Mr Roscoe, on (he contrary, bus claimed none of 
 lie accorded privileges of (alent. He has shut hini- 
 lelf up in no garden of thought, norelysiuni of fancy ; 
 iHit has gone forth into the highways and thorougli- 
 bresof life; he has planted bowers by the way side, 
 Mherefrcsliment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, 
 
 and has opened pure fountains, where the labouring 
 man may turn aside from the dust and heat of (he day, 
 and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There 
 is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind 
 may meditate and grow Iieiter. It exhibits no lofty 
 and almost useless, because inimitable, example of 
 excellence ; but presen(s a picture of active, yet simple 
 and imitable virtues, which are within every man's 
 reach, but which, unror(uiia(ely, are not exercised 
 by many, or this world would be a paradise. 
 
 But his private life is [leculiarly worthy the atten- 
 tion of (he citizens of our young and busy country, 
 where literature and the elegant ar(s must grow up 
 side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity; 
 and must dep»nd for their culture, not on the exclu- 
 sive devotion of time and weaUh, nor the quickening 
 rays of tided patronage, but on liours and seasons 
 snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by in- 
 telligent and public-spiri(ed individuals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place 
 in hours of leisure by one masler 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 inlerwoven the history of his life 
 with (hehis(ory ofhis native town, and has made the 
 foundations of i(s fame (he monumen(s ofhis virtues. 
 Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive traces 
 of his foolsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He 
 found (he (ide of wealth flowing merely in the chan- 
 nels of (rafiic; he has diverted from it invigorating 
 rills to refresh the gardens of literature. By his own 
 example and constant exertions he has effecled (hat 
 union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so 
 eloquently recommended 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 ins(itu(ions for literary and sciendlic pur- 
 poses, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are 
 giving such an impulse to (he public mind, have most- 
 ly been originated, and have all been effectively pro- 
 moted, by Mr Roscoe; and when we consider (he 
 rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that 
 (own, which promises (o vie in commercial import- 
 ance widi (he inedopolis, it will be perceived (hat in 
 awakening an ambidon of iiien(al improvement among 
 its inhabilanis, he has effected a giral benefit to the 
 cause of British lileralure. 
 
 In -.merica, we know Mr Roscoe only as the au- 
 thor — in Liverpool he is spoken of as (he banker; and 
 I was (ohi of his having been unfortunate in business. 
 I could not pi(y him, as I heard some rich men do. 
 I considered him far above (he reach of my pi(y. 
 'those who live only for the world, and in (he world, 
 may be cast down by (he frowns of adversily ; but a 
 man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by (he reverses 
 of fortune. They do bu( drive him in upon the re- 
 sources of his own mind; (o (he superior sucie(y of 
 his own (houglUs; which (he best of men are apt some- 
 • A(l(tn.'8s on tlic o|ienlng of the Liverpool Institution. 
 
250 
 
 THE SKETCH ©OOK. 
 
 times 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 pos- 
 terity; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of 
 studious retirement; and with posterity, in the gene- 
 rous aspirings after future renown. Tlie solitude of 
 such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is 
 then visited by tliose elevated meditations wiiich are 
 the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like man- 
 na, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 
 
 While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, 
 it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr 
 Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, (o view 
 theenvirons of Liverpool, when he turned off, through 
 a gate, into some ornamented grounds. A fter riding 
 a sliort distance, we came to a spacious mansion of 
 free-stone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in 
 the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the 
 situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away 
 from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as 
 to break a soft fertile country into a variety of land- 
 scapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet 
 sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow 
 land; while the Welsh mountains, blended with 
 clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the ho- 
 rizon. 
 
 Tills was Roscoe's favourite residence during the 
 days of his prosperity. It bad been the seat of ele- 
 gant hospitality and literary retirement. The house 
 was now silent and deserted. I saw the windows 
 of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery 
 I have mentioned. The windows were closed — the 
 library was gone. Two or three ill-favoured beings 
 were loitering about the place, whom my fancy pic- 
 tured into retainers of the law. It was like visiting 
 some classic fountain, that bad once welled its pure 
 waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, 
 with the lizard and the toad brooding over the shatter- 
 ed marbles. 
 
 I incpiired after the fate of Mr Roscoe's library, 
 which had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from 
 many of which be had drawn the materials for bis 
 Italian histories. It had passed imder the hammer 
 of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the conn- 
 try. The good people of the vicinity thronged like 
 wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had 
 I)een driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of 
 ludicrous associations, we might imagine somelliing 
 whimsical in this strange irruption into the regions 
 of learning. Tigmics rummaging the armoury of a 
 giant, and contending for the possession of weapons 
 which they could not wield. We might picture to 
 ourselves some knot of speculators, debuting with 
 calculating brow over the quaint binding and illumi- 
 nated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of in- 
 tense, but baflled sagacity, with which some successful 
 purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter 
 bargain he had secured. 
 
 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr Roscoe's 
 misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the 
 
 studious mind, that the parting with his books i 
 to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and j. 
 have been the only circumstance that could provoU 
 the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows I 
 dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of ml 
 thoughts and innocent hours become in the season! 
 adversity. When all that is worldly turns to drj 
 around us, these only retain their steady vaiJ 
 When friends grow cold, and the converse of inj 
 males languishes into vapid civility and commoi 
 place, these only continue the unaltered countenan 
 of happier days, and cheer us with that true riieni 
 ship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorroJ 
 I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the peopl 
 of Liverpool bad been properly sensible of what i\ J 
 due to Mr Roscoe and themselves, bis library woul 
 never have been sold. Good worldly reasons nial 
 doubtless, be given for the circumstance, wliich] 
 would be difficult to combat with others that inH 
 seem merely fanciful; but it certainly appears loi 
 such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheerin"! 
 noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by onef 
 the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of puli 
 sympathy. It is difficult, however, to esliniale| 
 man of genius properly who is daily before oiirevef 
 He becomes mingled and confounded with other iiiei 
 His great qualities lose their novelty, and we be 
 too familiar with the common materials which for 
 the basis even of the loftiest character. SonieJ 
 Mr Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely asl 
 man of business; others as a poHtician; all flnd 
 engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, ad 
 surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points 1 
 worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unoslenlj 
 tious simplicity of character, which gives the namele 
 grace to real excellence, may cause him to be unde^ 
 valued by some coarse minds, who do not knowt 
 true worth is always void of glare and prelensiol 
 But the man of letters, who speaks of Livei] 
 speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe.— The intelll 
 gent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe j 
 to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of theplad 
 indicating its existence to the distant scholar.— lie i| 
 like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering aloi 
 in classic dignity. 
 
 The following sonnet, addressed by Mr Roscoe j 
 his books on parting with them, is alluded toinll 
 preceding article. If any thing can add effect lo ll 
 pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it| 
 Ibe conviction, that the whole is no effusiun of fan 
 but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart. 
 
 TO Siy BOOKS. 
 
 As one who, tlcstiniHl from liU frUniils to part, 
 Ili'grcis Hh Iohh, liiit hu|)(.>8 aKaiii cri'uliilc 
 To »l)ari! Ih(!ir converse and enjoy llicir smile, 
 
 And tempers as lie may aflliction'silarti 
 
 Thus, love<l assoclulps, cliiel's of older art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could unce beguile 
 My tedious liours, and IlKhli'n every loll, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting liearl i 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 251 
 
 for pass a few short years or days, or hours, 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers. 
 Mind Shan with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part oo more. 
 
 THE WIFE. 
 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the conceai'd comforts of a man 
 Locl^'d up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come but near the house. 
 What a delicions breath marriage sends forlh !... 
 The violet bed's not sweeter. 
 
 MIDDLETON. 
 
 1 1 HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude 
 I which women sustain the most overwlielming 
 trerses of fortune. Tliose disasters whicli break 
 loirn the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the 
 , seem to call forlli all tiie energies of the softer 
 li, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their 
 
 Bracler, that at limes it approaches to sublimity. 
 kolliing can be more touching than to beiioid a soft 
 
 I tender female, who had been all weakness and 
 
 lendence, and alive to every trivial roughness, 
 Ihile treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly 
 W in mental force to be the comforter and sup- 
 
 rter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, 
 |iith unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasU of ad- 
 
 rsity. 
 
 As the vine, which has long twined its graceful 
 ^iage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sun- 
 
 Ine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the 
 
 ignderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, 
 
 ibind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully 
 
 (dered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere 
 lependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, 
 pould be his stay and solace when smitten with sud- 
 )en calamity; winding herself into the rugged re- 
 
 isesof his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping 
 Kad, and binding up the broken heart. 
 
 1 was once congratulating a friend, who had around 
 lima blooming family, knit together in the strongest 
 lITcclion. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, 
 pilli enthusiasm, ''than to have a wife and children. 
 -If you are prosperous, there they are to share your 
 
 sperily; if otherwise, there they are to comfort 
 [Oil." And, indeed, I have observed that a married 
 
 lan falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his 
 [itiiation in the world thai? a single one ; partly be- 
 ause lie is more stimulated to exertion by the neces- 
 ilies of the helpless and beloved beings who depend 
 ppon him for subsistence; but chielly because his 
 
 [lirits are soothed aiid relieved by domestic endear- 
 
 «nts, and his self-respect kept alive by flnding, that 
 |hougl) all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet 
 here is still a little world of love at home, of which 
 |ieis (he monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to 
 
 rnn 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 accom- 
 plished girl, who had been brought up in the midst 
 of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, 
 but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in 
 the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant 
 pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and 
 fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — 
 "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale." 
 
 The very difference in their characters produced an 
 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 
 wouldgazeuponher 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 favour and acceptance. When 
 leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted linely 
 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 doated on his lovely burthen for its very help- 
 lessness. 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 embarked his property in large speculations; 
 and he had not been married many months, when, 
 by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from 
 him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. 
 For a time he kept bis situation to himself, and went 
 about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking 
 heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and 
 what rendered it more insupportable was the neces- 
 sity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; 
 for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with 
 the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes 
 of affection, that all was not well with him. She 
 marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was 
 not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at 
 cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers 
 and tender blandishments to win him back to hap- 
 piness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his 
 soul. The more lie saw cause to love her, the more 
 torturing was the thought that he was sooit to make 
 her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the 
 smile will vanish from that cheek— the song will die 
 away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be 
 quenched with sorrow; and the happy heart, which 
 now beats lightly in that bosnm, will be weighed 
 down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the 
 world. 
 
 At length he came to me one day, and related his 
 whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. 
 When I had heard him through, I inquired, "Does 
 your wife know all this?"— At the question he bnrst 
 
1 ■< 
 
 232 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 tiiought of her that drives me almost to 
 madness!" 
 
 "And wliy not?" said I. "She must know it 
 sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, 
 and the intelligence may break upon her in a more 
 startling manner, than if imparted by yourself; for 
 the accents of those we love soften the harshest ti- 
 dings. 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 community of thought and 
 feeling. She will soon perceive that something is se- 
 cretly preying upon your mind; and true love will 
 not brook reserve; it feels undervalued and outraged, 
 when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed 
 from it." 
 
 " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am 
 to give to all her future prospects — how I am to 
 strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that 
 her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the 
 elegancies of life — ail the pleasures of society — to 
 shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To 
 tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere 
 in which she might have continued to move in con- 
 stant brightness — the light of every eye— the admira- 
 tion of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? she 
 has been brought up in all the refniements of opu- 
 lence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been the 
 idol of society. Oh! it will b-eak her heart— it will 
 break her heart !— " 
 
 I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its 
 flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his 
 paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into 
 moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and 
 urged him to break bis situation at once to his wife. 
 He shook his head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 " But how are yon to keep it from her? It is ne- 
 cessary she should know it, that you may take the 
 steps ()rq)er to the alteration of your circumstances. 
 You nuist change your style of living nay, " ob- 
 serving a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't 
 let that aHlicl you. I am sure you have never placed 
 your happiness in outward show— you have yet friends, 
 warm friends, who will not think tlie worse of you 
 for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does 
 not require a palace to be happy with Mary—" 
 
 " I could be happy with her," cried he, convnl- 
 sively, " in a hovel! — I could go down with her into 
 
 poverty and the dust!— I could— I could GikI 
 
 bless her! — Go«l bless her!" cried he, bursting into 
 a transportof 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 yon. Ay, Tpore : it will 
 be a source of pride and triiunph to hei —it will call 
 forth all the latent energies and fervent hympathies 
 of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that slie 
 loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's 
 
 heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies donnant| 
 the broad daylight of prosperity ; but which kindi] 
 up, and beams pnd blazes in the dark hour or j 
 versity. No man knows what the wife of his 1 
 is — no man knows what a ministering angel she iJ 
 until he has gone with her through the fiery trials 1 
 this world. " 
 
 There was something in the earnestness ofi 
 manner, and the figurative style of my language ihj 
 caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I i^^ 
 the auditor I had to deal with; and following up |M 
 impression I had made, I finished by persuading hi] 
 to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wire.] 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had sai(l,lfj 
 some little solicitude for the result. Who cane 
 culateon the fortitude of one whose whole life has l 
 a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revgj 
 at the dark downward path of low humility suddei 
 pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunij 
 regions in which they had hitherto revelled, 
 sides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by i 
 many galling mortifications, to which in oilier ran] 
 it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet la 
 the next morning without trepidation. He had niK 
 the disclosure. 
 
 " And how did she bear it ? " 
 
 " Like an angel ! Il seemed rather to be a rdii 
 to her mind, for she threw her arms round my net 
 and asked if this was all that had lately made ineuil 
 happy. — But, poor girl, " added he," she cannolrej| 
 ize the change we nuist undergo. She has no idi 
 of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only readofl 
 in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as n 
 no privation ; she suffers no loss of accustomed t 
 veniencies nor elegancies. When we come pract 
 cally to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wanli 
 its petty humiliations— then will be the real Inai." | 
 
 " But, " said I, " now that you have got overll 
 severest task, that of breaking it to Iter, the soonJ 
 you let the world into the secret the better. Tl( 
 disclosure may be mortifying; but then it is asinn 
 misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise suM 
 it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is J 
 poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruinej 
 man — the struggle between a proud mind and i 
 empty purse— the keeping up a hollow siiow i 
 must soon come to an end. Have the courage I 
 appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its 
 sting. " On this point I fotmd Leslie perfectly prep 
 ed. He had no false pride himself, and as to liiswifJ 
 she was only anxious to conform to their altered («[ 
 tunes. 
 
 Some days afterwards he called upon me in lli| 
 evening. He had disposed of his dwelliii;;-houi 
 and taken a small cottage in the country, a few mil 
 from town. He had been busied all day in sendinj 
 outfiunilure. The new establishment required fcij 
 articles, and those of the simplest kind. All 
 splendid furniture of his late residence had beeni 
 excepting his wife's harp. That, he said, waj I 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 253 
 
 li lies dormant Beiy associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged 
 It which kin(ilK«l>'tlc^'^''y°^l^h^i''''^^^^' for some of the sweet- 
 dark hour of aHgionients of their courtship were those when he 
 wife of his bosoBleaned over that instrument, and listened to the 
 ng angel sliebBling tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this 
 the fiery trialsKnce of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. 
 
 was now going out to the cottage, where his 
 irnestncss of lAhad been all day superintending its arrangement, 
 my language thV feelings had become strongly interesced in the 
 Leslie. I kneBiresi; of diis family story, and, as it was a fine 
 I following up ilKing, I offered to accompany him. 
 ly persuading hjlj^ was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and 
 leart to his wife.Hie walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing, 
 ill I had said, I fApoor Mary ! " at length broke, with a >.eavy sigh, 
 t. Who can c^L his lips. 
 
 whole life has befl' And what of her?" asked I : " has any thing hap- 
 )ints might revgHed to her?" 
 
 humility suddeiiBwiiat," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is 
 cling to the suniHglliiiig to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be 
 rto revelled. fiSri in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil al- 
 ecompanied by Hi in the menial concerns of her wretched habita- 
 ich in other ranlH?" 
 
 I not meet LdBlIasshe then repined at the change?" 
 lon. lie had niafliRepined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and 
 humour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits 
 1 have ever known her ; she has been to me all 
 ther to be a rellKand tenderness, and comfort! " 
 ns round my nedBAdmirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call your- 
 ately madeineiiiH|ioor, my friend; you never were so rich — you 
 ," she cannot reaHt knew the boundless treasures of excellence you 
 She has no liltHtssed in that woman." 
 
 has only readofHoh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the 
 
 . She feels as yJKge were over, I think I could then be comfort- 
 
 >f accustomed coiln|. But this is her first day of real experience; she 
 
 we come pradBiiccn introduced into a humble dwelling — she has 
 
 , its paltry wnnlKemployed all day in arranging its miserable equip- 
 
 the real trial. " His-she has, for the first time, known the fatigues 
 
 have got overtliHDiiiestic employment — she has, for the first time, 
 
 to her, the soiiniHtd round her on a home destitute of every thing 
 
 the better. TbHint,— almost of every thing convenient; and may 
 
 then it is a singlH be silting down, exhausted and spiritless, brood- 
 
 iiu otherwise suffflover a prospect of future poverty." 
 
 le day. It is riBiere was a degree of probability in this picture 
 
 harasses a ruintBl could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 
 
 oud mind and iHfler turning from the main road up a narrow lane, 
 
 hollow show liuHickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a com- 
 
 ave the cuurai;elH air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. 
 
 rty of its sliarpoHis luimble enough in its appearance for the most 
 
 ie perfectly prepaiHiral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A 
 
 and as to liiswiftHnne had overrun one end with a profusion of 
 
 their altered foi|p; a few trees threw their branches gracefully 
 
 !!• and I observed several pots of flowers taste- 
 
 d upon me in IhH dispersed alwut the door, and on the grass plot 
 
 is (lwellinj!;-iious(Hint. A small wicket gate opened upon a foot- 
 
 )untry, a few miltHthat wound through some shrubbery to the door. 
 
 all day in sendinfliswe approached, we heard the sound of music 
 
 unent required feAlie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. 
 
 st kind. All llAs Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most 
 
 ence had Iwen toliBlng simplicity, a little air of which her husband 
 
 , he said, was tofpeculiarly fond. 
 
 I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He step- 
 ped forward to hear more distinctly. His step made 
 a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face 
 glanced out at the window and vanished— a light 
 footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to 
 meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white; a 
 few wild flowers were twisted in her fine bairj a fresh 
 bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance 
 beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so 
 lovely. 
 
 " My dear George," cried she, *' I am so glad you 
 are come ! I have been watching and watching for 
 you ; and running down the lane, and looking out for 
 you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree be- 
 hind the cottage ; and I've been gathering 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— Ue caught he, to his 
 bosom — he folded his arms round her — he kissed her 
 again and again — he could not speak, but the tears 
 gushed into his eyes ; and he has often assured me, 
 that though the world has since gone prosperously 
 with bim, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, 
 yet never has he experienced a moment of more ex- 
 quisite felicity. 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTUUHOIIS WBITING OF DIEDBICU HNICKERnOCKEB. 
 
 [ The following Talc was found among the papers of the lato 
 Dicdrieh Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, who wag 
 very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and Uic man- 
 U'Ts of the descendant!) from its primitive settlers. His liistorical 
 researches, however, did not lie so much among Ixraks as among 
 men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics ; 
 whereas he found the old burghers, and stilt more llicir wives, 
 rich in that tegendary lore, so invaluable to true history. When- 
 ever, therefore, lie happened u|Kin a genuine Uutch family, snug-, 
 ly shut up in its low-i-oofed farm-house, under a spreading syca- 
 more, he looknl upon it as i. little clasped volume of black-letter, 
 and studied it with tlic zeal of a book-wonn. 
 
 The result of all Uicse rese.'.i'ches was a history of the province 
 during the reign of the Dutcii governors, which lie published some 
 years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary 
 cliaracter of liis work, and. to tell the truth, it is not a whit better 
 than it should l>e. Us chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, 
 which indeed was a little questioned, on its first appearance, but 
 has since been completely estahUshrd ; and it is uuw admitted into 
 all historical collections, as a book of un(|uestionablu authority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; 
 and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his 
 memory to say, Uiat his time ukight have been much better cm- 
 ployed in weightier laboiu"s. lie, however, was apt to ride his 
 hobby his own way t and though it did now and then kick up the 
 dust a lltrte in tlie eyes of his neighbours, irnl giievo the spirit of 
 some friends, for whom he felt the truest deferciiee and atleclion t 
 yet his errors and follies are i-emumbi'i'cd " more in sorrow than 
 ill anger," and it begins to be suspected, Uiat he never intended to 
 Injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated 
 by critics. It Is still held dear by many folk, whose good opinion 
 l^i well worth havinif i particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
 
 
m 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ^Hi 
 
 W 
 
 have gone so far as to imprint his lllieness on their new-year 
 caltes ; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost 
 equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen 
 Anne's Icirthing. ] 
 
 By Woden, God or Saxons, 
 
 From whence comes Wensday, thatisWodcnsday, 
 
 Truth is a thing thai ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thyllie day in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 Cahtwbigiit. 
 
 Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must 
 remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dis- 
 membered branch of the great Appalacliian family, 
 and are seen away to the west of tlie river, swelling 
 up to a noble height, and lording it over the surround- 
 ing country. Every change of season, every change 
 of weather, indeed every liour of the day, produces 
 some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
 mountains, and they are regarded by all the good 
 wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When 
 the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
 blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on (he 
 clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of 
 the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hootl of 
 grey vapours about their sununits, which, in the last 
 rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 
 crown of glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager 
 may have descried the light smoke curling up from a 
 village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, 
 just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
 the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a liUle 
 village of great antiquity, having been founded by 
 some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the 
 province, just about the beginning of the government 
 of the good Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) 
 and there were some of the houses of the original set- 
 tlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow 
 bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows 
 and gable fronts, surmounted with weathercocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses 
 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn 
 and weather-beaten), there lived many years since, 
 while the country was yet a province of Great Bri- 
 tain, a simple good-natured fellow, of the name of 
 Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van 
 Winkles who flgured so gallantly in the chivalrous 
 days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the 
 siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, however, but 
 little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have 
 observed that he was a simple good-natured man ; he 
 was, moreover, a kind neighbour, and an obedient 
 hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circum- 
 stance might be owing that meekness of spirit which 
 gained him such universal popularity ; for those men 
 are most apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, 
 who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
 Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and 
 malleable in the liery furnace of domestic tribulation, 
 and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the 
 world for teaching the virtues of patience and long 
 
 suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, mi 
 respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and irj 
 Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favourite ai 
 all the good wives of the village, who, as usual 
 the amiable sex, took his part in all family s(|uabbl 
 and never failed, whenever they talked tjiose mail 
 over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the hli 
 on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the villa 
 too, would shout with joy whenever he approach 
 He assisted at their sports, made their playthji 
 taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and 
 them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indig 
 Whenever he went dotlging aljout the vil!a!>e, hei 
 surrounded by a troop of them, banging on iiis ski 
 clambering on his back, and playing a thousand trii 
 on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bat 
 him throughout the neighbourhood. 
 
 The great error in Hip's composition was an it 
 perable aversion to all kinds of profitable lab(<iir. 
 could not be from the want of assiduity or 
 verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a 
 as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish alii 
 without a murmur, even though he should nolbej 
 couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fe 
 ing-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trud: 
 through woods and swamps, and up hill and do 
 dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. 
 would never refuse to assist a neighbour evenioj 
 roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all com 
 frolics for husking Indian corn, or building 
 fences ; the women of the village, too, used toem|{ 
 him to run their errands, and to do sucli little 
 jobs as their less obliging husbonds would not 
 them. — In a word. Rip was ready to attend to; 
 body's business but his own ; but as io doing ft 
 duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it { 
 possible. 
 
 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work onj 
 farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of 
 in the whole country; every thing about it 
 wrong, and would go wrong, in spile of him. 
 fences were continually falling to pieces; liii 
 would either go astray, or get among the cabi 
 weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields 
 any where else; the rain always Hiide a point ofl 
 ting in just as he had some out-dojr woi-k to do 
 that though his patrimonial estate had dwiii !edn 
 under his management, acre by acr: intil Iherej 
 little more left than a mere patch o' Ii..i.an rorni 
 potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned fanniaj 
 neighbourhooil. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild 
 they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an ur 
 liegotlcn in bis own likeness, promised to inlierit| 
 habits, with the old clothes, of his father. He 
 generally seen trooping like a colt at his molt 
 heels, equifiped in a pair of his father's cast-off i 
 gaskins, wltich he had much ado to hold upwilli| 
 hand, as a flne lady does her train in bad weal) 
 
 IsipVaii Winkle, li 
 )ls, of foolish, w 
 
 L world easy, eatw 
 
 ^be gut with least 
 
 ler starve on a pei 
 
 110 himself, he wo 
 
 [jtcl contentment; 
 
 ping in his ears al 
 
 , and the ruin h 
 
 mg, noon, and 
 
 Illy going, and evei 
 
 Ipiwluce a torrent 
 
 Ibut one way of 
 
 L|, and that, by fi 
 
 bt. He shrugged 
 
 tup his eyes, but i 
 
 Lays provoked a fre 
 
 [ns fain to draw ( 
 
 ide of the house— 
 
 kmgs to a hen-peck( 
 
 ptip's sole domestic 
 
 I was as inucii Ik 
 
 i Van Winkle re, 
 
 Hiess, and even lo( 
 
 |e, as the cause of hi 
 
 e it is, in all pointi 
 
 Nog, he was as ( 
 
 gred the woods — bi 
 
 iever-during and all 
 
 sue? The momeii 
 
 his tail dro 
 
 been his legs, he i 
 
 Lcaslhig many a s 
 
 fiiLle, and at the h 
 
 e, be would fly to 
 
 »n. 
 
 rimes grew worse a 
 lyears of matrimony 
 pus with agt;, an 
 I lool that grows 
 iig while he used t 
 n borne, by frequei 
 le sages, pliilosoph 
 ^be village; which 1 
 a small inn, desig 
 Majesty George tli 
 |iii llie shade of a lo 
 Jessly over village g 
 rits about nothing, 
 ilatesman's nione 
 >.ussionsthatsometii 
 [old newspaper fell i; 
 traveller. How st 
 il«nts, as diawled 
 schoolmaster, a d 
 not to he daunted 
 dictionary; and li 
 upon public even 
 b place, 
 lie opluioiis of th 
 
J*ypw 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 [Kip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
 
 lis, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take 
 
 ( world easy, eat wliite bread or brown, whichever 
 
 ibegot with least tlionght or trouble, and would 
 
 ler starve on a penny than work for a pound. If 
 
 Itobiinself, he would have whistled life away in 
 
 .ct contentment; but his wife kept continually 
 
 ns in his ears about his idleness, his careless- 
 
 , and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 
 
 nin^, noon, and night, her tongue was inces- 
 
 jjy going, and every thing he siiid or did was sure 
 
 pnxluee a torrent of household elwiuence. Rip 
 
 IJMit one way of replying to all lectures of the 
 
 id, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a 
 
 lie shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, 
 
 lup his eyes, but said nothing. TliL", however, 
 
 Lays provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that 
 
 [vas fain to draw off bis forces, and take to the 
 
 tie of the house — the only side which, in truth, 
 
 flgs to a hen-pecked husband. 
 
 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
 
 I was as much hen-pecked as his muster ; fur 
 
 : Van Winkle regarded them as companions in 
 
 jiess, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil 
 
 Las the cause of his master's going so often astray. 
 
 ! It is, in all points of spirit befitting an honour- 
 
 edog, he was as courageous an animal as ever 
 
 lored the woods — but what courage can withstand 
 
 iever-during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's 
 
 tie? The moment Wolf entered the house his 
 
 11, his tail drooped to the ground cr curled 
 
 Iween his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows 
 
 I casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van 
 
 iikle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or 
 
 le, he would fly to the door with yelping precipi- 
 
 011. 
 
 Jrimesgrew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
 nears of matrimony rolled on ; a tart temper never 
 pws with ag(S and a sharp tongue is the only 
 [)1 that grows keener with constant use. For 
 jmig while he used to console himself, when driven 
 inilioinc, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club 
 llie sages, philosophers, and other idle [lersonages 
 |lbe village; which held its sessions on a bench be- 
 ta siiiall inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of 
 ^Majesty George the Third. Here they used to 
 lin the shade of a long la/y summer's day, talking 
 jlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
 r.t!s about nothing. Bui it would have been worth 
 falatesinan's money to have heard the profound 
 |iUssions that sometimes took place, when by chance 
 1 newspaper fell into their hands from some pass- 
 ktraveller. How solenmly they would listen to the 
 klenls, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, 
 |sclioolmasler, a dapper learned little man, who 
 mot to be daunted by the most gigantic word in 
 [dictionary; and how sagely they would delibe- 
 : upon public events some months after they had 
 ^en place. 
 The opinions of this junto were comiJetely con- 
 
 trolled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, 
 and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took 
 bis seat from morning till night, just moving sufli- 
 ciently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a 
 large tree; so that the neighbours could tell the hour 
 by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It 
 is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his 
 pipe incessantly. His adherents, however ,^ (for every 
 great man has his adherents,) perfectly undei-stood 
 him, and knew how to gallier his opinions. When 
 any thing that was read or related displeased him, be 
 was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to 
 send forth, ehc*. frequent, and angry puffs; but when 
 pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tran- 
 quilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds; and 
 sometimes taking the pi[)e from bis mouth, and lettuig 
 the fragrant vapour curl about his nose, would grave- 
 ly nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 
 
 From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip was at 
 length routed by his termagant wife, who would sud- 
 denly break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage, 
 and call the members all to naught ; nor was that au- 
 gust personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from 
 the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged 
 him oul right with encouraging her husband ui habits 
 of idleness. 
 
 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and 
 his only alternative, to escape from the labour of tLj 
 farm and clamour of his wife, was to take gun in 
 band and stroll away into the woods. Here he would 
 sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and siiare 
 the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom 
 be sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. 
 " Poor Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads 
 thee a dog's life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst 
 I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by 
 thee ! " Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in bis 
 master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe 
 he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
 day. Rip had imcunsciously scrambled to one of the 
 highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains. He was 
 after bis favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
 still .solitudes had echoed and re-echoed with tlie re- 
 ports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw 
 himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, cover- 
 ed with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow 
 of a precipice. From an opening between the trees 
 he could overlook all the lower country for many a 
 mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the 
 h)rdly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its 
 silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a 
 pmple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and 
 there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing 
 itself in the blue highlands. 
 
 On the other side be looked down into a deep 
 mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom 
 filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and 
 .scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting 
 sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; 
 
25(i 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 p •' 
 
 evening was gradaally advancing; the mountains 
 began to throw their long blue shadows over the 
 valleys; he saw that it would be dark long l)efore he 
 could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh 
 when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
 Van Winkle, 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from 
 n distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van 
 Winkle! " He looked around, but could see nothing 
 but a crow winging its solitary flight across the moun- 
 tain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, 
 and turned again to descend, when he heard the same 
 cry ring through the still evening air, "Rip Van 
 Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " — At the same lime Wolf 
 bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked 
 to his master's side, looking fearfully down into the 
 glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
 over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, 
 and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the 
 rocks, and bending under the weight of something 
 he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any 
 human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, 
 but supposing it to be some one of the neighbour- 
 hood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to 
 yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at 
 the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was 
 a short square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, 
 and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique 
 Dutch fashion — a cloth jerkin strapped round the 
 waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of 
 ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down 
 the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
 shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
 made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with 
 the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
 new acquaintance. Rip complied with his usual ala- 
 crity; and mutually relieving each other, they clam- 
 bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a 
 mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now 
 and (hen heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
 that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
 cleft, between lofly rocks, toward which their rugged 
 path conducted. He paused for an instant, but sup- 
 posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
 thunder-showers which often take place in mountain 
 heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
 they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, 
 surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the 
 brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, 
 so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky 
 and the bright evening cloud. During the whole 
 time Rip and his companion had laboured on in si- 
 lence ; for though the former marvelled greatly Avhat 
 could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up 
 this wild mountain, yet there was something strange 
 and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspir- 
 ed awe and checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of 
 wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
 
 the centre was a company of odd-looking personal 
 playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a qa 
 outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, ot|J 
 jerkins, with long knives in their bells, and 
 them had enormous breeches, of similar style 
 that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were i 
 liar: one had a large head, broad face, andt 
 piggish eyes : the face of another seemed to con 
 entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a wd 
 sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's i 
 They all had beards, of various shapes and coloi 
 There was one who seemed to be the commandl 
 He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beal 
 countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broadi 
 and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, redsio^ 
 ings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
 The whole group reminded Rip of the figures iol 
 old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Domif 
 Van Shaick, tlie village parson, and which had I 
 brought over from Holland at the time of the selll 
 ment. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, 
 though these folks were evidently amusing ihej 
 selves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, 
 most mysterious sili nee, and were, withal, thet 
 melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnei 
 Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but j 
 noise of the balls, which, whenever they wereroU 
 echoed along the mountains like rumbling pealsl 
 thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, tlj 
 suddenly desisted from their play, and stared atli 
 with such fixed statue-like gaze, and such strad 
 uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, that liis lid 
 turned within him, and his knees smote togelu 
 His companion now emptied the contents of thelj 
 into large flagons, and made signs to him to < 
 upon the company. He obeyed with fear and tn 
 bling ; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, a| 
 then returned to their game. 
 
 By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsidf 
 He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon li 
 to taste the beverage, wiiich he found had mud 
 the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was nata 
 a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat^ 
 draught. One taste provoked another; and liei 
 terated his visits to the flagon so often, that at lenj 
 his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in j 
 head, his head gradually declined, and he fell inlj 
 deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green 1 
 from whence he had first seen the old man of ( 
 glen. He rubbed his eyes— it was a bright suij 
 morning. The birds were hopping and twitteril 
 among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling ali 
 and breasting the pure mountain breeze. " Surelj 
 thought Rip, " I have not slept here all night." 
 recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep, 
 strange man with a keg of liquor — the mountain I 
 vine— 1 lie wild retreat among the rocks— the d 
 
 land his dog and 
 
TIIE SKETai BOOK. 
 
 237 
 
 iroached them, tn 
 
 contents of the I 
 
 party at nine-pins — the Hagon — "Oh! that 
 
 that wiclced flagon ! " thouglit Rip—" what 
 
 > shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ! " 
 
 I He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
 
 tan well-oiled fowling-piece he found an old fire- 
 
 k lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the 
 
 1 falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now 
 
 (ted that the grave roysters of the mountain had 
 
 (a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with li- 
 
 Dr, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had 
 
 appeared, but he might have strayed away after a 
 
 relor partridge. He whistled after him, and 
 
 nted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeat- 
 
 ^his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 
 
 I He determined to revisit the scene of the last even- 
 
 {"s gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to 
 
 lanil his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he 
 
 md himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his 
 
 lal activity. " These mountain beds do not agree 
 
 lih me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should 
 
 nne up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have 
 
 liilessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some 
 
 Scalty he got down into the glen : he found the 
 
 ill)- up which he and his companion had ascended 
 
 [preceding evening; but to his astonishment a 
 
 nntain stream was now foaming down it, leaping 
 
 irock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling 
 
 nurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up 
 
 i sides, working liis toilsome way through thickets 
 
 jliiirch, sassafras, and witch-hazle, and sometimes 
 
 «d up or entangled by the wild grape vines that 
 
 jrjsted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and 
 
 •d a kind of net-work in his path. 
 I At length he reached to where the ravine had 
 I through the cliffs to the amphitheatre ; but no 
 of such opening remained. The rocks pre- 
 Dted a high impenetrable wall, over which the tor- 
 si came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
 linloa broad deep basin, black from the shadows 
 jlthesurrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was 
 lo a stand. He again called and whistled 
 rliis dog; he was only answered by a cawing of 
 llock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry 
 t that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, se- 
 e in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff 
 |llie poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? 
 e morning was passing away, and Rip fell famished 
 twaiit of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his 
 ; and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it 
 |ould not do to starve among the mountains. He 
 lok his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
 |ith a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his 
 
 s homeward. 
 
 I As he approached the village, he met a number of 
 
 pie, but none whom he knew, which somewhat 
 
 prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
 
 tlh every one in the country round. Their dress, 
 
 ](i, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
 
 (accustomed. They all stared at him with equal 
 
 kks of surprise, and whenever they cast 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 growti a foot long! 
 
 He had now entered the skirts of the village. A 
 troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
 after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, 
 too, not one of which he recognized for an old ac- 
 quaintance, 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 v/hich had been his familiar haunts 
 had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors 
 — strange faces at the windows — every thing was 
 strange. His mind now misgave him ; he began to 
 doubt whethor both he and the world around him 
 were not bewUched. Surely this was his native vil- 
 lage, which he had left but the day before. There 
 stood the Kaatskill mountains — there ran the silver 
 Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale 
 precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely per- 
 plexetl— "That flagon last night," thought he, "has 
 addled my poor head sadly ! " 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way 
 to his own house, which he approached with silent 
 awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice 
 of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to 
 decay — the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and 
 the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
 looked like Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called 
 him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, 
 andpassedon. Thiswasan unkind cut indeed — "My 
 very dog, " sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me ! " 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
 Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 
 It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
 This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears — he 
 called loudly for his wife and children — the lonely 
 chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
 all again was silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
 resort, the village inn — but it too was gone. A large 
 rickety wooden building stood in its place, with great 
 gaping windows, some of them broken and mended 
 with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was 
 painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolitlle. " 
 Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet 
 little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall 
 naked pole, with something on the top that looked 
 like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, 
 on which was a singular assemblage of stars and 
 stripes— all this was strange and incomprehensible. 
 He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of 
 King George, under which he had smoked so many 
 a peaceful pipe ; but even this was singularly meta- 
 morphosed. The red coat was changed for one of 
 blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead 
 of 9 sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked 
 hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, 
 Generai, Washington. 
 
238 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about (he 
 door, but none that Kip recollected. The very cha- 
 racter of the people seemed changed. There was a 
 busy, bustling, disputatious lone about it, instead of 
 the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He 
 looked in vain fur the sage Nicholas Yedder, with his 
 broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering 
 clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches ; or 
 Van Bunimel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the con- 
 tents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a 
 lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of 
 handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights 
 of citizens — elections — inemlicrs of congress — liberty 
 — Bunker's-hill — heroes of seventy-six — and other 
 words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the 
 bewildered Van Winkle. 
 
 The appearance of Rip, with his long grizzled 
 beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and 
 the army of women and children that had gathered at 
 his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern 
 politicians. They crowded round him, eyeing him 
 from head to foot with great curiosity. The orator 
 bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, 
 inquired " on which side he voted > " Ri|) stared in 
 vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
 pulleil him by the arm, and, rising en tiptoe, inquir- 
 ed in his ear, " Whether he was federal or Demo- 
 crat ? " Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the 
 question ; when a knowing self-important old gentle- 
 man, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through 
 the crowd, putting them to the right and left with 
 his elbows as he passed, and planting hunself l)efore 
 Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting 
 on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetralinu:, 
 as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere 
 tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun 
 on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whetlier 
 he meant to breed a riot in the village? — " Alas! 
 gentlemen, " cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am 
 a poor quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
 subject of the king, God bless him ! " 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — 
 " A tory I a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away 
 with liini ! " It was with great diflicully that the self- 
 important man in the cocked hat restored order; and 
 having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demand- 
 ed again of the unknown culprit, what he came there 
 for, and whom he was seeking? The poor mai: 
 humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but mere- 
 ly came there in search of some of his neighbours, 
 who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 " Well — who are they ? — name them. " 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
 " Where's Nicholas Vedder ? " 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old 
 man replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder? 
 why he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There 
 was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used 
 to tell all about him, but that's rottea and gone too." 
 
 " Where's Brom Dutcher?" 
 
 " Oh, he went off to tlie army in the bcginnlnJ 
 the war ; some say he was killed at Uie stormini] 
 Stoney-Point — others say he was drowned in a sqii 
 at the foot of A nthony's Nose. Idon't know— he nev] 
 came back again. " 
 
 " Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?' 
 
 " He went off to the wars too, was a great nuljt 
 general, and is now in Congress. " 
 
 Rip's heart diedaway at hearingof these sad rlianiJ 
 in his home and friends, and iinUing himscir tij 
 alone in the world. Every answer puzzled hjin in 
 by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and j 
 matters whirh he could not understaiul : war- 
 gress — Sloney-Point J— he bad no courage to ask aft 
 any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
 nobody here know Rip Van Winkle ? " 
 
 " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two orlhn 
 "Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle, yom 
 leaning against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart I 
 himself, as he went up the mountain : appnreiillvi 
 lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow vrj 
 now completely confounded. He doubted lii$ un 
 identity, and whetlier he was himselii' or anotiiernu 
 In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in tliec 
 ed hat demanded who he was, and what was t 
 name ? 
 
 "God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's eiKJ 
 "I'm not myself— I'm somebotly else— that's 
 yonder — no — that's somebody else got into my slw 
 — I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on I 
 mountain, and they've changed my gun, and evei 
 thing's changed, and I'm clianged and I can't t 
 what's my name, or who I am ! " 
 
 The by-standers began n;)w to look at each otlw 
 nod, wink signilicanlly, and tap their lingers apio 
 their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, alt 
 securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow fro 
 doing mischief, at the very suggestion of wliicli t 
 self-important man in the cocked hat retired with sod 
 precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh eomfl 
 woman pressed through the throng to get a pcepj 
 the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby diildi 
 her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began ^ 
 cry, " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you lillle foo 
 the old man won't hurt you." The name oflhe chill 
 the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all av| 
 kened a train of recollections in his mind. " VVIi 
 your name, my gootl woman ? " asked he. 
 
 " Judith Gardenier." 
 
 " And your father's name ? " 
 
 "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van WinkM 
 it's twenty years since he went away from home «ij 
 his gun, and never has been heard of since— his d 
 came home without him ; but whether he shot liM 
 self, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody cij 
 tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he putj 
 with a faltering voice : 
 
 " Where's your mother?" 
 
 L up the road. 11 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 239 
 
 Oil, she too had died but a sliort time since ; she 
 ike a blood vessel in a fit of passion at a New-Eng- 
 I pedlar. 
 [fliere was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intel- 
 ^noe. The honest man could contain himself no 
 ler. He caught bis daughter and her child in bis 
 'I am your father ! "—cried he— " Young 
 .Van Winkle once— old Rip Van Winkle now! 
 l-DofsnolMKly know poor Rip Van Winkle?" 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering 
 lit from among (he crowd, put her liand to her brow, 
 dpeeriiig imder it in bis face for a moment, exclaim- 
 'Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle— it is him- 
 l^f Welcome home again, old neighbour— Why, 
 lereliave you been these twenty long years?" 
 I Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
 lars had l)een to liim but as one night. The neigb- 
 lors stared when they beard it. some were seen to 
 ink at each other, and put their tongues in Iheir 
 Kks : and the self-important man in the cocked bat, 
 , when the alarm was over, bad returned to the 
 Md, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
 Kik his head — upon which there was a general 
 taking of the head throughout the assemltlage. 
 I It was determined, however, to lake the opinion of 
 i Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen«slowly advanc- 
 > up the road. He was a descendant of the bisto- 
 1 of that name, who wrote one of the earliest ac- 
 nls of the province. Peter was the most ancient 
 ^labilant of the village, and well versed in all the 
 nderriil events and traditions of the neigblwur- 
 Ile recollected Rip at once, and corroborated 
 k story in the most satisfactory manner. He assur- 
 lOie company that it was a fact, Tianded down from 
 I ancestor the historian, that the Kaalskill moun- 
 had always been haunted by strange beings. 
 fhat it was affirmed that the great Hcndrick Hudson, 
 B first discoverer of the river and country, kept a 
 ind of vigil there every twenty years, with bis crew 
 |f (he Half-moon , being permitted in this way to re- 
 sit the scenes of bis enterprize, and keep u guardian 
 ke upon the river, and the great city called by bis 
 ne. That his father had once seen them in their 
 I Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of 
 ! mountain ; and that be himself had beard, one 
 mer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like dis- 
 uit peals of thunder. 
 
 I To make a long story short, the company broke up, 
 1 returned to the more important concerns of the 
 ■clion. Rip's daughter took him home to live with 
 ler; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a 
 ul cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip re- 
 ollecled for one of the urchins that used to clind) 
 on his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was 
 lie ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, be 
 las employed lo workion the farm; but evinced an 
 jereditary disposition to attend lo any thing else but 
 s business. 
 
 J Rip now resumed his old walks and habits ; he soon 
 M many of bis former cronies, though all rather 
 
 the worse for the wear and tear of time ; and prefer- 
 red making friends among the rising generation, with 
 whom he soon grew into great favour. 
 
 Having nothing to do at honte, and being arrived 
 at that happy age when a man can do nothing with 
 impunity, he took his place once more on the l)ench 
 at the inn door, and was reverenceil as one of the pa- 
 triarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times 
 " before the war." It was some time before be could 
 get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made 
 to comprehend the strange events that had taken place 
 during his tor|»or. How that there bad been a revo- 
 lutionary war — that the country had thrown off the 
 yoke of old England — and that, instead of l)eing a 
 subjtH't of his Majesty George the Third, be was now 
 a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was 
 no politician ; the changes of states and empires made 
 but little mipression on him ; but there was one spe- 
 cies of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
 and that was — petticoat government. Happily that 
 was at an end ; be had got bis neck out of the yoke of 
 matrimony, and could go in and out whenever he 
 pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van 
 Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, bow- 
 ever, he shook his bead, shrugged his shoulders, and 
 cast up bis eyes ; which might pass either for an ex- 
 pression of resignation to iiis fate, or joy at bis deli- 
 verance. 
 
 He used to tell bis story to every stranger that ar- 
 rived at Mr Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at 
 first, to vary on some points every time he told it, 
 which was, doubtless, owing to bis having so recently 
 awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale 
 I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in 
 the neighbourhood, but knew it by heart. Some al- 
 ways pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted 
 that Rip bad been out of his head, and that this was 
 one point on which be always remained flighty. The 
 old Dntch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
 gave it full credit. Even to this day they never bear 
 a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the 
 Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his 
 crew are at their game of nine-pins ; and it is a com- 
 mon wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neigh- 
 bourhood, when life hangs heavy on their bands, that 
 they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van 
 Winkle's flagon. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 Tlie foregoins Tale, one would suspect, had been sugRested 
 to Mr Knickerlmclier by a litlte German superstition about the 
 Kmporor Fredericli dec Kothbait, and the Kypphadser moun- 
 tain ! the subjoined note, however, wliich lie bad appended lo the 
 talc, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual 
 fidelity : 
 
 ■ "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem lncredil)le to many, 
 but neverUiclcss I give il my full belief, for 1 know the vicinity of 
 our old Dutch settlements lo have been very subject lo marvellous 
 events and appearances. Indeed, 1 have heard many stranger 
 stories than this, in Ihe villages along the Hudson ; all of which 
 were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talk- 
 ed with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a 
 very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent 
 on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could 
 
240 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 rchuc to take tliU into the bargain; nay, I have wen a cerliflcalc 
 on the subject talten More a country Justice, and signed with a 
 croM, in the justice's own hand-writing. The story, therefore, is 
 bcyoiidthe possibility of doubt. D. K." 
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 
 
 " Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rous- 
 ing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invin- 
 cible lucks : methinks I sec her as an eaglo, mewing her mighty 
 youth, and kindling hercndazzled eyes at the full midday beam." 
 Milton on tue Lidertv op the Press. 
 
 It is with feeling of deep regret that I observe Ihe 
 literary animosity daily growing up between England 
 and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of 
 late with respect to the United Slates, and the Lon- 
 don press has teemed with volumes of travels through 
 the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse error 
 rather than knowledge ; and so successful have they 
 been, that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse 
 between the nations, there is no people concerning 
 whomthegreatmassoflhe British public have less pure 
 information, or entertain more numerous prejudices. 
 
 English travellers are the best and the worst in 
 the world. Where no motives of pride or interest 
 intervene, none can equal them for profound and 
 philosophical views of society, or faithful and graphi- 
 cal 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 oppo- 
 site extreme, and forget their usual probity of can- 
 dour, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an 
 illiberal spirit of ridicule. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, 
 the more remote the country described. I would 
 place implicit confidence in an Englishman's descrip- 
 tion of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile ; 
 of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea ; of the interior 
 of India ; or of any other tract which other travellers 
 might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their 
 fancies ; but I would cautiously receive his account of 
 his immediate neighbours, 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 countiy to 
 ha visited by the worst kind of English travellers. 
 While men of philosophical spirit and cultivated 
 minds have been sent from England to ransack the 
 poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the man- 
 ners 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 trades- 
 man, the scheming adventurer, the wandering me- 
 chanic, the IManchesler and Birmingham agent, to be 
 her oracles respecting America. From such sources 
 she is content to receive her information respecting a 
 coualry in a singular state of moral and physical de- 
 
 velopement; a country in which one of the greau 
 political experiments in the history of the world i 
 now performing; and which presents the most prj 
 found and momentous studies to the statesman an 
 the philosopher. 
 
 That such men should give prejudiced accminu ( 
 America is not a matter of surprise. The tiiemesj 
 offers for contemplation are too vast and elevated fj 
 their capacities. The national character is yet iti a sM 
 of fermentation; itmay have its frothiness aiujse,]] 
 ment, hut its ingredients are sound and wholesome'] 
 has already given proofs of powerful and genen 
 qualities ; anil the whole promises to settle down inij 
 something subslantially excellent. But the cause 
 which are operating to strengthen and eimohle it, 
 its daily indications of admirable properties, are < 
 lost upon these purblind observers ; who are onl 
 affected by the little asperities incident to its preseJ 
 situation. They are capable of judging only of || 
 surface of things ; of those matters which cotne J 
 contact with their private interests and personal gn| 
 tiiicalions. They miss some of the smig convenienoie 
 and petty comforts which belong to an old, liighJTJ 
 linished, and over-populous state of society; wheii 
 the ranks of useful labour are crowded, and mani 
 earn a painful and servile subsistence by sl(ulyin;;tl 
 very caprices of appetite and self-indidgence. The! 
 minor comforts, however, are all-important in thee 
 tiinalion of narrow minds ; which either do not perj 
 ceive, or will not acknowledge, that they are moi 
 than counterbalanced among us by great and geni 
 rally diffused blessings. 
 
 They may, perhaps, have been disappointed i 
 some unreasonable expectation of sudden gain. Thi 
 may have picluretl America to themselves an El 1 
 rado, where gold and silver abounded, and the nativd 
 were lacking in sagacity ; and where they were t 
 become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unfon 
 seen, but easy manner. The same weakness ofinin 
 that indulges absurd expectations produces petulan 
 in disappointment. Such persons become embilter'| 
 ed against the country on finding that there, aserei] 
 where else, a man must sow before he can reap| 
 must win wealth by industry and talent; andnioi 
 contend with the common difficulties of nalnrej 
 and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprizi 
 people. 
 
 Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed liospita 
 ity, or from the prompt disposition to cheer an 
 countenance the stranger, prevalent among mycouii' 
 trymen, they may have been treated with unwonte 
 respect in America; and having been accustomed a 
 their lives to consider themselves below the surface li 
 good society, and brought up in a servile feeling i 
 inferiority, they become arrogant on the comir 
 boon of civility : they attribute to the lowliness i 
 others Iheir own elevation; and underrate a societjj 
 where there are no artificial distinctions, and where 
 by any chance, such individuals as themselves can ris 
 to consequence. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 211 
 
 lone would suppose, however, that inrormation 
 
 iin» from such sources, on a subject where the 
 
 lib b so desirable, would be received witii caution 
 
 ^tbe censors of the press; that the motives of these 
 
 11 tbeir veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and 
 
 >rvation, and Iheir capacities for judgin;:; correctly, 
 
 uldbe rigorously scrutinized before their evidence 
 
 i adiiiilleil, in such sweeping extent, against a 
 
 KJred nation. The very reverse, however, is the 
 
 , and it furnishes a striking instance of human in- 
 
 ystency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with 
 
 liich English critics will examine the credibility of 
 
 (traveller who publishes an account of some di- 
 
 iit,ami comparatively unim|)ortant, country. How 
 
 ily will they compare the measurements of a py- 
 
 liil, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly 
 
 llliey censure any inaccuracy in these contribu- 
 
 s of merely curious knowledge : while they will 
 
 itive, with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the 
 
 ) misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writ- 
 
 I, concerning a country with which their own is 
 
 in the most important and delicate relations. 
 
 IT, they will even make these apocryphal volumes 
 
 t-books, on which to enlarge with a zeal and an 
 
 ^tv worthy of a more generous cause. 
 
 I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and 
 
 neyed topic; nor should I have adverted to it, 
 
 I for the undue interest apparently taken in it by 
 
 I countrymen, and certain injurious effects which 
 
 prehended it might produce upon the national 
 
 ling. We attach loo much conseipience to these 
 
 icks. They cannot do ns any essential injury. 
 
 tissue of misrepresentations attempted to be 
 
 ^en round us are like cobwebs woven round the 
 
 iof an infant giant. Our country continually 
 
 lurows them. One falsehood after another falls off 
 
 ielf. We have but to live on, and every day we 
 
 h whole volume of refutation. All the writers of 
 
 ^and united, if we could for a moment suppose 
 
 r great minds stooping to so unworthy a combi- 
 
 loD, could not conceal our rapidly-growing import- 
 
 |e, and matchless prosperity. They could not 
 
 eeal that these are owing, not merely to physical 
 
 [ local, but also to moral causes — to the political 
 
 rty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the pre- 
 
 loceof sound moral and religious principles, wliicb 
 
 fforceand sustained energy to the character of a 
 
 pie; and which, in fact, have been the acknow- 
 
 laml wonderful supporters of their own national 
 
 (or and glory. 
 
 k why are we so exquisitely alive to the asper- 
 8 of England? Why do we suffer ourselves to 
 )a(fecled by the contumely she has endeavoured 
 Bt npon us? It is not in the opinion of England 
 6 that honour lives, and reputation has its being. 
 I world at large is the arbiter of a nation's fame; 
 tits thousand eyes it witnesses a nation's deeds, 
 jlrom their collective testimony is national glory 
 Wnal disgrace established. 
 p ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but 
 
 little importance whether England does as justice or 
 not ; it is, perhaps, of far more importance to herself. 
 She is instilling anger and resentment into the bosom 
 of a youtlifid nation, to grow with its growth and 
 strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some 
 of her writers are labouring to convince her, she is 
 hereafter to Pmd an invidious rival, and a gigantic 
 foe, she may thank those very writers for having pro- 
 voked rivalsbip and irritated hostility. Every one 
 knows the all-pervading influence of literature at the 
 present day, and how much the opinions and passions 
 of mankind are under its control. The mere contests 
 of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are but in 
 the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive 
 and forget them; but the slanders of the pen pierce to 
 the heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; 
 they dwell ever present in the mind, and render it 
 morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision. It is 
 but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities 
 between two nations; there exists, most commonly, 
 a previous jealousy and ill-will; a predisposition to 
 take offence. Trace these to their cause, and how 
 often will they be found to originate in the mischiev- 
 ous effusions of mercenary writers ; who, secure in 
 their closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct, 
 and circulate the venom that is to inflame the gene- 
 rous and the brave. 
 
 I am not laying too mnch stress upon this point; 
 for it applies most emphatically to our particular case. 
 Over no nation does the press hold a more absolute 
 control than over the people of America; for the uni- 
 versal education of the poorest classes makes every 
 individual a reader. There is nothing published in 
 England on the subject of our country that does not 
 circulate through every part of it. There is not a 
 calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an unworthy 
 sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does 
 not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of 
 latent resentment. Possessing, then, as England 
 does, the fountain head from whence the literature of 
 the language flows, how completely is it in her power, 
 and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium 
 of amiable and magnanimous feeling— a stream where 
 the two nations might meet together, and drink in 
 peace and kindness. Should she, however, persist 
 in lurning it to waters of bitterness, the time may 
 come when she may repent her folly. The present 
 friendship of America may be of but little moment to 
 her; but the future destinies of that country do not 
 admit of a doubt; over those of England there lower 
 some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, a day 
 of gloom arrive ; should those reverses overtake her, 
 from which the proudest empires have not been 
 exempt; she may look back with regret at her infa- 
 tuation, in repulsing from her side a nation she might 
 have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying her 
 only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries 
 of her own dominions. 
 
 There is a general impression in England, that the 
 people of the United States are inimical to the parent 
 
 51 
 
 ;!! 
 
242 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 
 country. It is one of the errors which have Ii^en di- 
 ligently propagated by designing writers. There is, 
 doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a ge- 
 neral soreness at the illiberality of the English press; 
 but, collectively speaking, the prepossessions of the 
 people are strongly in favour of England. Indeed, 
 at one time, they amounted, in many parts of the 
 Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare 
 name of Englishman was a passport to the confidence 
 and hospitality of every family, and too often gave a 
 transient currency to the worthless and the imgrate- 
 ful. Throughout the country there was something 
 of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. 
 We looked to it with a hallowed feeling of tenderness 
 and veneration, as the land of our forefathers— the 
 august repository of the monuments and antiquities 
 of our race — the birth-place and mausoleum of the 
 sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our 
 own country, there was none in whose glory we more 
 delighted — none whose good opinion we were more 
 anxious to possess — none toward which our hearts 
 yearned with such Uirobbings of warm consanguinity. 
 Even during the late war, whenever there was the 
 least opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it 
 was the delight of the generous spirits of our country 
 to show that, in the midst of hostilities, they still kept 
 alive the sparks of future friendship. 
 
 Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of 
 kindred sympathies, so rare between nations, to be 
 broken for ever ? — Perhaps it is for the best — it may 
 dispel an illusion which might have kept us in men- 
 tal vassalage; which might have interfered occasion- 
 ally with our true interests, and prevented the growth 
 of proper national pride. But it is hard to give up 
 the kindred tie ! and there are feelings dearer than 
 interest— closer to the heart tlian pride— that will 
 still make us cast back a look of regret, as we wander 
 farther and farther from the paternal roof, and lament 
 the waywardness of the parent that would repel the 
 affections of the child. 
 
 Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the con- 
 duct of England may be in this system of aspersion, 
 recrimination on our par*, would be equally ill-judg- 
 ed. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication 
 of our country, nor the keenest casligation of her slan- 
 derers — but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind; 
 to retort sarcasm, and inspire prejudice; which seems 
 to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us 
 guard particularly against such a temper, for it would 
 double the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. 
 Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse 
 and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry ami an unprofitable 
 contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fret- 
 ted into petulance, rather than warmed into indigna- 
 tion. If England is willing to permit the mean jea- 
 lousies of tra'l>>, or the rancorous animostlies of politics, 
 to deprave lh>' integrity of her press, and poison the 
 fountain of publicopinion, let ushewareof her example. 
 She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and 
 engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emi- 
 
 gration ; we have no purpose of the kind to serrl 
 Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to <J 
 tify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England i 
 are the rising and the gaining party. There can I 
 no end to answer, therefore, but the gralillcatioii] 
 resentment — a mere spirit of retaliation ; and erJ 
 that is impotent. Our retorts are never republisiJ 
 in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aij 
 but they foster a querulous and peevish temper amoi 
 our writers; they sour the sweet flow of our early | 
 terature, and sow thorns and brambles amon" i 
 blossoms. What is still worse, they circulate throuj 
 our own country, and, as far as they have effect, i 
 cite virulent national prejudices. This last is iheej 
 most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as 
 are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost cal 
 should be taken to preserve the purity of the puU 
 mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledgl 
 whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a prejl 
 dice, wilfully saps the foundation of his coiinir 
 strength. 
 
 The members of a republic, above all other mej 
 should be candid and dispassionate. They are, J 
 dividually, portions of the sovereign mind and soij 
 reign will, and should be enabled »o come to 
 questions of national concern with calm and unbia< 
 judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relalioj 
 with England, we nuist have more frequent qntj 
 tions of a diflicult and ilelicate character with 
 than with any other nation ; questions that affect I 
 most acute and excitable feelings ; and as, in the i 
 justing of these, our national measures must ullimall 
 ly be determined Ity popular sentiment, we caiii( 
 be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all ialt 
 passion or prepossession. 
 
 Opening too, as we do, an asylum for straiij 
 from every portion of the earth, we should receil 
 all with impartiality. It should be our pride to exif 
 bit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of r 
 tional antipathies, and exercising not merely theory 
 acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noil 
 courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion, 
 
 What have we to do with national preji 
 They are the inveterate diseases of old coiinlrij 
 contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nali(( 
 knew but little of each other, and looked beyond tin 
 own boundaries with distrust and hostility. Wf,i 
 the contrary, have sprung into national existence i 
 enlightened and philosophic age, when the diffeit 
 parts of the habitable world, and the various brancM 
 of the human family, have been indefaligably sludj 
 and made known to each other; and we forep)l 
 advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the ij 
 
 tional prejudices, as we would the local supei'slitioi 
 of the old world. 
 
 lUit above all, let us not be influenced hy anyan 
 feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to (he perccp 
 what is really excellent and amiable in the En^ 
 character. We are a young people, necessarilr| 
 imitative one, and must lake our examples and mm 
 
 ^agreat degree, fro 
 
 lere is no country 
 
 ^and. The spiri 
 
 rous to ours. Til 
 
 iteliectual activity- 
 
 tijtsofthinkhig on 
 
 larest interests and 
 
 ., are all congenial 
 
 ^lact, are all inlrini 
 
 jral feeling of the 
 
 (British prosperity j 
 
 Dcture may be tir 
 
 tre must be somet 
 
 I the materials, and 
 
 tbat so long ha 
 
 npesls of the world 
 
 Let it be the pride ( 
 
 ail feelings of in 
 
 |ite the illiberality o 
 
 Djlisii nation witlu 
 
 Itiied candour. W 
 
 iig bigotry with i 
 
 biire and imitate ( 
 
 Lose it is English, 
 
 I really Avorthy of ap 
 
 upland before us as 
 
 lerein are recorded 
 
 erience;and wliih 
 
 which may hav< 
 
 raw thence golder 
 
 kberewith to streng 
 
 nal character. 
 
 RURAL LI 
 
 oh! friendly to 
 Friendly to tliuii 
 Domestic life in 
 
 I The stranger who 
 
 £nji;lish charactei 
 
 to the metropo 
 
 mtry ; he must soj( 
 
 lust visit castles, vi 
 
 wander throu| 
 
 nlges and green Ian 
 
 lurches; attend wa 
 
 slivals ; and cope w 
 
 ms, and all their hi 
 
 In some countries t 
 
 fashion of the r 
 
 lies of elegant and 
 
 is inhabited ahno 
 
 England, on the c( 
 
 itheriiig-place, or g 
 
 fasses, where they i 
 
 a hurry of gaiety 
 
 liilgedlhiskindofci 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 343 
 
 ^a<Teat degree, from the existing nations of Europe. 
 
 lere is no country more worthy of our study than 
 
 riand. The spirit of her constitution is most ana- 
 
 us to ours. The manners of her people — their 
 
 ^ellectual activity— tlieir freedom of opinion— their 
 ^ts of thinking on those sui)jects whicii concern the 
 grest interests and most sacred charities of private 
 I are all congenial to the American character; and, 
 
 ^lact, are all intrinsically excellent; for it is in the 
 feeling of the people that the deep foundations 
 
 IfBrilish prosperity are laid; and however the super- 
 ncture may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, 
 
 ^remust be something solid in the basis, admirable 
 
 ^tbe materials, and stable in the structure of an edi- 
 , that so long has towered unshaken amidst the 
 mpesls of the world. 
 
 I Lei it he the pride of our writers, therefore, discard- 
 ; all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to reta- 
 
 jite llie illiberality of British authors, to speak of the 
 nation without prejudice, and with deter- 
 
 kiied candour. While they rebuke the indiscrimi- 
 
 jiliiig bigotry with whicli some of our countrymen 
 tore and imitate every thing English, merely be- 
 
 Le it is English, let them frankly point out what 
 
 |teally worthy of approbation. We may thus place 
 SiiglaiKl before us as a perpetual volume of reference, 
 iterein are recorded sound deductions from ages of 
 ierience;and while we avoid the errors andabsurd- 
 i which may have crept into (he page, we may 
 raw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
 
 kberewilh to strengthen and to embellish our na- 
 nal cliaracter. 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 oh! rricndly to the Ixist pursuits of man, 
 Friendly to thouiglit, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Duinestic life in rural pleasures past! 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 I The stranger who would form a correct opinion of 
 
 e English character must not conline his observa- 
 
 to the metropolis, lie must go forth into the 
 
 nntry ; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets; he 
 
 kust visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages; he 
 
 pt wander through parks and gardens; along 
 
 eilges and green lanes; he must loiter about country 
 
 lurches; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural 
 
 ptirais ; and cope with the people in all their condi- 
 
 m, and all their habits and humours. 
 
 I In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 
 
 I fashion of the nation; they are the only fixed 
 
 »(les of elegant and intelligent society, and the coun- 
 
 f is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. 
 
 lEiigiaiul, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere 
 
 bllieriiig-|(lace, or general rendezvous, of the polite 
 
 lasses, where they devote a small portion of the year 
 
 )a hurry of gaiety and dissipation, and, having in- 
 
 lulged this kind of carnival, return again to tlic ap- 
 
 parently more congenial habits of rural lite. The 
 various orders of society are therefore diffused over 
 the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most re- 
 tired neighbourhoods afford specimens of the different 
 ranks. 
 
 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the 
 rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the 
 beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures 
 and employments of the country. This passion seems 
 inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, 
 born and brought up among brick walls and bustling 
 streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and 
 evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant 
 has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, 
 where he often displays as much pride and zeal in 
 the cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing 
 of his fruits, as he doe:' in the conduct of his business, 
 and the success of a commercial enterprize. Even 
 those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to 
 pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive 
 to have something that shall remind them of the 
 green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy 
 quarters of the city, the drawing-room window re- 
 sembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot ca- 
 pable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; 
 and every square its mimic park, laid out with pictu- 
 resque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see 'he Englishman only in town are 
 apt to form an unfavourable opinion of his social 
 cliaracter. He is either absorbed in business, or 
 distracted by the thousand engagements that dissipate 
 time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. 
 He has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and 
 abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, lie is on 
 the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment 
 he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering 
 to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is 
 calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay 
 the other visits allotted in the morning. An immense 
 metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men 
 selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and tran- 
 sient meetings, they can but deal briefly in common- 
 places. They pretsnt but the cold superficies of cha- 
 racter-its rich and irenial qualities have no lime to 
 be warmed into a flow. 
 
 It is in (he country that the Englishman gives scope 
 to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from 
 the cold formalities and negative civilities of town ; 
 throws off his habits of shy reserve, and l)ecomes 
 joyous and freehearted. He manages to collect round 
 him all (he conveniences and elegancies of polite life, 
 and to banish its restraints. His country seat abounds 
 with every requisite, either for studious retirement , 
 tasteful gialilicalion, or rural exercise. Books, paint- 
 ings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implenienis 
 of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint 
 either upon his guests or himself, but in the true 
 spirit of hospitality provides (he means of enjoyment, 
 and leaves every one to partake according (o his in- 
 clination. 
 
 i '■ 
 
244 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 The tasle of the English in the cullivalion of land, 
 and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrival- 
 led. They have studied nature intently, and discover 
 an exquisite sense of her heautiful forms and harmo- 
 nious combinations. Those charms, which in other 
 countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here as- 
 sembled round the haunts of domestic life. They 
 seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, 
 and spread them, like witchery, about their rural 
 abodes. 
 
 Nothing can be more imposing that the magnifi- 
 cence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that ex- 
 tend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there 
 clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of 
 foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland 
 glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across 
 them ; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the 
 pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The 
 brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or ex- 
 pand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, rellect- 
 ing the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping 
 on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about 
 its limpid waters : while some rustic temple or sylvan 
 statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air 
 of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 
 
 These are but a few of the features of park scenery; 
 but what most delights me, is the creative talent with 
 which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes 
 of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most un- 
 promising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of 
 an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. 
 With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once 
 upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the fu- 
 ture landscape. The sterile sjwt grows into love- 
 liness under his hand ; and yel the operations of art 
 which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceivetl. 
 The cherishing and training of some trees; the cau- 
 tious pruning of others; the nice distribution of 
 llowers and plants of lender and firacefid foliage ; the 
 introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial 
 opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of 
 water ; all these are managed with a delicate tact, a 
 pervading yel (luicl assiduity, like the magic touch- 
 ings with which a puiiiler linislies up a favourite 
 picture. 
 
 The residence of people of fortune and refinement 
 in the country has diffused a degree of tasle and ele- 
 gance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest 
 class. The very labourer, with his thatched cottage 
 and narrow slip of ground, attends to their enibellisli- 
 nient. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the 
 door, the litlle fiower-hed borderetl with snug box, 
 the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hang- 
 ing its l)lossouis about the lattice, the pot of llowers in 
 the window, the holly, providently planted about tJie 
 house, to cheat winter of its dieariness, and (othrxw 
 in a semblance of green sununer to cheer the fireside : 
 all these bespeak the inlluence of tasle, flowing down 
 from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of 
 the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, deligh'.s 
 
 to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an Enoii 
 peasant. 
 
 The fondness for rural life among the higher ck 
 of the English has liad a great and salutary effect un 
 the national character. I do not know a finer rai 
 of men than the English gentlemen. Instead ofi 
 softness and effeminacy which characterize the mj 
 of rank in most countries, they exhibit a unioaofej 
 gance and strength, a robustness of frame and Fresl 
 ness of complexion, which I am inclined to altribul 
 to their living so much in the open air, and pursuiij 
 so eagerly the invigorating recreations of ihe couiiln 
 These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tod 
 of mind and spirits, and a manliness and siniplleityj 
 manners, which even the follies and dissipalium ] 
 the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entin 
 ly destroy. In the country, too, tiie different i 
 ders of society seem to approach more freely, toll 
 more disposed to blend and operate favourably un 
 each other. The distinctions between them do i 
 appear to be so marked and impassable as in the ciliej 
 The manner in which property has been disliihuie 
 into small estates and farms has established a regulJ 
 gradation from the nobleman, through the classes j 
 gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial fain 
 ers, down to the labouring peasantry; and while | 
 has thus baniled the extremes of society together, 1 
 infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of indj 
 pendence. This, it nuist he confessed, is nolsuunj 
 versally the case at present as it was forintiiy : i 
 larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorlj 
 eil the snialler, and, in some parts of the coiiiitiy, a 
 most annihilated the sturdy race of small faiiiierj 
 These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks i| 
 the general system I have nienlioned. 
 
 In rural occupation there is nothing mean and dJ 
 basing. It leads a man forth among scenes of uatiiri 
 grandeur and beauty ; il leaves him to the workiiij 
 of his own mind, operated upon by the purest anj 
 most elevating of external inlluences. Such a iiiaJ 
 may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgan 
 'J'he man of relinenient, therefore, finds notliiugrel 
 volting in an intercourse with Ihe lower orders inruri 
 life, as he does when he casually mingles willillij 
 lower orders of cilics. He lays aside his distanceani 
 reserve, and is glad to wave the (listincliousofraiiiJ 
 and lo enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyiiienls«j 
 conunon life. Indeed the very anuisenaiXs of I 
 coimtry bring men more and more together; ami I 
 sound of hoimd and horn hlend all l'eelin.:,'s into liatj 
 mony. I believe this is one great reason why lliem 
 hility and gentry are more popular among tlic infi noJ 
 orders in lingland than they are in any other eouiilr|| 
 and why the latter have endured so many excossi\| 
 [tressnres and extremities, without repiuiiiicmnrc 
 nerally at the unequal distribution of roriunuaud|iii| 
 vilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustle sixielj 
 may also be attributed the rural feeliug llial niM 
 through British literature; the frequent usuuf illusi 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 245 
 
 .111(1 riislic sdeli 
 
 ilionsfrom niral life; tliose incomparable descrip- 
 
 s of nature tliat abound in tbe Britisb poets— tliat 
 
 Lcontinueddown from " the Flower and the Leaf" 
 
 [cliaucer, and have brouglit into our closets all the 
 
 (sliness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The 
 
 floral Writers of other countries appear as if they 
 
 nature an occasional visit, and become ac- 
 
 iiiiited with her general charms; but the British 
 
 Kti have lived and revelled with her, — they ha^ o 
 
 her in her most secret haunts, — they have 
 
 [ilclied her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
 
 iible in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the 
 
 ^Qiul— a diamond drop could not patter in the 
 
 team— a fragiance could not exhale from the humble 
 
 olet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morn- 
 
 liut it has been noticed by these impassioned 
 
 I delicate observers, and wrought up into some 
 
 bliful morality. 
 
 Illie effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
 mpations has been wonderful on the face of the 
 luiilry. A great part of llie island is rather level, 
 1 would be monotonous, were it not for the charms 
 kcultiire : but it is studded and genuncd, as it were, 
 |lli castles and palaces, and embroidered will) parks 
 1 gardens. It does not aboimd in grand and sub- 
 prospects, but rather in little home scenes of 
 ilrepose and sheltered quiet. Every antique I'arin- 
 M and moss-grown cottage is a i)icture : and as 
 ! roads are coulinually winding, and the view is 
 bliiiby groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by 
 xiiiliniiiil succession of small iandscipesofcaplivat- 
 {lovdiness. 
 
 JTliu ;,'reut cliarm, however, of English scenery is 
 
 e moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is as- 
 
 |cialed in the mind with ideas of order, of (juiet, of 
 
 ler well-cslablished principles, of hoary usage, and 
 
 kerend custom Every thing seems to be the growth 
 
 jaites of regular and peaceful existence. The old 
 
 |nrcli of remote architecture, with its low J'lussive 
 
 ttal; its golhic tower ; its winiiows rich witli trace- 
 
 I and painted gla'-s, in scrupulous preservation ; 
 
 [slatoly mouunu'iits of warriors and worthies of 
 
 oldc'ii lime, cUircstors of the present lords of liic 
 
 ; ils tonilistones, recording successive generations 
 
 jsliirdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the 
 
 Bielii'lds, and kneel at the same altar — The parson- 
 
 |e, a (jtiaiiit irrt g dar pile, partly antiquated, but 
 
 Hired and altered in the tastes of various ages and 
 
 lcii|);inis— The stile and foolpalh leading IVc;!'.; the 
 
 jurclivanl, acioss pleasant finds, and .dong shady 
 
 lilire-rnws, according loan inunenri'..i' right of way 
 
 Tlic lu'iglihouring village, with lu, enerable cot- 
 
 ifs, ils |Md)lio green sheltered b\ trees, inuler which 
 
 ircfadi rs of the present lace have sported — Tlie 
 
 |tii|iie raiiuly mansion, standing apart in some lillle 
 
 piloiiiidn, hut looking down wilha proleelingair 
 
 ] llifi siMidiuiding seenc— All these connnon fea- 
 
 l*s (if I'jiglish landscape evince a calm and settled 
 
 furily, and hereditary transmission of homebred 
 
 lies and local atluchmentji, that speuk deeply and 
 
 touchingly for the moral character of the nation. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when 
 the bell is sending its sober melody across the (|uiet 
 fields, to behold the peasantry in their best llnery, 
 with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, thronging 
 tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is 
 still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, ga- 
 thering about their cottage doors, and appearing to 
 exult in tbe humble comforts and embellislnnenls 
 which their own hands have spread arotmd them. 
 
 It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of 
 affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the 
 parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; 
 and I cannot close these desultory remarks better, 
 than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, 
 who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : 
 
 Ttiroiish each firadatlon, from the castled hall, 
 
 The city iloine, Uic villa crowii'd v ilh shade, 
 
 But chicrrmin imxli'st iiiansiuiis niinihi'i'less. 
 
 In tuwii orluiinU't, sh('lt'l'in,^ iiiiddlc life, 
 
 Down to the collated vale, and straw-rooPd shed j 
 
 This western isle hath Ions; heeii famed for scenes 
 
 Where bliss domestic finds a (IvvcllinK-place; 
 
 Domestic hiiss, that, like a harmless dove, 
 
 ( Ilononr and sweet cnih.'arment kceiiins guard, ) 
 
 Can centre in a little quiel nest 
 
 All that desire would lly for through the earth ; 
 
 That can, the world eluding, he itself 
 
 A worlil enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses 
 
 Hut ils own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
 
 That, like a tlower deep hid iii rocky cleft, 
 
 Smiles, though 'Us looking only at the sky. > 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt 
 '\\ilh care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring's sw eelest book, the rose. 
 
 MlUDLETON. 
 
 It is a common practice with those who have out- 
 lived the susceptibility of early feeling, or have been 
 brought up in the gay liearlle,><snessof di-ssipatcd life, 
 to laugh at all love stories, aiul to treat the tales of 
 roinnntie passion as mere fielions of novelists and 
 poels. iMy observations on human natiue have in- 
 duced me (0 lliink otherwise. 1 hey have convinced 
 ine, that however the surfiiee of the character may 
 he chilled and frozen by the cares of the wu'd. or 
 cidlivated into mere smiles by the arts of .society, s 'u 
 there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of Ihe 
 coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become 
 impetuous, and arc somelimes tiesolaliiig in their ef- 
 fecls. Iniieed, 1 am a true believer in the blind 
 deity, and go to Ihe fidl extent of hisdoclrines. Shall 
 I coiif<'ss it !— I believe in broken hearts, and the pos- 
 sibility of (lying of disappointed love. I do not, how- 
 ever, consiiler it a malady often falal to my own sex; 
 
 < Krom a Toeni on Ihe nealli of the I'rincess Charlutte, by the 
 nevcrciid Uann keinicdy, A. U. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 but I (irmly believe tliat it williers down many a 
 lovely woman iato an early grave. 
 
 Man is' the creature of interest and ambition. His 
 nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of 
 the world. Love is but the embellishment of his 
 early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. 
 He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's 
 thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But a 
 woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The 
 heart is her world : it is there her ambition strives 
 for empire ; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden 
 treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on ad- 
 venture ; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic 
 of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is Jiopeless 
 — tor it is a bankruptcy of the heart. 
 
 To a man tlie disappointment of love may occasion 
 some bitter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tender- 
 ness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an 
 active being — he may dissipate his thoughts in the 
 Avliirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into tlie 
 tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be 
 too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode 
 at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morn- 
 ing, can " Jly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and 
 be at rest." 
 
 But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, 
 and a medi" alive life. She is more the companion of 
 her own tho ights and feelings ; and if they are turn- 
 ed to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for 
 consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and 
 if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress 
 tliat has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, 
 and left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim— how many soft 
 cheeks grow pale— how many lovely forms fade away 
 into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blight- 
 ed their loveliness ! As the dove nill clasp its wings 
 to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is 
 preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to 
 hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. 
 1'he love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. 
 Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to her- 
 self; hilt when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses 
 of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among 
 the ruins of her peace. VViiJi her the desire of the 
 heart has failed. The great charm of e> istence is at 
 an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which 
 gladden the spirits, (]uii;ken the pulses, ami send the 
 tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. 
 Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep 
 is poisoiunl by melancholy dreams — "dry sorrow 
 drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks 
 under the slightest txteinal injury. Look for her, 
 after a lillle while, and you find friendship weeping 
 over lier uiiliinely grave, and wondering that one, 
 who but lately glowed with all the radiance of heallli 
 and beauty, slioiild s(» speinlily be brought down to 
 " darkiK'ss antl the worm." You will be told of some 
 wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid lier 
 luw; — but no otic knows of the mental malady that 
 
 previously sapped her strength, and made hersoeaj 
 a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beau 
 of the grove ; graceful in its form, bright in jtg m 
 liage, but with the worm preying at its liMrt. w 
 find it suddenly withering, when it shoukfbe mJ 
 fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branclJ 
 to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf, until, wastj 
 and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of |H 
 forest ; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin 
 strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt tj 
 could have smitten it with decay. 
 
 I have seen many insla:.ces of women riinniirj 
 waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradual 
 from the earth, almost as if they had been exlialedi 
 heaven ; and liave i tpeatediy fancied that I coiij 
 trace their death through the various Ueclensiuiis ( 
 consumption, cold, debility, languor, meLnicliolj 
 until I reached the first symptom of disappoinJ 
 love. But an instance of the kind was lately 
 me; the circumstances are well known in llieeouiiiij 
 where they happened, and I shall but give liiein i 
 the manner in which they were related. 
 
 Every one must recollect tlie tragical story of yomj 
 
 E , the Irish patriot ; it was too touching lo | 
 
 soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland I 
 was tried, condemned, and executed, on a cliawii 
 treason. His fate made a deep impression on piii)|| 
 sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent— so gj 
 nerous— so brave — so every tiling that we are .ipi || 
 like in a young man. His conduct under trial, !« 
 was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignalioiiwiij 
 which he repelled the charge of treason against 1 
 country — the elocjuent vindication of his iianie-aii| 
 his pathetic appeal to posterity, in tlie hopeless I 
 of condemnation — all these entered deeply into eveij 
 generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented i 
 stern policy that dictated his execution. 
 
 But there was one heart, whose anguish it won! 
 be impossible lo describe. In happier days and fairt 
 fortunes, he hail won the affections of a beaiilifiil aM 
 interesting girl, the daughter ot'a late celebrated Irisj 
 barrister. She loved him with the disinterested m 
 vour of a woman's first and early love. Wlieii eveij 
 worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; wIm 
 blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger dark 
 around his name, she loved him the more anlciill 
 for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate couldawakfj 
 the sympathy even of his foes, what must liavel 
 the agony of her, whose whole soul was occnpiedb 
 his image ! Let those tell who have had the pnrtals(j 
 the tomb suddenly closed between them and I 
 being they most loved on earth — who have sat ali| 
 llircsliokl, as one shutout in a cold and lonely woiW 
 from whence all that was most lovely and luvin^'li 
 deitarted. 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! sn fri!,'ii 
 so dishonoured! there was nothing for nieinoi) i 
 dwell on that could soollu' tne pang of separalioiH 
 nonc of those lender though melancholy cimiinj 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 247 
 
 ,gce$, that endear tiie parting scene— nothing to 
 jelt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the 
 L's of lieaven, to revive tlie heart in the parting- 
 
 urofan^'uish. 
 [to render her widowed situation more desolate, 
 
 > had incurred her fatlier's displeasure by her un- 
 [tunate attachment, and was an exile from the pa- 
 nal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices 
 
 Iffrieiuls have reached a spirit so siiocked and driven 
 
 [l;v liorror, she would have experienced no want of 
 Bsolalion, for the Irish are a people of quick and 
 
 Itnerous sensibilities. The most delicate and che- 
 hing attentions were paid ' er by families of wealth 
 Idjstinc'ion. She was led into society, and they 
 
 lied by all kinds of occupation and anuisement to 
 jsjpate her grief, and wean her from the tragical 
 )ry of her loves. But it was all in vain. There 
 
 > some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch 
 e soul— that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness 
 ^nd blast it, never again to put forth bud or blos- 
 B). She never objected to frequent the haunts of 
 lasure, but she was as much alone there as in the 
 ipllis of solitude. She walked about in a sad re- 
 [rie apparently unconscious of the world around 
 
 She carried with her an inward woe that 
 icked nt all the blandishments of friendship, and 
 I heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he 
 Iver so wisely." 
 
 flhe person who told me her story had seen her 
 la nias(iuera(le. There can be no exhibition of far- 
 Ine wretchedness more striking and painful than to 
 [eel it ill such a scene. To lind it wandering like a 
 jeclre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — 
 [see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and 
 king so wan and wobegone, as if it had tried in 
 lin to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forget- 
 llness of sorrow. After strolling through the splen- 
 1 rooms and giddy crowd with an ait of utter ab- 
 taclioii, she sat herself down on the steps of an 
 tciitslia, and, looking iibout for some time with a 
 leant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish 
 jene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly 
 art, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an 
 Iqnisiie voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, 
 Itduchiiig, it breathed forth such a soul of wretched- 
 s, thai she drew a crowd mute and silent around 
 kr, and melted every one into tears. 
 JTlie story of one so true and lender could not but 
 Icite great interest in n country remarkable for en- 
 liisiasm. II completely won I he heart of a brave 
 pieer, wlio pai<l his adilresscs to her, anil thought 
 al one so true to the dead could not but [trove affeo- 
 bnale to the living. She declined his attentions, 
 lier tlioughts were irrevocably engrossed by the 
 leinoryuf her former lover. He, however, persisted 
 [Ins suit. lie solicited not her tenderness, but her 
 keein. He was assisted by her conviction of his 
 prtli, anil her sense of her own destitute and (h-- 
 ndenl situation, for she was existing on the kindness 
 [friemls. In a word, he at length succeeded in 
 
 gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, 
 that her heart was unalterably another's. 
 
 lie took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a 
 change of scene miglu wear out the remembrance 
 of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary 
 wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but 
 nothing could cure the silent and devouring melan- 
 choly that had entered into her very soul. She wast- 
 ed away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length 
 sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish 
 poet, composed the following lines : 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sishing : 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps. 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains. 
 
 Every note which lin loved awaking— 
 Ah! httlethey think, who delight in her strains. 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 He had lived for his love— for his country he died. 
 
 They were all that to life had entwinf'd him— 
 Kor soon shall Uie tears of his country he dried. 
 
 Nor long will his love stay behind him ! 
 Oh ! make her a grave where the sun-beams rest, 
 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west. 
 
 From her own loved island of sorrow ! 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 
 
 "If that severe doom of Syncsius be true— 'It is a greater 
 (iffence to steal dead men's labour, than their clothes,' what shall 
 become of most writers?" 
 
 BliBTONS AMATOMV OF MELANCnOLV. 
 
 I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of 
 the press, and how it comes to pass that so many 
 heads, on which nature seems to have inflicted the 
 curse of barrenness, should teem with voluminous 
 productions. As a man travels on, however, in the 
 journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, 
 and he is continually (iiidiiig out some very simple 
 cause for some great matter of marvel. U'lius have 
 I chanced, in my peregriiialioiis alwiit this great me- 
 tropolis, to blunder upon a scene which nnlokled to 
 me some of tlie mysteries of the book-nuilving ciafi, 
 and at once put an end to my aslonisliment. 
 
 I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
 saloons of the British I^lnseum, with that lisllessness 
 with which one is apt to saunter about a mnseiiin in 
 warm weather; sonietinics lolling over the glass-cases 
 of minerals, .sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on 
 an I'^gyptian nuimniy, and sometimes trying, with 
 nearly equal success, to comprehend the allegorical 
 paintings on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing 
 aboul in this idle way, my attention was attracted to 
 a d' (iiJil door, a( the end of a suite of apaili.icnts. 
 It was closed, but every now and then it would open, 
 and some strange-favoured being, generally clothed 
 
2i8 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 in black, would steal forth, and glide through the 
 rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding ob- 
 jects. Tliere was an air of mystery about tliis that 
 piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to at- 
 tempt the passage of (hat strait, and to explore the 
 unknown regions that lay beyond. The door yielded 
 to my hand, with all that facility with which the 
 portals of enchanted castles' yield to the adventurous 
 knight-errant. I found iw Sd in a spacious chamber, 
 surrounded with great cases of venerable Ijooks. 
 Alwve the cases, and just under the cornice, were 
 arranged a great number of black-looking portraits of 
 ancient authors. About the room were placed long 
 tables, with stands for reading and writing, at whicli 
 sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently 
 over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy ma- 
 nuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. 
 The most hushed stillness reigned through this mys- 
 terious apartment, excepting that you might hear the 
 racing of pens over sheets of paper, or, occasionally, 
 the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his 
 position to turn over the page of an old folio; doubt- 
 less arising from that hoUowness and flatulency inci- 
 dent to learned research. 
 
 Now and then one of these personages would write 
 sometiiing on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, 
 whereupon a familiar would appear, take the paper 
 in profound silence, glide out of the room, and return 
 shortly loaded with ponderous lomes, upon which the 
 other would fall tooth and nail with famished vora- 
 city. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened 
 upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of 
 occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old 
 Arabian tale, of a philosopher who was shut up in an 
 enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, (hat 
 opened only once a jear; where he i lade the spirits 
 of the place obey his commands, and bring him books 
 of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
 the J ,ar, when the magic portal once more swung 
 open on its hinges, he issued forin so versed in fur- 
 bidden lore, as to be able lo soar above the heads of 
 the multitude, and to control the powers of nature. 
 
 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered 
 to one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the 
 room, and begged an interpretation of the strange 
 scene before me. A few words were sufiicient for the 
 purpose. I found that these mysterious person- 
 ages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were prin- 
 cipally authors, and were in the very act of manufac- 
 turing boaks. I was, in fact, in the reading-room of 
 the g" jat Ihitish Library — an innneiise collection of 
 volumes of all ages and languages, many of which 
 are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom 
 r<!ad. To these secpiestercd pools ofohsolete litera- 
 ture, therefore, do many modern authors repair, and 
 draw buckets full of classic lore, or "pure Jilnglish, 
 undeliled," wherewith lo swell their own scanty rills 
 of ihought. 
 
 Meiiig now in possession of the secret, I sat ii \vn 
 in a corner, and walciied the process of this book ma- 
 
 nufactory. I noticed one lean, bilions-Iooking t^jJ 
 who sought none but the most worm-eaten voluinJ 
 printed in black-letter. He was evidently constnicj 
 ing some work of profound eruditiim, tlial would I 
 purchased by every man who wished to lie Ijiouji 
 learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf ariiisj 
 brary, or laid open upon his table ; but never reaj 
 I observed him, now and then, draw a large fraj 
 menl of biscuit out of bis pocket, and gnaw; wlieihi 
 it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavourij 
 to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach produo 
 by much pondering over dry works, I leave to iian 
 students than myself to determine. 
 
 There was one dapper little gentleman in bri;!hj 
 coloured clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expiessij 
 of countenance, who had "A\ the appearance of a 
 author on good terms with his bookseller. All 
 considering him attentively, I recognized in liiml 
 diligent ge(ler-up of miscellaneous works, wliiclihi/ 
 tied off well with the trade. I was curious to < 
 how he manufactured bis wares. lie made mores 
 and show of business than i y of the others; dippi 
 into various books, fluttering over the leaves of iiJ 
 nuscripis, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel oulj 
 another, *' line upon line, precept upon precept, JieJ 
 a little and there a little. " The contents ofliisii 
 seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of tlie witc 
 caldron in Macbeth. It was here a linger and llieij 
 a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting, wii| 
 bis own gossip poured in like " baboon's blomi,"! 
 make the medley " slab and good. " 
 
 After all, thought I, may not this pilfering dispi 
 tion be implanted in authors for wise purposes; nu| 
 it not be the way in which Providence has taken cai 
 that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall beprf 
 served from age to age, in spite of the inevitable do 
 of the works in which they were lirst produced ? Wl 
 see that nature has wisely, though whimsically, provia 
 ed for the conveyance of seeds from clime toeliine,il 
 the maws of certain birds; so that animals wliidi.J 
 themselves, are little better than carrion, andapparciill 
 ly the lawless plunderers of the orchard mui llie coij 
 held, are, in fad, nature's carriers to disperse ani 
 perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the lieauj 
 ties and line thoughts of ancient and obsolete autlioi 
 are caught up by these flights of predatory wrilfrs 
 and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit inarej 
 mote and distant tract of time. Many of their worksj 
 also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spiiffi 
 up under new forms. What was formerly a pniKJerj 
 oils history revives in the shape of a romance— iuiolij 
 legend changes into a modern play — and a sober | 
 sophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole scrii^ 
 of bouncing and spaikling essays. Thus it is iiilh| 
 clearing of our A merican woodlands ; where we liiirl 
 down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarl 
 oaks start up in their [tlace : and we never see iM 
 |)rostraletrunkof a tree mouldering into soil, Imtil 
 gives birth lo a whole tribe of fungi, 
 l.el us not, then, lament over the decay and ^ 
 
 \ 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 aio 
 
 (into which ancient writers descend; they do but 
 
 pit 10 the great law of nature, whicii declares 
 
 (ill sublunary shapes of matter shall be limited in 
 
 r duration, but which decrees, also, that their 
 
 leols shall never perish, (jcneration after genc- 
 
 Ljn, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, 
 
 [the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and 
 
 [species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do au- 
 
 5 beget authors, and having produced a numerous 
 
 reny, in a good old age they sleep with their fa- 
 
 r5,lliat is to say, with the authors who preceded 
 
 -and from whom they had stolen. 
 Inliilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, 
 Cleaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. 
 (tlier it was owing to the soporific emanations 
 1 these works; or to the profound quiet of the 
 a; or to the lassitude arising from much wander- 
 I or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper 
 s and places, with which I am grievously afllicted, 
 jivas, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my 
 
 nation continued busy, and indeed the same 
 e remained before my mind's eye, only a little 
 I in some of the details. I dreamt that the 
 niter was still decorated with the portraits of an- 
 ]fK aiitiiors, but that the number was increased. 
 
 iig tables had disappeared, and, in place of the 
 leniagi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such 
 lay be seen plying about the great repository of 
 l-offclothes, Monmouth-street. Whenever Ihey 
 »\ upon a book, by one of those incongruities 
 Dion to dreams, melhought it turned into a gar- 
 |it of foreign or antique fashion, with which they 
 
 eded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, 
 kiio one pretemled to clothe himself fiom any par- 
 Uar suit, hut took a sleeve from one, a cape from 
 )ther, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out 
 temeal, while some of his original rags would peep 
 [from among his borrowed (incry. 
 
 lere was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I 
 |pne(l ogling several mouldy polemical writei-s 
 Wii an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on 
 I voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, 
 tni; purloined the gray beard of another, endea- 
 Ircdtolook exceedingly wise; hut the smirking 
 pon-|)iace of his countenance set at nought all the 
 ipings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman 
 [biisied embroidering a very (limsy garment with 
 1 llucad drawn out of several old court dresses of 
 |rei|;n of Queen Elizabeth. A nother had trinnned 
 
 «ir maf^nilicenlly from an illuminated manu- 
 
 , had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from 
 file Paradise of dainty Devices," and having put 
 Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strut- 
 |off\vilh an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A 
 ll,who was but of puny dimensions, had lM)lster- 
 Jimseif nut bravely with the spoils from several 
 pre Irnrts of philosophy, so llial ho had a very 
 fning iVonl ; but he was laincMtably tattered in 
 
 and I perceived that he had patched his sinall- 
 lics Willi snaps of |)ar(-hnieut from a Latin author. 
 
 There were some well-<lress«l gentlemen, it is 
 true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, 
 which sparkled among their own ornaments, without 
 eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate 
 the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe 
 their principles of taste, and to catch their air and 
 spirit; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to 
 array themselves from lop to toe, in the patchwork 
 manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to speak 
 of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an 
 Arcadian hat, wlio had a violent propensity to the pas- 
 toral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined 
 to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the soli- 
 tudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself 
 in wreaths and ribands from all the old pastoral poets, 
 and, hanging his head on one side, went about with 
 a fantastical lack-a-daisical air, " babbling about green 
 fields." But the personage that roost struck my at- 
 tention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical 
 robes, with a remarkably large and square, but bald 
 head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, 
 elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of 
 sturdy self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a 
 thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and 
 swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry sud- 
 denly resounded from every side, of "Thieves! 
 thieves!" I looked, and lo! the portraits abont the 
 wall became animated ! The old authors thrust out, 
 first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvass, look- 
 ed down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley 
 throng, and then descended w ith fury m their eyes, 
 to claim their rifled property. The scene of scam- 
 pering and hid)bub that ensuetl baffles all tiescriplion. 
 The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain to es- 
 cape with plunder. On one side might be seen half 
 a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor ; on 
 another, there was sad devastation canied into the 
 ranks of modern dramatic writers, lieaumont and 
 Fletcher, side by side, raged i-ound the field like 
 Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted 
 more wonders than when a volunteer w it!i the army 
 in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler ol far- 
 ragos, mentioned some lime since, he had arrayeil 
 himself in as many patches anil colours as llailequiii , 
 and there was as lierce a coulention of claimants 
 about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I 
 was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been 
 accustomed to look up with awe and reverence, fain 
 to steal off with scarce a rag to rover their nakedness. 
 Just then my eye was •'aught by the piagniatical (dd 
 gentleman in the (Ireek grizzled wig, who was 
 scrambling away in sore affright with half a score of 
 authors in full cry nflcrhim. They were close upon 
 his haunches; in a twinkling off went liis wig; at 
 every >iiru some strip o( raiment was peeled away; 
 limit in a few inomeiits, from his domineering pomp, 
 lie shrunk into a little, pursy, "chopp'd bald shot." 
 niid made his e.vit with only a few lags and rags flut- 
 leruig .It his hack. 
 
 w 
 
 '■ 7 
 
250 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 There was something so ludicrous in the cata- 
 strophe of this learned Theban, that I burst into an 
 immoderate lit of laughter, wliich broke the whole il- 
 lusion. The tumult and the scuffle were at an end. 
 The chamber resumed iU usual appearance. The old 
 authors shnmk back into their picture-frames, and 
 hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, 
 I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the 
 wliole assemblage of bookworms gazing at me with 
 astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real 
 but my burst of laughter, a sound never l)efcre heard 
 in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears 
 of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. 
 
 The librarian now stepped up to me, and demand- 
 ed whether I had a card of admission. At first I did 
 notcomprehendliim,butIsoon found that the library 
 wasa kind of literary "preserve," subject to game laws, 
 and that no one must presume to hunt there without 
 special license and permission. In a word, I stood 
 convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad 
 to make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a 
 whole pack of authors let loose upon me. 
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Though your body be conlined, 
 
 Anil soft love a prisoner bound. 
 Yet the beauty of your mind 
 
 Keitlicr checli nor chain hath found. 
 L<)ol( out nolily, then, and dare 
 Kvcn the fetters that you wear. 
 Fletcuer. 
 
 On a soft sunny morning, in the genial month of 
 May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a 
 place full of storied and poetical associations. The 
 very external aspect of the proud old pile is enough to 
 inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and 
 massive towers, hke a mural crown, round the brow 
 of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, 
 and looks down, with a lordly air, upon the surround- 
 ing world. 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that volup- 
 tuous vernal kind, which calls forth all the latent ro- 
 mance of a man's temperament, iillinghis mind with 
 music, and disposing him to quote poetry and dream 
 of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent 
 saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I 
 passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits 
 ofwarrioiaiind slatestnen, but lingered in the chamber 
 where hang th<; likonesses of the beauties that graced 
 the gay court of Charles the Second ; and as I gaz^;«l 
 upon them, depicted with amorous, half-dishevelled 
 tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, 1 blesseil the pencil 
 of Sir Peter Leiy, wliich had thus enahM me to bask 
 in the reflected rays ol beauty. In tnversing also 
 the "large green courts," with sunshine beaming on 
 the grey walls, and glancing along the velvet turf, 
 my mind was* engrossed with the image of the lender, 
 
 the gallant, but hapless Surry, and his account oil 
 loiterings about them in his stripling days 
 enamoured of the Lady Geraldine — 
 
 "With eyes cast up unto the maiden's tower, 
 with easle sighs, such as men draw In love." 
 
 In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I vu 
 the ancient Keep of the Castle, where James the [ 
 ofScotland, the pride and theme of Scottish poets] 
 historians, was for many years of his youth detain 
 prisoner of state. It is a large grey tower, tliat| 
 stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good pre 
 tion. It stands on a mound, which elevates it an 
 the other parts of the castle, and a great flight of J 
 leads to the interior. In the armoury, wliich| 
 gothichall, furnished with weapons of various k 
 and ages, I was shown a coat of armour liani 
 against the wall, which I was told had oncebeloi] 
 to James. From hence I was conducted up a s 
 case to a suite of apartments of faded magnilio 
 hung with storied tapestry, which formed his priJ 
 and the scene of that passionate and fanciful am 
 which has woven into the web of his story then 
 hues of poetry and Action. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but unrortoi 
 prince is highly romantic. At the tender aj| 
 eleven he was sent from home by his father, Bd 
 III, and destined for the French court, to be ittl 
 under the eye of the French monarch, secure t 
 the treachery and danger that surrounded the r 
 house ofScotland. It was his mishap in thecoun 
 his voyage to fall into the hands of the English, I 
 he was detained prisoner by Henry IV, nol(^ 
 standing that a truce existed between the Ino ( 
 tries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in the li 
 of many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to 1 
 happy father. "The news," we are told, "| 
 brought to him while at supper, and did so i 
 whelm him with grief, that he wasalmost ready to| 
 tip the ghost into the hands of the servants I 
 tended him. Rut being carried to his bed-ehai 
 he abstained from all food, and in three daysdiej 
 hunger and grief, at Rothesay." ' 
 
 James was detained in captivity above eiglil 
 years; but though deprived of personal libert|f| 
 was treated with the respect due to his rank, 
 was taken to instruct him in all the branches of n 
 knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give| 
 those mental and personal accomplishments de< 
 proper for a prince. Perhaps, in this respect,! 
 imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled hi^ 
 apply himself the more exclusively to Ids Impi 
 ment, and qiiiclly to imbibe that rich fundofkoj 
 ledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, wlilcl 
 given such a lustre to his memory. The picj 
 drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish liistorii 
 is highly captivating, and seems rather the descripl 
 of a hero of romance, than of a chuiacter iniealj 
 
 • niicliannn. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 2al 
 
 He was well learnt, we are told, "to (ight 
 
 Lihesword, tojoust, to tonrnay, to wrestle, to sing 
 
 Idance; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty 
 
 Lying both of lute and harp, :;nd sundry other 
 
 nments of nuisic, and vvas expert in grammar, 
 
 y, and poetry." ' 
 
 irith lliis combination of manly and delicate ac- 
 
 plishments, filling him to shiiie both in active and 
 
 111 life, and calculated to give him an intense 
 
 b for joyous existence, it must have been a severe 
 
 in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass Ihe 
 
 e-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It 
 
 Ltbe great fortune of James, however, to be gifted 
 
 kapowerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his 
 
 ] by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some 
 
 J corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of 
 
 nalliberty; others grow morbid and irritable; 
 
 |il is the nature of Ihe poet to Income tender and 
 
 ijnative in the loneliness of confinement. He 
 
 inets upon Ihe honey of his own thoughts, and, 
 
 [ihecaptive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen Ihc nightingale, 
 
 A pilgrim coop'd into a cage? 
 How dotli slie cliant licr wonted tale, 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. > 
 
 KJeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, 
 kit is irrepressible, unconfinalile; that when the 
 Uorld is shut out, it can create a world for itself, 
 |ffilii a necromanlic power can conjure up glo- 
 s shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make 
 
 Ai populous, arul irradiate the gloom of the 
 
 m. Such was the world of pomp and pageant 
 |lived round Tasso in his dismal cell at Ferrara, 
 
 I he conceived the splendid scenes of his .leru- 
 
 d; and we may consider the '* King's Quair," 
 I by James, during his captivity at Windsor, 
 mother of those beautiful breakings-forth of the 
 I from the restraint and gloom of the prison-house. 
 [he subject of the poem is his love for the Lady 
 e Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and 
 ^ncess of Ihe blood royal of England, of whom 
 
 icame enamoured in the course of his captivity. 
 |)t gives it peculiar value, is that it may be consi- 
 
 I a transcript of the royal bard's true feelings, 
 |the story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not 
 ithat sovereigns write poetry, or that poets deal 
 
 ict. It is gratifying to the pride of a common 
 Y lo Hnd a monarch thus suing, as it were, for 
 
 sion into his dosel, and seeking to win his fn- 
 H)y administering lo his pleasures. It is a proof 
 jhe honest equality of intellectual composition, 
 |ch strips off all the trappings of factitious dignity, 
 
 ! Ilie candidate down to a level wilh his fellow 
 I, and obliges him to depend on his own native 
 lets for dislinelion. It is curions, loo, lo get at 
 kisloryof a monarch's licart, and to find Ihe simple 
 
 hllfmicn's Translation ot Hector Boyco. 
 Ner L'Eitraiige. 
 
 affections of hnmaii nature throbbing under the er- 
 mine. But James had learnt to be a poet before he was 
 a king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in 
 the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have sel- 
 dom time to parley with their hearts, or to meditate 
 their minds into poetry ; and had James been brought 
 up amidst the adulation and gaiety of a court, wc 
 should never, in all probability, have had such a poem 
 as Ihe Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts 
 of the poem which breathe his immediate thoughts 
 concerning his situation, or which are connected with 
 the apartment in the tower. They have thus a per- 
 sonal and local charm, and are given with such cir- 
 cumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with 
 the captive in his prison, and the companion of his 
 meditations. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his weariness 
 of spirit, and of the incident that first suggested the 
 idea of writing the poem. It was the still midwatch 
 of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says, were 
 twinkling as the fire in the high vault of heaven ; and 
 " Cyn» .la rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." 
 He lay in bed wakeful and restless, and took a book 
 to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose 
 was Boelius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work po- 
 pular among the writers of that day, and which had 
 been translated by his great prototype Chaucer. 
 From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is 
 evident this was one of his favourite volumes while 
 in prison : and indeed it is an admirable text-book for 
 meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a 
 noble and enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and 
 suffering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity 
 the maxims of sweet moraiuy, and the trains of elo- 
 quent but simple reasoning, I)y which it was enabled 
 to bear up against the various ills of life. It is a ta- 
 lisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in his 
 bosom, or, like the good King James, lay upon his 
 nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents 
 over in his mind, and gradually falls into a fit of 
 musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes 
 of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him 
 even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the 
 bell ringing to matins; but its sound, chiming in with 
 his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice 
 exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of 
 I>oetic errantry he determines to comply with this 
 intimation : he therefore takes pen in hand, makes 
 wilh it a sign of the cross to implore a benediction, 
 and sallies forth into Ihe fairy land of poetry. There 
 is something extremely fanciful in all this, and it is 
 interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful in- 
 stance of Ihe simple manner in which whole trains of 
 poetical thought are sometimes awakened, and lite- 
 rary enterprize.e suggested to the mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than once bewails 
 Ihe peculiar hardness of his fate; thus doomed to 
 lonely and inactive life, and shut up from Ihe freedom 
 
 :'I I 
 
 '. i 
 
^JSi 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ami pleasure uf the \t'orkl, in whicli the meanest ani- 
 mal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, 
 however, in his very complaints; lliey are llie lanien- 
 tations of an aniial)le and social spirit at being denied 
 the indulgence of its kind and generous propensities; 
 there is nothing in Iheni harsh or exaggerated ; (hey 
 How with a natural and touching pathos, and arc 
 perhaps rendered more toucliing by tiieir simple bre- 
 vity. Tliey contrast iinely with tliose elaborate and 
 iterated repinings, wiiich we sometimes meet with 
 in poetiy; — the effusions of morbid minds sickening 
 under miseries of their own creating, and venting 
 their bitterness upon an imoffending world. James 
 speaks uf his priva''ons with acute sensibility, but 
 having mentioned them |>asses on, as if his manly 
 mind disilained to brood over unavoidable calamities. 
 When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, how- 
 ever brief, we are aware how great must he the suf- 
 fering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize 
 with James, a romantic, active, and accomplished 
 prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth from all the 
 enteiprize, the noble uses, and vigorous delights of 
 life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of 
 nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth 
 brief but deep-toned lamentations over his perpetual 
 blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a dePicieney of |>oetic arti- 
 fice, we might almost have suspected that these 
 lowerings of gloomy reflection were meant as prepa- 
 rative to the U-ighlest scene of his story ; and to con- 
 trast with that effulgence of light and loveliness, that 
 exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and 
 foliage and flower, and all the revel of the year, 
 with which he ushers in the lady of his heart. It is 
 this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic 
 of romance about the old castle keep. lie had risen, 
 he says, at daybreak, according to custom, to escape 
 from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pillow. 
 *' Bewailing in his diamber thus alone," despairing 
 of all joy and remedy, " foriired of thought and wo- 
 begone," he had wandered to the window, to indulge 
 the captive's miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon 
 the world from which he is excluded. The window 
 looked forth upon a small garden wliich lay at the foot 
 of the tower. It was a (piiet, sheltered spot, adorned 
 with arbours and green alleys, and protected from the 
 passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. 
 
 Now was tliere made, fast by llie tower's wall, 
 A gai-deii faire. aiul in tlie comers set 
 
 Au arbour green willi wandis loiig aiul small 
 Hailed about, and so with leaves beset 
 
 Was all Ihe place and hawtlioni liedges knel, 
 Tliat lyf ' was none, watkyng there forbye. 
 That might witliin scarce any wight esiiye. 
 
 So thicl( the branches and the leves grcne, 
 Beshaded all tlie alleys that there wei-e. 
 
 And iiiidsl of every arbour miglit be seiie 
 The sliarpc, grene, sweet juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair, with brandies here and there. 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without. 
 The knighs did spread the arbour all about. 
 
 ' fjfl, person. 
 
 And oil tlw small grene twisliji ■ set 
 The lytel swele niglilingalcs, aiNl sung 
 
 So loud and clear, the hyinnis consecrali; 
 Uf lovls use, now soft, now loud among, 
 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 
 Itight of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when every tliin; j 
 in bloom ; anil he interprets the song uf the nij 
 ingale into the luuguage of his enamoured feelinj 
 
 Worship, all ye that lovers lie. tliis May ; 
 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
 And sing witli us, Away, winter, away. 
 
 Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 
 
 As he gazes on the .scene, and listens lu inti 
 of the birds, he gradiiully lapses into one uf li 
 tender and uiulelinahle re ries, which iill thevul 
 ful bosom in this delicious sea.son. He vvuiuleisv 
 this love may be, of which he has so often read,! 
 which thus .seems breathed forth in the qiiickeJ 
 breath of May, and melting all nature into eesliisvl 
 song. If it really be so great a felicity, and iritf 
 lK)on thus generally dispensed to the most iiisij 
 cant of beings, why is he alone cut off from itii eq 
 ments ? 
 
 oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be. 
 That love is of such noble inyglil and kynde? 
 
 Loving his foike, and such prospcrilee 
 Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
 May he oure hertcs selten ' and unbynd : 
 
 Ilatli he upon our hertes sudi maistryc? 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasyc? 
 
 Forgiff liebcof so grcte excellence, 
 
 That be of every wight hath care and charge: 
 
 What have I gilt > (ohim, or done olfeiLsc, 
 That I am tlu-al'd, and birdis go at large? 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts liis | 
 downward, be beholds " the fairest and the fm 
 young floure," that ever he had seen. It is lhelo| 
 Lady Jane walking in the garden, to enjoy the I: 
 of that "fresh May morrow." Breaking thus | 
 denly upon his sight, in the moment of lonelinej 
 excited susceptibility, she at once captivates tiieli 
 of the romantic prince, and becomes the ol)je< 
 his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his i 
 world. 
 
 There is, in this diarming scene, an evidenl 
 semblance to the early part of Chaucer's Kiii 
 Tale ; where T'alamon and Arcite fall in love j 
 Emilia, whom they see walking hi the garden o(| 
 prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual faa 
 the incident which he had read in Cliaucermavi 
 induced James to dwell on it in bis poem. Ili^ 
 scriplion of the Lady Jane is given in the pieluR 
 and minute manner of his master; and beiii^ duj 
 less taken from the life, is a perfoct porliiiit 
 beauty of that day. He dwells, with the (m 
 of a lover, on every article of her apparel, huni 
 net of pearl, splendent with emeralds aiiilsapplil 
 that confined her golden hair, even to llie"?o|^ 
 
 > Tvtslis, small bouglis or twigs. 
 
 » Sellen, incline. 
 
 :< Oill, what injury have I done, etc. 
 
 !Vole,—Thc lansuagc of the ((uotations Is generally inixlct 
 
 iiilellersof gold, I 
 
 He receives the 
 I dread : reads it wi 
 
TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 2r> 
 
 Icbaineorsmall orfeverye"' about her neck, whereby 
 llbere hun^ a rubby in shape of a heail, that seemed, 
 Ijiesnys, like a spark of fire burning upon her white 
 Iboijom. Her dress of while tissue was loo[)ed up to 
 Liable her to walk with more freedom. She was 
 licromp'inied l)y two female attendants, and about 
 I bfr spoiled a little httund decorated wilh bells; pro- 
 ||ial)ly the small Italian hound of exquisite synuuetry, 
 Kliicli was a parlour favourite and pet anion;; the 
 lyiioiiable dames of ancient limes. James closes 
 I liis description by a burst of general eulogium. 
 
 In lipr was yoiilli, beauty, willi hunilile port, 
 Bountpe, richesse, and womanly fi'atiire ; 
 
 Gcxl liclter knows than my |ieu can i'e|Hii't, 
 
 Wisdom, larst'sse, > cstati!, ' and cunning 1 sure, 
 
 In every jMiint so Ruidcd licr mcasnrc. 
 
 In word, in deed, in sliapc, in coimtenance, 
 That nature might no more her child advance. 
 
 The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden 
 I pills an end to this transient riol of the heart. With 
 Iki departs the amorous illusion that had shed a tcm- 
 Ipdiary charm over the scene of his captivity, and he 
 [relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more 
 iiilolerable by this passing beam of unattainable 
 beauty. Through the long and weary day he re- 
 pines at his unhappy lot, and when evening ap- 
 proaches, and Pho'bus, as he beautifully expresses it, 
 1 ''bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he 
 I lingers at the window, and, laying his head upon 
 I llie cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love 
 and sorrow, uiilil, gradually lulled by the mute me- 
 [lancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, " half sleep- 
 ii», half swoon," into a vision, whir^h occupies the 
 I remainder of the poem, and in which is allegoricaily 
 I shadowed out the history of his passion. 
 
 When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his 
 [stony pillow, and, pacing Ids apartment, full of 
 dreary reflections, questions bis spirit whither it has 
 ken wanilering ; whether, indeed, all that has passed 
 kfore his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by 
 preceding circumstances ; or whether it is a vision, 
 intended to comfort and assure him in his despond- 
 ency. If the latter, he prays that some token may 
 be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given 
 I him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of 
 Ihe purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, 
 and alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch 
 of red gillillower, on the leaves of which is written, 
 I in letleis of gold, the following sentence : 
 
 Awake 1 awako ! I lii'ing, lover, I brius 
 
 The ucwis glad Ihat blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of Hiy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing. 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 lie receives the branch wilh mingled hope and 
 
 I dread; reads it wilh rapture : and this, he says, was 
 
 Hie Ihsl token of his succeeding happiness. Whether 
 
 ihis is a mere |)oelic fiction, or whelher the Lady 
 
 I Jane did actually send him a token of her favour in 
 
 ins is generally mod(T 
 
 ' Wronglit gold. 
 ' £'i7«te, dignity. 
 
 •' Largesse, Iraunty. 
 i (HnniiKj, discretion. 
 
 this romantic way, remains to be determuted accord- 
 ing to the faith or fancy of the reader. He con- 
 cludes Ids poem, by intimating tliat the promise con- 
 veyed i'l the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by 
 his being restored to liberty, and made happy in the 
 possession of the sovereign of his heart. 
 
 Such is Ihe [welical account given by James of his 
 love adventures in W indsor Castle. How much of 
 it is absolute fact, and how much the embellishment 
 of fancy, it is fruitless lo conjecture : do not, liow- 
 evcr, let us always consider whatever is romantic as 
 incompatible wilh real life ; but let us sometimes take 
 a poet at his word. I have noticed merely such parts 
 of the poem as were immediately connected with the 
 tower, and have passed over a large part, which was 
 in the allegorical vein, so much cullivaled at that day. 
 The language, of course, is quaint and aiUiquated, 
 so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will 
 scarcely be perceived at the present ilay ; but it is 
 impossible not to be charmed with the genuine sen- 
 timent, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, which 
 prevail throughout it. The descriptions of nature too, 
 wilh which it is embellished, are given wilh a truth, 
 a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most 
 cultivated periods of the art. 
 
 As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days 
 of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, relineinent, 
 and exquisite delicacy which pervade it : banishing 
 every gross thought or immodest expression, and pre- 
 senting female loveliness, clothed in all its chivalrous 
 attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 
 
 James flourished nearly about the lime of Chaucer 
 and (jower, and was evidently an admirer and stu- 
 dier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas 
 he acknowledges them as his masters; and, in some 
 parts of his [loem, we find traces of similarity lo theu' 
 productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. 
 There are always, however, general features of re- 
 semblance in the works of contemporary authors, 
 which are not so much borrowed from each other as 
 from the limes. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets 
 in Ihe wide world; they incorporale wilh their own 
 conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts which are 
 current in society ; and thus each generation has some 
 features in common, characteristic of the age iu which 
 it lived. 
 
 James in fact belongs to one of the most brilliant 
 eras of our literary history, and establishes the claims 
 of his country to a participation in its primitive ho- 
 nours. Whilst a small cluster of Jinglisb writers are 
 constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name 
 of their great Scottish compeer is apt lo he passed over 
 iu silence; but he is evidently worthy of being emoll- 
 ed in tliat little constellation of remote but never- 
 failing luminaries, who .shine iu Ihe highest firmament 
 of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang to- 
 gether at the bright dawning of British poesy. 
 
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with 
 Scottish history (though the manner in which it has 
 of laic been woven with captivating fiction has made 
 
 ■ J 
 
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254 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 it a univenal study), may be cnrtoiu to learn some- 
 thing of the subsequent history of James, and the for- 
 tunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as 
 it was the solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his 
 release, it being imagined by the court that a con- 
 nexion with the blood royal of England would attach 
 him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored 
 to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused 
 the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, 
 and made him a most tender and devoied wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feu- 
 dal chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles 
 and irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen 
 themselves in their possessions, and place themselves 
 above the power of the laws. James sought to found 
 the basis of his power in the affections of his people. 
 He attached the lower orders to him by tht; reforma- 
 tion of abuses, the temperate and equable administra- 
 tion of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, 
 and the promotion of every thing that could diffuse 
 comfort,competency,and innocent enjoyment through 
 the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasion- 
 ally among the common people in disguise; visited 
 their fire-sides; entered into their cares, their pur- 
 suits, and their amusements ; informed himself of the 
 mechanical arts, and how they could best be patron- 
 ized and improved ; and was thus an all-pervading 
 spirit, walc'ung with a benevolent eye over the mean- 
 est of his subjects. Having in this generous manner 
 made himself strong in the hearts of the common 
 people, he turned himself to curb the power of the 
 factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous 
 immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such 
 as had been guilty of flagrant oftiences; and to bring 
 the whole into proper obedience to the crown. For 
 some time they bore this with outward submission, 
 hut with secret impatience and brooding resentment. 
 A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at 
 the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, 
 Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for the per- 
 petration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson 
 Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Rol)ert Graham, 
 and others of less note, to commit the deeil. They 
 broke into his bedchamber at the Dominican Convent 
 near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously 
 murdered him by oft-repealed wounds. His faithful 
 queen, rushing to throw her body between him and 
 the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual at- 
 tempt to shield him from the assassin; and it was not 
 until she had been forcibly lorn from his person, that 
 the murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of 
 (bmier limes, and of the golden Utile poem which had 
 its birth-place in this lower, that made me visit the 
 old pile with mure than common interast. The suit 
 of armour hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and em- 
 bellished, as if to figure in the toumay, brought the 
 image of the gallant and romantic prince vividly be- 
 fore my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers 
 where he had composed bis poem ; I leaned upon the 
 
 window, and endeavoured to persuade myself it was 
 the very one where he had been visited by his vision; 
 I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen 
 the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyout 
 month ; the birds were again vying with each other 
 in strains of liquid melody ; every thing was bursting 
 into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise 
 of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the 
 sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have pass- 
 ed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, 
 and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several 
 centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes 
 at the foot of tlie tower. It occupies what was once 
 the moat of the keep; and though some parts hare 
 been separated by dividing walls, yet others have still | 
 their arbours and shaded walks, as in the daysof James, 
 and Ihe whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. I 
 There is a charm about a spot that has been printed 
 by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated 
 by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, 
 rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. Il is, in- 
 deed, the gift of poelry to hallow every place in wliich | 
 it moves; to breathe round nature an odour more ei- 
 quisile than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over I 
 it a lint more magical than the blush of morning. 
 
 Others may dwell on the Illustrious deeds of James I 
 as a warrior and a legislator; but I have delighted to 
 view him merely as the companion of his fellow men, 
 the benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his 
 high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poelry and 
 song in Ihe paths of common life. He was the first 
 to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish 
 genius, which has since become so prolific of the most 
 wholesome and highly-favoured fruit. lie carried 
 with him into the sterner regions of the north all the 
 fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He tlid every 
 thing in his power to win his countrymen to tiie gay, 
 the elegant and gentle arts, which soften and refine 
 the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round 
 the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote 
 many poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness 
 of his fame, are now lost to the world; one, which is 
 still preserved, calletl " Christ's Kirk of the Green," 
 shows how diligently he had made himself acquaint- 1 
 ed with the rustic sporls and pastimes, which consti- 
 tute such a source of kind and social feeling among I 
 the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and 
 happy humour lie could enter into their enjoyments. 
 He contributed greatly to improve the national music; ] 
 and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant tasle, 
 7.re said to exist in those witching airs, still piped 
 among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scot- 1 
 land. He has I' us connected his image wilh wiwt- 
 ever is most gracious and endearing in the national | 
 character; he has emluilmed his memory in son?, 
 and floated his name to after ages in the rich streams I 
 of Scottish melody. The recollection of Ih rse thing* 
 was kindling at my heart as I paced the silent scene 
 of his imprisonment. I have, visited Vaucluse widi 
 as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 2B5 
 
 1, stooping from his 
 
 Nviiieat Loretto; bat I have never felt more poet- 
 ical devolion than vihen contemplating the old tower 
 ud the little garden at Windsor, ami musing over 
 ibe romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal 
 Poet of Scotland. 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 A Rentlcman ! 
 What, 0* the woolpack ? or the 'lUgar chest ? 
 Or lists ofvelvet? which is't, puuml, or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by ? 
 
 BKGGAB'8 Bl'SB. 
 
 There are few places more favourable to the study 
 I of character than an English country church. I was 
 I ooce passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who 
 litsided in the vicinity of one^ the appearance of which 
 I particalarly struk my fancy. It w^as one of those rich 
 Imotsels of quaint antiquity which gives such a pecu- 
 jljar charm to English landscape. It stood in the 
 I midst of a country filled with ancient families, and 
 [contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the con- 
 I gregated dust of many noble generations. The inte- 
 Itior walls were encrusted with monuments of every 
 I age and style. The light streamed thit)ugh windows 
 I dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazon- 
 led in stained glass. In various parts of the church 
 I were tombs of knights and high-born dames, of gor- 
 Igeoos workmanship, with their effigies in coloured 
 I marble. On every side the eye was struck with some 
 I instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty memo- 
 Irial which human pride had erected over its kin- 
 dred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all 
 I religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neighbour- 
 ling people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously 
 I lined and cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded 
 I prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon 
 I Ibe pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who 
 I filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the 
 I organ; and of the {Mwr of the parish, who were ran- 
 I ged on benches in tlie aisles. 
 
 The service was i>erformed by a snuffling well-fed 
 JTicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. 
 I lie wag a privileged guest at all the tables of the 
 I neighbourhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter 
 I b the country ; until age and good living had disabled 
 I him from doing any thing more than ride to see the 
 hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting 
 Idumer. 
 
 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it im- 
 Ipouible to get into the train of thought suitable to 
 lUie time and place : so having, like many other 
 ■feeble christians, compromised with my conscience, 
 I by laying the sin of my own deliquency at another 
 IpenHMt's threshold, I occupied myself by making ob- 
 |iervation8 on my neighbours. 
 
 I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to 
 
 notice the manners of its fashionable classa. I found, 
 as usual, that tliere was the least pretension where 
 there was the most acknowledged title tu respect. I 
 was particularly struck, for instance, with the family 
 of a nobleman of higli rank, consisting of several sons 
 and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and 
 unassuming than their appearance. They generally 
 came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on 
 foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in 
 the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the 
 children, and listen to the stories of the bumble cot- 
 tagers. Their countenances were open and beauti- 
 fidly fair, with an expression of high refinement, but, 
 at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an en- 
 gaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and ele- 
 gantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but 
 simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but with- 
 out any mannerism or foppishness. Their wlwle 
 demeanour was easy and natural, with that lofty 
 grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free-bom 
 souls that have never been checked in their gmwtli 
 by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful har- 
 diness about real dignity, that never dreads contact 
 and communion with otiiers, however humble. It is 
 only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and 
 shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the 
 manner in which they would converse with the pea- 
 santry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in 
 which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. 
 In these conversations there was neither haughtiness 
 on the one part, nor servility on the other; and you 
 were only reminded of the difference of rank by the 
 habitual respect of the peasant. 
 
 In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citi- 
 zen, who had amassed a vast fortune; and, having pur- 
 chased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman 
 in the neighbourhood, was endeavouring to assume all 
 the style and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. 
 The family always came to church en prtHc«. They 
 were rolled miyestically along in a carriage embla- 
 zoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver ra- 
 diance from every part of the harness where a crest 
 could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a 
 three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, 
 curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the 
 box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two foot- 
 men, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and 
 gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose 
 and sunk on its lung springs with peculiar stateliness 
 of motion. The very horses champed their bits, 
 arched theirnecks, and glanced tlieir eyes more proud- 
 ly than common horses; either because they had got 
 a little of the family feeling, or were reined up more 
 tightly than ordinary. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which tills 
 splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the 
 churchyard. There was a vast elTect produced at the 
 turning of an angle of the wall;— a great smacking of 
 the whip, straining and scrambling of hones, glisten- 
 ing of harness, and flaslting of wheels through gravel. 
 
25G 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to 
 the coachman. The horses were urged and checked 
 until tliey were fretted into a foam. They threw out 
 tlieir feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pehhies at 
 every step. Tlie crowd of villagers sauntering quietly 
 to church, opened precipitately to the right and left, 
 gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the gate, 
 the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that pro- 
 duced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on 
 their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman 
 to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and 
 prepare every thing for the descent on earth of this 
 august family. The old citizen first emergetl his 
 round red face from out the door, looking about him 
 with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule 
 on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a nod. 
 His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, follow- 
 ed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little 
 pride in her composition. She was the picture of 
 broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world went 
 well with her; and she liked the world. She had 
 fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, 
 every thing was fine about her : it was nothing but 
 driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to 
 her a perpetual revel; it was one long Lord Mayor's 
 day. 
 
 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. 
 They certainly were handsome; but had a super- 
 cilious air, that cliilled admiration, and disposed the 
 spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionables 
 in dress; and though no one could deny the richness 
 of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might 
 be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country 
 church. They descended loflily from the carriage, 
 and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that 
 seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an 
 excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the 
 burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes 
 of the nobleman's family, when their countenances 
 immediately brightened into smiles, and they made 
 the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were 
 returned in a manner that showed they were but 
 slight acquaintances. 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring ci- 
 tizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with 
 outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of 
 the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which marks 
 the man of questionable pretensions to style. They 
 kept entirely by themselves, eying every one askance 
 that came near them, as if measuring his claims to 
 respectability ; yet they were without conversation, 
 except the exchange of an occasional cant phrase. 
 I'hey even moved artificially ; for th^ir bodies, in com- 
 pliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- 
 plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. 
 Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men 
 of fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless 
 grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men form- 
 ed for Uie common purposes of life, and had that air 
 
 of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the I 
 true gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures! 
 of these two families, because I considered them spe- 1 
 cimens of what is often to be met witli in this country I 
 —the unpretending great, and the arrogant little. 1 1 
 have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accotn-l 
 panicd willi true nobility of soul ; but I have remark- 1 
 ed in all countries where artificial distinctions exist [ 
 that the very highest classes are always the most cour- 1 
 teous and unassuming. Those who are well assur- 
 ed of their own standing are least apt to trespass on I 
 that of others ; whereas nothing is so offensive as the I 
 aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itsevl 
 by humiliating its neighbour. 
 
 As I have brought these families into contrast, l| 
 must notice their behaviour in church. Thatofihel 
 nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and atlentlTeJ 
 Not that they appeared to have any fervour of devo- 1 
 tion, but rather a respect for sacred things, andsacredl 
 places, inseparable from good breeding. The others,! 
 on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and! 
 whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness ofl 
 finery, and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of| 
 a rural congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really att«n-{ 
 tive to the service. He took the whole burden of ^| 
 mily devotion upon himself, standing bolt upright,! 
 and uttering the responses with a loud voice thitl 
 might be heard all over the church. It was evidenll 
 that he was one of those thorough church and kingi 
 men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyah;;| 
 who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the! 
 government party, and religion " a very excellent sort! 
 of thing, that ought to be countenanced and keptj 
 up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seeroedl 
 more by way of example to the lower orders to show| 
 them that, though so great and wealthy, he was i 
 above being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed al-l 
 derman swallow publicly a basin of charity soap,! 
 smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronounciii;| 
 it " excellent food for the poor. " 
 
 When the service was at an end, I was curious lol 
 witness the several exits of my groups. The yonn;! 
 noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, preT 
 ferred strolling home across the fields, clialting wilhl 
 the country people as they went. The others depart-f 
 ed as they came, in grand parade. Again were Ihel 
 equipages wheeled up to the gate. There wasagainl 
 the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, andl 
 the glittering of harness. The horses started off al-f 
 most at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to rightl 
 and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust; and! 
 the aspiring family was rapt out of sight in a whirl| 
 wind. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I never seen in the I 
 
 THE WnX)W AND HER SON. 
 
 Pitlie olde aRO, within whose silver haires 
 Ilonour and reverence evermore have raign'd. 
 
 Mabblowe's Tambublaine. 
 
 DcRiNG my residence in Ihe conntry, I used fre- 
 Iqaently to attend at tlie old village church. Its sha- 
 Idovy aisles, its mouldering monuments, its dark 
 liiiken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of de- 
 Ipirled years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn 
 liieditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so 
 jliDly in its repose ; such a pensive quiet reigns over 
 Itbe face of nature, that every restless passion is charm- 
 Itddown, and we feel all the natural religion of tlie 
 IgHil gently springing up within us. 
 
 " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright. 
 The bridal of llie eartli and sky." 
 
 {cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man ; 
 Itatlhere are feelings that visit me in a country church, 
 nid Ihe beautifid serenity of nature, which I expe- 
 lijence nowhere else; and if not a more religious, I 
 Ihink I am a belter man on Sunday, than on any other 
 lay of the seven. 
 
 But in litis church I felt myself continually thrown 
 ick upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of 
 poor worms around me. The only being that 
 lemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate 
 iely of a true Christian was a poor decrepit old wo- 
 an, bending under the weight of years and in- 
 nities. She tore the traces of something better 
 an abject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride 
 lere visible in her appearance. Her dress, though 
 {bamble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean, 
 ne trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, fur 
 lie did not take her seat among the village poor, but 
 lat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to 
 UTe survived all love, all friendship, all society; and 
 I have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. 
 fhen I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged 
 I in prayer ; habitually conning her prayer-book, 
 irhicli her palsied hand and failing eyes would not 
 lermit her to read, but which she evidently knew by 
 art; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
 r woman arose to heaven far before the responses 
 jirthe clerk, the swell of the organ, or tite chanting 
 f Ihe choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about conntry churches, 
 knd this was so delightfully situated that it frequently 
 ptracled me. It stood on a knoll, round which a 
 all stream made a Iteauliful bend, and then wound 
 Its way through a long reach of soil meadow scenery. 
 iThe church was surrounded by yew-trees which 
 *'med almost coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire 
 hot up lightly from among them, with rooks and 
 t)wg generally wheeling about it. I was seated 
 Ihere one still sunny morning, watching two labour- 
 frs who were digging a grave. They had chosen 
 jine of the most remote and neglected corners of the 
 hurchyard; where, from the namber of nameless 
 
 graves around, it would appear that the indigent and 
 friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told 
 that the new-made grave was for the only son of a 
 poor widow. While I was meditating on the dis- 
 tinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down 
 into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the 
 approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of 
 poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A cof- 
 lin of the plainest materials, without pall or other 
 covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The 
 sexton walked before with an air of cold indifference. 
 There were no mock mourners in the trappings of 
 affected woe; but there was one real mourner who 
 feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged 
 mother of the deceased— the poor old woman whom 
 I had seen on the steps of the altar. She was sup- 
 ported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring to 
 comfort her. A few of the neighbouring pcor bad 
 joined the train, and some children of the village 
 were running hand in hand, now shouting with un- 
 thinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with child- 
 ish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 As Ihe funeral train approached the grave, the 
 parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the 
 surplice, with prayer-book in hand, and attended by 
 the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of 
 charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the 
 survivor was pennyless; it wasshuffled through, there- 
 fore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well- 
 fed priest moved but a few steps from the church 
 door; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; 
 and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime 
 and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid 
 mummei7 of words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coflin was placed on 
 the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age 
 of the deceased — " George Somers, aged 26 years." 
 The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at 
 the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as 
 if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking 
 of the body, and a convulsive motion of the lips, that 
 she was gazing on the last relics of her son, with the 
 yearnings of a mother's heart. 
 
 Preparations were made to deposit the coflin in the 
 earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so 
 harshly on the feeling of grief and affection : direc- 
 tions given in the cold tones of business; the striking 
 of spades into sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of 
 those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. 
 The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from 
 a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and 
 looked about with a faint wildness. As the men ap- 
 proached with cords to lower the coflin into the grave, 
 she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of 
 grief. The poor woman who attended her took her 
 by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the earth, 
 and to whisper something like consolation—" Nay, 
 now— nay, now— don't take it so sorely to heart." 
 She could only shake her head and wring her hands, 
 as one not to be comforted. 
 
 33 
 
258 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 m 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creak- 
 ing of the cords seemed to agonize her ; but when, on 
 M>ine accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of 
 the coflin, all the tenderness of the mother burst 
 forth ; as if any harm could come to liim who was far 
 beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 I could see no more — my heart swelled into my 
 throat — my eyes filled with tears— I felt as if I were 
 acting a barlMrnus part in standing by and gazing idly 
 on this scene of maternal anguish. I wanderetl to 
 another part of the churchyard, where I remained 
 nntil the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quit- 
 ting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all 
 that was dear to her on earth, and returning to si- 
 lence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What, 
 thought I, are the distresses of the rich ! they have 
 friends to soothe— pleasures to beguile— a world to 
 divert and dissipate their griefs. Whatare the sorrows 
 of the young ! their growing minds soon close above 
 the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the 
 pressure — their green and ductile afTections soon 
 twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the 
 poor, wIk) have no outward appliances to soothe— the 
 sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a 
 wintry day, and who can look for no after-growth of 
 joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
 mourning over an only son, the last solace of her 
 years; these are indeed sorrows which m^e us feel 
 the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the churchyard. On 
 my way homeward I met with the woman who had 
 acted as comforter : she was just returning from ac- 
 companying the mother to her lonely habitation, and 
 I drew from her some particulars connected with the 
 affecting scene I had witnessed. 
 
 The parents of the deceased had resided in the vil- 
 lage from childhood. They had inhabited one of the 
 neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, 
 and the assistance of a small garden, had supported 
 themselves creditably, and comfortably, and led a 
 happy and blameless life. They had one son, who 
 had grown up to be the staff and pride of their age 
 — " Oh, sir ! " said the good woman, " he was such 
 a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every 
 one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did 
 one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out 
 in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting 
 his old mother to church — for siie was always fonder 
 of leaning on George's arm, than on her goodman's ; 
 and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for 
 a liner lad there was not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year 
 of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the 
 service of one of the small craft that plied on a neigh- 
 bouring river. He had not been long in this employ 
 when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried 
 off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, 
 but beyond that they could learn nothing. It was 
 the Iran of their main prop. The father, who was 
 
 already iniirm, grew heartless and melancholy, an 
 sunk into his grave. Tlie widow, left lonely in hn 
 age and feebleness, could no longer support lierselfj 
 and came upon the parish. Still there was a kii 
 feeling toward her throughout the village, and a cerJ 
 tain respect as being one of the oldest inlialuunlsj 
 As no one applied for the cottage, in which she 1 
 passed so many happy days, she was permitted to t 
 main in it, where she lived solitary and almost help 
 less. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplie, 
 from the scanty productions of her little garden, whit 
 the neighbours would now and then cultivate foriieri 
 It was but a few days before the time at which lb 
 circumstances were told me, that she was galheri 
 some vegetables for her repast, when she heard lb 
 cottage door which faced the garden suddenly openeilJ 
 A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eaJ 
 gerly and wi''.'.'.y around. He was dressed in sea-l 
 man's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, i 
 bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardshipi 
 He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his sUp 
 were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees 1 
 fore her, and sobbed like a child. The poor wonu 
 gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye 
 " Oh my dear, dear mother ! don't you know yoi 
 son? your poor boy George? " It was indeed lb 
 wreck of her once noble lad; who, shattered 1 
 wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, 1 
 at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward, tor 
 pose among the scenes of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of m 
 a meeting, where joy and sorrow were so compleleljl 
 blended : still he was alive ! he was come home! I 
 might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age J 
 Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and \(m 
 thing had been wanting to finish the work of fal^ 
 the desolation of his native cottage would have 1 
 sunicient. He stretched himself on the pallet, 
 which his widowed mother had passed many asleep: 
 less night, and he never rose from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George Sou 
 had returned, crowded to see him, offering evei 
 comfort and assistance that their humble means a 
 forded. He was too weak, however, to talk- 
 could only look his thanks. His mother was liis c 
 stant attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be help 
 ed by any other hand. 
 
 There is sometliing in sickness that breaks dot 
 the pride of manhood; that softens the heart,! 
 brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Whot 
 has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness a 
 despondency; who that has pined on a weary bedi 
 the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land; buH 
 thought on the mother "that looked on liisdiil 
 hood," that smoothed his pillow, and adminisl 
 to his helplessness ? Gb ! there is an enduring tei 
 derness in the love of a mother to a son that tram 
 cends all other affections of the heart. It is tieilt 
 to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by dangerj 
 nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by in 
 
THE SKETCH BOOR. 
 
 230 
 
 IliUMie. Siie will sacrifice every comfort to his con- 
 lieoience; she will surrender every pleasure to his 
 Ljoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in 
 |tis prosperity :— and, if misfortune overtake him, he 
 If ill be the dearer to her from misfortune ; and if 
 liljsgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and 
 rish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the 
 Iwirhl beside cast liim off, she will be all tlie world 
 
 I him. 
 
 Poor George Somei's had known what it was to 
 (in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in pri- 
 
 , and none to visit him. He could not endure 
 
 i mother from his sight; if she moved away, his 
 
 ife would follow her. She would sit for hours by 
 
 iixxl, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he 
 
 lioukl start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously 
 
 I until he saw her bending over him; when he 
 
 liould take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall 
 
 sleep with the tranquilUty of a child. In this way 
 
 edied. 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of 
 
 IDiction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and 
 
 biinistcr pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, com- 
 
 I found, however, on inquiry, that the good 
 
 eeliiigs of the villagers had prompted them to do 
 
 Itery thing that the case admitted : and as the poor 
 
 «\v best how to console each other's sorrows, I did 
 
 Uentiire to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church; 
 
 JFJien, to my surpiise, I saw the poor old woman 
 
 Mtering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on 
 
 e steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like 
 
 lourning for her son; and nothing could be more 
 
 iching than this struggle between pious affection 
 
 ] utter poverty : a black riband or so — a faded black 
 
 iindkerchief, and one or two more such humble 
 
 tempts to express by outward signs that grief which 
 
 «s show. When I looked round upon the storied 
 Hiuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble 
 np, with which grandeur mourned magnificently 
 Iw departed pride, and turned to this poor widow 
 ped down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her 
 
 d, and ofrering up the prayers and praises of a 
 |ious though a bi-oken heart, I felt that this living 
 lonument of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I I related her story to some of the wealthy members 
 ftlie congregation, and they were moved by it. 
 
 fhey exerted themselves to render her situation more 
 nfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, 
 lovever, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In 
 t course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed 
 I her usual seat at church, and before I left the 
 leighlMurhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, 
 fuit she iiad quietly breathed her last, and had gone 
 ) rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow 
 I never known, and friends are never parted. 
 
 THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, 
 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 * 8HAESPEAHU!ti HE8EAKCU. 
 
 " A tavern ia tlie rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good 
 ffllows. I have heanl my great grandfather tell, liow his great 
 great grandfather sliould say, that it was an old proverb when his 
 great grandfather was a child, that ' it was a good wind that blew 
 a man to the wine.' " Motbeh Bombie. 
 
 It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to 
 honour tlie memory of saints by votive lights burnt 
 before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, 
 therefore, may be known by the niunber of these 
 offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the 
 darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a 
 solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart his 
 efQgy; while the whole blaze of adoration is lavished 
 at the shrine of some beatified father of renown. The 
 wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax; 
 the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and 
 even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied 
 that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, 
 unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The 
 consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, 
 they are often apt (o obscure, and I have occasionally 
 seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of counte- 
 nance by the officiousness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immortal 
 Shakspeare. Every writer considers it his bounden 
 duty to light up some portion of his character or 
 works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The 
 commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes 
 of dissertations; the common herd of editors send up 
 mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of 
 each page; and every casual scribbler brings his far- 
 thing rtishlight of eulogy or research, to swell the 
 clouds of incense and of smoke. 
 
 As I hononr all established usages of my brethren 
 of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my 
 mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. 
 I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what 
 way I should discharge this duty. I found myself 
 anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every 
 doubtful line had been explained a dozen different 
 ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; 
 and as to fine passages, they had all been amply 
 praised by previous admirers; nay, so completely had 
 the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a 
 great German critic, that it was difficult now to find 
 even a fault that had not been argued into a l)eauty. 
 
 In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over 
 his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic 
 scenes of Henry lY, and was, in a moment, com- 
 pletely lost in the -madcap revelry of the Boar's Head 
 Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of 
 humour depicted, and witli such force and consistency 
 are the characters sustained, that they become min- 
 gled up in the mind with the facts ami personages of 
 real life. To few readers docs it occur, that these 
 
 s»». 
 
aeo 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and tliat, in 
 solier trutti, no sucli Icnot of merry roysters ever en- 
 livened tlie dull neighbourhood of Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part, I love to give myself up to the illu- 
 sions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed 
 is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that 
 existed a thousand years since: and, if I may be 
 excused such an insensibility to the common ties of 
 human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half 
 the great men of ancient chronicle. What have the 
 heroes of yore done for me, or men like me ? They 
 have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an 
 acre; or they have gained laurels of which I do not 
 inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples of 
 hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the op- 
 portunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old 
 Jack Falstaff!— kuid Jack Falstaff!— sweet Jack Fal- 
 staff ! — has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoy- 
 ment; he has added vast regions of wit and good 
 humour, in which the poorest man may revel; and 
 has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly 
 laughter, to make mankind merrier and belter to the 
 latest posterity. 
 
 A thought suddenly struck me : '' I will make a 
 pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, 
 *' and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern si ill exists. 
 Who knows but I may light upon some legendary 
 traces of Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate, 
 there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the ha'ls 
 once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper enjoys 
 in smellmg to the empty cask once filled with gene- 
 rous wine." 
 
 The resolution was no sooner formed than put in 
 execution. I forbear to treat of the various adven- 
 tures and wonders I encountered in my travels; of 
 the haunted regions of Cocklane; of the faded glories 
 of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; what perils 
 I ran in Gateaton-slreel and Old Jewry; of the re- 
 nowned Guild-hall and its two stunted giants, the 
 pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all 
 unlucky urchins; and how I visited London Stone, 
 and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch 
 rebel, Jack Cade. 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in 
 merry Eastcheap, that ancient region of wit and 
 wassail, where the very names of the streets relished 
 of good cheer, as Pudding-lane bears testimony even 
 at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, 
 " was always famous for its convivial doings. The 
 cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well 
 baked, and other victuals : there was clattering of 
 pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how 
 sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of 
 Falstaff and old Stowe! The madcap royster has 
 given place to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering 
 of pots and the sound of " harpe and sawtrie," to 
 the din of carts and the accursed dinging of the dust- 
 man's bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the 
 Htrain of some siren from Billingsgate, chanting the 
 eulogy of deceased mackerel. 
 
 I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dao 
 Quickly. The only relique of it is a boar's head] 
 car>'ed in relief in stone, which formerly ser\ed a 
 the sign, but at present is built into the parting | 
 of two houses, which stand on the site of the renovn 
 old tavern. 
 
 For the history of this little abode of good fellovj 
 ship, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, c 
 posite, who had been born and brought up on tb 
 spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chrooil 
 cler of the neighbourhood. I found her seated ioi^ 
 little back parlour, the window of which looked ( 
 upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as j 
 flower-garden ; while a glass door opposite aflbrded^ 
 distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap an 
 tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, i 
 all probability, her prospects in life, and the littl 
 world in which she had lived, and moved, and I 
 her being, for the better part of a century. 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great a 
 little, from London Stone even unto the MonumenlJ 
 was, doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted viU 
 the history of the universe. Yet, with all this, sh 
 {H)ssessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and thtj 
 liberal communicative disposition, which I have ^ 
 nerally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowii 
 in the concerns of their neiglibourhood. 
 
 Her information, however, did not extend farl 
 into antiquity. She could throw no light upon lit 
 history of the Boar's Head, from the time IhatDai 
 Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the gread 
 fire of London, when it was unfortunately bunilj 
 down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flotirisbf 
 under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord,! 
 struck with remorse for double scores, bad measun 
 and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinlii 
 race of publicans, endeavoured to make his peaa 
 with heaven, by bequeathing the tavern toSt Michael'^ 
 Church, Crooked-lane, toward the supporting ofi 
 chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings wen 
 regularly held there; but it was observed thai tlie« 
 Boar never held up his head under church governmenl.| 
 He gradually declined, and finally gave his last gasji 
 about thirty years since. The tavern was then {m\ 
 ed into shops; but she informed me that a piclureo 
 it was still preserved in St Michael's Church, whici 
 stood just in the rear. To get a sight of lliis picliin 
 was now my determination; so, having infoi'ni«l| 
 myself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave o 
 the venerable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit Im-I 
 ing doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legend-l 
 ary lore, and furnished an important incident inllie| 
 history of her life. 
 
 It cost me some difficulty, and much curious iii-| 
 quiry, to ferret out the humble hanger-on to Ibi 
 church. I had to explore Crooked-lane, and diverjl 
 little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, vitli| 
 which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheeie,[ 
 or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length I trao 
 him to a corner of a small court, surrounded by iofti 
 
 "W.- 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 SXH 
 
 n, which Ihavei! 
 
 io, having infoi'Dinll 
 
 t, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of 
 (bee of heaven, as a community of frogs atthebot- 
 lof a well. The sexton was a meek, acquiescing 
 
 I man, of a bowing, lowly habit : yet he had a 
 
 ant twinkling in his eye, and, if encouraged, 
 lid now and then hazard a small pleasantry ; such 
 ^man of iiis low estate might venture to make in the 
 
 any of high church-wardens, and other mighty 
 lof Ibe earth. I found him in company with the 
 uty organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels, 
 
 nrsing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, and 
 
 ng the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of 
 
 .for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate 
 
 I loy weighty matter without the assistance of a 
 
 illaniiard to clear their understandings. I arrived 
 
 llbe moment when they had finished their ale and 
 
 ^ argument, and were about to repair to the 
 
 1 (0 put it in order ; so, having made known my 
 
 >s, I received their gracious permission to accom- 
 kvtliem. 
 
 >ciiurchofSt Michael's, Crooked-lane, stand- 
 ^a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched 
 
 ithe tombs of many fishmongers of renown; and 
 trery profession has its galaxy of glory, and its 
 
 stellalion of great men, I presume the monument 
 I mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded 
 
 i as mucii reverence by succeeding generations 
 
 Ihe craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb 
 
 Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a Marlborough 
 
 Turenne. 
 
 ^cannot but turn aside, w^hile thus speaking of illus- 
 
 smen, to observe that St Michael's, Crooked-lane, 
 
 ains also the ashes of that doughty champion, 
 pliam Walworth, knight, who so manfully clove 
 
 ilhe sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield; a 
 
 ) worthy of honourable blazon, as almost the only 
 
 I Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms : — 
 I sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned 
 
 ! most pacific of all potentates. ■ 
 
 Irbe following was the ancient inscription on tlic monument 
 hm worthy; which, unhappily, was destroyed ia the great 
 "'•ration. 
 
 Hereunder lyth a man of Fame, 
 William Walworth callyd by name; 
 Fishmonger lie was in lyniime here. 
 And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
 Who, with courage stout and manly niyght. 
 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard's sight. 
 For which act done, and trew entcnt. 
 The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
 And gave him amies, as here you see. 
 To declare his Tact and chivaldrie. 
 He left this lytf tl>e yere of our God 
 Thirteen hondrcd fourscore and three odd. 
 
 p error in Ihe foregoing inscription has been corrected by the 
 ^e Stowe. •• Whereas," saith he, "it hath been farspread 
 d by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manhilly 
 pr William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior, was 
 kd Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler. I thought good to recon- 
 Itiiit rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I And in an- 
 ^aid good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the 
 , were Wat Tyler, as the flwt man; the second was 
 p,orJ»ck, straw, etc. etc." 
 
 Stowe's London. 
 
 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, imme- 
 diately under the back wuidow of what was once the 
 Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, 
 whilome drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a 
 century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed 
 his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited 
 within call of his customers. As I was clearing away 
 the weeds from his epitaph, the little sexton drew me 
 on one side with a mysterious air, and informed me 
 in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark win- 
 try night, when the wind was unruly, howling, and 
 whistling, banging about doors and windows, and 
 twirling weathercocks, so that the living were fright- 
 ened out of their beds, and even the dead could 
 not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest 
 Preston, which happened to be airing itself in the 
 churchyard, was attracted by the well-known call of 
 " waiter" from the Boar's Head, and made its sud- 
 den appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as 
 the parish clerk was singing a stave from the *' mirre 
 garland of Captain Death ; " to the discomfiture of 
 sundry trainband captains, and the conversion of an 
 infidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on 
 the spot, and was never known to twist the truth af- 
 terwards, except in the way of business. 
 
 I beg it may be remembered, >hat I do not pledge 
 myself for the authenticity of this anecdote ; though it 
 is well known that the churchyards and by-corners of 
 this old metropolis are very much infested with per- 
 turbed spirits; and every one must have heard of the 
 Cock-lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the 
 regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many 
 bold sentinels almost ont of their wits. 
 
 Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to 
 have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued 
 Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal; 
 to have been equally prompt with his " anon, anon, 
 sir ;" and to have transcended his predecessor in ho- 
 nesty ; for Falstaff, the veracity of whose taste no man 
 will vent> lO impeach, flatly accuses Francis of 
 putting Hi.. ;■ his sack; whereas honest Preston's 
 epitaph laiido nim for the sobriety of his conduct, the 
 soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure. ■ 
 The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did 
 not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the 
 tapster; the deputy organist, who had a moist look 
 ou* of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the ab- 
 stemiousness of a man brought up among full hogs- 
 heads; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion 
 
 • As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe 
 it for the admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the 
 production of some choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar's 
 Head. 
 
 Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
 Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
 Though rcar'd among full hogsheads, he defy'd 
 The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
 O reader, if to justice thou'rt inclined, 
 Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind, 
 lie drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
 Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
 Tou that on Bacchus have the like dependancc. 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance. 
 
!^ 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ■I. 
 
 by a significant wink, and a dulMous shake of the head. 
 
 Thus far my researches, though they threw much 
 light on the history of tapsters, lisbmongers, and Lonl 
 Mayors, yet disappointed me in the great object of 
 my quest, the picture of tlie Boar's Head Tavern. No 
 such painting was to be found in the church of St Mi- 
 chael. ''Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth 
 my research ! " So I was giving llie matter up, with 
 the air of a liafned antiquary, when my friend tlie 
 sexlon, perceiving me to be curious in every thing re- 
 lative to tlie old tavern, offered to show me the choice 
 vessels of the vestry, wliicli had been handed down 
 from remote times, when the parish meetings were 
 held at the Roar's Head. Tlle^se were deposited in 
 the parish club-room, which had been transferred, on 
 the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern 
 in the neighbonrliood. 
 
 A few steps brought us to the house, which stands 
 No. 42, Miles-lane, bearing the title of the Mason's 
 Arms, and is kept by Master Edward Honeyball, the 
 " bully-rock" of the establishment. It is one of those 
 little taverns whidi abound in the heart of the city, 
 and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the 
 neighbourhood. We entered the bar-room, which 
 was narrow and darkling; for in these close lanes but 
 few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down 
 to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a 
 tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into 
 boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean 
 white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the 
 guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their 
 day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the 
 lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before 
 which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright 
 brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along 
 the mantel-piece, and an old-fashioned clock licked in 
 one corner. There was something iirimitive in this 
 medley of kitchen, parlour, and hall, that carried me 
 back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, 
 indeed, was hund)le, but every thing had that look of 
 order and neatness, which bespeaks the superintend- 
 ence of a notable English housewife. A group of 
 amphibious - looking beings, who might be either 
 fisheitnen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one 
 of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pre- 
 tensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen back 
 room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by 
 a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, 
 and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It 
 was evidently appropriated to particular customers, 
 and I found a siiabby gentleman, in a red nose and 
 oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a 
 half-empty pot of porter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and 
 with an air of profound importance imparted to her 
 my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, 
 bustling, little woman, and no liad substitute for that 
 paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed de- 
 lighted with an opportunity to oblige; and hurrying up 
 stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious 
 
 vessels of the parish club were deposited, she return 
 smiling and courtesying, with them in her hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned iron t 
 bacco-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was to{ 
 the vestry had smoked at their stateil meetings, sin 
 time immemorial; and whidi was never suffered to| 
 profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common i 
 sions. I received it with becoming reverence;! 
 what was my delight, at beholding on its cover i| 
 ideiilical painting of which I was in quest ! TIk 
 was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tare 
 and before the door was to be seen the whole coiitj 
 vial group, at table, in full revel ; pictured wiili i 
 wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portral 
 of renowiieil generals and commodores are illustniif 
 on lobiicco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity, 
 however, there should be any mistake, the ciinniJ 
 limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince 1| 
 aiul Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. 
 
 On the inside of the cover was an inscription, r 
 obliterated, recording that this box was IhegiHJ 
 Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meelii^ 
 at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was " rcpi 
 ed and beautified by his successor, Mr John I 
 ard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of i 
 august and venerable reiique ; and I question whelbi 
 the learned Scribblcrius contemplated his Rom 
 shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the I 
 sought san-greal, with more exultation. 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enraptured ga; 
 Dame Honeyball, who was highly gratified by the iJ 
 terest it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup f 
 goblet, which also belonged to the vestry, and w| 
 descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore I 
 inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wylb 
 knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding gi, 
 value, being considered very " antyke." This 1 
 opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentiert 
 in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I stn 
 suspected of being a lineal descendant from the \ 
 liant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his n 
 tation on the pot of porter, and, casting a knov 
 look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay! thehei 
 don't ache now that made that there article!" 
 
 The great importance attached to this memenlo| 
 ancient revelry by modern church-wardens at 
 puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpens the<ippi 
 liensiun so much as antiquarian research ; for I i 
 mediately perceived that this could be no other lit 
 the identical " parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falst 
 made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quicklj 
 and which would, of course, be treasured np ' 
 care among the regalia of her domains, as a testin 
 of that solemn contract.' 
 
 « Tliou didst swear to inc upon a parcel-gilt goblet, silliii!| 
 my Dolpliin cliaml)ei', at llie round tabic, by a sea-coal litt,| 
 Wednesday, in Wtiilsun-week, wlien the prince brolte Ihf fc 
 for likening his father to a singing inan of Windsor; Ihou d 
 swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me,' 
 make me my lady Uiy wife. Canst thou deny it?— ffwm < 
 part 2. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 9G3 
 
 iM 
 
 Warcel-gilt goblet, »\m 
 tabic, by a sea-coal riit,| 
 the prince brokellijl 
 nanof Windiior;ltoii' 
 ly wound, to marry iiie.i 
 tlioudenyit?-ffiwili 
 
 I nine liostess, indeed, gave me a long history how 
 
 (goblet had been handed down from generation to 
 
 iration. She aliw enter' -^ined me with many 
 
 culars concerning tlie wortliy vestrymen who 
 
 lie seated themselves thus quietly on tlie stools of 
 
 (ancient loysters of Eastclieap, and, like so many 
 
 entators, utter clouds of smoke in honour of 
 ispeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my read- 
 I sbould not lie as curious in these matters as my- 
 
 Siiflice it to say, the neighbours, one and all, 
 at Eaiilcheap, believe Uiat Faislaff and his merry 
 r actually lived and revelled there. Kay, there 
 (several legendary anecdotes concerning iiim still 
 ot among the oldest fre({uenters of the Mason's 
 IS, which they give as transmitted down from 
 
 forefathers; and Mr M'Kash, an Irish hair- 
 
 «r, whose shop stands on the site of the old 
 r's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's, not 
 Idown in the books, willi which he makes his cus- 
 lere ready to die of laughter. 
 [now turned to my friend the sexton to make 
 t further inquiries, but I found him sunk in pen- 
 I meditation, ilis head had declined a little on 
 (side; a deep sigh heaved from the very bottom of 
 [stomach; and, though I could not see a tear 
 sibling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently 
 ^ing rrom a corner of his mouth. I followed the 
 
 [tioD of his eye tlirough the door which stood 
 ]), and found it fixed wistfully on the savoury 
 
 I of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before 
 
 I lire. 
 
 I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my 
 Midite investigation, I was keeping the poor man 
 1 Ills dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, 
 , putting in his hand a small token of my grati- 
 eandgooii will, I departed, with a hearty bene- 
 ion on him. Dame Iloneyball, and the Parish 
 I of Crooked-lane ;— not forgetting my shabby 
 
 [sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper 
 
 thus have I given a ''tedious brief" account of 
 ) interesting research, for which, if it prove too 
 jiiand unsatisfactory, I can oidy plead my inexpe- 
 
 ; in this branch of literature, so deservedly po- 
 
 r at the present day. I am aware that a more 
 
 iTuI illnslralor of the immortal bard would have 
 
 I the materials I have touched upon, to a good 
 
 fchantable bulk; comprising the biographies of 
 
 lliam Walvorth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; 
 
 ! notice of the eminent fishmongers of St Mi- 
 d's; the history of Eastclieap, great and little ; 
 bte anecdotes of Dame Honeyball, and her pretty 
 per, whom I have not even mentioned ; to say 
 jiing of a damsel tending the breast of Iamb (and 
 
 D, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, 
 I a neat foot and ankle)— the whole enlivened by 
 I'iots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great 
 of London. 
 Ul this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by 
 
 ! commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the 
 
 lobaccu-box, and the '' parcel-gilt goblet," whidi I 
 have thus brought to light, the subjects of future en- 
 gravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous disser- 
 tations and disputes as the sliield of Achilles, or the 
 far-famed Portland vase. 
 
 THE MUTABILITY OF LITEBATURE. 
 
 k GOLLOQUT n WESTMIXSTKB ABBBT. 
 
 I know that all l)cnrath the moon decay*. 
 And what by mortals in this world is bronght, 
 In time's great periods shall return to nought. 
 
 I know that all the maoe's heavenly layes. 
 With toil or sprite which arc so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of Tew or none arc sought. 
 
 That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
 
 OHLMMONU UV lUWTHOHNnKII. 
 
 There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, 
 in which we naturally steal away from noise and 
 glare, and seek some quiet haunt, where we may in- 
 dulge our reveries and build our air castles undisturb- 
 ed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old 
 grey cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that 
 luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to di- 
 gnify with the name of retleclion ; when suddenly an 
 irriqition of madcap boys from Westminster School, 
 playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic still- 
 ness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
 mouldering tomlM echo with their merriment. I 
 sought to lake refuge from their noise by penetrating 
 still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied 
 to one of the vergers fur admission to the library. He 
 conducted me through a portal rich with the crum- 
 bling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a 
 gloomy passage leading to the chapter-house and the 
 chamber in which doomsday book is deposited. Just 
 within the passage is a small door on the left. To 
 this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, 
 and opened with some difliculty, as if seldom used. 
 We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and, 
 passing through a second door, entered the library. 
 
 I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
 ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 
 soberly lighted by a row of gothic windows at a con- 
 siderable height from the floor, and which apparently 
 opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient 
 picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in 
 Ilis robes hung over the fire-place. Around the hall 
 and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in 
 carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old 
 polemical writers, and were much more worn by time 
 than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary 
 table with two or three books on it, an inkstand with- 
 out ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The 
 place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound me- 
 ditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls 
 of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the 
 world. I could only hear now and then the shouts 
 
264 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of the school-boys faintly swelling from the clobters, 
 and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echo- 
 ed soberly along the roofs of the abbey. liy degrees 
 the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and 
 at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a 
 profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously 
 bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated 
 myself at the table in a venerable elbow-chair. In- 
 stead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the 
 solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, 
 into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the 
 old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged 
 on the shelves, and apparently never disturbed in 
 their repose, I could not but consider tlie library a 
 kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mum- 
 mies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and 
 moulder in dusty oblivion. 
 
 How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, 
 now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some 
 aching head ! how many weary days ! how many 
 sleepless nights ! How have their authors buried 
 themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut 
 themselves up from (he face of man, and the still 
 more blessed face of nature ; and devoted themselves 
 to painful research and intense reflection ! And all 
 for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf— to have 
 the title of their works read now and then in a future 
 age, by some drowsy churchman or casual straggler 
 like myself; and in another age to be lost, even to re- 
 membrance. Such is the amount of this boasted im- 
 mortality. A mere temporary rumour, a local sound; 
 like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among 
 these towers, fdling the ear for a moment— lingering 
 transiently in echo — and tlien passing away like a 
 thing that was not ! 
 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these 
 nnprofitable speculations, with my head resting on 
 my hand, I was thrumming with the otiier hand 
 upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened the 
 clasps; when, to my utter astonislunent, the little 
 book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from 
 a deep sleep : then a husky hem; and at length began 
 to talk. At flrst its voice was very hoarse and broken, 
 being much troubled by a cobweb which some stu- 
 dious spider had woven across it ; and having probably 
 contracted a cold from long exjiosure to the chills and 
 damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it 
 became more distinct, and I soon found it an ex- 
 ceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, 
 to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its 
 pronunciation, what, in the present day, would be 
 deemed barbarous ; but I shall endeavour, as far as I 
 am able, to render it in modern parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of the world 
 — about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, 
 and other such common-place topics of literary repin- 
 ing, and complained bitterly that it had not been 
 opened for more than two centuries. That the dean 
 only looked now and then into the library, sometimes 
 
 took down a volume or two, trifled with them I 
 few moments, and then returned them to their gheh] 
 "What a plague do they mean," said llie IjJ 
 quarto, which I began to perceive was somewl] 
 choleric, *' what a plague do they mean by kefpi 
 several thousand volumes of us shut up liere 
 watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beauj 
 in a harem, merely to be looked at now and ihen 1 
 the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure j 
 to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed tliat i{ 
 dean should pay each of us a visit at least oncea yo 
 or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in 
 while turn loose the whole school of WeslmiR 
 among us, that at any rate we may now and Itien 1 
 an airing. " 
 
 "Softly, my worthy friend," replied 1, "yoaj 
 not aware how much better you are olT tlian i 
 books of your generation. By lieing stored away I 
 this ancient library, you are like the treasured i 
 mains of those saints and monarchs which iieenshi 
 ed in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of ib^ 
 contemporary mortals, Ml to the ordinary conr; 
 nature, have long since returned to dust." 
 
 " Sir," said the Utile tome, ruffling his leaves) 
 looking big, " I was written for all the world, ikxI 
 the l)ookwornis of an abbey. I was intended tod 
 culate from hand to hand, like other great eontc^ 
 porary works ; but here have I been clasped up i 
 more than two centuries, and might have silei 
 fallen a prey to these worms that are playing ilieTJ 
 vengeance with my intestines, if you had not] 
 chance given me an opportunity of uttering a I 
 last words liefore I go to pieces." 
 
 " My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been ll 
 to the circulation of which you speak, you would la 
 ere this have been no more. To judge from yJ 
 physiognomy, you are now well stricken in yei 
 very few of your contemporaries can be at presfflt| 
 existence; and those few owe their longevity toll 
 immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, s 
 me to add, instead of likening to harems, you i 
 more properly and gratefully have compared toll 
 infirmaries attached to religious establishnienis, 
 the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, 
 quiet fostering and no employment, they often ewi^ 
 to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. Yool 
 of your contemporaries as if in circulation— where| 
 we meet with their works? what do we hear of I 
 l)ert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could liave l 
 harder than he for immortality. He is said to i 
 written nearly two hundred volumes. He bnilt,| 
 it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate hisi 
 but, alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and o 
 a few fragments are scattered in various lib 
 where they are scarcely disturbed even by the a 
 quarian. What do we hear of Giraldus Gamb 
 the historian, antiquary, philosopher, tlieologian,i| 
 poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he T 
 shut himself up and write for posterity; butpo$te 
 never inqnires after his lalraurs. What of Henri 
 
TIIE SKETCn BOOR. 
 
 *J(Si 
 
 llantingdon, who, besides a learned history of Eng- 
 
 UimI, wrote a treatise on tlie contempt of tlie world, 
 
 Uhicli the world has revenged by forgetting him? 
 
 What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the mi- 
 
 rtcle of his age in classical composition ? Of his three 
 
 treat heroic poems one is lost for ever, excepting a 
 
 mere fragment; the others are known only to a few 
 
 lofllie curious in literature; and as to his love verses 
 
 I ind epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What 
 
 I it in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who 
 
 Lqnired the name of the tree of life? Of William 
 
 I of Maimsbury ;— of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict 
 
 ItlPetei-borough;— of John llanvill of St Albans;— 
 
 U- — " 
 
 "Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
 |<'how old do you think me ? You are talking of au- 
 llhors that lived long before my time, and wrote either 
 L Latin or French, so that they in a manner expa- 
 llriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten;- 
 lint I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press 
 lofllie renowned Whykyn de Worde. I was written 
 liDinyowH native tongue at a time when the lan- 
 Inage had become fixed ; and indeed I was consi- 
 Idend a model of pure and elegant English." 
 
 (I should observe that these remarks were couched 
 |in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have in- 
 InitediHiculty in rendering them into modern phra- 
 
 alogy.) 
 
 "I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistakmg your 
 
 but it matters little : almost all the writers of 
 
 Ijoar time have likewise passed into forgelfulness; and 
 
 I Worde's publications are mere literary rarities 
 
 ong book-collectors. The purity and stability of 
 
 , too, on which you found your claims to 
 
 leipetuity, have been the fallacious dependance of 
 
 liuthors of every age, even back lo the times of the 
 
 Rorthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote hix history 
 
 I rhymes of mongrel Saxon.' Even now many talk 
 
 (Spenser's ' well of pure English undefiled,' as if 
 
 I language ever sprang from a well or fountain 
 
 d, and was not rather a mere confluence of various 
 
 ngues, perpetually subject to changes and inter- 
 
 uxlnres. It is this which has made English litera- 
 
 ! 80 extremely mutable, and the reputation built 
 
 it so fleeting. Unless thought can be com- 
 
 nitled to something more permanent and unchange- 
 
 ible than such a medium, even thought must share 
 
 ' In Latin and Frencli hath many goueratne witles had great 
 
 ; (0 cndite, and have many noble thinges fuUilde, but cartes 
 
 ! beii some that gpcalien their poisye in French, of which 
 
 I the Frenchmen have aa good a fontasye as we have in 
 
 iryiog ot Frenchmen's Englishe.— £A«ucei-'« Tatament of 
 
 [ ' Holinshed, in his Chronicle, obsenrcs, "Afterwards, also, by 
 
 ;entlravell of GelTry Chaucer and ot John Gowre, in the time 
 
 JfBichanithe Second, and after them of John Scogan and John 
 
 |l<lple, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excel- 
 
 M pisse, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of 
 
 iteclion until the time ot Queen Elizabeth, where in John Jewell, 
 
 > of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent 
 
 len, have fully accomplished theomature of the same, to their 
 
 'praise and immortal comnien<laHoii." 
 
 the fate of every thing else, and fall into decay. This 
 should serve as a check upon the vanity and exiilla- 
 tion of the most popular writer. He finds the lan- 
 gtiage in which he has embarked his fame gradually 
 altering, and subject to the dilapidations of time and 
 the caprice of fashion. He looks back and l)eholdH 
 the early authors of his country, once the favourites 
 oftheir day, supplanted by modern writers. A few 
 short ages have covered them with obscurity, and 
 their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste 
 of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be 
 the fate of his own work, which, however it may be 
 admired in its day, and held up as a niotlel of purity, 
 will in the course of years grow antiquated and ob- 
 solete ; imtil it shall become almost as Mnintelligible 
 in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of 
 those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of 
 Tarlary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, 
 " when I contemplate a modern library, filled with 
 new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding and 
 binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like 
 the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranV- 
 e<l out in all tlie splendour of military array, and re- 
 flected that in one hundred years not one of them 
 would be in existence ! " 
 
 " Ah," said the little qnai^o, with a heavy sigh, 
 " I see how it isj these modern scribblers have su- 
 perseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing 
 is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, 
 Sackville's stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, 
 or the fine-spun euphuisms of the * unparalleled John 
 Lyly.' " 
 
 "There yon are again mistaken," said I; "the 
 writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they 
 happened to be so when you were last in circulation, 
 have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sydney's 
 Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly pre- 
 dicted by his admirers, ' and which, in truth, is full of 
 noble thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns 
 of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sack- 
 ville has strutted into obscurity ; and even Lyly, though 
 his writings were once the delight of a court, and ap- 
 parently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
 known even by name. A wliole crowd of authors 
 who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise 
 gone down, with all their writings and their contro- 
 versies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature 
 has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, 
 that it is only now and then that some industrious 
 diver after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen 
 for the gratification of the curious. 
 
 " For my part," I continued, " I consider this mu- 
 tability of language a wise precaution of Providence 
 
 • Live ever sweete booke ; Ihe simple image of his gentle wIM. 
 and the golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto 
 the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the 
 breath of the muses, the honey bee of the dalntyest (lowers of wilt 
 and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the armc of 
 Beliona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite 
 of Practice in esse, and the i>aragon of excellency in print. 
 
 Hnrvty Pifrre's Xwpererogatlim. 
 
 t)«i 
 
Wii 
 
 Tim SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors 
 in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily 
 l)ehold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables 
 springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a 
 short time, and then fading into dust, to make way 
 for their successors. Were not this the case, the fe- 
 cundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a 
 blessing. The earth would groan with rank and ex- 
 cessive vegetation, and its surface become a tangled 
 wilderness. In like manner the works of genii><> and 
 learning decUne, and make way for subsequent pro- 
 ductions, ^-^nguage gradually varies, and with it 
 fade away ti)e rvritings of authors who have flourish- 
 ed their allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers 
 of genius would overstock the world, and the mind 
 would Ite completely bewildered in the endless mazes 
 of literature. Formerly there were some restraints 
 on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be 
 transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious 
 operation; they were written either on parchment, 
 whidi was expensive, so that one work was often 
 erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which 
 was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship 
 was a limited and unprofital)le craft, pursued chiefly 
 by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. 
 The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, 
 and confined almost entirely to monasteries. To 
 these circumstances it may, in some measure, be owing 
 that we have not been inundated by the intellect of 
 antiquity; that the fountains of thought have not been 
 broken up, and modern genius drowned in the de- 
 luge. But the inventions of paper and the press have 
 put an end to all these restraints. They have made 
 very one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour 
 its'^lf into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intel- 
 lectual world. The consequences are alarming. The 
 stream of literature has swollen into a torrent — aug- 
 mented into a river— expanded into a sea. A few 
 centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts con- 
 stituted a great library; but what would you say to 
 libraries such as actually exist, containing three or 
 four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors 
 at the same lime busy ; and the press going on with 
 fearfully increasing activity, to double a:)d quadruple 
 the number ? Unless some unforeseen mortality should 
 break out among the progeny of the muse, now that 
 she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. 
 I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be 
 sufilcient. Criticism may do much. It increases with 
 tlie increase of literature, and resembles one of those 
 salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. 
 Ail possible encouragement, therefore, should be given 
 to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear 
 all will be in vain; let criticism do what it may, writ- 
 '*■' ers will write, printers will print, and the world will 
 inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will 
 soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn 
 their names. Many a man of passable information, 
 at the present day, reads scarcely any thing but 
 rcviewt; and before long a man of erudition will 
 
 be little better than a mere walking catalogs?," 
 
 "My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawn- 
 ing most drearily in my face, -'excuse my interrnpt. 
 ing you, but I pirceive yon are rather given to prose. 
 I would ask the fate of an author who was making 
 some noise just as I left the world. His reputation 
 however, was considered quite temporary. The learn- 
 ed shook their heads at him, for he was a poor half- 
 educated varlet, that knew little of Latin, and nothing 
 of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country 
 for deei -stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare 
 I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 
 
 " On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that 
 very man that the literature of his period has exp^ 
 rienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of En*-! 
 lish literature. There rise authors now and then 
 who seem proof against the mutability of language, 
 because they 1' ^ rooted themselves in the uncliang' 
 ing principles of human nature. They are like 
 gantic trees th-it we sometimes see on the banks of i{ 
 stream ; whic, by their vast and dee[> roots, penetrat- 
 ing through the mere surface, and laying hold on l] 
 very foundations of the earth, preserve the soil aroundl 
 them Tvom l)eing swept away by the ever-floffii 
 current, and hold np many a neighbouring plant, and,. 
 perhaps, w" iless weed, to perpetuity. Such is tl 
 case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying tl 
 encroachments of time, retaining in modern use tl 
 language and literature of his day, and giving dui 
 tion to many i indifferent author, merely from hav- 
 ing flourislK . in his vicinity. But even he, I grien 
 to say, is g dually assuming the tint of age, and 
 whole forr s overrun by a profusion of commenii 
 tors, who. ke clambering vines and creepers, aimi 
 bury the tbie plant that upholds them." 
 
 Her .te little quarto began to heave his sides ai 
 chur' ., until at length iie broke out in a plelhi 
 fit ' laughter that had well nigh choked him, b] 
 r( on ot nis excessive corpulency. " Mighty well!" 
 ci . ' he, as soon as he could recover breath, "miglil 
 well ! and so you would persuade me that the litera-j 
 ture of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabow 
 deer-slealer ! by a man without learning; by a poet,| 
 tbrsoolh— a poet ! " And here he wheezed forth afr 
 other fit of laughter. 
 
 I confess that I fell somewhat nettled at this nidfr 
 ness, which however I pardoned on account of I 
 having flourished in a less polished age. I deteru 
 ed, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 
 
 "Yes," resumed I, positively, "a poet; for of a 
 writers he has the best chance for immorli 
 Others may wrile from the head, but he writes frc 
 the heart, and the heart will always understand himl 
 He is the faithful pourirayer of na'ure whose fea| 
 lures are always the same, and always iiiterestiiijj 
 Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; lli«j 
 pages are crowded with common-places, and Ihe^ 
 thoughts expanded into tediousness. But withthi 
 irue poet every thing is terse, touching, or brillianU 
 He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest lai^ 
 
 ar- 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 2<>7 
 
 Mjge. He illQst rates them by every thing that he 
 tees most striking in nature and art. He enriches 
 lliein by pictures of human life, such as it is passing 
 lieforeliim. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, 
 Ihe aroma, if I may use the phrase, of tlie age in 
 which lie lives. I'hey are caskets whicli enclose 
 irilliin a small compass tlie wealth of the language — 
 lis Eamiiy jewels, which are thus transmitted in a 
 portable foim to posterity. The setting may occa- 
 sionally be antiquated, and require now and then to 
 be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the bril- 
 liancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue un- 
 altered. Cast a look back over the long reach of li- 
 terary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled 
 vilh monkish legends and academical controversies ! 
 viiat bogs of theological speculations ! what dreary 
 wastes of metaphysics ! Here and there only do we 
 iiehold the heaven-illumined bards, elevated like bea- 
 cons on their widely-separate heights, to transmit the 
 pare light of poetical intelligence from age to age." ' 
 
 I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums 
 Igpon the poets of the day, when the sudden opening 
 of tlie door caused me to turn my head. It was the 
 Tcrger, who came to inform me that it was time to 
 {close the library. I sought to have a parting w^ord 
 wilh the quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent; 
 {the clasps were closed; and it looked i>erfectly un- 
 
 nscious of all that had passed. I have been to the 
 llibrary two or three times since, and have endea- 
 
 oured to draw it into further conversation, but in 
 
 ain; and whether all this rambling colloquy actually 
 [look place, or whether it was another of those odd 
 
 ly-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to 
 moment been able to discover. 
 
 RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Here's a few Howrrs! but aliont miclnigtitmorc : 
 The liei-lM tliat liave on tticni cold dew o' tlie uiglit 
 
 Are strcwings litt'sl for graves 
 
 Vou were as flowers now wiUier'd ; even so 
 These lierblets sliall, wliicli we ui)on you strow. 
 
 CVMDELINB. 
 
 Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs 
 bFniral life which still linfer in some parts of Eng- 
 land, are those of strewing flowers before the fune- 
 'als, and planting them at the graves, of departed 
 
 ■ Tliorow eartli and waters dccpc, 
 
 Tlie pen by skill dotli passe : 
 And (catty nyps the worldes abuse, 
 
 And shoes us In a glassc, ' 
 
 The vcrlu and the vice 
 
 or every wight alyve; 
 The honey comb that bee doth make 
 
 Is not so sweet in hy ve, 
 As are the golden levcs 
 
 Tliat drop fi'oni iioct's head ! 
 Which doth surmount our common taiko 
 
 As farrc us dross doth lead. 
 
 churchtjard. 
 
 friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of 
 the rites of the primitive church; but they are of still 
 higher antiquii/, having been observed among the 
 Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by 
 their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous 
 tributes of unlettered affection, originating long be- 
 fore art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into 
 song, or story it on the monument. They are now 
 only to be met with in the most distant and retired 
 places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation 
 have not been able to throng in, and trample out all 
 the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon 
 thecorpse lies is covered witli flowers, a custom alluded 
 to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 
 
 white his shroud as the mountain snow, 
 
 Larded all wilh sweet flowers ; 
 Which be-wept to the grave did go. 
 
 With true love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite ob- 
 served in some of the remote villages of the south, at 
 the funeral of a female who has died young and un- 
 married. A chaplet of white flowers is borne before 
 the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and 
 resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church 
 over the accustomed seat of the deceased. The chap- 
 lets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation 
 of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of 
 white gloves. Tliey are intended as emblems of the 
 purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which 
 she has received in heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the dead are 
 carried to the grave with the singing of psalms and 
 hymns : a kind of triumph, '' to shew," says Bourne, 
 "that they have finished their course with joy, and 
 are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
 observed in some of the northern counties, particular- 
 ly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing though 
 melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some 
 lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a fu- 
 neral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the 
 train slowly moving along the landscape. 
 
 Thus, thus, and tliiis, we compass round 
 Tliy harmlesse and iinhauntcd gwund, 
 And as we sing thy dirge, wo will 
 
 The dafToilill 
 And other flowers lay u[ion 
 The altar of our love, thy stone. 
 
 llerrick. '.i 
 
 There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller 
 to the passing funeral in these sequestered places; for 
 such spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes 
 of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the mourning 
 train approaches, lie pauses, uncovered, to let it go 
 by; he then follows silently in the rear; sometimes 
 (piite to the grave, at other times for a few hundred 
 yards, and, liaving paid this tribute of respect to the 
 deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs through 
 the English character, and gives it some of its most 
 touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in 
 
368 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 'if 
 
 these pathetic customs, and hi the solicitude shown 
 by the common people for an honoured and a peace- 
 ful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be 
 his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little 
 respect may be paid to his remains. Sir Thomas 
 Qverbu-y, describing the " faire and happy milk- 
 maid," observes, " thus lives she, and all her care 
 is, that she may die in the spring time, to have store 
 of flowers stueke upon lier wmding-sheet." The 
 poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, 
 continually advert to this fond solicitude about the 
 grave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
 describing the capricious melancholy of a broken- 
 hearted girl: 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 Stuck All! of flowers, she, with a sigli, will tell 
 Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in ; and make her maids 
 Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. 
 
 The custom of decorating graves was once univer- 
 sally prevalent : osiers were carefully bent over them 
 to keep the turf uninjured, and about them were 
 planted evergreens and flowers. " We adorn their 
 graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers 
 and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, 
 which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those 
 fading beauties, whose roots being buried in disho- 
 nour, rise again in glory." This usage has now be- 
 come extremely rare in England; but it may still 
 be met with in the churchyards of retired villages, 
 among the Welsh mountains; and I recollect an 
 instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, wliich 
 lies at Ihe head of the beautiful vale of Glewyd. I 
 have been told also by a friend, who was present at 
 tlte funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that 
 the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, 
 which, as soon as the body was interred, tliey stuck 
 about the grave. 
 
 He noticed several graves which had been decorat- 
 ed in the same manner. As the flowers had been 
 merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, they 
 had soon wilhered and might be seen in various 
 states of decay; some drooping, others quite perished. 
 They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, 
 rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some 
 graves had grown to great luxuriance, and oversha- 
 dowed tlie tombstones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in 
 the arrangement of tliese rustic offerings, that had 
 something in it truly poetical. The rose was some- 
 limes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem 
 of frail mortality. ' * This sweet flower,' ' said Evel y ti , 
 " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompa- 
 nied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fu- 
 gitive, umbralile, anxious, and transitory life, which, 
 making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without 
 its thorns and crosses." The nature and colour of 
 the flowers, and of the ribands with which they were 
 lied, had ofleii u particular reference to the qualities 
 
 or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the 
 feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled 
 " Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the dv ' 
 corations he intends to use : 
 
 A garland shall be framed 
 
 By art and nature's skill. 
 Of sundry-coloured flowers, 
 
 In token of good-will. 
 
 And sundry-colour'd ribands 
 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 But chiefly blacke and yellowe ' ~ 
 
 With her to grave shall go. 
 
 I'll deck her tomb with flowers. 
 
 The rarest ever seen ; 
 And with my tears as showers, 
 
 I'll keep them tresh and green. 
 
 The white rose, we are told, was planted at the I 
 grave of a virgin; her chaplet was tieil with white] 
 ribands, in token of her spotless innocence; though 1 
 sometimes black ribands were intermingled, to be-] 
 speak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was oc- 1 
 casionally used in remembrance of such as had been I 
 remarkable for benevolence; but roses in general I 
 were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells I 
 us that the custom was not altogether extinct in bis I 
 time, near his dwelling in the country of Surrey,! 
 '' where the maidens yearly planted and decked tlie I 
 graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." ( 
 And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia ; 
 " Here is also a certain custom, observed time outol] 
 mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especial- 
 ly by the young men and maids who have lost llieirl 
 loves; so that this churchyard is now full of them." I 
 
 When the deceased had been unhappy in their I 
 loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were I 
 used, such as the yew and cypress, and irtlowenl 
 were strewn, they were of the most melancholy co-l 
 lours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq, I 
 (published in id'ai) is the following stanza : 
 
 Yet sirew 
 . Ui)on my dismal grave 
 Sudi ufTerings as you have, 
 ^ Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe; 
 
 For kinder flowers con take no birth 
 Or growth from such unhappy earth. 
 
 In "The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is I 
 
 introduced, illustrative of this mode of decuraliiin 
 
 the funerals of females who had been disappointed la | 
 
 love : 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse 
 
 Of the dismall yew, 
 Maidens, willow branches wear, 
 
 Say I died true. 
 
 My love was false, but I was Ann, 
 
 From my hour of birth i 
 U|X)n my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is io I 
 retinc and elevate the mind; and we have a proof o(| 
 it in the purity of sentiment and the unafTected ele-l 
 gance of thought which pervaded Ihe whole of these I 
 funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial iw- 1 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 an) 
 
 D, that none but sweet-scented evergreens and 
 
 ; should be employed. The intention seems 
 
 [haTe lieen to soften tlie horrors of the tomb, to 
 
 ^ye tlie mind from brooding over the disgraces of 
 
 1)^ mortality, and to associate the memory of 
 
 e deceased with the most delicate and beautiful ob- 
 
 s in nature. Tliere is a dismal process going on 
 
 [the grave, ere dust can return to i\s kindred dust, 
 
 di tlie imagination shrinks from contemplating; 
 
 Ine seek still to think of the form we have loved, 
 
 those refined associations which it awakened 
 
 KH blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay 
 
 ri' the earth," says Laertes, of his virgin sister, 
 
 And hrom her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring ! 
 
 iBerrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours 
 1 a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, 
 I in a manner embalms the dead in the recol- 
 I of the living. 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
 
 And make litis place all Paradise : 
 
 Hay sweets grow here ! and smoke from henco 
 
 Fat frankincense. 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From out thy maiden monument. 
 
 over the dead is lo I 
 we have a proof of j 
 the unaffected ele- 1 
 the whole of these I 
 as an especial pre- 1 
 
 Hay nil shie maids at wonted hours 
 
 Come forth to strew thy tombc with flowers! 
 
 Uay virgins, when they come to mourn, 
 
 Male incense burn 
 Upon thine altar ! then return 
 Aud leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 
 
 Il might crowd my pages with extracts from the 
 
 ler British poels, who wrote when these rites were 
 
 ! prevalent, and delighted frequenlly to allude to 
 
 i; but I have already quoted more than is neces- 
 
 I cannot, however, refrain from giving a pas- 
 
 > from Sliakspeare, even though it sliould appear 
 |le; which illustrates the emblcinatical meaning 
 len conveyed in these floral tributes ; and at the 
 
 e time possesses that magic of language and appu- 
 [eness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. 
 
 With fairest flowers. 
 Whilst summer last, and I live here, Fidelc, 
 I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shall not lack 
 The flower that's like thy face, pale prinu-osu; nor 
 The aziianl harebell, like thy veins; uo, nor 
 The loaf of eglantine : whom not to slander, 
 Uulswcclen'd uot thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting in these 
 [luipt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in 
 I most costly monuments of art; the band strews 
 I flower while the heart is warm, and the tear 
 
 > on the grave as affection is binding the osier 
 biid the sod; but pathos expires under the slow 
 Ur of the chisel, and is chilled among the cold 
 Dceils of sculptured marble. 
 
 |t is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly 
 gaiit and touching has disappeared from general 
 k, and exists only in the most remote and insigni- 
 m villages. But it seems as if poetical custom 
 fays shuns the walks of cultivated society. In pro- 
 
 portion as people grow polite, they cease to be poet- 
 ical. Tbey talk of poetry, but they have learnt to 
 check its free impulses, to distrust its sallying emo- 
 tions, and to supply its most afiiecting and picturesque 
 usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. 
 Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an 
 English funeral in town. It is made up of show and 
 gloomy parade; mourning carriages, mourning hor- 
 ses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who 
 make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave di^ed," 
 says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solenm mourning, and 
 a great talk in the neighbourhood, and when the 
 dales are finished, they shall be, and they shall be 
 remembered no more." The associate in the gay 
 and crowded city is soon forgotten; the hurrying suc- 
 cession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces 
 him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles 
 in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But 
 funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The 
 stroke of death makes a wider space in the village 
 circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniform- 
 ity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in 
 every ear; it steals with its pervading melancholy over 
 hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 
 
 The fixed and unchanging features of the country 
 also perpetuate the memory of the friend with whom 
 we once enjoyed them, who was the companion of 
 our most retired walks, and gave animation to every 
 lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm 
 of nature; we hear his voice in the echo which he 
 once delighted to awaken; his spirit haunts the grove 
 which he once frequented ; we think of him in the 
 wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive beauty 
 of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, 
 we remember his beaming smiles and bounduig 
 gaiety; and when sober evening returns with its 
 gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to 
 mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweel- 
 suuled melancholy. 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restore. 
 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 Belov'd tilt life can charm uo more; 
 
 And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the 
 deceased in tbe country is, that the grave is more im- 
 mediately in sight of the survivoi's. They pass it on 
 their way to prayer ; it meets their eyes when their 
 hearts are soflened by the exercises of devotion ; they 
 linger about it on the sabbath, when the mind is 
 disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to 
 turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, 
 and to sit down among the solemn momentoes of tbe 
 past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
 over tbe graves of their deceased friends for several 
 Sundays after the interment; and where the tender 
 rite of strewuig and planting flowers is still practised, 
 it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and 
 other festivals, when the season brings the compa- 
 nion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is 
 also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and 
 
 •* 
 
 |. 
 
*ro 
 
 THE SkEXai BOOK. 
 
 friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed; and 
 if a neighbour yields assistance, it would be deemed 
 an insult to offer compensation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, be- 
 cause, as it is one of the last, so it is one of the holiest 
 ofRces of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affec- 
 tion. It is there that the divine passion of (he soul 
 manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of 
 mere animal attachment. The latter must be conti- 
 nually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of ils 
 object, but the soul can live on long remembrance. 
 The mere inclinations of sense languish and decline 
 with the charms which excited them, and turn with 
 shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of (he 
 tomb; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection 
 rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, 
 like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart 
 of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from 
 which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound 
 we seek to heal — every other affliction to ""orget; but 
 this wound we consider it a duty to keep ( "n — this 
 affliction we cherish and brood over in litude, 
 Where is the mother who would willingly foi. :x the 
 infant that perished like a blossom from hei arms, 
 though every recollection is a pang? Where is the 
 child that would willingly forget the most tender of 
 parents, though to remember be but to lament? 
 Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the 
 friend over whom he mourns ? Who, even when the 
 tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; 
 when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
 closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that 
 must be brought by forgetfulness ?— No, the love 
 which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attri- 
 butes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise 
 its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of 
 grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection ; 
 when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony 
 over (he present ruins of all that we most loved, is 
 softenal away into pensive meditation on ail that it 
 was in the days of its loveliness— who would root out 
 such a sorrow from the heart ? Though it may some- 
 times throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of 
 gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of 
 gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song 
 of pleasure, or the burst of revelry ? No, there is a 
 voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a 
 remembrance of the dead to which we turn even 
 from (he charms of (he living. Oh the grave! — the 
 grave! — It buries every error — covers every defect — 
 extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful 
 Iwsom spring none but fond regrets and tender recoN 
 leclions. Who can look down upon the grave even 
 of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that 
 he sliould ever have warred with the poor handful of 
 car(h (hat lies mouldering before him. 
 
 But the grave of those wc loved — what a place for 
 meditation ! There it is that we call up in long re- 
 view (lie whole history of virtue and gentleness, and 
 
 the thousand endearments lavished apon us ain 
 unheeded ui the daily intercourse of intimacy— thn 
 it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, (he solen 
 awful (enderness of (he partmg scene. The bed j 
 
 death, with all its stifled griefs— its noiselessatlendai 
 —its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimoniJ 
 of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrillingJ 
 oh ! how thrilling !— pressure of the hand. The !a| 
 fond look ofthe glazing eye, turning upon userd 
 from the threshold of existence I The faint, falteri 
 accents, struggling m death to give one more i 
 ranee of affection! 
 
 Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and medilaij 
 There settle (he account with thy conscience Fur ere 
 past benefit unrequited — every past endearment t 
 regarded, of that departed being, who can never-J 
 never — never return to be soothed by thy conlriiioi 
 
 If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrov j 
 the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow ofanafrej 
 tionate parent — if thou art a husband, and hast erJ 
 caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole luJ 
 piness in thy a.'ms to doubt one moment of thy kin 
 ness or thy truth — if Uiou art a friend, and hastetj 
 wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit tl 
 generously confided in (bee — if (hou art a lover, j 
 hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true lie 
 which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;— th 
 be sure (hat every unkind look, every ungracioi 
 word, every ungentle action, will come throng 
 back upon (hy memory, and knocking dolefully i 
 thy soul— then be sure that thou wilt lie down s 
 rowing and repentant on the grave, and utter llien 
 heard groan, and pour (he unavailing tear; in 
 deep, more hitter, because unheard and unavailingj 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew li 
 beauties of nature about the grave; console tliy t 
 ken spirit if thou canst, with these tender, yet rulij 
 tributes of regret; but take warning by the biUen 
 of this tiiy contrite aflliclion over the dead, and km 
 forth be more faithful and affectionate in the i 
 charge of thy duties to the living. 
 
 In writing (he preceding article, it was not intei 
 cd to give a full detail of the funeral cnsloins ofll 
 English peasantry, but merely to furnish a few I 
 and quotations illustrative of particular rites, to I 
 appended, by way of note, to another paper, wbij 
 lias been withheld. The article swelled insem 
 into its present form, and this is mentioned a i 
 apology for so brief and casual a notice of these iifi 
 ges, after (hey have been amply and learnedly innj 
 (igated in other works. 
 
 I must observe, also, that I am well aware i 
 this custom of adorning graves with flowers prevaj 
 in other coun(ries besides England. Indceil, ins 
 it is much more general, and is ol)sei*vcd even by ll 
 rich and fashionable; but it is then apt to 
 simplicity, and to degenerate into affectation. Briji 
 in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monun 
 of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 271 
 
 led upon us ain 
 e of inlimacy— ilx 
 lerness, the solen 
 scene. The bed i 
 s noiseless aUenda 
 
 The last testiir 
 liUtering, thrilling.] 
 tlieliand. Thelai 
 rning upon usev(j 
 
 Tlie faint, falteri 
 give one more < 
 
 love, and mediUM 
 f conscience for eve 
 past entlearinenti 
 ig, who canneTer-j 
 led hy thy conlrilioi 
 ver added a sorrow I 
 ercdbroworanalM 
 shand, and hast erJ 
 lured its whole lu|| 
 moment of thy kin 
 friend, and hast eif 
 irdeed, the spirit ( 
 thou art a lover, ; 
 )ang to that true lie 
 neath thy feet ;-tli 
 )k, every ungraci 
 will come thron^ij 
 knocking dolefullir 
 lu wilt lie down 
 ■ave, and utter then 
 inavailing tear; 
 leard and unavailingj 
 lowers, and strew I 
 ave; console lliyl 
 lese tender, yet full 
 rning by the bluer 
 T the dead, and hem 
 ffeclionate in the 
 
 icle, it wasnotinte 
 uneral customs of 
 to furnish a few 
 larticular riles, to 
 another paj)er, wiiii 
 icle swelled inseii ■" 
 s is mentioneil as 
 a notice of these 
 y and learnedly iii« 
 
 am well aware 
 with flowers previ 
 and. Inded, in 
 s observed even by 
 s then apt lo lose 
 ito affectation. Br^ 
 
 yls placed among bowers of greenhouse plants ; and 
 Ut the graves generally are covered with the gayest 
 irers of the season. He gives a casual picture of 
 ill piety, which I cannot but describe; for I trust 
 [is as useful as it is delightful, to illustrate the 
 )le virtues of the sex. " When I was at Berlin," 
 I he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the 
 lare. Mingled with some pomp, yon might trace 
 di real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my 
 otion was attracted hy a young woman, who 
 I on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, 
 ihicli she anxiously protected from the feet of the 
 glng crowd. It was the tomb of her parent; and 
 eOgure of this affectionate daughter |)resenled a mo- 
 nentmoreslrikingthan the most costly workof art." 
 1 1 will barely add an instance of sepulchral decora- 
 1 that I once met with among the mountains of 
 ritzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, which 
 on the borders of the Lake of Lucern, at the 
 t of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a mi- 
 Llnre republic, shut up between the Alps and the 
 ike, and accessible on the land side only by foot- 
 The whole force of the republic did not ex- 
 Isix hundred fighting men; and a few miles of 
 umference, scooped out as it were from the bosom 
 llhe mountains, comprised its territory. Tlie village 
 [Gersan seemed separated from the rest of the 
 rid, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer 
 II had a small church, with a burying ground 
 [lining. At the heads of the graves were placed 
 i of wood or iron. On some were affixed mi- 
 Ures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at 
 lenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were 
 ng chaplets of flowers, some withering, others 
 b, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with in- 
 stal this scene; I felt that I was at the source of 
 jetical description, for these were the beautiful but 
 lalTecled offerings of the heart which poets are fain 
 Irecord. In a gayer and more populous place, I 
 I have suspected them to have been suggested 
 [factilious sentiment, derived from books; but the 
 1 people of Gersau knew little of books; there was 
 t a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I 
 jestion whether any peasant of the place dreamt, 
 pile he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of 
 I mistress, that he was fulfllling one of the most 
 Kiful riles of poetical devotion, and that he was 
 icticaliy a poet. 
 
 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Sliall I not take mine case in mine inn 7 
 
 VklSTKVV. 
 
 iiiRiNG a journey that I once made through the 
 Iberlands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme 
 >r, the principal inn of a small Flemish village, 
 ry, tells of monum^as after the hour of the table d'hdte. so that I was 
 d for reliremeulii^igedto make a solitary supper from the relics of 
 
 its ampler board. The weatlier was chilly ; I was 
 seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining- 
 room, and, my repast being over, I had the prospect 
 before me of a long dull evenmg, without any visible 
 means of enlivening it. I sunmioned mine host, and 
 requested something to read; he brouglit me the 
 whole literary slock of his household, a Dutch family- 
 bible, an almanac in the same language, and a num- 
 ber of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over 
 one of the latter, reading old news and stale criticisms, 
 my ear was now and then struck with bursts of 
 laughter which seemed to proceed from the kitchen. 
 Every one that has travelled on the continent must 
 know how favourite a resort the kitchen of a country 
 inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellers ; 
 particularly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a 
 lire becomes agreeable toward evening. I threw 
 aside the newspaper, and exploretl my way lo the 
 kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to 
 be so merry. It was composed partly of travellers 
 who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, 
 and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of 
 inns. They were seated round a great burnished 
 stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at 
 which they were worshipping. It was covered with 
 various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness; 
 among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea- 
 kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light 
 upon the group, bringing out many odd features in 
 strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the 
 spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote 
 corners ; except where they settled in mellow radiance 
 on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected 
 back from well-scoured utensils, that gleamed from 
 the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, 
 with long golden pendants in her ears, and a neck- 
 lace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the 
 presiding priestess of the temple. 
 
 Many of the company were furnished with pipes, 
 and most of them with some kind of evening potation. 
 I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes, 
 which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen 
 face and large whiskers, was giving of his love ad- 
 ventures ; at the end of each of which there was one 
 of those bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in 
 which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, 
 an inn. 
 
 As I had no belter mode of getting through a te- 
 dious blustering evening, I took my seat near the 
 stove, and, listened to a variety of traveller's tales, 
 some very extravagant, and most very dull. All of 
 them, however, have faded from my treacherous me- 
 mory, except one, which I will endeavour lo relate. 
 I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the 
 manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air and 
 appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old 
 Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. He 
 was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, 
 with a broad belt round bis waist, and a pair of 
 overalls^ with buttons from the hips to the ankles. 
 
 li^^ 
 
 < 11 
 
272 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 irf 
 
 He vras .of a Tall rubicund countenance, with a double 
 chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. 
 His hair was light, and curled from under an old 
 green velvet travelling-cap stuck on one side of his 
 head. He was interrupted more than once by the 
 arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors; and 
 paused now and then to replenish his pipe ; at which 
 times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke 
 for the buxom kitchen maid. 
 
 I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolN 
 ing in a huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, Ihe other 
 holding a curiously twisted tobacco pipe, formed of 
 genuine icume de mer, decorated with silver chain 
 and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a 
 whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related 
 the following story. 
 
 THE SPECTRE BRmEGROOM. 
 
 A TBAVELLEU'S TALEk ■ 
 
 He that supper for is (light, 
 He lyes full cold, I trow, this night ! 
 Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
 ; J This night Gray-steel has made his bed. 
 
 Sir EGEB, sir GRAbAME, AND SIR GRAT-STRRL. 
 
 ' On the summit of one of the heights of the Oden- 
 wald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, 
 that lies not far from the contluence of the Main and 
 the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the 
 Castle of the Baron Yon Landshort. It is now quite 
 fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees 
 and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch- 
 tower may still be seen struggling, like the former 
 possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, 
 and look down uijon the neighbouring country. 
 
 The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
 Katzenellenbogen,' and inherited the reliques of the 
 property, and all the pride of his ancestors. Though 
 the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much 
 impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still 
 endeavoured to keep up some show of former state. 
 The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, 
 ill general, had abandoned their inconvenient old 
 castles, perched like eagles' nests among the moun- 
 tains, and had built more convenient residences in the 
 valleys : still the baron remained proudly drawn up 
 in his little fortress, cherishing, with hereditary in- 
 veteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he was on 
 ill terms with some of his nearest neighbours, on ac- 
 count of disputes that had happened between their 
 great great grandfathers. 
 
 • The erudite reader, well versed in good.ro^nothing lore, will 
 perceive that tlie above Tale muiil have been suggested to the old 
 Swiss by a little French anecdote, of a circumstance said lo have 
 taken place at Paris. 
 
 > i. e, Cat'S'Elbow. The name of a family of those parts very 
 powerhil in former times. The appellation, we are told, was 
 given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated 
 for a fine arm. 
 
 The baron had but one child, a daughter; tntg 
 ture, when she grants but one child, always i 
 pensates by making it a prodigy ; and so it was \ 
 the daughter of the baron. All the nurses, 
 and country cousins, assured her father that ! 
 not her equal for beauty in all Germany; and 
 should know better than they ! She had, moreovj 
 been brought up with great care under the supeti 
 tendence of two maiden aunts, who had-s|)ents 
 years of their early life at one of the little Gen 
 courts, and were skilled in all the branches of kn 
 ledge necessary to the education of a fine lady, il 
 der their instructions she became a miracle ofao 
 plishments. By the time she was eighteen, shec 
 embroider to admiration, and had worked whole h 
 tories of the saints in tapeslry, wilh such stren^hj 
 expression in their countenances, that they looked li 
 so many souls in purgatoiy. She could read mi 
 great difficulty, and had spelled her way through J 
 veral church legends, and almost all the chiral 
 wonders of the Hehlenbuch. She had even i 
 considerable proficiency in writing; could sign I 
 own name without missing a letter, and so le| 
 that her aunts could read it without spectacles. 
 excelled in making little elegant good-for-noi 
 lady-like nicknacks of all kinds ; was versed in I 
 most abstruse dancing of the day; played a nni 
 of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew all theli 
 der ballads of tlie Minnielieders by heart. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been great tlirts and ( 
 quettes in their younger days, were admirably c 
 lated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of II 
 conduct of their niece; for (here is no duenna so i| 
 gidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a sapi 
 annuated coquette. She was rarely suffered oulj 
 their sight; never went beyond the domains of ll 
 castle, unless well attended, or rather well wait 
 had continual lectures read to her about strict ( 
 rum and implicit obedience; and, as to thei 
 pah !*->she was taught to hol^ them at such dislan 
 and in such absolute distrust, that, unless pn 
 authorized, she would not have cast a glance i 
 the handsomest cavalier in the world— no, not if| 
 were even dying at her feet. 
 
 The good effects of Ihis system were wonder! 
 apparent. The young lady was a pattern of doi 
 and correctness. While others were wasting t 
 sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable lo| 
 plucked and thrown aside by every hand ; she i 
 coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhoodl 
 der the protection of those immaculate spinsters,! 
 a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian tb 
 Her aunts looked upon her wilh pride and exuluiil 
 and vaunted that though all the other young ladi(i| 
 Ihe world might go astray, yet, thank heaven, i 
 thing of the kind could happen to the heiress of K 
 zcnellenbogen. 
 
 But, however scantily the Baron Von Lan 
 might be provided with children, his household i 
 by no means a small one; for Providence ludl 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 mn 
 
 I him with abundance of poor relations. They, 
 i and all, possessed the affectionate disposition 
 on to humble relatives ; were wonderfully at- 
 I to the baron, and took every possible occasion 
 Icome in swarms and enliven the castle. All fa- 
 iiy festivals were commemorated by these good 
 {)leat the baron's expense; and when they were 
 I with good cheer, they would declare that there 
 i nothing on earth so delightful as these family 
 tings, these jubilees of the heart. 
 Ilbe baron, though a small man, had a large soul, 
 lit swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness 
 llieing the greatest man in the little world about 
 He loved to tell long stories about the stark 
 I warriors whose portraits looked grimly down 
 the walls around, and he found no listeners 
 1 to those who fed at his expense. He was much 
 I to the marvellous, and a firm believer in all 
 i supernatural tales with which every mountain 
 1 valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his 
 sis exceeded even his own : they listened to every 
 t of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never 
 I to be astonished, even though repeated for the 
 dredth time. Thus lived the Baron Yon Land- 
 rt, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of 
 ^little territory, and happy, above all things, in the 
 gasion that he was the wisest man of the age. 
 |At the time of which my story treats, there was a 
 at family gathering at the castle, on an affair of 
 e utmost importance : it was to receive the destined 
 Idegroom of the baron's daughter. A negotiation 
 1 been carried on between the fatlier and an old 
 Ueman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their 
 i by the marriage of their children. The preli- 
 airies had been conducted with proper punctilio, 
 young people were betrothed without seeing 
 1 other; and the time was appointed for the mar- 
 ge ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg 
 1 been recalled from the army for the purpose, and 
 5 actually on his way to the baron's to receive his 
 de. Missives had even been received from him, 
 I Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detain- 
 |, mentioning the day and hour when he might be 
 «led to arrive. 
 Die castle was in a tumult of preparation to give 
 |« a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been 
 |cked out with uncommon care. The two aunts 
 dsuperinlendedher toilet, and quarrelled the whole 
 ►miiig about every article of her dress. The young 
 p had taken advantage of their contest to follow 
 (bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was a 
 lone. She looked as lovely as youthful bride- 
 could desire; and the flutter of expectation 
 hiened the lustre of her charms. 
 The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
 hile heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then 
 Tin reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was 
 [ on in her little heart. The aunts were conli- 
 py iiovering around lier ; for maiden aunts are apt 
 fake great interest in affairs of this nature. They 
 
 were giving her a world of staid counsel how to de- 
 port herself, what to say, and in what manner to re- 
 ceive the expected lover. 
 
 The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 
 Iiad, in truth, nothing exactly to do : but he was na- 
 turally a fuming bustling little man, and could not 
 remain passive when all the world was in a huri^. 
 He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an 
 air of inHnite anxiety; he continually called the ser- 
 vants from their work, to exhort them to be diligent; 
 and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly 
 restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm 
 summer's day. 
 
 In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; 
 the forests had rung with the clamour of the hunts- 
 men; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the 
 cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein 
 and Feme-wein; and even the great Heidelburg tun 
 had been laid under contribution. Every thing was 
 ready to receive the distinguisbt J guest with Saus 
 und Braus in the true spirit of German hospitality — 
 but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour 
 rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his 
 downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, 
 now just gleamed along the summits of the moun- 
 tains. Tlie baron mounted the highest tower, and 
 strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight 
 of the count and his attendants. Once he thought 
 he beheld them; the sound of horns come floating 
 from the valley, prolonged by the mountain echoes. 
 A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly 
 advancing along the road; but when they had nearly 
 reached the foot of the mountain, they suddenly 
 struck oft in a different direction. The last ray of 
 sunshine departed — the bats began to flit by in the 
 twilight — the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the 
 view ; and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now 
 and then a peasant lagging homeward from his 
 labour. 
 
 While the old castle of Landshort was in this slate 
 of perplexity, a very interesting scene was transact- 
 ing in a different part of the Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly 
 pursuing bis route in that sober jog-trot way, in 
 which a man travels toward matrimony, when his 
 friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of 
 courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for 
 him, as certainly as a dinner at the end of his jour- 
 ney. He had encounteretl, at Wurtzburg, a youthful 
 companion in arms, with whom he had seen some 
 service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust, 
 one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of 
 German chivalry, who was now returning from the 
 army. His father's castle was not far distant from 
 the old fortress of Landshort, although an hereditary 
 feud rendered tlie families hostile and strangers to 
 each other. 
 
 In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the 
 young friends related all their past adventures and 
 fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of his 
 
 fir 
 
 ik 
 
 •XI 
 
274 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOR. 
 
 in 
 
 intended- nuptials with a yonng lady whom he had 
 never seen, but of whose cliamis he liad received the 
 most enrapturing descriptions. 
 
 As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, 
 they agreed to perform the rest of their journey toge- 
 ther; and, that they might do it the more leisurely, 
 set off from Wurlzburg at an early hour, tlie count 
 having given directions for his retinue to follow and 
 overtake him. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections 
 of their military scenes and adventures; but the 
 count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, 
 about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity 
 that awaited him. 
 
 In this way they had entered among the mountains 
 of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most 
 lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is well known, 
 that the forests of Germany have always been as much 
 infested by robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at 
 tlus time, the former were particularly numerous, 
 from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering 
 about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, 
 therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang 
 of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They 
 defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly 
 overpowered, when the count's retinue arrived to 
 their Assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, 
 but not until the count had received a mortal wound. 
 He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to tlie 
 city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a 
 neighbouring convent, who was famous for his skill in 
 administering to both soul and body ; but half of his 
 skill was superfluous ; the moments of the unfortunate 
 count were numbered. 
 
 With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
 repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and ex- 
 plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint- 
 ment with his bride. Though not the most ardent 
 of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, 
 and appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission 
 should be speedily and courteously executed. " Un- 
 less this is done," said he, "I shall not sleep quietly 
 in my grave!" He repeated these last words with 
 peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so im- 
 pressive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en- 
 deavoured to soothe him to calmness; promised faith- 
 fully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in 
 solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknow- 
 ledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about 
 his bride— his engagementf — his plighted word; or- 
 dered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of 
 Landshort, and exp>-ed in ti\e fancied act of vaulting 
 into the saddle. 
 
 Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier's tear 
 on the untimely fate of his comrade; and then pon- 
 dered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. 
 His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he 
 was to present himself an unbidden guest among 
 hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings 
 Ealal to their hopes. Still there were certain whis- 
 
 perings of curiosity in his bosom to see this for-l 
 beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut i 
 from the world; for he was a passionate admirer] 
 the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity am! ( 
 terprize in his character that made him fond of ) 
 singular adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure, he made allduearrai 
 ments with the lioly fraternity of the convent ^ 
 the funeral solemnities of his friend, wlw was tod 
 buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near souk] 
 his illustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue] 
 the count took citarge of his remains. 
 
 It is now high time that we should return tot 
 ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were in 
 tient for their guest, and still more for their dinni 
 and to the worthy little baron, whom we left ; 
 himself on the watclHower. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived, 
 baron descended from the tower in despair. Tl| 
 banquet, which had been delayed from hourtohn 
 could no longer be {wsiponed. The meats werei 
 ready overdone; the cook in an agony; and the wh 
 household Itad the look of a garrison that had 
 reiluced by famine. The baron was obliged relw 
 antly to give orders for the feast without the pi-e 
 of the guest. All were seated at table, and just t 
 the point of commencing, when the sound of a I 
 from without the gale gave notice of the approach | 
 a stranger. Anotlter long blast filled the old ( 
 of the castle with its echoes, and was answered I 
 the warder from the walls, llie baron hastened j 
 receive his future son-in-law. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down, and thes 
 ger was before the gate. He was a tall gallant c 
 valier, mounted on a black steed. His counten 
 was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, { 
 an air of stately melancholy. The baron vai| 
 little mortified titat he should come in this simple,) 
 litary style. His dignity for a moment was rut 
 and he felt disposed to consider it a want of [ 
 respect for the important occasion, and the import 
 family with which lie was to be connected. Hep 
 cified himself, however, with the conclusion, tbtll 
 must have been youthful impatience which had i| 
 duced him thus to spur on sooner tlian his altem 
 
 " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upi 
 you thus unseasonably " 
 
 Here the baron interrupted liim with a world j 
 compliments and greetings; for, to tell the trulli,l 
 prided himself upon his courtesy and his eloquei 
 The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stemll 
 torrent of words, but in vain; so he bowed his 1 
 and suffered it to flow on. By the time the I 
 had come to a pause, they had readied the innerc 
 of the castle; and the stranger was again iitxHitj 
 speak, when he was once more interrupted by t 
 appearance of the female part of the family, leadid 
 forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed| 
 her for a moment as one entranced ; it seeined it| 
 his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and i 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 i» 
 
 (bat lovely Ibmi. One of the maiden aunts 
 
 ered something in her ear; she made an effort 
 
 Lipeik; her moist bhie eye was timidly raised; 
 
 ea shy glance of inquiry on the stranger ; and was 
 
 tigain to the ground. The words died away ; but 
 
 e was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a 
 
 I dimpling or the cheek, that showed her glance 
 
 Inot been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a 
 
 I of the fond age of eighteen, higlily predisposed 
 
 r love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gal- 
 
 t a cavalier. 
 
 I The late hour at which the guest had arrived left 
 ^liine foriurley. The baron was peremptory, and 
 I all particular conversation until the morning, 
 I led the way to the unlasled banquet. 
 In vas served up in the great hall of the castle, 
 and the walls hung the hard-favoured (wrlraits of 
 eheroesofllie house of Katzenellenliogen, and the 
 hies which they had gained in the field and in the 
 Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, 
 j Uttered banners were mingled with the spoils of 
 iTin warfare; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of 
 tboar, grinned horribly among cross-bows and 
 ^lie-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched im- 
 ately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 
 iThe cavalier took but little notice of the company 
 jihe entertainment. He scarcely tasted the ban- 
 it, but seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. 
 Itconversed in a low tone that could not be overheard 
 r the language of love is never loud ; but where 
 lie female ear so dull (hat it cannot catch the softest 
 |iisper of ihe lover ? There was a mingled tender- 
 sand gravity in liis manner, that appeared to have 
 lowerful effect upon the young lady. Her colour 
 I and went as she listened with deep attention. 
 |)w and (hen she made some blushing reply, and 
 len his eye was turned away, she would steal a side- 
 : glance at his romantic countenance, and heave 
 lenllo siyli of tender happiness. It was evident 
 It ilie young couple were completely enamoured. 
 J aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries 
 I the heart, declared that they had fallen in love 
 ) each other at first sight. 
 
 The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the 
 sis were all blessed with those keen appetites that 
 I upon light purses and mountain air. The ba- 
 1 told his best and longest stories, and never had he 
 I them so well, or with such great effect. If there 
 s any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in 
 lonishment; and if any thing facetious, they were 
 ! to laugh exactly in the right place. The I)aron, 
 I true, like most great men, was too dignilietl to 
 ler any joke but a dull one ; it was always enforced, 
 TCver, by a bumper of excellent Hockheimer ; and 
 I a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with 
 fj old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
 I by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear 
 leating, except on similar occasions; many sly 
 ^les whispered in ladies' ears, that almost con- 
 1 them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or 
 
 two roared out by a poor, bot merry and broad-bced 
 cousin of the baron, that absolutely made Uie maiden 
 aunts hold up their fans. 
 
 Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest mafai- 
 tained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His 
 countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as th« 
 evening advanced; and, strange as it may appear, 
 even the baron's jokes seemed only to render him the 
 more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, 
 and at times there was a perturbed and restless wan- 
 dering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. 
 His conversations with the bride became more and 
 more earnest and mysterious. Louring clouds began 
 to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tre- 
 mors to run througli her tender frame. 
 
 All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
 Their gaiety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom 
 of the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whis- 
 pers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by 
 shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song 
 and the laugh grew less and less frequent; there were 
 dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
 length succeeded by wild tales and supernatural le- 
 gends. One dismal story pruthiced another still more 
 dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the 
 ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin 
 horseman that carried away the fair Leonora ; a dread- 
 ful but tnie story, which has since been put into 
 excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the 
 world. 
 
 The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
 attention. He kept his eye steadily fixed on the ba- 
 ron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gra- 
 dually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, 
 until, in the baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost 
 to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was fi- 
 nished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn 
 farewell of the company. They were all amazements 
 The baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 
 
 " What ! going to leave the castle at midnight? why^ 
 every thing was prepared for his reception; a cham- 
 ber was ready for him if he wished to retire." 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully and mys- 
 teriously ; " I must lay my head in a different cham- 
 l)er to-night!" 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the tone in 
 which it was uttered, that made the baron's heart 
 misgive him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated 
 his hospitable entreaties. 
 
 The stranger shook his head silently, but positively^ 
 at every offer; and, waving his farewell to (he com- 
 pany, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden 
 aunts were absolutely petrified— the bride htmg her 
 head, and a (ear stole (o her eye. 
 
 The baron followed the stranger to Ihe great court 
 of the castle, where (he black charger stood pawing 
 the earth, and snorting with impatience.— When they 
 had reached the portal, whose deep archway was 
 dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, 
 and addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice 
 
 In^ 
 
 ! 
 
276 
 
 THE SKETai BOOK. 
 
 W 
 
 :l'> 
 
 f 
 
 which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulcliral. 
 
 " Now that we are alone," said he, " I will impart 
 to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an 
 indispensable engagement-<-" 
 
 " Why," said the baron, " cannot you send some 
 one in your place ? " 
 
 " It admits of no 8ubslitute->-I must attend it in 
 person — I must away to Wurtzburs cathedral—" 
 
 " Ay," said the baron, plucking up spirit, " but not 
 until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride 
 there." 
 
 "No, no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold so- 
 lemnity, " my engagement is with no bride— the 
 worms > the worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I 
 have been slain by robbers— my body lies at Wurtz- 
 burg — at midnight I am to be buried— the grave is 
 waiting for me — I must keep my appointment ! " 
 
 He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
 drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was 
 lost in the whistling of the niglit blast. 
 
 The baron returned to the hall in the utmost con- 
 sternation, and relate<1 what had passed. Two ladies 
 fainted outright, others sickened at the idea of having 
 banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of 
 some, thit lliis might be the wild huntsman, famous 
 in Ger!na\i legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, 
 uf wood (Ismons, and of other supernatural beings, 
 with which the good people of Germany have been 
 M) grievously harassed since time immemorial. One 
 of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might 
 be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and 
 that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to ac- 
 coi-d w^ith so melancholy a personage. This, how- 
 ever, drew on him the indignation of the whole com- 
 pany, and especially of the baron, who looked upon 
 him as little better than an infldel; so that he was fain 
 to abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come 
 into the faith of the true believers. 
 
 But whatever may have been the doubts entertain'>- 
 cd, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, 
 next day, of regular missives, confirming the intelli- 
 gence of the young count's murder, and his interment 
 in Wurtzburg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may be well imagined. 
 Thebaronshut himself upinhischamber. The guests, 
 who liad come to rejoice with him, could not think 
 of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered 
 about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, 
 shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at 
 the troubles of so good a man ; and sat longer than 
 ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than 
 ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the 
 situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. 
 To have lost a husband before she had even embrac- 
 ed him-^ and such a husband ! If the very spectre 
 could be so gracious and noble, what must have been 
 the living man? She iilied the house with lamenta- 
 tions. 
 
 On the night of the second day of her widowhood 
 she had retired to her cliamber, accompanied by one 
 
 of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. 'ftf 
 aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost st( 
 in all Germany, had just been recounting oneofhJ 
 longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of j 
 The chamber was remote, and overlooked a sn 
 garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beaJ 
 of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves j 
 an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle cIm 
 had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of nut 
 stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from hJ 
 bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tail figul 
 stood among the shadows of the trees. As it rais 
 its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the conntj 
 nance. Heaven and earth ! she beheld the Sped 
 Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment boi 
 upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awaken 
 by the music, and had followed her silently tot 
 window, fell into her arms. When she looked a^ 
 the spectre had disappeared. 
 
 Of the two females, the aunt now required [\ 
 most soothing, for she was perfectly beside lien 
 with terror. As to the young lady, there was som 
 thing, even in the spectre of her lover, that seem 
 endearing. There was still the semblance of nunl 
 beauty ; and thougli the shadow of a man is but liiq 
 calculated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick { 
 yet, where the substance is nottobehad,evenlhat| 
 consoling. The aunt declared she would neverslei 
 in that chaml)er again ; the niece, for once, was i 
 fraetory, and declared as strongly that she wonldslei 
 in no other in the castle : the consequence was, I 
 she had (o sleep in it alone : but she drew a pron 
 from her aunt not to relate the story of the sp 
 lest she should be denied the only melandioly 
 sure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the eliambi 
 over which the guardian shade of her lover kept il 
 nightly vigils. 
 
 How long the good old lady would have obsenJ 
 this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved toul 
 of the marvellous, and there is a triumph in beingtif 
 lirst to tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still qm 
 ed in the neighbourhood, as a memorable instancej 
 female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a «b 
 week, when she was suddenly absolved fromi 
 further restraint, by intelligence brought to Ihebrf 
 fast table one morning that the young lady was notf 
 be found. Her room was empty— the bed had i 
 been slept in — the window was open, and the t 
 had flown! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which the n 
 telligence was received, can only be imagined bytb 
 who have witnessed the agitation which the mislu{ 
 of a great man cause among his friends. Even t 
 poor relations paused for a moment from the indef 
 tigable labonrs of the trencher, when the aunt,vi| 
 had at first l>een struck speechless, wrung her ban 
 and shrieked out, "The goblin! the goblin! 
 carried away by the goblin! " 
 
 In a few words she related the fearful scene of il 
 garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
 
 G«rinany, as m 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 277 
 
 (irried ofTbis bride. Two of the domestics corrobo- 
 itted the opinion, for they had heard the clattering 
 «( a horse's lioob down the mountain about mid- 
 night, and liad no doubt that it was the spectre on 
 tis black charger, bearing her away to tlie tomb. 
 All present were struck with the direful probability ; 
 Ibr events of Ihe kind are extremely common in 
 Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear 
 I fitness. 
 
 What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 
 I iMion ! What a heart-rending dilemma fur a fond 
 bther, and a member of the great family of Katzenel- 
 lenlx^en ! His only daughter had either been rapt 
 away to the grave, or he was to have some woodnle- 
 non for a sun-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of gob- 
 lin grand-children. As usual, he was completely 
 iiewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The 
 Lenwere ordered to lake horse, and scour every 
 road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The l)a- 
 ron himself had just drawn on his jack-lraots, girded 
 I on his sword, andwasalmut to mount his steed to 
 tally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought 
 lloa |)ause by a new apparition. A lady w<is seen ap- 
 proaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended 
 by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the 
 gale, sprang from her horse, and falling at the baron's 
 feet, embraced his knees. It was bis lost daughter, 
 and her companion — the Spectre Ikidegroom ! The 
 baron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, 
 I then at the spectre, and almost doubted tite evidence 
 I of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully im- 
 pved in his appearance, since his visit to the world 
 irits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble 
 jligiire of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale 
 land melancholy. His fine countenance was Hushed 
 I with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large 
 I dark eye. 
 
 The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier 
 I (for, in truth, as you must have known all the while, 
 I lie was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman 
 jVon Staikenfaust. He relatetl his adventure with 
 llhe young count. He told how he had hastened to 
 Ithecaslleto deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that 
 llhe eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in 
 lerery attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the 
 Ihride had completely captivated him, and that to pass 
 la few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the 
 linislake to continue. How he had been sorely pcr- 
 Iplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until 
 ■the baron's golilin stories had suggested his eccentric 
 ■exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, 
 Ihe had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted 
 |lhe garden beneath the young lady's window — had 
 
 irooed— l»ad won — had borne away in triumph — 
 
 nd, in a word, had wedded the fair. 
 
 Under any other circumstances the baron would 
 bave been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal 
 pnliiority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; 
 jinlhe loved his daughter; he had lamented her as 
 
 St; he rejoiced to And her still alive; and, titough 
 
 her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank heaven, 
 he was not a goblin. There was something, it must 
 be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with 
 his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight 
 bad passed upon him of his being a dead man ; but 
 several old (Viends present, who had served in the 
 wars, assured him that every stratagem wasexcusable 
 in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial 
 privilege, having lately serve<l as a trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The 
 baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The 
 revels at the castle were resumed. The poor rela- 
 tions overwhelmed this new member of the family 
 with loving kindness; he was so gallant, so generous 
 —and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat 
 scandalized that their system of strict seclusion, and 
 passive obedience, should be so badly exemplified, 
 but attributed it all to their negligence in not having 
 the windows grated. One of them was particularly 
 mortified at having her marvellous story marred, and 
 that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
 out a counterfeit ; but the njece seemed perfectly happy 
 at having found him sulwlanlial flesh and blood— and 
 so the story ends. 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 Wlien I l)Cliold, Willi deep aetoiiislinieut, y.. 
 
 To famous Westminster liow tliere resurta . 
 Living in hrasse or stoney monnmcnt, 
 Tlie princes and the worlliics uf all sorle ; "' ' 
 Doe not I see rcformde nobilltie, 
 Without coniempt, or pride, or ostentatious 
 And loolic upon ofrenselcsse miycsty, 
 Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 Contents Ihe quiet now and silent sprites, 
 Wliutuc all the world which late Ihcy stood upou 
 Could not content nor quench their a[)petitC8. 
 Life is a frost of cold felicltie. 
 And death the Ihaw of all our vanilie. 
 
 CUBISTOLERO'S EPIGRAMS, B\ T. B. ISM. 
 
 Ox one of those sober and rather melancholy days, 
 in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of 
 morning and evening almost mingle together, and 
 throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed 
 several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. 
 There was something congenial to the season in the 
 mournful magnilicenee of the old pile ; and, as I pass- 
 ed its threshold, seemed like stepping back into the 
 regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the 
 shades of former ages. 
 
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster 
 School, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that 
 bad an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted 
 in one part by circular perforations in the massive 
 walls. Through this dark avenue I bad a distant 
 view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, 
 in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, 
 
378 
 
 TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 and seeming like a (pectre from one of the neigh- 
 bouring tombR. Tlie approach to (he abbey tlirwigli 
 these gloomy monastic remains {irepareH tlie mind for 
 its solemn contemplation. Tlie cloisters still retain 
 ■ometliing of the quiet and seclusion of former days. 
 The grey walls are discoloured by damps, and crum- 
 bling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered 
 over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and oli- 
 scured the death's iieads, and other funereal emblems. 
 The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich 
 tracery of the arches ; the roses which adorned the 
 key stones have lost their leafy beauty ; every thing 
 bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of lime, which 
 yet has something touching and pleasing in its very 
 decay. 
 
 The sun wa.s pouring down a yellow autumnal ray 
 into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty 
 plot of grass in the centre, anil lighting up an angle of 
 the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty splendour. 
 From between the arcades the eye glance<l up to a bit 
 of blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun- 
 gilt pinnacles of (he abbey towering into the azure 
 heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplat- 
 ing this mingleil picture of glory and decay, and some- 
 times endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions on the 
 tombstones, which formed (he pavement beneath my 
 feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely 
 carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the foot- 
 steps of many generations. They were the effigies of 
 three of the early ablwts; the epitaphs were entirely 
 effaced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt 
 been renewed in later times. (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, 
 and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Lauren- 
 tius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, mus- 
 ing over these casual relics of antiquity, thus left like 
 wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale 
 but that such beings had been and had [terished ; 
 teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which 
 hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in 
 an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint 
 records will be obliterated, and the monument will 
 cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking 
 down upon these gn estones, I was roused by the 
 sound of the abbey clock, reverl)erating from buttress 
 to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is 
 almost startling to hear this warning of departed time 
 sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of 
 the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward 
 towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched 
 door opening to the interior of the abl)ey. On enter- 
 ing here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully 
 upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the clois- 
 ters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns 
 of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from 
 them to such an amazing height ; and man wandering 
 aliout their iMses, shrunk into insignificance in com- 
 parison with his own handiwork. The spaciousness 
 and gloom of Ibis vast edifice produce a profound and 
 mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, 
 
 as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence of (h| 
 tombs ; while every foot-fall whispers along the walli, 
 and chatters among the sepulchres, making us mon I 
 sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place pmm I 
 down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into 
 noiseless reverence. We feel that we are surrounded I 
 by the congregated bones of the great men of pjist I 
 times, who have filled history with their deeds, indl 
 the earth with their renown. 
 
 And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vani(T| 
 of human ambition, to see how they are crow<ifd| 
 together and iiislled in the dust; what parsimony ii| 
 observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy cw. I 
 ner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, wheal 
 alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; and how manr I 
 shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to caicfa | 
 the casual notice of the passenger, and save from fur- 
 getfulness, for a few short years, a name which once I 
 aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and ad- 1 
 miration. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet's Corner, wliich oc- 1 
 cupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aiglei I 
 of the abbey. The monuments are generally simple; I 
 for the lives of literary men afford no striking themetl 
 for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison haveslatuet I 
 erected to their memories; but the greater part hate I 
 busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. I 
 Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, 1 1 
 have always observed (hat the visitors to the altbeyl 
 remain longest about them. A kinder and fonder I 
 feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague ad- 1 
 miration with which they gaze on the splendid mo- 1 
 numents of the great and the heroic. They linger I 
 about these as about the tombs of friends ami com- 1 
 panions; for indeed there is something of companion- 1 
 ship between the author and the reader. Other nieo I 
 are known to posterity only through the mediumofl 
 history, which is continually growing faint andob-f 
 score : but the intercourse between the antlior and! 
 his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate.! 
 He has lived for them more than for himseir; he I 
 has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut liiio-l 
 self up from the delights of social life, thathemighll 
 the more intimately commune with distant mindil 
 and distant ages. Well may the world cherish !iii| 
 renown ; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of I 
 violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation I 
 of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to hkl 
 memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not oil 
 empty names and sounding actions, but whole trea-l 
 surcs of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and goldeii| 
 veins of language. 
 
 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towaril 
 that part of the abbey which contains the sepulciintl 
 of the kings. I wandered among what once verel 
 chapels, but which are now occupied by the tonilii| 
 and monuments of the great. At every turn I metl 
 with some illustrious name ; or the cognizance orsoml 
 powerful house renowned in history. As the cyel 
 
HIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 S7f> 
 
 mile at the vankjl 
 lliey are crowiledl 
 what parsimony ii I 
 nok, a gloomy cw- 1 
 lose, wtioin, when I 
 ' ; ami how many I 
 ire devised to caicfa 
 , and save from Tor- 1 
 a name wtiich once I 
 d's thought and ad- 1 
 
 Corner, wliicli oc- 
 epis or cross aislet 
 re generally simple; 
 1 no striking Uiemet 
 UdisonhavestaliKi 
 le greater part have 
 s mere inscriptions. 
 f these memorials, I 
 isitors to the altbey 
 kinder and fondet 
 iriosity or vague ad- 
 in the splendid mo- 
 eroic. They linger 
 of friends and com- 
 ithing of companion- 
 reader. Othermeo 
 oiigh the medium of 
 >wing faint and ob- 
 een the anlhor and 
 tve, and immediate, 
 an for himself; be 
 iients, and shut hiiD- 
 il life, that lie might 
 with distant mindi 
 world cherish bb 
 ed, not by deeds of 
 diligent dispensation 
 be grateful to hit 
 inheritance, notofi 
 ns, but whole Irea- 
 thought, and goWeu 
 
 ed my stroll towaiil 
 ntains the sepuldiwl 
 ing what once wetel 
 !upied by the lominl 
 At every turn I metl 
 le cognizance of sowl 
 listory. As the c)«| 
 
 jtftt into these dusky chambers of death, it catches | 
 ilimpses of quaint efiigies ; some kneeling in niches, 
 g if in devotion ; others stretched upon the tombs, 
 tilh hands piously pressed together; warriors in ar- 
 iHur, as if reposing after battle ; prelates with cro- 
 Btnand mitres; and nobles in nibes and coronets, 
 ifing as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, 
 i) strangely populous, yet where every form is so 
 itill and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading 
 I mansion of that fabled city, where every being had 
 Iten suddenly transmuted into stone. 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the 
 (ffigy of a knight in complete armour. A large 
 tackier was on one arm ; the hands were pressed to- 
 gether in supplication upon the breast ; the face was 
 ilmost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed, 
 in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the 
 My war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of 
 those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled 
 ftligion and romance, and whoscexploits form thecuii- 
 iMdiiig link between fact and fiction ; between the his- 
 tory and the fiiiry tale. There is something extremely 
 picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, deco- 
 rated as they are with rude armorial bearings and 
 Iplhic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated 
 lapels in which they are generally found ; and in 
 lidering them, the imagination is apt to kindle 
 ith the legendary associations, the romantic fiction, 
 chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry 
 spread over the wars for the sepulchre of Christ. 
 ty are the relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings 
 from recollection; of customs and manners 
 ith which ours have no afiinity. They are like ob- 
 its from some strange and distant land, of which 
 ehave no certain knowledge, and about which all 
 ir conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 
 iielhing extremely solemn and awful in those ef- 
 igies on golhic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of 
 alh, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They 
 ive an effect infinitely more impressive on my feel- 
 Ihan the fanciful attitudes, the over-wrought con- 
 its, and allegorical groups, which abound on mo- 
 il monuments. I have been struck, also, with the 
 iperiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions, 
 lere was a noble way, in former times, of saying 
 lingssimply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do 
 know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- 
 of family worth and honourable lineage, than 
 e which affirms, of a noble house, that "all the 
 ithers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands 
 I monument which is among the most renowned 
 hievements of modern art; but which to me appears 
 jorrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs 
 |ighlingale, by Roubillac. The iMttoin of the monu- 
 lent is represented as throwing open its marble doors, 
 i a sheeted skeleton is starling forth. The shroud is 
 iHing from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart 
 1 his victim. She is sinking into her affrighted hus- 
 N's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, 
 
 to avert the blow. The whole is executed with ter- 
 rible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the 
 gibbering yell of triumph bursting from the distended 
 jaws of the spectre.— but why should we thus seek 
 to clothe death wiMi cnnecessary terrors, and to spread 
 horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave 
 should be surrounded by every thing that might in- 
 spire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that 
 might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of 
 disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. 
 
 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and 
 silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the 
 sound of busy existence from without occasionally 
 reaches the ear ;— the rumbling of the passing equip- 
 age; the murmur of the multitude; or perhaps the 
 light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with 
 the death-like repose around : and it has a strange 
 effect u|Kin the feelings, thus to hear the surges of 
 active life hurrying along, and beating against the 
 very walls of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, 
 and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually 
 wearing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about 
 the abbey grew less and less frequent; the sweet- 
 tongned bell was summoning to evening prayers; and 
 I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white sur- 
 plices, crossing the aisle a.id entering the choir. I 
 stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's cha- 
 pel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through a deep 
 and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gales of 
 brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily 
 upon their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit 
 the feet of common mortals into this most gorgeous of 
 sepulchres. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of 
 architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured 
 detail. The very walls are wrought into universal 
 ornament, encrusted with tracery, and scooped into 
 niches, crowded with the statues of saints and mar- 
 tyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labour of the 
 chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, 
 suspended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
 achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy se- 
 curity of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of 
 the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though 
 with the grotesque decorations of golhic architecture. 
 On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets 
 and crests of the knights, with theirscarfs and swords; 
 and above them are suspended their banners, em- 
 blazoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the 
 splendour of gold and purple and crimson, with the 
 cold grey fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this 
 grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder, 
 — his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a 
 sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a su- 
 perbly-wrought brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; this 
 strange mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems 
 of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos 
 
S[80 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 which show the dust and oblivion in which all must 
 sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the 
 mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread 
 the silent and deserted scene of former throng and 
 pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of 
 the knighls and their esquir°s, and on the rows of 
 dusty hut gorgeous banners that were once borne be- 
 fore them, my iinaginalion conjured up the scene when 
 this hall was bright with the valour and beauty of the 
 laud; glittering with the splendour of jewelled rank 
 and military array; alive with (he tread of many feel 
 and the hum of an admiring mnllilude. All had passed 
 away; the silence of death had settled again upon the 
 place, interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, 
 which liad found their way into the chapel, and built 
 their nests among its friezes and pendants— sure signs 
 of solitariness and desertion. 
 
 When I read (he names inscribed on the banners, 
 they were those of men scattered far and w:de about 
 the world ; some tossing upon distant seas ; some un- 
 der arms in distant lands; some mingling in (he busy 
 intrigues of courLs and cabinets; all seeking to deserve 
 one more disdnclion in this mansion of shadowy ho- 
 nours : the melancholy reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present 
 a touching instance of (he equality of the grave; which 
 brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppress- 
 ed, and mingles the dust of (he biderest enemies to- 
 gether. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elisa- 
 beth ; in the other is that of her victim, (he lovely 
 and unfortunate Mary. Not an hour in (he day but 
 some ejaculation of pi(y is uttered over the fate of (he 
 latter, mingled with indignalion at her oppressor. 
 The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo 
 with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her 
 rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where 
 Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through 
 windows darkened by dust. The greater pari of (he 
 place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and 
 tinled by time and weather. A marble figure of Maiy 
 is stretched upon (he (ond), round which is an iron 
 railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem 
 — the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and 
 sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving 
 in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of 
 poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the 
 abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant 
 voice of the priest repeating (he evening service, and 
 the faint responses of the choir : these paused for a 
 time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the deser- 
 tion and obscurily that were gradually prevailing 
 around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to 
 the place : 
 
 For In the silent grave no convcrsntiofi, 
 No joyful tread of rrlrnds, no voicr of lovrnt. 
 No careful faUier'R couukI— nothing's heard, 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 Dust, and an cndlrsa darkne**. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep-labouring orsani 
 burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redou- 
 bled intensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows i 
 of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur I 
 accord with this mighty building! With what pompl 
 do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe i 
 their awful harmony through these caves of death 
 and make the silent sepulchre vocal ! — And now theyl 
 rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher andl 
 higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on I 
 soiuid. — And now I'ley pause, and the soft voicesofl 
 the choir break '-lit into sweet gushes of melody •[ 
 they soar aloft, aiu^ warble along Ihe roof, and seem I 
 (0 play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs ofl 
 heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its tlirillinsi 
 thunders, compressing air into nmsic, and roiling it f 
 forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences!! 
 ^Vhat solemn sweeping concords! It grows morel 
 and more dense and powerful— it fills (he vast [ 
 and seems to jar the very walls— the ear is stunnetll 
 — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is wlnd-l 
 ing up in full jubilee— it is rising from Ihe earlli io| 
 heaven— the very soul seems rapt away and floated | 
 upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 
 
 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reveriel 
 which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire:! 
 the shadows of evening were gradually tluckeningl 
 round me; the monuments began to cast deeper andl 
 deeper gloom; and the distant clock again gavetoken| 
 of the slowly waning day. 
 
 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I des-l 
 cended Ihe flight of steps which lead into the body off 
 the building, my eye was caught by the shrine ofl 
 Edward the Confessor, and I ascended Ihe simllf 
 staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence al 
 general survey of this wilderness of tombs. Tliesiirinel 
 is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close aroundl 
 it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens.1 
 From this eminence the eye looks down between pil-f 
 lars and funeral trophies to the chapels andcliamkts| 
 below, crowded with tombs ; where warriors, pre-l 
 lates, courtiers, and statesmen lie mouldering inl 
 their " beds of darkness." Close by me stood lliq 
 great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, intlie 
 barbarous taste of a remote and gothic age. Tlie 
 scene seemed almost as if contrived, with tlieatrici 
 artiiice, to produce an effect upon (he beliolder,| 
 Here was a type of the beginning and the end of ba 
 man pomp and power; here it was literally but aslq 
 from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not oiie| 
 think that these incongruous mementos had beei 
 gathered together as a lesson to living greatness?- 
 to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exaim-l 
 tion, the neglect and dishonour to which it inustsoonr 
 arrive; how soon that crown which encircles ils| 
 brow must pass away, and it must lie down in i 
 dust and disgraces of the (omb, and be trampled up 
 by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. i'«\ 
 strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer i 
 sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in some na-j 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ;)-lal)Ouring organ] 
 ubied and redoii- 
 ere, huge billows I 
 lime and grandeur I 
 With what pomp I 
 mils, and breathe I 
 se caves of death,! 
 il!— And now they I 
 leaving liiglteraiull 
 d piling sound on I 
 il the soft voices of I 
 [pushes of melody;! 
 llie roof, and seeml 
 :e the [lure airs ofj 
 
 I lieaves its tiirillingS 
 iisic, and rolling it [ 
 ;-drawn cadences! 
 s! It grows morel 
 t fills the vast pile,[ 
 ■the ear is stunned I 
 \nd now il is wind-! 
 ; from the earth tol 
 t avs'ay and floated | 
 iiarmony ! 
 hat kind of reveriel 
 imelimes to inspire:! 
 ;radually thickeningl 
 
 II to cast deeper andl 
 i)ck again gave token [ 
 
 18 abbey. As I des- 
 lead into the body ol 
 hi by the shrine of| 
 ascended the small 
 lake from thence a 
 of tombs. Tbe shrine 
 m, and close aiound| 
 
 kings and queens. 
 
 isdown between pil- 
 
 lapels and cliainbenj 
 
 lere warriors, p 
 
 lie mouldering iaj 
 Me by me stood ( 
 carved of oak, iutl 
 id gothic age. Tli 
 ived, withtlieatrii 
 upon the beholder, 
 g and the end of hi 
 ras literally but a si 
 re. Would not om 
 mementos had bei 
 
 living greatness? 
 of its proudest exalt^| 
 lowhichitmnslsi 
 
 which encircles it 
 lusl He down in 
 and be trampled u| 
 Ihe multitude. For 
 
 is here no longer 
 
 I levity in some «■ 
 
 ;, which leads Ihem to sport with awful and hal- 
 iwed things; and there are base minds, which de- 
 it to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject 
 lage and groveling servility which they pay to the 
 ing. The cofiin of Edward the Confessor has been 
 ilicn open, and his remains despoiled of their fune- 
 ornainents; the sceptre has been stolen from the 
 nd uf the imperious Elizabclli, and the effigy of 
 lenry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument 
 It hears some proof how false and ''ugitive is the ho- 
 {niage of mankind. Some are plmulered ; some muli- 
 some covered with ribaldry and insult — all 
 ire or less outraged and dishonoured ! 
 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
 lugh the painted windows in the high vaultii above 
 ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrap- 
 in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles 
 Iff darker and darker. The effigies of the kings 
 led into shadows; the marble figures of the inonu- 
 inls assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light; 
 evening breeze crept through the aisles like tbe 
 Id breath of the grave; and even the distant foot-fall 
 ^'a verger, traversing Ihe Poet's Corner, bad some- 
 liiig strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly re- 
 niy morning's walk, and as I passed out at 
 portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a 
 ng noise behind mc, filled the whole building 
 ilh echoes. 
 
 I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my 
 lind of the objects I had been contemplating, but 
 nd they were already fallen into indistinctness and 
 fusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all be- 
 ne confounded in my recollection, though I had 
 arcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, 
 lought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a 
 leasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated ho- 
 lies on the emptiness of renown, and the certainty 
 f oblivion! It is, indeeil, the empire of death; his 
 real shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mock- 
 ; at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust 
 I forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How 
 e a boast, after all, is the inimorlalily of a name ! 
 fime is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are 
 ) much engrossed by the story of the present, to 
 |iink of the characters and anecdotes that gave in- 
 aresttothe past; and each age is a volume thrown 
 iide to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day 
 ishes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; 
 1 will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of 
 i-morrow. " Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, 
 I* And their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
 fcll us how we may be buried in our survivors." 
 pislory fades into fable; fact becomes clouded wilh 
 ubt and controversy; the inscription moulders from 
 ! tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Co- 
 nns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of 
 l;and their epitaphs, but characters written in 
 I dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the 
 Jfrpeliiity of an embalmment ? The remains of 
 Alexander the Great have been scattered to the 
 
 wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere 
 curiosity of a museum. " The Egyptian mummies, 
 which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now 
 consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is 
 sold for balsams." ' 
 
 What then is to insure this pile which now towers 
 above me from sharing the fate of mightier mauso- 
 leums ? The lime must come when its gilded vaults, 
 which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish be- 
 neath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody 
 and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken 
 arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — 
 when the garish sun-beam shall break into these 
 gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round 
 the fallen column; and the fox-glove hang its blos- 
 soms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
 dead. Thus man passes away; his name perbhes 
 from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale 
 that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. 
 
 
 i\ ■!;■ 
 
 CIffilST»L\S. 
 
 But Is old, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair 
 of his gootl, giey, old liead ami beard left ? Well, I will have that, 
 seeing I cannot have more of him. 
 
 Hue and CRT AFTEH CUBISTVAS. 
 
 A man might tlicn behold 
 
 At Christmas, in each hall 
 Good fires to curb the cold, 
 
 And meat for great and small. , 
 
 The neighbours were friendly bidden, 
 
 And all had welcome true. 
 The poor from the gates were not chidden, 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 OtD SOMO. 
 
 There is nothing in England that exercises a more 
 delightful spell over my imagination, than the finger- 
 ings of the holiday customs and rural games of former 
 times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to 
 draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only 
 knew the world through books, and believed it to be 
 all that poets had painted it; and they bring with 
 them the flavour of those honest days of yore, in 
 which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think 
 the world was more home-bred, social, and joyous 
 than at present. I regret to say that they are daily 
 growing more and more faint, being gradually worn 
 away by time, but still more obliterated by modern 
 fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels 
 of gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in 
 various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the 
 waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and al- 
 terations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings 
 with cherishing fondness about tlie niral game and 
 holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of 
 its themes— as the ivy winds its rich foliage al)out Ihe 
 
 > Sir T. Brown. 
 
 06 
 
 IS: 
 
 I •! 
 
282 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repay- 
 ing their support, by clasping together their tottering 
 remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. 
 Of all the old festivals, Iiowever, that of Christmas 
 awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
 There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that 
 blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a 
 state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The ser- 
 vices of the church about this season are extremely 
 tender and inspiring. They dwell on the beautiful 
 story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes 
 that accompanied its announcement. They gradually 
 increase in fervour and pathos during the season of 
 Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the 
 morning that brought peace and good-will to men. 
 I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral 
 feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing 
 organ performing a Christmas anthem in a catliedral, 
 and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant 
 harmony. 
 
 It is a beautiful airangement, also, derived from 
 days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates 
 the announcement of the religion of peace and love, 
 has been maile the season for gathering together of 
 family connexions, and drawing closer again those 
 bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and plea- 
 sures and sorrows of the world are continually ope- 
 rating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a 
 family, who have launched forth in life, and wander- 
 ed widely asunder, once more to assemble about (he 
 paternal hearth, that rallying place of the affections, 
 there to grow young and loving again among the en- 
 dearing mementos of childhood. 
 
 There is something in the veiy season of the year 
 that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At 
 other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures 
 from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally 
 forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny land- 
 scape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The 
 songof thebird, the murmur of the stream, the breath- 
 ing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of 
 summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its 
 mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep 
 delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all (ill us 
 with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the 
 luxury of mere sensation. But in (he depth of winter, 
 when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrap- 
 ped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
 gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and 
 desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and 
 darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wan- 
 derings, shut in our feelings also from rambling 
 abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the 
 pleasures of (he social circle. Our thoughts are more 
 concentrated, our friendly sympathies more aroused. 
 We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's so- 
 ciety, and are brought more closely together by de- 
 pendence on each other for enjoyment. Heart cal- 
 leth unto heart; and we draw our pleasures from the 
 deep T.ells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet I 
 
 recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resortct 
 to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity] 
 The pitchy gloom widiout makes the heart dilau 
 on entering the room filled with the glow an 
 warmdi of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze dif 
 fuses an artificial summer and sunshine through (It 
 room, and ligh(s up each coun(enance into a kindlin 
 welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitaljij 
 expand into a broader and more cordial smile— \vh«n 
 is the shy glance of love more sweedy eloquen(- 
 (han by (he winter fireside? and as the hollow blaj 
 of win(ry wind rushes through the hall, c\!\\ts{h 
 distant door, whisdes about (he casemen(, and run 
 bles down (he chimney, what can be more gralefgl 
 than that feeling of sober and sheltered securi(y,vii| 
 which we look round upon (he comfortable clian 
 and (he scene of domestic hilarity ? 
 
 The English, from (he great prevalence of am 
 habit throughout every class of society, have alwan 
 been fond of those festivals and holidays which ag 
 ably interrupt thestillnessof country life; and lb 
 were, in former days, parficularly observant oft 
 religious and social ri(cs of Christmas. It is inspirin 
 (0 read even (he dry details which some andquari 
 liave given of (he quaint humours, the burlesque p 
 gean(s, (he comple(e abandonment to mirth aiidgn 
 fellowship, with which this festival was celebral« 
 It seemed to throw open every door, and iinlo* 
 every heart. It brought (lie peasant and (lie [ 
 togelher, and blended all ranks in one warm s 
 nerous flow of joy and kindness. The old liallso 
 casdes and manor-houses resounded wi(h (he harp an 
 the Christmas carol, and their ample boards gronne 
 under the weight of hospitality. Even (he poort 
 cottage welcomed (he fesdve season wi(h green dei 
 radons of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced ij 
 rays through the la(tice, inviting the passenger (oral 
 the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round t 
 hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendai 
 jokes and oft-told Christmas (ales. 
 
 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refim 
 ment is (he havoc it has made among the hearty i 
 holiday customs. I( has completely taken ofT (lie sliai 
 touchings and $|)iri(ed reliefs of (hese cnibellisliinn 
 of life, and has worn down socie(y into a more sm 
 and|)olished, but certainly a less charac(eris(icsurra(e| 
 Many of (he games and ceremonials of Christmas hii'^ 
 entirely disappeared, and like the sherris sack ofol 
 Fals(aff, are become ma(ters of speculation and i 
 pute among commentators. They flourished in tin 
 full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed lij| 
 roughly, but heartily and vigorously; (imes wiiili 
 picturesque, which have fiu'nislied poe(ry willi Hj 
 richest materials, and the drama wi(h i(s nios( alti 
 ive varie(y of cliarac(ers and manners. The m 
 has become more worldly. Tiiere is more of dissip 
 tion, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expan 
 into a broader, but a shallower stream ; and lias I 
 saken many of those deep and quiet channels vh 
 It flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of don 
 
THE SKETCB BOOK. 
 
 283 
 
 lich, vihen resortn 
 I of domestic felicity! 
 akes the heart ( 
 with tlie glow an 
 'he ruddy blaze difj 
 unshine Ihroiigii i 
 nance into a Jiindlia 
 est face of liospitalitj 
 cordial smile— wjierj 
 sweelly eloquenl- 
 1 as the hollow blai 
 1 the hall, claiHtlt 
 casement, and run 
 :an be more gralefuj 
 eltered security, will 
 comfortable clian 
 
 ty? 
 
 I prevalence of ran 
 society, have alway^ 
 holidays which agre( 
 mntry life ; and tb 
 arly observant oftJK 
 ilmas. It is inspirinj 
 lich some anti(|uari 
 Lirs, the burlesque p 
 ent to mirth and go( 
 siival was celebratedl 
 ■ry door, and 
 [teasant and the j 
 iks in one warm i 
 ess. The old 
 idedwiththeliarpan 
 imple boards grosnd 
 ty. Even the po«r( 
 ason with green do 
 leerful hre glanced ilj 
 the passenger to rai 
 not huddled round I 
 ;ning with legendai 
 es. 
 
 cts of modern refiit 
 among the hearty ( 
 ely taken off the slia 
 these cmbellisiiinei 
 ety intoainoresiiK 
 characteristic surfaci 
 dais of Christmas lu'tj 
 the sherris sack of o 
 f speculation and 
 ley flourished in tin 
 hen men enjoyed lil| 
 ously; limes wild 1 
 ished poetry wilh i 
 la with its most atu 
 manners. The m 
 lereis moreofdissipi 
 Measure has expan 
 stream; and has f 
 quiet channels wh 
 aim bosom of don 
 
 Society has acquired a more enlightened and 
 
 ant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local 
 
 aliarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside 
 
 gbts. The traditionary customs of golden -heart- 
 
 j antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly was- 
 
 ilings, have passed away wilh the baronial castlesand 
 
 litely manor-ltouscs in which tliey were celebrated. 
 
 ley comported wilh tlie shadowy hall, the great 
 
 ten gallery, and the tapestried parlour, but are un- 
 
 I to the light showy saloons and gay drawing- 
 
 I of the modern villa. 
 
 I Sborn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive 
 
 ours, Christmas is still a period of delightful ex- 
 
 lement in England. It is gratifying to see that home 
 
 tling completely aroused which holds so powerful 
 
 I place in every English bosom. The preparations 
 
 ting on every side for the social board that is again 
 
 ) unite friends and kindred ; the presents of good 
 
 • passing and repassing ; those tokens of regard, 
 
 I quickeners of kind feelings ; the evergreens dis- 
 
 uled about houses and churches, emblems of peace 
 
 I gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect 
 
 I producing fond associations, and kindling bene- 
 
 lent sympathies. Even the sound of the Wails, 
 
 de as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid- 
 
 ^itclies of a winter night with the effect of perfect 
 
 irmony. As I have been awakened by them in 
 
 lit still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep falleth 
 
 1 man, " I have listened with a hushed delight, 
 
 i connecting them with the sacred and joyous oc- 
 
 ision, have almost fancied them into another celestial 
 
 loir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 
 
 I How delightfully the imagination, when wrought 
 
 I by these moral influences, turns every thing to 
 
 lelody and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, 
 
 I sometimes in the profound repose of the coun- 
 
 T,"telling the night watches to his feathery dames," 
 
 |u thought by the common people to announce the 
 
 ach of Ibis sacred festival : 
 
 "Some say tliat ever 'gainst tliat season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour's birtli is celol)ratC(l, 
 TJiisbiitl of dawning singelli all night long; 
 And llien, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; 
 The iiiglils are wholesome— then no planets strike, 
 No tairy takes, no witch haih power to charm, 
 So hallowed and so gracious is the time." 
 
 nidst tbs general call to happiness, the bustle of 
 t spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at 
 s period, what bosom can remain insensible ? It 
 
 pndeed,lhe8eason of regenerated feeling — the season 
 kindling, not merely the Are of hospitality in the 
 
 kil, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 
 
 I The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
 yoiid the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of 
 
 |»ine, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling 
 Vs, reanimates the drooping spirit; as the Arabian 
 «ze will sometimes waft the freshness of the di- 
 
 bnt lields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 
 
 |Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though 
 rmii no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
 
 throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friend- 
 ship welcome me at the threshold— yet f feel the in- 
 fluence of the season beaming into my soid from the 
 happy looks of those around me. surely happiness 
 is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every coun- 
 tenance, bright with smiles, and glowing with inno- 
 cent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the 
 rays of a supreme and ever shining benevolence. He 
 who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the 
 felicity of lus fellow beings, ar.d can sit down darkling 
 and repining in his loneliness w hen all around is joyful, 
 may have ins moments of strong excitement and sel- 
 fish gratification, but he wants the genial and social 
 sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry 
 Christmas. 
 
 THE STAGE COACH. 
 
 Omneben6 
 
 SiDcpoenl "" 
 
 Tempus est ludcndi. 
 
 Venit hora 
 
 Abstpic mord 
 LIbros deponeodl. 
 
 Old holidat scuool sonu. 
 
 In the preceding paper I have made some general 
 observations on the Christmas festivities of England, 
 and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes 
 of a Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing 
 which I would most courteously invite my reader to 
 lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
 genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly and 
 anxious only for amusement. 
 
 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I 
 rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, 
 on the day preceding Christmas. I'he coach was 
 crowded, Iwth inside and out, with passengers, who, 
 by their talk, seemed principally bound tc die man- 
 sions of relations or friends to eat the Christmas din- 
 ner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and 
 baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares hung dan- 
 gling their lon^j; ears about the coachman'sbox; presents 
 from distant friends for the impending feast. I had 
 three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow pas- 
 sengers inside, ftdl of the buxom health and manly 
 spirit which I have observed in the children of this 
 country. They were returning home for the holidays 
 in high glee, and promising themselves a world of en- 
 joyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans 
 of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable 
 feats they were to perform during their six weeks' 
 emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, 
 birch, and pedagogue. They were full of anticipa- 
 tions of the meeting with tlie family and household, 
 down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they 
 were to give their little sisters by the presents with 
 which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting 
 to which they seemed to look forward with the great- 
 
 
 ;i) 
 'i *' ( 
 
 '.' ':r 
 
 
284 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 w 
 
 est impalience was with Bantam, which I found to 
 be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of 
 more virtues than any steed since the days of 
 Bucephalus. How he could trot ! how he could run ! 
 and then such leaps as he would take—there was 
 not a hedge in the whole country that he could not 
 clear. 
 
 They were under the particular guardianship of 
 the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity 
 presented, they addressed a host of questions, and pro- 
 nounced him one of the best fellows in the whole 
 world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than 
 ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, 
 who wore his hat a Utile on one side, and had a large 
 bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of 
 his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty 
 care and business, but he is particularly so during 
 this season, having so many commissions to "xecule 
 in consequence of the great interchange of presents. 
 And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my 
 untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve 
 as a geiicral representation of this very numerous and 
 important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
 manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, 
 and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wher- 
 ever an English stage coachman may be seen, he 
 cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mys- 
 tery. 
 
 He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously 
 mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by 
 hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is swell- 
 ed into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of mall 
 liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a 
 multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a 
 caulillower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He 
 wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat; a huge roll 
 of coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly 
 knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in sum- 
 mer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button- 
 bole; the present, most probably, of some enamoured 
 country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some 
 bright colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend 
 far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots 
 which reach about half way up his legs. 
 
 All this costume is maintained with much preci- 
 sion ; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent 
 materials ; and, notwithstamling the seeming gross- 
 ness of his appearance, there is still discernible that 
 neatness and propriety of person, which is almost in- 
 herent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse- 
 quence and consideration along the road ; has frequent 
 conferences with the village housewives, who look 
 upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; 
 and he seems to have a good understanding with 
 every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he ar- 
 rives where the horses are to be changed, he throN\ s 
 down the reins with something of an air, and aban- 
 dons the cattle to the care of the hostler; his duty 
 being merely to drive from one stage to another. 
 When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets 
 
 cf his great coat, and he rolls about the inn-yard witl 
 an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is en 
 nerally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlenj 
 stable-boys, shoe-blacks, and those nameless hangetjl 
 on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, an 
 do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battenioi 
 on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of tb 
 taproom. These all look up to him as to an oraclej 
 treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opiniomaLoa] 
 horses and other topics of jockey lore; and above all 
 endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Even 
 ragamuflin that has a coat to liis back, thrusts hi 
 hands in the pockets, rolls in liis gait, talks slang, j 
 is an embryo Coachey. 
 
 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenih 
 that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saj 
 cheerfulness in every countenance throughout thJ 
 journey. A stage coach, however, carries aiiimalioJ 
 always with it, and puts the world in motion as | 
 whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance o 
 a village, produces a general bustle. Some liaiiiei 
 forth to meet friends; some with bundles and baiidj 
 boxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the mom 
 can hardly take leave of the group that accompanid 
 them. In the mean time, the coachman has a wotli 
 of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he del 
 vers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small pan 
 or newspaper to the door of a public house; and son 
 times, with knowing leer and words of sly import 
 hands to some half-hlusliing half-laughing houseiuaij 
 an odd-shaped billelHloux from some rustic admin 
 As the coach rattles through the village, every on 
 runs to the window, and you have glances on evtij 
 side of fresh country faces and blooming gigirlin; girl 
 At the corners are assembled juntos of village idl( 
 and wise men, who take their stations there fur I 
 important purpose of seeing company pass; but Ihj 
 sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to win 
 the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of mucJ 
 speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in h 
 lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cycioi 
 round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, i 
 suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty speclre| 
 brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans « 
 the handle for a moment, and permits the asllinialij 
 engine to heave a loiig-ilrawn sigh, while he glare 
 through the murky smoke and sulphureous gleaimi| 
 the smithy. 
 
 Perhaps the impending holiday might have giv(ii| 
 more than usual animation to the country, for its 
 ed to me as if every body was in good looks andg 
 spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of I 
 table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; t 
 grocers, butchers, and fruiterars' shops were tlm 
 with customers. The housewives were stirring brisk! 
 about, putting their dwellings in order; aiul Ihegl* 
 branches of holly, with their bright red berries, 1 
 to appear at the windows. The scene brought I 
 mind an old writer's account of Christmas prq 
 tions:--"Now capons and hens, besides tuilu] 
 
IHE SKETOI BOOK. 
 
 285 
 
 rer, carries aiumatioa 
 
 lens, besWes lu 
 
 iieese, and ducks, with beef and mutton— must all 
 Idie'for in twelve days a multitude of people will not 
 ||ie fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and 
 llioney, square it among pies and broth. Now or 
 liever must music be in tune, for the youth must 
 ! and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit 
 ||)f the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, 
 |iad must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards 
 1(0 Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly 
 lad Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. 
 iDice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do 
 loot lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." 
 
 I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, 
 |liy a shout from my little travelling companions. 
 jlliey had been looking out of the coach windows for 
 luie last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage 
 lislhey approached home, and now there was a ge- 
 liijal burst of joy — " There's John ! and there's old 
 Icarlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little 
 liogaes, clapping their hands. 
 
 At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking 
 Iservant in livery, waiting for them; he was accom- 
 ';,:nied by a superannuated pointer, and by the re- 
 [doubtable Bantam, a lilile old rat of a pony, with a 
 jsliaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing 
 Iqaietly by the road-side, little dreaming of the bus- 
 jliing times that awaited him. 
 
 I was pleased to see the fondness with which the 
 little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and 
 |hugged the pointer , who wriggled his whole body 
 •joy. But Bantam was the great object of in- 
 Iterest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with 
 |soine difliculty that John arranged that they should 
 |tide by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 
 
 Off Ihey set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog 
 
 Ibounding and barking before him, and the others 
 
 ding John's hands ; both talking at once, and over- 
 
 Ipoweriiig him with ques'ions about home, and with 
 
 IkIiooI anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling 
 
 |in which I do not know whether pleasure or melan- 
 
 Icboly predominated; for I was reminded of those 
 
 |days when, like them, I had neither known care nor 
 
 Iton'ow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly fe- 
 
 llicily. We stopped a few moments afterwards to 
 
 ■water the horses, and on resuming our route, a turn 
 
 ■of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. 
 
 Il could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
 
 lyoiing girls in the portico, and I saw my little com- 
 
 {rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping 
 
 liong the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
 
 window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, 
 
 ut a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 
 
 In tlie evening we reached a village where I had 
 
 determined to pass the night. As we drove into the 
 
 at gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light 
 
 ^f a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. 
 
 I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that 
 
 picture of convenience, neatness, and broad honest 
 
 Djoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of 
 
 clous dimensions, bung round with copper and tin 
 
 vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there 
 with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches 
 of bacon, were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke- 
 jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fire-place, 
 and a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured 
 deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, 
 with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands, 
 upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale 
 seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior or- 
 der were preparing to attack this stout repast, wliile 
 others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on 
 two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trun 
 housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards 
 under the directions of a fresh bustling landlady; but 
 still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flip- 
 pant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
 round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor 
 Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter : 
 
 Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
 To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
 A handsome hostess, merry host, 
 A pot of ale now and a toast. 
 Tobacco and a good coal fu'e. 
 Are tbings.this season doth rcquii-e. > 
 
 I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise 
 drove up to the door. A young gentleman stept out, 
 and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a 
 countenance which I thought I knew. I moved for- 
 ward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. 
 I was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a 
 sprightly good-humoured young fellow, with whom 
 I had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting 
 was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an old 
 fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of 
 a thousand pleasant scenes, mid adventures, and ex- 
 cellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient in- 
 terview at an inn was impossible ; and finding that I 
 was not pressed for time, and was merely making a 
 tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him 
 a day or two at his father's country seat, to which he 
 was going to pass the holidays, and wliich lay at a 
 few miles distance. "It is better than eating a so- 
 litary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, " and I 
 can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of 
 the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, 
 and I must confess the preparation I had seen for 
 universal festivity and social enjoyment had made me 
 feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, 
 therefore, at once, with his invitation; the chaise 
 drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was 
 on my way to the family mansion of the Brace- 
 bridges. 
 
 > Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 
 
 ti 
 
286 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Mnl Francis and Saint Benedight 
 Blesse (his house from wiclced wigiit ; 
 From the niglit-niare and the goblin, 
 That is high! good fellow llobin ; 
 Keep it from all evil spirits. 
 Fairies, weezeLs, rats, and ferrets i 
 
 From curfew time 
 
 To the next prime. 
 
 CAHTnillGHT. 
 
 It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extreme- 
 ly cold; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen 
 {ground ; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, 
 and a part of the lime liis horses were on a gallop. 
 " He knows where he is gouig," said my companion, 
 laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of 
 the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. 
 My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of 
 the old school, and prides himself upon keeping up 
 something of old English hospitality. He is a toler- 
 able specimen of what you will rarely meet with now- 
 a-days in i(s purity, the old English country gentle- 
 man; for our men of fortune si>end so much of their 
 time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the 
 country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient 
 rural life are almost polished away. My father, how- 
 ever, from early years, look honest Peacham ■ for his 
 text I)ook, instead of Chesterfleld ; he determined in 
 bis own mind, that there was no condition more truly 
 honourable and enviable than that of a country gen- 
 tleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes 
 Uie whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous 
 advocate for the revival of the old rural games and 
 holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writ- 
 ers, ancient and modern, who have treated on the 
 subject. Indeed, his favourite range of reading is 
 among the authors who flourished at least two centu- 
 ries since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more 
 like true Englishmen than any of their successors. 
 Fe even regrets sometimes that he had not been born 
 a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and 
 had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives 
 at some distance from the main road, in rather a lone- 
 ly part of the country, without any rival gentry 
 near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings 
 to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the 
 bent of his own humour without molestation. Being 
 representative of the oldest family in the neighlwur- 
 hood, and a great part of the peasantry being his te- 
 nants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is 
 known simply by the appellation of ' The Squire; ' a 
 title which has been accorded to the head of the fa- 
 mily since time immemorial. I think it best to give 
 you these iiints about my worthy old father, to pre- 
 pare you for any Utile eccentricities that might other- 
 wise appear absurd." 
 
 We had passed for some time along the wall of a 
 park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It 
 
 • rcacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
 
 was in a heavy magniflcent old style, of iron barsj 
 fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowersj 
 The huge square columns that supported the get( 
 were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoin-l 
 ing was the porter's lodge, sheltered under dark (irf 
 trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. 
 
 The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which re 
 sounded through the still frosty air, and was ans\rer-| 
 ed by the distant barking of dogs, with which thJ 
 mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old wotnanl 
 immediately a|»peared at ihe gate. As the nioonligiiJ 
 fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a liiile pri-f 
 mitive dame, dressed very much in the antique state,! 
 with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver! 
 hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness.[ 
 She came courtesying forth, with many expiessionsl 
 of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her hus-l 
 band, it seemed, was up at the house keeping Chrisl-[ 
 mas eve in the servants' hall; they could not do \vitli-| 
 out him, as he was the best hand at a song and story | 
 in the household. 
 
 My friend proposed that we should alight and walkl 
 through the park to the hall, which was at no greall 
 distance, while the chaise should follow on. Oiir roadl 
 wound through a noble avenue of trees, among thel 
 naked branches of which the moon glittered as sliel 
 rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky, Thel 
 lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight covering ofl 
 snow, which here and there sparkled as the moon- 
 beams caught a frosty crystal; and at a distance niiglit| 
 be seen a tlnn transparent vapour, stealing up rrooil 
 the low grounds and threatening gradually to sliroad| 
 the landscape. 
 
 My companion looked around him with transport: 
 — " How often," said he, " have I scampered up lliisl 
 avenue, on returning home on school vacations! Ilovi 
 often have I played under these trees when a boy! l| 
 feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as \velo( 
 up to those who have cherished us in childhood, Myl 
 father was always scrupulous in exacting our iioli-l 
 days, and having us around him on family feslivalsJ 
 He used to direct and superintend our games with the I 
 strictness that some parents do the studies of tiieirl 
 children. He was very particular that we slioiildl 
 play the old English games according to their original I 
 form; and consulted old books for precedent and au- 
 thority for every 'merrie disport;' yet I assure yon I 
 there never was pedantry .so delightful It was ikl 
 policy of Ihe good old gentleman to make lisciiildreDl 
 feel that Lome was the happiest place in the world; I 
 and I val>: U\v- delicious home-feeling as oiieofllw| 
 choicest riVus a parent could bestow." 
 
 We were interrupted by the climour of a troop of I 
 dogs of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp,! 
 and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed I 
 by the ring of the porter's bell and the rattling of tin j 
 chaise, came bounding, open - moutlied, acros(Uie| 
 lawn. 
 
 " Tlic little dogs and all, 
 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, ice, they bark at mf : 
 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 S87 
 
 thrybarkatme!' 
 
 1 Bracebridge laughing. At the sonnd of his voice, 
 
 ebark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 
 
 nent he was surrounded andainiost overpowered 
 
 r tlie caresses of the faithful animals. 
 
 We had now come in full view of (he old family 
 
 ansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly 
 
 it up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular 
 
 gilding, of some magnitude, and seemed to be of 
 
 e arcliiteclure of different periods. One wing was 
 
 [tidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow 
 
 liiulows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from 
 
 nng (he foliage of which the small diamond-shaped 
 
 mes of glass glittered with the moon-beams. The 
 
 tsl of the house was in the French taste of Charles 
 
 {Second's time, having been repaired and altered, 
 
 smyfiiend told me, by one of his ancestors, who 
 
 Ktnrned with (hat monarch at (he Restoration. The 
 
 viiiids about the house were laid out in the old 
 
 nial manner of artificial (lower beds, clipped shrub- 
 
 leries, raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, 
 
 namenled with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a 
 
 It of water. The old gendeman, I was told, was 
 
 alrenicly careful to preserve this obsolete finery in 
 
 its original state. lie admired this fashion in 
 tardeiiing; it had an air of magnificence, was 
 urliy and noble, and beniting good old family 
 byie. The boasted imitation of nature in modern 
 prdening had sprung up with modern republican 
 lotions, but did not suit a monarchical government ; it 
 Hacked of the levelling system.— I could not help 
 ;at this introduction of politics into gardening, 
 loiigli I expressed some apprehension that I should 
 ind tlie old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. 
 -Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the 
 Kily instance in which he had ever heard his father 
 
 (Idle with politics; and he believed that he had got 
 liis notion from a member of parliament who once 
 Bssed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad 
 If any argument to defend his clipped yew trees and 
 Vmal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked 
 |iy modern landscape gardeners. 
 
 As we approached the house, we heard the sound 
 f music, and now and then a burst of liuighler, from 
 me end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, 
 tiusl proceed from the servants' hall, where a great 
 leal of revelry was permitted, and even encouraged, 
 |iy llie squire, throughout the twelve days of Christ- 
 
 as, provided every thing was done conformably to 
 indent usage. Here were kept up the old games of 
 dman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, 
 heal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap dragon : the 
 tule clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, 
 |nd the mistletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to 
 |he imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids. ' 
 
 So intent were the servants upon their sports, that 
 ^e had to ring repeatedly before we .could make 
 
 I ■ The mUlrloe is still liung up In farm-houses and kitchens at 
 |limiinas ; and tlio young men have (he privilege of kissing the 
 I nmlcr it, plucking each time a berry from (he bush. When 
 e benries are aH plucked, the privilege ceases. 
 
 ourselves heard. On onr arrival being announced, 
 (he squire came out to receive us, accompanied by 
 his two other sons ; one a young officer in the army, 
 home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, 
 just from (he university. The squire was a fine 
 hetlthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curl- 
 ing lightly round an open florid countenance ; in which 
 a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of 
 a previous hint or two, might discover a singular 
 mixture of whim and benevolence. 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as 
 the evening was far advanced, titc scpiire would not 
 permit us to change our travelling dresses, but usher- 
 ed us at once to (he coiipany, which was assembled 
 in a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of 
 different branches of a numerous family connexion, 
 where there were the usual proportion of old uncles 
 and aun(s, comfor(able married dames, superannuat- 
 ed spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged 
 striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. 
 They were variously occupied ; some at a round game 
 of cards ; others conversing around the (ire-place ; at 
 one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, 
 some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and 
 budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and 
 a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and 
 tattered dolls, about the floor, showed traces ofa troop 
 of little fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a 
 happy day, had been carried off to slumber through 
 a peaceful night. 
 
 While the mutual greetings were going on between 
 young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 
 (he apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had 
 certainly been in oUI times, and the s(|uire had evi- 
 dently endeavoured to restore it to something of its 
 prin^itive state. Over (he heavy projecdng fire-place 
 was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour, 
 standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall 
 hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an 
 enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the 
 branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, 
 whips, and spurs; and in the corners of the apartment 
 were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting 
 implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous 
 workmanship of former days, though some articles of 
 modern convenience had been added, and the oaken 
 floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole presented 
 an old mixture of parlour and hall. 
 
 The grate had been removed from the wide over- 
 whelming fire-place, to make way for a fire of wood, 
 in the midst of which was an enormous log glowing 
 and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light 
 and heat : this I understood was the Yule clog, which 
 the squire was particular in having brought in and 
 illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient 
 custom. ' 
 
 ■ The rule clog Is a great tog of wood, sometimes the root of a 
 tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas 
 eve, laid In the firei)lace, and lighted with the brand of last year's 
 clog. While it laHted. there was great drinking, singing, and telllnf 
 
ass 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 It was really delightful to see the old squire seated 
 in his hereditary elbow chair, by the liospitable fire- 
 side of his ancestors ; and looking around him like the 
 sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to 
 every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched 
 at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawn- 
 ed, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag 
 his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to 
 sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There 
 is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality 
 which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, 
 and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not 
 been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth 
 of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself as 
 much at home as if I had been one of the family. 
 
 Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. 
 It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the 
 pannels of which shone with wax, and around which 
 were several family portraits decorated with holly 
 and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great 
 wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with 
 greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet 
 among the family plate. The table was abundantly 
 spread with substantial fare ; but the squire made his 
 supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boil- 
 ed in milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in 
 old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my 
 old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast : 
 and finding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I 
 need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted 
 him with all the warmth wherewith we usually greet 
 an old and very genteel acquaintance. 
 
 The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by 
 thehumoursofan eccentric personage whom Mr Brace- 
 bridge always addressed with the quaint appellation 
 of Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, 
 with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was 
 shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted 
 with the small pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on 
 it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye 
 of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and 
 lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. 
 He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very 
 much in sly jokes and innuendos with the ladies, and 
 
 of talcs, Sometimes it vias accompanied by Christmas candles ; 
 but in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the 
 great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night : if it went 
 out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
 Herrick mentions it in one of his songs :— 
 
 Come, bring with a noise, ; 
 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas log to the firingt 
 
 While my good dame, she 
 
 Bids ye all be free, 
 And drink to your hearts desiring. 
 
 The Ynle clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in 
 England, particularly in the north, and there are several super- 
 stitions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting 
 person come to the house while it is burning, or a person bare- 
 footed, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining trom 
 the Yule clog is caretbUy put away to light the next year's Christ' 
 luas Arc. 
 
 making infinite merriment by harpings upon old 
 themes; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of thJ 
 family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. J 
 seemed to be his great delight during supper to ke«d 
 a young girl next him in a continual agony of siiflei 
 laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks ^ 
 her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he wastlJ 
 idol of the younger part of the company, who laiiohl 
 ed at every thing he said or did, and at every turn o| 
 his countenance. I could not wonder at it ; for hJ 
 must have been a miracle of accomplishments in tiiejJ 
 eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy j make i 
 old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a bun 
 cork and pocket handkerchief; and cut an orange im 
 such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks we J 
 ready to die with laughing. 
 
 I was let briefly into his history by Frank BraceJ 
 bridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small indcpea 
 dent income, which, by careful management, waj, 
 sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through ihj 
 family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit; some. 
 times visiting one branch, and sometimes auollie 
 quite remote; as is often the case with gentlemen o| 
 extensive connexions and small fortunes in England 
 He had a chirping buoyant disposition, always enjojJ 
 ing the present moment; and his frequent change o| 
 scene and company prevented his acquiring thoi 
 rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old bache- 
 lors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complelel 
 family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, his- 
 tory, and intermarriages of the whole house of Brao 
 bridge, which made him a great favourite wilii tliej 
 old folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies an 
 superannuated spinsters, among whom he was M\ 
 tually considered rather a young fellow, and be wai 
 master of the revels among the children; so ihill 
 there was not a more popular being in the spliereii( 
 which he moved than Mr Simon Bracebridge. 
 late years, he had resided almost entirely with I 
 squire, to whom he had become a factotum, am 
 whom he particularly delighted by jumping wiili| 
 his humour in respect to old times, and by having j 
 scrap of an old song to suit evei7 occasion. Weha 
 presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, fo(| 
 no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines an 
 other beverages peculiar to the season intioduo 
 than Master Simon was called on for a good oldj 
 Christmas song. He bethought himself for a i 
 ment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a void 
 that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran oc-l 
 casionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed,[ 
 lie quavered forth a quaint old ditty. 
 
 Mow Christmas is come, 
 
 Let us beat up the drum, 
 And call all our neiglibours together. 
 
 And when they appear. 
 
 Let us make them such cheer. 
 As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 
 
 The supper had disposed every one to gaiety, and! 
 an old harper was summoned from the servants' half 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 280 
 
 ing supper to ke«|| 
 
 ■•berehe had been strammtng all the evening, and to 
 ■ill appearance comforting himself with some of the 
 iKmiie's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, 
 I] was told, of the establishment, and, though osten- 
 ■lilily a resident of the village, was oftener to be found 
 |ia the squire's kitchen than his own home, the old 
 Iffiilleman being fond of the sound of " harp in hall." 
 The dance, like most dances after supper, was a 
 Inerry one : some of the older folks joined in it, and 
 I the squire himself figured down several couple with a 
 liartner, with whom he affirmed he had danced at 
 ■erery Christmas for nearly half a century. Master 
 Ismon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link 
 ■lietween the old times and the new, and to be withal 
 la liltle antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, 
 Itndently piqued himself on his dancing, and was en- 
 Ideavouriiig to gain credit by the heel and toe, riga- 
 Idton, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he 
 Iliad aniuckily assorted himself with a little romping 
 IpA from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, 
 Kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all 
 jbissober attempts at elegance : — such are the ill-sort- 
 |(d matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortu- 
 Inately prone ! 
 Tlie young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out 
 ne of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played 
 I thousand liltle knaveries with impunity ; he was full 
 [ practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his 
 laants and cousins ; yet, like all madcap youngsters, 
 e was a universal favourite among the women. The 
 isl interesting couple in the dance was the young 
 Jicer and a ward of the squire's, a beautiful blush- 
 gii'l of seventeen. From several shy glances 
 vhich I had noticed in the course of the evening, I 
 «cte(1 there was a little kindness growing up be- 
 ||ween them ; and, indeed, the young soldier was just 
 lie hero to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, 
 jlender, and handsome, and, like most young British 
 m(x:>' of late years, had picked up various small ac- 
 nmplishments on the continent — he could talk French 
 lid Italian— draw landscapes— sing very tolerably— 
 nee divinely ; but, above all, he had been wound- 
 1 at Waterloo : — what girl of seventeen, well read 
 1 poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of 
 liivalry and perfection ! 
 
 The moment the dance was over, he caught up a 
 
 )iitar, and, lolling against the old marble fire-place, 
 
 1 an attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was 
 
 jtiidied, began the liltle French air of the Trouba- 
 
 or. The squire, however, exclaimed against hav- 
 
 ; any thing on Christmas eve but good old English; 
 
 on which the young minstrel, casting up his eye for 
 
 Imoment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into 
 
 Vollier strain, and, with a charming air of gallantry, 
 
 pve Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia; " 
 
 Her eyes the glo^r-worm lend thee, 
 Tlie shooting stars aUcnd Ihee, 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 Whose lltUe eyes glow 
 Ukfi the sparks of fire, befriend Uiof . 
 
 No Win 0' th' Wisp misUglit theei 
 Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee t 
 
 But on , on thy way, 
 
 Not making a slay. 
 Since ghost there is none to alTright thee. 
 
 Then let not the dark thee, cumber; 
 W bat though the moon does slumber. 
 
 The stars of the night 
 
 Will lend thee their light. 
 Like tapers clear without number. 
 
 Then, Jnlia, let me woo thee. 
 Thus, thus to come unto me i 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silvery feet. 
 My souiru pour into thee. ■■•;■.*'} 
 
 Tlie song might or might not have been intended 
 in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his part- 
 ner was called; she, however, was certainly uncon- 
 scious of any such application, for she never looked at 
 the singer, but kept her eyes'cast upon the floor. Her 
 face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, 
 and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom; but all 
 that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance; 
 indeed, so great was her indifference, that she was 
 amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bou- 
 quet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song 
 was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 
 
 The party now broke up for the night with the 
 kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I 
 passed through the hall, on my way to my chamber, 
 the dying emblems of the yule clog still sent forth a 
 dusky glow, and had it not been the season when 
 " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have been 
 half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and 
 peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
 about the hearth. 
 
 My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, 
 the ponderous furniture of which might have been 
 fabricated in the days of the giants. The room was 
 pannelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, in 
 which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely in- 
 termingled; and a row of black-looking portraits 
 stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed 
 was of rich though faded damask, with a lofty tes- 
 ter, and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I 
 bad scarcely got into bed, when a strain of music 
 seemed to break forth in the air just below the win- 
 dow. I listened, and found it proceeded from a band, 
 which I concluded to be the waits from some neigh- 
 bouring village. They went round the house, play- 
 ing under the windows. I drew aside the curtains 
 to hear them more distinctly. The moon-beams 
 fell through the upper part of the casement, partially 
 lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 
 as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and 
 seemed to accord with tlie quiet and moonlight. I 
 listened and listened — they became more and more 
 tender and remote, and, as they gradually died away, 
 my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 
 
 3T 
 
29() 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Dark and dull night, file hence away, : 
 
 And Rive the honour to this day 
 
 That sees December tnm'd to May. : 
 
 Why docs the chilling winter's morne 
 Smite lil(e a Held besot with corn? 
 Or smell liiie to a meadc new-shonie. 
 Tims on the sudden ?— Come and see 
 The cause why thiiiss thus fragrant be. 
 
 tlKBBICK. 
 
 When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all 
 the events of tlie preceding evening had been a dream, 
 and nothing but the identity of tlie ancient chamber 
 convinced ine of their reality. While I lay musing 
 on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet palter- 
 ing outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. 
 Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old 
 Christmas carol, the burden of which was — 
 
 Bejoice, our Saviour he was born 
 On Christmas day in the morning. 
 
 I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door 
 suddenly, and lieheld one of the most beautiful little 
 fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consist- 
 ed of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than 
 six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the 
 rounds of the house, and singing at every chamber- 
 door; but my sudden appearance frightened them 
 into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment 
 playing on their lips with their lingers, and now and 
 then stealing a shy glance, fromunder their eyebrows, 
 until, as if by one impulse, they scampered awa; j 
 and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard 
 them laughing in triumph at their escape. 
 
 Every thing conspired to produce kind and happy 
 feelings in this strong hold of old-fashioned hospital- 
 ity. The window of my chamber looked out upon 
 what \n summer would liave been a beautiful land- 
 scape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream 
 winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park l)eyond, 
 with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a 
 distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the 
 cottage chimneys hanging over it ; and a church with 
 its dark spire in strong relief against the clear cold 
 sky. The house was surrounded with evergreens, 
 according to the English custom, which would have 
 given almost an appearance of summer ; but the morn- 
 ing was extremely frosty; the light vapour of the pre- 
 ceding evening bad been precipitated by the cold, and 
 covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its 
 fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
 sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. 
 A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash, that 
 hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
 was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 
 querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
 glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and 
 gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace walk below. 
 I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant ap- 
 
 peared to invite me to family prayers. He shonedl 
 me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of tliJ 
 house, where I found the principal part of the familyl 
 already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished wiihl 
 cushions, hassocks, and large prayer Itooks; the ser-| 
 vanis were seated on benches below. The old genilfr 
 man read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery,! 
 and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the re; 
 ponses; and I must do him the justice to say, that I 
 accpiiltcd himself with great gravity and decorum. 
 
 The service was followed by a Christmas carolj 
 which IMr Bracebridge himself had constructed fn 
 a poem of his favourite aulhor, Ilerrick; and it lia(i 
 been adapted to an old church inehKly by Blaster Si^ 
 mon. As there were several good voices ainoni; Ih 
 household, the effect was extremely pleasing; but ] 
 was pa'licularly gralilicd by the oxallatioii oflieartJ 
 and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which iha 
 worthy sqtiire dtlivered one stanza ; his eye glisicn-j 
 ing, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds i 
 time and tune : 
 
 "'Tis liioj iiiat crown'stmy filittering hearth 
 
 V.ilh guiillcssc mirth, 
 And siv'st nie Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Shin'd lo llic brink : 
 Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That soiles my land ; 
 And giv'st mc for my bushcU sownc, 
 
 Twice ten for one." 
 
 I afterwards understood that early morning sen 
 was read on every Siuiday and sa<nJ's day throuitiK 
 the year, eillier by Mr Bracebridge or by some niei 
 ber of tlie family. It was once almost universallil 
 the case at the seats of the nobility and genlry i 
 England, and i' 's much to be regretted that the( 
 torn is falling into neglect; for the dtillesl obserrd 
 must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalenj 
 in those households, where the occasional exen 
 of a beautiful form of worship in the morning pse 
 as it were, the key note to every temper for IhedaTi 
 and attunes every spirit to harmony. 
 
 Our breakfast consisted of what the squire dew 
 minated true old English fare. lie indulged ins 
 bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea anl 
 toast, which he censured as among the causes of n 
 dern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline (j 
 old English heartiness; and though he admitted t 
 to his table to suit the palates of his guests, yel ll'f 
 was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, e 
 the sideboard. 
 
 A aer breakfast I walked about the grounds \ 
 Frank Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr Slit 
 as he was called by every body else but the 
 We were escorted by a number of genllemen-lil 
 dogs, that seemed loungers about the establislimeiil 
 from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-houw 
 the last of which was of a race that had been in I' 
 family time out of mind : they were all obedient loj 
 dog whistle which hung to Master Simon's 
 hole, and in the midst of their gambols would gla« 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 SM 
 
 Ueye occasionally upon a itmall twitch he carried in 
 l^liaiul. 
 
 The old mansion lud a still more venerable look in 
 Jllie yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I 
 Ifouhl not but feel the force of the Squire's idea, that 
 I Ibe formal terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and 
 [dipped yew trees, carried with them an air of proud 
 Itfiilocracy. There appeared to be an unusual num- 
 Iterof peacocks about the place, and I was making 
 I HOie remarks u()on what I termed a tlock of Ihem, 
 I that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was 
 Unliy corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, 
 I (ho told me that, according to the most ancient and 
 lipproved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of 
 I peacocks. " In the same way," added he, with a 
 lilighlair of pedantry, " we say a (light of doves or 
 Itvallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, 
 tr cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." 
 I lie went on to inform me (hat, according to Sir An- 
 llhony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird 
 I "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, 
 be will presently set up his tail, chietly against (he 
 lian, to (he intent you may (he better behold the 
 llieauly thereof. But at (he fall of (he leaf, when his 
 tail failed), he will mourn and hide himself in cor- 
 I ners, (ill his (ail come again as it was." 
 
 I could not help smiling at this display of small eru- 
 Idilion on so whimsical a subject ; but I tbimd (hat the 
 ] peacocks were birds of some consequence at the hall ; 
 I for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were 
 (great favountes with his father, who was extremely 
 [careful to keep up the breed ; partly because (hey be- 
 I longed (0 chivalry, and were in great request at the 
 I stately banquets of the olden lime ; and partly because 
 I they had a pomp and magniCcence about (hem, highly 
 becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was 
 lacciMiomed to say, had an air of greater state and di- 
 Ignily than a peacock perched upon an andque stone 
 I balustrade. 
 
 Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an ap- 
 I pointnient at (he parish church with tlie village cho- 
 risters, who were to perform some music of his selec- 
 tion. Tliere was something extremely agreeable in 
 (he cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; 
 and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his 
 apt quotations from authoi-s who certainly were not 
 in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this 
 I last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me, 
 with a smile, that Master Simon's whole stock of eru- 
 dition was confmed to some half a dozen old authors, 
 which the squire bad put into his hands, and which 
 he read over and over, whenever he had a studious 
 Gt;ashesometunes had on a rainy day, or a long 
 winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of 
 Husbandry; Markham's Country Contentments; the 
 Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, knight; 
 Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such 
 ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard author- 
 ities; and, like all men who know but a few Iwoks, 
 lie k)oked up to Ihem with a kind of idolaliy, and 
 
 quoted them on all occasions. As to hb aongs, they 
 were chietly picked out of old books in the squire'* 
 library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among 
 the choice spirits of the last century. His practical 
 application of scraps of literature, however, had cau- 
 sed him to be looked upon as a prodigy of Inwk know- 
 ledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sports- 
 men of the neighbourhood. 
 
 While we were talking, we heard the distant toll 
 of (he village bell, and I was told that the squire was 
 a little particular in having his household at church on 
 a Christmas morning; considering it a day of pour- 
 ing out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser ob- 
 served, ' * 
 
 " At Cliristmas Ixjnjprry, and thanlftil uithal. 
 And feasi Uiy iwor ncighlMurs, Hie great wild the small" 
 
 " If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank 
 Bracebridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my 
 cousin Simon's musical achievements. As (be church 
 is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from 
 the village amateurs, and established a musical club 
 for their improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as 
 he sorted my father's pack of hounds, according to (he 
 direcdons of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Con- 
 tentments; for (he bass he has sought out all the ' deep 
 solemn mouths,' and for the tenor, the * loud ring- 
 ing mouths,' among the country bumpkins ; and for 
 '^ sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste 
 among the prettiest lasses in the neighbourhood; though 
 these last, he aflirms, are the most diflicult to keep in 
 tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly 
 wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident." 
 
 As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably 
 fine and dear, the most of the family walked to tlie 
 church, which was a very old building of grey stone, 
 and stood near a village, about half a mile from the 
 park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, 
 which seemed coeval with (he church. The front of 
 it was perfectly matted with a yew tree, that had been 
 trained against its walls, through the dense foliage 
 of which apertures had been formed to admit light 
 into the small antique lattices. As we passed this 
 sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 
 
 I had expected to see a sleek well-conilitioned pa»- 
 tor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vi- 
 cinity of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. 
 The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, 
 with a grizzled wig Uiat was too wide, and stood olT 
 from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk 
 away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He 
 wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that 
 would have held the church bible and prayer book : 
 and his small legs seemed still smaller, from beinj 
 planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous 
 buckles. 
 
 I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that tlie 
 parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, 
 and had received this living shortly after the latter 
 had come to his estate. lie was a compleh) Mark- 
 
Wi 
 
 niE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 W 
 
 letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work print- 
 ed in tlie Roman cliaracter. The editions of Caxton 
 and Wynkin de Worde were his delight, and he was 
 Indefatigable in his researcliea after such old English 
 writers as have fallen into oblivion from tlieir worlho 
 lessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of 
 Mr Bracebridge, he had made diligent invesligaiions 
 into the festive rites and holiday customs of former 
 tunes ; and had been as jealous in the inquiry, as if he 
 had been a boon companion ; but it was merely with 
 that plodding spirit with which men of adust tempe- 
 ran^ent follow up any track of sindy, merely because 
 it is denominated learning; indifferent to its intrinsic 
 nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, 
 or of the ribaldry and obscetiity of antiquity. He had 
 [lored over these old volumes so intensely, that they 
 seemed to have been reflected into his countenance ; 
 which, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, 
 might be compared to a title-page of blackTielter. 
 
 On reaching the church-porch, we found the par- 
 son rebuking the grey-headed sexton for having used 
 mistletoe among the greens with which thechurchwas 
 decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, 
 profaned by having been used by the Druids in their 
 myslie ceremonies ; and though it might be innocent- 
 ly employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and 
 kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of 
 the Ciiurch as unhallowed, and totally imfit for sa- 
 cred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, 
 that the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great 
 part of the humble trophies of his tasle, before the 
 parson would consent to enter upon the service of the 
 day. 
 
 The interior of the church was venerable but sim- 
 ple; on the walls were several mural monuments of 
 the Bracebridges; and just lieside the altar was a tomb 
 of ancient workmanship, en which lay the efligy of a 
 warrior in armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his 
 having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the 
 family who had signalized himself in tlie Holy Land, 
 and the same whose picture hung over the fire-place 
 in the haU. 
 
 During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, 
 and repeated the responses very audibly : evincing 
 that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed 
 by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old 
 family connexions. I observed, too, that he turnetl 
 over the leaves of a folio prayer book with something 
 of a flourisli ; possibly to show off an enormous seal- 
 ring which enriched one of his fingers, and which had 
 the look of a family relic. But he was evidently most 
 solicitous about the musical part of the service, keep- 
 ing his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating 
 time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 
 
 The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presents 
 ed a most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one 
 above the other, among which I particularly noticed 
 that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreat- 
 ing forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, 
 and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and 
 
 there was another, a short pursy man, stooping ami 
 labouring at a bass viol, so as to show notliiii)^ but] 
 the top of a round bald head, like the egg of an oi^ [ 
 tricli. There were two or three pretty laces among I 
 the female singers, to whicti the keen air of a frog|» I 
 morning had given a bright rosy tint; but the gentle- 1 
 men choristers had evidently been chosen, like oM I 
 Gremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; aiidasse-i 
 veral had to sing from the same book, there were I 
 clusteruigs of odd physiognomies, not unlike tho«e I 
 groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country I 
 tombstones. 
 
 The usual services of the choir were managed toler- 1 
 ably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little I 
 behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler I 
 now and then making up for lost lime by travelling I 
 over a passnge with prodigious celerity, and clearing! 
 mure bars than (he keenest fox-hunter to be ia at the I 
 death. But the great trial was an anthem that ; 
 been prepared and arranged by Master Sinion, and I 
 on which he had founded great expectation. In- 1 
 luckily there was a blunder at the very outset; tkl 
 musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a I 
 fever ; every thing went on lamely and irregularly I 
 until they came to a churns beginning " Now let usl 
 sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal | 
 tor parting company : all became discord and confu- 
 sion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as I 
 well, or, rather, as soon as he could, excepting one I 
 old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding I 
 and pinching a long sonorous nose; who happeniuglol 
 stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his owa I 
 melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling liis I 
 head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal | 
 soh) of at least three bars duration. 
 
 The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the I 
 rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriely { 
 of observing it, not merely as a day of thanksgiving, 1 
 but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness ofliis opi- 
 nions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforc- 1 
 ing them by the authorities ofTheophilus of Cesarea, I 
 St Cyprian, St Chrysostom, St Augustine, and a cloud 
 more of saints and fathers, from whom he madeoh 
 pious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive 
 the necessity of such a mighty array of forces, U I 
 maintain a point which no one present seemed inclin- 1 
 ed to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had I 
 a legion of ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, I 
 in the course of his researches on the subject of I 
 Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian I 
 controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans I 
 made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of I 
 the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out | 
 of the land by proclamation of Parliament. ■ The | 
 
 » From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, publisiied Deceni' 
 bcr 24111, 1652—" Tlie house spent much time this day about to I 
 business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and bcfure Iber 
 rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Chriit- 
 mas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2Cor. v. 16. I Cor.H. 
 14, <7; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded upon Ibw | 
 Scriptures, John, sx. I. llev. 1. 10. Fsalnu, cxvni. 24. I^v.iiiu. 
 
TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 !£» 
 
 rtby parson lived but with times past, and linew 
 
 iule ortl>d pnvent. 
 5hat u() amo>!^ worm-eaten tomes in the retire- 
 ntof his antiquated little study, the pages of old 
 
 I were to him as the gazettes of the day ; while 
 e era of the Revolution was mere modern history. 
 t fiirgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since 
 I tiery persecution of poor mince-pie throughout 
 
 land; wlien plum porridge was denounced as 
 
 "Diere popery," and roast beef as antichnstian; aiul 
 
 at Christmas had liecn brought in again triumph- 
 
 glly wilh the merry court of King Charles at the 
 
 Htstoration. He kindled into warmth wiUi the ar- 
 
 ur of iiis contest, and the host of imaginary foes 
 
 litliwiiom he had to combat; he had a stubborn 
 
 nflict wilh old Prynne and two or three other ibr- 
 
 itten champions of the Hound Heads, on the subject 
 
 ifCbristnias festivity ; and concluded by urging his 
 
 iirers, in the most solenm and affecting manner, to 
 
 und to (he traditional customs of their fathers, and 
 
 ist and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the 
 
 thurch. 
 
 I liave seldom known a sermon attendej' apu-v 
 
 slly with more immediate effects; for on leaving 
 
 e church, the congregation seemed one and all pos- 
 
 with the gaiety of spirit so earnestly enjoined 
 
 f Ibeir pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in 
 
 churchyard, greeting and sliaking hands; and 
 (Children ran about crying Ule ! Ule I and repeat- 
 [ some uncouth rhymes,' which the parson, who 
 i joined us, informed me had heen handed down 
 
 I days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats to 
 
 esquire as he passed, giving him the good wishes 
 
 Iftlie season with every appearance of lieartfelt sin- 
 
 ttrily, and were invited by him to the liall, to take 
 
 jomething to keep out the cold of the weather; and I 
 
 anl blessings uttered by several of Ihe poor, which 
 
 |oavinced me (hat, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
 
 ! wcrlhy old cavalier had not forgotten the true 
 
 £tmas virtue of cliarity. 
 I On our way homeward, his heart seemed over- 
 jowed with generous and happy feelings. As we 
 1 over a rising ground which commanded some- 
 king of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merriment 
 jow and then reached our ears ; the squire paused 
 ra few moments, and looked around wilh an air of 
 lexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was 
 [itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Kolwilh- 
 pnding the frostiness of tlie morning, the sun in 
 
 cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power 
 I melt away the thin covering of snow from every 
 uthern declivity, and to bring out the living green 
 
 HI' Marli. XV. 8. Psalms, lxxxiv. 10. in which Christmas is 
 
 ^1 Anli-chri«l'» masse, and lliose Jlasse-mongera and Papists 
 looljservc it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent 
 elime in consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, 
 ed onlers to that elTcct, and resolved to sit on the following 
 li which was commonly called Christmas day." 
 ■ "Ule! Ule! 
 
 Three piuldingN in a pule ; 
 Crack nuU and cry Ule!" 
 
 which adorns an English landscape even in mid-win- 
 ter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with 
 the dazzling whiteness of the sliaded slopes and hol- 
 lows. Kvery sheltered bank, on which the br id 
 rays rested, yielded its silver rill of fl^'^ and lim^ i. 
 water, glittering through the dnpping grass ; aii ! 
 sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin 
 haze that hung just above the surface of the earth. 
 There was something truly cheering in this triumph 
 of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of 
 winter : it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of 
 Christmas hospitality, breaking through the chills of 
 ceremony and selHshness, and thawing every heart 
 into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indica- 
 tions of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
 comfortable farm-houses, and low thatched cottages. 
 " I love," said he, " to see this day well kept by rich 
 and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in the 
 jear, at least, when you are sure of being welcome 
 wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the 
 wut Id all thrown open to you ; and I am almost dis- 
 posed to join with Poor Robin, in his malediction on 
 every churlish eneniy to this honest festival ; i 
 
 " Those who at Christmas do repine, 
 And would fain hence dis|)aluh liirn. 
 
 May they with old Duke Humphry dine. 
 Or else may stpiirc Retch catch 'eni." 
 
 Tlie squire went on to lament the deplorable decay 
 of the games and amusements which were once pre- 
 valent at this season among the lower orders, and 
 countenanced by the higher; when the old balls of 
 castles and manor-houses were thrown open at day 
 light; when the tables were covered with brawn, and 
 beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol 
 resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were 
 alike wcleome to enter and make merry. ' " Our old 
 games and local customs," said he, '' had a great 
 effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and 
 the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond 
 of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kind- 
 er, and better, and I can truly say with one of our 
 old poets : 
 
 ' ' I like them well— the curious preclseness 
 And all-pretended gravity of those 
 That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, ;: ., 
 Have thrust away much ancient honesty." 
 
 " The nation," continued he, " is altered ; we have 
 almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They 
 have broken asunder from the higher classes, and 
 seem to think their interests are separate. They 
 have become too knowing, and begin to rend news- 
 papers, listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of re- 
 
 ' " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, I. e. 
 on Christmas day in Ihe morning, had all his tenants and neigh- 
 Iwnrs entered his hall by day break. The strong beer was broach- 
 ed, and the black jacks went plentifully alwut with toast, sugar 
 and nutmeg, and gooil Cheshire cheese. The Hackin ( the great; 
 sausage ) nmst be boiled by day break, or else two young men must 
 take the maiden ( i. c. the cook ) by the arms and run her round 
 the market-place till she is shamed of her laziness."— Aouncf 
 about our Sea-Coal fire. 
 
 •1'" i 
 
!294 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 form. I think one mode to keep them in good hu- 
 mour in these hard times, would be for the nobility 
 and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle 
 inore among the country people, and set the merry 
 old English games going again." 
 
 Such was the good squire's project for mitigating 
 public discontent : and, indeed, he liad once attempt- 
 ed to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years 
 before had kept open house during the holidays in 
 the old style. The country people, however, did not 
 understand how to play their parts in Ihe scene of hos- 
 pitality; many uncouth circumstances occurred; the 
 manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, 
 and more beggars drawn into the neighbourhood in 
 one week than Ihe parish oflicers could get rid of in a 
 year. Since then, he had contented himself with in- 
 viting the decent part of the neighbouring peasantry 
 to call at the hall on Christmas day, and with distri- 
 buting beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, 
 that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 
 
 We had not been long home when Uie sound of 
 music was heard from a distance. A band of country 
 lads, without coals, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied 
 with ribands, Iheir hats decorated with greens, and 
 clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the ave- 
 nue, followed by a large number of villagers and 
 peasantry. They stopped before Ihe hall door, where 
 the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads per- 
 formed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, re- 
 treating, and striking their clubs together, keeping 
 exact time to the music; while one, whimsically 
 crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which Haunted 
 down his back, kept capering round Ihe skirls of the 
 dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many antic 
 gesticulations. 
 
 The stpiire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 
 interest and delight, and gave me a full account of 
 its origin, which he traced to the times when the Ro- 
 mans held possession of the island ; plainly proving 
 that this was a lineal descendant of the sword dance 
 of the ancients. " It was now, " he said, " nearly ex- 
 tinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the 
 neighbourhood,and had encouraged ilsrevivaljtliough, 
 to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by 
 rough cudgel play, and broken heads in the evening." 
 
 After Ihe dance was concluded, the whole party 
 was entertained with brawn and beef, and slout home- 
 brewed. The squire himself mingled among the rus- 
 tics, and was received with awkward demonstrations 
 of deference and regard. It is true I perceived two 
 .'tr three of the younger peasants, as they were raising 
 their tankards to their moullis, when the squire's 
 back was turned, making something of a grimace, 
 and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they 
 caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were ex- 
 ceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, 
 they all seemed more at their ease. His varied occu- 
 pations and amusements had made him well known 
 throughout Ihe neighbourhood. He was a visitor at 
 every farm-house and cottage ; gossiped wilh Uie farm- 
 
 ers and their wives; romped with their danghlersj 
 and like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humbk 
 bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips ot'ii 
 country round. 
 
 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way befoj 
 good cheer and affability. There is something i 
 nuine and affectionate in the gaiety of the low«r orJ 
 ders, when it is excited by the bounty and famiiiarij 
 of those above them ; the warm glow of gratitu 
 enters into Iheir mirth, and a kind word or a small 
 pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens lb 
 Iieart of the dependant more than oil and wine. Whei 
 the squire had retired, the merriment increased, an 
 there was much joking and laughter, particularly!: 
 tween Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, whitj 
 headed farmer, who appeared to be the wltofUij 
 village : for I observed all his companions to waitwid^ 
 open months for his retorts, and burst into a gratDil| 
 ous Inugh before they could well understand lliem. 
 I tie whole house indeed seemed abandoned 
 merriment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinna 
 I heard Ihe sound of music in a small court, and loolJ 
 ing through a window that commanded it, I perl 
 ccived a band of wandering musicians, with pnndea| 
 pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coquettish liousenia 
 was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, whilj 
 several of the other servants were looking on. Inil 
 midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of i 
 face at the window, anil colouring up, ran off vill 
 an air of roguish affected confusion. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 Lo, now is come our joyful'st fcasl ! 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Eaclie roome willi y vie leaves is dresi, 
 
 Ami every post with holly. 
 Now all our iielglilwuiV chimneys smoke, 
 
 And Clii'islnias blocks are burning ; 
 Their ovens they wilh bak't meals choke. 
 And all Ibcir spits are turning. 
 Without the door b't sorrow lie, 
 And if, for culd, it hai* to die, 
 ■Wee'te bury 't in a Christmas pyc, 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 WiTUEHs' Juvtmii.! 
 
 I iiAi) finished my toilet, and was loitering will 
 Frank Bracebridge in the library, when we lieanll 
 distant thwacking sound, which he informed nieiri 
 a signal for Ihe serving up of the dinner. The squii 
 kept up old customs in kitchen as well asliall;aq 
 the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by llie i 
 summoned Ihe servants lo carry in the meals. 
 
 Just in tills nick the cook knock'd Ihricc, 
 And all tlie waiters In a trice 
 
 Ills summons did obey; 
 IMch serving man, with dish in hand. 
 March'd Itoldly up, like our train band, 
 
 I'rcsenled, and away. ■ 
 
 • Sir John Suoklingi 
 
 |lbe occasion ; a 
 
nm SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 295 
 
 n as well as hall; an 
 
 The dinner was served up in the great liall, where 
 llhe squire always held his Christ mas banquet. A 
 ting crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to 
 wrm Che spacious apartment, and the llame went 
 Wing and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chim- 
 The great picture of the crusader and his white 
 llane had been profusely decorated with greens for 
 I occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been 
 italhed round the helmet and weapons on the op- 
 isite wall, which I understood were the arms of the 
 ! warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong 
 about the authenticity of the painting and 
 oor as having belonged to the crusader, they cer- 
 hinly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I 
 ttold that the painting had been so considered 
 |liineoiit of mind ; and that, as to the armour, it had 
 «n found in a lumber room, and elevated to its pre- 
 nt situation by the squire, who at once determined 
 ilo be the armour of the family hero ; and as he was 
 iolute authority on all such subjects in his own 
 lehold, the matter had passed Jnto current accep- 
 laiion. A sideboard was set out just under this chi- 
 alric trophy, on which was a display of plate that 
 ghthave vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's 
 laradeof the vessels of the temple : " flagons, cans, 
 nps, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers ; " the gor- 
 «ns utensils of good companionship that had gra- 
 dually accumulated through many generations of jo- 
 jrial liousekeepers. Before these s,tood the two yule 
 ndles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude; 
 lotlier lights were distributed in branches, and the 
 irhole array glittered like a firmament of silver. 
 We were ushered into this banqueting scene with 
 lie sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being sealed 
 bn a stool beside the fire-place, and twanging his in- 
 strument with a vast deal more power than melody. 
 \ever did Christmas board display a more goodly and 
 [racious assemblage of countenances ; those who were 
 ^ot handsome, were, at least, happy ; and happiness 
 5 a rare improver of your hard-favoured visage. I 
 {always consider an old English family as well worth 
 pludyingas a collection of Holbein's portraits or AI- 
 it Durer's prints. There is much antiquarian lore 
 kobe acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies 
 V former limes. Perhaps it may be from having 
 «nlinually before their eyes those rows of old family 
 ortraits, with which the mansions of this country 
 |ire stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features of 
 ntiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these 
 ncient lines; and I have traced an old family nose 
 Ihrough a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed 
 nown from generation to generation, almost from the 
 pnie of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to 
 B observed in the worthy company around me. Many 
 bf their faces had evidently originated in a gothic age, 
 m been merely copied by succeeding generations ; 
 m lliere was one little girl ii- particular, of staid 
 peineanour, with a high Roman nose, and an antique 
 ["inegar aspect, who was a great favourite of the 
 quire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and 
 
 the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who 
 figured in the court of Henry VIII. 
 
 The parson said grace, which was not a short fa- 
 miliar one, such as is commonly addressed to the 
 Deity in these unceremonious days ; but a long, court- 
 ly, well-worded one of the ancient school. There 
 was now a pause, as if something w?8 expected ; when 
 suddenly the butler entered the hall with some degree 
 of bustle : he was attended by a servant on each side 
 with a large wax light, and bore a silver dish, on 
 which was an enormous pig's head, decorated with 
 rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed 
 with great formality at the head of the table. Tlie 
 moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper 
 struck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the 
 young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, 
 gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old 
 carol, the first verse of which was as follows : 
 
 I; 
 
 f'.? 
 
 Caput apri defcro 
 
 Reddens laudes Uomino. * 
 
 The Iwar's liead in liand bring I. ; 
 
 Willi garlands gay and rosemaiy. , 
 
 1 pray you ail synge nierily 
 
 Qui estis in convivio. 
 
 Though prepared to witness many of these little ec- 
 centricities, from being apprized of the peculiar hobby 
 of mine host; yet, I confess, the parade with which so 
 oddadishwasintroducedsomewhat perplexed me,until 
 I gathered from the conversation of the squire and the 
 parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing in 
 of the boar's head ; a dish formerly served up with 
 much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, 
 at great tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old 
 custom, " said the squire, " not merely because it is 
 stately and pleasing in itself, but because il was ob- 
 served at Ihe College at Oxford, at which I was edu- 
 cated. When I hear Ihe old song chanted, il brings 
 to mind the time when I was young and gamesome 
 —and the noble old college hall— and my fellow stu- 
 dents loitering about in their black gowns; many of 
 whom, poor lads, are now in their graves ! " 
 
 The parson, however, whose mind was not haunt- 
 ed by such associations, and who was always more 
 taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to 
 the Oxonian's version of the carol ; which he aflirmed 
 was different from that sung at college. He went 
 on, with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to 
 give the college reading, accompanied by sundiy an- 
 notations ; addressing himself at first to the company at 
 large ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to 
 other talk, and other objects, he lowered his lone as 
 his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded 
 hisremarksin an under voice, loa fat-headed old gentle- 
 man next him, who was silently engaged in the dis- 
 cussion of a huge plateful of turkey. ■ 
 
 The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and 
 presented an epitome of country abundance, in this 
 season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post 
 
 • The old ceremony of serving np ihc lioar's head on Cliristmas 
 day is still observed in the liall of Queen's College, 0.\foi-d. 1 was 
 
296 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK, 
 
 If'.. 
 
 was allotted to " ancient sirloin, " as mine host term- 
 ed it; being, as he added, " the standard of old Eng- 
 lish hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and 
 full of expectation." There were several dishes 
 qaaintly decorated, and which had evidently some- 
 thing traditional in their embellishments; but about 
 which, as I did not like to appear over curious, I asked 
 no questions. 
 
 I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnifi- 
 cently decorated with peacoc'-'o r<>at]iers, in imitation 
 of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a consi- 
 derable tract of the table. This, the squire con- 
 fessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, 
 though a peacock pie was certainly the most autlien- 
 tical; but there had been such a mortality among the 
 peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon 
 himself to have one killed.' 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, 
 who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and 
 obsolete things to which I nm a little given, were I to 
 mention the other make-shifls of this worthy old hu- 
 morist, by which he was endeavouring to follow up, 
 though at humble distance, the qua^ ' customs of an- 
 tiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect 
 shown to his whims by his children and relatives ; 
 who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of 
 them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; hav- 
 ing doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was 
 amused, too, at theair of profound gravity with which 
 
 favoured by the panon witli a copy of ttie carol as now sung, and 
 as it may be acceptable to such of my readera as are curious in these 
 grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 
 
 The boar's head in hand bear I, 
 Bedeck 'd with bays and rosemary ; 
 And I pray you, my masters, be merry, 
 Quot estis in convivio. 
 
 Caput apri dcfcro 
 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 
 The boar's head, as I understand, 
 b the rarest dish in all this land, 
 ' I Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
 
 Let us scrvire cantico. 
 Caput apri dercro, etc. 
 
 Our steward hath provided this 
 In honour of llic King of Itliss, 
 Which on this day to be served is 
 In Reginensi Alrio. 
 Caput apri defero, 
 etc. etc. etc. 
 
 ■ The Peacock wax anciently in great demand for stately enter- 
 tainments. Sometimes it was made intoa pie, at one end of which 
 the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak 
 richly gilt ; at the other end the tall was displayed. Such pies 
 were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when Knights- 
 errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise i 
 whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock 
 and pie." 
 
 The peacock was also an important dish for the Christm"- ' ^ot ; 
 and Massingcr, in his City Madam, gives some idea of the extrava- 
 gance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prcparni fur 
 the gorgeous revels of Uie olden times i " Men may laikofCuiinlry 
 Chri;tmas8(!s, their thirty |)uunil bullcr'd eggs ; lliclr pics nl caqM' 
 lo.igucs; HieJr pheasants drench 'd with ainlwrgris; the careaies 
 of three fat wrtltivt bruited for gravy to make sauce for a 
 liinglt pearoek !" 
 
 the butler and other servants executed the duties as. 
 signed them, however eccentric. They had an oldJ 
 fashioned look; having, for the most part, M 
 brought up in the household, and grown into keepm 
 with the antiquated mansion, and the humours of iij 
 lord; and most probably looked upon all liiswliimsicj 
 regulations as the established laws of honourablJ 
 housekeeping. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, the butler brouvhll 
 in a huge silver vessel of rare and curious workman 
 ship, which he placed before the squire. Its appearJ 
 ance was hailed with acclamation; being theWassi 
 Bowl, so renowned in Christinas festivity. ThecoJ 
 tents had been prepared by the squire himself; for j 
 was a beverage in the skilful mixture of which he i 
 ticularly prided himself, alleging that it was too j 
 struse and complex for the comprehension of an otdi-l 
 nary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that i 
 well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; beini 
 composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly gid 
 ced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing a 
 the surface. ■ 
 
 The old gentleman's whole countenance bv. .i« 
 with a serene look of in-dwelling delight, as he sti 
 this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lips, wji 
 hearty wish of a merry Christinas to all present h 
 sent it briinmuig round the board, for every one t 
 follow his example, according to the primitive style J 
 pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of good feeliojl 
 where all hearts met together." » 
 
 There was much laughing and rallying as the! 
 nest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, an 
 was kissed rather coily by the ladies. When it reai 
 ed Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, 
 witli the air of a boon companion struck up an i 
 Wassail chanson : 
 
 The brown bowie. 
 The merry brown bowlo. 
 As It goes round about-o, 
 > Fill 
 
 Still, 
 Let the world say what it Will, 
 And drink your fill all out-a. 
 
 ■•'' •' The deep canne, 
 
 ^ > ■ j 'v The mciTy deep canne. 
 
 As thou dost freely quaff-a, 
 
 ' The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale iosteid ol 
 wine I with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabiiii 
 this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in wnK o 
 families, and round the hearths of subslanUal farmers at ( 
 mas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Ha 
 inhte Twelfth Night : 
 
 Next crowne the bowIe Ibll 
 
 With gentle Lcmb's Wooll, 
 Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, 
 
 With store of ale too I 
 
 And thus yc must doe 
 To make the Wassaile a swinger. 
 
 • " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place kl 
 each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore willi| 
 the Wassel, he was to cry three times, tVattel, n'astrt, n'ntiitM 
 and then the cha|)pcll ( chaplain ) was to answer with a tm'-f 
 Archvoloou. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 297 
 
 nted the daties as- 
 They had an oldJ 
 I most part, Ki{ 
 grown into kwpm 
 the humours of iij 
 lonaUhiswhimsici 
 aws of honourable! 
 
 , the butler broughd 
 1 curious workman 
 squire. Its appear.] 
 a J being theWa 
 festivity. The cod 
 squire himself; for ii 
 Lure of which he I 
 ; that it was too j 
 rehension of an ordi-l 
 I, indeed, that mighj 
 ap within him ; bein 
 iest wines, highly spi-] 
 apples bobbing a 
 
 countenance bv. .le 
 ; delight, ashesiirt 
 edit tohi$lips,AYith{ 
 nas to all present,! 
 ard, for everyone 
 ,0 the primitive style; 
 intainofgoodfeelingj 
 
 nd rallying as the! 
 iality circulated, an 
 idies. When it real 
 in both hands, 
 ion struck up an i 
 
 wIp, 
 ut-a. 
 
 latilwill, 
 II out-a. 
 
 latr-a, 
 
 composed of ale liuleid 
 get, and roasted crabti 
 still prepared in dome 
 itantlal farmers at ' 
 id Is celebrated by H( 
 
 vie hill 
 Wooll. 
 (inger, 
 
 vlngcr. 
 
 Jlie same cup gave pbM*! 
 [rdcamolothodoorewilk 
 
 I to answer with* Hong '-1 
 
 Sing 
 
 Fling, , . ., 
 
 Be as merry as a king, 
 And sound a lusty laugli-a. ' 
 
 Much of the conversation during dinner tur d 
 jpon family topics, to which I was a stranger. There 
 sas however, a great deal of rallying of Master Si- 
 mon about some gay widow, with whoni he was ac- 
 cused of having a flirtation. This attack was coin- 
 lenced by the ladies ; hut it was continued throughout 
 llhe dinner by the fat-headed old genlleinan next the 
 with the persevering assiduity of a slow 
 Ibound; being one of those longwinded jokers, who, 
 lugh rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for 
 leir talenls in hunting it down. At every pause in 
 general conversation, he renewed his bantering in 
 relty much the same terms; winking hard at me 
 ilh bolh eyes, whenever he gave Blaster Simon 
 hat he considered a home thrust. The latter, in- 
 , seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as 
 bachelors are apt to be; and he took occasion to 
 iforin me, in an under tone, that the lady in question 
 as a prodigiously fine woman, and drove her own 
 
 irricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of inno- 
 nt hilarity, and though the old hall may have 
 lunded in its time with many a scene of broader 
 rat and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed 
 honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is 
 one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around 
 ; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of glad- 
 ss, making every thing in its vicinity to freshen 
 ito smiles ! the joyous disposition of the worthy 
 [uire was perfectly contagious; he was happy him- 
 f,and disposed to n^ ^e all the world happy; and 
 16 little eccentricitits of bis humour did but season, 
 a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 
 When the ladies had retired, the conversation, 
 usual, became still more animated; many good 
 lings were broached which had been thought of dur- 
 dinner, but which would not exactly do for a 
 ily's ear; and though I cannot positively affirm that 
 lere v.'as much wit uttered, yet I have certainly 
 ard many contests of rare wit produce much less 
 lugliler. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent 
 ;redient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but 
 inest good hiunour is the oil and wine of a merry 
 :ting, and there is no jovial companionship ecpial 
 that, where the jokes are rather small, and the 
 inghler abundant. 
 
 The squire told several long stories of early college 
 
 aiiks and adventures, in some of which the parson 
 
 id been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it 
 
 Hired some effort of imagination to figure sucli a 
 
 lie dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a 
 
 itlcap gamliol. Indeed, the two college chums 
 
 iiled pictures of what men may be made by their 
 
 ferent lots in life; the squire had left the University 
 
 live lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous 
 
 Ifixtm Poor Robin's Almanac. 
 
 enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flou- 
 rished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the 
 poor parson, on the contrary, had dried and withered 
 away, among dusty tomes, in the silence and shadows 
 of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of al- 
 most extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bot- 
 tom of his soul; and as the s(piire hinted at a sly 
 story of the parson and a pretty milkmaid, whom they 
 once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman 
 made an " alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could 
 decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indi- 
 cative of laughter;— indeed, I have rarely met with 
 an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the im< 
 puted gallantries of his youth. 
 
 I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on 
 the dry laud of sober judgment. The company grew 
 merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Mas- 
 ter Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grass- 
 hopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a 
 warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin 
 about the widow. He even gave a long song about 
 the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he 
 liad gathered from an excellent black-letter work, 
 entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing 
 store of good advice for bachelors, and which he 
 promised to lend me : the first verse was to this effect : 
 
 He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
 He must malic hay while the sun doth .shine ; 
 
 He must not stand with her, shall I, sliall I, 
 But boldly say. Widow, thou must be mine. 
 
 This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, 
 who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story 
 out of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he 
 always stuck in the middle, every body recollecting 
 the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, 
 began to show the effects of good cheer, having gra- 
 dually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting 
 most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture 
 we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I sus- 
 pect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose 
 joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love 
 of decorum. 
 
 After the dinner table was removed, the hall was 
 given up to the younger members of the family, who, 
 prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian 
 and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their 
 merriment, as they played at romping games. I de- 
 light in witnessing the gambols of children, and par- 
 ticularly at this happy holiday season, and could not 
 help stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one 
 of their peals of laughter. I f'oimd them at the game 
 of blindman's-huff. Master Simon, who was the 
 leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to 
 fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of 
 Misrule, ■ was blinded in the midst of the hall. Hie 
 little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
 
 • " At Chrislmassc there was in the Kingcs house, wheresoever 
 hoc was lodged, alorile of misrule, or mayster of merle disportes, 
 and Ihn like had yc in the house of every nobleman of honor, or 
 good worshippe, were ho splriluall or temporall."-8Towi. 
 
 38 
 
 <n 
 
1:296 
 
 THE SKETQI BOOK. 
 
 |i 
 
 v-.t 
 
 fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the 
 skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One 
 fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen 
 hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a 
 glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete 
 picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and, from 
 the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the 
 smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in 
 corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over 
 chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more 
 blinded than was convenient. 
 
 When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the 
 company seated round the lire, listening to the par- 
 son, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed 
 oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of 
 yore, which had been brouglit from the library for 
 his particular accommodation. From this venerable 
 piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure 
 and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was 
 dealing out strange accounts of the popular supersti- 
 tions and legends of the surrounding country, with 
 which he had become acquainted in the course of his 
 antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think 
 that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinc- 
 tured with superstition, as men are very apt to be who 
 live a recluse and studious life, in a sequestered part 
 of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so 
 often filled with the marvellous and supernatural. 
 He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of tl>e 
 neighbouring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the 
 crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. 
 As it was the only monument of the kind in that part 
 of the country, it had always been regarded with 
 feelings of superstition by the good wives of the vil- 
 lage. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk 
 the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, parti- 
 cularly when it thundered; and one old woman, 
 whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen 
 it through the windows of the church, when the 
 moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the aisles. 
 It was the belief that some wrong had been left un- 
 redressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, 
 which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restless- 
 ness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the 
 tomb, over which tlie spectre kept watch ; and there 
 was a story current of a sexton in old times who en- 
 deavoured to break his way to the coflin at night, but, 
 just a", he reached it, received a violent blow from 
 the '.narble hand of the effigy, which stretched liim 
 scseless on the pavement. Tiiese tales were often 
 Ir.ughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, 
 yet when night came on, there were many of the 
 stou'est unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone 
 in the footpath that led across the churchyard. 
 
 From these and other anecdotes that followed,- the 
 crusader appeared to be the favourite hero of ghost 
 stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, which 
 hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to 
 have something supernatural about it ; for they re- 
 marked that, in whatever part of the hall you went, 
 
 the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The j 
 old porter's wife too, at the lodge, who had been born 1 
 and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip 
 among the maid servants, affirmed that in her yoang 
 days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve 
 when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins 
 and fairies' become visible and walk abroad, the orn- 
 sader used to mount his horse, come down from his 
 picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and j 
 so to the church to visit the tomb; on which occasion 
 the church door most civilly swung open of itself; not I 
 that he needed it, for he rode through closed gates I 
 and even stone walls, and had been seen by one ofl 
 the dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great [ 
 park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. , 
 
 All these superstitions I found had beenveiymuoiil 
 countenanced by the squire, who, though notsuper-l 
 stitious himself, was vei-y fond of seeing others so.! 
 He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbouring! 
 gossips with infinite gravity, and held tl.e porter'sl 
 wife in high favour, on account of her talent for the| 
 marvellous. He was himself a great reader of ( 
 legends and romances, and often lamented that hel 
 cculd not believe in them; for a superstitious persoii,| 
 he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. 
 
 Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories,! 
 our Ctiis were suddenly assailed by a burst of iietero-l 
 geneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingiei 
 something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with thd 
 uproar of many small voices and girlisli laiighlerJ 
 The door suddenly flew open, and a train cai 
 trooping into the room, that might almost have beed 
 mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy| 
 That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faitl 
 ful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, \a 
 conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or nijs 
 quing; and having called in to his assistance the Osol 
 nian and the young officer, who were equally rip 
 for any thing that should occasion romping and mwj 
 riment, they had carried it into instant effect. Th 
 old housekeeper had been consulted; the anliqnj 
 clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and niau 
 to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen l 
 light for several generations; the younger part of tin 
 company had been privately convened from the | 
 lour and hall, and the whole had been bedizened odIJ 
 into a burlesque imitation of an antique masque.' 
 
 Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christ 
 mas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloi 
 which had very much the aspect of one of the ( 
 housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might \ai 
 served for a village steeple, and must indubitably M 
 figured in the days of the Covenanters. From undij 
 this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a fro 
 bitten bloom, that seemed the very trophy of a I 
 
 I Masquings or mummeries were favourite sports at Christ: 
 in old times; ami the waixlrobes at halls and manor-hoiwm 
 often laid under contribuiion to furnish drosses and fanlMlicij 
 Riiisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the » 
 of his from Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ^SQ 
 
 I antique mas(iue. 
 as " Ancient Cliri 
 
 ceniber blast. He was accompanied by the blue-eyed 
 njmp, dished up as " Dame Mince Pie," in llie vene- 
 rable magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, 
 peaked bat, and high-heeled slices. The yonng ofii- 
 cer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of 
 
 I Rendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. 
 The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to 
 
 I (letp research, and there was an evident eye to the 
 picturesque, natural to a yorng gallant in presence of 
 his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a 
 pretty rustic dress, as " Maid Marian." The rest of 
 the iraia had been metamorphosed in various ways; 
 the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles 
 of the Bracebridge line, and the striplings bcwhisker- 
 ed with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, 
 iianging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent 
 the characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and 
 oilier worthies celebrated in ancient masquings. The 
 vbole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the 
 appropriate character of Misrule; and I observed that 
 heexercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand 
 
 I over the smaller personages of the pageant. 
 The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of 
 
 I drum, according to ancient custom, was the consum- 
 mation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon co- 
 vered himself with glory by the slateliness with 
 which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet 
 with the peerless, though giggling. Dame Mince Pie. 
 It was followed by a dance of all the characters, 
 ffiiich,from its medley of costumes, seemed as though 
 the old family portraits had skipped down from their 
 frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were 
 figuring at cross hands, and right and left; the dark 
 ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the 
 (lays of Queen Bess jiggling merrily down the middle, 
 
 I (hroiigh a line of succeeding generations. 
 The worthy squire contemplated these fantastic 
 
 {sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, 
 with the simple relish of childish delight. Ik stood 
 chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hear- 
 ing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the 
 latter was discoursing most authentically on the an- 
 cient and stately dance of the Paon, or peacock, from 
 which he conceived the minuet to be derived. ' For 
 my part, I was in a continual excitement from the 
 varied scenes of whim and innocent gaiety passing 
 before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic 
 and wa in-hearted hospitality breaking out from 
 among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
 throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the 
 freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an in- 
 terest in the scene, from t he consideration that these 
 fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and 
 
 I that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in 
 
 ■ sir John IIawl(iiu, speaking o( the danco callcil llic Pavon, 
 from pavo, a peacock, sayit, " It Is a grave and ini^esUc dance ; tlu; 
 method of dancing itancienlly was by gentluineu (Iressed with caiM 
 and iwords, by tliose of the long robe in llieir gowns, by the peers 
 I In their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the 
 motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock."— »<«• 
 lory nfMutie. 
 
 which the wiiole of them was still punctiliously ob- 
 served. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with 
 all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was 
 suited to the time and place ; and as the old manor- 
 house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seem- 
 ed echoing back the joviality of long departed years. 
 
 But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time 
 for me to pause in this garrulity. Melhinks I hear Uie 
 questions asked by my graver readers, " To what 
 purpose is all this?— how is the world to be made 
 wiser by this talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom 
 enough extant for the instruction of the world ? A nd 
 if not, are there not thousands of abler pens labouring 
 for its improvement? — It is so much pleasanter to 
 please than to instruct — to play the companion rather 
 than the preceptor. 
 
 What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could 
 throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I 
 sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides 
 for the opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, 
 if I fail, the only evil is in my own disa[)pointment. 
 If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days 
 of evil, rub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or 
 beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow; if 
 I can now and then penetrate through the gathering 
 film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of 
 human nature, and make my reader more in good 
 humour with his fellow beings and himself, sure- 
 ly, surely, I shall not then have written entirely 
 in vain. 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 [ The following modicum of local history was lately put into my 
 hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and 
 snufT-coIoured coat, with whom I became acquainted In the course 
 of one of ray tours of observation through the centra of that great 
 wilderness, the City. I confess tliat I was a little dubious at flrst, 
 whelber it was not one of those aiMcryphul tales often passed off 
 upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought 
 our gener.il character for veracity into such unmerited reproach. 
 Ou making proper irtquiries, however, I have received the most 
 satisfactory a^urances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have 
 been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account 
 of (lie very interesting region in which he resides ; of wliich the 
 following may be considered ir crcly as a foretaste. ] 
 
 What I write is most true *"" I have a whole booke of case* 
 lying by me, which if I should sette foortli, some grave auntienti 
 ( w ithin the hearing of Bow bell ) would be out of charity with me. 
 Jiksm. 
 
 In the centre of the great city of London lies a small 
 neighbourhood, consistingof a cluster of narrow streets 
 and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, 
 which goes by tlie name of Little Britain. Christ 
 Church School and St Bartholomew's Hospital bound 
 it on the west; Smithfield and Long-lane on the north; 
 Aldersgate-street, like an arm of the sea, divides it 
 from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawning 
 gulf ofBull-and-Moulh-stieet separates it from Butcher- 
 
300 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Wr 
 
 lane, and Iheregiuns of Newgale. Over this liltle ter- 
 ritory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of 
 St Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of 
 Paternoster-row, Amen Corner, and Ave-Maria-lane, 
 looks down with an air of motherly protection. 
 
 This quarter derives its appellation from having 
 been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of 
 Britanny. As London increased, however, rank and 
 fashion rolled off to the wesi, and trade creeping on at 
 their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. 
 For some time Little Britain became the great mart of 
 learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific 
 race of booksellers : these also gradually deserted it, 
 and, emigrating beyond the great strait of Newgate- 
 street, settled down in Paternoster-row and St Paul's 
 Churchyard, where they continue to increase and 
 multiply even at the present day. 
 
 But though thus fallen into decline. Little Britain 
 still bears traces of its former splentlour. There are 
 several houses ready to tumble down, the fronts of 
 which are magnificently enriched with old oaken 
 carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and 
 fishes; and fruits and flowers which it would perplex 
 a naturalist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate- 
 street, certain remains of what were once spacious 
 and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter 
 days been subdivided into several tenements. Here 
 may often be fonnd the family of a petty tradesman, 
 with its trumpery furniture, burrowing among the 
 relics of antiquated finery, in great rambling lime- 
 stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cor- 
 nices, and enormous marble fire-places. The lanes 
 and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on 
 so grand a scale, but like your small ancient gentry, 
 sturdily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. 
 These have their gable ends to the street; great bow 
 windows, with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque 
 carvings, and low arched door- ways. ' 
 
 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have 
 I passcil several quiet years of existence, comfortably 
 lodged in (he second floor of one of the smallest but 
 oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted 
 chamber, with small pannels, and set off with a mis- 
 cellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular res- 
 pect for three or four high-backed claw-footed chairs, 
 covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks 
 of having seen belter days, aud have doubtless figured 
 in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. Tiiey 
 seem to me to keep together, and to look down with 
 sovereign contempt upon Iheir leather-bottomed neigh- 
 bours; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high 
 head among the plebeian society with which tlicy 
 were reduced lo associate. The whole front of my 
 sitting-room is taken up with a bow window; on the 
 panes of which are recorded the names of previous 
 occupants for many generations, mingled with scraps 
 of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in 
 
 ■ It is evident (liat tlic aullior of this interesting communication 
 has incliideil, In his general title uf Little Britain, many of those 
 little laites and comis that k<long immediately to Cloth Isilr. 
 
 characters which I can scarcely decipher, Mid wlijch 
 extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Rritain 
 who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed 
 away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent 
 occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week I 
 am looked upon as the only independent goniieman 
 of (he neighbourhood ; and, being curious to learn the 
 internal state of a community so apparently shut up 
 within itself, I have managed to work my way into 
 all the concerns and secrets of the place. 
 
 Liltle Britain may truly be called the heart's core 
 of the city ; the strong hold of true John Bullism. it 
 is a fragment of London as it was in its belter days 
 with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish 
 in great preservation many of the holiday games and 
 customs of vore. The inhabitants most reli^'iously 
 eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns oii 
 Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; ther 
 send love-letters on Valentine's Day, burn the popeon 
 the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under 
 the mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum 
 pudding are also held in superstitious veneration, and 
 port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only 
 true English wines; all others being considered vile 
 outlandish beverages. 
 
 Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonden, 
 which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the 
 world; such as the great bell of St Paul's, which sours 
 all the beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the 
 hours at St Dunstan's clock ; the Monument ; the lions 
 in the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. 
 They still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and 
 an old woman that lives in Bull-and-Mouth-street 
 makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen 
 g(K)ds, and promising the girls good husbands. They 
 are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by cornels and 
 eclipses; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is 
 looked up' n as a sure sign of a death in the place. 
 There are even many ghost stories current, parlicu- 
 larly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several 
 of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. 
 Lords and ladies, the former in fidl-boltomed wijs, 
 hanging sleeves, and swords, the latter in lappets, 
 stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up 
 and down tlie great waste chambers, on moonlight 
 nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the an- 
 cient proprietors in their court dresses. 
 
 Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. 
 One of the most important of the former is a tail 
 dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps 
 a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous 
 coiinlenunce, full of cavities, and projections; with a 
 brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn 
 spectacles, lie is much (bought of by the old women, 
 who consider him as a kind of conjuror, becaii.se he 
 has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his 
 shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great 
 reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much 
 given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspi- 
 racies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic criiplioiis; 
 
lecipher, Midwliich 
 iity of Liille Britain, 
 d, faded, and passed 
 ;e, with no apparent 
 daily every week, I 
 ependent getilleman 
 5 curious to learn the 
 I apparently shut up 
 J work my way into 
 le place. 
 
 illetl the heart's core 
 le John Bullism. it 
 ras in its belter days, 
 lions. Here flourisii 
 e holiday games and 
 ints most religiously 
 ly, hot-cross-buns on 
 at Michaelmas; they 
 )ay, burn the popeon 
 s all the girls under 
 oast beef and plum 
 lions veneration, and 
 ■ grounds as the only 
 )eing considered vile 
 
 ogiie of city wonders, 
 
 the wonders of the 
 
 St Paul's, which sours 
 
 igures that strike the 
 
 Monument ; the liens 
 
 I giants in Guildhall. 
 
 \ fortune-telling, and 
 
 hill-and-Moulh-streel 
 
 by detecting stolen 
 
 ood husbands. They 
 
 rtable by cornels and 
 
 )lefnlly at night, ills 
 
 I death in the place. 
 
 ries current, parlicu- 
 
 houses; in several 
 
 are sometimes seen. 
 
 full-bottomed wigs, 
 
 he latter in lappets, 
 
 )een seen walking up 
 
 nbers, on moonlight 
 
 le shades of the an- 
 
 resses. 
 
 ages and great men. 
 le former is a tali 
 Skryme, who keeps 
 has a cadaverous 
 projections; with a 
 ike a pair of liom 
 f by the old women, 
 onjuror, becraise he 
 s hanging up in his 
 les. He is a great 
 apers, and is much 
 nts of plots, conspi- 
 volcanic eruptions; 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 801 
 
 which last phenomena he considers as signs of the 
 times. He has always some dismal talc of the kind 
 to deal out to his customers, with their doses; and 
 thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an 
 uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- 
 tions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and 
 Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so nnich 
 oat of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and 
 he shook the tail of the last comet over the lieads of 
 his customers and disciples until they were nearly 
 frightened out of their wils. He has lately got hold 
 of popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been 
 imusually eloquent. There has been a saying current 
 among Ihe ancient sibyls, who treasure up these 
 things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the 
 Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of 
 Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
 This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely 
 come to pass. The same architect has been engaged 
 lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, 
 and the steeple of liow Church; and, fearful to relate, 
 the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by 
 jole, in the yard of his workshop. 
 
 "Others," as Mr Skryme is accustomed to say, 
 "may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in 
 the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, 
 near at home, and under our own eyes, which sur- 
 passes all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 
 Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid 
 their heads together, wonderful events had already 
 occurred. The good old king, notwithstanding that 
 he had lived eighty-two years, had all at once given 
 nplhe ghost; another king had mounted the throne; 
 a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, 
 had been murdered ; there had been radical meetings 
 in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Man- 
 chester; the great plot in Cato-street; — and, above 
 all, the queen had returned to England ! All these 
 sinister events are recounted by Mr Skryme with a 
 mysterious look, and a dismal shake of the head; and 
 being taken with his drugs, and associated in the 
 minds of his auditors with stuffed sea -monsters, 
 bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title- 
 luge of tribulation, they have spread great gloom 
 through the minds of the people in Little Britain. 
 They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow 
 Church, and observe, that they never expected any 
 t,ood to come of taking down that steeple, which in 
 old times told nothing but glad tidings, as the history 
 ofWhittington and his Cat bears witness. 
 
 The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial 
 cheese-monger, who lives in a fragment of one of the 
 old family mansions, and is as magnificently loilged 
 as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one of his own 
 Cheshire. Indeed he is a man of no little standing 
 and importance ; and his renown extends through 
 Huggin-lane, and Lad-lane, and even unto Alder- 
 manbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs 
 of stale, having read the Sunday papers for the last 
 half ceiilury, together with the Gentleman's Maga- 
 
 zine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval 
 Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims 
 which have borne the test of time and use for centu- 
 ries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral im- 
 possible," so long as England is true to herself, that 
 any thing can shake her : and he has much to say on 
 the subject of the national debt; which, somehow or 
 other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and 
 blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in 
 the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, 
 when, having become rich, and grown into the dig- 
 nity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure 
 and see the world. He has therefore made several 
 excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neigh- 
 bouring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons 
 in looking back upon the metropolis through a tele- 
 scope, and endeavouring to descry the steeple of St 
 Bartholomew's. Not a stage coachman of Bull-and- 
 Moutb-street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he 
 is considered quite a patron at the coach-oflice of the 
 Goose and Gridiron, St Paul's Churchyard. His fa- 
 mily have been very urgent for him to make an expe- 
 dition to Margate, but be has great doubts of those 
 new gim-cracks the steam-boats, and indeed thinks 
 himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 
 
 Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divi- 
 sions, and parly spirit ran very high at one time in 
 consequence of two rival "Burial Societies" being 
 set up in the place. One held its meeting at the 
 Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the 
 cheese-monger; the other at the Cock and Crown, 
 under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless 
 to say that the latter was the most flourishing. I 
 have passed an evening or two at each, and have 
 acquired much valuable information, as to the best 
 mode of being buried ; the comparative merits of 
 churchyards; together with divers hints on the sub- 
 ject of patent iron coffins. I have heard the ques- 
 tion discussed in all its liearings, as to the legality of 
 prohibiting the latter on account of their durability. 
 The feuds occasioned by these societies have happily 
 died of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing 
 themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain 
 being extremely solicitous of funeral honours and of 
 lying comfortably in then' graves. 
 
 Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third 
 of quite a different cas*, which tends to throw the 
 sunshine of good-humour over the whole neighbour- 
 hood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned 
 house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wag- 
 staff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half- 
 mr on, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The 
 whole edifice is covered with inscriptions, to catch the 
 eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as " Truman, Han- 
 bury, and Co.'s Entire," " Wine, Rum, and Brandy 
 Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." 
 This indeed has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus 
 from time immemorial. It has always been in the 
 family of the Wagstafl's, so that its history is tolerably 
 preserved by the present landlord. It was much fre- 
 
 ( i 
 
30i 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 quented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of 
 Elizabeth, and was loolced into now and then by the 
 wits of Charles the Second's days. But what Wag- 
 staff principally prides himself upon, is, that Henry 
 the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke 
 the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walk- 
 ing staff. This, however, is considered as rather a 
 dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. 
 
 The club which now holds its weekly sessions here 
 goes by the name of " the Roaring Lads of Lillle 
 Britain." They abound in old catches, glees, and 
 choice stories, that are traditional in the place, and 
 not to be met with in any other part of the metro- 
 polis. There is a madcap undertaker who is in- 
 imitable at a merry song; but the life of the club, 
 and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully 
 
 Wagstaff himself. 
 
 His ancestors were all wags be- 
 
 fore him, and he has inherited with the inn a large 
 stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from ge- 
 neration to generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper 
 little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face 
 with a moist merry eye, and a little shock of grey 
 liair behind. At the opening of every club night he 
 is called in to sing his ' Confession of Faith," which 
 is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gur- 
 ton's Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many 
 variations, as he received it from his father's lips; for 
 it has been a standing favourite at the Half-Moon and 
 Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written : nay, he 
 aflirms that bis predecessors have often had the ho- 
 nour of singing it before the nobility and gentry at 
 Christmas mummeries, when Little Britain was in all 
 its glory.' 
 
 It would do one's heart good to hear on a club 
 night the shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, 
 and now and then the choral bursts of half a dozen 
 discordant voices, which issue from this jovial man- 
 sion. At such times the street Ls lined with listeners, 
 who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a 
 confectioner's window, or snufling up the steams of 
 a cook-shop. 
 
 • As mine host of the Hair-Moon's Conression of Faith may not 
 be familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the 
 currentsongs of Lillle Britahi, I suhjoin.it in its original orthogra- 
 phy. I would observe, that the whole club always join in the 
 chorus, with a feariUI tliumping on the tabic and clattering of 
 pewter pots. 
 
 I cannot eate but lyUe meate, 
 
 Sly stomaclie is not good. 
 But sure I thinke that I can drinke 
 
 Willi him that wearcs a hood. 
 Though I go bai-e take ye no care, 
 
 I nothing am a colde, 
 I stuff my skyn so full within, 
 ;'' Of joly good ale and olde. 
 
 chorui. Backe and syde go bare, go bare. 
 Booth foole and hand go colde. 
 But belly, God scud thee good ale ynoughe, 
 Whether it be new or olde. 
 
 I have no rost, bat a nut browne to&te, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fyre i 
 A little hreade shall do me ateade, 
 
 Much breade I not dcsyre. 
 
 There are two annual events which produce great 
 stir and sensation in Little Britain; these are St Bar- 
 tholomew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During 
 the time of the Fair, which is held in the adjoining 
 regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but 
 gossiping and gadding about. The late <|uiet streets 
 of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of j 
 strange figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of j 
 rout and revel. The fiddle and the song are heard 
 from the tap-room, morning, noon, and night; and 
 at each window may l)e seen some group of boon 
 companions, with half shut eyes, hats on one side, 
 pipe in moulh and tankard in hand, fondling, and 
 prosing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. 
 Even the fiber decorum of private families, which! 
 must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my 
 neighbours, is no proofagainst this Saturnalia. There 
 is no such thing as keeping maid-servanis within 
 doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with j 
 Punch and the Puppet Show ; the Flying Horses; 
 Signior Polito ; the Fire Eater ; the celebrated Mt I 
 Paap ; and the Irish Giant. I'he children, too, lavisli | 
 all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, 
 and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, | 
 trumpets, and penny whistles. 
 
 But the I.ord Mayor's day is the great anniversary, j 
 The Lord Mayor is looked up to by the iiihabilantii 
 of Little Britain as the greatest potentate upon eartli; 
 his gilt coach with six horses as the summit of hu- 
 man splendour; and his procession, with all the She- 
 riff and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of I 
 earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea, that 
 the King himself dare not enter the city, \Yilhoui 
 first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and asking 
 permission of the Lor^. Mayor : for if he did, heaven 
 and earth I there is no knowing what might be the 
 consequence. The man in armour who rides before 
 the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, liasorden | 
 to cut down every body that offends against the dig- 
 nity of the city; and then there is the little man witb | 
 
 No frost nor snow, nor winde, 1 trowe. 
 
 Can hurte mcc if I wolde, 
 I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorut, Backe and syde go bare, go bare, elc. 
 
 And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfo, 
 
 Loveth well good ale to sceke. 
 Full oft drynkes ghee, tyll ye may see, 
 
 The tcares run downe bur chccke. 
 Then doth shee irowlc to mc the bowlc, 
 
 Even as a mault-worme sholde. 
 And saylh, swcete haric, 1 took my parte 
 
 Of this Joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
 Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winkc, 
 
 Even as goodc foiluwcs shulde doc, 
 They shall not myssc to have the bUssc, 
 
 Good ale d(itli bring men to, 
 And all poore soules that have scowred bowlcn, 
 
 Or have them lustily trolde, 
 God save the ly ves of them and their wives, 
 
 Whether they be yonge or ohle. 
 chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 303 
 
 a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window 
 of the state coach and holds the city sword, as long 
 as a pike staff— Odd's blood ! If he once draws that 
 sffoni, Majesty itself is not safe ! 
 
 Ciulert lie protection of this mighty potentate, there- 
 fore the good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. 
 Temple Bar is an effectual barrier against all interior 
 foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has 
 but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train 
 bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters un- 
 der arms, and he may bid defiance to the world ! 
 
 Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own 
 habits, and its own opinions. Little Britain has long 
 llonrisiied as a sound heart to this great fungous me- 
 tropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it 
 as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John 
 Buliism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew 
 the national character, when it had run to waste and 
 degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general spi- 
 rit of liarmony that prevailed throughout it ; for though 
 there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion 
 between the adherents of the cheese-monger and the 
 apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial 
 societies, yet these were but transient clouds, and 
 soon passed away. The neighbours met with good- 
 ffill, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abus- 
 ed each other except behind their backs. 
 
 I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing 
 parties at which I have been present ; where we play- 
 ed at All-fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-ine, and 
 other choice old games; and where we sometimes had 
 a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir 
 Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the neighbours 
 would gather together, and go on a gipsy party to 
 Epping Forest. It would have done any man's heart 
 good to see the merriment that took place here as we 
 banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we 
 made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the 
 songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! 
 After dinner too, the young folks would play at blind- 
 man's-bulTand hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to 
 see them tangled among the briars, and to hear a fine 
 romping girl now and then squeak from among the 
 bushes. The elder folks would gather round the 
 cheese-monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk 
 politics; for they generally brought a newspaper in 
 their pockets, to pass away time in the country. 
 They would now and then, to be sure, get a little 
 warm in argument; but their disputes were always 
 adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella maker 
 in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending 
 the subject, managed somehow or other to decide in 
 favour of both parties. 
 
 All empires, however, says some philosopher or 
 historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. 
 Luxury and innovation creep in; factions arise; and 
 families now and then spring up, whose ambition and 
 intrigues throw the who.o system into confusion. 
 Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain 
 been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity 
 
 of manners threatened with total subversion, by the 
 aspiring family of a retired butcher. 
 
 The family of the Lambs had long been among the ' 
 most thriving and popular in the neighbourhood : the 
 Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and 
 every botly was pleased when Old Lamb had made 
 money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on 
 a brass plate on his door. In an evil honr, however, 
 one of the Miss Lambs had the honour of being a 
 lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her 
 grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three 
 towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family 
 never got over it; they were immediately smitten 
 with a passion for high life; set up a one-horse car- 
 riage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's 
 hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the 
 whole neighbourhood ever since. They could no 
 longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's- 
 buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, 
 which nobody bad ever heard of in Little Britain ; 
 and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, 
 and playing upon the piano. Their brother too, who 
 had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy 
 and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these 
 parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly 
 by talking about Kean, the Opera, and the Edinbro' 
 Review. 
 
 What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, 
 to which they neglected to invite any of their old 
 neighbours; but they had a great deal of genteel 
 company from Theobald's-road, Red-lion-square, and 
 other parts towards the west. There were several 
 beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray'slnn- 
 lane and Ilatton-garden; and not less than three Alder- 
 men's ladies with their daughters. This was not to 
 be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an 
 uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of 
 miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of 
 hackney coaches. The gossips of tha neighbourhood 
 might be seen popping their night-caps out at every 
 window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by; and 
 there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a 
 look-out from a house just opposite the retired but- 
 cher's, and scanned and criticized every one that 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 This dance was a cause of almost open war, and 
 the whole neighbourhood declared they would have 
 nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that 
 Mrs Lamb, when she had no engagements with her 
 quality acquaintance, would give little hum-drum tea 
 junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she 
 would say, "in a friendly way , " and it is equally 
 true that her invitations were always accepted, in 
 spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, the 
 good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music 
 of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum 
 an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they 
 would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs Lamb's 
 anecdotes of Alderman Plunkel's family, of Portsoken- 
 waitl, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses 
 
304 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 of Cnitched-Friars; but then tliey relieved their con- 
 sciences, and averted llie reproaches of their confede- 
 rates, by canvassing at tlie next gossiping convocation 
 every thing tliat had passed, and pulling the Lambs 
 and their rout all to pieces. 
 
 The only one of the family that could not be made 
 fashionable was the retired butcher himself. Honest 
 Lamb, in spite of the meekness of his name, was a 
 rough, hearty old fellow, with the voice of a lion, a 
 head of black hair like a shoebrush, and a broad face 
 mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the 
 daughters always spoke of him as " (he old gentle- 
 man," addressed him as " papa," in tones of infinite 
 softness, and endeavo'ued to coax him into a dressing- 
 gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do 
 what they might, there was no keeping down the 
 butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all 
 their glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humour 
 that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his sen- 
 sitive daughters shudder; and he |)ersisted in wearing 
 bis bluecotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, 
 and having a " bit of sausage with his tea." 
 
 He was doomed, however, to share the unpopular- 
 ity of his family. He found his old comrades gra- 
 dually growing cold and civil to him ; no longer laugh- 
 ing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a 
 fling at "some people," and a hint about "quality 
 binding." This both nettled and perplexetl the ho- 
 nest butcher; and his wife and daughters, with the 
 consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking ad- 
 vantage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon 
 him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at 
 Wagstaffs; to sit after dinner by himself and take his 
 pint of port — a liquor he detested— and to nod in his 
 chair in solitary and dismal gentility. 
 
 The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along 
 the streets in French bonnets, with unknown beaux; 
 and talking and laughing so loud that it distressed the 
 nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even 
 went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually in- 
 duced a French dancing-master to set up in the neigh- 
 bourhood; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took 
 fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he 
 was fain to pack up iiddle and dancing pumps, and 
 decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely 
 forgot to pay for his lodgings. 
 
 I bad flattered myself, at first, with the idea that 
 all this fiery indignation on the part of the commu- 
 nity was merely the overflowing of their zeal for good 
 old English manners, and their horror of innovation; 
 and I applauded the silent contempt they were so 
 vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French 
 fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say 
 that I soon perceived the infection had taken hold ; 
 and that my neighbours, after condemning, were be- 
 ginning to follow their example. I overheard my 
 landlady importuning her husband to let their daugh- 
 ters have one quarter at French and music, and that 
 they might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even 
 saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less than five 
 
 French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs 
 parading about Little Britain. 
 
 I still had my hopes that all this folly would <n». 
 dually die away; that the Lambs might move out of 
 the neighbourhood; might die, or might run away 
 with attorneys' apprentices; and that quiet and slm. 
 plicity might be again restored to the community, 
 But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman 
 died, and left a widow with a large jointure and a 
 family of buxom daughters. The young ladies iiad 
 long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a 
 prudent father, which kept down all their elegant as- 
 pirings. Their ambition being now no loii<;er re- 
 strained broke out into a blaze, and they openly look 
 the field against the family of the butcher. It is true 
 that the Lambs, having had the start, had naturally 
 an advantage of them in the fashionable career. Tiiey 
 could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance 
 quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances; but 
 the Trotters were not to be distanced. VVlien the 
 Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, tiie 
 Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as line co- 
 lours. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were 
 sure not to be behind-hand : and though they might 
 not boast of as good company, yet they had double the 
 number, and were twice as merry. 
 
 The whole community has at length divided itself | 
 into fashionable factions, under the banners of tliese 
 two families. The old games of Pope-Joan and Toni- 
 come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is no 
 such thing as getting up an honest country dance; 
 and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the 
 mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed; 
 the Miss Lambs having pronounced it " shocking 
 vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the 
 most fashionable part of Little Britain ; the Lambs 
 standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys-square, and 
 the Trotters for the vicinity of St Bartholomew's. 
 
 Thus is this little territory torn by factions and in- 
 ternal dissensions, like the great empire whose name 
 it bears; and what will be the result would puzzle the 
 apothecary himself, with all his talents at prognostics, 
 to determine; though I apprehend that it will termi- 
 nate in the total downfall of genuine John Rullism. 
 
 The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant lo 
 me. Being a single man, and, as I observed before, 
 rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, I have 
 been considered the only gentleman by profession in 
 the place. I stand therefore in high favour witlibolh 
 parties, and have to hear all their cabinet counsels and 
 mutual backbilings. As I am too civil not to agree 
 with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed 
 myself most horribly with both parties, by abusing 
 their opponents. I might manage to reconcile tbis lo 
 my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, 
 but I cannot to my apprehension — if the Lambs and 
 Trotters ever come to a reconciliation and compare 
 notes, I am ruined ! 
 
 I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in 1 
 time, and am actually looking out for some otiierne$t 
 
TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 9ttl 
 
 se of Ihe Miss Lambs 
 
 lis folly would gra- 
 i might move on', of 
 or might run away 
 that quiet and sim. 
 to the commimily, 
 . An opulent ulltnan 
 large jointure and a 
 le young ladies liad 
 the parsimony of a 
 1 all their elegant as- 
 now no longer re- 
 and they openly look 
 ; butcher. It is true 
 start, had naturally 
 lonable career. They 
 play the piano, dance 
 li acquaintances; Lnt 
 slanced. When llie 
 ers in their hals, the 
 d of twice as line co- 
 ce, the Trotters were 
 id though they might 
 it they had double the 
 rry. 
 
 it length divided ilseif 
 the banners of these 
 f Pope-Joan and Tom- 
 iscarded; there is no 
 )nest country dance; 
 young lady under Ihe 
 indignantly repulsed; 
 unced it " shocking 
 broken out as to the 
 Britain; the Lambs 
 oss-Keys-square, and 
 It Bartholomew's, 
 n by factions and in- 
 empire whose name 
 isult would puzzle the 
 talents a», prognostics, 
 tnd that it will ternil- 
 luine John Piullism. 
 remely unpleasant to 
 as I observed before, 
 IJ5 personage, I have 
 man by profession in 
 Ihigh favour with both 
 cabinet counsels and 
 ,00 civil not to agree 
 Is, I have committed 
 parties, by abusing 
 ;e to reconcile this to 
 accommodating one, 
 In— If the Lambs and 
 liliation and compare 
 
 to beat a retreat in 
 It for some otbeniesi 
 
 ill Uiis great city, where old English manners are still 
 kept up; where French is neither eaten, drank, dan- 
 ced, nor spoken ; and where there are no fashionable 
 families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, 
 like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old 
 house about my ears; bid a long, though a sorrowful 
 adieu to my present alwde, and leave the rival factions 
 of the Lambs and Ihe Trotters to divide Ihe distracted 
 empire of Little Britakx. 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by tliy silver stream 
 Of tilings mure than mortal sweet Sliakspearc woiilil ilrcam ; 
 The fairies by mooiitiKlit dance round liis^ecn bed, 
 Forhallow'd the turf is which pilluw'd his head. 
 
 GABRICK. 
 
 To a homeless man, who has no s|)Ot on this wide 
 world which he can truly call his own, there is a 
 Diomentary feeling of something like independence 
 and territorial consequence, when, after a weary 
 day's travel, he kicks off his Irauls, thrusts his feet 
 into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn Are. 
 Let the world without go as it may ; let kingdoms 
 rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to pay 
 his bill, he is, for Ihe time being, the very monarch 
 of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the 
 poker his sceptre, and the little parlour, of some 
 twelve feet sipiare, his undisputed empire. It is a 
 morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the 
 uncertainties of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming 
 out kindly on a cloudy day; and he who has advanced 
 some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the 
 importance of husbanding even morsels and moments 
 of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine ease in mine 
 ion?'' thought I, as I gave the lire a stir, lolled back 
 in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent louk alraut 
 the little parlour of the Red Horse, at Slratford-on- 
 1 Avon. 
 
 The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing 
 I through my mind as the clock slrnck midniglit from 
 tiie tower of the church in which he lies buried. 
 There was a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty 
 chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, 
 with a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I under- 
 stood it as a modest hint that it was time to retire. 
 My dream of absolute dominion was at an end; so 
 abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to 
 1 avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide 
 Book under my arm, as a pillow companion, I went 
 I to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakspeare, the Jubilee, 
 |and David Gar rick. 
 
 The next morning was one of those quickening 
 I mornings which we sometimes have in early spring; 
 I for it was about the middle of March. The chills of 
 la long winter had suddenly given way; the north 
 I wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came 
 stealing from the west, breathing the breath of life 
 
 into natm-e, and wooing every bud aud flower to 
 burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 
 
 I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. 
 My first visit was to the liouse where Shakspeare was 
 born, and where, according to tradition, he wag 
 brought up to his father's craft of wool-combing. It 
 is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and plaister, 
 a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight 
 in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of 
 its s<pialid chambers are covered with names and 
 inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims of all na- 
 tions, ranks, and conditions, from the prince to the 
 peasant; and present a simple, but striking instance 
 of the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind 
 lo Ihe great poet of nature. 
 
 The house is shown by a gamdous old lady, in a 
 frosty red face, lighted np by a cold blue anxious eye, 
 and garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, 
 curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. She 
 was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with 
 which this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. 
 There was the shattered stock of Ihe very matchlock 
 with which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poach- 
 ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box; which 
 proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Waltei' 
 Raleigh; the sword also with which he played Ham- 
 let; and Ihe identical lantern with which Friar Lau- 
 rence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb! 
 There was an ample supply also of Shakspeare's mul- 
 berry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary 
 powers of self-nuiltiplication as Ihe wood of the true 
 cross; of which there is enough extant to build a 
 ship of the line. 
 
 The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is 
 Shakspeare's chair. It stands in the cliimney nook 
 of a small gloomy chamber, just beiiind what was 
 his father's shop. Here he may many a lime have 
 sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit 
 with all Ihe longing of an urchin; or of an evening, 
 listening to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, deal- 
 ing forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes 
 of the troublesome times of England. In this chair 
 it is the custom of every one that visits Ihe house to 
 sit : whether this be done with Ihe hope of imbibing- 
 any of the inspiration of Ihe bard I am at a loss to say 
 — I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess pri- 
 vately assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
 such was Ihe fervent zeal of devotees, that the chair 
 had to be new bottomed at least once in three years. 
 It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this extra- 
 ordinary chair, that it partakes something of the vola- 
 tile nature of the Santa Casa of Lorello, or the flying 
 chair of the Arabian enchanter; for though sold some 
 few years since to a northern princess, yet, strange 
 to tell, it has found its way back again to the old 
 chimney corner. 
 
 I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am 
 ever willing lo be deceivetl, where the deceit is 
 ))leasant and costs nothing. I am therefore a ready 
 believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of 
 
 n 
 
rm 
 
 THE SKETCH DOOK. 
 
 r 
 
 fn>l>lin!i aiul itreal iiicii ; and would advise all travellers 
 wliu travel Tur llieir graUllcalioii tu be the same. 
 Vliai iii it to UN, wlicllicr Miesc stories he true or 
 Ihlsc, so loiij; as wc enii iM^rsuiide ourselves into the 
 belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality 7 
 There is nothing like resolute pNMl-hunioured eredu- 
 lily in these matters; ond t»\ this (K'casion I went 
 even so far as willin;;ly to iH'lievc the ehiims of mine 
 hostess to a lineal descent from the |M»el, when, un- 
 luckily for my faith, she put into my haiuls a play of 
 her own com|Misition, which set all belief in her con- 
 san^^uinily al derumce. 
 
 l-'roni the birth-place of Shakspearc n few paces 
 hroti;;hl mo to his );rave. He lies buried in the 
 chancel of the parish church, a large and venerable 
 pile, mouhlering with age, but richly ornamented. 
 It stands (m the hanks of the Avon, on an embowered 
 |i«>int, and separateil by adjoining ganlens from the 
 suburbs of the town. Its situation is (piiet and retir- 
 ed : the river runs nmrnnuing at the foot of the 
 rhnrchyard, aiul the elms which grow upon its banks 
 dr(Mi|> tlieir branches into its clear lH)sam. A n avenue 
 of limes, the boughs of which are curiously iuterlactul, 
 so as lo form in summer an arched way of foliage, 
 leads u|> fnim the gule of the yard lo the church 
 porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the 
 grey toiubstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
 earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise 
 tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have 
 built their nestj) among the cornices and lissures of 
 the walls, and keep up a continual thiKer and chirp- 
 ing; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty 
 grey spire. 
 
 In tiic course of my rambles I met with tlie grey- 
 headed sexton, and accompanied him home lo get the 
 key of the church. He had li\'ed in Stratford, man 
 and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consi- 
 der himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
 that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few 
 years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out 
 uiion the Avon and its bordering meadows ; and was 
 a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort, which 
 pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A 
 low white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully 
 scrublieil, served for parlour, kitchen, and hall. 
 Ilows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along 
 the dresser. Un an old oaken table, well rubbed 
 and polished, lay the family bible and prayer-book, 
 and the drawer contained the family library, com- 
 posed of about, half a score of well-thumbeil volumes. 
 An ancient clock, that important article of collage 
 fiunilure, ticked un the opposite side of the room ; 
 with a bright warming-p<tn hanging un one side of 
 it, and the old man's horn-handled Sunday cane on 
 the other. The ilre-place, as usual, was wide and 
 deep enough to adnut a gossip knot within its jaml)s. 
 In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter sew- 
 ing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite 
 corner was a superannuated crony, whom lie ad- 
 dresscil by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, 
 
 had been his companion fi-oni childhood. They |i.-h| 
 playetl together in infancy; they had worketl to. 
 getlier in manhood; they were now tottering lUnit 
 and gossiping away Ihcevemngof life; and in a short 
 time they will pn)bid)ly be buried together in ihe 
 neighliouring churchyard. Il is not often tlini we 
 see two streams of existence running thus cvruiy arid 
 Ir.inqnilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "U>. 
 som scenes" of life that they are to lie met with. 
 
 I had hoped to gather some traditionary aiimloies 
 of the bartl from these ancient chroniclers, hm ihry 
 had nothing new lo impart. The long interviil (lur- 
 ing which Shakspcare's writings lay in cuni|hiralive 
 ueglccl has spread its shadow over his history ; and 
 il is his good or evil lol that scarcely any {\m^ re- 
 mains to his biographers but a scanty handful of con- 
 jectures. 
 
 The sexlon aiuI his companion had l)een employed 
 as carpenters on the prcparalituis for Ihe cclelualetl 
 Stratford jubilee, and they rcmemliered (>arrick, the 
 prime mover of the f«He, who superintended the ar- 
 rangenu'uls, and who, according lo the sexlon, naj 
 "a short punch man, very lively and biistliii)!;." 
 John Ange had assisted also in culling down Sliak- 
 speare's mulberry tree, of which he had a niorsel in 
 his |iocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign (piickenerof 
 literary conception. 
 
 I was grievetl to hear these two worthy wiuliij 
 speak very dubiously of the el(Mpieut dame who slinws 
 the Shakspeare house. John Ange shook his head 
 when I mentioned her valuable and inexliausllble 
 collection of relics, parlieularly her remains oriiui 
 mulberi7-tree; and the old sexton even expressed! 
 doubt as to Shakspeare having been burn in her 
 house. I soon discovered that he looked upon ber 
 mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's 
 tomb ; the latter having comparatively but few visi- 
 tors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very 
 outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth 
 diverge into different channels even at the fountain 
 head. 
 
 Wc approached Ihe church through the avenne ol 
 limes, and entered by a golhic porch highly orni- 
 menled, wilh carved doors of massive oak. The in- 
 terior is spacious, and the architecture and embtHish- 
 mcnt superior to those of nutst country cluirriies. 
 There are several ancient monuments of noliillly and | 
 gentry, over some of which hang funeral escutcheons, 
 and banners dropping piecemeal from the walls. 'Itie 
 tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. The place b 
 solenm and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before tiw 
 |H)inted windows, and the Avon, which runs at a sliort : 
 distance fi-om the walls, keeps up a low per|wtiul 
 murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard 
 is buried. There are four lines inscribed on il, saM 
 lo have been written by himself, and which have in 
 them something extremely awful. If they are indeed 
 bis own, they show that solicitude about Ihequietol 
 Ihe grave, which seems natural to line sensibililio | 
 and thoughtful minds : 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 • 
 
 lliond. Thry lin<t 
 hail worked lo- 
 iw (otlerint; !iU)ul 
 lire; niul ill a sluirt 
 ed t()g«'tlicr in Die 
 not ont'ii liini we 
 ,11); tliiis cvrnly .ind 
 ill 8I10I1 <|iii('l "bu' 
 ) Im; met willi. 
 ililioiiary anrdolcs 
 iioniclers, liiil ilipy 
 c loii^ intervui ilur- 
 lay ill coiii|iara(ive 
 ei Itis history ; and 
 rcely any Ihini? re- 
 anty handful of cou- 
 
 hail Iwcii employed 
 i for the coleliralfd 
 iihered (larrii-k, the 
 ilteiintentUMl llie ar- 
 ; to the sexton, was 
 rely and hustling." 
 outline down Sliak- 
 ) he hutl a morsel in 
 )vei'eii;n(iuickenerof 
 
 two worthy wijjlili 
 tent ilaine who shows 
 \ii;$e shook his head 
 lie and inexhnustible 
 
 her remains of the 
 ton even expresstda 
 m been born in her 
 
 he looked upon btr 
 
 a rival to the poet's 
 Iratively but few visi- 
 
 [IS differ at the very 
 the stream of truth 
 even at the fountaio 
 
 lirough the avenue o( 
 |c porch highly orna- 
 nassiveoak. The in- 
 lecture and cmbiHislh 
 \t country cimrclies. 
 Iments of nohility aiid 
 funeral esciiichcom, 
 from the walls, 'itn 
 [lancel. The place iJ 
 llms wave before the 
 IwhichrunsatasliMt 
 _ up a low perpetiul ! 
 [e spot where the baid 
 insciilwd on it, sad 
 [, and which have ia 
 11. Iftheyareindcri 
 Vie about the (juielot 
 d to line sensibilili« 
 
 nood frlonil, for Jdhw' Mkn, Airltoarv 
 TimIIk (he (liMl rnrliMcil lirrc. 
 Dli'MTil Im^ III- lliiit niwin'ii lliciw' ntiiiliil, 
 AikI cunt he, lir tli.it iikivcr my iMino '. 
 
 Just over the i^ravc, in a niche of the wall, is n bust 
 ofSliakspcare, put up shortly after his death, and con- 
 sideretl as a reseinhlaiire. The aspect is pleasant and 
 serene, with a linely-archod forehead; and I Ihouftht 
 I c«Hihl read in it clear indiralioiis of that cheerful, 
 social <lisposition, by which he was as much charac- 
 tcri/t'tl anioii}]; his coiileniporarics as by the vastness 
 of his genius. The inscription mentions his a^c at 
 the time of his decease — lifty-three years; an nn- 
 liinely death for the world : for what fruit nii^lit not 
 liave Iteeii expected from the fi^oKlen aiituiiiii uf such 
 a inintl, slieltertHi as it was from the stormy vicissi- 
 liuirs of life, and iloiirishing in the sunshine of \m- 
 piiiar and royal favour ! 
 
 The inscription on the tonihslnne hasnotlieen with- 
 out its effect. It has preveiiletl the removal of his 
 remains from the bosom «)f his native place to West- 
 minster Ablwy, which was at one time conleniplated. 
 A few years since also, as some lalxxirers were <iij;;;in$r 
 to make an adjoining; vault, the earth caved in, so as 
 to leave a vacant space almost like an arch, llii-ou{;h 
 which one might have reached into his grave. No 
 one, however, presumed to meddle with his remains 
 so awfully guarded by a malediction ; and lest any 
 of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, 
 should he tempted to commit depredations, the old 
 sexton kept watch over the place for two days, until 
 the vault was iinished and the aperture closed a!j;ain. 
 I He told me tliat he had made lK>ld to look in at the 
 hole, but could see neither coflin nor bones; nothing 
 butdust. It was something, I thought, to have 8<,cn 
 jtlie dust of Shakspearc. 
 
 Next to this grave are those of his wife , his fa- 
 Ivourite {laughter, Mi's Hall, and others of his family. 
 lOn a tomb close by, also, is a full length cfligy of his 
 lold friend John Combe, of usurious memory; on 
 |whoin he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
 flierc are other monuments around, but the mind 
 I'criisos to dwell on any thing that is not connected 
 lilh Shakspeare. His idea pervades the place; the 
 A'hole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The fecl- 
 |n!», no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here 
 Indidge in perfect conlidence : other traces of biin 
 Inay he false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence 
 [nd absolute certainly. As I trod the sounding pave- 
 lent, there was something intense and thrilling in 
 ^le idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shak- 
 peare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was a 
 )ng time before I could prevail upon myself to leave 
 be place; and as T pas>i<ed through the churchyard, I 
 lucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only 
 elicthat I have brought from Stratford. 
 I had now visited the usual object of a pilgrim's de- 
 tlion, bat I had a desire to see the old family seat 
 the Lucys, at Cbarlecot, and to ramble through the 
 >i'k where Shakspeare, in company with some of the 
 
 roysters of Stratford, committed Ids yotillifid offence 
 of deer-stealing. In Ibis hare-brained exploit we are 
 told that he was taken priscmcr, ami carried to the 
 keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in ihilcful 
 captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir 
 Thomas l.iicy, his treatment must have hern g.dling 
 and humiliating; for it so wrought np<m his spirit an 
 to produce a roiigli pas«|uiiiudc, which was affixed to 
 the park gate at Cbarlecot.' 
 
 This tlagitioiis attack upon the dignity of the knight 
 so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at War- 
 wick lo put the severity of the laws in force against 
 the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare did not wait 
 to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shiro 
 and a country attorney. He rortbwilh aliandoned 
 the pleasant hanks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; 
 wandered away to London; liecame a hanger-im lo 
 the theatres; then an actor; and, linally, wrote for 
 the stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir 
 Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-conilH 
 er, and the world gained an immortal poet, lie re- 
 tained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh 
 treatment of the Lord of Chaiiecol, and revenged 
 himself in his writings; but in the sportive way of a 
 gmHl-natnied mind. Sir Thomas is said to l)c the 
 original of Justice Shallow, and the satire is slily fixed 
 upon him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, 
 like tbase of the knight, had white luces' in the quat- 
 terings. 
 
 Various attempts have been made by his biogra- 
 phfs to soften and explain away this early transgres- 
 sion of the poet ; but I look upon it as one of those 
 thoughtless exploits natural to his situation and turn 
 of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had doubtless all 
 the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisci- 
 plined, and undirected genius. The poetic tempera- 
 ment has naturally something in it of the vagabond. 
 When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and de- 
 lights in every thing eccentric and licentious. It is 
 often n turn-np of a die, in the gambling freaks of 
 fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great 
 rogue or a great poet; and had not Sliakspeare's mind 
 fortunately taken a literary bias, be might have as 
 daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic 
 laws. 
 
 I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, 
 like an unbroken colt, about the ncighlwurhooti of 
 Stratford, he was lo be found in the company of all 
 kinds of odd anomalous characters; that he associated 
 
 > The following i« the only olanza extant of this lampoon 1— 
 
 A (farlinmcnt mcmlKir, a justice of peace, 
 At liomc a |>ooi' scarecrow, at London an aue : 
 ir lowbic is Lucy, as some volkc iniscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever bebU it. 
 
 He thinks liinisclf great ; 
 
 Yet an assc in Ills stale, 
 Wc allow by his ears but with asses to mate. 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volkc miscalle it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 > The hicc is a pike or Jack, and abounds In the Avon about 
 Charlecot. 
 
f 
 
 308 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 h'1 
 
 
 with all the madcaps of the pinoe, and was one of 
 ihase unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men 
 shake their heads, and predict that they will one day 
 come to the gallows. To him the ponchinp^ in Sir 
 Thomas Lucy's park was douhlless like a foray to a 
 Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and as yet un- 
 tamed, imagination, as somethmg delightfully ad- 
 venturous.' 
 
 The old mansion of Gharlecot and it', surrounding 
 park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, 
 and are peculiarly interesting, from being connected 
 with this whimsical but eventful circumstance in the 
 scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at 
 little more than three miles distance from Stratford, 
 I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that >' might 
 stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from 
 which Shakspeare must have derived his earliest ideas 
 of rural imagery. 
 
 The country was yet naked and leafless; but Eng- 
 lish scenery is always verdant, and the sudden 
 change in the temperature of the weather was sur- 
 prising in its quickening effects upon the landscape. 
 It was inspiring and animating to witness this first 
 awakening of spring; to feel its warm breath stealing 
 over the senses ; to see the moist mellow earth begin- 
 ning to put forth the green sprout and the tender blade : 
 and the trees and shrubs, in their teviving tints and 
 bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage 
 and flower. The cold snowdrop, that little borderer 
 on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste 
 white blossoms in the small gardens before the cot- 
 tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was 
 faintly heard from tlie fields. The sparrow twitter- 
 ed about the thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the 
 robin threw a livelier note into his late querulous 
 
 > A proof of Shakst)c,ire'8 random liabilsand associates in liis 
 youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, piclicd up 
 at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and nieutioncd in his " Pictures- 
 que Views on the Avon." 
 
 About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market 
 town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village 
 yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford to- 
 pers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighbouring 
 villages to a conletit of drinking. Among others, the people of 
 Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and 
 in the number of the champions was Shakspean;, who, in spite of 
 Ihft proverb, that "they who drink Iwer will think beer," was as 
 true to his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford 
 was staggered at tbe lirst onset, and sounded a retreat while they 
 had yet legs to carry them off the Odd. They had scarcely march- 
 ed a mile when, their legs failing tliem, they were forced to lie 
 down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still 
 ctanding, and gmis by the name of Shakspcare's tree. 
 
 In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed 
 returning to B(>dford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, 
 liaving drank with 
 
 I'iping Pcbworth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted llilbro'. Hungry Grafton, 
 nudging Exhall, Papist Wicksfoitl, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 
 
 "The villages here alluded to," says Irelaml, "still bear the 
 epithets thus given them i the people of Pebworth arc still famed 
 r(H- their skill on Uio pipe and l.ibor ; Ililborough is now called 
 Haunted Hittwrough ; aud Grafton is famotu fur the poverty of 
 its soil." 
 
 wintry strain; and the lark, springing up from i|,e 
 reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the 
 bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody, 
 As I watched the liltle songster, mounting up high^p 
 and higher, until his Iwdy was a mere speck on the 
 white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still fi||. 
 ed with his music, it called to mind Shakspeare's ex- 
 quisite little song in Cymbeline : 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings. 
 
 And Phtrbus 'gins arise. 
 His steeds to water at those springs, 
 
 On chaliced llowcrs that lies. 
 
 And winking mary-buds l)egin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With every thing that pretty bin, 
 
 My lady sweet, arise ! 
 
 Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic 
 ground : every thing is associated with the idea of 
 Shakspeare. Every old cottage that I saw, I fancieil 
 into some resort of his boyhood, where he had ac- 
 quired his intiiTiate knowledge of rustic life and man- 
 ners, and heard those legendary tales and wild super- 1 
 stitions which he has woven like witchcraft inio hit 
 dramas. For in his time, we are told, it was a po- 
 pular amusement in winter evenings "to sit round 
 the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knighis, 
 queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves,. 
 cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars." 
 
 My route for a part of the way lay in sighlofthe| 
 Avon, which made a variety of the most fanciful dou- 
 blings and windings through a wide and fertile valley; I 
 sometimes glittering from among willows, which 
 fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing amoo; 
 groves, or beneath green banks; and someliines ram- 
 bling out into full view, and making an azure sveq) 
 round a slope of meadow land. This bepuliriilbosooi 
 of country is called the Vale of the Red Horse. A 
 distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be ill 
 boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape 
 lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of liiej 
 Avon. 
 
 After pursuing the road for almut three miles, II 
 turned off into a foot-path, which led along the bord-l 
 ers of fields and under hedge-rows to a private galel 
 of the park ; there was a stile, however, fur thel)e-| 
 nefit of the pedestrian; there being a public ri|;liti 
 way through the grounds. I delight in these liuspil- 
 able estates, in Avhich every one has a kind of iirO'l 
 perty — at least as far as the foot-path is concerneiL| 
 It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lol,| 
 and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighlxHiri 
 thus to have parks and pleasure grounds thrown opHl 
 for his recreation. He breathes the pure uiras freelT,[ 
 
 > Scot, in bis " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumcMlMaliodil 
 these flrc-side fancies. "And they have so fraid us witli liuU' 
 gars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, Mlyrs, | 
 faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, liiwt 
 glantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changclini^s, innitftl 
 Robin-goodfellow, the siMorne, the mare, the man In lheole,ilil 
 hell-waine, the flcr drake, the pucklu, Tom Tliombc, lioligolitaj 
 Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that wu were a 
 of our o^n shadowes." 
 
 ry 
 
 Coi 
 
 1 have now 
 larj^e building 
 tliegoiliicstyli 
 Iniill ill the fit 
 mains very n 
 wnsidered a 
 wealthy coun 
 gateway opem 
 
THE SKETCH BOOR. 
 
 309 
 
 iren'8 gate sings. 
 
 ind lolls as Inxuriously under the shade, as the lord 
 of the soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling 
 all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same 
 I time, the trouble of paying fur it, and keeping it in 
 onler. 
 
 I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks 
 and elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of cen- 
 turies. The wind sounded solemnly among their 
 branches, and the rooks cawed from their hereditary 
 nesls in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a 
 long lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the 
 view but a distant statue; and a vagrant deer stalking 
 like a shadow across the opening. 
 
 There is something about these stately old avenues 
 that has the effect of golhic architecture, not merely 
 from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
 bearing the evi<lence of long duration, and of having 
 had their origin in a period of time with which we 
 associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken 
 also the long-settled dignity, and proudly-concentrat- 
 ed independence of an ancient family; and I have heard 
 a worthy but aristocratic old friend observe, when 
 speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, 
 liiat " money could do much with stone and mortar, 
 bill, thank Heaven, there was no such thing as sud- 
 denly building up an avenue of oaks." 
 
 It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
 scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the ad- 
 joining park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part 
 of the Lucy estate, that some of Shakspeare's com- 
 mentators liave supposed he derived bis noble forest 
 meditations of Jacques, and the enchanting woodland 
 pictures in "As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings 
 through such scenes, that the mind drinks deep but 
 quiet draughts of inspiration, and becomes intensely 
 sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The 
 imagination kindles into reverie and rapture; vague 
 but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon 
 it; and we revel in a mule and almost incommuni- 
 cable luxury of thought. It was in some such moud, 
 and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, 
 wliich threw Iheir broad shades over the grassy banks 
 and quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet's 
 fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which 
 breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary : 
 
 Under the green wood tree, 
 Wlio loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry Uiroat, 
 Unto the sweet bird's note, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hilliert 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rongh weather. 
 
 1 have now come in sight of the house. It is a 
 I large building of brick, with stone quoins, and is in 
 the golhic style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been 
 built in the first year of her reign. The exterior re- 
 mains very nearly in its original state, and may he 
 considered a fair specimen of the residence of a 
 wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great 
 gateway opens from the park into a kind of courtyard 
 
 in front of the house, ornamented with a grass-plot, 
 shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imita- 
 tion of the ancient barbacan; being a kind of out-post, 
 and flanked by towers; though evidently for mere or- 
 nament, instead of defence. The front of the house 
 is completely in the old style ; with stone-shafted case- 
 ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, 
 and a portal with armorial l)earings over it, carved in 
 stone. At each corner of the building is an octagon 
 tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 
 
 The Avon, which winds through the park, makes 
 al)end justat the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which 
 swee|)8down from the rear of the house. Large 
 herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its bord- 
 ers, and swans were sailing majestically upon its bo- 
 som. As I contemplated the venerable old mansion, 
 I called to mind FalstafTs encomium on Justice Shal- 
 low's abode, and the affected indifference and real 
 vanity of the latter : 
 
 Falstnff. Tou have here a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
 Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all. Sir 
 John :— marry, good air. 
 
 Whatever may have been the joviality of the old 
 mansion in the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air 
 of stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway 
 that opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was 
 no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
 gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
 harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only 
 sign of domestic life that I met with was a white cat 
 stealing with wary look and stealthy pace towards 
 the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I 
 must not omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel 
 crow which I saw suspended against the barn wall, 
 as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly ab- 
 horrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous 
 exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously 
 manifested in the case of the bard. 
 
 After prowling about for some time, I at length 
 found my way to a lateral portal, which was the 
 every-tlay entrance to the mansion. I was court- 
 eously received by a worthy old hotise-kecper, v bo, 
 with the civility and communicativeness of her order, 
 showed me the interior of the house. The greater 
 part has undergone alteralions, and been adapted to 
 modern tastes and inmles of living : there is a line old 
 oaken staircase : and the great hall, that noble feature 
 in an ancient manor-house, si ill retains much of the 
 appearance itnnisthave Iwd in the days of Shakspeare. 
 The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one end is a 
 gallery, in which stands an organ. The weapons and 
 trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the 
 hall of a country gentleman, have made way for fa- 
 mily portraits. Tltere is a wide hospitable lire-place, 
 calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood lire, for- 
 merly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the 
 opposite side of the hall is the huge gothiclww-win- 
 dow, with stone shafts, which looks out upon thecourt- 
 yard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the 
 armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- 
 
310 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 
 i 
 
 tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
 observe in the quarterings the three white luces, by 
 -which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified 
 with that of Justice Shailow. They are mentioned 
 in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, 
 where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having 
 " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into 
 his loilge." The poet had no doubt the offences of 
 himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we 
 may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats 
 of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pomp- 
 ous indignation of Sir Thomas. 
 
 shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not : I \rill make a Star- 
 Chaml)er matter of it ; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he 
 shall not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. 
 
 Slender. In thecounty of Glosler,justiceot peace, and coram. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 
 
 Slender. Ay, and ratatorum too, and a gentleman born, 
 master parson; who writes himsclf^rmigieroinauy bill, warrant, 
 quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three 
 hundred years. 
 
 Slender, All his successors gone before him have done't, and 
 all his ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the 
 dozen white luces in their coat. • * • • • 
 
 Shallow. The council shall hear ; it is a riot. 
 
 Evutis. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no 
 fear of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the 
 fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; tal(c your vizameuts in that. 
 
 Shallow. Ua! o' my life, if 1 were young again, the sword 
 should end it! 
 
 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait, 
 by Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great 
 beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old 
 housekee|)er shook her head as she pointed to the 
 picture, and informed me that this lady had been 
 sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a 
 great portion of the faiiiUy estate, among which was 
 that part of the park where Shakspeare and his com- 
 rades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost had 
 not been entirely regained by the family even at the 
 present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to 
 confess that she had a surpassingly fine hand and 
 arm. 
 
 The picture which most attracted my attention, 
 was a great painting over the fire-place, containing 
 likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who 
 inhabited the hall in the latter part of Sliakspeare's 
 life-time. I at first thought that it was the vindictive 
 knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that 
 it was his son ; the only likeness extant of the former 
 being an effigy upon his tomb jn the church of the 
 neighbouring hamlet of Charlecot. The picture gives 
 a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. 
 Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet; white 
 shoes with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, 
 or, as Master Slender would say, " a cane-coloured 
 beard. " His lady is seated on the opposite side of 
 the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the 
 children have a most venerable stiffness and formality 
 of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the 
 family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the 
 foreground, ond one of the children holds a bow ;— 
 
 all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, ha\vking,i 
 and archery— so indispensable to an accomplished I 
 gentleman in those days. ' 
 
 I regretted to find lliat the ancient furniture of thel 
 hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped tomeetviihl 
 the state'y elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the I 
 country Squire of former days was wont to sway the I 
 sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in which I 
 it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sail 
 enthroned in awful state when the recreant SliakJ 
 speare was brought before him. As I like to deck! 
 out pictures for my own entertainment, I pie 
 myself with the idea that this very hall had been the] 
 scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- 
 ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied tomyselfl 
 the rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guai^l 
 of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men wiih I 
 their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought I 
 in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of ga^l^( 
 keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followedl 
 by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright I 
 faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-| 
 opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daugh-l 
 ters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing I 
 the youthful prisoner with that pity" that (Ivrells in | 
 womanhood." — Who would have thought that i 
 poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority I 
 of a country squire, and the sport of rustics boors, vm I 
 soon to become the delight of princes ; the theme of I 
 all tongues and ages ; the dictator to the human mind; [ 
 and was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a I 
 caricature and a lampoon ! 
 
 I was now invited by the butler to walk into the I 
 garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and 
 arlwur where the justice treated Sir John FalstalTand 
 Cousin Silence " to a last year's pippin of his ovn | 
 grafting, with a dish of carraways ; " but I had af 
 ready spent so much of the day in my ramblings Ihi^ 
 I was obliged to give up any further investigations. 
 When about to take my leave, I was gratified by the I 
 civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I 
 would take some refreshment : an instance of good | 
 old hospitality, which I grieve to say we castle-hunt- 
 ers seldom meet with in modern days. I make no I 
 doubt it is a virtue which the present representative | 
 of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shak- 
 s[)eare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallov I 
 importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing | 
 instances to Falstaff. 
 
 > Bishop Earlc, spcaliing of the country gentleman of his time, 
 oltservcs, " his housekeeping is seen much in the dlfTcrenl familin I 
 of dogs, an<lserving-nicn attendant on Uieir kcni. Is; and llic deep- 
 ness of llieir throats is the depth of his discoui'sc. A liawli be 
 esteems llic true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ainl)itiow 
 loscem delighted with the spurt, and have his list gloved nilhlili | 
 jesses." And Gilpin, In his description of a Mr Hastings, rcnurki. 
 " he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, oltrr, and I 
 badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and ahorl wln^. 
 His great hall was commonly strewed with marrowbones, .iihI till 
 of hawk |)eruhes, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a hmtil 
 hearth, paved with brick, luy some of tlie choicest tcrrlen, hounds | 
 and spaniels." 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 511 
 
 n hunting, hawking,] 
 to an accomplished! 
 
 cient furniture of the I 
 i hoped tomeetwiihl 
 d oak, in wliich thel 
 ras wont to sway the! 
 )mains;an(linwhichl 
 bted Sir Thomas satl 
 I tlie recreant Sliak-j 
 . As I like to deckl 
 rtainment, I pleased! 
 ery hall had been the | 
 lination on the tnorn- 
 ;e. I faiicieii to myself I 
 d by his body-guard! 
 ed serving-men with) 
 3 culprit was brought I 
 he custody of game- 
 )ers-in, and followed! 
 rns. I fancied bright! 
 ;eping from the half- 
 gallery the fair daugh* 
 fully forward, eyeing I 
 t pity "that dwells in 
 ave thought that this I 
 tre the brief authority! 
 rtof rustics boors, was I 
 [trinces ; the theme o(| 
 tr to the human mind; 
 on bis oppressor by 1 
 
 itler to walk into the 
 visit the orchard and 
 I Sir John Falslaff and 
 s pippin of his o\m | 
 vays ; " but I had i^ 
 ill my ramblings tlih 
 urther investigations. 
 was gratifleil by the I 
 )er and butler, that 1 1 
 an instance of good 
 say we castle-liunt- 
 rn days. I make no I 
 iresent represenlatire 
 ancestors ; for Sliak- 
 lakes Justice Shallov 
 witness his pressing 
 
 try gentleman of his linw. 
 icIilnlhnditreiTntfamilin 
 leir kern. Is; and the deep- 
 discoiii-sc. A hawk tw 
 .isexcecdinslyainbitiow 
 ive Ills fl«t Riovcd nilhhh 
 if a BIr Hastings, rcnuib 
 luck, fox, hare, ollor, and 
 .. Ions and ihorl winpd. 
 Utiiiiarrowbone«,iiiHlMI 
 
 id terriers. On « hnwl 
 choicest terriers, houndt 
 
 ,. By cock and pye, Sir, you (hall not away to-night *••••! 
 
 I not excuse you ; you shall not be excused ; excuses shall not 
 (idiDltted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; you shall not be exciu- 
 *. Some pigeons, Uavy; a couple of short-legged 
 
 a; a joint of mutton ; and any pretty little tiny kick-sliaws, tell 
 If jlliam Cook." 
 
 I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall, 
 ly mind had become so completely possessed by the 
 
 aginary scenes and characters connected with it, 
 jial I seemed to be actually living among them. 
 Every thing brought them as it were before my eyes ; 
 ind as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost 
 spected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence 
 
 lavering forth his favourite ditty : 
 
 "'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
 And welcome merry Shrovc-tide!" 
 
 On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on 
 e singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread 
 Ihe magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to 
 ^ve to things and places a charm and character not 
 leirown, and to turn this" working-day world" 
 L a perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true en- 
 nter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, 
 at upon the imagination and the heart. Under the 
 aid influence of Shakspeare, I had been walking 
 h day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the 
 iidscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged 
 kery object with the hues of the rainbow. I bad 
 en surrounded with fancied beings : with mere airy 
 jotliings, conjured up by poetic power; yet which, to 
 le, had all tlie charm of reality. I had heard Jac- 
 lues soliloquize beneath his oak ; had beheld the fair 
 losalind and her companion adventuring through the 
 loodlands; and, above all, had been once more pre- 
 Int in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and bis conleni- 
 praries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to 
 ! gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. 
 |en thousand honours and blessings on the bard who 
 i thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent 
 lusions; who has spread exquisite and unbought 
 leasures in my chequered path ; and beguiled my 
 lint in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and 
 ieerful sympathies of social life ! 
 I As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 
 oused to contemplate the distant church in which 
 ! poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the 
 ^lediclion, which has kepi his ashes undisturbed in 
 [quiet and hallowed vaults. What honour could 
 s name have derived from being mingled in dusty 
 mpanionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and 
 nal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? What would 
 |:rowded corner in Westminster Abbey have been, 
 npared with this reverend pile, which seems to 
 knd in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum ! 
 he solicitude about the grave may be hut the offspring 
 Ian over-wrought sensibility ; but human nature is 
 ^de up of foibles and prejudices ; and its best and 
 ^ierest affections are mingled with these factitious 
 8. He who has sought renown about the 
 Md, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly fa- 
 
 vour, will And, after all, that there b no love, no ad- 
 miration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as tliat 
 which springs up in his native place. It is there that 
 he seeks to be gathered in peace and honour among 
 his kindred and his early friends. And when the 
 weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that 
 the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly 
 as does the infant to the mother's arms, :o suik to 
 sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 
 
 How would it have cheered the spirit of the youth- 
 ful bard, when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a 
 doubtful world, he cast back a heavy look upon his 
 paternal home, could he have foreseen that, before 
 many years, he should return to it covered with re- 
 nown ; that his name should l)ecome the boast and 
 glory of his native place ; that his ashes should be re- 
 ligiously guarded as its most precious treasure ; and 
 that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were fixed 
 in tearful contemplation, should one day become the 
 beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to 
 guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 
 
 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 "I appeal to any white man it ever he entered Logan's cabin 
 hungry, and he gave him nut to eat ; if ever he came cold and 
 naked, and he clothed him not." 
 
 Speech of an Indun Chief. 
 
 There is something in the character and habits 
 of the North American savage, taken in connexion 
 with the scenery over which he is accustomed to 
 range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic ri- 
 vers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, won- 
 derfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the 
 wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature 
 is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple with 
 difficulties, and to support privations. There seems 
 but little soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly 
 virtues; and yet, if we would but take ihe trouble to 
 penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual 
 taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual 
 observation, we should find him linked to his fellow- 
 man of civilized life by more of those sympathies and 
 affections than are usually ascribed to him. 
 
 It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of 
 America, in the early periods of colonization, to be 
 doubly wronged by the while men. They have been 
 dispossessed of their hereditary possessions by merce- 
 nary and frequently wanton warfare : and their cha- 
 racters have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
 writers. The colonist has often treated them like 
 beasts of the forest; and the author has endeavoured 
 to justify him in his outrages. The former found it 
 easier to exterminate than to civilize; the latter to vi- 
 lify than to discriminate. The appellations of savage 
 and pagan were deemed sufficient to sanctioit the 
 hostilities of lioth ; and Ihus the poor wanderers of the 
 
 :f i 
 
 i- n 
 
313 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 % 
 
 forest were persecuted and defamed, not because tliey 
 were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 
 
 The rights of the savage have seldom been properly 
 appreciated or respected by the white man. In peace 
 he has, too, been often tlie dupe of artful traflic ; in 
 war he has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose 
 life or death was a question of mere precaution and 
 convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when 
 his own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by 
 impunity ; and little mercy is to be expected from him, 
 when he feels the sting of the reptile, and is conscious 
 of the power to destroy. 
 
 The same prejudices, which were indulged thus 
 early, exist in common circulation at the present day. 
 Certain learned societies have, it is true, with laudable 
 diligence, endeavoured to investigate and record the 
 real characters and manners of (he Indian tribes; the 
 American government, too, has wisely and humanely 
 exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing 
 spiiit towards them, and to protect them from fraud 
 and injustice. ' The current opinion of the Indian 
 character, however, is too apt to be formed from the 
 miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang 
 on the skirts of the settlements. These are too com- 
 monly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and 
 enfeebled by the vices of society, without being bene- 
 fited by its civilization. That proud independence, 
 which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has 
 been shaken down, and tiie whole moral fabric lies in 
 ruin. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
 sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed 
 and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of 
 their enlightened neighbours. Society has advanced 
 upon (hem like one of those withering airs that will 
 sometimes breathe desolation over a whole region of 
 fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied 
 their diseases, and superinduced upon their original 
 barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given 
 them a thousand supertluous wants, whilst it has di- 
 minished their means of mere existence. It has driven 
 before it the animals of the chase, who fly from the 
 Kound of the axe and the smoke of the settlement, 
 and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and 
 yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often lind the 
 Indians on oiu" frontiers to be mere wrecks and rem- 
 nants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the 
 vicinity of the settlements, and sunk into precarious 
 and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hope- 
 less poverty, a canker of the mhid unknown iu savage 
 life, corrodes their spirits and blights every free and 
 noble quality of their natures. They become dnuik- 
 en, indolent, feeble, thievish and pusillanimous. They 
 loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among 
 
 I Tlie American Rovcinmcnt lias liccn iiulcfallgalile in its exer- 
 tions to aiueliurale (lie sltiialiiui of Uic liitliaiis, ami t(i intruduoc 
 among lliem (lie arts orcivllizalion, ami civil and religions Idiow- 
 ledgc. To |iro(cc( (liein from (lie frauds of tliu while traders, no 
 purcliase of land from (lieiii by individuals Is iiermitted ; nor is any 
 {icrson allowed to receive laiiils from (hem as a present, without 
 Ihe express sancdon of goveriuncn(. These pivcauUons arc 
 vlrlfllly ciiforcwi. 
 
 spacious u'^ellings replete with elaborate coinrurtj 
 which only render them sensible of the comparative 
 wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads I 
 its ample board before their eyes ; but they are % I 
 eluded from the banquet. Plenty revels overthel 
 fields; but they are starving in the midst of its abuD-l 
 dance : the whole wilderness has blossomed into a I 
 garden ; hut they feel as reptiles that infest it. 
 
 How different was their state while yet the undis- 1 
 puled lords of the soil ! Their wants were few, and I 
 the means of gratification within their reach. They I 
 saw every one round them sharing the same lot, en- 
 during the same hardships, feeding on the same ali-l 
 menls, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roofl 
 then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger; do| 
 smoke curled among the trees, but he was welcumel 
 to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in liis re-| 
 past. " For," says an old historian of New England [ 
 " their life is so void of care, and they are so lovingl 
 also, that they make use of those things they enjoy ul 
 common goods, and are therein so compassiouaie I 
 that rather than one should starve through want, tit 
 would starve all ; thus they pass their time meiriljJ 
 not regarding our pomp, but are better content ffiU 
 their own, which some men esteem so meanly ol"| 
 Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and enen 
 of their primitive natures; they resembled* hose wji 
 plants, which thrive best in the shades of the fures 
 but shrink from the hand of cultivation, and peri 
 beneath the influence of (he sun. 
 
 In discussing the savage character, writers havij 
 been too prone to indulge in vulgar prejndiee ; 
 passionate exaggeration, instead of (he caniliii leDipi 
 of true philosophy. They have not sufliciendy ( 
 sidered (he peculiar circums(ances in which tlie I 
 diaiis have been placed, and the peculiar principy 
 under which they have been educated. No 1 
 acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian. 
 whole conduct is regulated according to soinegenen 
 maxims early implanted in his mind. The nion 
 laws that govern him are , to be sure , but fevj 
 but then he conforms to them all ; — the white nn 
 abour.ds in laws of religion, morals, and inannei'!i,b 
 how many does he violate ! 
 
 A frequent ground of accusation against (he India 
 is their disregard of treaties, and the treachery i 
 wantonness with which, in lime of apparent peai 
 they will suddenly fly to hos(iii(ies. The inleicoui 
 of (lie white men with the I.idians, however, is t 
 apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, nnil insullin 
 They seldom treat them with that candilence i 
 frankness which are uidispensable to real friendsiiii 
 nor is sufficient caution observed not to ulTend ajaiii 
 those feelings of pride or superstition, which ( 
 prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than 
 considerations of interest. The solitary savage fed 
 silently, but acutely. His sensibilities arc noldiHia 
 over so wide a surface as those of the while i 
 but they run in steadier and deeper channels. 
 pride, his afTeclions, his superstitions, are all din 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 315 
 
 elaborate comforts, 
 5 of the comparative 
 on. Luxury spreads I 
 «; but they are 'x- 
 nty revels over the 
 lie midst of its aban-l 
 las blossomed intot| 
 that uifest it. 
 while yettheundis-l 
 A'ants were few, and! 
 n their reach. Tlieyl 
 ing the same lot, en-l 
 [liiig on the same all- 1 
 e garments. No roof! 
 Iiomelcss stranger; noj 
 hut he was welcome 
 the hunter in liis re- 
 >rian of New England,! 
 md they are so loTiiij| 
 se things they enjoy 
 ein so compassionate,! 
 •ve through want, thejj 
 iss their lime meirilyj 
 re better content wii 
 jsteem so meanly of." 
 in the pride and ener 
 y resembled 'hose will 
 le shades of the fore 
 cultivation, and peris 
 m. 
 
 iharacter, writers havej 
 1 vulgar prejudice ar 
 id of the candid tcni| 
 e not suflicienlly 
 ances in whicli the 
 the peculiar princij 
 
 educated. No 
 than the Indian, 
 cording to some genei 
 lis mind. The mot 
 to be sure, but fewj 
 n all ; — the while m 
 orals, and maimei's, 
 
 ition against the Indi 
 and the treachery 
 time of apparent pes 
 ities. Tlie intercoi 
 rdians, however, is 
 ipressive, and insullii 
 Ih that caidiilence 
 sable to real friendshi| 
 
 ed not to offend a] 
 iperslition, which 
 lily quicker than 
 I'he solitary savage tf 
 isihilitiesarenoltiilfi 
 lose of the while 
 [l deeper channels. 
 
 •stltioiw, are all i 
 
 towards fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted or. 
 
 Itliem are proportionably severe, and furnish motives 
 
 lK)stility which we cannot sufficiently appreciate. 
 
 /here a community is also limited in number, and 
 
 one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian 
 
 >, the injury of an individual is the injury of the 
 
 rbole; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost in- 
 
 untaneously diffused. One council fire is sufficient 
 
 the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hosti- 
 
 ities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. 
 
 loquence and superstition combine to inflame the 
 
 Binds of the warriors. The orator awakens their 
 
 irtial ardour, and they are wrought up to a kind 
 
 'religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet 
 
 the dreamer. 
 
 An iaslance of one of those sudden exasperations, 
 rising from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, 
 1 extant in an old record of the early settlement of 
 
 ichusets. The planters of Plymouth had de- 
 the monuments of the dead at Passonage.ssit, 
 
 had plnndered the grave of the Sachem's mother 
 [some skins with which it had been decorated. The 
 lians are remarkable for the reverence which they 
 iterlain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes 
 at have passed generations exiled from the abodes 
 tlieir ancestors, when by chance they have been 
 ivelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn 
 ie from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully 
 
 irate tradition, have crossed the country for miles 
 some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where 
 ^e bones of their tribe were anciently deposited; and 
 ere have passed hours in silent meditation. In- 
 jienced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sa- 
 [em, whose mother's tomb had been violated, ga- 
 cred his men together, and addressed them in the 
 |lovring beautifully simple and pathetic harangue; 
 
 irious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affect- 
 instance of filial piety in a savage. 
 I" When last the glorious light of all the sky was 
 lemeath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began 
 [settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before 
 
 le eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, 
 
 tliich my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling 
 I that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' Behold, 
 
 son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that 
 re thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, 
 
 fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to lake revenge 
 [those wild people, who have defaced my monu- 
 
 U in a despiteful manner, disdaining our anil- 
 ities and honourable customs? See, now, the Sa- 
 l's grave lies liKe Ihe common people, defaced 
 Ian ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and 
 lilores thy aid against this thievish people, who 
 |e newly intruded on our land. If this be suffer- 
 
 I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habita- 
 This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a 
 
 |at, not able scarce to speak, began to get some 
 Ih, and recollect my spirits that were fled, 
 
 determined to demand your counsel and as- 
 
 Inee." 
 
 I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it 
 tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, 
 which have been atlrib'.ited to caprice and perfidy, 
 may often arise from deep and generous motives, 
 which our inattention to Indian character and customs 
 prevents our properly appreciating. 
 
 Another ground of violent outcry against the In- 
 dians is their barbarity to the vanquished. This had 
 its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. 
 The tribes, I'lough sometimes called nations, were 
 never so formidable in their numbers, but that the 
 loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this was 
 particularly the case when they had been frequently 
 engaged in warfare; and many an instance occurs in 
 Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been 
 formidable to its neighbours, has been broken up and 
 driven away, by the capture and massacre of its prin- 
 cipal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, 
 therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; not so much 
 to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future 
 security. The Indians had also the superstitious 
 belief, frequent among barbarous nations, and preva- 
 lent also among the ancients, that the manes of their 
 friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the 
 blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who 
 are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families 
 in the place of the slain, and are treated with the 
 confidence and affection of relatives and friends; nay, 
 so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that 
 when the alternative is offered them, they will often 
 prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather 
 than return to the home and the friends of their 
 youth. 
 
 The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners 
 has been heightened since the colonization of the 
 whites. What was formerly a compliance with po- 
 licy and superslitioki, has been exasperated into a gra- 
 tification of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible 
 that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
 dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the 
 gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to 
 battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which 
 they have individuaUy suffered, and they are driven 
 to madness and despair by the wide-spreading deso- 
 lation, and the overwhelming ruin of European war- 
 fare. The whites have too frequently set them an 
 example of violence, by burning their villages and 
 laying waste their slender means of subsistence : and 
 yet they wonder that savages do not show moderation 
 and magnanimity towards those who have left them 
 nothing but mere existence and wretchedness. 
 
 We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and 
 treacherous, because they use stratagem in warfare, 
 in preference to open force; but in this they are fully 
 justified by their rude code of honour. They are 
 early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy; the 
 bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in si- 
 lence, and take every advantage of his foe : he 
 triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which 
 he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an ener 
 
 4U 
 
 I- : ll 
 
 ■::l':,;: ; ■ 
 '1", ■ -^' 
 
314 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ! 
 
 my. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty 
 than open valour, owing to his physical weakness in 
 comparison with other animals. They are endowed 
 with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with 
 tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; but man has to depend 
 on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with 
 these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; 
 and when he perversely turns his hostility against his 
 fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle 
 mode of warfare. 
 
 The natural principle of war is to do the most harm 
 to our enemy with the least harm to ourselves; and 
 this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That 
 chivalrous courage which induces us to despise the 
 suggestions of prudence, and to nish in the face of 
 certain danger, is the oftspring of society, and pro- 
 duced by education. It is honourable, because it is 
 in fact (he triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinct- 
 ive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings 
 after personal ease and security, which society has 
 condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and 
 the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is 
 overcome by the superior dread of an evil which 
 exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished 
 and stimulated also by various means. It has been 
 the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. 
 The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it 
 the splendours of fiction; and even the historian has 
 forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken 
 forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. 
 Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its re- 
 ward : monuments, on which art has exhausted its 
 skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to 
 perpetuate a nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus 
 arliiicially excited, courage has risen to an extraor- 
 dinary and factitious degree of heroism ; and, arrayed 
 in all the glorious " pomp and circumstance of war," 
 this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse 
 many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which 
 silently ennoble the human character, and swell the 
 tide of human happiness. 
 
 But if courage intrinsically consists in the deflance 
 of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a conti- 
 nual exhibition of it. He lives in a state of perpetual 
 hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial 
 to his nature ; or rather seem necessary to mouse his 
 faculties and to give an interest to his existence. 
 Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare 
 is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for 
 fight, and lives with his weapons in his hands. As 
 the ship careers in fearful singleness through the soli- 
 tude of ocean;— as the bird mingles among clouds 
 and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across 
 the pathless fields of air; — so the Indian holds his 
 course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the 
 boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 
 may vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage 
 of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. 
 He traverses vast forests, exposed to the hazards of 
 lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining fa- 
 
 mine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, aret 
 obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe ofbari 
 he sports, like a feather, on their waves, and darts] 
 with the swiftness of an arrow, down the roari 
 rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatcl^ 
 ed from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his fo« 
 by the hardships and dangers of the chase : he wran 
 himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, andtb 
 buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cati^ 
 ract. 
 
 No hero of ancient or modern days can sor 
 the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, and i 
 fortitude with which he sustaiiis its cruellest affli(. 
 tion. Indeed, we here behold him rising superior t 
 the white man, in consequence of his peculiar educs 
 tion. The latter rushes to glorious death at the ( 
 non's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its gn. 
 proach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the tii 
 ried torments of surrounding foes and the protractei 
 agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting h 
 persecutors, and provoking their ingenuity of tortnn 
 and as the devouring flames prey on his very vital 
 and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises bj 
 last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of ana 
 conquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fall 
 to witness that he dies without a groan. 
 
 Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the« 
 historians have overshadowed the characters of t 
 unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasm 
 break through, which throw a degree of melanci* 
 lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally i 
 be met with in the rude annals of the eastern | 
 vinces, which, though recorded with the colouring 
 of prejudice and bigoti7, yet speak for themselva 
 and will be dwelt on with applause and $ynipalli]r| 
 when prejudice shall have passed away. 
 
 In one of the homely narratives of the Indian ] 
 in New England, there is a touching account of ti 
 desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indiai 
 Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of ol 
 discriminate butchery. In one place we read oflkj 
 surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when I 
 wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the misen 
 inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting too 
 cape, "all bemg dispatched and ended in tliecoi 
 of an hour." After a series of similar transactioi 
 "our soldiers," as the historian piously oh 
 "being resolved by God's assistance to makeafi 
 destruction of them," the unhappy savages I 
 hunted from their homes and fortresses, andpnn 
 with lire and sword, a scanty but galland band,! 
 sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, withtheirwitj 
 and children, took refuge in a swamp. 
 
 Burning with indignation, and rendered suHnil 
 despair; with hearts bursting with grief at thel 
 struction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sor I 
 the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refusedj 
 ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, I 
 preferred death to submission. 
 
 As the night drew on, they were surronmWl 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 315 
 
 KJr dismal retreat, so as to render escape impracti- 
 l)le. Thus situated, their enemy "plied tliem with 
 tall the time, by wiiich means many were killed 
 llmried in the mire." In the darkness and fog 
 
 ut preceded the dawn of day, some few broke 
 ugh the besiegers and escaped into the woods : 
 
 flhe rest were left to the conquerors, of which many 
 
 irere killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would 
 
 [ather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit still 
 I be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore 
 : mercy. When the day broke upon this handful 
 
 fforlom but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are 
 
 old, entering the swamp, "saw several heaps of 
 
 lemsitting close together, upon whom they discharg- 
 
 1 their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol bullets 
 |t a time; putting the muzzles of the pieces under the 
 s, withui a few yards of them; so as, besides 
 I that were found dead, many more were killed 
 Isunk into the mire, and never were minded more 
 
 jfriendorfoe." 
 
 Can any one read this plain unvarnisheil tale, with- 
 
 gt admiring the stern resolution, the unbending 
 de, the loftiness of spirit, that seemed to nerve the 
 
 l^tis of these self-taught heroes, and to raise them 
 ore tiic instinctive feelings of human nature? When 
 •Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the 
 
 knators clothed in their rol)es and seated with stern 
 nqaillity in tlieircurule chairs ; in this manner they 
 
 lilTered death without resistance or even supplication, 
 ch conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and 
 gnanimous ; in the hapless Indians it was reviled 
 
 k obstinate and sullen. IIow truly are we the dupes 
 
 I sbow and circumstance ! How different is virtue, 
 )thed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue, 
 
 ^ked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a 
 
 Oderness ! 
 
 [But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. 
 
 pe eastern tribes have long since disappeared; the 
 sis that sheltered them have been laid low, and 
 
 [tree any traces remain of them in the tbickly-set- 
 I states of New England, excepting here and there 
 an name of a village or a stream. And such 
 ist sooner or later be the fate of those other tribes 
 hicii skirl the frontiers, and have occasionally been 
 
 |(eigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of 
 nite men. In a little while, and they will go the 
 
 py that their brethren have gone before. The few 
 des which still linger about the shores of Huron and 
 
 |perior, and the tributary streams of the Mississipi, 
 I share the fate of those tribes that once spread 
 ter Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it 
 
 |ing the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic 
 i said to have existed .on the borders of the Sus- 
 ehanna; and of those various nations that flourished 
 ^ut the Patowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that 
 pled the forests of the vast valley of Shemandoah. 
 key will vanish like a vapour from the face of the 
 I'lh; their very history will be lost in forgetfulness ; 
 1 "the places that now know them will know them 
 I more for ever." Or if, perchance, some dubious 
 
 memorial of them should survive, it may be in the ro- 
 mantic di-eams of the poet, topeople in imagination his 
 glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan 
 deities of antiquity. But should he venture upon the 
 dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should 
 he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled; 
 driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of 
 their fathers; hunted like wild beasts about the earth; 
 and sent down with violence and butchery to the 
 grave; posterity will either turn with honor and in- 
 credulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at 
 the inhumanity of their forefathers.—" We are driven 
 back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no 
 farther — our hatchets are broken, our bows are snap- 
 ped, our fires are nearly extinguished— a little longer, 
 and the white man will cease to persecute us — for we 
 shall cease to exist!" 
 
 PHILIP OF POKANOKET, 
 
 AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 
 
 As monumental bronze unchang'd his look : 
 
 A soul tliat pity touch'd, but never shook : u ;', ,^ 
 
 Train'd, rroin his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier, 
 
 The llcrce extremes of good and ill to brook 
 
 Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear— '/ 
 
 A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. 
 
 Cutrmih. 
 
 It is to be regretted that those early writers, who 
 treated of the discovery and settlement of America, 
 have not given us more particular and oandid accounts 
 of the remarkable characters that flourished in savage 
 life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us 
 are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us 
 with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show 
 what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and 
 what he owes to civilization. There is something of 
 the charm of discovery in ligliting upon these wild 
 and unexplored tracks of human nature ; in witness- 
 ing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, 
 and perceiving those generous and romantic qualities 
 which have been artiflcially cultivated by society, 
 vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude mag- 
 nificence. 
 
 In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed 
 almost the existence, of man depends so much upon 
 the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting 
 a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native 
 character are reflned away, or softened down by the 
 levelling influence of what is termed good-breeding ; 
 and he practises so many petty deceptions, and af- 
 fects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes 
 of |)opularity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real 
 from his artificial character. The Indian, on the con- 
 trary, free from the restraints and refinements of po- 
 lished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and 
 independent l)eing, obeys the impulses of his inclina- 
 tion or the dictates of his judgment; and thus the at- 
 
316 
 
 THE siu-:tch book. 
 
 m 
 
 tributes ot liis nature, being freely indulged, grow 
 singly great and striliing. Society is like a lawn, 
 where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble 
 eradicated, and where (he eye is delighted by the 
 smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, 
 who would study nature in its wildness and variety, 
 must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, 
 must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. 
 
 These reflections arose on casually looking through 
 a volume of early colonial history, wherein are re- 
 corded, with great bitterness, the outrages of the 
 Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New 
 England. It is painful to perceive, even from these 
 partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization 
 may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how 
 easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the 
 lust of conquest; how merciless and exterminating 
 was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the 
 idea, how many intellectual beings were hunted from 
 the earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of na~ 
 ture's sterling coinage, were broken down and 
 trampled in the dust ! 
 
 Such was the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, an 
 Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror 
 throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. He was 
 the most distinguished of a number of contemporary 
 Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narrha- 
 gansets, the Wampanoags, and the other Eastern 
 tribes, at the time of the firet settlement of New Eng- 
 land ; a band of native untaught heroes, who made 
 the most generous struggle of which human nature 
 is capable; lighting to the last gasp in the cause of 
 their country, w^ithout a hope of victory or a thought 
 of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit sub- 
 jects for local story and romantic fiction, they have 
 left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of his- 
 tory, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dun 
 twilight of tradition.' 
 
 When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are 
 called by their descendants, first took refuge on the 
 shores of the New World, from the religious perse- 
 cutions of the Old, their situation was to the last 
 degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, 
 and that number rapidly perishing away through 
 sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling 
 wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigours 
 of an almost arctic winter and the vicissitudes of an 
 ever-shifting climate ; their minds were filled with 
 doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them 
 from sinking into despondency but the strong excite- 
 ment of religious enthusiasm. In (his forlorn situa- 
 tion they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore 
 of Wampanoags, a powerful chief who reigned over 
 a great extent of country. Instead of taking ad- 
 vantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and 
 expelling them from his territories into which they 
 had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them 
 
 • Wliile cori-ectlng tlip proof sheets of tliis article, llie author is 
 iuibrined that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an 
 heroic poem on the story of Philip of Pokanoket., 
 
 a generous friendship, and extended towards theij 
 the rites of primitive hospitality. He came early ii,l 
 the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth atT 
 tended by a mere handful of followers ; entered ir.|J 
 a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them 
 portion of the soil, and promised to secure fortliem 
 the good- will of his savage allies. Whatever inavj 
 be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain (hat the ioie! 
 grity and good faith of Massasoit have never beeJ 
 impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimou] 
 friend of (he white men ; suffering them to extent 
 their possessions and to strengthen themselves in ibJ 
 land; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing 
 power and prosperity. Shortly before his death lid 
 came once more to New Plymouth, with Iii$ sod 
 Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant 
 of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. 
 
 At this conference he endeavoured to protect ihej 
 religion of his forefathers from the encroaching z« 
 of the missionaries; and stipulated that no fuiliierat] 
 tempt should be made to draw off his people froi 
 their ancient faith; but, finding the English oIk^ 
 nately opposed to any such condition, he mildly i 
 linquished the demand. Almost the last act of b'J 
 life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and 
 (as (hey had been named by the English), to ther 
 sidence of a principal settler, recommending mutuj 
 kindness and confidence ; and entreating that ihi 
 same love and amity which had existed l)etweentlH 
 white men and himself might be continued aflemanl 
 with his children. The good old Sachem died i 
 peace, and was happily gathered to his fathers beSir^ 
 sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remaim 
 behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. 
 
 His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. 9 
 was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudi 
 tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. Tlx 
 intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of (he siranjj 
 ers excited his indignation; and he beheld wiliiiKi' 
 easiness their exterminating wars with the neiglij 
 bouring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur ti 
 hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narrlu 
 gansets to rise against the English and drive themfro 
 the land. It is impossible to say whether this ao 
 sation waswarrai ed by ff^ts, or was grounded i 
 mere suspicions. It is evident, however, by the t 
 lent and ovcrliearing measures of the settlers, 
 (hey had by this time begun to feel conscious of U 
 rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsii a 
 inconsiderate in their neatmentof the natives, 
 dispatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander| 
 and to bring him l)efore their courts. He was tract 
 to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a huntinj 
 house, where he was reposing, with a band of I 
 followers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. IN 
 suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage olTeredli 
 his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the irasc 
 feelings of (his proud savage, as to throw him inlo^ 
 raging fever : he was permitted to return home, 
 condition of sending his son as a pledge for his f 
 
TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 3n 
 
 Us and dignity. Thi 
 
 appearance; but the blow he had received was fatal, 
 and before lie reached his home befell a victim to the 
 agonies of a wounded spirit. 
 
 Tlie successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or 
 King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account 
 ofhislofly spirit and ambitious temper. These, to- 
 gether with his well-known energy and enterprize, 
 had rendered him an object of great jealousy and ap- 
 preiiension, and he was accused of having always che- 
 rished a secret and implacable hostility towards the 
 whites. Such may very probably, and very natu- 
 rally, have been the case. He considered them as 
 originally but mere intruders into the country, who 
 had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending 
 an iniluence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole 
 race of his countrymen melting before them from the 
 foce of the earth ; their territories slipping from their 
 hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, 
 and dependent. It may be said that the soil was ori- 
 ginally purchased by the settlers; but who does not 
 know the nature of Indian purchases, in the early pe- 
 riods of colonization ? The Europeans always made 
 thrifly bargains through their superior adroitness in 
 traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of territory, 
 by easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated sa- 
 vage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of 
 law, by which an injury may be gradually and le- 
 gally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he 
 judges ; and it was enough for Philip to know that 
 before the intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen 
 were lords of the soil, ant that now they were becom- 
 ing vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 
 
 But whatever may have been his feelings of gene- 
 ral hostility, and bis particular indignation at the 
 treatment of his brother, he suppressed them for the 
 present ; renewed the contract with the settlers ; and 
 resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, 
 as it was called by the English, Mount Hope, ■ the 
 ancient seat of dominion of bis tribe. Suspicions, 
 however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, 
 began to acquire form and substance ; and he was at 
 length charged with attempting to instigate the va- 
 rious Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simul- 
 taneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppress- 
 ors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the 
 proper credit due to these early accusations against 
 the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and 
 an aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, 
 that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. 
 Informers abounded where tale-bearing met with 
 countenance and reward; and the sword was readily 
 unsheathed when its success was certain, and it carv- 
 ed out empire. 
 
 The only positive evidence on record against Phi- 
 lip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado In- 
 dian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by 
 a partial education which he had received among the 
 settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two 
 I or three limes, with a facility that evinced the loose- 
 > Now Bristol, RlHNle bland. 
 
 ness of his principles. He had acted for some time s 
 Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and 1 i 
 enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding:, ho^. - 
 ever, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round 
 his patron, he abandoned his service and went over 
 to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favour, 
 charged his foimer benefactor with plotting against 
 their safely. A rigorous investigation took place. 
 Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be exa- 
 mined, but nothing was proved against them. The 
 settlers, however, had now gone loo far to retract ; 
 they had previously determined that Philip was a dan- 
 gerous neighbour ; they had publicly evinced their dis- 
 trust, and had done enough to ensure bis hostility ; 
 according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning 
 in these cases, his destruction had become necessary 
 to their security. Sausaman, the ireacherous inform- 
 er, was shortly after found dead, in a pond, having 
 
 fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. 
 
 Three 
 
 Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of 
 Philip, were apprehended and tried, and, on the testi- 
 mony of one very questionable witness, were condemn- 
 ed and executed as murderers. 
 
 This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious pu- 
 nishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exas- 
 perated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had 
 fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the ga- 
 thering storm, and be determined to trust himself no 
 longer in the power of the white men. The fate of 
 his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled 
 in his mind ; and be had a further warning in the 
 tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the . 
 Narrbagansets, who, after manfully facing his accu- 
 sers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating 
 himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving 
 assurances of amity, had been perfidiously dispatched 
 at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his 
 fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that 
 he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and chil- 
 dren to the Narrbagansets for safety ; and wherever 
 he appeared, was continually surrounded by armed 
 warriors. 
 
 When the two parties were thus in a state of 
 distrust and irritation, the least spark was sufficient 
 to set them in a flame. The Indians, having weapons 
 in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed 
 various petty depredations. In one of their maraud- 
 ings, a warrior was fired upon and killed by a settler. 
 This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians 
 pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and 
 the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth 
 colony. 
 
 In the early chronicles of these dark and melan- 
 choly times, we meet with many indications of the 
 diseased stale of the public mind. The gloom of re- 
 ligious abstraction, and the wildness of their situa- 
 tion, among trackless forests and savage tribes, bad 
 disposed the colonists to sujierstilious fancies, and had 
 filled their imaginations with the frightftil chimeras 
 of witchcraft and speclrology. They were much 
 
318 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 \i 
 
 i 
 
 given also to a belief in omens. The troubles with 
 Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, 
 by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun 
 great and public calamities. The perfect form of an 
 Indian bow appeared in the air at New Plymouth, 
 trhich was looked upon by the inhabitants as a " pro- 
 digious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and 
 other towns in their neighbourhood, " was heard the 
 report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking 
 of the earth and a considerable echo ■." Others 
 were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning by the dis- 
 charge of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle 
 past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the 
 air, seeming to pass away to the westward ; others 
 fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over 
 their heads; and certain monstrous births, which 
 took place about the time, filled the superstitious in 
 some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of tliese 
 portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to 
 natural phenomena : to the northern lights which 
 occur vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which 
 explode in the air; the casual rushing of a blast 
 through the top branches of the forest; the crash of 
 fallen trees or disruptured rocks; and to those other 
 uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes 
 strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound still- 
 ness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled 
 some melancholy imaginations, may have been exag- 
 gerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened 
 to with that avidity with which we devour whatever 
 is fearful and mysterious. The universal currency of 
 these superstitious fancies, and the grave record made 
 of them by one of the learned men of the day, are 
 strongly characteristic of the times. 
 
 The nature of the contest that ensued was such as 
 too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized 
 men and savagrs. On the part of the whites it was 
 conducted with superior skill and success; but with a 
 wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natu- 
 ral rights of their antagonists : on the part of the In- 
 dians it was waged with the desperation of men 
 fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect 
 from peace, but humiliation, dependence, and decay. 
 
 The events of the war are transmitted to us by a 
 worthy clergyman of the time ; who dwells with 
 horror and indignation on every hostile act of the 
 Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions with 
 applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. 
 Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor; without 
 considering that he was a true-born prince, gallantly 
 fighting at the head of his subjects te avenge the 
 wrongs of his family, to retrieve the tottering power 
 of his line, and to deliver his native land from the 
 oppression of usurping strangers. 
 
 The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if 
 such had really been formed, was worthy of a capa- 
 cious mind, and, had it not been prematurely disco- 
 vered, might have been overwhelming in its conse- 
 quences. The war that actually broke out was but 
 < The nev. Increaw Mather's History, 
 
 a war of detail, a mere succession of casual expioji^ 
 and unconnected enterprizes. Still it sets forth the 
 military genius and daring prowess of Philip : and 
 wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrationii 
 that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple 
 facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a 
 fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and 
 hardship, and an unconquerable resolution, that com- 
 mand our sympathy and applause. 
 
 Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, 
 he threw himself into the depths of those vast and 
 trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were 
 almost impervious to any thing but a wild beast, or 
 an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, 
 like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief In 
 the bosom of the thunder cloud, and would suddenly 
 emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying 
 havoc and dismay into the villages. There were 
 now and then indications of these impending ravages, 
 that filled the minds of the colonists with awe aiui 
 apprehension. The report of a distant gun would 
 perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, wlieio 
 there was known to be no while man ; the cattle 
 which had been wandering in the woods would some- 
 times return home wounded ; or an Indian or two 
 would be seen lurking about the skirts of the foresls, 
 and suddenly disappearing; as the lightning willsom^ 
 times be seen playing silently about the edge of tbe 
 cloud that is brewing up the tempest. 
 
 Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded 
 by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost 
 miraculously from their toils, and, plunging into the 
 wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry, 
 until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, 
 laying the country desolate. Among his strong holds, 
 were the great swamps or morasses, which extend in 
 some parts of New England; composed of loose bogs 
 of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, bram- 
 bles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering 
 trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious 
 hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled 
 mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost 
 impracticable to the white man, though the Indian 
 could thrid their labyrhiths with the agility of a deer. 
 Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, 
 was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. 
 The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing lo 
 venture into these dark and frighttul recesses, where 
 they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot 
 down by lurking foes. They therefore invested the 
 entrance to the Neck, and began to build a fort, with 
 the thought of starving out the foe; but Philip and 
 his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm 
 of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the women 
 and children behind; and escaped away lo the west- 
 ward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes of 
 Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threat- 
 ening the colony of Connecticut. 
 
 In this way Philip became a theme of universal 
 apprehension. The mystery in which he was erne- 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 319 
 
 of sufferinf^ aiid 
 Dlution, that com- 
 
 loped exaggerated his real terrors. He was an evil 
 that walked in darkness; wlinse coming none could 
 foresee, and against which none knew when to be on 
 the alert. The whole country alionnded with ru- 
 mours and alarms. Philip seemed almost possessed 
 of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the widely- 
 extended frontier an irruption from the forest took 
 place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many super- 
 stitious notions also were circulated concerning him. 
 He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended 
 by an old Indian witch or pronhetess, whom he con- 
 sulted, and who assisted him by her charms and in- 
 cantations. This indeed was frequently the case 
 with Indian chiefs; either through their own credu- 
 lity, or to act upon that of their followers : and the 
 influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian 
 superstition has been fully evidenced in recent in- 
 stances of savage warfare. 
 
 At the time that Philip effected his escape from 
 Pocasset, his fortunes were in a desperate condition. 
 His forces had been thinned by repealetl fights, and 
 he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In this 
 time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canon- 
 chet, chief Sachem of all the Narrhagansets. He was 
 the son and heir of Miantoninio, the great Sachem, 
 vbo, as already mentioned, after an honourable 
 acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, had been pri- 
 vately put to death at the perfidious instigations of 
 the settlk^rs. " He was the heir," says the old chro- 
 nicler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, as 
 well as of bis nalitc towards the English : " — he 
 certainly was the heir of his i.isults and injuries, and 
 the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he 
 had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless 
 war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces 
 with open arms; and gave them the most generous 
 countenance and support. This at once drew upon 
 him the hostility of the English; and it was determin- 
 ed to strike a signal blow that should uivolve both 
 the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force 
 was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, 
 Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the 
 Narrhaganset country in the depth of winter, when 
 the swamps, being frozen and leafless, could be tra- 
 versed with comparative facility, and would no 
 longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to 
 the Indians. 
 
 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed 
 the greater part of his stores, together with the old, 
 the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a 
 strong fortress; where he and Philip had likewise 
 drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, 
 deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated 
 upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six 
 acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was constructed 
 with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to 
 what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and 
 indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. 
 Guided by a renegado Indian, the English pene- 
 trated, dirough December snows, (o this strong hold, 
 
 and came upon the garrison by surprise. The fight 
 was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants were re- 
 pulsed in their first attack, and several of their bravest 
 officers were shot down in the act of storming the 
 fortress sword in hand. The assault was renewed 
 with greater success. A lodgment was effected. 
 The Indians were driven from one post to another. 
 They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting 
 with the fury of despair. Most of tiieir veterans were 
 cut to pieces; and after a long and bloody battle, 
 Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving 
 warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in 
 the thickets of the surrounding forest. 
 
 The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; 
 the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, 
 the women, and the children, perished in the flames. 
 This last outrage overcame even the stoicism of the 
 savage. The neighbouring woods resounded with 
 the yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive 
 warriors, as they beheld the destruction of their dwell- 
 ings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and 
 offspring. ''The burning of the wigwams," says a 
 contemporary writer, " the shrieks and cries of the 
 women and children, and the yelling of the warriors, 
 exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that 
 it greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same 
 writer cautiously adds, "they were in much doubt 
 then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether 
 burning their enemies alive could be consistent Avilh 
 humanity, and the benevolent principles of the gos- 
 pel."- 
 
 The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is 
 worthy of particular mention : the last scene of his 
 life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian 
 magnanimity. 
 
 Broken down in his power and resources by this 
 signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless 
 cause which he had espoused, he rejected all over- 
 tures of peace, offered on condition of betraying 
 Philip and his followers, and declared that "he would 
 fight it out to the last man, rather than become a 
 servant to the English." His home being destroyed ; 
 his country harassed and laid waste by the incursions 
 of the conquerors; he was obliged to wander away to 
 the banks of the Connecticut; where he formed a ral- 
 lying point to the whole hotly of western Indians, and 
 laid waste several of the English settlements. 
 
 Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous ex- 
 pedition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate 
 to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to 
 procure seed-corn to plant for the sustenance of his 
 troops. This little band of adventurers had passed 
 safely through the Pequod country, and were in the 
 centre of the Narrhaganset, resting at some wigwams 
 near Pautucket river, when an alarm was given of an 
 approaching enemy. — Having bnt seven men by him 
 at the time, Canonchet dispatched two of them to the 
 top of a neighbourmg hill, to bring intelligence of the 
 foe. 
 
 < MS. of the llRV. W. Rugfflcs. 
 
5i0 
 
 niE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Panic-stnick by the appearance of a troop of Eng- 
 liah and Indians rapidly advancing, tliey lied in 
 breathless terror past their chieftain, without stopping 
 to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent an- 
 other scout, who did the same. He tlien sent two 
 more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and 
 affright, (old him that the whole British army was at 
 hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but im- 
 mediate flight. He attempted to escape round the 
 hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hos- 
 tile Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. 
 Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he 
 threw off, first his blanket, then his silver-laced coat 
 and belt of peag, by which his enemies knew him to 
 be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. 
 
 At length, in dashing through the river, his foot 
 slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his 
 gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, 
 as he afterwards confessed, " his heart and iiis bowels 
 turned wilhin him, and he became like a rolten stick, 
 void of strength." 
 
 To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seiz- 
 ed by a Pequoil Indian within a short distance of the 
 river, he made no resistance, though a man of great 
 vigour of body and boldness of heart. But on being 
 made prisoner, the whole pride of his spirit arose 
 wilhin him ; and from that moment, we find, in the 
 anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated 
 flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being 
 questioned by one of the English who first came up 
 with him, and who had not attained his twenty-second 
 year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty 
 contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, 
 *' You are a child — you cannot understand matters of 
 war — let your brother or your chief come — him will 
 I answer." 
 
 Though repeated offers were made to bim cf his 
 life, on condition of submitting with his nation to the 
 English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and re- 
 fused to send any proposals of the kind to the great 
 iMMlyof his subjects; saying, that he knew none of 
 them would comply. Being reproached with his 
 breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he 
 would not deliver up a Wampaiioag, nor the paring 
 of a Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would 
 burn the English alive in their houses ; he disdained 
 to justify himself, haughtily answering that others 
 were as forward for the war as himself, and " he de- 
 sired to hear no more thereof. " 
 
 So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity 
 to his cause and his friend, might have touched the 
 feelings of the generous and the brave ; but Canonchet 
 was an Indian ; a being towards whom war had no 
 courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion — 
 he was condemned to die. The last words of his that 
 are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. 
 When sentence of death was passed upon him, he 
 observed '' that he liked it well, for he should die be- 
 fore his heart was soft, or he had spoken any thing 
 unworthy of himself. " His enemies gave him the 
 
 death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by 
 three young Sachiims of his own rank 
 
 The defeat at the Narrhaganset fortress, and the 
 death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes 
 of King Philip. He made an ineffectual attempt to 
 raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to 
 take arms ; but though possessed of the native talents 
 of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the su. 
 perior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror 
 of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution 
 of the neighbouring tribes. The unfortunate chief. 
 tain saw liiniself daily stripped of power, and his 
 ranks rapidly thinning around him. Some were su- 
 borned by the wliites; others fell victims to hunger 
 and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which ihey 
 were harassed. His stores were all captured; hjj 
 chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes- 
 l:is uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was 
 carried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow es- 
 capes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and 
 only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," 
 says the historian, " being thus gradually carriedon 
 his misery was not prevented, but augmented there- 
 by; being himself made acquauited with the sense 
 and experimental feeling of (he captivity of his chil- 
 dren, loss of his friends, slaughter of his sui)jects, 
 bereavement of all family relations, and being stripped 
 of all outward comforts, before his own life sliouid be 
 taken away. " 
 
 To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own 
 followers began to plot against his life, that by sacri- 
 ficing him they miglit piircliasc dishonourable safety. 
 Through (reachery, a number of bis faithful adlie- 
 rents, the subjects of Wetanioe, an Indian princess 
 of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of 
 Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
 VVetamoe was among them at the time, and attempt- 
 ed to make her escape by crossinga neighbouring river: 
 either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold 
 and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the 
 water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. 
 Even death, the refuge of the wretched, wliere llie 
 wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no pro- 
 tection to this outcast female, wiiose great crime was 
 affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. 
 Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly 
 vengeance ; (he head was severed from the body and 
 set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taimton, to 
 the view of her captive subjects. They immediately 
 recognized the features of their unfortunate queen, 
 and were so affected at this barbarous si>ectacle, that 
 we are told they broke forth into the " most horrid 
 and diabolical lamentations. " 
 
 However Philip had borne up against the complicat- 
 ed miseries and misfortunes that surrounded him, the 
 treachery of his followers seemed to wring his heart 
 and reduce him to despondency. It is said that " lie 
 never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of 
 his designs. " The spring of hope was broken-the 
 ardour of enterprize was extinguished— he looked | 
 
IIFE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ."Ml 
 
 iround, and all was danger and darkness ; there was 
 uoeje to pity, nor any arm that conid bring deliver- 
 ance. 
 
 AVith a scanty band of followers, who still 
 
 gainst the complicat- 
 surrounded him, the 
 d to wring his heart 
 It is said dial "he 
 ad success in any of 
 ,pe was broken-the 
 iguished-he loolied 
 
 rtfliained true to his desperate fortunes, the n.^:i?nny 
 Pliilip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, 
 the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked 
 aboat, ■•■ e a spectre, among the scenes of former 
 power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, 
 and friend. There needs no better picture of his des- 
 titute and piteons situation, than that umished by 
 the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily 
 enlisting the feelings of the reader in favour of the 
 hapless warrior whom he reviles. "Philip, "he 
 I says, " like a savage wild beast, having lieen hunted 
 I by the English forces through the woods, alwve a 
 hundred miles backward and forward, at last was 
 I driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he 
 1 retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, 
 I which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the 
 licesseiigers of death came by divine permission to exe- 
 Icule vengeance upon him. " 
 
 F-ven in this last refuge of desperation and despair, 
 
 la sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We 
 
 ||)icliire him to ourselves seated among his care-worn 
 
 Ifollowers, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, 
 
 land acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness 
 
 land dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not 
 
 dismayed— crushed to the earth, but not humiliated 
 
 -he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, 
 
 jindto experience a fierce satisfaction in draining the 
 
 last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and 
 
 subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise alrave 
 
 It. The very idea of submission awakened the fury 
 
 }f Philip, and he smote to death one of bis followers, 
 
 Kho projwsed an expedient of peace. The brother 
 
 bribe victim made his escape, and in revenge betray- 
 
 1 the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men 
 
 |nd Indians were immediately dispatched to the 
 
 wamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury 
 
 nd despair. Before be was aware of their approach, 
 
 hey had begun to surround him. In a little while 
 
 lie saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his 
 
 jeet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from 
 
 ks covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, 
 
 Vit was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian 
 
 |f his own nation. 
 
 Sucii is the scanty story of the brave, but unfurlu- 
 
 laleKing Philip; persecuted while living, slandered 
 
 kd dishonoured when dead. If, however, we con- 
 
 Idereven the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by 
 
 lis enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable 
 
 lid lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for 
 
 |s fate, and respect for his memory. We (ind that, 
 
 nidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions 
 
 f constant warfare, be was alive to the softer feelings 
 
 iconnubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the 
 
 fnerous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of 
 
 i " beloved wife and only son " are mentioned with 
 
 (Sultation as causing him poignant misery : the death 
 
 liny near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new 
 
 blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and de- 
 sertion of many of his followers, in whose affections 
 he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, 
 and to have bereaved him of all further comfort. He 
 was a patriot attached to his native soil— a prince true 
 to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs— a sol- 
 dier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fa- 
 tigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, 
 and ready to perish in the cause he had espoused. 
 Proud of heart, and with an untameable love of natural 
 liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of 
 the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of 
 swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty 
 spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised 
 in the case and luxury of the settlements. With he- 
 roic (]ualilies and l)old achievements that would have 
 graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the 
 theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wan- 
 derer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down 
 like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tem- 
 pest — without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a 
 friendly band to record his struggle. 
 
 JOHN BULL. 
 
 An old song, made by an aged old pale, 
 
 Of un old w'oi-shiprul guiitlcnian who had a great cststo, 
 
 That kept a brave old house at a bounlirul rate. 
 
 And an old {Mrler to relieve the poor at Ills gale. ' -' ''' 
 
 With an old study lill'd full ot learned old book«. 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might know lilm by his looks. 
 With an old buttery-hatch worn quite ofT the hooks. 
 And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 Old Somu. 
 
 There is no species of humour in which the Eng- 
 lish more excel, than that which consists in caricatur- 
 ing and giving ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. 
 In this way they have whimsically designated, not 
 merely individuals, but nations; and in their fondness 
 fur pushing a joke, they have not spared even them- 
 selves. One would think that, in personifying itself, 
 a nation would be apt to picture something grand, 
 heroic, and imposing; but it is characteristic of the 
 peculiar humour of the English, and of their love for 
 what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have 
 embodied their national oddities in the figure of a 
 sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered 
 bat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken 
 cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in 
 exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable 
 point of view ; and have been so successful in their de- 
 lineations, that there is scarcely a being in actua! 
 existence more absolutely present to the public minf' 
 than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 
 
 Perhaps the continual contemplation of tb'. -^La; uui- 
 thus drawn of them, has contributed to fir ii. up iii 
 the nation; and thus to give reality to «:.;■; ;it i]v<t 
 
 il 
 
:m 
 
 niE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 
 may have been painted in a great measure from the 
 hnagination. Men are apt to acqnire peculiarities 
 that are continually ascribed to them. Tiie common 
 onlers of English seem wonderRilly captivated with 
 the beau idial which they have formed of John Bull, 
 and endeavour to act up to tlie broad caricature that 
 is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they 
 sometimes make their boasted bull-ism an apology for 
 their prejudice or grossness; and this I have especially 
 noticed among those truly home-bred and genuine 
 sons of the soil wlio have never migrated beyond the 
 sound of Bow -bells. If one of these should be a little 
 uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, 
 he confesses that lie is a real John Bull, and always 
 «peaks his mind. If he now and then Hies into an un- 
 reasonable burst of passion about tritles, he observes, 
 that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his 
 passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. 
 If he Itetraysa coarseness of taste, and an insensibility 
 to foreign relinements, he thanks heaven fur his igno- 
 rance-^lie is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for 
 frippery and nicknacks. His very proneness to be 
 gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for ab- 
 surdities, is excused under the plea of niuniliceuce^- 
 for Joint is always more generous than wise. 
 
 Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will con- 
 trive to argue every fault into a merit, aud will 
 frankly convict himself of being the honestest fellow 
 in existence. 
 
 However little, therefore, the character may have 
 suited in the first instance, it lias gradually adapted 
 itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted them- 
 selves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to 
 study English peculiarities, may gather much valuable 
 information from the innumerable portraits of John 
 Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature 
 yhops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile hu- 
 mourists, that are continually throwing out new por- 
 traits, and presenting different aspects from different 
 points of view ; and, often as he has been described, 
 I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch 
 of him, such as he has met my eye. 
 
 John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright 
 matter-of-fact fellow, with nuich less of poetry about 
 him than rich prose. There is little of romance in his 
 nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He 
 excels in humour mure than in wit; is jully rather 
 than gay; melancholy rather than morose; can easily 
 be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad 
 laugh; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn for 
 light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you al- 
 low him to have his humour, and to talk about him- 
 self; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, 
 with life and purse, huwcver soundly he may be 
 cudgelled. 
 
 In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a pro- 
 pensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy- 
 minded personage, who thinks not merely fur himself 
 and family, but for all the country round, and is most 
 generously dlsposeil to be every body's champion. 
 
 He is continually volunteering his services to settle lijg 
 neiglibour's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if 
 they engage in any matter of consequence without 
 asking his advice; though he seldom engages in any 
 friendly office of the kind without finishing by get- 
 ting into a squabble with all parties, and then railim; 
 bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took les- 
 sons in his youth in the noble science of defence, and 
 having accomplished himself in the use of his limiu 
 and his weapons, and become a perfect master at 
 boxing and cudgel play, he has had a troublesome 
 life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel be- 
 tween the most distant of his neighbours, but he be- 
 gins incuntinenlly to flimble with the head of his 
 cudgel, and consider whether his interest or liouour 
 does not require that he should meddle in the broil. 
 Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and po- 
 licy so completely over the whole country, that no 
 event can take place, without infringing some ofhb 
 finely-spun riglits and dignities. Couched in his 
 little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in 
 every direction, he is like some choleric, bollle-bellied 
 old spider, who has woven his web over a whole 
 chamber, so that a tly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow 
 without startling his repose, and causing him lo sally 
 forth wrathfully from his den. 
 
 Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old 
 fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of bein^in 
 the midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, 
 however, that he only relishes the beginning of an 
 affray; he always goes into a fight with alacrily, Lni 
 comes out of it grumbling even when victorious; and 
 though no one fights with more obstinacy to carrya 
 contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and lie 
 comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up 
 with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let 
 his antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrel- 
 
 ling about. It isnot, therefore, lighting that he ouglitl 
 so much to be on his guard against, as making friends,! 
 It is difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing; butpotl 
 him in a goud humour, and you may bargain hunoutl 
 of all the money in his pocket. He is like a sMI 
 ship, which will weather the roughest storm uniD-f 
 jured, but roll its masts overlward in the succeediii;| 
 calm. 
 
 He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroadjl 
 of pulling out a long purse; Hinging his money brave-l 
 ly about at boxing matches, horse races, cock rights,! 
 and carrying a high head among "gentlemen of tbcl 
 fancy;" but immediately after one of these fits of ei-| 
 Iravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms o 
 ecuuoniy ; stop short at the most trivial expenditure;! 
 talk desperately of being ruined and brouglit upon di<| 
 parish; and in such moods, will not pay the siuallei 
 tradesman's bifi, without violent allercatiun, lleiil 
 in fact the most punctual and discontented puymasl 
 in the world; drawing his coin out of his breechi 
 pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to tiietillef 
 most farthing, but accompanying every guinea wiilj 
 n growl. 
 
 With all 
 Inantiful pr 
 His economy 
 teing to devi 
 Ibrhe will b 
 port one day. 
 a hogshead ol 
 neil. 
 
 His domesi 
 sive-'notso i 
 as from thegi 
 ding; the va: 
 dolhes; and I 
 llbr small servii 
 master, and, p 
 lliarilies, flatter 
 not peculati 
 ly manage I 
 lives on him s 
 luse servants i 
 itiletodo. Hi 
 biy before h 
 leep quietly ab 
 house-breaker 
 His family >r< 
 use, grey with 
 eather-beaten 
 regular plan, 
 tedin variou 
 'ident traces ol 
 ponderous stoi 
 ike all the relii 
 ages, intrical 
 ugh these ha< 
 irn days, yet th 
 k'll grope in the 
 le original edifi( 
 ilions have taki 
 ve been erecte 
 lilt in time of | 
 ices run up ace 
 different gener 
 il spacious, ra 
 Hire wing is lak 
 iifl pile, that 
 'US, and indeec 
 iplilled at varit 
 igious pomp, 
 iiiments of Jol 
 Willi soft ciisli 
 I" of his fumilj 
 ly doze comfort 
 keep up this 
 lie is staunch 
 from the 
 pels liave been 
 is neighbours, 
 strong papists, 
 odothedutic 
 eeipensc,api 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 525 
 
 services to settle hit 
 in greal dudgeon if I 
 msequence williout 
 lom engages in any | 
 ut finishing by get- 
 es, and then railing I 
 
 unluckily took b- ! 
 ince of defence, and I 
 the use of liis limlM 
 a perfect master at 
 
 had a troublesome 
 liear of a quarrel be- 
 ighbours, butliebe-l 
 ilh the head of his I 
 s interest or liouotir | 
 
 meddle in the broil. 
 ions of pride and po- 1 
 ole country, that no I 
 ifringing some of his 
 es. Couched in his I 
 nts stretching forth in I 
 iholeric, boUle-btlliedl 
 J web over a whole I 
 zz, nor a breeze blow, I 
 d causing him to sally I 
 
 d, good-tempered 
 ularly fondofbein^in 
 oneofhispeculiarilies, 
 IS the beginning of an 
 ight with alacrity, boll 
 [ when victorious; and 
 •e obstinacy to carry a 
 ! battle is over, and Ik I 
 e is so much taken up I 
 Js, that he isaptloletl 
 
 ley have been (luanrel- 
 lighting that he oiigbl 
 
 inst, as making friends, 
 of a farthing; but pat 
 
 u may bargain bun out 
 lie is like a stonl| 
 
 roughest storm unin- 
 
 loard in the succeedin;| 
 
 the magniftco abroad; 
 iging his money brav^| 
 orse races, cock lim 
 )ng "gentlemen of IW 
 . one of these fits of ei 
 with violent qualms 
 lost trivial expenditure; 
 d and brought upon Ill- 
 ill not pay the sinalii 
 ent altercation. He 
 discontented paymasl 
 tin out of his brcticl 
 e; paying to tlienlH 
 ing every guinea wii 
 
 With all his talk of economy, however, he is a 
 tnontiful provider, and a hospitable house-keeper. 
 His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief object 
 |)eiDg to devise how he may afford to he extravagant : 
 Hirhe will begnidge himself a beefsteak and pint of 
 port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach 
 abogsheadof ale, and treat all his neighbours on the 
 
 next. 
 
 His domestic establishment is enormoisly expen- 
 sive : not so much from any great outward parade, 
 as from the great consumption of solid beef and pud- 
 ding; the vast number of followers he feeds and 
 clothes; and his singular disposition to pay hugely 
 for small services. He is a most kind and indulgent 
 master, and, provided his servants humour his pecu- 
 [jiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and 
 not peculate grossly on him before his face, they 
 ly manage him to perfection. Every thing that 
 lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat. His 
 luseservants are well paid, and pampered, and have 
 iltle to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance 
 lowly before his state carriage; and his house dogs 
 leep quietly al)out the door, and will hardly bark at 
 house-breaker. 
 
 His family iT?ansion is an old castellated manor- 
 ise, grey with age, and of a most venerable, though 
 eatlier-bealen appearance. It has been built upon 
 regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, 
 led in various tastes and ages. The centre bears 
 ident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid 
 ponderous stone and old English oak can make it. 
 ike all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure 
 iges, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers; and 
 lougli these have been partially lighted up in mo- 
 irndays, yet there are many places where you must 
 |ill grope in the dark. Additions have been made to 
 le original edifice from time to time, and great alte- 
 ilions have taken place; towers and battlements 
 ive been erected during wars and tumults ; wings 
 lilt in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and 
 ices run up according to the whim or convenience 
 different generations, until it has become one of the 
 t spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An 
 itire wing is taken up with the family chapel ; a re- 
 nd pile, that must have been exceedingly suinp- 
 lus, and indeed, in spite of having been altered and 
 iplifled at various periods, has still a look of solemn 
 gious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the 
 inuments of John's ancestors; anuil is snugly fitted 
 with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where 
 :hof his family as are inclined to church services, 
 y doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 
 keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; 
 he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his 
 , from the circumstance that many dissenting 
 ipels have been erected in his vicinity, and several 
 lis neighbours, with whom he has had quarrels, 
 strung papists. 
 
 odo the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a 
 eexpensc, a pious and portly family chaplain. He 
 
 is a most learned and decorous personage, nnd a truly 
 well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gen- 
 tleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his Hitle 
 peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, 
 and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read 
 their bibles, say (heir prayers, and, alwve all, lo pay 
 their rents punctually, and without grumbling. 
 
 The family apartments are in a very antiquated 
 taste, somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but 
 full of the solemn magnificence of former limes ; fitted 
 up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furni- 
 ture, and loads of massy gorgeous old plate. The 
 vast fire-places, ample kitchens, extensive cellai-s, and 
 sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roaring 
 hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern festi- 
 vity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, 
 however, complete suites of rooms apparently desert- 
 ed and time-worn ; and lowers and turrets that are 
 tottering to decay; so that in high winds there is 
 danger of their tumbling about the ears of the house- 
 hold. 
 
 John has frequently Iieen advised to have the old 
 edifice thoroughly overhauled ; and to have some of the 
 useless parts pulled down, and the others strengthen- 
 ed with their materials ; but the old gentleman al- 
 ways grows testy on this subject. lie swears the 
 house is an excellent house — that it is tight and wea- 
 ther proof, and not to be shaken by tempest — that 
 it has stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, 
 is not likely to tumble down now— that as to its being 
 inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the incon- 
 veniences, and would not be comfortable without 
 them — that as to its unwieldy size and irregular con- 
 struction, these result from its being the growth of 
 centuries, nnd being improved by the wisdom of every 
 generation — that an old family, like his, requires a 
 large house to dwell in ; new, upstart families may 
 live in modern cottages and snug boxes; but an old 
 English family should inhabit an old English manor- 
 house. If you point out any part of the building as 
 superfluous, he insists that it is material lo the strength 
 or decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the 
 whole; and swears that the parts are so built into 
 each other, that if you pull down one, you run the 
 risk of having the whole aliout your ears. 
 
 The secret of the matter is, that John has a great 
 disposition to protect and patronize. He thinks it in- 
 dispensable lo the dignity of an ancient and honour- 
 able family, to be bounteous in its appointments, and 
 to be eaten up by dependants; nnd so, jiiu-tly from 
 pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, lie makes it 
 a rule always to give shelter and maintenance to his 
 superannuated servants. 
 
 The consequence is, that, like many other vene- 
 rable family establishments, his manor is incumbered 
 by old retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old 
 style which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like 
 a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its m";;ni- 
 tude, is not a whit loo large for its inhabilanls. Nut 
 a nook or corner but is of use in housing some useless 
 
S24 
 
 niE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 W 
 
 personage. Grou|» nr veteran iieef eaters, gouty 
 pensioners^ and retired heroes of the buttery and the 
 larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over 
 its lawns, dozing under ils trees, or sunning them- 
 selves u[)on the benches at its doors. Every office 
 and out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries 
 and their families ; for they are amazingly prolific, 
 and when they die ofl', are sure to leave John a legacy 
 of iiungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock 
 cannot be struck against the most mouldering tum- 
 ble-down tower, but out pops, fiom some cranny or 
 loop-hole, the grey pate of some superannuated hang- 
 er-on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, 
 and makes the most grievous outcry, at their pulling 
 down the roof from over the bead of a worn-out ser- 
 vant of the family. This is an appeal that John's 
 honest heart never can withstand ; so that a man, 
 who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his 
 life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard 
 in his old days. 
 
 A great part of his park, also, is turned into pad- 
 docks, where his broken-down chargers are turned 
 loose to graze undisturbed for the remainder of their 
 existence — a worthy example of grateful recollecliou, 
 which if some of his neighbours were to imitate, would 
 not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great 
 pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, 
 to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past ser- 
 vices, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the 
 perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which 
 they have carried him. 
 
 He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for 
 family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whim- 
 sical extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gip- 
 sies ; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, be- 
 cause they have infested Ihe place time out of mind, 
 and been regular poachers upon every generation of 
 the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to 
 ]>e lopped from the great trees that surround the 
 bouse, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred 
 there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of 
 the dovecote; but they are hereditary owls, and must 
 not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up 
 every chimney with their nests; martins build in every 
 frieze and cornice ; crows Hotter about the towers, and 
 perch on every weathercock; and old grey-headed 
 rats may lie seen in every quarter of the house, run- 
 ning in and out of their holes undauntedly in broad 
 day-light. In short, John has such a reverence for 
 every thing that has l)een long in the family, that he 
 will not hear even of abuses being reformed, because 
 they are good old family abuses. 
 
 All these whims and habits have concurred wofully 
 to drain the old gentleman's pinse; and as he prides 
 himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes 
 to maintain liis credit in the neighbourhood, they 
 have caused him great perplexity in meeting his en- 
 gagements. 'J'his, too, has been increased by the 
 altercations and heartburnings which are continually 
 taking place in his family. His children have l)eeri 
 
 brought up to different callings, and are of different 
 ways of thinking; and as they have always been 
 allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fjji 
 to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the pre- 
 sent posture of his affairs. Some stand up for %i 
 honour of the race, and are clear that the old esta- 
 blishment should be kept up in all its state, wltaterer 
 may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and 
 considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench 
 his expenses, and to put his whole system of house- 
 keeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, 
 at times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, 
 but their wholesome advice has been completely de- 
 feated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. 
 This is a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low 
 habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale- 
 houses — is the orator of village clubs, and a complete j 
 oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. M\ 
 sooner does he hear any of his brothers menlion 
 reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes 
 the words out of their mouths, and roars out for anl 
 overturn. When his tongue is once goiug, nothing 
 can slop it. He rants about the room; hectors ijiel 
 old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules LisI 
 tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the oldl 
 servants out of doors ; give the broken-down horses 
 to the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing; audi 
 lake a lield-preacher in his place— nay, that iii«[ 
 whole family mansion shall be levelled with liiel 
 groiuul, and a plain one of brick and ntortar built inl 
 its place. He rails at every social entertainment audi 
 family festivity, and skulks away growling to thtl 
 alehouse whenever an equipage drives up ic m 
 door. Though constantly complaining of the empli-l 
 ness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all liis| 
 pocket-money in these tavern convocations, andete 
 runs up scores for the liquor over which he preacb 
 about his father's extravagance. 
 
 It may readily be imagined how little such IhwartJ 
 ing agrees with the old cavalier's fiery teni|ierameiit| 
 He has become so irritable, from repeated crossin* 
 that the mere menlion of retrenchment or reform i 
 a signal for a brawl between him and tlu* lave 
 oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refracloryl 
 paternal discipline, having grown out of all feari 
 the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy wi 
 fare, which at times run so high, that John is fain I 
 call in the aid of his son Tom, an oflicer who 
 served abroad, hut is at present living at home, 
 half pay. This last is sure to stand by the i 
 tieman, right or wrong; likes nothing so iniicli 3s| 
 racketing roystering life; and is ready, at a wiHi 
 nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the oralor'| 
 head, if he dares to array himself against pater 
 authority. 
 
 These family dissensions, as usual, have gotalir 
 and are rare food for scandal in .John's urighbuuriio 
 I'eople begin to look wise, and shake their lifi 
 whenever his aflairs are mentioned. They all "I 
 that matters are not so bad with him as reprcsenu 
 
 cuniary en 
 on the pool 
 corporatioi 
 present, h 
 shrunk as s 
 waistcoat, 
 sperous da 
 hangs loose 
 His leather 
 and apparel 
 that yawn ( 
 Instead ( 
 three-corne 
 and bringir 
 thump upoi 
 in the face, 
 drinking sot 
 fully to bin 
 cudgel tuck 
 to the bottoi 
 dently empt 
 Such is ll 
 yet for all tl 
 gallant as ev 
 sympathy o 
 swears that 
 the country 
 his house or 
 swagger am 
 to have anot 
 Though t 
 in all this, 
 situation wi 
 all his odd li 
 sleriing-lieai 
 derfully fine 
 least twice a 
 His virtues « 
 unaffected, 
 his good qua 
 generosity; 
 credulity of 
 and his blun 
 redundanciei 
 like his own 
 williin; wht 
 proportion to 
 and whose 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 52^i 
 
 as usual, liavo got ata 
 in John's iioigliboiiiliM 
 ami shake llieir N 
 Uioned. They all "li 
 whhhimasicprcseiii" 
 
 but when a man's own children begin to rail at his 
 extravagance, things must be badly managed.— Tliey 
 understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and 
 is continually dabbling with money lenders. He is 
 certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but they 
 fear he has lived loo fast; indeed, they never knew 
 any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
 revelling, and prize-fighlina:. In short, Mr Bull's 
 estate is a very line one, and has been in the family 
 a long while ; but for all that, they have known many 
 finer estates come to the hammer." 
 
 What is worst of all, is the effect which these pe- 
 cuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds have had 
 on the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round 
 corporation, and smug rosy face, which be used to 
 present, he has of late become as shrivelled and 
 shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet gold-laced 
 waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those pro- 
 sperous days when he sailed before the wind, now 
 hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. 
 His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, 
 and apparently liave much ado to hold up the boots 
 that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs. 
 
 Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his 
 three-cornered bat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, 
 and bringing it down every moment with a hearty 
 thump upon the ground; looking every one sturdily 
 in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a 
 drinking song; he now goes about whistling thought- 
 fully to hims'^if, with his head drooping down, his 
 cudgel tucked under bis arm, and his hands thrust 
 to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evi- 
 dently empty. 
 
 Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; 
 yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as 
 gallant as ever. If you drop the least expression of 
 sympathy or concern, be takes fire in an instant; 
 swears tliat he is the richest and stoutest fellow in 
 the country; talks of laying out large sums to adorn 
 his house or buy another estate; and with a valiant 
 swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly 
 to have another bout at quarter-staff. 
 
 Though there may be something rather whimsical 
 in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's 
 situation without strong feelings of interest. With 
 all his odd humours and obstinate prejudices, he is a 
 sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so won- 
 derfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at 
 least twice as good as his neighbours represent him. 
 His virtues are all his own; all plain, homebred, and 
 unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of 
 his good qualities. His extravagance savours of his 
 generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his courage; his 
 credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; 
 and his hluntness of his sincerity. Hiey are all the 
 redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is 
 like his own oak ; rough without, but sound and solid 
 within; whose bark alrounds with excrescences in 
 proportion to the growth and grandeur of the limber; 
 and whose branches make a feurfid groaning and 
 
 murmuring in the least storm, from their very mag- 
 nitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, 
 in the appearance of his old family mansion, that is 
 extremely poetical and picturesque; and, as long as 
 it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should 
 almost tremble to see it meddled with, during the 
 present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his 
 advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be 
 of service; but many I fear are mere levellers, who, 
 when they had once got to work with their mattocks 
 on this venerable edifice, would never slop until they 
 had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried 
 themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that 
 John's present troubles may teach him more pru- 
 dence in future. That he may cease to distress his 
 mind about other people's affairs; that he may give 
 up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his 
 neighbours, and the peace and happiness of the world, 
 by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at 
 home; gradually get his house into rep"'' ; cultivate 
 his rich estate according to his fancy ; . -shand his 
 income— if he thinks proper; bring his unruly chil- 
 dren into order — if he can ; renew the jovial scenes 
 of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his pa- 
 ternal lands, a green, an honourable, and a merry 
 old age. 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE VU.LAGE. 
 
 May no wolfe tiowlc ; no screech owie stir 
 
 A winp; almul thy sepulchre ! 
 
 Ko lioystcixMis winds or slomics come hltlier. 
 
 To starve or wither 
 Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring. 
 Love kept it ever tlourishins. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 L\ the course of an excursion tbro igh one of the 
 remote counties of England, I hair struck into one of 
 those cross roads that lead Ihrr igli the more secluded 
 parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a 
 village, the situation of which was beautifully rural 
 and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity 
 about its inhabitants, not to be found in the vil- 
 lages which lie on the great coach roads. I determin- 
 ed to pass the night there, and having token an 
 early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbouring 
 scenery. 
 
 My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, 
 soon led me to the church, which stood at a little di- 
 stance from the village. Indeed, it was an object of 
 some curiosity, its old tower being completely overrun 
 with ivy, so that only here and there a jutting buttress, 
 an angle of grey wall, or a fantastically carved orna- 
 ment, peered through the verdant covering. It was 
 n lovely evening. I'he early part of the day had been 
 dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared 
 up; and though sullen clouds still hung over head, 
 yet there was a broad tract of gulden sky in the west, 
 
-^N. 
 
 sm 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 rrom which the setting sun gleamed through the 
 dripping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancho- 
 ly smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good 
 Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the 
 world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an 
 assurance that he will rise again in glory. 
 
 I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, 
 and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober- 
 Ihoughted hour, on past scenes and early friends — on 
 those who were distant and those who were dead — 
 and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying, 
 which has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. 
 Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the 
 neighbouring tower fell on my ear ; its tones were in 
 unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, chim- 
 ed in with my feelings ; and it was some time before I 
 recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some 
 new tenant of the tomb. 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the 
 village green ; it wound slowly along a lane, was 
 lost, and re-appeared through the breaks ofthe hedges, 
 until it passed the place where I was silting. The pall 
 was supported by young girls, dressed in white ; and 
 another, about the age of seventeen, walked before,, 
 bearing a chaplet of white flowers ; a token that the 
 deceasetl was a young and unmarried female. The 
 corpse was followed by the parents. They were a ve- 
 nerable couple of the better order of peasantry'. The 
 father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his fixed 
 eye, contracted brow, and deeply - furrowed face, 
 showed the struggle that was passing within. His 
 wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the con- 
 vulsive bursts of a mother's sorrow. 
 
 I followed the funeral into the church. The bier 
 was placed in the centre aisle, and the chaplet of 
 white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung 
 over the seat which the deceased bad occupied. 
 
 Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the 
 funeral service ; for who is so fortunate as never to 
 have followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? but 
 when performed over the remains of innocence and 
 beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence— what 
 can be more affecting ? At that simple, but most so- 
 lemn consignment of the body to the grave—" Earth 
 to earth— ashes to ashes— dust to dust ! " — the tears 
 of the young companions of the deceased flowed un- 
 restrained. The father still seemed to struggle with 
 his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assu- 
 rance, that the dead are blessed which die in the 
 Lord; but the mother only thought of her child 
 as a flower of the field cut down and withered 
 in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, 
 " mourning over her children, and would not be 
 comforted. " 
 
 On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story 
 of the deceased. It was a simple one, and such as 
 has often been i%d. She had been the beauty and 
 pride of the village. Her father had once been an 
 opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. 
 This was an only child, and brought up entirely at 
 
 home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had hern 
 the pupil of the village pastor, the favourite lamb of 
 his little flock. The good man watched over her (>du- 
 cation with paternal care ; it was limited, and suitable 
 to the sphere in which she was to move; for he sought 
 only to make her an ornament to her station in life, 
 not to raise her above it. The tenderness and in- 
 dulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all 
 ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace 
 and delicacy of character, that accorded with tlie 
 fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared like 
 some tender plant of the gavden, blooming accident- 
 ally amid the hardier natives of the fields. 
 
 The superiority of her charms was felt and ac- 
 knowledged by her companions, but without envy; 
 for it was surpassed by the unassuming gentleness and 
 winning kindness of her manners. It might be truly 
 said of her : 
 
 " This is Hic prcUicst low-born lass, lliat ever 
 Ran on the grcen-sward : nothing slie does or seems. 
 But smacks of sometliin,^ greater than liersclft 
 Too noble for tliis piacc." 
 
 The village was one of those sequestered spois, 
 which still retain some vestiges of old English cus- 
 toms. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastime!:, 
 and still kept up some faint observance ofthe once 
 popular rites of May. Tliese, indeed, had been pro- 
 moted by its present pastor, who was a lover of old 
 customs, and one of those simple Christians (hat think 
 their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and 
 good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the 
 May-pole stood from year to year in the centre of liie 
 village green : on Mayday it was decorated with gar- 
 lands and streamers ; and .1 queen or lady ofthe May 
 was appointed, as in former limes, to preside at (lie 
 sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The 
 pictures(|ue situation of tlie village, and the fanci- 
 fulnessof its rustics ft^tcs, would often attract the no- 
 tice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May- 
 day, was a young officer, whose regiment had been 
 recently quartered in the neighbourhood. He was 
 charmed with the native taste that (lervaded this vil- 
 lage pageant; btit, al)ove <ill, with the dawning loveli- 
 ness ofthe queen of May. It was the village favourite, 
 who was crowned with flowers, and bltishing ami 
 smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish difii- 
 dence and delight. The artlessness of rural haliils 
 enabled him readily to make her actpiaintance ; he 
 gradually won his way into her intimacy, and paid 
 his court to her in that unthinking way in wliidi 
 young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 There was nothing in his advances to startle or 
 alarm. He never even talked of love : but there are 
 modes of making it more eloquent than language, and 
 which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to (lie hearl, 
 The beam ofthe eye, the lone of voice, the tliousaiHl 
 tendernesses which emanate from every word, aiid 
 look, and action— these form the true elo(|uence ol 
 love, and can always be tdt and understood, Iml 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 327 
 
 e. She had htn 
 favourite lamb of 
 :hed over her edu- 
 nited, and suitable 
 lOve; for he sought 
 ler station in life, 
 endemess and in- 
 xemption from all 
 d a natural grace 
 accorded with the 
 She appeared like 
 blooming accldent- 
 e fields. 
 
 was felt and ac- 
 but without envy; 
 ning gentleness and 
 , It might be truly 
 
 liat evor 
 
 le (loos or seems, 
 
 an lieraolf; 
 
 sequestered spols, 
 )f old English ciis- 
 ^d holiday pastimes, 
 ervance of the once 
 leed, had been pro- 
 was a lover of old 
 Christians that think 
 ing joy on earth and 
 der his auspices the 
 in the centre of the 
 decorated with gar- 
 n or lady of the May 
 PS. to preside at the 
 and rewards. The 
 3ge, and the fanci- 
 often attract the no- 
 Ihese, on one May- 
 regiment had been 
 bourhood. lie was 
 at pervaded this vii- 
 the dawning loveli- 
 |lhe village favourile, 
 and blushing and 
 lislon of girlish difli- 
 kness of rural haliils 
 5r ac(piaintance ; be 
 intimacy, and paid 
 Iking way in which 
 lie with rustic sini- 
 
 Ivaiices lo startle or 
 'love: hut there are 
 
 |l than language, and 
 psislibly to the bear!, 
 'voice, the tliousunil 
 lin every word, niKJ 
 te true eloquence o( 
 [nd understood, W 
 
 never described. Can we wonder that they should 
 readily win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? 
 As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarce- 
 ly inquired what was the growing passion that was 
 absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were 
 to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to 
 liie future. When present, his looks and words oc- 
 cupied her whole attention; when absent, she thought 
 bill of w'.iat had passed at their recent inteniew. She 
 would wander with him through the green lanes and 
 rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see 
 new beauties in nature ; he talked in the language of 
 polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear 
 Ibe witcbsries of romance and poetry. 
 
 Perhaps there could not have been a passion be- 
 tween the sexes, more pure than this innocent girl's. 
 The gallant figure of her youthful admirer and the 
 splendour of his military attire, might at Itrst have 
 charmed her eye ; but it was not these that had cap- 
 tivated her heart. Her altachinent had something in 
 it of idolatry. She looked up to him as lo a being of a 
 sii|ierior order. She felt in his society the enthusiasm 
 uf a mind naturally delicate and poetical, and now 
 lirst awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful 
 and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and 
 fortune she thought nothing; it was the difference of 
 intellect, ofdemeanour, of manners, from those of the 
 rustic society to which she had been accustomed, that 
 elevated him in her opinion. She would listen lo him 
 with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, 
 I and her cheek would mantle with enthusiasm ; or if 
 ever she ventured a shy glance of timid admiration, it 
 was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and 
 I blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion 
 i was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature. He 
 had begun the connexion in levity ; for he had often 
 heai-d his brother officers boast of their village con- 
 I quests, and thought some triumph of the kind neces- 
 Isary lo his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was 
 Itoo full of youthful fervour. His heart had not yet 
 [been rendered sufficiently cold and selfish by a waii- 
 Ideriag and a dissipated lite : it caught fire fi'm the 
 Iverytlame it sought to kindle; and before he was 
 ■aware of the nature of his situation, he became really 
 |in love. 
 
 What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles 
 Iwhich so incessantly occur in these heedless altacli- 
 Inenls. His rank in life — the prejudices of titled con- 
 iiexions— his dependence upon a proud and unyielding 
 |allier— all forbad him to think of matrimony : — but 
 vhcn he looked down upon this innocent being, so 
 lender and confiding, there was a purity in her man- 
 lei's, a hiamelessness in her life, and a beseeching 
 [iHMlesty in her looks, thai, awed down every licentious 
 Ming, In vain did he try lo fortify himself by a 
 |liousand heartless examples of men of fashion ; and 
 • chill (he glow of generous sentiment, wilh that 
 old dorisive levity wilh which he had heard them 
 lulk of female virtue : whenever he came into her 
 
 presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious 
 but impassive charm of virgin purity, in whose hal- 
 lowed sphere no guilty thought can live. 
 
 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to 
 repair to the continent completed the confusion of his 
 mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the 
 most painful irresolution; he hesitated to communi- 
 cate the tidings, until the day for marching was at 
 hand; when he gave her the inleUigence in tlie course 
 uf an evening ramble. 
 
 Tlse idea of parting had never before occurred to 
 her. It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; 
 she looke<l upon it as a sudden and insurmountable 
 evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. 
 He drew her to his bosom, and kissed the tears from 
 her soil cheek ; nor did he meet with a repulse, for 
 there arc moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, 
 which hallow the caresses of affection. He was na- 
 turally impetuous; and the sight of beauty, appa- 
 rently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his 
 power over I er, and the dread of losing her for ever, 
 all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings— he 
 ventured to propose that she should leave her home, 
 and be the companion of his fortunes. 
 
 He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed 
 and faltered at his own baseness; but so innocent of 
 mind was his intended victim, that she was at first at 
 a loss to comprehend his meaning; and why she 
 should leave her native village, and the humble roof 
 of her parents. When at last the nature of his pro- 
 posal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was 
 withering. She did not weep— she did not break 
 forth into reproach— she said not a word — but she 
 shrunk back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look 
 of anguish that pierced to his very soul ; and, clasp- 
 ing her hands in agony, fled, as if for refuge, to her 
 fallier's cottage. 
 
 The oflicer retircu, confounded, humiliated, and 
 repentant. It is uncertain what might have been the 
 result of the conflict of his feelings, had not his 
 thoughts been diverted by the bustle of departure. 
 New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, 
 soon dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his ten- 
 derness ; yet, amidst the stir of camps, the revelries 
 of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of 
 battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to 
 the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — the 
 white cottage— the footpath along the silver brook and 
 up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid 
 loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and listening to 
 him wilh eyes beaming with unconscious afTection. 
 
 The shock which the poor girl had received, in the 
 destruction of all her ideal world, had indeed been 
 cruel. Faintings and hysterics had at first shaken her 
 tender frame, and were succeeded by a settled and 
 pining melancholy. She had beheld from her win- 
 dow liie march of the departing troops. She had seen 
 her faithless lover born off, as if in triumph, amidst 
 the sound of drum and trumpet, and the fiomp of arms . 
 She strained a last aching guzc after him, as thpmorn- 
 
328 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 ing sun glittered about his figure, and his plume 
 waved in the breeze ; he passed away like a bright 
 vision from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 
 
 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her 
 after story. It was, like other tales of love, melan- 
 choly. She avoided society, and wandered out alone 
 in the walks she had most frequented with her lover. 
 She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence 
 and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow 
 that rankled in her soul. Sometimes she would be 
 seen late of an evening silting in the porch of the vil- 
 lage church ; and the milkmaids, returning from the 
 fields, would now and then overhear her singing 
 some plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She be- 
 came fervent in her devotions at church ; and as the 
 old people saw her approach, so wasted away, yet 
 with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which 
 melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make 
 way for her, as for something spiritual, and, looking 
 after her, would shake their heads in gloomy fore- 
 boding. 
 
 She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the 
 tomb, but looked forward to it as a place of rest. The 
 silver cord that had bound her to existence was loosed, 
 and there seemed to be no more pleasure under the 
 sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained re- 
 sentment against her lover, it was extinguished. 
 She was incapable of angry passions; and, in a mo- 
 ment of saddened tenderness, she penned him a fare- 
 well letter. It was couched in the simplest language, 
 but touching from its very simplicity. She told him 
 that she was dying, and did not conceal from him 
 that his conduct was the cause. She even depicted 
 the sufferings which she had experienced ; but con- 
 cluded with saying, that she could not die in peace, 
 until she had sent him her forgiveness and her bless- 
 ing. 
 
 By degrees her strength declined, that she could 
 no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to 
 the window, where, propped up in her chair, it was 
 her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon the 
 landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor im- 
 parted to any one the malady that was preying on 
 her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's 
 name ; but would lay her head on her mother's bo- 
 som and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, 
 in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their 
 hopes, still flattering themselves that it might again 
 revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly 
 bloom which sometimes Hushed her cheek might be 
 the promise of returning health. 
 
 In this way she was seated between them one 
 Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, 
 the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that 
 stole in brought with it the fragrance of the cluster- 
 ing honeysuckle which her own hands had trained 
 round the window. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the 
 liiblc : it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and 
 of the joys of heaven : it seemed to have dilTused 
 
 comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her ere 
 was fixed on the distant village church ; the bell had 
 tolled for the evening service; the last villager vas 
 lagging into the porch, and every thing had sunk 
 into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day of 
 rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yeani- 
 ing hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so 
 roughly over some faces, had given to hers the ex- 
 pression of a seraph's. A tear trembled in her sofi 
 blue eye. — Was she thinking of her faithless lover? 
 —or were her thoughts wandering to that distant 
 churchyard, into whose bosom she might soon he "a- 
 thered ? 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard— a horse- 
 man galloped to the cottage— he dismounted before 
 the window— the poor girl gave a faint excianiaiioii 
 and sunk back in her chair : it was her repentant 
 lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp 
 her to his bosom ; but her wasted form — her death- 
 like coinitenance— so wan, yet so lovely in its desola- 
 tion, — smote him to the soul, and he threw himself 
 ill an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise- 
 she attempted to extend her trembling hand— her 
 lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was arlicu- 
 laled— she looked down upon him with a smile of 
 unutterable tenderness, — and closed her eyes fur 
 ever ! 
 
 Such are the particulars which I gathered of this 
 village stoi7. They are but scanty, and I am con- 
 scious have little novelty to recommend them. In 
 the present rage, also, for strange incident and high- 
 seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insi- 
 gnificant, but they interested me strongly at the lime; 
 and, taken in connexion with the affecting ceremony 
 which I had just witnessed, left a deeper inipressiou 
 on my mind tlian many circumstances of a mure strik- 
 ing nature. I have passed through the place since, 
 and visited thechurch again, from a better motive than 
 mere cariosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees 
 were sti ipped of their foliage , the churchyard looked 
 naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldlf 
 through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, liad 
 been planted about the grave of the village tavourile, 
 and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf un- 
 injured. 
 
 The chuk'ch-doorwasopen, and I stepped in. There 
 hung the cliaplet '>f flowers and the gloves, as on Hie 
 day of the funeral . the flowers were withered, it u 
 true, butcai\ •^'>med to have been taken tliatnoduil | 
 should soil ''leif whiteness. I have seen many mo- 1 
 numents, where art has exhausted its powers, to 
 a waken the sympathy of the spectator ; but I have M | 
 with none that spoke more touchingly to my heart, 
 than this simple but delicate memento of departed | 
 innocence. 
 
 1 
 
 n 
 
 T 
 
 A 
 
 "« dimpling, 
 ' 8nd smiling 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 31^) 
 
 bosom. Her eye 
 irch ; the bell had 
 i last villager was 
 y thing had sank 
 iar to the day of 
 n her wilh yearn- 
 gv, which pass so 
 !n to hers the ex- 
 embled in her son 
 her faithless lover? 
 ing to thai distant 
 ; might soon be ga- 
 
 as heard— a hovs^ 
 dismounted before 
 a faint exclamation, 
 was her repentant 
 e, and flew to clasp 
 id form— her death- 
 ) lovely in its dcsola- 
 nd he threw himself 
 as too faint to vise- 
 remWing hand-lier 
 10 word was arlicu- 
 him with a smile of 
 closed her eyes fur 
 
 ;h 1 gathered of this 
 ■anty, and I am con- 
 icommend them. In 
 ge incident and high- 
 appear trite and insi- 
 stronglyatlhetinie; 
 je affecting ceremony 
 ft a deeper impression 
 lances of a more strili- 
 ough the place since, 
 in a better motive than 
 ry evening; the trees 
 le churchyard loolied 
 wind ruslletl coldly 
 ;reens, however, lad 
 the village favourite, 
 to keep the turf un- 
 
 id I stepped in. There 
 the gloves, as on llie 
 s were withereil,ilii 
 )een taken that no duil 
 have seen many mo- 
 lausled its powers, to 
 :clator;butIhavenie! 
 uchingly tomyheitt, 
 memento of departed 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 This day dame Nature seem'd in love. 
 Tlie lusty sap Itegan to move. 
 Fresh juice did stir th' embracing; vines, 
 And birds had drawn Ihcir valentines. 
 Thejealoas trout that low did lie, 
 Rose at a well-disscinbled file. 
 There stood my flriend, with patient skill, 
 Attending of his trembling quill. 
 
 SiBH. WOTTorr. 
 
 It is said that many an imlucky urchin is induced 
 j to run away from his family, and beU.Ke himself to a 
 I seafaring life, from reading the history of Robinson 
 Crusoe; and I su^ect that, in like manner, many of 
 those worthy gentlemen, who are given to haunt the 
 [sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, 
 I nay trace the origin of their passion to the seductive 
 [pages of honest Izaak Walton. I recollect studying 
 Iliis "Complete Angler" several years since, in com- 
 [pany with a knot of friends in America, and more- 
 lover that we were all completely bitten with tlie 
 langling mania. It was early in the year; but as 
 on as the weather was auspicious, and that the 
 Lpring began to melt into the verge of summer, we 
 [look rod in hand and sallied into the country, as stark 
 ad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of 
 hivalry. 
 
 One of our party had equalled the Don in the 
 
 hiness of his equipments : being attired cap-a-pie 
 
 br the enterprize. He w^ore a broad-skirted fustian 
 
 oat, perplexed wilh half a hundred pockets; a pair 
 
 |f stout shoes, and leathern gaiters, a basket slung 
 
 ) one side for fish; a patent rod, a landing net, and 
 
 [score of other inconveniences, only to be found in 
 
 |ie true angler's armoury. Thus harnessed for the 
 
 1, he was as great a mailer of stare and wonder- 
 
 jient among the country folk, who had never seen a 
 
 gular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La 
 
 {laneha among the goatherds of the Sierra Morena. 
 
 I Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among 
 
 Be highlands of the Hudson; a most unfortunate 
 
 lace for the execution of those piscatory tactics which 
 
 pd been invented along the velvet margins of quiet 
 
 nglish rivulets. It was one of those wild streams 
 
 |ot lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded 
 
 anties, enough to fill the sketch book of a hunter 
 
 [the picturesque. Sometimes it would leap down 
 
 cky shelves, making small cascades, over which the 
 
 es threw their broad balancing sprays, and long 
 
 neless weeds hung in fringes from the impending 
 
 nks, dripping with diamond drops. Sometimes it 
 
 brawl and fret along a ravine in the malted 
 
 de of a forest, lilling it wilh murmurs, and, after 
 
 termagant career, would steal forth into open 
 
 'With the most placid demure face imaginable; as 
 
 pave seen some pestilent shrew of a housewife, 
 
 r filling her home wilh uproar and ill-humour, 
 
 lie dimpling out of doors, swimming and courlsey- 
 
 , and smiling upon ail the world. 
 
 How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at 
 such times, through some bosom of green meadow- 
 land among the mountains; where the quiet was 
 only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a bell 
 from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound 
 of a woodcutter's axe from the neighbouring forest! 
 
 For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds 
 of sport that required either patience or adroitness, 
 and had not angled above half an hour before I had 
 completely "satisfied the sentiment," and convinced 
 myself of the truth of Izaak Walton's opinion, that 
 angling is something like {Metry— a man must be 
 born to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish ; 
 tangled my line in every tree; lost my bait; broke 
 my rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and 
 passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak ; 
 satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest sim- 
 plicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and 
 not the passion for angling. My companions, how- 
 ever, were more persevering in their delusion. I 
 have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing 
 along the border of the brook, where it lay open to 
 the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. 
 I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they 
 break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt; the king- 
 fisher watching them suspiciously from his dry tree 
 that overhangs the d^&p black mill-pond, in the gorge 
 of the bills; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways 
 from off the stone or log on which he is sunning him- 
 self; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong 
 as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout 
 the watery world around. 
 
 I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching 
 and creeping about for tlie greater part of a day, wilh 
 scarcely any success, in spite of all our admirable 
 apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came down 
 from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a 
 tree, a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help 
 me! I believe, a crooked pin for a hook, baited with 
 a vile earth-worm — and in half an hour caught more 
 fish than we had nibbles throughout the day! 
 
 But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, 
 wholesome, hungry " repast, which we made under 
 a beech-tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water 
 that stole out of the side of a hill; and how, when 
 it was over, one of the parly read old Izaak Walton's 
 scene will) the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass 
 and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell 
 asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism; yet 
 I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, 
 which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, 
 and have been called up by an agreeable scene which 
 I witnessed not long since. 
 
 In a morning's stroll along the banks of the Alun, 
 a beautiful little stream which flows down from the 
 Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my atleit- 
 tion was attracted to a group seated on tlie margin. 
 On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran 
 angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old 
 fellow wilh a wooden leg, with clothes very much but 
 
 4a 
 
330 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 very carefully patched, betokening poverty, lionefilly 
 come by, and decently maintained. His foce bore 
 the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; 
 its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile; 
 his iron-grey locks hung about his ears, and he had 
 altogether the good-humoured air of a constitutional 
 philosopher who was disposed to take (he world as it 
 went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, 
 with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll 
 warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish- 
 pond ui the neighbourhood in the darkest night. The 
 other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a loung- 
 ing gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. 
 The old man was busy in examining the maw of a 
 tront which he had just killed, to discover by its 
 contents what insects were seasonable for Imit ; and 
 was lecturing en the subject to his companions, who 
 appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a 
 kind feeling towards all ''brothers of the angle," 
 ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, lie 
 aflirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit;" 
 and my esteem for them has been increased since I 
 met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," 
 in which are set forth many of the maxims of their 
 inoffensive fraternity. " Take good hede," jayetii 
 this honest little tretyse, " that in going about your 
 disportes ye open no man's gates but that ye shet 
 them again. Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafty 
 disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and 
 sparing of your money only, but principally for your 
 solace, and to cause the helth of your body and spe- 
 cyally of your soule '." 
 
 I tliooght that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
 before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and 
 there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that 
 quite drew me towards him. I could not but re- 
 mark the gallant manner in which he stumped from 
 one part of the brook to another ; waving his rod in 
 the air, to keep the line from dragging on the ground, 
 or catching among the bushes; and the adroitness 
 with which he would throw his fly to any particular 
 place; sometimes skimming it lightly along a lillle 
 rapid; sometimes casting it into one of those dark 
 holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, 
 in which the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean 
 while, he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; 
 showing them the manner in which they should 
 handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along 
 the surface of the stream. The scene brought to 
 my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his 
 scholar. The country around was of that pastcral 
 kind which Walton is fond of describing. It was a 
 
 ' From this same treatise , it would appearthat angling \s a more 
 industrious and (ievout employment than it i8g<-ncrally consider- 
 ed.— "For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishyngc 
 ye will not dcsyrc grcallye many persons with you, which might 
 let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in 
 sayingc effectually your cuttomaMe prayers. And thus doying, 
 ye shall eschew and also avoydc many vices, as ydeliies, which is 
 principall cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right 
 well known." 
 
 part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the bean- 
 tiftd vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior 
 Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh. 
 smelling meadows. The day, too, like that recnriled 
 ill his work, was mild and sunsliiny, with now ami 
 then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole 
 earth with diamonils. 
 
 I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, 
 and was so much entertained that, under pretext of 
 receiving instructions in his art, I kept company \riih 
 him almost the whole day ; wandering along the banks 
 of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was ven 
 communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheer- 
 ful old age; and I fancy was a little flattered by hav- 
 ing an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore- 
 for who does not like now and then to play the sage' 
 
 He had been much of a rambler in his day, ami 
 had passed some years of his youth in America, par- 
 ticulai'ly in Savannah, where he had entered inioj 
 trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of j 
 partner. He had afterwards experienced many up 
 and downs in life, until he got into the navy, w||<>r, 
 his leg was carried away by a cannon-ball, at iIk| 
 battle of Camperdown. This was the only stroke 
 real good fortune he had ever experienced, foritg«| 
 him a pensioti, which, together with some small in- 
 ternal properly, brought him in a revenue of nearljl 
 forty pounds. On this he retired to his native vil- 
 lage, where he lived (piietly and independently, ami 
 devoted the remainder of Ids life to the "noble aril 
 of angling." 
 
 I found that he had read Izaak Walton attenlivdjj 
 and he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frant 
 ness and prevalent good humour. Tlioiigii he 
 been sorely buffeted alwut the world, he wassatisft 
 that the world, in ilself, was good and beaiiliri 
 Though he had been as roughly used in dilTei 
 countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by ev( 
 hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every nation ml 
 candour and kindness, appearing to look only on 
 good side of things : and, above all, he was all 
 the only man I had ever met with who liad been 
 unfortunate adventurer in America, and had hoi 
 and magnanimity enough to take the fatdt to his 
 door, and not to curse the country. The lad ll 
 was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the 
 and heir apparent of a lat old widow who kept 
 village inn, and of course a youth of some ex| 
 tion, and much courted by the idle genllemaifii 
 personages of the place. In taking him under 
 care, therefore, the old man had prolwbly an ejt 
 a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasii 
 cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 
 
 There is certainly something in angling, if we 
 forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruellies 
 tortures inflicted on worms and insects, that leiAl 
 produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure sereniiti 
 mind. As the English are methodical even in ' 
 recreations, and are the most scientific of sporl! 
 it has been reduced among (hem to perfect niie 
 
 U't me livi 
 
 Of Trent 
 
 Wlierelm 
 
 With eag 
 
 And on the 
 
 Whilst so 
 
 Aim] others 
 
 Ofwiiie, 
 
 1^1 lliern tli 
 
 And on SI 
 
 'Sollhctieli 
 
 And daily 
 
 -Uiiong the 
 
 Red hyaci 
 
 |0u parting \ 
 loe of abode 
 rliood of liu 
 the curiosit 
 in a small c 
 rfect curiof 
 nas on the si 
 iUie back froi 
 t, iitoclted 
 w flowers, 
 mm with a 
 a weatherco 
 lly nautical st 
 ice having ] 
 i-flf-war. J 
 \i wiiicli, in ( 
 
 V 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 .)5i 
 
 ire, close by the bean- 
 8t where the inferior I 
 » from among freslw 
 too, like that recnnled 
 ishiny, with now ami 
 iJiat sowed tl>e whole | 
 
 with the old angler, 
 that, under pretext oil 
 t, I kept company with 
 [idering along the bants I 
 his talk. Hewasvm 
 1 easy garrulity of cheer- 
 j little flattered by hav- 
 ing his piscatory lore; 
 dthen to play the sage' 
 imbler in his day, anlj 
 youth in America, par- 
 re he had entered intol 
 by the indiscretion ot a 
 5 experienced many up] 
 ;ot into the navy. wh»rt[ 
 )y a cannon-ball, at the 
 lis was the only stroke 
 er experienced, foritg(il| 
 iher with some small pa- 
 in in a revenue of nearly] 
 retired to his native # 
 j' and independently, ami 
 his life to the "noble art 
 
 Izaak Walton atlentivelyJ 
 ibed all his simple frankf 
 umour. Though he 1 
 je world, hewassatisft 
 was good and beautifiil 
 •oughly used in dilfen 
 that is fleeced by ever 
 poke of every nation mtl| 
 ;aring to look only onti 
 jbove all, he was ata 
 et with who had beeni 
 America, and had lioiK 
 take the fault tohisfl 
 coimtry. Tlielailitt 
 ms, I learnt, was the! 
 old widow who kept I 
 youth of some espi 
 y the idle gentleman' 
 In taking him under II 
 in had proliaWy an ejelj 
 ip-room, andanoccaaf 
 expense. 
 
 dug in angling, if w«« 
 apt to do, the cruellies" 
 [sand insects, that leiAj 
 
 lirit, and a pure sereniiyl 
 methodical even in r 
 
 lostscientilic of sports" 
 
 them to perfect nile I 
 
 .>vslem. Indeed, it is an amusement peculiarly adapt- 
 led to the wild and highly-cultivated scenery of Eng- 
 land where every roughness has lieen softened away 
 I from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along 
 those limpid streams which wanc'er, like veins of sil- 
 ver through the bosom of this beautiful country ; 
 leading one through a diversity of small I lome scenery ; 
 sometimes winding through ornamented grounds; 
 Lmelimes brimming along through rich pasturage, 
 Iwhere the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling 
 llowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and 
 Ihamlets, and then running capricioitaly away into 
 liady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of 
 kiature, and the quiet watchfulness of tV<e sp«)rt, gra- 
 iually bring on pleasant tits of musmg ; which are 
 iiovk- and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a 
 ird, the distant whistle of the peas.mt, or perhaps 
 Jie vagary of some fish, leaping out of tii2 still water, 
 id skimming transiently about its glassy surface. 
 When I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, 
 and increase confidence in the power and wisdom 
 id providence of Almighty God, I will walk the 
 ueadows by some gliding stream, and there contem- 
 ilate the lilies that take no care, and those very many 
 (her little living creatures that are not oidy created, 
 ^ut fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the 
 ;od of nature; and therefore trust in him." 
 I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one 
 r those ancient champions of angling, which breathes 
 
 liesame iimocent and happy spirit : 
 
 Lot me live liaritilessty, and near llie brink 
 
 of Trent or Avon liavc a dwcllini;-|jlace. 
 Where 1 may liCC my quill, or cork, down sink. 
 
 With eager l)itc of pike, or bleak, or dauu ; 
 And on (tie world and my Creator think : 
 
 Whilst some men strive ill-go((en rooiIs V euibrace ; 
 And olhcrs spend their time in base excess 
 
 Ofwiiic, or worse, in war, or wantimness. 
 Let tliem that will, tlicsc pastimes still pursue, 
 
 And on such pleasing fancies feed Uieir till ; 
 Sol the lields and meadows green may view. 
 
 And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
 >\niong the daisies and the violets blue, 
 
 Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil. ■ 
 
 lOu parting with the old angler I inquired after his 
 pee of abode, and happening to be in the iieigh- 
 urhood of the village a few evenings afterwards, I 
 Ithe curiosity to seek him out. I found him liv- 
 ;ina small cottage, containing only one room, but 
 effect curiosity in its method and arrangement, 
 tas on the skirt of the village, on a green bank, 
 little back from the road, with a small garden in 
 nt, litocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with 
 few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was 
 pnn with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship 
 la weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a 
 |ly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and conve- 
 nce having been acquired on the birth-deck of a 
 In-of-war. A hammock was slung from the ceil- 
 |, which, in the day-lime, "as lashed up so as to 
 
 ■ J. Davors. 
 
 lake but little room. From the centre of the chamber 
 hung a model of a ship, of his own workmanship. 
 Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea chest, 
 formed the principal moveables. About the wall 
 were stuck up naval ballads, such as Admiral Ho- 
 sier's Cihost, All in the Downs, ai:d Tom Bowling, 
 intermingled with pictures of sea-fighls, among which 
 the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. 
 The mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; 
 over which hung a quadrant, flanked by two wood- 
 cuts of most bitter-looking naval commanders. His 
 implements for angling were carefully disposed on 
 nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was ar- 
 ranged his library, containing a work on angling, 
 much worn, a Bible covered with canvass, an old vo- 
 lume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, and a 
 book of songs. 
 
 Ilis family consisted of a large black cat with one 
 eye, and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, 
 and educated himself, in the course of one of his 
 voyages; and which uttered a variety of sea [dirases 
 with the hoarse brattling lone of a veteran boatswain. 
 The establishment reminded me of that of the renown- 
 ed Ilobinson Crusoe ; it was ke[>t in neat order, every 
 thing l)eing "slowed away" with the regularity of a 
 ship of war : and he informed me that he "scoured 
 the deck every morning, and swept it between 
 meals." 
 
 I found him seated on a bench before the door, 
 smoking his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His 
 cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and bis 
 parrot describing some strange evolutions in an iron 
 ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had 
 been angling all day, and gave me a history of his 
 sport with as much minuteness as a general would 
 talk over a campaign ; being particularly animatal in 
 relating the manner in which he had taken a large 
 trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and 
 wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to inuie 
 hostess of the inn. 
 
 How comforting it is to see a cheerful and content- 
 ed old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, af- 
 ter being tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a 
 snug and quiet harbour in the evening of his days ! 
 His happiness, however, sprung fromwilhin himself, 
 and was independent of external circumstances ; for 
 he had that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the 
 most precious gill of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil 
 over the troubled .sea of thought, and keeping the 
 mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 
 
 On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he 
 was a universal favourite in the village, and the oracle 
 of the tap-room; where he delighted the rustics with 
 bis songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his 
 stories ofstrange lands, and shipwrecks, a.id sea-fights. 
 He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of 
 the neighbourhood ; had taught several of them the 
 art of angling; and was a privileged visitor to their 
 kitchens. The whole tenor of liis life was ((uiet and 
 inoffensive, being principally passed alraut the neigh- 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 .<i 
 
 bouring streams, when the weather and season were 
 favourable; and at other times he employetl himself 
 at home, preparing his fishing tackle for the next 
 campaign, or manubcturing rods, nets, and flies fi)r 
 his patrons and pnpils among the gentry. 
 
 He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, 
 though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. 
 He had made it his particular request that when he 
 died he should be buried in a green spot, which he 
 could see from his seat in church, and which he had 
 marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought 
 of when far from home on the raging sea, in danger 
 of being food for the fishes— it was the spot where his 
 father and mother had been buried. 
 
 I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing 
 weary ; but I could not reft-ain from drawing the pic- 
 ture of this worthy " brother of the angle; " who has 
 made me more than ever in love with the theory, 
 tliongh I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice 
 of his art : and I will conclude this rambling sketch in 
 the words of honest Izaak Walton, by craving the 
 blessing of St Peter's master upon my reader, "and 
 upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust 
 tu his providence ; and be quiet ; and go a angling." 
 
 THE LEGEND >' 
 
 0» 
 
 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 C FUIIKD AXCfG Till! PAPEBS OP THE LKJIi UIKDUIUK 
 KNICKEBBUCKER. ) 
 
 A pleasing land o( drowsy head it was, 
 
 Ofdreaias tlial wave before the Iialf-shut eye ; 
 
 Aud of gay castles in tlie clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 CASTLE OP Indolence. 
 
 I.\ the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
 indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad 
 expansion of the river denominated by the ancient 
 Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee , and where they 
 always prudently shortened sail, and implored the 
 protection of St Nicholas when they crossed, there 
 lies a small market-town or rural port, which by 
 some is called Greensburgh, but which is more gene- 
 rally and properly known by the name of Tari-y Town. 
 This name was given, we are told, in former days, 
 by the good housewives of the adjacent country, tvom 
 the inveterate propensity of their husbands to linger 
 about the village tavern on market days. Be that as 
 it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely advert 
 to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not 
 far from this village, perhaps about three miles, there 
 is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high 
 hills, which is one of the quietest places in the whole 
 world. A small brook glides through it, with just 
 murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occa- 
 
 sional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a wood-pecker, 
 is almost the only sound that ever breaks in upon the 
 uniform tranquillity. 
 
 I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit I 
 in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut irec) | 
 that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered 
 into it at noon-time, when all nature is peculiariT 
 quiet, and was started by the roar of my own gun, aj 
 it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was pro- 
 longed and reverberated by the angry echoes, if I 
 ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might I 
 steal from the world and its distractions, and dream I 
 quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know I 
 of none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 From the listless repose of the place, and the pe- 
 culiar character of its inhabitants, who are descend- 
 ants from the original Dutch settlers, this seques-l 
 tered glen has long been known by the name ofl 
 Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called ihel 
 Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighl)Ottriiig| 
 country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems tohanel 
 over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere.! 
 Some say that the place was bewitched by a highl 
 German doctor, during the early days of the $e(ll^| 
 ment ; others that an old Indian chief, the prophtti 
 or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there beforel 
 the country was discovered by Master Hendrickl 
 Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues uniier| 
 the sway of some witching power, that lioklsaspell| 
 over the minds of the good people, causing them lol 
 walk in a continual reverie. They are given to alll 
 kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject tu trances aiHl| 
 visions ' and frecpiently see strange sights, and hearl 
 music and voices in the air. The whole neighbonrl 
 hood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, andl 
 twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glirel 
 oflcner across the valley than in any other partoribel 
 country, and the nightmare, with her whole niiw-1 
 fold, seems to make it the favourite scene uf herl 
 gambols. 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this eo-| 
 chanted region, and seems to be coinmaiKler in chid 
 of al! the powers of the air, is the ap|>arilion of a fi-l 
 gure on horseback without a head. It is said bysoul 
 to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose iieady| 
 lieeti carried away by a cannon-ball, in somenai 
 less battle during the revolutionary Avar; andwh 
 is ever and anon seen by the country folk, liun 
 along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings ofll 
 wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, li 
 extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especuild 
 to the vicinity of a church that is at no great dislaiMJ 
 Indeed , certain of the most authentic historiansofllt 
 parts, who have been careful in collecting and eoUali 
 the floating facts concerning thisspectre, allege! 
 body of the t rooper, having been buried in the chuit 
 yard, tiie ghost rides forth to the scene of balllei 
 nightly quest of his head; and that the rushing s 
 with which he sometimes passes along the IIoUo'l 
 like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belau*! 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 335 
 
 )ing of a wood-pecker, 
 ler breaks in upon iht 
 
 iling, my first exploit 
 ove of tall walnut trefs 
 ley. I had wandered 
 II nature is peculiar); 
 oar of my own gun, « 
 ironnd, and was pro- 1 
 the angry echoes, ill 
 eat, whither I might 
 iislractions, and dream 
 1 troubled life, I know | 
 his little valley, 
 the place, and the pe- 
 ants, who are descend- 
 h settlers, this seques-l 
 nown by the name oil 
 islic lads are called the I 
 lut all the neighbouring! 
 influence seems tohan;! 
 e the very atmosphere.! 
 as bewitched by a high! 
 early days of the setll^| 
 dian chief, the prophetl 
 is powwows there betorel 
 d by Master Hendrickl 
 lace still continues under I 
 tower, that holds a spelll 
 people, causing them lol 
 
 They are given to liil 
 ire subject to trances andl 
 strange sights, and hear! 
 The whole neighhonr-l 
 lies, haunted spots, audi 
 
 shoot and meteors glare! 
 
 n in any other part of ikl 
 
 with her whole niM-l 
 
 favourite scene uf hetl 
 
 lever, that haunts this »■ 
 jo be couimauder inchir 
 is the apparition of s 6- 1 
 .head. Ilissaidbysoiiel 
 trooper, whose head Ul 
 [non-ball, insomenai 
 lutionary war; and' 
 [e country folk, hurrjim 
 as if on the wings oftl 
 mfined to the valley,' 
 int roads, and espect 
 >atisatnogreatdisiance| 
 ithentichistoriaiisotllH 
 [in collecting and collalini 
 hisspectre, allege tliatll 
 [een buried in the chiird 
 to the scene of balllei 
 id that the rushing s 
 asses along the lloU«»| 
 Lg to his being belaif 
 
 and in a harry to get back to the churchyard before 
 day-break. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legendary su- 
 perstition, which has furnished materials for many a 
 wild story in that region of shadows ; and the spectre 
 is known, at all the country firesides, by the name of 
 the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I 
 have mentioned is not confined to the native inhabit- 
 ants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by 
 every one who resides there for a time. However 
 wide awake they may have been before they entered 
 that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to 
 inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to 
 grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see appa- 
 ritioas. 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; 
 for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
 and there emiiosomed in the great state of New- 
 York, that population, manners, and customs, remain 
 fixed; while the great torrent of migration and im- 
 provement, which is making such incessant changes in 
 other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
 unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 
 water which border a rapid stream; where we may 
 see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or 
 slowly revolving in their mimic harbour, undisturbed 
 by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
 years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
 Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not 
 still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
 tating in its sheltered bosom. 
 
 In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
 period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
 years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod 
 Crane; who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tar- 
 ried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing 
 the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Con- 
 necticut; a state which supplies the Union with pio- 
 neers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends 
 forth yearly its legions of fionticr woodmen and coun- 
 try sciioolmasters. The cognomen of Crane was not 
 inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceed- 
 ingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
 legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet 
 thai might have served for shovels, and his whole 
 frame most loosely Jjung together. His head was 
 small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green 
 glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked 
 like a weathercock, perched upon his spindle neck, to 
 tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding 
 along the prolile of a hill on a windy day, with his 
 clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might 
 have mistaken him for the genius of famine descend- 
 ing upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from 
 I a corn-field. 
 
 His school-house was a low building of one large 
 room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly 
 
 glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy- 
 I books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant 
 
 hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, 
 and stakes set against the window-shutters ; so that, 
 though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he wonid 
 find some embarrassment in getting out; an idea most 
 probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, 
 from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school-house 
 stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at 
 the foot of a woody hill, with a brook running close 
 by, and a formidable birch-tree growing at one end 
 of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' 
 voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in 
 a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee-hive ; 
 interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice 
 of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, 
 peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, 
 as he urged some lardy loiterer along the flowery 
 path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscien- 
 tious man, that ever bore in mind the golden 
 maxim, " Sparc the rod and spoil the child." — Icha- 
 bod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that he 
 was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who 
 joy in the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he 
 administered justice with discrimination rather than 
 severity ; taking the burthen off the backs of the weak, 
 and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
 stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, 
 was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of 
 justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on 
 some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch 
 urchin, who skulked and swelled and grew dogged 
 and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called 
 " doing his duty by the parents; " and he never in- 
 flicted a diastisement without following it by the as- 
 surance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that 
 "he would remember it and thank him for it the 
 longest day he had to live." 
 
 When school hours were over, he was even the 
 companion and playmate of the larger boys; and on 
 holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller 
 ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or 
 good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts 
 of the cupboard. Indeed it behoved him to keep on 
 good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from 
 his school was small, and would have been scarcely 
 sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was 
 a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating^ 
 powers of an Anaconda; but to help out his mainte- 
 nance, he was, according to country custom in those 
 parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farm- 
 ers, whose cliikhen he instructeil. With these he 
 lived successively a week at a time; thus going the 
 rounds of the neighbourhood, with all his worldly ef- 
 fects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That all this might not be too onerous on the 
 purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider 
 the costs of schooling a grievous burthen, and school- 
 masters as mere drones, he had various ways of ren- 
 dering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted 
 the farmers occasionally in the lighter labours of their 
 
831 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 i 
 
 farnu ; helped lu make li«y ; riwnded the Teiices; took 
 the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; 
 aitd cut wood for the winter lire, lie laid aside, loo, 
 all the dominant dignity and alwolute sway with which 
 he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and Im- 
 came wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found 
 favour in the eyes of the mothers, hy petting the chil- 
 dren, [Nirticularly the youngest; and like (he linn Itold, 
 which whiiome so magnanimously the lanih did hoitl, 
 he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a 
 cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the sing- 
 ing-master of the neighhourluMHl, and picked up many 
 bright shillings hy instructing the young folks in 
 psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him, 
 on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church 
 gallery, with a lund of chosen singers; where, in his 
 own mind, he completely carried away the palm from 
 the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded fui- 
 alH)ve all the rest of the coni^regation ; and there are 
 peculiar quavers slill to be heard in that church, and 
 which may even lie heard half a mile oil', (piile to Ihe 
 opposite side of Ihe mill-pond, on a slill Sunday morn- 
 ing, which are said to lie legilunately descended from 
 the nose of Ichahod ("rane. 'J'hus, by divers little 
 inakeshifls, in that ingenious way which is conmionly 
 denominated " by hook and by crook," the worthy 
 pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, 
 by all who understood nothing of the labour of head- 
 work, to have a woiulerfid easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some im- 
 portance in the female circle of a rural neighliour- 
 hood ; being considered a kind of idle gentleman-like 
 personage, of vastly su|)erior laste and acconiplisb- 
 menls to the rough country swains, and, indeed, in- 
 ferior in learning only to the parson. Ills appearance, 
 therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the 
 tea-table of a farm-house, and the addition of a super- 
 numerary dish of cakes or sweetmeaiji, or, perad- 
 venture, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man of 
 letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles 
 of all the country damsels. How he would ligure 
 among them in the churchyard, between services on 
 Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild 
 vines that overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting 
 for their amusement all ihe epitaphs on the tomb- 
 stones; or satmlering, with a whole bevy of them, 
 along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the 
 more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
 envying bis superior elegance and address. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 
 travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
 gossip from house to bouse ; so that his appearance 
 was always greeted with satisfaction. He was, more- 
 over, esteemed by the women as a man of great eru- 
 dition, for be had read several books quite through, 
 and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History 
 of New-England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, 
 he most firmly and potently believed. 
 He was, in foot, an odd mixture of small shrewd- 
 
 ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the mar- 
 vellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally 
 extraordinary; and iMtth had l>een increased hy iijs 
 residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too 
 gross or monstrous for his ca[)acious swallow. It was 
 often his delight, after his s«;liool was dismissed iuihe 
 afterno«)n, to stretch himself on the rich l)ed of clover, 
 Imrdering the little brook that whimpered by lijs 
 school-house, and there con over old Mather's direril 
 tales, until the gathering dusk of the evening made 
 the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, 
 as he wended his way, by swamp and stream an<l 
 awful w(NMlland, to the farm-house where he happen- 
 ed to be (piartered, every sound of nature, at thai 
 witching hour, llutlered his excited imaginution ; the 
 moan of Ihe whip-[H)or-will ■ from the hill side; the 
 lioding cry of the Iree-toad, that harbinger of storm; 
 Ihe dreary hooting of the screech-owl ; or the sudden 
 rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their 
 roost. 'J'he lire-llies, too, which sparkled most vividly 
 in the darkest places, now and then startled liini, ,is 
 one of unconnnon briglilness would stream .icrosti his 
 [talh; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a l)eelle 
 came winging his blundering lliglit against him, the 
 poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with (lie 
 idea that he was struck with a witch's token. Iljs 
 only resource on such occasions, either to dronii 
 thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing |)saiiii 
 tunes ; — and the gooti people of Sleepy Hollow, as 
 they sat by their doors of an evening, were often iilied 
 with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked 
 sweetness long drawn out," lloating from thedistanl 
 hill, or along the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was lo 
 pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, 
 as they sat spinning by the lire, with a row of apples 
 roasting and sputtering along Ihe hearth, and listen 
 to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and 
 haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and liaunleil 
 bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of lliu 
 headless horseman, or Galloping Hessian of the Hol- 
 low, as they sometimes calle<l him. He would delight 
 them equally by his anecdotes of wilchcraft, and ol 
 Ihe direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in 
 the air, which prevailed in the earlier times ol' Con- 
 necticut; and would frighten them wofully wilhsp^ 
 culations upon comets and shooting stars; and with 
 Ihe alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn 
 round, and that they were half the time topsyturvy! 
 
 but if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly 
 cuddling in the chimney corner of a chaml)er that 
 was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood lire, 
 and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its 
 face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his 
 subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shap 
 and shadows beset bis path amidst the dim and 
 ghastly glare of a snowy night!— With what wislfiil 
 
 ■ The whip-poor-will is a ItirJ wliicli i« only licani at iii!;lil' 
 It receives its name fruia its note, which is tliuught tu rcstmli' 
 those words. 
 
TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 33:; 
 
 tini; ftuni the dislaiil 
 
 cli is only liM"' »' ""'!''''• 
 ilch i» Uiouglit to rweml*: 
 
 look did he eye every trembling ray ofliitht glreaming 
 •icroM the waste liclds froni some distant window ! 
 —How ofleii was lie appalled by some slinib covered 
 with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his 
 very path !— How often did he shrink with curdlinj; 
 awe at llie sound of his own steps on the fn)sty crust 
 beneath his Feet; ami dread to look over his shoulder, 
 lest he shouhl liehold some uncouth \w'mf^ tramping 
 close behind him ! —and how often was he thrown 
 into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling 
 amoni; the trees, in the idea that il was the (lalloping 
 Hessian on one of liis nightly sconrings ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
 phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; and 
 though he bad seen many spectres in his time, and 
 been more than once lieset by Satan in divers shapes, 
 in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end 
 to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant 
 life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if 
 Ills path had not Iteen crossed by a being that causes 
 more perplexity to mortal man than ghosts, goblins, 
 and the whole race of witches put together, and lliat 
 was— a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled, one 
 evening in each week, to receive his inslructi(ms in 
 psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and 
 only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a 
 blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a partritlge; 
 ripe and melting and rosy -cheeked as one of her fa- 
 ther's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for 
 her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal 
 a little of a coquette, as might be perceived even in 
 her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and mo- 
 dem fashions, as most suited to set off her cbanus. 
 She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which 
 her great-great-grandmotber had brought over from 
 Saardam ; the tempting stomacher of the olden time ; 
 and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display 
 the prettiest foot and ankle in the cotmtry round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane bad a soft and foolish heart toward 
 the sex ; and it is not to lie wondered at, that so 
 tempting a morsel soon found favour in his eyes ; more 
 especially after he bad visited her in her paternal man- 
 sion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture 
 ofa thriving, contented liberal-hearted farmer. He 
 seldom, it is true, sent either bis eyes or his thoughts 
 beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but within 
 those every thing was snug, happy, and well-con- 
 ditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not 
 proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abun- 
 dance, rather than the style in which he lived. His 
 strong hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, 
 I in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which 
 the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great 
 I elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot 
 of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweet- 
 est water, in a little well, fcrmed of a barrel ; and then 
 stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neigh- 
 bouring brook, tliat babbled along among alders and 
 I dwarf willows. Hard by the ferm-honse was a vast 
 
 liam, that might have served for a church; every 
 window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
 with tlie treasures of the farm ; the flail was busily 
 resounding within it from movning tonight ; swallows 
 and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; 
 and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turntnl up, 
 as if watching the weather, some with their heads 
 under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and 
 others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their 
 dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek 
 unwieldy p«)rkers were grunting in the repose and 
 •ibundance of their |iens; from whence sallied forth, 
 now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
 the air. A stately scpiadron of snowy geese were rid- 
 ing in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
 ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
 th<> ijirm-yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, 
 like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish dis- 
 conlentetl cry. licfure the barn door strutted the 
 gallant cock, that pattern of a husltand, a warrior, 
 and a line gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, 
 and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — 
 somelinies tearing up the earth with his feet, and then 
 generously calling his ever-hungry family of wives 
 and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
 discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked 
 upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. 
 In Ills devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself 
 every roasting pig running aliout with a pudding in 
 its belly, and an apple in its mouth; the pigeims were 
 snugly put to bed i.i a comfortable pie, and tucked in 
 with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in 
 their own gravy; and (!>.'> ducks pairing cosily in 
 dishes, like snug married couples, with a decent com- 
 petency of union sauce. In the porkers he saw carv- 
 ed out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish- 
 ing ham; not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed 
 up, Avith its gizzard under its wing, and, pcradventure, 
 a necklace of savoury sausages ; and even bright chan- 
 ticleer himself lay sprawling on his l)ack, in a side 
 dish, with uplifted claws, as if craviikg that quarter 
 which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while 
 living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as 
 he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow 
 lands, the rich fieldsof wheat, of rye, of buck-wheat, 
 and Indian corn, and the orchards burthened with 
 ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
 of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel 
 who was to inherit these domains, and his imagina- 
 tion expanded with the idea, how they might be 
 readily turned into cash, and the money invested in 
 immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in 
 the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized 
 his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, 
 with a whole family of children, mounted on the top 
 of a waggon loaded with household trumpery, with 
 pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld 
 himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her 
 
336 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 In 
 
 heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the 
 Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house the conquest of his 
 heart was complete. It was one of those spacious 
 farm-houses, with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping 
 roofs, built in the style handed down from the first 
 Dutch settlers ; the low projecting eaves forming a 
 piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in 
 bad weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, 
 various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in 
 the neighbouring river. Benches were built along 
 the sides for summer use; and a great spinning- 
 wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, show- 
 ed the various uses to which this important porch 
 might be devoted. From this piazza the wonder- 
 ing Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the 
 centre of the mansion and the place of usual resi- 
 dence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter, ranged 
 on a long dresser, dazzled Iiis eyes. In one corner 
 stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in an- 
 other a quantity of linsey-woolsey just from the loom; 
 ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried apples and 
 peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, min- 
 gled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar 
 gave him a peep into the best parlour, where the 
 claw-fooled chairs, and daik mahogany tables, shone 
 like mirrors ; andirons, with their accompanying sho- 
 vel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus 
 tops ; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the 
 mantel-piece ; strings of various-coloured birds' eggs 
 were suspended above it; a great ostrich egg was 
 hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cup- 
 board, knowingly left open, displayed immense trea- 
 sures of old silver and well-mended china. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
 regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an 
 end, and bis only study was how to gain the affec- 
 tions of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this 
 enterprize, however, he had more real difficulties 
 than generally fell *o the lot of a knight errant of 
 yore, who seldom had any thing but giants, enchant- 
 ers, fiery dragons, and such like easily conquered 
 adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make his 
 way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
 wails of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady 
 of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as 
 easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of 
 a Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him her 
 hand as a matter of coui-se. Ichabod, on the con- 
 trary, had to win his way to the heart of a country 
 co<|uette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and ca- 
 prices, which were for ever presenting new diffi- 
 culties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a 
 host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
 numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to 
 her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon 
 each other, but ready to fly cut in the common cause 
 against any new competitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, 
 roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, 
 
 or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van 
 Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung 
 with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
 broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with slinrt 
 curly black hair, and a bluff, but not unpleasant 
 countenance, having a mingled air of fun and arro- 
 gance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
 of limb, he had received the nickname of Baom 
 BONES, by which he was universally known. He was 
 famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, 
 being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He 
 was foremost at all races and cock-fights; and, with 
 the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires 
 in rustic lite, was the umpire in all disputes, setlin» 
 his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an 
 air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or appeal. 
 He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; 
 had more mischief than ill-will in his composilion- 
 and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a 
 strong dash of waggish good humour at bottom. He 
 had three or four boon companions of his own stamp, 
 who regarded hini as their model, and at the head of 
 whom he scoured the country, attending every scene 
 of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold 
 weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmount- 
 ed with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at 
 a country gathering described this well-known crest 
 at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard 
 riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes 
 his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm- 
 houses at midnight, with hoop and halloo, like a troop 
 of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of 
 their sleep, would listen for a moment till the huny- 
 scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay. 
 there goes Brom Bones and his gang ! " The neigh- 
 bours looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admi- 
 ration, and good-will; and when any madcap prank, 
 or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, always shook 
 their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the 
 bottom of it. 
 
 This rantipole hero had for some time singled out 
 the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncoutb 
 gallantries, and though his amorous toyings v.'ere 
 something like the gentle caresses and endearments 
 of a l)ear, yet it was whispered that she did not al- 
 together discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad- 
 vances were signals for rival candidates to retire, wiio 
 felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours ; inso- 
 much, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tas- 
 sel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his 
 master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking" 
 within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and car- 
 ried the war into other quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
 Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
 stouter man than he would have shrunk from the 
 competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. 
 He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and 
 perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit 
 like a supple jack— yielding, but tough; though he 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 357 
 
 ialion, Brom Van 
 lund, which rung 
 rdihood. lie was 
 nted, with short 
 lit not unpleasant 
 r of fun and arro- 
 ! and great powers 
 lickname of Bhom 
 ly known. lie was 
 11 in horsemanship, 
 
 as a Tartar. He 
 k-fights; and, with 
 gth always acqnires 
 ill disputes, selQng 
 s decisions with an 
 gainsay or appeal. 
 a fight or a frolic; 
 in his composition; 
 ^hness, there was a 
 lour at bottom. He 
 IS of his own stamp, 
 !l,andat theheadof 
 Itending every scene 
 ;s round. In cold 
 a fur cap, surmount- 
 nd when the folks at 
 his well-known crest 
 nong a squad of hard 
 a squall. Sometimes 
 ; along past the farm- 
 mi halloo, like a troop 
 lames, startled out of 
 oment till the hurry- 
 
 len exclaim, "Ay, 
 ;ang!" Theneigli- 
 lixture of awe, admi- 
 
 any madcap prank, 
 iricinity, always shook 
 )m Bones was at the 
 
 ime time singled out 
 
 >bject of his uncouth 
 
 norous toyings vere 
 
 scs and endearments 
 
 that she did not al- 
 
 Certain it is, his ad- 
 
 didales to retire, who 
 
 in his amours; inso- 
 
 seen tied to Van Tas- 
 
 a sure sign that liis 
 
 termed, "sparking" 
 
 )y in despair, and car- 
 
 with whom Ichahod 
 sidering all things, a 
 ■ive shrunk from the 
 -rould have despaired. 
 ture of pliahility m\ 
 ivas in form and spirit 
 ut tough; though lie 
 
 bent he never broke; and though he bowed beneath 
 the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it was away 
 —jerk !— he was as erect, and carried his liead as 
 high as ever. 
 
 To have taken the Held openly against his rival 
 would have been madness; fur he was nut a man to 
 be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy 
 lover Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances 
 |in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under 
 )verofhis character of singing master, he made 
 frequent visits al the farm-house; not that he hud any 
 |tbiii£ to apprehend from the meddlesome interfe- 
 rence of parents, which is so often a stumbling-block 
 in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy 
 indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better even than 
 lis pipe, and like a reasonable man and an excellent 
 [father, let her have her way in every thing. His no- 
 table little wife, too, bad enough to do to attend to her 
 loiisekeeping and manage the poultry; for, as she 
 igelyol)served,ducksand geese are foolish things, and 
 lust be looked after, but girls can take care of thein- 
 lelves. Thus while the busy dame bustled about the 
 louse, or plied her spinning wheel at one end of the 
 liazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening 
 lipe at the other, watching the achievemenlsof a little 
 fooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each 
 land, was most valiantly lighting the wind on the 
 iinnacle of the barn. In the mean lime, Ichabod 
 ,-ould carry on his suit with the daughter by the side 
 the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along 
 the twilight, that hour so favourable to the lover's 
 loquence. 
 
 I profess not to know how women's hearts are 
 fooed and won. To me they have always been 
 lalteni of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have 
 It one vulnerable point, or door of access; while 
 liters have a thousand avenues, and may be cap- 
 iied in a thousand different ways. It is a great 
 [iunipli of skill to gain the former, but a still great- 
 proof of generalship to maintain possession of the 
 jller, for a man must battle for his fortress at every 
 ir and window. He that wins a thousand common 
 Mils is therefore entitled to some renown; but 
 who keeps undisputed sway over the heai i of a 
 jiiette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was 
 ^t the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones; and 
 )ni the moment Ichabod Crane made bis advances, 
 interests of the former evidently declined; his 
 Irse was no longer seen tied al the palings on Sun- 
 |y nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose between 
 
 and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 
 |Biom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
 lure, would fain have carried matters to open 
 lifare, and have settled their pretensions to the 
 ly, according to the mode of those most concise and 
 ppie reasoners, the knights-errant of yore— by sin- 
 combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the 
 :rior :night of his adversary to enter the lists 
 linst him : he had overheard the boast of Bones, 
 hnvould "doid)le liie schoolmaster up, and put 
 
 him on a shelf; " and he was loo wary to give him an 
 opportunity. There was something extremely pro- 
 voking in this obstmately pacific system; it left Brom 
 no alternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
 waggery in his disposition, and to play off l)oorish 
 practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the 
 object of whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang 
 of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful 
 domains ; smoked out his singing school, by stopping 
 up the chimney ; broke into the school-house at night, 
 in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and win- 
 dow stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy : so 
 that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the 
 witches in the country held their meetings there. 
 But what was slill more annoying, Brom took all 
 opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence 
 of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom lie 
 taught to whine in Ihe most ludicrous manner, and 
 introduced as a rival of Ichabod's to instruct her in 
 psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, with- 
 out producing any material effect on the relative si- 
 tuation of the contending powers. On a flue au- 
 tumnal afternoon, Iclialjod, in pensive mood, sat 
 enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually 
 watched all the concerns of his little literary 
 realm. In bis hand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre 
 of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on 
 three nails, behind the throne, a constart terror to 
 evil doers; while on the desk before him might be 
 seen sundry contraband articles and prohibited wea- 
 pons, detected upon the persons of idle urchins; such 
 as half-munchedapples, popguns, whirligigs, tly-cages^ 
 and whole legions of rampant little paper gamecocks. 
 Apparently there had been some appalling act of jus- 
 tice recently inilicted, for his scholars were all busily 
 intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind 
 them with one eye kept upon Ihe master; and n kind 
 of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school- 
 room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appear- 
 ance of a negro in tow-cloth jackal and Irowscrs, u 
 round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of 
 Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, 
 half-broken colt, which he managed with a rope by 
 way of halter. He came clattering up to the school 
 door with au invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- 
 making, or "quilting frolick," to be held that even- 
 ing at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and having delivered 
 his message with that air of importance, and effort at 
 fine language, which a negro is apt lo display on petty 
 embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and 
 was seen scampering av ay up the hohow, full of the 
 importance and hurry of his mission. 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quirt 
 school-room. The scholars were hurried through 
 their lessons, without slopping al trifles; those who 
 were nimble skipped over half with impunity, and 
 those who were tardy, had a smart application now 
 and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help 
 them over a tall word. Books were flung aside w ith- 
 
 i'-y 
 
Tk-JS 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 out being put away on the shelves; inkstands were 
 overturned; benches thrown down; and (he whole 
 school was turned loose an hour before the usual time; 
 bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and 
 racketing about the green, in joy at their early eman- 
 cipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now^ spent at least an extra 
 Iialf hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his 
 best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arrang- 
 ing his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that 
 hung up in the school-house. That he might make 
 his appearance before his mistress in the true style of 
 a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with 
 whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, 
 of the name of Uans Van Kipper, and thus gallantly 
 mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest 
 of adventures. But it is meet I should , in the true 
 spirit of romantic story , give some account of the locks 
 and equipments of my hero and his steed. The ani- 
 mal he bestrode was a broken-down plough horse , 
 that had outlived almost every thing but his vicious- 
 ness. He was gaunt and shagged , with a ewe neck 
 and a bead like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail 
 were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had 
 lost its pupil , and was glaring and spectral ; but the 
 other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he 
 must have had fire and mettle in his day , if we may 
 Judge from his name, which was (iunpowder. lie 
 had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master's, 
 the choleric Van Ripper , who was a furious rider , 
 and had infused , very probably , some of his own spi- 
 rit into the animal ; for , old and broken down as he 
 looked , there was more of the lurking devd in him 
 than in any young filly in the country. 
 
 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
 rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees 
 nearly up to the pummel of the saddle; his sharp el- 
 liows stuck out like grasshoppers ; he carried his whip 
 perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as 
 liis horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not 
 imlike the Happing of a pair of wings. A small wool 
 hat rested on the lop of his nose, for so his scanty 
 strip of forehead might be called ; and the skirls of his 
 black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. 
 Such was the appearance of Ichahod and his steed, as 
 tJiey shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Hipper, 
 and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom 
 to be met with in broad daylight. 
 
 It was as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the 
 sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich 
 and golden livery which we always associate with the 
 idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober 
 hrown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer 
 kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes 
 of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of 
 wild ducks Iwgan to n)akc their a|)pearance high in 
 the air; the hark of the «(jiiirrel might he heard from 
 the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pen- 
 sive whistle of the qjail at intervals IVom (he neigh- 
 Iwuiring stubble field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their farewell ban. 
 quels. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered 
 chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush, and trer 
 to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety 
 around them. There was the honest cock-robin, ihf I 
 favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud 
 querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flyini. 
 in sable clouds ; and the golden-winged woodpecker, i 
 with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and 
 splendid plumage ; and the cedar bird, with its red tjpt 
 wings and yellow (ipt tail, and its little monteiro cap I 
 of feathers ; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, 
 in his gay light blue coat and white under dollies; 
 screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing awl I 
 bowing, and pretending to be on go<xl terms with | 
 every songster of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever I 
 open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged I 
 with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On I 
 all sides he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging I 
 in oppressive opulence on the trees; some galhereill 
 into baskets and barrels for the market; others iieapedl 
 up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on hel 
 beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its goldenl 
 ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and lioldingoinl 
 the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and ll:(l 
 yellow pumpkinslyins beneath them, turning up their I 
 fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample proj 
 spects of (he most luxurious of pies; and anon hepass-l 
 ed the fragrant buck wheal fields, breathing the odourj 
 of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anlieipaT 
 tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, weilbul-l 
 tered, and garnished witii honey or treacle, by tli(| 
 delicate liltle dimpled hcid of Katrina Van Tassel, 
 
 Thus feeding his mind >vilh many sweet tliougblj| 
 and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed alongll 
 sides of a range of hills which look out upon somed 
 the goodliest scenes of (he mighty Hudson. The s 
 gradually wheeled his broad disk down into liievei 
 'J he wide bosom of (he Tappaan Zee lay molionles 
 and f?lassy, excepting that here and there a jonllea 
 dulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow oflh 
 distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated inll 
 sky withoni a breath of air to move tlieni. Tiieb 
 rizon was ol' a fine golden tint, changing gradual 
 into a pure apple green, and from that into lliede^ 
 blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray Jingeredj 
 the woody crests of the precipices that overlinngsi 
 parts of the river, giving greater depth to tliedark^ 
 and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop wiiJoiLtj 
 ing in the distance, dropping slowly down wil 
 tide, her .sail hanging uselessly against the ir.astiiiij 
 as (he reflection of the sky gleamed along 
 water, it seemed as if the vef«i,el was suspended inll 
 air. 
 
 It was toward evening (hat Ichahod arrived alllj 
 castle of the Heer Van Tassej^ which liP found I 
 ed with (he pride and flower of the adjaccm counli] 
 Old farmers, a spare leathern-laced race, in honifsf 
 t;oats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoev 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 3.7) 
 
 their farewell ban- 
 irelry,lheyflnUered, 
 sh to bush, and tree 
 )rofusion and variety I 
 onest cock-robin, ihf 
 Lsinen, wilh its loud | 
 ing blackbirds flylnj; 1 
 winged woodpecker, 
 (ad black gorget, and I 
 bird, wilh its red tipi I 
 its lilUe monteiro ca[i 
 that noisy coxcomb, ] 
 white under clothes; 
 ding andlwbbingaiKll 
 5 on go<xl terms with j 
 
 his way, liis eye, ever 
 iry abundance, ranged 
 , of jolly autumn. On 
 F apples; some hanginj; 
 trees ; some gathered 
 market; others heaped 
 •press. Farther on he 
 corn, wilh its goldai 
 coverts, and holding out 
 isty pudding; and te 
 li them, turning up their 
 and giving ample pro- 
 pies; ami anon he pass- 
 ■Ids, breathing the odom 
 leld Ihem, soft anlicipi- 
 iinty slapjacks, well bat- 
 loney or treacle, hy the 
 Katrina Van Tassel, 
 Ih many sweet lhougliU| 
 he journeyed along 
 look out upon some 
 ^hly Hudson. The 
 isk down into the w 
 paan Zee lay molionh 
 re and there a j-nlie 
 d the blue shadow olll 
 nber clouds floated in 
 .0 move thfin. Tiie 
 lint, changing gradui 
 from that into the d( 
 slanting ray lingered 
 pices thai overhung 
 ler depth to the dark 
 les. Asloopwi^loiw 
 ig slowly down wiib 
 ly against the niasl; II 
 gleamed along die ' 
 l^sel was suspended ii 
 
 ;ii 
 
 latlchabod arrived al II 
 
 k which lipfo"'"'"" 
 roftheadjaccmcoiini 
 
 Llacedrace,inhonirt 
 ll(.ckings,hiigeslioo^ 
 
 magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered, 
 little dames in close crimped caps, long-waisted short 
 eavtts, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pin- 
 iishiuns, and gay calico pockets hanging on the out- 
 jde. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their 
 [Others, excepting where a straw hat, a line riband, 
 ir perhaps a while frock, gave symptoms of city in- 
 lovalion. The sons, in short square-skirted coats wilh 
 ffs of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair ge- 
 lerally queued in the fashion of the limes, especially 
 lliey could procure an eel- skin for the purpose, it 
 in" esteemed, throughout ihe country, as a potent 
 urisher and slrenglhener of Ihe hair. 
 Broin Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, 
 laving come to the gathering on his favourite steed 
 laredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and 
 lischief, and which no one but himself could manage. 
 e was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, 
 liven to all kinds of tricks which kept Ihe rider in 
 instant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable well- 
 oken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. 
 Fain would I piiuse to dwell upon llie world of 
 arms that burst upon the enraptined gaze of my 
 ro, as he entered the slate parlour of Van 'J'assel's 
 lansion. \ot those of the bevy of buxom lasses, 
 ith their luxurious display of red and white; but the 
 iiple charms of a genuine Dutch country lea-table, 
 Ihe sumptuous lime of autumn. Such heaped-up 
 tallers of cakes of various and almost indescribable 
 inds, knnwu only to experienced IJulcli housewives ! 
 ere was the doughty dough-inil, the tenderer oly 
 ek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet 
 ikes and short cakes, ginger t kes and honey cakes, 
 id the whole family of cakes. And then there were 
 lie pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides 
 :cs of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delecl- 
 lle dishes of preserved plums, aird peaches, and 
 (ars, and quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and 
 led chickens; together wilh bowls of milk and 
 lam, all mingled higgledy-piggled/. pretty much as 
 lave enumerated Ihcni, with the niolheiiy teapot 
 ding up its clouds of vapour from (lie inidsl — 
 aven blevs the mark! I want breath and time to 
 iiss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager 
 get on with my story. Hap|)ily, Ichabod (]raric 
 IS not in so great a hurry as his historian, but diil 
 iple justice to every dainty, 
 lewasa ,vni\ and thankful creature, who.se heart 
 ted ill proportion as his skin was tilled v\ith good 
 ler; ami .vhose spirits rose with eating as some 
 in's til drink, lie could not help, too, rolling 
 large t;yes round him as he ale, and chuckling 
 hlliepossihilily that i.i might one day he lord of 
 |lhis scene of almost Hnim..giriahlc luxury and sjilcn- 
 r. Thou, he thought, bow soon he'd turn his 
 k npmi the old school-house; snap bis lingers in 
 face of Hans Van llipjier, and every other nig- 
 illy patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogifc out 
 iwr- Ihal should dare to call him comrade I 
 d llalliis Van Tassel moved nboiil among his 
 
 guests with a face dilated with content and good hu- 
 mour, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His 
 hospitable atlenlions were brief, but expressive, being 
 coniined to a shakeof the hand, a slap on the shoulder, 
 a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to " fall to, 
 and help ther selves." 
 
 And now the sound of the nuisic from the common 
 room, or hall, summoned to the dance. J he musi- 
 cian was an old grey-headed negro, who had been 
 llie itinerant orchestra of the neighbourhood for more 
 than half a century. His instrumenl was as old and 
 batleieil as himself. The greater pari of ihe lime he 
 scraped on two or three strings, accompanying every 
 movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; 
 bowing almost to the ground, and stamping wilh his 
 fool whenever a fresh couple were to start. 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon bis dincing as much 
 as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre 
 about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely-hung 
 frame in full motion, and elaltering about Ihe room, 
 you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that 
 blessed patron of Iho dance, was liguring before you 
 in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; 
 who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from Ihe 
 farm and the neiglibourliood, stood forming a pyramid 
 of shining black faces al every door and window ; 
 gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white 
 eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from 
 ear to ear. How could the tlogger of urchins be 
 otherwise than animated and joyous P the lady of his 
 heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling gra- 
 ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings; while 
 Biom Bones, sorely smitten wilh love and jealousy, 
 sat brooding by himself in one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was at- 
 tracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, wilh old 
 Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, 
 gossiping over former times, and drawing out long 
 stories about the war. 
 
 This neighlwurhomi, al the time of which I am 
 speaking, was one of those highly favoured places 
 which abound with chronicle and great men. The 
 Ih'ilish and American hue had run near it during the 
 war ; it had, therefore, Keen Ihe scene of marauding, 
 and infested v^-ith refugees, cow boys, and all kinds 
 of border chivalry. Just snflicienl time had elapsed 
 to enable each sinry-'eller to dress up his tale with 
 a little becoming lictu •', and, in the indistinctness of 
 his recollection, to make himself the lieru of every 
 exploit. 
 
 There was the story of Doffue ftlartling, a large 
 blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a Bri- 
 tish frigate wilh an old iron ninepounder from a muddy 
 breastwork, only thai his gun burst al the sixth dis- 
 charge. And there was an old gentleman who shall 
 be nameless, being loo rich a mynheer to be lightly 
 mentioned, who, in the battle of Whileplains, being 
 an excellent master of defence, parried a musket bail 
 with a small sword, insomuch thai he absolutely felt 
 it whiz rotmd the blade, and glance oflal Ihe hilt ■ in 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 proof of wiiicii, he was ready at any time to show 
 llie sword, with tlie hilt a tittle bent. Tliere were 
 several more tliat had been equally great in the field, 
 not one of wliom but was persuaded tliat he liad a 
 considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
 terminal ion. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 
 apparitions that succeeded. The neighbourhood is 
 rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local lales 
 and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered long- 
 sellled retreats; but are trampled under fool by the 
 shifling throng that forms the population of most of 
 our country places. Besides, lliere is no encourage- 
 ment for ghosis in most of our villages, for they have 
 scarcely had time to finish their first nnp, and turn 
 themselves in their graves, before their surviving 
 friends have travelled away from the neighbourhood ; 
 so that when they turn out at night to walk their 
 rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. 
 This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of 
 ghosis except in our long-established Dutch commu- 
 nities. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence 
 of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless 
 owing lo the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was 
 a contagion in the very air tliat blew from that haunt- 
 ed region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams 
 and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the 
 Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van Tassel's, 
 and, as usual, were doling out their wild and won- 
 derful legends. Many dismal talcs were told about 
 funeral trains, and mourning cries and waitings heard 
 and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate 
 Major Andre was taken, and which stood in t!\e 
 neighbourhood. Some mention was made also of the 
 woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Ha- 
 ven Rock, and was often beard to shriek on winter 
 nights before a storm, having perished there in the 
 snow. The chief pari of the stories, however, turn- 
 ed upon the favourite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the 
 headless horseman, who had been heard several 
 limes of late, patrolling the country; and, it was said, 
 tethered his horse nighJy among the graves in the 
 churchyard. 
 
 'Jhe sequestered situation of this ohurch seems al- 
 ways (o have made it a favourite haunt of Iroidiled 
 spirits. It stands on a knoll, surroimded by locust 
 trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, 
 whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Chris- 
 lian purity, beaming through the shades of retire- 
 ment. A gentle slope descends fioni it to a silver 
 sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between 
 which peeps may be caught ai the blue hills of the 
 Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where 
 the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would 
 think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. 
 ( )n one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, 
 along which raves a large brook among broken rocks 
 and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of 
 the stream, not I'iU' from the churoh, was formerly 
 
 thrown a wooden bridge; the road that led to it, and 
 the bridge itself, were tliickly shaded by overhang- 
 ing trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the 
 day-time ; but occasioned a fearful darkness ai ni<>ht. 
 Such was one of the favourite haunts of the hei'diess 
 horseman, and the place where lie was moi^i fre. 
 quently encountered. The tale was told cf old 
 IJrouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in gl;obl, how 
 he met the horseman returning from his foraj into 
 Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up beliii:d 
 him; how they galloped over hush and brake, over 
 'till and swamp, until ihey reached the bridge; when 
 the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw 
 old Brouwer into the L" lok, and sprang away over 
 the tree tops with a clap of thunder. 
 
 'J'his story was immediately matched by a thrice 
 marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who madeli4t 
 of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. Ileal- 
 firmed, that on returning one night from the neigh- 
 bouring villiige of Sing-Sing, he had been ovprtaiien 
 by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race | 
 with him for a howl of punch, and should have von 
 it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hoik 
 but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hes- 
 sian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in that drowsy under-toncmin 
 which men talk in the dark, the counteniincesofllie 
 listeners only now and then receiving a casnal fleam 
 from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in the mini! of 
 Ichahod. He repaid them in kind with large exlraclsi 
 from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, andadiM 
 many marvellous events that had taken place iiiiiijj 
 native state of Connecticut, and fearful sights whicli 
 he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy llolloir, 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farm 
 ers gathered together their families in their \va»-| 
 gons, and were heard for some time rattling alonjj 
 the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. SodkJ 
 of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their li' 
 vourile swains, and their light-hearted laiighternw 
 gling with (he clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silei 
 woodlands, soimding fainter and fainter nnlilliu 
 gradually died away — and the late scene of noise ai 
 frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod onlylii 
 gered behind, according lo the custom of 
 lovers, to have a tCle-i-l^te with ihe heiress; fill 
 convinced that he was now on the high road tosii 
 cess. What passed at Ibis interview I will not 
 tend lo say, for in fact I do not know. LSoinelhii 
 however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for 
 cerlairdy sallied forth, after no very great inlen 
 with an air quite desolale and chopfallen— Oii tin 
 
 women! these women! Could that girl have I 
 playing off any of her coquettish tricks '—Was iw 
 encouragement of the poor pedagogue all .i ni« 
 sham to secure her conquest of his rival'— Itavej 
 only knows, not I!— Let it suffice lo say, hliah 
 stole forth with the air of one who had been sackid 
 a hen-roost, raUier than a fair lady's heart. Will 
 out looking to the riyhl or left to noli''e Ihf ««< 
 
 over, appr( 
 soenes of 
 centre of the 
 towered like 
 neighhourho 
 limlis were 
 form Irtinks 
 to the earl 
 connected w 
 Andre, who 
 was universs 
 tree. Theco 
 of respect ai 
 for the fate of 
 the tales of j 
 lold concern i 
 A.« Ichahot 
 lo whistle : ii 
 was hilt n hi 
 lii'aiiches. As 
 'ic saw somet 
 "■w; he pans 
 more narrow 
 "'e tree had 
 wood laid h; 
 'fill rhallcr 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 Sii 
 
 n.'ral wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he 
 went straight to the stable, and with several hearty 
 calfs and kiclcs, ronsed his steed most nncc<Meously 
 f;om the comfortable quarters in which lie was 
 sonndly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
 oals, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night that Icliabod, 
 lieavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel 
 homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which 
 rise above Tarry Town, and which he bad traversed 
 so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal 
 as iiimself. Far below him, the Tappaan Zee spread 
 ;L« dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here 
 and there the lall mast of a sloop, riding quietly 
 at anchor under the land. In the dead bush of 
 midnight, be could even bear the barking of the 
 watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson]; but 
 it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of 
 his distance from this faithful companion of man. 
 Kow and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, 
 accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from 
 some farm-house away among the hills— but it was 
 like a dreaming sound in bis ear. No signs of life 
 occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy 
 chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a 
 btill-fiog, from a neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping 
 uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in bis bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that be bad 
 heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon bis 
 recollection. The night grew darker and darker; 
 the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driv- 
 ini; clouds occasionally bid them from his sight, lie 
 had never felt so lonely an;l dismal. He was, more- 
 over, approaching the very place where many of the 
 scenes of the ghost stories bad been laid. In the 
 centre of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which 
 lowered like a giant above all the other trees of the 
 nei^hlwurbood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its 
 iiralw were knarled, and fantastic, large enough to 
 form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost 
 to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
 connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
 Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; and 
 was universally known by the name of INIajor Andre's 
 tree. The common people regarded il with a mixture 
 I of respect and superstition, naitly out of sympathy 
 for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly fiom 
 the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations 
 
 )ld concerning it. 
 
 As Idiabod approached this fearful tree, be began 
 to wiiislle : he thought bis whistle was answered ; it 
 I was hut a blast sweeping sharply through the dry 
 blanches. As he approached a little nearer, be thought 
 ho saw something white, hanging in the midst of the 
 tree; lie paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking 
 iiiore narrowly, perceived lliit it was a place where 
 Hie tree had been scathed l)v li,ilitning, and the while 
 wood laid liare. Suddenly he heard a groan-his 
 ipcili cliaiiered. and his knees smote against the 
 Isiiildlf it was but the rubbing of one huge Imugh 
 
 upon another, as they were swayed about by lh« 
 breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils 
 lay before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a small 
 brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
 thickly wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's 
 swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served 
 for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
 road where the brook entered the ";ood, a group of 
 oaks and chestnuts, malted thick with wild grape 
 vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass 
 this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this iden- 
 tical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, 
 and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines 
 were the sturdy yeomen concealed who unprised him. 
 This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, 
 and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has 
 to pass it alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream, his heart began to 
 thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolu- 
 tion, gave bis horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, 
 and atlempi«l to dash briskly across the bridge ; but 
 instead of starling forward, the perverse old animal 
 made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
 the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the 
 delay, jerked the reins on Ihe other side, and kicked 
 lustily with Ihe contrary foot : it was all in vain j his 
 steed started, il is true, but it was only to plunge to 
 Ihe opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles 
 and alder hushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed 
 both whip and heel upon the starveling ribs of old 
 Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snort- 
 ing, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
 suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
 over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp 
 by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of 
 Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
 margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, 
 misshapen, black, and towering. Il stirred not, but 
 seemed gathered up in llic gloom, like some gigantic 
 monster ready to spring upon the traveller. 
 
 'J'lie hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
 head with terror. What was to be done? To turn 
 and liy was now loo late; and besides, what chance 
 was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, 
 \\ liicb could rule upon Uie wings of the wind ? Sum- 
 moning up, therefore, a show of courage, be demand- 
 ed in stammering accents— "Who are you?" He re- 
 ceived nor,, ply. He repealed bis demand in a still more 
 agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more 
 he cudgelled the sides of the intlexible (iunpowder, 
 and, shutting bis eyes, broke forthwith ^nvuluntary 
 fervour into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy ob- 
 ject of alarm put itself in motion, and, wMth a scramble 
 and a botmd, stood at once in the middle of the road. 
 Though the night was dark and dismal, yet Ihe form 
 of the unknowi. might now in some degree be ascer- 
 tained. He appeared to be a horseman of large di- 
 mensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful 
 hamc. He made no offer of molestation or sociabi- 
 
8ift> 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 lity, but kept aloof on one side of Uie road, jogging 
 along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had 
 now got over his fright and waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for (his strange midnight 
 companion, and bethought himself of tlie adventure 
 of Brom Bones with the galloping Hessian, now 
 quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving hint behind. 
 T' e stranger, however, quickened his horse to an 
 f ^ual pace. Ichnbod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
 thinking to lag behind — (he other did (he same. His 
 heart began (o sink within him; he endeavoured to 
 resume his psalm (une, but his parched tongue clove 
 to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a 
 stave. There was something in (he moody and 
 dogged silence of tiiis pertinacious companion, that 
 was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
 accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
 brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief 
 against the sky, gigantic in htiglit, and muffled in a 
 cloak, Ichabod was horror-slruck, on perceiving that 
 he was headless! — but his hurrur was still more in- 
 creased, on observing that the head, which should 
 have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him 
 on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to des- 
 peration ; he rained a shower of kicks and blows upon 
 Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give 
 his companion the slip — but the spectre starteil full 
 jump with him. Away then they dashed, through 
 thick and thin; stones Hying, and sparks Hashing, at 
 every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 
 (he air, as he slre(ched his long lank body away over 
 his horse's head, in (he eagerness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached liie road which (urns off (o 
 Sleepy Hollow , but Gunpowder, who seemed possess- 
 ed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an 
 opposi(e turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the 
 left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shad- 
 ed by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it 
 crosses the bridge famous in goblin story, and just 
 beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
 whitewashed church. 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his nnskilful 
 rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as 
 lie had got half way through the hollow, the girths of 
 the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under 
 him. He seized it by the pommel, and endeavoured 
 to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just time to save 
 himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, 
 when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it 
 trampled under foot by his pursuer. For ; moment 
 the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across 
 his mind— for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was 
 no time for petty fears; (he goblin was liard on his 
 haunches, and (unskilful rider that he was! ) he had 
 nnich ado to maintain his scat; sometimes slipping on 
 one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolled 
 on the high ridge of his horse's back bone, with a vio- 
 lence that he verily fei rr J -vould cleave him asunder. 
 
 An openin:j:in the (iccs now cheered him with the 
 linpos that the chinch bridge wafl at hand. 'J'lie wa- 
 
 vering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the 
 brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the 
 walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees 
 beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones' 
 ghostly competitor had disappeared. "If I can but 
 reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe." 
 Just then he heard the black steed panting and blow- 
 ing close behind him ; he even fancied that he felt 
 his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, 
 and old Gunpowder sprung upon the bridge; he 
 thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the 
 opposite side ; and now Ichabod cast a look behind to 
 see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in 
 a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the 
 goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
 luiiiing his head at him. Ichabod endeavoured lo 
 dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encoun- 
 tered his cranium with a tremendous crash— lie was 
 tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the 
 black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a 
 whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found without 
 his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly 
 cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did 
 not make his appearance at breakfast — dinner-hour 
 came, but no Ichabod. The Doys assembled at the 
 school-house, and strolled idly almut the banks of the 
 brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now 
 began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor 
 Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, 
 and after diligent investigation tliey came upon his 
 traces. In one par( of the road leading to the ciiHrch 
 was found the saddle trampled in the dirt : the trackii 
 of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evi- 
 dently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
 beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the 
 brook, where the water ran deep and black, was 
 found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close 
 beside it a shattered pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of the sciiool- 
 master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Hipper, 
 as executor ot Ms estate, examined the bundle wiiidi 
 contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of 
 two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair 
 or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy 
 small-clothes ; a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, 
 full of dog's ears ; and a broken pilch-pipe. As lo llie 
 books and furniture of the school-house, they belong- 
 ed to the community, excepting Cotton Matlier's His- 
 tory of Witchcraft, a New-England Almiinac, ami 
 a book of dreams and fortune-telling : in w liicli last 
 was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in 
 several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in 
 honour of the heiress of Van Tassel, 'i'hese niagii' 
 books and the poetic scrawl were forthwitli consign- 
 ed to the (lames by Hans Van Ripper; who iVoni liial 
 time forward determined to send his children no mm 
 to school ; observing, that he never knew any ffooil 
 come of this same reading anil writing. Whalevn 
 money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had recei* 
 
THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 34o 
 
 the bosom of tlie 
 ken. He saw the 
 under the trees 
 tiere Brom Bones' 
 
 1. "If I can but 
 h1, "I am safe." 
 aniing and blow- 
 icied that he felt 
 e kick in the ribs, 
 1 the bridge; lie 
 iks; he gained (he 
 it a look behind to 
 icording lo rule, in 
 it then he saw the 
 in the very act of 
 )d endeavoured lo 
 ) late. It encoun- 
 lous crash — lie was 
 td Gunpowder, the 
 ', passed by like a 
 
 I was found without 
 ier his feet, soberly 
 sale. Ichabod did 
 ikfast— dinner-hour 
 ys assembled at the 
 out the banks of the 
 ins Van Hipper now 
 out the fate of poor 
 uiry was set on foot, 
 hey came upon his 
 >ading to the cliiircli 
 the dirt : the tracks 
 the road, and evi- 
 •aced lo iVie bridge, 
 broad part of the 
 lep and black, was 
 Ichabod, and close 
 
 lebodyoftheschool- 
 ilans Van Ripper, 
 
 ed the bundle which 
 They consisted of 
 for the neck ; a pair 
 old pair of corduroy 
 
 flok of psalm tunes, 
 
 )itch-pipe. Aslollie 
 house, they belon?- 
 
 Cotton Mather's Ilis- 
 ;land Almanac, aini 
 ■lling : in which lasi 
 ibbled and blotted in 
 e a copy of verses in 
 'assel. 'I'hese masio 
 •e forlhwilli consi^'ii- 
 
 pper 
 
 who from llial 
 
 ed his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must 
 have had about his person at the tune of bio disap- 
 pearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at 
 the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers 
 and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the 
 bridge, and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin 
 had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, 
 and a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; 
 aud when they had diligently considered them all, 
 and compared them with the symptoms of the pre- 
 sent case, they shook their heads, and came to the 
 conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the 
 galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in 
 noltody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
 about him : the school was removed to a different 
 quarter of (he Hollow, and another pedagogue reign- 
 ed in his stead. 
 
 It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to 
 New-York on a visit several years after, and from 
 whom this account of the ghostly adventure was re- 
 ceived, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod 
 Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighbour- 
 hood, partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van 
 Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been 
 suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had chang- 
 ed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; had 
 kept school and studied law at the same time ; had 
 been admitted to the bar, turned politician, eleciion- 
 ecred, written for the newspapers, and finally had 
 been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom 
 Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappearance 
 conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to llie 
 altar, was observed lo look exceedingly knowing when- 
 ever the story of Ichabod was related, and always 
 burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the puni|)- 
 kin ; which led some to suspect that he knew more 
 about the matter than he chose lo tell. 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are the best 
 judges of these matters, maintain to this day that 
 Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means ; 
 and it is a favourite story otlen told alMut the nei;:li- 
 bourhooil round Ihe winter evening lire. The bridge 
 became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, 
 and that may be the reason why the road has been 
 j altered of late years, so as to approach the chinch by 
 I the bonier of the mill-pond. The school-house being 
 d^erted, soon fell lo decay, and was reported to be 
 iiaunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; 
 I and the plough-lwy, h>itering homewanl of a still 
 summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a di- 
 stance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the 
 I tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT, 
 
 POUND n THE BAriDWBITIXC OP BIB IllCKEBBOCUR. 
 
 J| his children no more 
 [ever knew any gtwl 
 1 writing. Whalcvii 
 Id, and ho had mw 
 
 The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise 
 words in which I heard it related at a Corporalioit 
 meeting of the ancient city of the Manhatloes, ■ at 
 which were present many of its sagest and most illus- 
 trious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
 gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, 
 with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom 1 strongly 
 suspected of being poor, — he made such effoils to he 
 entertaining. When his story was concluded, there 
 was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
 from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been 
 asleep the greater pait of the time. There was, 
 however, one tall, dry-looking, old gentleman, with 
 beetling eye-hrows, who maintained a grave and 
 ralher severe face throughout : now and then folding 
 his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon 
 the floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He 
 was one of your wary men, who never laugh, but 
 upon good grounds, — when they have reason and the 
 law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of (he 
 company had subsided, and silence was restored, he 
 leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and, stick- 
 ing the other a-kimlw, demanded, with a slight but 
 exceedingly sage motion of Ihe head, and contraction 
 of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and 
 what it went to prove i' 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of 
 wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused 
 for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of 
 infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly to 
 the table, observed, that the story was intended most 
 logically to prove : — 
 
 " That lliere is no situation in life but has its advan- 
 tages and pleasures — provided we will but take a joke 
 as we find it : 
 
 " That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin 
 troopers is likely to have rough riding of it. 
 
 '* Ergo, for .i country schoolmaster lo be refused 
 the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high 
 prelermenl in the state." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
 closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by 
 the ratiocination of the syllogism; while, melhoughl, 
 the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something 
 of a triumphant leer. At length, he observed, that 
 all this was very well, but still he thought the story a 
 liltle on the extravagant— there were one or two 
 points on which he had his doubts. 
 
 " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that 
 matter, I don't believe one half of it myself." 
 
 I). K. 
 
 ■ New-Vm-k. 
 
544 
 
 TJIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 I ^1 
 
 LENVOY. 
 
 Co, little booke, God wnd thee good puuge, 
 And specially let tlil« be thy |ir<iycre, 
 Unto Ihcin all that Ihce will read or hear, 
 Where thou art wrunf;, after their help to call. 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 CBkvcu'a Belle Dame sana Mtrcie. 
 
 In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book, 
 the Author cannot but express his deep sense of llie 
 indulgence with which his tirst has been received, 
 and of the liberal disposition thai has been evinced to 
 treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the cri- 
 tics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has 
 found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured 
 race; it is true that each has in turn objected to some 
 one or two articles, and that these individual excep- 
 tions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost 
 to a total condemnation of his work; but then he has 
 been consoled by observing, that what one has parti- 
 cularly censured, another has particularly praised : 
 and thus, Ihe encomiums being set ofT against the ob- 
 jections, he liiids his work, upon the whole, com- 
 mended far beyond its deserts. 
 
 He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of 
 this kind favour by not following the counsel that has 
 been liberally bestowed upon him ; for where abun- 
 dance of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem 
 a man's own fault if he should go astray. He only can 
 say, in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, 
 for a lime, to govern himself in his second volume by 
 the opinions passed upon his first; but he was soon 
 brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent 
 counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludi- 
 crous; another to shun the pathetic; a third assured 
 him that he was tolerable at description, but caution- 
 ed him to leave narrative alone; while a fourth de- 
 clared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a 
 story, and was really entertaining wlien in a pensive 
 mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined 
 himsci '0 possess a spark of humour. 
 
 Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who 
 each in turn (closed some particular path, but left him 
 all the world beside to range in, he found that to fol- 
 
 low all their connsels would, in fact, be to stand «ii|). 
 He remained for a time sadly embarrassed ; when all 
 at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he 
 had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, am! 
 writlen for different hiunoiirs, it could not be expected 
 that any one would be pleased with the whole; but 
 that if it should contain something to suit each reiiiicr 
 his end would be completely answered. I'fw guesLt 
 sit down to a varied table with an e(|ual appetite Tor 
 every dish. Une has an elegant horror of u loaiietl 
 pig; another holds a curry or a devil in ultcralx)- 
 minatitm; a third cannot tolerate the ancient Ha- 
 vour of venison and wild fowl ; and a fourth, of truly 
 masculine stomach, looks with sovereign cunlenipi on 
 those knick-knucks, here and there dished up for tiie 
 ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its turn; 
 and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom (lueis a 
 dish go away from the table without being lusted and 
 relished by some one or other of the guests. 
 
 With these considerations he ventures to serve up 
 this second vuliiine in the same heterogeneous war 
 with his iirsl; simply requesting the reader, if he 
 should find here and there somelliing to please him, 
 to rest assured that it was written expressly fur in- 
 telligent readers like himself; but entreating: lijn? 
 should he find any thing to dislike, to tolerate il, as 
 one of those articles which the author has been oblig- 
 ed to write for readers of a less refined taste. 
 
 To be serious. — The author is conscious of the ".ii- 
 merous faults and imperfections of his work; and 
 well aware how little he is disciplined and accom- 
 plished in the arts of authorship. His delicienees are 
 also increased by a tlillidence arising from his pecn- 
 liar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange 
 land, appearing before a public which he has been 
 accustomed, from childhood, to regard with ihe 
 highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full 
 of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet linds 
 that very solicitude continually embarrnssin; his 
 |K)wers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence 
 which are necessary to succe$:>ful exertion. Still Ihe 
 kindness with which he is treated encourages liimlo 
 go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier 
 fooling; and thus he proceeds, half venturing, half | 
 shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and 
 wondering at his own temerity. 
 
 END OF TIIE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
L, be to stand still, 
 rrassed; when, all 
 ) ramble on as lie 
 miscellaneous, ami 
 iilil not bo expected 
 Ih Ibe whole; but 
 lu suit each reader, 
 erecl. I'ew guests 
 I e(|ual appelite Tor 
 horror of a loailed 
 devil ill ullcralM)- 
 ile the anciini Ha- 
 nd a fonrlh, of truly 
 vereign contempt on 
 e dished up for the 
 demned in its turn; 
 letiles, seldom duesa 
 lOUt being tasted and 
 he guests, 
 .enturcs to serve up 
 heterogeneous way 
 (ig the reader, if he 
 ^tiling to please liim, 
 ten expressly fur in- 
 but entreating: liitr 
 like, to tolerate it, as 
 luthor has been oblig- 
 relined taste. 
 s conscious of the -.u- 
 (IS of his work; and 
 sciplined and accom- 
 llis delicicnces are 
 rising from his pecu- 
 jf writing in a strange 
 ic which he has ken 
 to regard with the 
 verence. He is full 
 approbation, yet finds 
 lly embarrassing liis 
 lat ease and coiilidence 
 \a\ exertion. Still the 
 ,ed encourages liim to 
 Inay acquire a steadier 
 I, half venluring, balf ] 
 n good forliine, and 
 
 BRA€EBRIDG£ HALL; 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HUMORISTS. 
 0}) ^go(iv(^ Crajfoiij ^tnt. 
 
 Uiidor till)) cloud I walk, Rcntlcmcn ; pardon my nido assault. 
 I am a traveller, who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial 
 angles ot this glubc, am hither arrived to [icruse this little s|)ot. 
 
 CUHISTMAS UHDINARY. 
 
 Tin: AUTHOR. 
 
 woHTtiv header! 
 
 O.N again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a 
 jjew observations at the outset, by way of bespeaking 
 la I if hi understanding. The volumes which I have al- 
 Irc'idy published have met with a reception far beyond 
 (my most sanguine expectations. I would willingly 
 attribute this to their hUrinsic merits; but, in spite of 
 lliie vanity of authorship, I cannot but be sensible that 
 jllieir success has, in a great measure, been owing to 
 I less Haltering cause. It has been a matter of mar- 
 kei, that a man from the wilds of America should ex- 
 press himself in tolerable English. I was k ^ked 
 bpoii as something new and strange in literature ; a 
 jdudofdemi-savage, with a feather in bis hand, in- 
 j^teadofonhishead; and there was a curiosity to hear 
 nhat such a l)eing had to say about civilized society. 
 This novelty is now at an end, and of course the 
 jeeling of indulgence which it produced. I must now 
 fspecl to bear the scrutiny of sterner criticism, and 
 I be measured by the same standard with contem- 
 lorary writers ; and the very favour which has been 
 Jiown to my previous writings, will cause these to be 
 pealed with tlie greater rigour; as there is nothing 
 p whieh the world is apt to punish a man more se- 
 jerely, than for having been over-praised. On this 
 |ead, therefore, I wish to forestal the censoriousness 
 rilie reader; and I entreat he will not think the 
 jrorse of me for the many injudicious things that may 
 lave been said in my commendation. 
 I am aware that I oflon travel over beaten ground, 
 pd treat of subjects that have already been discussed 
 ' abler pens. Indeed, various authors have been 
 Icntioiied as my models, to whom I should feel Hat- 
 |rfd if I thought I bore the slightest resemblance ; 
 I in truth I write after no model that I am con- 
 Nsof, and I write with no idea of imitation or 
 Impctilion. In venturing occasionally an topics that 
 |ve already been almost exhausted by English au- 
 
 thors, I do it, not with the presumption of challeng- 
 ing a comparison, but with the hope that some new 
 interest may be given to such topics, when discussed 
 by the pen of a stranger. 
 
 If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwell- 
 ing with fondness on subjects that are trite and com- 
 mon-place with the reader, I beg the circumstances 
 under which I write may be kept in recollection. 
 Having been born and brought up in a new country, 
 yet educated from infancy in the literature of an old 
 one, my mind was early filled with historical and 
 poetical associations, connected with places, and man- 
 ners, and customs of Europe; but wltich could rarely 
 be applied to those of my own country. To a mind 
 thus peculiarly prepareil, the most ordinai7 objects 
 and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of strange 
 matter and interesting novelty. England is as classic 
 ground to an American as Italy is to an Englishman ; 
 and old London teems with as much historical asso- 
 ciation as mighty Rome. 
 
 Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical 
 medley of ideas that throng upon his mind on landing 
 among English scenes. He for the first lime sees a 
 world about which he has been reading and thinking 
 in every stage of his existence. The recollected ideas 
 of infancy, youth, and manhood ; of the nursery, the 
 school, and the study, come swarming at once upon 
 him; and his at tenlion is distracted between great and 
 little objects; each of which, perhaps, awakens an 
 equally delightful tram of remembrances. 
 
 Dut what more especially attracts his notice are 
 those peculiarities which distinguish an old country 
 and an old stale of society from a new one. I have 
 never yet grown familiar enough willi the crumbling 
 nionuuients of past ages, to blunl the intense interest 
 with which I at iirst beheld Ihein. Accustomed al- 
 ways to scenes where history was, in a manner, in 
 anticipation; where every thing in art was new and 
 progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to 
 the past; where, in short, the works of man gave no 
 ideas but those of young existence, and prospective 
 
 H 
 
 « 
 
34(> 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 improvement; there was something inexpressibly 
 lonchingin the si^htofenormous piles of arclUlecture, 
 grey with antiquity, and sinking to decay. I cannot 
 describe ihc mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with 
 which I have contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like 
 Tintcrn Abbey, bnried in the bosom ofa quiet valley, 
 and sill It up from the world, as though it had existed 
 merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway 
 Castle, standing in stern lonelinesson its rocky height, 
 a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed 
 power. They spread a grand, and melancholy, and, 
 to me, an unusual charm over the landscajte ; I for the 
 first time beheld signs of national old age, and em- 
 pire's decay, and proofs of the transient and perishing 
 glories of art, amidst the ever-springing and reviving 
 fertility of nature. 
 
 But, in fact, to me every thing was full of mtitter ; 
 the footsteps of history were everywhere to be trac- 
 ed ; and poetry hud breathed over and sanctified the 
 land. I experienced the delightful freshness of feel- 
 ing of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictur- 
 ed to myself a set of inhabitants, and a mode of life 
 for every habitation that I saw, from the aristocratical 
 mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stalely groves 
 and solitary parks, to the straw-thatched cottage, 
 with its scanty garden and its cherishetl woodbine. 
 I thought I never could be sateil with the sweetness 
 and fresimess of a country so completely carpeted 
 witli verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy 
 pasture, and the honeysuckled hedge. I was conli- 
 nually coming upon some little document of poetry in 
 the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the 
 primrose, or some other simple object, that has re- 
 ceived a supernatural value from the muse. The first 
 time that I heard the song of the nightingale, I was 
 intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remem- 
 bered associations than by the melody of its notes ; 
 and I shall never forget the thrill of ecstasy with 
 which I first saw the lark rise, almost from beneath 
 my feet, and wing its musical flight up into the morn- 
 ing sky. 
 
 In this way I traversed England, a grown-up child, 
 delighted by every object great and small ; and be- 
 traying a wondering ignorance, and simpleenjoyment, 
 that provoked many a stare and a smile from my wiser 
 and more experienced fellow-travellers. Such too 
 was the odd confusion of associations that kept break- 
 ing upon me as I first approached London. One of 
 my earliest wishes had been to see this great metro- 
 polis. I had read so much about it in the earliest books 
 that had been put into my infant hands ; and I had 
 heard so much about it from those around me who had 
 come from the " old countries. " I was familiar with 
 the names of its streets and squares, and public places, 
 before I knew those of my native city. It was to me 
 the great centre of the world, round which every 
 thing seemed to revolve. I recollect contemplating 
 so wistfully, when a boy, a paltry little print of the 
 Thames, and London Bridge, and St Paul's, that was 
 in front of an old magazine ; and a picture of Kensing- 
 
 ton Gardens, with gentlemen in three-cornered hais 
 and broad skirts, and ladies in hoops and lappets, that 
 hung up in my bed-room ; even the venerable cut of 
 St John's Gnle, that has stood, time out of mind in 
 front of the (lentleman's Magazine, was not withoiii 
 its charms to me ; and I envied the odd-looking little 
 men lliat appeared to Im; loitering about its arches. 
 
 How then did my heart warm when the towers of 
 Wostniinster Abbey were pointed out to me, risiiii; 
 alx)ve the rich groves of St James's Park, with a (hin 
 blue huze about their grey pinnacles ! I could not 
 behold (his great mausoleum of what is most iljus- 
 trious in our paternal history, without feeling my en- 
 thusiasm in a glow. With what eagerness did lex- 
 I ire every part of the metropolis I I was not content 
 with those matters which occupy the tlignified re- 
 search of the learned traveller ; I delighted to call up 
 all the feelings of ehildhood, and to seek after tlioseob- 
 jeets which had been the wonders of my infancy, 
 London Bridge, so famous in imrsery song; the far- 
 famed Monument ; Gog and Magog, and the Lions in 
 the Tower, all brought back many a recollection of 
 infantine delight, and of good old beings, now no 
 more, who had gossiped about them to my wonderin; 
 ear. Nor was it without a recurrence of childish in- 
 terest that I first peeped into Mr Newberry's shop, In 
 St Paid's Churchyard, that fountain-head of litera- 
 ture. Mr Newbei-ry was the first that ever (illed my 
 infant mind with the idea of a great and good man. 
 He published all the picture books of the day; and, 
 out of his abundant love for children, he charged "no- 
 thing for either paper or print, and only a penny-half 
 penny for the binding ! " 
 
 I have mentioned these circumstances, worthT 
 reader, to show you the whimsical crowd of associa- 
 tions that are apt to beset my mind on mingling amon; 
 English scenes. I hope they may, in some measure, 
 plead my apology, should I be found harping upoi 
 stale and trivial themes, or indulging an over-fond- 
 ness for any thing antique and obsolete. Iknowil 
 is the humour, not to say cant of the day, to mn riot 
 about old times, old books, old customs, and old 
 buildings ; with myself, however, as far as I hau| 
 caught the contagion, the feeling is genuine. Toil 
 man from a young country all old things areinij 
 manner new ; and he may surely be excused in 
 a little curious about antiquities, whose n^iiive laiHl,| 
 unfortunately, cannot boast of a single ruin. 
 
 Having been brought up, also, in the coinparalii 
 simplicity of a republic, I am apt to be struck 
 even the ordinary circumstances incident to an arii 
 cratical stale of society. If, however, I should 
 any time amuse myself by pointing out some of 
 eccentricities, and some of the political cliaracterisi 
 of the latter, I would not be understood as pretend! 
 to decide upon its political merits. My only aim 
 to paint characters and manners. I am no polilici 
 The more I have considered the study of politics, 
 more I have found it full of perplexity ; and I hai 
 contented myself, as I have in my religion, with 
 
 Tlic Mcientes 
 
 I cuuiiry or (he ne 
 
 1 Iviiiiw HO loixl li 
 
 » 
 
 The readei 
 Sketch Rook, 
 llie Hraccbrid 
 Christmas. 
 Iiaving been i 
 lake place. 
 s|)iriled young 
 raamedtohis 
 A gathering ol 
 famed, to ce 
 Igenlleman is 
 "There is no| 
 )«iing couple 
 iliore; a good i 
 Before proce 
 I'e squire mig 
 ard-riding, fe 
 I and, in fact 
 lliis rural title 
 'ion (hroiigho 
 use it saves n 
 hicli is one 
 liieii F renchni 
 The squire is 
 W English com 
 i^'i'ig almost en 
 liiimouWsl, 
 i«y liave an op 
 '"'6 liis hobby 
 
hrce-<»rneredhat< 
 )8 and lappets, that 
 le venerable cut ot 
 ne out of mind, in 
 
 e, was not wilhom 
 e odd-looking liiUe 
 about lis arches, 
 wlien the towers of 
 I out to me, risiiic 
 ,'s Park, with a thin 
 lacles ! I could not 
 what is most illus- 
 ithout feeling my en- 
 I eagerness didlex- 
 1 ! I was not content 
 py the dignified re- 
 [ delighted to call up 
 lo seek after those ob- 
 ders of my infancy. 
 ursery song; the far- 
 rrog, and the Lions in 
 lany a recollection o( 
 
 old beings, now no 
 lieni to my wonderiiK 
 urrence of childish in- 
 r Newberry's shop, in | 
 untain-head of lilera- 
 irst that ever tilled my | 
 
 p;reat and good man, 
 ,ooks of the day ; and, I 
 UUen, be charged" no- 
 and only a penny-hall I 
 
 ;ircum9tances, worth; 
 jsical crowd of assoda- 
 [lind on mingling amonjj 
 [may, in some measure,! 
 16 found harping upoa] 
 idulging an over-fowl- 
 id obsolete. I know ill 
 |t of the day, to mn rim 
 old customs, and oM 
 rever, as far as I hfil 
 [ling is genuine. Toi 
 all old things areinil 
 ■ely be excused in beii^l 
 [ies, whose nfiive laiii| 
 a single ruin, 
 dso, in the comparati* 
 apt to be struck "' 
 fees incident to an aris 
 however, I should ■ 
 linting out some of 
 , political characteristii 
 inderstoodaspretendit 
 ,eritiJ. Myonlyaimi 
 lers. I am no pohiicii 
 the study of politics. 
 perplexity ; and I M 
 in my religion, with '" 
 
 BKAC£BIUDG£ ilALL. 
 
 lyiT 
 
 faith in which 1 was brought up ; regulating my own 
 conduct by its prece[>ts, but leaving to abler heads 
 the task of making converts. 
 
 I shall continue on, therefore, in the course I have 
 liilherto pursuefl; looking at things poetically, rather 
 than politically ; describing them as they arc, rather 
 than pretending tu point out liuw they sliuuld be ; 
 iind endeavouring to see the >vorld in as pleasant a 
 li^ht as circumstani'es will permit. 
 
 I have always had an opinion that much good 
 iiiiifiit he done by keeping mankind in good humour 
 with one another. I may be wrong in my philo- 
 sophy, but I shall continue to practise it until con- 
 vinced of its fallacy. When I iliscover the world to 
 be all that it has been represented by sreering cynics 
 and whining poets, I will turn to and abuse it also ; 
 in the mean while, worthy reader, I hope yon will 
 mil think lightly of me, because 1 camiot b<'lieve this 
 to be so very bad a world as it is represented. 
 Thine truly, 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON. 
 
 THE HALL. 
 
 Tlic :incienlesl house, ami the Ijest for hoiisekcfiijing iu this 
 I county or llie next ; anil Uiuusli Hie master of it write- liiit siiuirc, 
 I kiKiw uo lord like him. MEaav Bkggaus. 
 
 The reader, if he has peru.sed the volumes of the 
 [sketch Book, will probably recollect something of 
 the Bracebridge family, with which I once passed a 
 I Christmas. I am now on another visit at the Hall, 
 1 having been invited to a wedding which is shortly to 
 Itake place. The squire's second son, Guy, a fine, 
 Ispirited young captain in the army, is about to be 
 linanriedto his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. 
 JA gathering of relations and friends has already com- 
 [uienced, to celebrate the joyfnl occasion; for the old 
 jgentleman is an eneniy to qtiiet, private weddings. 
 I" There is nothing," he says, "like launchuig a 
 lyoung couple gaily, .ind cheering them from the 
 phore; a good outset is half the voyage." 
 
 Before proceeding any farther, I would beg that 
 kite squire might nut be confounded with that class of 
 pard-riding, fox-hunting gentlemen so often describ- 
 , and, in fact, so nearly extinct in England. I use 
 litis rural title partly because it is his universal appel- 
 lation throughout the neighbourhood, and partly be- 
 ause it saves me the fretpient repetition of bis name, 
 ^hich is one of those rough old English names at 
 ^liicii Frenchmen exclaim in despair. 
 The squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the 
 Jld English eoiuitry gentleman; rusticated ;i little by 
 iving almost entirely on his estate, and something of 
 |h«mourist, as Englishmen are apt to become when 
 pcyhave an opiwrlunity of living in their own way. 
 like his hobby passing well, however, which is, a 
 
 bigoted devotion to old English manners and customs; 
 it jumps a little with my own humour, having as yet 
 a lively and imsated curiosity about the ancient and 
 genuine cliaracteri.stics of my " father land." 
 
 There are some traits about the sipiire's family 
 also, which appear to me to l)e national. It is one 
 of those old arislocratical families, which, I believe, 
 are jHiculiar to England, and scarcely understood in 
 other countries; that is to say, families of the an- 
 cient gentry, who, though destitute of titled rank, 
 maintain a high ancestral pride ; who look down u|H)n 
 all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it 
 a sacrifice of dignity to merge the vener.d)le name of 
 their house in a muilern title. 
 
 This feeling is very much fostered by the import- 
 ance which they enjoy on their hereditary domains. 
 'J'he fanuly mansion is an old manor-house, standing 
 in a retired and beautiful part of York.shire. Its in- 
 habitants have Iwen always regarded through the 
 surrounding country, as " the great ones of the 
 earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks up 
 tu the squire with almost feudal homage. An old 
 manor-house, and an old family of this kind, are 
 rarely to be met with at the present day; and it is 
 probably the peculiar humour of the squire that lias 
 retained this secluded specimen of English house- 
 keeping in somethmg like the genuine old style. 
 
 I am again quartered in the pannelled chamber, In 
 the antique wing of the house. The prospect from 
 my window, however, has quite a different aspect 
 from that which it wore on my winter visit. 1'hough 
 early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny 
 days have drawn forth the beauties of the spiing, 
 which, I think, are always most captivating on their 
 first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned 
 garden are gay with llowers; and ll«! gardener has 
 brought out his exotics, and placed them along the 
 stone balustrades. The trees are clothed with green 
 buds and tender leaves; when I throw opeiv my 
 jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignionelte, 
 and hear the hum of the bees from the flowers against 
 the sunny wall, with the varied song of the throstle, 
 and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little wren. 
 
 While sojourning in this strong hold of old fashions, 
 it is my intention to make occasional sketches of the 
 scenes and characters before me. I would have it 
 understood, however, that I am not writing a novel, 
 and have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous ad- 
 venture, to promise the reader. The llall of which I 
 treat, has, for aught I know, neither trap-door, nor 
 sliding-pannel, nor donjon-keep; and indeed appears 
 to have no mystery abotit it. The family is a worthy 
 well-meaning family, that, in all probability, will 
 eat and drink, and go to bed, and get up regtdarly, 
 from one end of my work to the other; and the 
 sqtiire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see 
 no likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress in the 
 way of the a[>proaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot 
 foresee a single extraordinary event that is likely to 
 occur in the whole term of my sojoin^ at the llall. 
 

 
 iMAGE EVALUATION 
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 125 
 
 2.2 
 
 i£ 12.0 
 
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 - 6" 
 
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 PhotDgraphic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 33 WIST MAIN STRUT 
 
 WnSTIR.N.Y. 14SM 
 
 (716) •72-4503 
 
 
 '4^ 
 
348 
 
 BRACEBUIDGE HALL. 
 
 I lell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he 
 iinds me dallying along, through every-day English 
 scenes, he may hurry a-head in hopes of meeting 
 with some marvellous adventure farther on. I invite 
 him, on the contrary, to ramble gently on with me, 
 as he would saunter out into the fields, stopping occa- 
 sionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird, or 
 admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at 
 the end of his career. Should I, however, in the 
 course of my loiterings about this old mansion, see or 
 hear any thing curious, that might serve to vary the 
 monotony of this every-day life, I shall not fail to 
 report it for the reader's entertainment. 
 
 For freshest wits I know will soon be wcarle 
 Of any book, how grave soc'cr it be. 
 Except it have odd matter, strange and merrle, 
 Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee. < 
 
 THE BUSY MAN. 
 
 A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and 
 my master's means, and much good do liim with it. He docs 
 hold my master up witli his stories, and songs, and catches, and 
 ;iuch tricks ani' ji.^, you would admire— be is with him now. 
 Jovial Cbew. 
 
 By no one has my return to the Hall been more 
 heartily greeted than by Mr Simon Bracebridge, or 
 Master Simon, as the squire most commonly calls 
 him. I encountered him just as I entered the park, 
 where be was breaking a pointer, and he received 
 me with all the hospitable cordiality with which a 
 man welcomes a friend to another one's house. I 
 have already introduced him to the reader as a brisk 
 old bachelor-looking little man; the wit and superan- 
 nuated beau of a large family connexion, and the 
 squire's factotum. I found him, as usual, full of 
 buslle; with a thousand petty things to do, and per- 
 sons to attend to, and in chirping good humour; for 
 there are few happier beings than a busy idler; that 
 is to say, a man who is eternally busy about nothing. 
 
 I visited him, the morning after my arrival, in his 
 chamber, Avhich is in a remote corner of the mansion, 
 as he says he likes to be to himself, and out of the 
 way. He has fitted it up in his own taste, so that it 
 is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's notions of 
 convenience and arrangement. The furniture is 
 made up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, 
 chosen on account of their suiting his notions, or fit- 
 ting some corner of his apartment; and he is very 
 elotjuent in praise of an ancient elbow-chair, from 
 which he takes occasion to digress into a censure on 
 modern chairs, as having degenerated from the di- 
 gnity and comfort of high-backed antiquity. 
 
 Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he 
 calls his study. Here are some hanging shelves, of 
 his own construction, on which are several old works 
 
 ' 4Iirror for Magistrates. 
 
 on hawking, hunting, and farriery, and a collection 
 or two of poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeih. 
 which he studies out of compliment to the squire; 
 together with the Novelists' Magazine, the S[iorlii)» 
 Magazine, tlie Racing Calendar, a volume or two uf 
 tlie Newgate Calendar, a book of peerage, and an- 
 other of heraldry. 
 
 His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closel; 
 and about the walls of his apartment are hooks to hold 
 his fishing-tackle, whips, spurs, and a favourite fowl- 
 ing-piece, curiously wrought and inlaid, which he in- 
 lierits from his grandfather. He has also a couple of 
 old single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle, which he has 
 repeatedly patched and mended himself, aflirniing it 
 to be a veritable Cremona : though I have never 
 heard him extract a single note from it that was not 
 enough to make one's blood run cold. 
 
 From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, 
 in the stillness of mid-day, drowsily sawing some 
 long-forgotten tune; for he prides himself on having 
 a choice collection of good old English music, and will 
 scarcely have any thing to do with modern com- 
 posers. The time, however, at which his musical 
 powers are of most use, is now and then of an even- 
 ing, when he plays for the children to dance in the 
 hall, and he passes among them and the servants for 
 a perfect Orpheus. 
 
 His chamber also bears evidence of his various avo- 
 cations; there are half-copied sheets of music; designs j 
 for needlework; sketches of landscapes very indif- 
 ferently executed ; a camera lucida ; a magic lantern, j 
 for which he is endeavouring to paint glasses; in a | 
 word, it is the cabinet of a man of many accoinplish- 
 menls, who knows a little of every thing, and does | 
 nothing well. 
 
 After I had spent some time in his apartment, ad- 
 miring the ingenuity of his small inventions, lie took | 
 me about the establishment, to visit the stables, i%- 
 kennel, and other dependencies, in which he appear- 1 
 ed like a general visiting the different quarters of his I 
 camp; as the squire leaves the control of all tliesel 
 matters to him, when lie is at the Hall. He inquired I 
 into the state of the horses; examined their feel; I 
 prescribed a drench for one, and bleeding for an-l 
 other; and then took me to look at his own liorse,! 
 on the merits of which he dwelt with great prolixilf,! 
 and which, I noticed, had the best stall in (lie staUeJ 
 
 After this I was taken to a new toy of his and iIkI 
 f )uire's, which he termed the falconry, where thertl 
 were several unhappy birds in durance, completiif I 
 their education. ^ mong the number was a line lalT 
 con, which Master Simon had in especial training,! 
 and he told me that he would show me, in a few I 
 days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind.! 
 Ill the course of our round, I noticed that the groomsl 
 game-keeper, whippers-in, and other retainers, seem- j 
 ed all to be on somewhat of a familiar fooling v'm 
 Master Simon, and fond of having a juke with liimi 
 though it was evident they had great deference t)t| 
 his opinion in mutters relating to their fiinclions. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 .149 
 
 riery, and a collection 
 the reign of Elizabelh, 
 ipliment to the squire; 
 lagazine, the Sponing 
 lar, a volume or two of 
 )k of peerage, and an- 
 
 n pegs in a small closet ; 
 rtment are boolis to hold 
 rs, and a favourite fowl- 
 and inlaid, which he in- 
 
 He has also a couple of 
 a fiddle, which he has 
 ded himself, aflirming it 
 
 : though I have never 
 ote from it that was not 
 run cold. 
 
 idle will often be heard, 
 , drowsily sawing some 
 prides himself on having 
 d English music, and will 
 ) do with modern com- 
 er, at which his musical 
 low and then of an even- 
 ; children to dance in the 
 Ihem and the servants tor 
 
 vidence ofhis various avo- 
 »d sheets of music; designs 
 of landscapes very indif- 
 [■alucida;amagiclanlem, 
 •ing to paint glasses; in a I 
 man of many accomplish- 
 of every thing, and does 
 
 ime in his apartment, ad- 
 } small inventions, he took 
 t, to visit the stables, dog- 
 ncies, in which he appear- 
 he different quarters of his 
 [s the control of all tlwse 
 at the Hall. He inquired 
 [rses; examined their feel; 
 me, and bleeding for an- 
 10 look at his own horse, 
 dwelt with great prolixity, 
 the best stall in the suUe, 
 anew toy of his and the 
 the falconry, where there 
 Js in durance, completiaj 
 [the number was a fine bl- 
 bad in especial iraininj, 
 Ivould show me, in a few 
 le good old-fashioned kiirf. 
 I noticed that the grooiw> 
 f, and other relaineis,8eer»- 
 
 of a familiar footing «il» 
 ^f having a joke with luni, 
 y had great deference m 
 ting to their functions 
 
 Tliere was one exception, however. In a testy old 
 huntsman, as hot as a pepper-corn; a meagre, wiry 
 old fellow, in a thread-bare velvet jockey-cap, and a 
 pau" of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone 
 as though they had been japanned, lie was very 
 contradictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, 
 to dilTer from Master Simon now and then, out of 
 mere captiousness. This was particularly the case 
 with respect to the treatment of the hawk, which the 
 old man seemed to have under his peculiar care, and, 
 according to Master Simon, was in a fair way to ruin; 
 tlie latter had a vast deal to say about casting, and 
 impiiuj, and gleaming, and enseaming, and giving the 
 liawk the rangle, which I saw was all heathen Greek 
 to old Christy; but he maintained his point notwith- 
 standing, and seemed to hold all this technical lore 
 ia utter disrespect. 
 
 I was surprised at the good humour with which 
 Master Simon bore his contradictions till he explain- 
 ed tlie matter to me afterwards. Old Christy is the 
 most ancient servant in the place, having lived among 
 dogs and horses the greater part of a century, and 
 been in tlie service of Mr Bracebridge's father. lie 
 knows the pedigree of every horse on the place, and 
 has bestrode the great great grandsires of most of 
 them. He can give a circumstantial detail of every 
 fox-hunt for the last sixty or seventy years, and has 
 a history of every stag's head about the house, and 
 every hunting trophy nailed to the door of the dog- 
 kennel. 
 
 All tlie present race have grown up under his eye, 
 and humour him in his old age. He once attended 
 the squire to Oxford, when he was a student there, 
 and enlightened the whole university with his hunt- 
 hig lore. All this is enough to make the old man 
 opinionated, since he finds on all these matters of first- 
 rate importance, he knows more than the rest of tlie 
 world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, 
 and acknowledges that he derived his first knowledge 
 in hunting from the instructions of Christy; and I 
 much question whether the old man does not still 
 look upon him as rather a greenhorn. 
 
 On our return homewards, as we were crossing 
 the lawn in front of the house, we heard the porter's 
 bell ring at the lodge, and shortly afterwards, a kind 
 of cavalcade advanced slowly up the avenue. At sight 
 of it my companion paused, considered it for a mo- 
 ment, and then making a sudden exclamation, hurried 
 away to meet it. As it approached I discovered a 
 fair, fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an old- 
 fashioned riding-habit, with a broad-brimmed white 
 |l)eaver hat such as may be seen in Sir Joshua Rey- 
 I Holds' paintings. She rode a sleek while pony, and 
 was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted 
 on an over-fed hunter. At a little distance in the rear 
 fame an ancient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two 
 hery corpulent horses, driven by as corpulent a coach- 
 iiian, beside whom sat a page dressed in a fanciful 
 Rim livery. Inside of the chariot was a starched 
 piini personage, with a look somewhat between a 
 
 lady's companion and a lady's maid, and two pam- 
 pered ciu's, tliat showed their ugly faces and barked 
 out of each window. 
 
 There was a general turning out of the garrison to 
 receive this new comer. The squire assisted her to 
 alight, and saluted her affectionately; Uie fair Julia 
 flew into her arms, and they embraced with the ro- 
 mantic fervour of boarding-school friends; she was 
 escorted into the liouse by Julia's lover, towards 
 whom slie showed distinguished favour; and a line of 
 the old servants, who had collected in the hall, bow- 
 ed most profoundly as she passed. 
 
 I oltserved that Master Simon was most assiduous 
 and devout in his attentions upon this old lady. He 
 walked by tlie side of her pony up the avenue; and, 
 while she was receiving the salutations of the rest of 
 the family, he took occasion to notice the fat coach- 
 man, to pat the sleek carriage horses, and, above all, 
 to say a civil word to my lady's gentlewoman, the 
 prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot. 
 
 I bad no more of his company for the rest of the 
 morning. He was swept off in the vortex that fol- 
 lowed in the wake of this lady. Once indeed he 
 paused for a moment, as he was hurrying on some 
 errand of the good lady's, to let me know that this 
 was Lady Lillycraft, a sister of the sijuire's, of large 
 fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that 
 her estate lay in one of the best sporlmg counties in 
 all England. 
 
 FAMILY SERVANTS. 
 
 Verily old servants are (lie vouchers of worthy housekeeping. 
 They are Wte rats in a mansion, or mites in a cliecse, bespeaking 
 tlic antiquity and fatness of their aliode. 
 
 In my casual anecdotes of the Halt, I may often be 
 tempted to dwell on circumstances of a trite and or- 
 dinai7 nature, from their appearing to me illustrative 
 of genuine national character. It seems to be the 
 study of tlie squire to .idhere, as much as possible, 
 to what he considers the old landmarks of English 
 manners. His servants all understand his ways, and 
 for the most part have been accustomed to them from 
 infancy ; so that, upon the whole, his household pre- 
 sents one of the few tolerable specimens that can now 
 I)e met with, of the establishment of an English coun- 
 try gentleman of the old school. 
 
 By the bye, the servants are not the least character- 
 istic part of the household : the housekeeper, for in- 
 stance, has been born and brought up at the Hall, and 
 has never been twenty miles from it; yet she has a 
 stately air that would not disgrace a lady that had (I- 
 gured at the court of Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 I am half inclineil to think that she has caught it 
 from living so much among the old family pictures. 
 It may, however, be owing to a consciousness of her 
 importance in the sphere in wliich she has always 
 
590 
 
 BRAGEBIUDGE HALL. 
 
 I- 
 
 moved; for she is greatly respecled in the neighbour- 
 ing village, and among tlie farmers' wives, and has 
 high authority in tlie household, ruling over the ser- 
 vants with quiet, but undisputed sway. 
 
 She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes and pointed 
 nose and chin. Her dress is always the same as to 
 fashion. She wears a small, well-slarched rufT, a 
 laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown festooned 
 and open in front, which, on particular occasions, is 
 of ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of the 
 family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was 
 housekeeper before her. I have a reverence for these 
 old garments, as I make no doubt they have figured 
 about these apartments in days long past, when they 
 have setofTthe charms of some peerless family beauty ; 
 and I have sometimes looked from the old housekeeper 
 to the neighbouring portraits, to see whether I could 
 not recognize her antiquated biooade in the dress of 
 some one of those long-waisted dames that smile on 
 me from the walls. 
 
 Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzled out in 
 front, and she wears over it a small cap, nicely plait- 
 ed, and brought down under the chin. Her manners 
 are simple and primitive, heightened a little by a 
 proper dignity of station. 
 
 The Hall is her world, and the history of the fa- 
 mily the only history she knows, excepting that which 
 she has read in the Bible. She can give a biography 
 of every portrait in the picture-gallery, and is a com- 
 plete family chronicle. 
 
 She is treated with great consideration by the squire. 
 Indeed, Master Simon tells me that there is a tradi- 
 tional anecdote current among the servants, of the 
 squire's having been seen kissing her in the picture- 
 gallery, when they were both young. As, however, 
 nothing further was ever noticed between them, the 
 circumstance caused no great scandal ; only she was 
 observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, 
 and refused the hand of the village innkeeper, whom 
 she had previously smiled on. 
 
 The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a 
 rejected admirer of hers, used to tell the anecdote now 
 and then, at those little cabals that will occasionally 
 take place among the most orderly servants, arising 
 from the common propensity of the governed to talk 
 against administration ; but he I'as left it off, of late 
 years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his 
 head rebukingly when it is mentioneil. 
 
 It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell 
 on the looks of the squire when he was a young man 
 at college; and she maintains that none of his sons can 
 compare with their father when he was of Iheir age, 
 and was dressed out in his full suit of scarlet, with 
 his hair craped and powdered, and his three-cornered 
 hat. 
 
 She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted bag- 
 gage, name<l Plia<l)e Wilkins, who has been trans- 
 planted to the Hall within a year or two, and been 
 nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind 
 of attendant and rom|)anion of the fair Julia's ; and 
 
 from loitering about the young lady's aparlniem). 
 reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second-hand 
 finery, has become something between a waiting- 
 maid and a slip-shod fine lady. 
 
 She is considered a kind of heiress among the ser- 
 vants, as she will inherit all her aunt's property; 
 which, if report be true, must l)e a round sum nf 
 good golden guineas, the accumulated weallhoftwu 
 housekeepers' savings ; not to mention the hereditary 
 wardrobe, and the many Hide valuables and knick- 
 knacks treasured up in the housekeeper's room, in- 
 deed the old housekeeper has the reputation amuiii; 
 the servants and the villagers of being passing rich; 
 and there is a japanned chest of drawers and a lar^'u 
 ir(>n-lK)und cofTcr in her room, which are supposed, by 
 the housemaids, to hold treasures of wealth. 
 
 The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, 
 who, indeed, pays a little court to her, as to a persuii 
 high in authority; and they have many discussions on 
 points of family history, in which, nolwillistanding iiis 
 extensive information, and pride of knowledge, lie 
 commonly admits her superior accuracy. He seldom 
 returns to the Hall, alter one of his visits to the odiei 
 branches of the family, without bringing Mrs \Yilkin» 
 some remembrance from the ladies of the house where 
 he has been staying. 
 
 Indeed all the children of the house look up to the 
 old lady with habitual respect and attachment, and 
 she seems almost to consider them as her own, from 
 their having grown up under her eye. The Oxonian, 
 however, is her favourite, probably from being the 
 youngest, though he is the most mischievous, and has 
 been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood. 
 
 I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony, 
 which, I believe, is peculiar to the Hall. After the 
 cloth is removed at dinner, the old housekeeper sails 
 into the room and stands behind the squire's chair, 
 when he fills her a glass of wine with his own haiuls, 
 in which she drinks the health of the company in a 
 truly respectful yet dignified manner, and then re- 
 tires. The squire received the custom from his fa- 
 ther, and has always continued it. 
 
 Tliere is a peculiar character about the servants of I 
 old English families that reside principally in the 
 country. They have a quiet, orderly, respeclfnl 
 mode of doing their duties. They are always neat in 
 their persons, and appropriately, and, if I may use 
 the phrase, technically dressed ; they move about the 
 house without hurry or noise; there is nothing of tlie 
 bustle of employment, or the voice of conimand; 
 nothing of that obtrusive housewifery that amonnlslo 
 a torment, lou are not persecuted by the process ol 
 making you comfortable; yet every thing is done, and 
 is done well. The work of the house is performed 
 as if by magic, hut it is the magic of system. No- 1 
 thing is done by fits and starts, nor at awkward sea- 
 sons; the whole goes on like well-oiled clock-work, 
 where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations. 
 
 Knglish servants, in general, are not treated with I 
 great indulgence, nor rewarded l)y many comniendj- 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ^:u 
 
 ig lady's aparlnienu. 
 nheriting second-liand 
 ; between a wailing- 
 
 heiress amon^ the ser 
 her aunt's properly; 
 ist 1)6 a round sum oi 
 iinulated wealth of two 
 mention tlie hereditary 
 e valuables and knick- 
 usekeeper's room. In- 
 s the reputation amoiw; 
 i of being passing rich; 
 t of drawers and a hrp: 
 whicb are supposed, by 
 ires of wealth, 
 fiend of Master Simon, 
 rt to her, as to a person 
 ave many discussion!) oii 
 lich, nolwillistandingliis 
 pride of knowledge, lie 
 »r accuracy. He seldom 
 of his visits to the other 
 (ut bringing MrsWilkins 
 ladies of the house wbere 
 
 fthe house look up to tiie 
 lect and attachment, awl 
 ir Ihem as her own, from 
 r her eye. The Oxonian. 
 brobably from being tiic 
 nost mischievous, and has 
 ler from boyhood. 
 g one little ceremony, 
 to the Hall. Afterliie 
 he old housekeeper sails 
 lind the squire's chair, 
 wine with his own hands, 
 thofthe company in a 
 d manner, and tlien re 
 the custom from his ta 
 lied it. 
 
 Eter about the servants of 
 
 •eside principally in the 
 
 uiet, orderly, respeclW 
 
 They are always neat in 
 
 itely, and, if I may use 
 ied; they move about the 
 e; there is nothing of the 
 the voice of commaiMi; 
 jsewifery that amounts to 
 rsecuted by the process ol 
 every thing is done, and 
 the house is performed 
 magic of system. No- 
 rts, nor at awkward sea- 
 „ well-oiled clock-work. 
 I jarring in its operations. 
 •al, are not treated wilh 
 •dcdbyinauyromnieiida 
 
 t 
 
 tions: for the Englbh are laconic and reserved to- 
 wards their domestics; but an approving nod and kind 
 word from master or mistress, goes as Ear here, as an 
 excess of praise or indulgence elsewhere. Neither 
 do servants exhibit any animated marks of affection 
 10 their employers ; yet, though quiet, they are strong 
 in their attachments; and the reciprocal regard of 
 masters and servants, though not ardently expressed, 
 is powerful and lasting in old English families. 
 ' The title of " an old family servant" carries with 
 it a thousand kind associations in all parts of the 
 world; and there is no claim upon the home-bred 
 charities of the heart more irresistible than that of 
 havin<' been " born in the house." It is common to 
 see grey-headed domestics of this kind attached to an 
 English family of the " old school," who continue in it 
 to the day of their death, in the enjoyment of steady 
 unaffected kindness, and the performance of faithful, 
 onofficious duty. I think such instances of attach- 
 ment speak well for master and servant, and the fre- 
 quency of them speaks well for national character. 
 
 These observations, however, hold good only with 
 (amilies of the description I have mentioned ; and 
 vilh such as are somewhat retired, and pass the 
 greater part of their time in the country. As to tlie 
 powdered menials that throng the walls of fashion- 
 laMe town residences, they equally reflect the charac- 
 ter of the establishments to which they belong : and 
 Iknow no more complete epitomes of dissolute heart- 
 jlessness, and pampered inutility. 
 
 But the good " old family servant ! "—The one 
 [who has always been linked, in idea, with the home 
 of our heart; who has led us to school in the days of 
 prattling diildhood; who has been the confidant of 
 onrhoyish cares, and schemes, and enterprizes; who 
 has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and 
 been the promoter of all our holiday sports ; who, 
 Iwhen we, in wandering manhood, have left the pa- 
 ternal roof, and only return thither at intervals, will 
 relcome us with a joy inferior only to that of our pa- 
 !nts; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, 
 ilill totters about the house of our fathers in fond and 
 faithful servitude; who claims us, in a manner, as his 
 )wn; and hastens with querulous eagerness to anti- 
 cipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon ns at 
 le; and who, when we retire at night to the cham- 
 that still goes by our name, will linger about the 
 )m to have one more kind look, and one more plea- 
 it word about times that are past — who does not 
 irience towards such a being a feeling of almost 
 lial affection ? 
 
 I have met with several instances of epitaphs on 
 gravestones of such valuable domestics, recorded 
 lith the simple truth of natural feeling. I have two 
 ifore me at this moment; one copied from a tumb- 
 le of a churchyard in Warwickshire : 
 " Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential 
 irvant to George Birch, Esq. of Hamstead Hall. 
 lis grateful friend and master caused this inscription 
 be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity, 
 
 diligence, and continence. He died (a bachdor) aged 
 84, having lived 44 years in the same family." 
 
 The other was taken firom a tombstone in Elthan 
 churchyard : 
 
 " Here lie the remains of Mr James Tappy, who 
 departed this life on the 8th of September, 1818, 
 aged 84, after a faithful service of 60 years in one 
 family; by each individual of which he lived respect- 
 ed, and died lamented by the sole survivor." 
 
 Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have 
 givai me the glow about the lieart that I felt while 
 copying this honest epitaph in the churchyard of 
 Eltham. I sympathized with this " sole survivor " 
 of a family mourning over the grave of the faithful 
 follower of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living 
 memento of times and friends that had passed away; 
 and, in considering this record of long and devoted 
 service, I called to mind the touching speech of Old 
 Adam in '' As You Like It," when tottering after the 
 youthful son of his ancient master : 
 
 " Master, go on, and I will follow thee 
 To the last gasp, with love and loyalty ! " 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen wmewhere in 
 the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the late king to the me- 
 mory of a family servant, wtiohad been a faithful attendant of his 
 lamented daughter, the Princess Amelia. George III. possessed 
 much of the strong, domestic feding of the old English country 
 gentleman ; and it is an incident curious in monumental history, 
 and creditable to the human heart, a monarch erecting a monu- 
 ment in honour of the humble virtues of a menial. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 She was so charitable and pitious 
 She would weep if that she saw a mous 
 Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled : 
 Of sm.ill hounds had she, that she fed 
 With rosl flesh, miilie, and wastel bread. 
 But sore wept she it any of them were dead. 
 Or if man smote them with a yard smart. 
 
 CUAIICEB. 
 
 Notwithstanding the whimsical parade made by 
 Lady Lillycraft on her arrival, she has none of the 
 petty stateliness that I had imagined: but, on the 
 contrary, she has a degree of nature, and simple- 
 heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles 
 well with her old-fashioned manners and harmless 
 ostentation. She dresses in rich silks, with long 
 waist; she rouges considerably, and her hair, which 
 is nearly white, is frizzled out, and put up with pins. 
 Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but the delicacy 
 of her features shows that she may once have been 
 beautiful; and she has a very fair and well-shaped 
 hand and arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good 
 lady is still a little vain. 
 
 I have had the curiosity to gather a few particu- 
 lars concerning her. She was a great belle in town 
 between thirty and forty years since, and reigned for 
 
BRACEBRIDGE tIALL. 
 
 two seasons with all the insolence of beauty, refusing 
 several excellent offers; when, unfortunately, she was 
 robbed of her charms and her lovers by an attack 
 of the small-pox. She retired immediately into the 
 country, where she some time after inherited an 
 estate, and married a baronet, a former admirer, 
 whose passion had suddenly revived; "having," as 
 he said, " always loved her mind rather than her 
 person." 
 
 The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune 
 above six months, and had scarcely grown very tired 
 of her, when he broke his neck in a fox-chase, and 
 left her free, rich, and disconsolate. She has remain- 
 ed on her estate in the country ever since, and has 
 never shown any desire to return to town, and revisit 
 the scene of her early triumphs and fatal malady. 
 All her favourite recollections, however, revert to 
 that short period of her youthful beauty. She has no 
 idea of town but as it was at that time; and conti- 
 nually forgets that the place and people must have 
 changed materially in the course of nearly half a 
 century. She will often speak of the toasts of those 
 days as if still reigning; and, until very recently, 
 used to talk with delight of the royal family, and the 
 beauty of the young princes and princesses. She 
 cannot be brought to think of the present king other- 
 wise than as an elegant young man, rather wild, but 
 who danced a mittuet divinely; and before be came 
 to the crown, would often mention him as the "sweet 
 young prince." 
 
 She talks also of the walks in Kensington Garden, 
 where the genllemen appeared in gold-laced coats 
 and cocked hats, and the ladies in hoops, and swept 
 so proudly along the grassy avenues; and she thinks 
 the ladies let themselves sadly down in their dignity, 
 when they gave up cushioned head-dresses, and 
 high-heeled shoes. She has much to say too of the 
 officers who were in the train of her admirers ; and 
 speaks familiarly of many wild young blades, that are 
 now, perhaps, hobbling about watering-places with 
 crutches and gouty shoes. 
 
 Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony 
 discouraged her or not, I cannot say; but, though 
 her merits and her riches have attracted many suit- 
 ors, she has never been tempted to venture again 
 into the happy stale. This is singular too, for she 
 seems of a most soft and susceptible heart ; is always 
 talking of love and connubial felicity; and is a great 
 stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devoted atten- 
 tions, and eternal constancy, on the part of the gen- 
 tlemen. She lives, however, after her own taste. 
 Her house, I am told, must have been built and 
 furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison : 
 every thing about it is somewhat formal and stately ; 
 but has been softened down into a degree of volup- 
 tuousness, characteristic of an old lady very tender- 
 hearted and romantic, and that loves her ease. The 
 cushions of the great arm-chairs, and wide sofas, 
 almost bury you when you sit down on them. 
 Flowers of the must rare and delicate kind are placed 
 
 about the rooms and on little japanned stands; and 
 sweet bags lie about the tables and mantel-pieces. 1\ 
 house is fullof pet dogs, Angola cats, and singing birds 
 who are as carefully waited upon as she is herself. 
 
 She is dainty in her living, and a little of an qij. 
 cure, living on white meats, and little lady-like dishes 
 though her servants have substantial old Englisli fare 
 as their looks bear witness. Indeed, they are so in- 
 dulged, that they are all spoiled, and when they lose 
 their present place, they will be fit for no other. 
 Her ladyship is one of those easy-tempered beings 
 that are always doomed to be much liked, but ill 
 served by their domestics, and cheated by all the 
 world. 
 
 Much of her time is past in reading novels, of which 
 she has a most extensive library, and has a constant 
 supply from the pubiishers in town. Her erudition 
 in tills line of liteiaiure is immense : she has kept pace 
 with the press for half a century. Her mind is stuffed 
 with love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours 
 of the old books of chivalry, down to the last blue- 
 covered romance, reeking from the press : though she 
 evidently gives the preference to those that came out 
 in the days of her youth, and when she was lirst in 
 love. She maintains that there are no novels written i 
 now-a-<lays equal to Pamela and Sir Charles Gran- 
 dison; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the | 
 head of all romances. 
 
 She does a vast deal of good in her neighbourhood, I 
 and is imposed upon by every beggar in the counly, 
 She is the benefactress of a village adjoining tu her I 
 estate, and takes a special interest in all its love- 1 
 affairs. She knows of every courtship that is going I 
 on ; every love-lorn damsel is sure to find a patient I 
 listener and a sage adviser in her ladyship. She I 
 takes great pains to reconcile all love-quarrels, and I 
 should any faithless swain persist in his inconstancy, I 
 he is sure to draw on himself the good lady's violent | 
 indignation. 
 
 I have learned these particulars partly from FrankJ 
 Bracebridge, and partly from Master Simon. 1 1 
 now able to account for the assiduous attention o(| 
 the latter to her ladyship. Her house is one of hisl 
 favourite resorts, where he is a very important per-l 
 sonage. He makes her a visit of business once i| 
 year, when he looks into all her affairs; which, asshel 
 is no manager, are apt to get into confusion. H(| 
 examines the books of the overseer, and shoots abooll 
 the estate, which, he says, is well stocked with game,! 
 notwithstanding that it is poached by all the vagi-| 
 bonds in the neighbourhood. 
 
 It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captul 
 will inherit the greater part of her properly, liavinji 
 always been her chief favourite; for, in fact, she ii| 
 partial to a red coat. She has now coine to the Hal 
 to be present at bis nuptials, having a great dispoa-l 
 tion to interest herself in all matters of love and m\ 
 trlmony. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 .>"» 
 
 japanned stands ; and 
 nd manlel-pieces. The 
 cats, and singing birds, 
 pon as she is lierself. 
 , and a little of an epi- 
 id little lady-like dishes, 
 tantial old English fare. 
 Indeed, they are so in- 
 led, and when they lose 
 ill be fit for no other, 
 e easy-tempered beings 
 be much liked, but ill 
 and cheated by all the 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 Rite up, my love, my fair one, and come away : for to! the 
 I ^jgier is past, the rain Is over and gone ; the flowers appear on the 
 earth, tlie time of tlie singing ot birds is come, and llie voice of (he 
 1 turtle U heard in llie land. 
 
 SOJia OF SOLOJION. 
 
 To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a 
 bachelor to boot ; and who, by dint of some expe- 
 rience in the follies of life, begins to look with a 
 learned eye upon the ways of man, and eke of woman; 
 to such a man, I say, there is something very enter- 
 taining in noticing the condnct of a pair of young 
 lovers. It may not be as grave and scientific a study as 
 the loves of the plants, but it is certainly as interesting. 
 I have therefore derived much pleasure, since my 
 arrival at the Hall, from observing the fair Julia and 
 her lover. She has all the delightful, blushing con- 
 Iscionsness of an artless girl, inexperienced in coquet- 
 who has made her first conquest : while the 
 iptaln regards her with that mixture of fondness and 
 xidtation, with which a youthful lover is apt to con- 
 mplate so beauteous a prize. 
 I observed them yesterday in the garden, advanc- 
 ig along one of the retired walks. The sun was 
 ihining with delicious warmth, making great masses 
 if bright verdure, and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, 
 It " harbinger of spring," was faintly heard from a 
 lislance; the thrush piped from the hawthorn, and 
 lie yellow butterfiies sported, and toyed, and cwjuet- 
 m the air. 
 
 The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, iis- 
 
 ning to bis conversation, with her eyes cast down, a 
 
 ift hlnsh on her cheek, and a quiet smile on her lips, 
 
 hile in the hand that hung negligently by her side 
 
 as a bunch of flowers. In this way Ihey were saun- 
 
 !ring slowly along, and when I considered them, 
 
 the scene in which they were moving, I could not 
 
 It think it a thousand pities that the season should 
 
 erchange, or tliat young people should ever grow 
 
 ler, or that blossoms should give way to fruit, or 
 
 It lovers should ever get married. 
 
 From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I 
 
 lerstand that the fair Julia is the daughter of a fa- 
 
 larite college friend of the squire ; who, after leaving 
 
 ford, had entered the army, and served for many 
 
 rs in India, where he was mortally wounded in a 
 
 lish with the natives. In his last moments he 
 
 , vith a faltering pen, recommended his wife and 
 
 ighter to the kindness of his early friend. 
 
 he widow and Iier child returned to England help- 
 
 and almost hopeless. When Mr Bracebridge 
 
 ived accounts of their situation, he hastened to 
 
 if relief. He reached them just in lime to sooth 
 
 lis "having a great disposi-B last moments of the mother, who was dying of a 
 
 matters ot love and mi-Bsumption, and to make her happy in the assurance 
 
 ~t her child should never want a protector. 
 
 "lie good squire returned with his prattling charge 
 
 is strong hold, where he had brought her up with 
 
 reading novels, of which 
 rarv, and has a constant 
 in town. Her erudition 
 mense : she has kept pace 
 ury. Her mind is stuffed 
 from the stately amours 
 J down to the last blue- 
 rom the press: though she 
 jce to those that came out 
 ind when she was lirsl in 
 here are no novels written 
 la and Sir Charles Gran- 
 I Castle of Olranlo at the 
 
 ood in her neighbourhood, 
 very beggar in the county, 
 a village adjoining tu her 
 al uileresl in all its love- 
 ery courtship that is going 
 
 1 is sure to lind a patient 
 ser in her ladyship. Sk 
 ucile all love-quarrels, and 
 
 persist in his inconstancy, 
 self the good lady's violent 
 
 rticulars partly from Frank 
 (rom Master Simon. I am 
 Ithe assiduous attention ol 
 Her house is one of liisi 
 ^e is a very important per- 
 _ visit of business once tj 
 11 her affairs; which, as sliel 
 jo get into confusion. He] 
 1 overseer, ami shoots abonl| 
 is well stocked with game,! 
 poached by all the vagh| 
 
 )d 
 
 j-e hinted, that the captM 
 
 nt of her properly, \\m 
 
 lourite;for, infacl,she] 
 
 thasnowcomelolhellalll 
 
 a tenderness tnily paternal. As he has taken some 
 pains to superintend her education, and form her taste, 
 she has grown up with many of his notions, and con- 
 siders him the wisest, as well as the best of men. 
 Much of her time, too, has been passed with Lady 
 Lillycrafl, who has instructed her in the manners of 
 the old school, and enriched her mind with all kinds 
 of novels and romances. Indeed, her ladyship has 
 had a great hand in promoting the match between 
 Julia and the captain, having had them together at 
 her country seat, the moment she found there was an 
 attachment growing up between them; the good lady 
 being never so happy as when she has a pair of turtles 
 cooing about her. 
 
 I have been pleased to see the fondness with which 
 the fair Julia is regarded by the old servants of the 
 Hall. She has been a pet with them from childhood, 
 and every one seems to lay .some claim to her educa- 
 tion ; so that it is no wonder that she should be ex- 
 tremely accomplished. The gardener taught her to 
 rear flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old 
 Christy, the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she 
 approaches; and as she sits lightly and gracefully in 
 her saddle, claims the merit of having taught her to 
 ride ; while the housekeeper, who almost looks upon 
 her as a daughter, intimates that she first gave her an 
 insight into the mysteries of the toilet, having been 
 dressing-maid in her young days to the late Mrs Brace- 
 bridge. I am inclined to credit this last claim, as I 
 have noticed that the dress of the young lady had an 
 air of the old school, though managed with native 
 taste, and that her hair was put up very much in the 
 style of Sir Peter Leiy's portraits in the picture-gallery. 
 
 Her very musical attainments partake of this old- 
 fashioned character, and most of her songs are such 
 as are not at the present day to be found on the piano 
 of a modern performer. I have, however, seen so 
 much of modern fashions, modern accomplishments, 
 and modern fine ladies, that I relish this tinge of an- 
 tiquated style in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have 
 had as much pleasure in hearmg lier warble one of 
 the old songs of Herrick, or Carew, or Suckling, adapt- 
 ed to some simple old melody, as I have had from 
 listening to a lady amateur sky-lark it up and down 
 through the finest bravura of Rossini or Mozart. 
 
 We have very pretty music in the evenings, occa- 
 sionally, between her and the captain, assisted some- 
 times by Master Simon, who scrapes, dubiously, on 
 his violin ; being very apt to get out and to halt a note 
 or two in the rear. Sometimes he even thrums a 
 little on the piano, and takes a part in a trio, in which 
 his voice can generally be distinguished by a certain 
 quavering tone, and an occasional false note. 
 
 I was praising the fair Julia's performance to him 
 after one of her songs, when I found he took to him- 
 self the whole credit of having formed her musical 
 taste, assuring me that she was very apt ; j nd, in- 
 deed, summing up her whole character in liis knowing 
 way, by adding, that " she was a very nice girl, and 
 had no nonsense about her." 
 
 4S 
 
554 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE IIAIX. 
 
 FAMILY RELIQUES. 
 
 i:^ 
 
 Hy Infclicc'8 face, her brow, her eye, 
 
 The (limplc on her check : ami such nrect skill 
 
 llath from the cunning workman's pencil flown. 
 
 These lips look fresh and lively as her own. 
 
 False colours lait after the Iruc be dead. 
 
 Of all the roses fo'afted on her checks, 
 
 or all the graces dancing in her eyes, 
 
 Of all the music set ui>on her tongue, 
 
 Of all that was past woman's excellence 
 
 In her white bmom ; look, a painted board 
 
 Circumscribes all ! 
 
 Dekker. 
 
 An old English family mansion is a fertile subject 
 for study. It abounds witli illustrations of former 
 times, and traces of the tastes, and humours, and 
 manners of successive generations. The alterations 
 and additions, in different styles of architecture ; the 
 furniture, plate, pictures, hangings; the warlike and 
 sporting implements of different ages and fancies; all 
 furnish food for curious and amusing speculation. As 
 the squire is vei7 careful in collecling and preserving 
 all family reliques, the Hall is full of remembrances 
 of the kind. In looking about the establishment, I 
 can picture to myself the characters and habits that 
 have prevailed at different eras of the family history. 
 I have mentioned on a former occasion the armour of 
 the crusader which hangs up in the Hall. There are 
 also several jack-boots, with enormously thick soles 
 and high heels, that belonged to a set of Cavaliers, 
 who filled the Hall with the din and stir of arms dur- 
 ing the time of the Covenanters. A number of enorm- 
 ous drinking vessels of antique fashion, with huge 
 Venice glasses, and green hock glasses, with the 
 apostles in relief on them, remain as monumentsof a ge- 
 neration or two of hard livers, that led a life of roaring 
 revelry, and first introduced the gout into the family. 
 
 I shall pass over several more such indications of 
 temporary tastes of the squire's predecessors; but I 
 cannot forbear to notice a pair of antlers in the great 
 hall, which is one of the trophies of a hard-riding 
 squire of foiiner times, who was the Nimrod of these 
 parts. There are many traditions of his wonderful 
 feats in hunting still existing, which are related by 
 old Christy, the huntsman, who gets exceedingly 
 nettled if they are in the least doubted. Indeed, there 
 is a frightful chasm, a few miles from the Hall, which 
 goes by the name of the Squire's Leap, from his hav- 
 ing cleared it in the ardour of the chase ; there can 
 be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows the very 
 dints of the horse's hoofs on the rocks on each side of 
 the chasm. 
 
 Master Simon holds the memory of this squire in 
 great veneration, and has a number of extraordinary 
 stories to tell concerning him, which he repeats at all 
 hunting dinners ; and I am told that they wax more 
 and more marvellous the older they grow. He has 
 also a pair of Rippon spurs which belonged to this 
 mighty hunter of yore, and which he only wears on 
 particular occasions. 
 
 The place, however, which almunds most win, 
 mementos of past times, is the picture-gallery; ami 
 there is something strangely pleasing, though hk- 
 lancholy, in considering the long rows of portrait) 
 which compose the greater part of the collection. 
 They furnisli a kind of narrative of the lives of ibe 
 family worthies, which I am enabled to read with the 
 assistance of the venerable housekeeper, who is ijie 
 family chronicler, prompted occasionally by Master 
 Simon. There is the progress of a fine lady, for in. 
 stance, through a variety of portraits. One represents 
 her as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop, lioldiiM 
 n kitten in her arms, and ogling the spectator oDt of 
 the corners of her eyes, as if she could not turn her 
 head. In another we find her in the freshness (( { 
 youthful beauty, when site was a celebrated belle, 
 and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfurlimate 
 gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetrv. 
 In another she is depicted as a stately dame, in tlie 
 maturity of her charms, next to the portrait of her 
 husband, a gallant colonel in full-bottomed wig ami 
 gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad ; and finallj, 
 her monument is in the church, the spire ofvhidil 
 may be seen from the window, where her effigy ij 
 carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable | 
 dame of seventy-six. 
 
 In like manner I have followed some of the family I 
 great men through a series of pictures, from early I 
 boyhood to the robe of dignity, or truncheon of com i 
 niand, and so on by degrees, until they were gamer- 1 
 cd up in the common repository, the neighbouring! 
 church. 
 
 There is one group that particularly interested me.j 
 It consisted of four sisters of nearly the same ageJ 
 who flourished about a century since, and, iflnuTl 
 judge from their portraits, were extremely beaM 
 liful. I can imagine what a scene of gaiety and ro-| 
 mance this old mansion must have been, when lb 
 were in the hey-day of their charms; when 
 passed like beautiful visions through its halls, or: 
 ped daintily to music in the revels and dances o' i 
 cedar-gallery; or printed, with delicate feet, 
 velvet verdure of these lawns. How must they lian 
 been looked up to with mingled love, and pride,! 
 reverence, by the old family servants ; and follov 
 with almost painful admiration by the aching eyesti 
 rival admirers ! How must melody, anil song, » 
 tender serenade, have breathed about these coud 
 and their echoes whispered to the loitering tread i 
 lovers ! How must these very turrets have madell 
 hearts of the young galliards thrill, as lliey first ( 
 cerned them from afar, rising from among the tr 
 and pictured to themselves the beauties casketedl 
 gems within these walls ! Indeed I have discove 
 about the place several faint records of this reigii 
 love and romance, when the Hall was a kind off 
 of Beauty. Several of the old romances in the 111 
 have marginal notes expressing sympathy and ap 
 bation, where there are long speeches extolling la 
 charms, or protesting eternal fidelity, or beffaib 
 
 And close 
 iilveuturoi 
 ibamber ( 
 
 a 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 
 c\\ almumls most wiih 
 lie picture-gallery; ami 
 ' pleasing, Ihoiigh me- 
 
 long rows of porlraib 
 
 part of the collection. 
 »tive of the lives of the 
 
 enabled to read with the 
 lousekeeper, who is the 
 
 occasionally hy Master 
 issofafine lady, forin- 
 Mrtraits. One represents 
 g waist and hoop, holding 
 ;ling the spectator out ol 
 if she could not turn her 
 [ her in the freshness (( 
 
 was a celehraletl belle. 
 cause several unfortunate 
 c and write bad poetry, 
 as a stately dame, in the 
 ext to the portrait of her 
 ill full-bottomed wig and 
 illcd abroad ; and finallj. 
 hurch, the spire of which I 
 idow, where hereffiiiyis 
 (resents her as a venerable 
 
 jllowed some of the family I 
 ies of pictures, from early j 
 'nity, or tnmcheon of com f 
 !es, until they were gamer] 
 pository, the neighbourinjl 
 
 ; particularly interested me. j 
 •s of nearly the same a?e,| 
 ;ntury since, and, iflinayl 
 lis, were extremely beau-j 
 It a scene of gaiety and r 
 iiusthave been, when tl» 
 their charms ; when iIkj 
 rts through its halls, or s 
 lie revels and dances o'l 
 [l, with delicate feet, 
 Iwns. How must they if 
 lingled love, and pride,! 
 lily servants ; and folio* 
 ration by the aching eyeij 
 lust melody, and song, ' 
 [eathed about these court 
 led to the loitering treadi 
 very turrets have madef 
 jrds thrill, as they firstf 
 
 fsing from among the W 
 's the beauties casketed I 
 Indeed I have discoffl 
 tint records of this reign ( 
 LheHallwasakimlofCr 
 P old romances in the lin 
 essing sympathy anil f 
 ,ng speeches extollingW 
 [emal fidelity, or bewaiH 
 
 (he cnielly of some tyraiuiical fair one. The inter- 
 views, and declarations, and (larting scenes of tender 
 lovers, also bear the marks of having been fretpiently 
 I read, and are scored, and ntarked with notes of ad- 
 miration, and have initials written on the margins ; 
 I inostof which annotations have the day of the month 
 and year annexed to them. Several of the windows, 
 too have scraps of poetry engraved on them with 
 diamonds, taken from the writings of the fair Mrs 
 Philips, the once celebrated Orinda. Some of these 
 I seem to have been inscribed by lovers; and others, 
 I in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a little inac- 
 I curate ui the spelling, have evidently been written by 
 I the young ladies themselves, or by female friends, 
 I who have been on visits to tlie Ilall. Mrs Philips 
 I seems to have been their favourite author, and they 
 lliave distributed the names of her heroes and he- 
 Iroines among their circle of intimacy. Sometimes, 
 lin a male liand, the verse bewails the cruelly of beau- 
 Ity, and the sufferings of constant love ; while in a 
 Ifemale hand it prudishly confines itself to lamenting 
 llhe parting of female friends. The bow-vindow of 
 Imy bed-room, which has, doubtless, been iidiabited 
 Iby one of these beauties, has several of these inscrip- 
 Itions. I have one at this moment before my eyes, 
 Icalled" Camilla parting with Leonora : " 
 
 "How perislicd is Ihc joy that's itost, 
 
 The present how uiisteaily! 
 What comfort can be great and last. 
 
 When this is gone already? " 
 
 |.tud close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some 
 Hiventiirous lover, who had stolen into the lady's 
 
 kliamber during her absence. 
 
 "TUEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA. 
 
 I'd rattier in your favour live, 
 
 Tlian in a lasting name ; 
 And much a greater rate would give 
 
 For happiness than fame. 
 
 TUEODOSIUS. 1700." 
 
 When I look at these faint records of gallantry and 
 
 Uderness; when I contemplate the fading portraits 
 
 (f these beautiful girls, and tliink too that tliey have 
 
 ng since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and 
 
 I away, and with them all their graces, their 
 
 ^wplis, their rivalries, their admirers; the whole 
 
 ire of love and pleasure in which they ruled — 
 
 [all dead, all buried, all forgotten," I <ind a cloud 
 
 |f melancholy stealing over the present gaieties around 
 
 «. I was gazing, m a musing mood, this very moru- 
 
 g, at the portrait of the lady, whose husband was 
 
 illed abroad, when the fair Julia entered the gallery, 
 
 ling on the arm of the captain. The sun shone 
 
 »igl) the row of windows on her as she passed 
 
 g, and she seemed to beam out each time uito 
 
 [Tightness, and relapse into shade, until the door at 
 
 ! bottom of the gallery closed after her. I felt a 
 
 dness of heart at the idea, that this was an emblem 
 
 ^herlot : a few more years of sunshine and shade, 
 
 1 all this life, and loveliness, and enjoyment, will 
 
 N ceased, and nothing be left to commemorate tliis 
 
 beautiful being but one more perishable portrait ; to 
 awaken, perliaps, the tritespeculationsof some future 
 loiterer, like myself, when I and my scribblings shall 
 have lived through our brief existence and been for- 
 gotten. 
 
 AN OLD SOLDIER. 
 
 I've worn some leather out abroad ; let out a heathen soul or 
 two; fed this good sword with Ihc Itlacli Uood of [Kigali Chris- 
 tians; converted a few iniidds with it.— But let that |)ass. 
 
 The Ouoimaby. 
 
 The Ilall was thrown into some Utile agitation, a 
 few days since, by the arrival of General Ilarbotlle. 
 He had been expected for several days, and had been 
 looked for, rather impalienlly, by several of the fa- 
 mily. Master Sunon assured me that I would like 
 the general hugely, for he was a blade of the old 
 school, and an excellent table companion. Lady Lil- 
 lycraft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered, on 
 the morning of the general's arrival, for he had been 
 one of her early admirers; and she recollected him 
 only as a dashing young ensign, just come upon the 
 town. She actually spent an hour longer at her toilet, 
 and made her appearance with her hair uncommonly 
 frizzled and powdered, and an additional quantity of 
 rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and shock- 
 ed, therefore, at finding the litlle dashing ensign trans- 
 formed into a corpulent old general, with a double 
 chm, though it was a perfect picture to witness their 
 salutations ; the graciousness of her profound curtsy, 
 and the air of the old school with which the general 
 look off his hat, swayed it gently iu his hand, and 
 bowed his powdered iiead. 
 
 All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to 
 study the general with a little more attention than, 
 perhaps, I "'-ould otherwise have done; and the few 
 days that . has already passed at the Hall have 
 enabled me. ' Uiink, to furnish a tolerable likeness of 
 him to the recder. 
 
 He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the 
 old school, with powdered head, side locks, and pig- 
 tail. His face -is shaped like the stern of a Dutch man 
 of war, narrow at top, and wide at bottom, with full 
 ros), cheeks and a double chin; so that, to use the 
 cant of the day, his organs of eating may be said to be 
 powerfully developed. 
 
 The general, though a veteran, has seen very little 
 active service, except the taking of Seringapalam, 
 which forms an era in his history. He wears a large 
 emerald in his bosom, and a diamond on his finger, 
 which he got on that occasion, and whoever is un- 
 lucky enough to notice either, is sure to involve him- 
 self in the whole history of the siege. To judge from 
 the general's conversation, the taking of Seringapalam 
 is the most uni)ortant affair that has occuiTcd for the 
 last century. 
 
 On the approach of warlike times on the continent 
 
3% 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 r ' 
 
 he was rapidly promoted to get him out of the way 
 of yoangef officers of merit ; until, having been hoist- 
 ed to the rank of general, he was quietly laid on the 
 shelf. Since that time his campaigns have been prin- 
 cipally confined to watering-places ; where he drinks 
 the waters for a slight touch of the liver which he got 
 in India; and plays whist with old dowagers, with 
 whom he has flirted in his younger days. Indeed he 
 talks of all the fine women of the last half century, 
 and, according to hints which he now and then drops, 
 has enjoyed the particular smiles of many of them. 
 
 He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can 
 speak of almost every place famous for good quarters, 
 and where the inhabitants give good dinners. He is 
 a diner out of first-rate currency, when in to wn ; being 
 invited to one place, because he has been seen at an- 
 other. In the same way he is invited about the coun- 
 try seats, and can describe half the seats in the king- 
 dom, from actual observation; nor is any one better 
 versed in court gossip, and the pedigrees and inter- 
 marriages of the nobility. 
 
 As the general is an old bachelor, and an old beau, 
 and there are several ladies at the Hall, especially his 
 quondam flame Lady Jocelyne, he is put rather upon 
 his gallantry. He commonly passes some time, there- 
 fore, at his toilet, and takes the field at a late hour 
 every morning, with his hair dressed out and pow- 
 dered, and a rose in his button-hole. After he has 
 breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the 
 sunshine, humming an air, and hemming between 
 every stave, carrying one hand behind his back, and 
 with the other touching his cane to the ground, and 
 then raising it up to his shoulder. Should he, in these 
 morning promenades, meet any of the elder ladies of 
 the family, as he frequently does Lady Lillycraft, his 
 hat is immediately in his hand, and it is enough to 
 remind one of those courtly groups of ladies and gen- 
 tlemen, in old prints of Windsor-terrace, or Kensing- 
 ton-garden. 
 
 He talks frequently about "Uie service, "and is 
 fond of humming the old song, 
 
 Why, soldien, why, 
 Should we be melancholy, boys? 
 Why, soldiers, why, 
 Whose business 'tis to die! 
 
 I cannot discover, however, that the general has ever 
 run any great risk of dying, excepting from an apo- 
 plexy, or an indigestion. He criticizes all the battles 
 on the continent, and discusses the merits of the com- 
 manders, but never fails to bring the conversation, 
 ultimately, to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I am 
 told that the general was a perfect champion at draw- 
 ing-rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the 
 late war, and was looked to with hope and confidence 
 by many an old lady, when labouring under the ter- 
 ror of Bonaparte's invasion. 
 
 He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punctually on 
 evees when in town. He has treasured up many 
 remarkable sayings of the late king, particularly one 
 which the king made to him on a fleld-day, compli- 
 
 menting him on the excellence of his horse, lie ej. 
 tols the whole royal family, but especially the prettnt 
 king, whom he pronounces the most perfect gentle- 
 man and best wliist-player in Europe. The genernl 
 swears rather more than is the fashion of the present 
 day ; but it was the mode in the old school. He jj 
 however, very strict in religious matters, and a standi 
 churchman. He repeals the resfionses very loudly in 
 church, and is einpliatical in praying for the king and 
 royal family. 
 
 At table his loyalty waxes very fervent with lii$ | 
 second bottle, and the song of" God save the King" 
 puts him into a perfect ecstasy. He is amazingly well 
 contented with the present state of things, ami apt lo 
 get a little impatient at any talk about national ruin 
 and agricultural distress. He says he has travelled 
 about the country as much as any man, and has m \ 
 with nothing but prosperity ; and to confess the truth 
 a great part of his time is spent in visiting from one I 
 country seat to another, and riding about liie parksof 
 his friends. " They talk of public distress, " said ilie I 
 general this day to me, at dinner, as he smacked a 
 glass of rich Burgundy, and cast his eyes about the 
 ample board ; " they talk of public distress, but where I 
 do we find it, sir ? I see none. I see no reason an; I 
 one has to complain. Take my word for it, sir, thbl 
 talk about public distress is all humbug ! " 
 
 IBE WIDOWS RETINUE. 
 
 Little dogs and all! 
 
 Leib. 
 
 In givingan account of the arrival of Lady Lillycralll 
 at the Hall, I ought to have mentioned the enterlauiT 
 ment which I derived from witnessing the uiipackui$| 
 of her carriage, and the disposing of her retinuef 
 There is something extremely amusing to me in tbel 
 number of factitious wants, the loads of imaginiry| 
 conveniences, but real incumbrances, with wliichll 
 luxurious are apt to burthen themselves. I like t 
 watch the whimsical stir and display about one o 
 these petty progresses. The nuniber of robustioi 
 footmen and retainers of all kinds, bustling abootj 
 with looks of infinite gravity and importance, to c 
 almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks, 
 parcels, and bandboxes belonging to my lady;: 
 the solicitude exhibited about some humble, odd-lock'l 
 ing box, by my lady's maid; the cushions piled inlJ 
 carriage to make a soft seat still softer, and to preva 
 the dreaded possibility of a jolt; the smelling-bolll 
 the cordials, the baskets of biscuit and fruit; llien 
 publications; all provided to guard against iiungefJ 
 fatigue, or ennui ; the led-horses to vary themodeif 
 travelling; and all this preparation and parade I 
 move, perhaps, some very good-for-notliing pen 
 age about a little space of earth ! 
 
 I do not mean to apply the latter part of these c 
 
BRACEBRIDGE IIALL. 
 
 z:n 
 
 e of his horse. He ex- 
 it especially the present 
 16 most perfect genlle- 
 Europe. Tlie genend 
 le fasliion of the present 
 the old scliool. He is, 
 lus matters, and a standi 
 resiionses very loudly in 
 praying for the king and 
 
 s very fervent with Im 
 ttt" God save the King" 
 iy. He is amazingly well 
 tate of tilings, ami apt to 
 talk about national ruin I 
 lie says he has IravelleJ 
 as any man, and has met | 
 • and to confess the truth, 
 pent in visiting from one I 
 1 riding about the parks of 
 f public distress, " said Ibe 
 dinner, as he smacked j 
 d cast his eyes about the 
 f public distress, but where 
 none. I see no reason any I 
 LC my word for it, sir, thisj 
 8 all humbug!" 
 
 rS RETINUE. 
 
 Leib. 
 
 <») and all! 
 
 he arrival of Lady LUlycrall 
 e mentioned the enterlain| 
 
 witnessing the unpack! 
 
 disposing of her relittue, 
 jmely amusing to me in ll 
 its, the loads of imagini 
 umbrances, with wWcli 
 hen themselves. I like 
 
 and display about one 
 llhe number of robustii 
 
 aU kinds, bustling abonl 
 
 ity and importance, to 
 iber of heavy trunks,* 
 
 jlonging to my lady 
 jHtsomehumble,odd.lo*- 
 ,d; the cushions piled in" 
 » still softer, and to prev 
 |a jolt; the smelling-bollli 
 f biscuit and fruit; the ni 
 to guard against iiungaj 
 l-horses to vary themode^ 
 preparation and parade 
 y good-for-nothing pei* 
 
 earth ! 
 the latter part of these 
 
 lervatiuns to lady Lillycrafl, for whose simple kind- 
 iiearledness I have a very great respect, and who is 
 really a most amiable and vorthy being. I cannot 
 refrain, however, from mentioning some of the mot- 
 ley retinue she has brought with her; and wliich, 
 indeed, bespeak the overflowing kindness of her na- 
 ture, which requires her to be surrounded with ob- 
 jects on which to lavish it. 
 
 In the first place, her ladyship has a pampered 
 coachman, with a red face, and cheeks that hang 
 down like dew-laps. He evidently domineers over 
 her a little with respect to the fat horses ; and only 
 drives out when he thinks proper, and when he thinks 
 it will be " good for the cattle. " 
 
 She has a favourite page to attend upon her person : 
 a handsome boy of about twelve years of age, hut a 
 mischievous varlet, very much spoiled, and in a fair 
 way to be good for nothing. He is dressed in green, 
 with a profusion of gold cord and gilt buttons about 
 bis clotlies. She always has one or two attendants 
 of the kind, who are replaced by otiiers as soon as 
 they grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought 
 two dogs with her also, out of a number of pets which 
 she maintains at home. One is a fat spaniel, called 
 Zephyr— though heaven defend me from such a ze- 
 phyr! He is fed out of all shape and comfort; 
 bis eyes are nearly strained out of his head ; he 
 wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk without 
 great difTiculty. The other is a little, old, grey- 
 muzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that 
 kindles like a coal if you only look at jiim ; his nose 
 turns up ; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to 
 show his teeth ; in short, he has altogether the look 
 of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of 
 the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled 
 |ap$o tight that it seems to lift his feet from the ground ; 
 and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a 
 jtime, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This 
 last wretch is called Beauty. 
 These dogs are full of elegant ailments unknown to 
 gar dogs; and are petted and nursed by Lady Lil- 
 lycrait with the tenderest kindness. They are pam- 
 and fed with delicacies by their fellow-minion, 
 page; but their stomachs are often weak and out 
 order, so that they cannot eat; though I have now 
 then seen the page give them a mischievous 
 ich, or thwack over the head, when his mistress 
 'as not by. They have cushions for their express 
 , on which they lie before the lire, and yet are apt 
 shiver and moan if there is the least draught of air. 
 hen any one enters the room, they make a most 
 annical barking that is absolutely deafening. They 
 insolent to all the other dogs of the establishment. 
 here is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite of the 
 inire's, who is a privileged visitor to the parlour; 
 t the moment he makes his appearance, these in- 
 iders fly at him with furious rage ; and I have ad- 
 ired the sovereign indifference and contempt with 
 'hichhe seems to look down upon his puny assail - 
 lis. When her ladyship drives out, these dogs are 
 
 generally carried with her to take the atr; when they 
 look out of each window of the carriage, and bark at 
 all vulgar pedestrian dogs. These dogs are a conti- 
 nual source of misery to the household : as they arc 
 always in the way, they every now and then get their 
 toes (rod on, and (hen there is a yelping on their 
 part, and a loud lamentation on the part of their 
 mistress, that fills the room with clamour and con- 
 fusion. 
 
 Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting^gentlewo- 
 man, Mrs Hannah, a prim, pragmatical old maid; 
 one of the most intolerable and intolerant virgins that 
 ever lived. She has kept her virtue by her until it 
 has turned sour, and now every word and look 
 smacks of verjuice. She is the very opposite to her 
 mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all man- 
 kind. How they first came together I cannot ima- 
 gine; but they have lived together for many years; 
 and the abigail's temper being tart and encroaching, 
 and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the former has 
 got (he complete upper hand, and tyrannizes over the 
 good lady in secret. 
 
 Lady Lillycraft now and then complains of it, in 
 great confidence, to her friends, but hushes up the 
 subject immediately, if Mrs Hannah makes her appear- 
 ance. Indeed, she has been so accustomed to be at- 
 tended by her, that she thinks she could not do with- 
 out her; though one great study of her life is to keep 
 Mrs Hannah in goo<l humour, by little presents and 
 kindnesses. 
 
 Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence, min- 
 gled with awe, for this ancient spinster. He told me 
 the other day, in a whisper, that she was a cursed 
 brimstone — in fact, he added another epithet, which 
 I would not repeat for the world. I have remarked, 
 however, (hat he is always extremely civil to her 
 when they meet. 
 
 READY-MONEY JACK. 
 
 My purse. It is my privy wyfe, ' . 
 
 This song I dare both syng and say, 
 It keepeth men ftY>m grievous slrj-fe 
 
 When every man for hymself shall pay, 
 As I ryde in ryche array 
 
 For gold and sylver men wyll me floryshe; 
 By thys matter I dare well saye, 
 
 Ever gramercy myneowne purse. 
 
 Book of Huirrmo. 
 
 On the skirts of the neighbouring village there lives 
 a kind of small potentate, who, for aught I know, is 
 a representative of one of the most ancient legitimate 
 lines of the present day; for the empire over which 
 he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. 
 His territories comprise a considerable number of 
 good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an old 
 farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the stout 
 Oaken Chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom 
 
 ft 
 
3.% 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 I allude is a sturdy old yeoman of the name of John 
 Tibbets, or rather Keady-Money Jack Tibbets, as be 
 is called throughout the neighbourlHXid. 
 
 The first place where he attracted my attention 
 was in the churchyard on Sunday; where he sat on a 
 tombstone after the service, witli bis hat a little on 
 one side, holding forth to a small circle of auditors, 
 and, as I presumed, expounding the law and the pro- 
 phets; until, on drawing a little nearer, 1 found he 
 was only expatiating on the merits of a brown horse. 
 He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial Eng- 
 lish yeoman, such as he is often described in books, 
 heightened, indeed, by some little finery, peculiar to 
 himself, that I could not but take note of his whole 
 appearance. 
 
 He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong, mus- 
 cular frame, and at least six feet high, with a physio- 
 gnomy as grave as a lion's, and set off with sliort, 
 curluig, iron-grey locks. His shirt-collar was turned 
 down, antl displayed a neck covered with the same 
 short, curling, grey hair; and he wore a coloured silk 
 neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the 
 bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His 
 coat was of dark green cloth, with silver buttons, on 
 each of which was engraved a stag, with his own 
 name, John Tibbets, underneath. He had an inner 
 waistcoat of flgured chintz, between which and his 
 coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His 
 breeches were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not 
 from any slovenliness, but to show a broad pair of 
 scarlet garters. His stockings were blue, with white 
 clocks; he wore large silver shoe-buckles; a broad 
 paste buckle in his hatband; his sleeve-butlons were 
 gold seven shilling pieces ; and he bad two or tliree 
 guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch-chain. 
 
 On making some inquiries almut him, I gathered, 
 that he was descended from a line of farmers that 
 had always lived on the same spot, and owned the 
 same property; and that half of the churchyard was 
 taken up with the toml)stones of his race. He has all 
 his life been an important character in the place. 
 When a youngster, he was one of the most roaring 
 blades of the neiglibourhood. No one could match 
 him at wrestling, pitching the bar, cudgel play, and 
 other athletic exercises. Like the renowned Pinner 
 of Wakefield, he was the village cliampion ; carried 
 off the prize at all the fairs , and threw his gauntlet at 
 the country round. Even to this day the old people 
 talk of his prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all 
 heroes of the green that have succeeded him; nay, 
 they say, that if Ready-Money Jack were to take the 
 field even now, there is no one could stand before 
 bim. 
 
 When Jack's fatlier died, the neighbours shook 
 their heads, and predicted that young hopeful would 
 soon make away with the old homestead ; but Jack 
 falsified all their predictions. The moment he 
 succeeded to the paternal farm he assumed a new 
 character ; took a wife ; attended resolutely to his 
 afMrsv and became on industrious, thrifty farmer. 
 
 With the family property he inherited a set of old 
 family maxims, to wliicli he steadily adhered. ||), 
 saw to every thing himself; put his own hand (u i|,e 
 plough; worked hard; ate liearlily; slept suiiiidiy 
 paid tor every thing in cash down ; and never (L-iiiitd 
 except he could do it to the music of his own mo- 
 ney in both pockets. He has never been williout a 
 himdred or two pounds in gold by him, and never 
 allows a debt to stand unpaiil. Tliis has gaiiieil him 
 his current name, of which, by the bye, he is a little 
 proud; and has caused him to be looked upon as a 
 very wealthy man by all the village. 
 
 Notwitlistanding his thrift, however, he has never 
 denied himself the amusements of life, but lias takeu 
 a share in every passing pleasure. It is his niaxun, 
 (hat " he that works hard can afford to play." ||e 
 is, therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and 
 wakes, and has signalized himself by feats of strength 
 and prowess on every village-green in the slilre. lie 
 often makes his appearance at horse races, and sporlii 
 bis half guinea, and even his guinea at a time; keeps 
 a good burse for his own riding, and to this day is 
 fond of following the hounds, and is generally in ji 
 the death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and lios[ij- 
 talities too, for which his paternal farmhouse Iim I 
 always been noted ; has plenty of good clieer ami 
 dancing at harvest-home, and, above all, keeps tiie { 
 " merry night'," as it is termed, at Christmas. 
 
 With all his love of amusement, however, Jack is I 
 by no means a boisterous jovial companion. He is 
 seldom known to laugh even in the midst of liis | 
 gaiety; but maintains the same grave, lion-like de- 1 
 meanour. He is very slow at comprehending a joke; | 
 and is apt to sit puzzling at it, with a perplexed look, 
 while tlie rest of the company is in a roar. This I 
 gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the grovr-i 
 ing weight of his character; for he is gradually rising | 
 into patriarchal dignity in liis native place. Tliougbl 
 he no longer takes an active part in athletic sports, yel| 
 he always presides at them, and is appealed to on ail I 
 occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace ontliel 
 village-green at lioliday games, and quells all brawbl 
 and quarrels by collaring the parties and siiakin;! 
 them heartily, if refractory. No one ever p 
 to raise a hand against bim, or to contend against liisl 
 decisions; the young men having grown up in liabi-f 
 tual awe of his prowess, and m implicit deference lo| 
 him as the champion and lord of the green. 
 
 He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, I 
 landlady having been a sweetheart of his in earlyl 
 life, and be having always continued on kind teniii| 
 with her. He seldom, however, drinks any liiin;| 
 but a draught of ale; smokes his pipe, and pays hiil 
 reckoning before leaving the tap -room. Here hel 
 " gives bis little senate laws; " decides bets, whidi| 
 
 I KlEBBY Night. A rustic merry-making in a farmlioiuci 
 Cliristraag, common in some part« of Yorlisliirc. Tlieru is a 
 dance of liomcly fare, tea, calces, riuil, and ale; variuusfciH^ 
 ai;llity, amusing games, romping, dancing, and kissing wi 
 Tliey ooinmonly bi-eali tip at midni^it. 
 
nRACERRIDGE IIAIJ.. 
 
 330 
 
 liiherilcil a set of old 
 steadily adlierinl. ||e 
 ut liis own liaiul lu i|k 
 learlily; rfepl soiiiully; 
 own ; and never (Lmml 
 music of liis own niu- 
 g never been wilhoula 
 ;old by bim, and never 
 I. Tliis lias gaincil liini 
 by tlie l>ye, be is a lillle 
 to be looked upon as a 
 village. 
 
 , bowever, be lias never 
 nts of life, but has laken 
 asure. U is bis niaxin\, 
 :.)n afford lo play." lie 
 L all Ibe country fairs and 
 inselfby featsofslrenglh 
 e-i^reeu iu the sliiie. lie 
 at borse races, and sports 
 ig $>;uinea at a liine;kee|K 
 iding, and to tliis day is 
 ds, and is generally in ai 
 le rustic revels, and lioiijii- 
 i paternal farmhouse liai 
 
 arc very generally referred lo bim; determines upon 
 the diarartem anti (|ualilic8 of borscs; and indeefl 
 plays now and then the part of a judge, in settling 
 nftiy tlLspiilcs between neigbbours, wbicli otherwise 
 mislit have been nursed by country attorneys into 
 tolerable lawsuits. Jack is very canditi and impartial 
 in his decisions, but be has not a bead to carry a long 
 gf^niiient, and is very apt to get perplexeil and out 
 of patience if there is much pleading. He generally 
 lirenks (hrough the argument with a strong voice, 
 and brings matters lo a summary conclusion, by pro- 
 nouncing what be Ciills the " upshot of the business," 
 I or in oilier words, '^ the long and the short of the 
 1 mailer." 
 
 Jack once made a jonrney lo London a great many 
 
 I years since, which has furnished bim with topics of 
 
 conversation ever since. He saw the old king on the 
 
 terrace at Windsor, who slopped, and pointed bim 
 
 out lo one of the princesses, being probably struck 
 
 Willi Jai'lv's l">'y yeoman-like appearance. This is 
 
 a favourite anecdote with him, and has no doubt had 
 
 I a "real effect in making him a most loyal subject ever 
 
 I since, in spite of taxes and poors' rates. He was also 
 
 I at Bartholomew-fair, where be bad half the buttons 
 
 ont off bis coat; and a gang of pickpockets, attracted 
 plenty of good clieer and H|)y Ids external show of gold and silver, made a re- 
 and, above all, keeps die Itrular atlempt to hustle bim as be was gazing at a 
 
 show; but for once they found that they bad caught 
 alartar; for Jack enacted as great wonders among 
 
 ermed, at Christmas, 
 iisement, bowever. Jack is 
 I jovial companion, lie is 
 even in the midst of liii 
 e same grave, lion-like de- 
 V at comprehending a joke; 
 it, with a perplexed look, 
 ipany is in a roar. Tliis 
 vn on bim wiih the grow- 
 for he is gradually rising 
 bis native place. Thougli 
 part in athletic sports, yel 
 , and is appealed loon ail 
 maintains the peace on tiK I 
 imes, ai»d quells all hrawb 
 the parties and shaking 
 . No one ever pielendsj 
 , or to contend against 
 having grown up in liabi-l 
 ndin implicit deference lo| 
 ord of the green, 
 ter of the village inn, the 
 iweetheart of his in eariy 
 s continued on kind lenm 
 owever, drinks any Am 
 .es bis pipe, and pays te 
 the tap -room. Here he] 
 iws;" decides bets, whi* 
 
 Irry-making in a farm-house i 
 rUofYorksliiic. Thewisi 
 fruit, and ale; various laUi 
 
 fnR, dancing, and kissing wU 
 dnifllU. 
 
 1 
 
 ■y 
 
 lllie gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One 
 
 jof his neiglilmurs, who bad accompanied him to town, 
 
 land was with him at the fair, brought back an ac- 
 
 Iconnt of his exploits, which raised the pride of the 
 
 Ivhole village ; who considered their champion as 
 
 (having subdued all London, and eclipsed the acbievc- 
 
 Iments of Friar Tuck, or even the renowned llobin 
 
 lilood himself. 
 
 Of late years the old fellow has begun lo take the 
 
 rorld easily; be works less, and indulges in greater 
 
 leisure, bis son having grown up, and succeeded to 
 
 |iim both in the labours of the farm, and the exploits 
 
 of the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, 
 
 |iowever, his father's renown is a disadvantage to 
 
 him, for he can never come up to public expectation. 
 
 riiough a fine active fellow of three and twenty, and 
 
 bile the " cock of the walk," yet the old people de- 
 
 tlare he is nothing like what Ready-Money Jack was 
 
 M his time of life. The youngster himself acknow- 
 
 Iges his inferiority, and has a wonderful opinion of 
 
 the old man, who indeed taught him all his athletic 
 
 jiccomplisbments, and holds such a sway over bim, 
 
 hall am told, even to this day, be would have no 
 
 hesitation to take him in hands, if he rebelled against 
 
 aternal government. 
 
 The squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and 
 Dws him to all bis visitors as a specimen of old En- 
 pish "heart of oak." He frequently calls at bis 
 ise, and tastes some of liis homebrewed, which is 
 Jcellent. He made Jack a present of old Tusser's 
 ' Hundred Points of good Husbandrie," which has 
 
 fnmished him with reading ever since, and is his text 
 Ijook and mannal in all agricoltura! and domestic con- 
 cerns. He has made dog's ears at 'the nnost favourite 
 passages, and knows many of the poetical maxims by 
 heart. 
 
 Tibbcts, though not a man to be dannted or flutter- 
 ed by high accpiainlances, and though he cherishes a 
 sturdy independence of mind and manner, yet is 
 evidently gratified by the attentions of the squire, 
 whom he has known from Iwybood, and pronounces 
 " a true gentleman every inch of him." He is also 
 on excellent terms with Master Simon, who is a kind 
 of privy counsellor lo the family ; but hb great favour- 
 ite is the Oxonian, whom be taught to wrestle and 
 play at quarter -staff when a boy, and considers 
 the most promising young gentleman m the whole 
 county. • 
 
 BACHELORS. 
 
 The Bachelor moat Joyfully 
 In pleasant plight doth pass hia dales, 
 
 Goodfellowship and companle 
 lie doth maintain and kv|)c alwaiea. 
 
 Evan's old Ballads. 
 
 There is no character in the comedy of human 
 life that is more difhcuit to play well, than that of an 
 old bachelor. When a single gentleman, therefore, 
 arrives at that critical period, when he begins to con- 
 sider it an impertinent question to be asked his age, I 
 would advise him to look well to his ways. This pe- 
 riod, it is true, is much later with some men than 
 with others; I have witnessed more than once the 
 meeting of two wrinkled old lads of this kind, who 
 bad not seen each other for several years, and have 
 been amused by the amicable exchange of compliments 
 on each other's appearance that takes place on such 
 occasions. 'J'liere is always one invariable observa- 
 tion; « Why, bless my soul ! yon look younger than 
 when last I saw you ! » Whenever a man's friends 
 begin to compliment him about looking young, he 
 may be sure that they think he is growing old. 
 
 I am led to make Uiese remarks by the conduct of 
 Master Simon and the general, who have become 
 great cronies. As the former is the youngest by many 
 years, he is regarded as quite a youthful gallant by 
 the general, who moreover looks upon bim as a man 
 of great wit and prodigious acquirements. I have 
 already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau, 
 and considered rather a young fellow by all the el- 
 derly ladies of the connexion ; for an old bachelor, in an 
 old family connexion, is something like an actor in a 
 regular dramatic corps, who seems « to flourish in 
 immortal youth, » and will continue to play the Ro- 
 meos and Rangers for half a century together. 
 
 Master Simon, too, is a little of the camelion, and 
 takes a different hue with every different companion : 
 be is very attentive and officious, and somewhat sen- 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. ' 
 
 m 
 
 timental, with Lady Llllycraft; copies out little nam- 
 by-pamby ditties and love-songs for her, and draws 
 quivers, and doves, and darts, and Cupids, to be 
 worked on the corners of her pocliet handlcerchiefs. 
 He indulges, however, in very considerable latitude 
 with the other married ladies of the family ; and has 
 many sly pleasantries to whisper to them^ that pro- 
 voke an equivocal laugh and a tap of the fan. But 
 when he gets among young company, such as Frank 
 Bracebridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is t;pt 
 to put on the mad wag, and lo talk in a very bache- 
 lor-like strain about the sex. 
 
 In this he has l'3en encouraged by the example of 
 the general, whom he looks up to as a man that has 
 seen the world. The general, in fact, tells shocking 
 stories after dinner, when the ladies have retired, 
 which he gives as some of the choice things that are 
 served up at the MuUigatawney club, a knot of boon 
 companions in London. He also repeats the fat jokes 
 of old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and 
 which, though the general can hardly repeat them 
 for laughing, always make Mr Bracebridge look grave, 
 he having a great antipathy to an indecent jest. In a 
 word, the general is a complete instance of the de- 
 clension in gay life, by which a young man of pleasure 
 is apt to cool down into an obscene old gentleman. 
 
 I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two 
 since, conversing with a buxom milkma>d in a mea- 
 dow; and from their elbowing each other now and 
 tiien, and the general's shaking his shoulders, blow- 
 ing up bis cheeks, and breaking out into a short fit 
 of irrepressible laughter, I had no doubt they were 
 playing the mischief with the girl. 
 
 / I looked at them through a hedge, I could not 
 but th'nk they would have made a tolerable group 
 for a modern picture of Susannah and the two elders. 
 It is true, the girl seemed in nowise alarmed at the 
 force of the enemy; and I question, had eitlierof 
 them been alone, whether she would not have been 
 more than they would hc'ive ventured to encounter. 
 Such veteran royslers are daring wags when toge- 
 ther, and will put any female to the blush with their 
 jokes; but they are as quiet as lambs when they fall 
 singly into the clutches of a flne woman. 
 
 In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a 
 little vain of his person, and ambitious of conquests. 
 I have observed him on Sunday in church, eying the 
 country girls most suspiciously; and have seen him 
 leer upon them with a downright amorous look, even 
 when he has been gallanting Lady Lillycrafl, with 
 great ceremony, through the churchyard. The ge- 
 neral, in fact, is a veteran in the service of Cupid ra- 
 Uier than of Mars, having signalized himself in all the 
 garrison towns and country quarters, and seen ser- 
 vice in every ball-room of England. Not a celebrat- 
 ed beauty but he has laid siege to; and, if his word 
 may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to 
 be over veracious, it is incredible the success he has 
 had with the fair. At present he is like a worn-out 
 warrior, retired from service; but who still cocks his 
 
 beaver with a military air, and talks stoutly of fight- 
 uig whenever he comes within the smell of gun- 
 powder. 
 
 I have heard him speak his mind very freely over 
 his bottle, about the folly of the captain in taking a 
 wife; as he thinks a young soldier should care for 
 nothing but his ''bottle and kind landlady." Bui 
 in fact, he says, the service on the continent iiaj 
 had a sad effect upon the young men; they hare 
 been ruin^ i by light wines and French quadrilles. 
 " They've nothing," he says, " of the spirit of the old 
 service. There are none of your six-bottle men left 
 that were the souls of a mess-dinner, and used to play 
 the very deuce among the women." 
 
 As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a 
 free and easy man, with no baggage to take care of 
 but his portmanteau; but, as Major Pendergast says 
 a married man, \ his wife hanging on his arm, al- 
 ways puts him }n mind of a chamber candlestirk, 
 with its extinguis' er hitched to it. I should not mind 
 all this if it were .nerely confined to the general; bat 
 I fear he will be the ruin of my friend, Master Simon, 
 who already begins to echo his heresies, and to talk 
 in the styi«> of a gentleman that has seen life, and 
 lived upon the town. Indeed the general seems to j 
 have taken Ma .^-i Simon in hand, and talks of shov- 
 ing him the lions when he conies to town, and of in- 1 
 troducinghim to a knot of choice spirits at theMu 
 gatawney club ; which, I understand, is composed of I 
 old nabobs, offic .s in the company's employ, and 
 other " men of md," that have seen service in tlie 
 East, and retu ed home burnt out with curry, and 
 touched with ' i liver complaint. They have their | 
 regular club, /here they eat MuUigatawney soi 
 smoke the h &ah, talk about Tippoo Saib, Serin^- 1 
 patam, an'' ger-hunting ; and are tediously agreeable | 
 in each r ^r's company. 
 
 WIVES. 
 
 Br-IICTe me, man, there is no greater blisse 
 Than is the quiet joy of loving; wife ; 
 Which whoso wants, half of himselfe doth misse; 
 Friend without change, playfellow without strife, 
 Food without fulness, Gounsaile without pride. 
 Is this sweet doubling of our single life. 
 
 Sib p. Sidney. 
 
 Thebe is so much talk about matrimony going on I 
 round me, in consequence of the approacliing event I 
 for which we are assembled at the Hall, that I confess | 
 I find my thoughts singularly exercised on the i 
 ject. Indeed, all the bachelors of the esMl>!Iaiin)e<il| 
 seem to be passing through a kind of fiery ordeal : IbrI 
 Lady Lillycraft is one of those tender, romance-read I 
 dames of the old school, whose mind is filled vilhl 
 flames and darts, and who breathe nothing but conl 
 stancy and wedlock. She is for ever immersed in lliel 
 concerns of the heart; and, to use a poetical phras(.r 
 
 m 
 
 '. ,(i 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 .%( 
 
 1 talks stoutly of fight- 
 lin the smell of gan- 
 
 mind very freely over 
 ;he captain in taking a 
 soldier should care for 
 kind landlady." But, 
 I on the continent has 
 roung men; they have 
 and French quadrilles, 
 "of the spirit of the old 
 your six-bottle men left, 
 dinner, and used to play 
 omen." 
 
 eral affirms that he is a 
 baggage to take care of 
 i Major Pendergast says, 
 e hanging on his arm, al- 
 a chamber candlestirk, 
 I to it. I should not miod 
 ifined to the general; but 
 my friend, Master Simon, 
 I his heresies, and to talk 
 1 that has seen life, and 
 >ed the general seems to 
 1 hand, and talks of shov- 
 comes to town, and of in- 
 ;hoice spirits at the Mulli- 1 
 nderstand, is composed of 
 ! company's employ, and 
 have seen service in tlie 
 burnt out with curry, and 
 iplaint. They have their 
 eat Mulligatawney soup, 
 >ut Tippoo Saib, Seringa- 
 ,nd are tediously agreeable 
 
 no greater bllsse 
 
 »in|!?witc; 
 
 othimselfedothmisse! 
 
 iayfcllow willioul strife, 
 nsaile witlioul pride, 
 ur single life. 
 
 SIR P. SIDKCT. 
 
 bout matrimony going 00 
 of the approaching event 
 JattheHall.thatlconfes! 
 [rly exercised on the snb- 
 Ws of the estaMUnmenl 
 fa kind of fiery ordeal; lor 
 ise tender, romance-read 
 those mind is filled villi 
 [breathe nothing but con- 
 
 Is for ever immersed in llie 
 to use a poetical phrase, 
 
 is perfectly surrounded by " the purple light of love." 
 The very general seems to feel the influence of this 
 sentimental atmosphere; to melt as he approaches 
 her ladyship, and, for the time, to forget all his here- 
 sies about matrimony and the sex. 
 
 The good lady is generally surrounded by little do- 
 cuments of her prevalent taste; novels of a tender na- 
 ture; richly bound little books of poetry, that are filled 
 with sonnets and love-tales, and perfumed with rose- 
 leaves; and she has always an album at hand, for 
 which she claims the contributions of all her friends. 
 On looking over this last repository the other day, I 
 found a series of poetical extracts, in the squire's hand- 
 writing, which might have been intended as matrimo- 
 nial hints to his ward. I was so much struck with 
 several of them, that I took the liberty of copying them 
 out. Tliey are from the old play of Thomas Daven- 
 port, published in 1661, entitled "The City Night- 
 cap;" in which is drawn out and exemplified, in the 
 part of Abstemia, the character of a patient and faith- 
 ful wife, which, I think, might vie wnth that of the 
 renowned Griselda. 
 
 I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels 
 should always end at the wedding, and should not 
 give us another act, and another volume, to let us 
 know how the hero and heroine conducted themselves 
 when married. Their main object seems to be mere- 
 ly to instruct young ladies how to get husbands, but 
 not how to keep them : now this last, I speak it with 
 all due diffidence, appears to me to be a desideratum 
 in modern married life. It is appalling to those who 
 have not yet adventured into the holy stale, to see 
 how soon the flame of romantic love burns out, or 
 radier is quenched in matrimony; and how deplorably 
 the passionate, poetic lover declines into the phleg- 
 matic, prosaic husband. I am inclined to attribute 
 this very much to the defect just mentioned in the 
 plays and novels, wisich form so important a branch 
 jflf study of our young ladies; and which teach Ihem 
 [how to be heroines, but leave them totally at a loss 
 when they coine to l)e wives. The play from which 
 [the quotations before me were made, however, is an 
 !xcepli()n to this remark; and I cannot refuse myself 
 he pleasure of adducing some of them for the benefit 
 I the reader, and fur the honour of an old writer, 
 ho has bravely attempted to awaken dramatic in- 
 erest hi favour of a woman, even after she was mar- 
 led. 
 
 The following is a commendation of Abstemia to 
 T husband Lorenzo : , 
 
 she's modest, but not sullen, and loves silence i 
 
 Not that slic wants apt words, (for when she speaks. 
 
 She innames love with wonder,) but because 
 
 She calls wise silence the soul's harmony. 
 
 She's tnily chaste; yet such a foe to coyness. 
 
 The poorest call her courteous; and, wliich Is excellent, 
 
 (Though fair and young, ) she shuns to cx\x>ae herself 
 
 To the opinion of strange eyes. She cither seldom 
 
 Or never walks abroad but in your company ; 
 
 And then wltli such sweet bashfuliiess, as if 
 
 She were venturing on crack d ice, and takes delight 
 
 To step into the print your fool hath made. 
 
 And will follow you whole fields ; so she will driT«» 
 Tediousness o ' of time w i th her sweet character. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this excellence, Abstemia ban 
 the misfortune to incur the unmerited jealousy of her 
 huslKind. Instead, however, of resenting his harsh 
 treatment with clamorous upbraidings, and with the 
 stormy violence of high, windy virtue, by which the 
 sparks of anger are so often blown into a flame ; she 
 endures it with the meekness of conscious, but patient 
 virtue; and makes the following beautiful appeal to n 
 friend who has witnessed her long suffering ; 
 
 -Hast thou not seen me 
 
 Bear all his Iqjuries, as (he ocean suffers 
 
 The angry bark to plough thorough hcrbosom. 
 
 And yet is presently so smooth, the eye 
 
 Cannot perceive where the w idt wound was made ? 
 
 Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representa- 
 tions, at length repudiates her. To the last, however, 
 she maintains her patient sweetness, and her love for 
 him, in spite of his cruelty. She deplores his error, 
 even more than his unkindness; and laments the de- 
 lusion which has turned his very affeclion into a source 
 of bitterness. There is a moving pathos in her part- 
 ing address to Lorenzo, after their divorce : 
 
 -Farewell, Lorenzo, 
 
 Whom my soul doth love : if you e'er marry. 
 May you meet a good wife ; so good, that you 
 May not suspect her, nor may she be worlhy 
 Of your suspicion ; and if you hear hereafter 
 That I am dead, inquire but my last wonls. 
 And you shall know that to the last 1 lov'd you. 
 And when you walk forth with your second choice. 
 Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me. 
 Imagine that yon sec me, lean and pale, 
 
 Strewing your path with flowers. 
 
 But may she never live to pay my debts : [weeps.] 
 
 If but in thought she wrong you, may she die 
 
 In the conception of the injury. 
 
 Pray make me wealthy with one kiss ; farewell, sir : 
 
 Let it not grieve you when you shall r<incmber 
 
 That I was innocent : nor this forget. 
 
 Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan. 
 
 She walks but thorough thorns to find a throne. 
 
 In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, and the 
 innocence of his uijured wife. In the Ira.nsporls of 
 his repentance, he calls to mind all her feminine ex- 
 cellence ; her gentle, uncomplaining, womanly forti- 
 tude under wrong and sorrows : 
 
 -Oh, Abstemia! 
 
 |i' 
 
 How lovely thou lookest now ! now thou appcarest 
 Chaster than is the morning's modesty. 
 That rises with a blush, over whose Iwsom 
 1 he western wind creeps softly ; now I remember 
 How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye 
 Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well. 
 Unless it look'd where I look'd : oh, how proud 
 She was, when she could cross herself to please me ! 
 But where now is this fair soul 7 Like a silver cloud 
 She halh wept herself, I fear, into the dead tea, 
 And will bo found no more. 
 
 It is but doing right by the reader, if interested in 
 the fate of Altstemia by the preceding extracts, to say, 
 that she was restored to the arms and afleclions of 
 her husband, rendered fonder than ever, by thaUlis- 
 
TAB 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 n 
 
 |iosition in every good heart, to atone for past injus- 
 tice, by an overflowing measure of returning kind- 
 ness: 
 
 Thou wcallli worth more than kingdoms ! I am now 
 Cnnfirmed past all suspicion ; thou art far 
 iiwcctci in thy sincere tnilii than a sacrifice 
 ■' Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds 
 That blow from off the coast, and cheer the sailor 
 With the sweet savour of their spices, want 
 The delight flows in thee. 
 
 I liave been more affected and interested by this 
 little dramatic picture than by many a popular love 
 tale ; though, as I said before, I do not think it likely 
 either Abstemia or patient Grizzle stand much chance 
 of being taken for a model. Still I like to see poetry 
 now and then extending its views beyond the wed- 
 ding-day, and teaching a lady how to make herself 
 attractive even after marriage. There is no great 
 ^■■fi need of enforcing on an unmarried lady the necessity 
 uf being agreeable ; nor is th^re any great art requisite 
 in a youtliful beauty to enable her to please. Nature 
 has multiplied attractions round her. Youth is in it- 
 self attractive. The freshness of budding beauty 
 needs no foreign aid to set it off; it pleases merely 
 because it is fresh, and budding, and beautiful. But 
 it is for the married state that a woman needs the 
 most instruction, and in which she should be most on 
 her guard to maintain her powers of pleasing. No 
 woman can expect to be to her husband all that he 
 fancied her when he was a lover. Men are always 
 doomed to be duped, not so much by the arts of the 
 sex, as by their own imagination. They are always 
 wooing goddesses, and marrying mere mortals. A 
 woman should therefore ascertain what was the 
 charm that rendered her so fascinating when a girl, 
 and endeavour to keep it up when she has become a 
 wife. One great thing undoubtedly was, the cha- 
 riness of herself and her conduct, which an unmarried 
 female always observes. She should maintain the 
 same niceness and reserve in her person and habits, 
 and endeavour still to preserve a freshness and virgin 
 delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should re- 
 member that the province of woman is to be wooed, 
 not to woo; to be caressed, not to caress. Man is an 
 ungrateful being in love ; bounty loses instead of win- 
 ning him. The secret of a woman's power does not 
 consist so much in giving, as in withholding. A 
 woman may give up too much even to her husband. 
 It is to a thousand little delicacies of conduct that she 
 must trust to keep alive passion, and to protect herself 
 from that dangerous familiarity, that thorough ac- 
 quaintance with every weakness and imperfection 
 incident to matrimony. By these means she may still 
 maintain her power, though she has surrendered her 
 person, and may continue the romance of love even 
 beyond the honey-moon. 
 
 " She that hath a wise husband, " says Jeremy 
 Taylor, " must entice him to an eternal dearnesse by 
 the veil of modesty, and the grave robes of chastity, 
 the ornament of nieeknesse, and the jewels of failh 
 
 and charity. She must have no painting but blush. 
 ings ; her brightness must be purity, and she most 
 shine round about with sweetnesses and friendship; 
 and she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desimi 
 when she dies. " 
 
 I have wandered into a rambling series ofremarlu i 
 on a trite subject, and a dangerous one for a badielor 
 to meddle with. That I may not, however, appear to 
 confine my observations entirely to the wife, I will | 
 conclude with another quotation from Jeremy Taylor 
 in which the duties of both parties are mentioned- 1 
 while I would recommend his sermon on the marriage 
 ring to all those who, wiser than myself, are ah 
 entering the happy state of wedlock. 
 
 " There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns I 
 tliem both alike, and is only distinguished by names 
 and hath its variety by circumstances and liltle acci- 
 dents : and what in one is called love, in the other is I 
 called reverence ; and what in the wife is obedience, ( 
 the same in the man is duty. He provides, and she 
 dispenses ; he gives commandments, and she rules I 
 by them ; he rules her by authority, and she rules him I 
 by love; she ought by all means to please him, and he | 
 must by no means displease her. " 
 
 STORY-TELLING. 
 
 A FAVOCHITE evening pastime at the Hall, andontl 
 which the worthy squire is fond of promoting, isstoqfJ 
 telling, " a good old-fashioned lire-side amusement,"! 
 as he terms it. Indeed, I believe he promotes it chieu 
 ly, because it was one of the choice recrealions ii| 
 those days of yore, when ladies and gentlemen ve 
 not much in the habit of reading. Be this as it nMj| 
 he will often, at supper table, when conversation flagi)! 
 call on some one or other of the company for a storyj 
 as it was formerly the custom to call for a song; and! 
 is edifying to see the exemplary patience, and tm 
 satisfaction, with which the good old gentleman vi 
 sit and listen to some hackneyed tale that he hash 
 for at least a hundred times. 
 
 In this way one evening the current of anecdote 
 and stories ran upon mysterious personages thatliafl 
 figured at different times, and filled the world vitlj 
 doubt and conjecture ; such as tlie Wandering Jew, Ih 
 Man with the Iron Mask, who tormented tliecurio$il]{ 
 of all Europe ; the invisible Girl, and last, tiioughn 
 least, the Pig-faced Lady. 
 
 At length one of the company was called upon, t 
 had the most unpromising physiognomy for a storyf 
 teller that ever I had seen. He was a thin, pale 
 weazen-faced man, extremely nervous, that had a 
 at one corner of the table shrunk up, as it were, in 
 himself, and almost swallowed up in (he cape of I 
 coat, as a turtle in its shell. 
 
 The very demand seemed to throw him into a nen| 
 ons agitation, yet he did not refuse. He emer{ 
 
BRACEBRIDGE UAI.L. 
 
 o(m 
 
 >any was called upon, il 
 physiognomy for a story- 
 I. He was a thin, pal* 
 lely nervous, that had f 
 hrunkup, asitwere.ii 
 wed up in ihe cape ot 
 
 Us bead out of his shell, made a Tew odd grimaces 
 and gesticulations, before he could get his muscles 
 into order, or his voice under command, and then 
 offered to give some account of a mysterious person- 
 age, that he had recently encountered in the course 
 of bis travels, and one whom he thought fully entitled 
 of being classed with Ihe Man with the Iron Mask. 
 
 I was so much struck with his extraordinary nar- 
 I rative, that I have written it out to the best of my 
 recollection, for the amusement of the reader. I 
 think it has in it ail Ihe elements of that mysterious 
 and roinanlic narrative, so greedily sought after at 
 the present day. 
 
 THE STOUT GENTLEMAN; 
 
 A STACE-COACB IlOMANCE. 
 
 "Hi cross it, thougli it blast me ! " 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 It was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of 
 
 iKovember. I had been detained, in the course of a 
 
 {journey, by a slight indisposition, from which I was 
 
 iveriiig: but I was still feverish, and was obliged 
 
 to keep within doors all day, in an inn of the small 
 
 town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn ! 
 
 Fhoever has had the luck to experience one can alone 
 
 judge of my situation. The rain pattered against the 
 
 etnenls; the bells tolled for church with a melan- 
 
 loly sound. I went to the windows in quest of 
 
 letliing to amuse the eye; but it seemed as if I had 
 
 •n placed completely out of the reach of all amuse- 
 
 lent. The windows of my bed-room looked out 
 
 long tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those 
 
 ^f my sitting-room commanded a full view of the 
 
 ibie-yard. I know of nothing more calculated to 
 
 ike a man sick of this world than a stable-yard on 
 
 rainy day. The place was littered with wet slraw 
 
 It had been kicked about by travellers and stable- 
 
 )y8. In one corner was a stagnant pool of water, 
 
 irrounding an island of muck; there were several 
 
 If-drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, 
 
 long which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, 
 
 inched out of all life and s|>irit : his drooping tail 
 
 ilted, as it were, into a single feather, along which 
 
 le water trickled from his back; near the cart was a 
 
 If-dozing cow, chewing the cud, and standing pa- 
 
 inlly to be rained on, with wreatlis of vapour rising 
 
 n her reeking hide; a wall-eyed horse, tired of 
 
 loiu'liiicss of the stable, was poking his spectral 
 
 tad out of a window, 'svith the rain dripping on it 
 
 n Ihe eaves; an unhappy cur, chained to a dog- 
 
 Mse hard by, uttered something every now and 
 
 !n, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen 
 
 inch tramped backwards and forwards through the 
 
 M in pallens, looking as sulky as the weather itself; 
 
 ffry thing, in short, was comfortless and forlorn , 
 
 excepting a crew of bard-drinking ducks, assembled 
 like boon companions round a puddle, and making a 
 riotous noise over their liquor. 
 
 I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. 
 My room soon became insupportable. I abandoned 
 it, and sought what is technically called the travellers'- 
 room. This is a public room set apart at most inns for 
 the accommodation of a class of wayfarers, called tra- 
 vellers, or riders ; a kind of commercial knights-errant, 
 who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in gigs, on 
 horseback, or by coach. They are the only succes- 
 sors that I know of, at the present day, to the knights- 
 errant of yore. They lead Ihe same kind of roving 
 adventurous life, only changing Ihe lance for a driv- 
 ing-whip, the buckler for a pattern-card, and the coat 
 of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead of vindicat- 
 ing the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about, 
 spreading the fame and standing of some substantial 
 tradesman, or manufacturer, and are ready at any 
 time to bargain in his name; it being the fashion 
 now-a-days to trade, instead of fight, with one an- 
 other. As Ihe room of the hostel, in the good old 
 fighting limes, would be hung round at night with 
 the armour of way-worn warriors, such as coals of 
 mail, falchions, and yawning helmets; so the travel- 
 lers'-room is garnished with the harnessing of their 
 successors, with box-coals, whips of all kinds, spurs, 
 gaiters, and oil-clolh covered hats. 
 
 I was in hopes of flnding some of tliese worthies 
 to talk with, but was disappointed. There were, 
 indeed, two or three in the room; but I could make 
 nothing of them. One was just finishing breakfast, 
 quarrelling with his bread and butter, and huffing 
 the waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, 
 with many execrations at Boots for not having clean- 
 ed his shoes well; a third sat drumming on the table 
 with his fingers and looking at the rain as it streamed 
 down Ihe window-glass; they all appeared infected 
 by the weather, and disappeared, one after the other, 
 without exchanging a word. 
 
 I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the 
 people, picking their way to church, with petticoats 
 hoisted midleg high, and dripping umbrellas. The 
 bell ceased to loll, and Ihe streets became silent. I 
 then amused myself with watching the daughters of 
 a tradesman opposite; who being confined to the 
 house for fear of wetting their Sunday linery, played 
 off their charms at the front windows, to fascinate 
 the chance tenants of the inn. They at length were 
 summoned away by a vigilant vinegar-faced mother, 
 and I had nothing further from without to amuse me. 
 
 What was-. I to do to pass away the long-lived day ? 
 I was sadly nervous and lonely; and every thing 
 about an inn seems calculated to make a dull day ten 
 times duller. Old newspapers, smelling of beer and 
 tobacco smoke, and which I had already read baif a 
 dozen times. Good for nothing books, that were 
 worse than rainy weather. I lM)red myself to death 
 with an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I rea«l 
 all Ihe common-place naincj of nnibilious Iravellers 
 
 •<<( 
 
mt 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 1/ 
 
 iwrawled on the panes of glass ; the eternal fami- 
 lies of the Smiths and the Browns, and the Jack- 
 sons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons; and 
 I decyphered several scraps of fatiguing inn-window 
 poetry which I have met with in all parts of the 
 world. 
 
 The day continued lowering and gloomy; the 
 slovenly, ragged, spongy clouds driflcHl heavily along; 
 there was no variety even in the rain; it was one 
 dull, continued, monotonous patter, — patter — palter, 
 excepting that now and then I was enlivened by the 
 idea of a brisk shower, from the rattling of the drops 
 upon a passing umbrella. 
 
 It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a 
 hackneyed phrase of the day) when, in the course of 
 the morning, a horn blew, and a stage-coach whirled 
 through the street, with outside passengers stuck all 
 over it, cowering under cotton umbrellas, and seethed 
 together, and reeking with the steams of wet box- 
 coats and upper Benjamins. 
 
 I'he sound brought out from their lurking pi "es a 
 crew of vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, atn he 
 carroty-headed hostler, and that non-descript am A 
 ycleped Boots, and all the other vagabond race tii.u 
 infest the purlieus of an inn; but the bustle was tran- 
 sient ; the coach again whirled on its way ; and boy 
 and dog, hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to their 
 holes; the street again became silent, and the rain con- 
 tinned to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its 
 clearing up, the barometer pointed to rainy weather; 
 mine hostess's tortoise-shell cat sat by the (ire wash- 
 ing her face, and rubbing her paws over her ears ; and, 
 on referring to the almanac, I found a direful pre- 
 diction strelching from the lop of the page to the bot- 
 tom through the whole month, "expect — mucii — rain 
 —about— this— lime ! " 
 
 I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if 
 they would never creep by. The very ticking of the 
 clock became irksome. At length the stillness of the 
 house was interrupted by the ringing of a bell. 
 Shortly after I heard Ihe voice of a waiter at the bar ; 
 " The Stout Gentleman in No. 13 wants his break- 
 fast. Tea and bread and butter, with ham and eggs; 
 the eggs not to be too much done." 
 
 In such a situation as mine every incident is of im- 
 portance. Here was a subject of speculation present- 
 ed to my mind, and ample exercise for my imagina- 
 tion. I am prone to paint pictures to myself, and on 
 this occasion I had some materials to work upon. 
 Had the guest up stairs been mentioned as Mr Smith, 
 or Mr Brown, or Rlr Jackson, or Mr Johnson, or 
 merely as " the gentleman in No. \Z," it would have 
 been a perfect blank to me. I should have thought 
 nothing of it; but "The Stout Gentleman ! "-the 
 very name had something in it of the picturesque. It 
 at once gave the size; it embodied the personage to 
 my mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest. 
 
 He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty; in all 
 probability, therefore, he was advanced in life, some 
 people expanding as tiiey grow old. By his break- 
 
 fasting rather late, and in his own room, he must beg 
 man accustomed to live at his ease, and above the ne- 
 cessity of early rising; no doubt a round, rosy, Iqs(> 
 old gentleman. 
 
 There was another violent ringing. The Stout 
 Gentleman was impatient for his breakfast. He vjj 
 evidently a man of importance; " well to do in tlie 
 world ;" accustomed to be promptly waited upon; of 
 a keen appetite, and a little cross when hunm- 
 " perhaps," thought I, " he may be some London al- 
 derman; or who knows but he may be a member of 
 Parliament?" 
 
 The breakfast was sent up, and there was a short 
 inter^'al of silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea. 
 Presently there was a violent ringing ; and before it 
 could be answered, another ringing still more violeni, 
 " Bless me ! what a choleric old gentleman ! " The 
 waiter came down in a huff. The butler was rancM 
 the eggs were over-done, the ham was too salt :-(he 
 Stout Gentleman was evidently nice in his eating, one 
 of those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on 
 the trot, and live in a state militant with the house- 
 held. 
 
 The hostess got into a fume. I should observe lliat 
 she was p brisk, coquettish woman, a Utile of a slirew, 
 and something of a slammerkin, but very pretty with- 
 al : with a nincompoop for a husband, as shrews are 
 apt to liave. She rated the servants roundly for their 
 negligence in sending up so bad a breakfast, but ^ 
 not a word against the Stout Gentleman; by whicbl 
 clearly perceived that he must be a man of conse- 
 quence, entitled to make a noise and to give lroubleal{ 
 a country inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread ai 
 butler were sent up. They appeared to be more 
 ciously received; at least there was no further 
 plaint. 
 
 I had not made many turns about the travellers'- 
 room, when there was another ringing. Shortly al 
 terwards there was a stir and an inquest about t 
 house. The Stout Gentleman wanted the Times 
 the Chronicle newspaper. I set him down, therefc 
 fur a whig, or rather, from his being so alisohite 
 lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him 
 being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a lar^^ 
 man; " who knows, thought I, but it is Hunt 
 self?" 
 
 My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired 
 Ihe waiter who was this Stout Gentleman that 
 making all this stir; but I could get no itirormatioD{ 
 nobody seemed to know his name. The landlords 
 bustling inns seldom trouble their heads about the 
 mes or occupations of their transient guests. Tlie 
 lour of a coal, the shape or size of the person, isenoi 
 to suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall 
 tieman, or the short genlleman, or the geiitleniin 
 black, or the genlleman in snuff colour; or, as in 
 present instance, the Stout Gentleman. A desig< 
 lion of the kind once hit on answers every pur| 
 and saves all further inquiry. 
 
 Bain- rain— rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain 
 
 lierinaid 
 landlady i 
 cross, noi' 
 I had to 
 P'lint him 
 ^'1' one oft 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 363 
 
 ir transient guests. Tbeo 
 
 yiich thing as patting a foot oat of doors, and no oc- 
 cupation nor amnsement within. By and bye I heard 
 some one walliing over head. It was in the Stout 
 Gentleman's room. He evidently was a large man 
 
 I by the lieaviness of his tread, and an oid man from 
 his wearing such crealiing soles. "He is doubtless," 
 (liought I, " some rich old square-toes of regular ha- 
 bits, and is now taking exercise after breakfast." 
 I now read all the advertisements of coaches and 
 
 I hotels that were stuck about the mantel-piece. The 
 Lady's Magazine had become an abomination to me ; 
 it vas as tetliuus as the day itself. I wandered out, 
 not knowing what to do, and ascended again to my 
 
 I room. I had not been there long, when there was a 
 ail from a neighbouring bed-room. A door open- 
 ed and slammed violently; a chambermaid, that I had 
 
 I remarked fur having a ruddy, good-humoured face, 
 went down stairs in a violent Hurry. The Stout 
 
 I Gentleman had been rude to her ! 
 This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce 
 
 j in a moment. This unknown personage could not be 
 an old gentleman ; for old gentlemen are not apt to be 
 so olKlreperous to chambermaids. He could not be a 
 young gentleman ; for young gentlemen arc not apt to 
 inspire such indignation. He must be a middle-aged 
 I man, and confounded ugly into the bargain, or the 
 »ii'l would not have taken the matter in such terrible 
 
 I dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled. 
 Ill a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. 
 
 I I caught a glance of her as she came trumping up 
 stairs; her face glowing, her cap daring, her tongue 
 wagging the whole way. "She'd have no such 
 doings in her house, she'd warrant ! If gentlemen 
 did spend money freely, it was no rule. She'd 
 have no servant maids of hers treated in that way, 
 when they were about their work, that's what slie 
 
 I wouldn't!" 
 As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and 
 
 I above all with pretty women, I sliuik back into my 
 room, and partly closed the door; but my curiosity 
 was too much excited not to listen. The landlady 
 marched intrepidly to the enemy's citadel, and enter- 
 ed it with a storm; the door closed after her. I 
 
 I heard her voice in high, windy clamour for a moment 
 or two. Then it gradually subsided, like a gust of 
 wind in a garret ; then there was a laugh; then I 
 
 I heard nothing more. 
 After a little while my landlady came out with an 
 
 I odd smile on her face, adjusting her cap, which was 
 a little on one side. As she went down stairs I heard 
 
 I liie landlord ask her what was the matter; she said, 
 " Nothing at all, only the girl's a fool."— I was more 
 than ever perplexed what to make of this unaccount- 
 
 jable personage, who coidd put a good-natured cham- 
 
 jlKrmaid in a passion, and send away a termagant 
 
 j landlady in smiles. He could not be so old, nor 
 
 j cross, nor ugly either. 
 I had to go to work at his picture again, and to 
 
 Ipfiint him entirely different. I now set him down 
 
 pjroncofthosc stout gentlemen that are frequently 
 
 met with, swa^ring aboat the doors of eoantry inns. 
 Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher-handkerdiiels, whose 
 bulk is a little assisted by malt-liquors. Men who 
 have seen the world, and been sworn at Highgate; 
 who are used to tavern life; up to all the tricks of 
 tapsters, and knowing in the ways of sinful public- 
 ans. Free-livers on a small scale; who are pro- 
 digal within the compass of a guinea; who call all 
 the waiters by name, touzle the maids, gossip with 
 the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, 
 or a glass of negus, after dinner. 
 
 The morning wore away in forming of these and 
 similar surmises. As fast as I wove one system of 
 belief, some movement of the unknown would com- 
 pletely overturn it, and throw all my thoughts again 
 into confusion. Such are the solitary operations of a 
 feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely 
 nervous; and the continual meditation on the con- 
 cerns of this invisible personage began to have its ef- 
 fect : — I was getting a lit of the fidgets. 
 
 Dinner-time came. I hoped the Stout Gentleman 
 might dine in the travellers' -room, and that I might 
 at length get a view of his person , but no — he had 
 dinner served in his own room. What could be the 
 meaning of this solitude and mystery? He could 
 not be a radical ; there was something too aristocrat- 
 ical in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of the 
 world, and condemning himself to his own dull com- 
 pany throughout a rainy day. And then, too, he 
 lived too well for a discontented politician. He seem- 
 ed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and to sit over 
 his wine like a jolly friend of good-living. Indeed, 
 my doubts on this head were soon at an end; for he 
 could not have finished his first l)ottle before I could 
 faintly hear him humming a tune; and on listening, 
 I found it to be "God save the King." 'Twas plain, 
 then, he was no radical, but a fahhful subject ; one 
 that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready to 
 stand by king and constitution, when he could stand 
 by nothing else. But who could he be ? My con- 
 jectures began to run wild. Was he not some per- 
 sonage ofdislinclion travelling incog ? " God knows !" 
 said I, at my wit's end; "it may be one of the royal 
 family, for aught I know, for they are all stout gen- 
 tlemen ! " 
 
 lluj weather continued rainy. The mysterious 
 unknown kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, 
 his chair, for I did not hear him move. In the mean 
 time, as the day advanced, the travellers'-room began 
 to be frequented. Some, who had just arrived, came 
 in buttoned up in box-coats; olliers came home who 
 had been dispersed about the town. Some took their 
 dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a dif- 
 ferent mood, I should have found entertainment in 
 studying this peculiar class of men. There were two 
 especially, who were regular wags of the road, and 
 versed in all the standing jokes of travellers. They 
 had a thousand sly things to say to the waiting-maid, 
 whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen 
 other fine names, changing the name every time, and 
 
mi 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 chuckling amazingly at tlieir own waggery. My 
 mind, however, had become completely engrossed 
 by the Slout Gentleman. He had kept my fancy in 
 chase during a long day, and it was not now to be 
 diverted from the scent. 
 
 The evening gradually wore away. The travellers 
 read the papers two or three times over. Some drew 
 round the fire and told long stories alwut their 
 horses, about their adventures, their overturns, and 
 breakings-down. They discussed the credits oMif- 
 ferent merchants and different inns; and the two 
 wags told several choice anecdotes of pretty cham- 
 bermaids, and kind landladies. All this passed as 
 they were quietly taking what they called Iheir night- 
 caps, that is to say, strong glasses of brandy and 
 water and sugar, or some other mixture of the kind; 
 after which they one after another rang for "Boots" 
 and the chambermaid, and walked off to bed in old 
 shoes cut down into marvellously uncomfortable slip- 
 pers. 
 
 There was only one man left; a short-legged, long- 
 bodied, plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy 
 head. He sat by himself, with a glass of port-wine 
 negus, and a spoon ; sipping and stirring, and medi- 
 tating and sipping, until nothing was left but the 
 spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his 
 chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and 
 the candle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew 
 long, and black, and cabbaged at the end, and dim- 
 med the little light that remained in the chamber. The 
 gloom that now prevailed was contagious. Around 
 hung the shapeless, and almost spectral, box-coals of 
 departed travellers, long since buried in deep sleep. 
 I only heanl the ticking of the clock, with the deep- 
 drawn breathings of the sleeping toper, and the drip- 
 pings of the rain, drop — drop— drop, from the eaves 
 of the house. The church bells chimed midnight. 
 All at once the Stout Gentleman began to walk over 
 head, pacing slowly backwards and forwards. There 
 was something extremely awful in all Ibis, especially 
 to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great 
 coals, these gultural brealhings, and Ihe creaking foot- 
 steps of Ibis mysterious being. His steps grew fainter 
 and fainter, and at length died away. I could bear 
 it no longer. I was wound up to the desperation of 
 a hero of romance. " Be he who or what he may," 
 said I to myself, "I'll have a sight of him ! I seized 
 a chamber-candle, and hurried up to number 13. 
 The door stood ajar. I hesitated — I entered; the 
 room was deserted. There stood a large, broad-bot- 
 tomed elbow-chair at a table, on which was an empty 
 tumbler, and a "Times" newspaper, and the room 
 smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese. 
 
 The mysterious stranger had evidently but just re- 
 tired. I turned off, sorely disap[)ointed, to my room, 
 which had been changed to Ihe front of Ihe house. 
 As I went along Ihe corridor, I saw a large pair of 
 iMots, with dirty, waxed tops, standing at the door of 
 a beil-chamber. They doubtless belonged to Ihe 
 unknown; but it would not do to disturb so redoubt- 
 
 able a personage in his den; he might discharge j 
 pistol, or something worse, at my head. I went to | 
 bed, therefore, and lay awake half the night in a ter- 
 ribly nervous state; and even when I fell asleep,! 
 was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the I 
 Slout Gentleman and his wax-topped boots. 
 
 I slept rather late the next morning, aiid vas I 
 awakened by some stir and bustle in the house, which 
 I could not at first comprehend; until, getlin;; more 
 awake, I found there was a mail-coach starting froni I 
 the door. Suddenly there was a cry front below 
 " The gentleman has forgot bis umbrella! look for 
 the gentleman's umbrella in No. 43! " I heard an 
 imme<liate scampering of a chambermaid along the 
 passage, and a shrill reply as she ran, " here it b! 
 here's the gentleman's umbrella!" 
 
 The mysterious stranger then was on the point of I 
 setting off. This was the only chance I should ever [ 
 have of knowing him. I sprang out of bed, scram- 
 bled to the window, snatched aside the curtains, and | 
 just caught a glimpse of the rear of a person gelling 
 in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coal 
 parted behind, and gave me a full view of Ihe broad 
 disk of a pair of drab breeches. The door closed- 1 
 " all right! " was the word — the coach whirled ol 
 —and that was all I ever saw of the Stout Gentleman! I 
 
 FOREST TREES, 
 
 "A living gallery ofaged trees." 
 
 0>'E of the favourite themes of boasting withlli«| 
 squire is the noble trees on his estate, which, in truth, I 
 has some of the finest that I have seen in England. I 
 There is something august and solemn in the great I 
 avenues of stalely oaks that gather Iheir branches to- 1 
 gether high in air, and seem to reduce Ihe pedestrians I 
 beneath them to mere pigmies. " An avenue of oaial 
 or elms," the squire observes, " is Ihe true colonnade [ 
 that should lead to a gentleman's house. As to stone I 
 and marble, any one can rear them at once, they are I 
 the work of the day; but commend me to the colon- 1 
 nades that have grown old and great with tiie family, I 
 and tell by their grandeur how long the family 1«| 
 endured." 
 
 The squire has great reverence for certain vener-l 
 able trees, grey with moss, which he considers ail 
 Ihe ancient nobility of his domain. There is the rniii j 
 of an enormous oak, which has been so muchbatlered| 
 by time and tempest, that scarce any thing is I 
 though he says Christy recollects when, in his hoy- J 
 hood, it was healthy and flourishing, until il w»| 
 struck by lightning. It is now a mere trunk, Tvitii| 
 one twisted lx)ugb stretching up into the air, leaving j 
 a green branch at the end of il. This sturdy wredl 
 is much valued by the squire; be calls it his stniidanl-j 
 bearer, and compares it lo a veteran warrior bealenl 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 .TOT 
 
 ; lie might discharge a 
 at my head. I wem to i 
 e half the night in a ter- 
 !n when I fell asleep, i 
 ianis by the idea of the I 
 x-topped boots, 
 lext morning, and vas | 
 iistle in the house, which 
 end; until, getting more 
 mail-coach starting from 
 was a cry from below, 
 t his umbrella! look for 
 uNo. <3!" I heard a» 
 chambermaid along tiie 
 as she ran, " here it b! 
 rella!" 
 
 then was on the point of ] 
 inly chance I should ever 
 ;)rang out of bed, scram- 
 ed aside the curtains, and 
 B rear of a person gelling 
 e skirls of a brown coat 
 le a full view of the broad 
 ches. The door elosed- 
 I — ihe coach whirled oft ; 
 w of the Stout Gentleman! 
 
 TREES. 
 
 - 
 
 y of aged trees." 
 
 ernes of boasling with the 
 his estate, which, intrulh, 
 have seen in England. 
 and solemn in the great 
 gather their branches to- 
 lo reduce the pedestrians 
 ■nies. "An avenue of oalis 
 es, " is the true colonnade 
 man's house. As lo stone 
 ar them at once, they are 
 oramend me to the coion- 
 and great willi the family, 
 how long the family lus 
 
 tl 
 
 irerence for certain vener- 
 which he considers aj 
 
 omain. Tliere is Ihe ruin 
 
 has been so much battered 
 scarce any thing is letl; 
 ollects when, in his boy- 
 flourishing, until it w« 
 now a mere trunk, wilh 
 
 iig up into the air, leavin? 
 
 of it. This sturdy wred 
 
 e;hecallsilhisslaiiJanl- 
 
 a veleran warrior tolf" 
 
 down in battle, but bearing up his banner to the last. 
 He lias actually bad a fence built round it, to protect 
 it as much as possible from further injury. 
 
 It is with great difticully that the stiuire can ever 
 he brought to have any tree cut down on his estate. 
 To some he looks with reverence, as having been 
 planted by his ancestors; to others with a kind of pa- 
 ternal affection, as having been planted by himself; 
 and he feels a degree of awe in bringing down with a 
 few strokes of the axe, what it has cost centuries to 
 build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, in some 
 degree, with the good squire on the subject. Though 
 brought up in a country overrun with forests, where 
 trees are apt to be considered mere incumbrances, and 
 to be laid low without hesitation or remorse, yet I 
 could never sec a fine tree hewn down without con- 
 cern. The poets, who are naturally lovers of trees, 
 as they are of every thing that is beautiful, have art- 
 fully awakened great interest in their favour, by re- 
 presenting Ihem as the habitations of sylvan deities ; 
 insomuch that every great tree had its tutelar genius, 
 or a nymph, whose existence was limited to its dura- 
 tion. Evelyn, in bis Sylva, makes several pleasing 
 and fanciful allusions to this superstition. " As the 
 fall," says he, " of a very aged oak, giving a crack 
 like thunder, has often been heard at many miles di- 
 stance; constrained though I often am to fell them with 
 Ireluctancy, I do not at any time remember to have 
 beard the groans of those nymphs (grieving to be 
 dispossessed of their ancient habitations) without some 
 motion and pity." And again, in alluding to a vio- 
 nt storm that had devastated the woodlands, he 
 lys, " Melhinks I still hear, sure I am (hat I still 
 , the dismal groans of our forests ; the late dread- 
 ful hurricane having subverted so many thousands of 
 lly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them in 
 liastly postures, like whole regiments fallen in battle 
 ly the sword of the conqueror, and crushing all that 
 ew beneath them. The public accounts," he adds, 
 ' reckon no less than three thousand brave oaks in 
 le part only of the forest of Dean blown down." 
 I have paused more than once in the wilderness of 
 merica, to contemplate the traces of some blast of 
 ind, which seemed to have rushed down from the 
 Ms, and ripped its way through the bosom of the 
 oodlands; rooting up, shivering and splintering the 
 loulest trees, and leaving a long track of desolation. 
 here was something awful in the vast havoc made 
 g these gigantic plants; and in considering their 
 gnificent remains, so rudely torn and mangled, 
 id hurled down to perish prematurely on their na- 
 ve soil, I was conscious of a strong movement of the 
 ipathy so feelingly expressed by Evelyn. I re- 
 (llect, also, hearing a traveller, of poetical tempera- 
 nt, expressing the kind of horror which he felt on 
 ilwlding, on the banks of the Missouri, an oak of 
 igious size, which had been, in a manner, over- 
 iwered by an enormous wild grape-vine. The 
 Inehad clasped its huge folds round the trunk, and 
 thence had wound about every branch and twig. 
 
 until the mighty tree had williered in its embrace. 
 It seemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in (he 
 hideous coils of the monster Python. It was the lion 
 of trees perishing in (he embraces of a vegetable boa. 
 I am fond of listening to the conversation of Eng- 
 lish gentlemen on rural concerns, and of noticing 
 with what taste and discrimination, and what strong, 
 unaffected interest they will discuss topics, which in 
 other countries are abandoned to mere woodmen, or 
 rustic cul(iva(or8. I have heard a noble eari descant 
 on park and forest scenery with the science and feel- 
 ing of a painter. He dwell on the shape and beauty 
 of particular trees on his estate, with as much pride 
 and technical precision as though he had been dis- 
 cussing the merits of statues in his collection. I found 
 that he had even gone considerable distances to exa- 
 mine trees which were celebrated among rural ama- 
 teurs; for it seems that trees, like horses, have their 
 established points of excellence ; and (hat there are 
 some in England which enjoy veiy extensive celebrity 
 among tree-fanciers, from being perfect in their kind. 
 There Ls something nobly simple and pure in such 
 a taste : it argues, I think, a sweet and generous na- 
 ture, to have this strong relish for the beauties of ve- 
 getation, and this friendship for the hardy and glo- 
 rious sons of the forest. There is a grandeur of thought 
 connected with this part of rural economy. It is, if 
 I may be allowed the figure, the heroic line of hus- 
 bandry. It is worthy of liberal, and freeborn, and 
 aspiring men. He who plants an oak looks forward 
 to future ages, and plants for posterity. Nothing can 
 be less selfish than this. He cannot expect to sit in 
 its shade, nor enjoy its shelter ; but he exults in the 
 idea, that the acorn which he has buried in the earth 
 shall grow up into a lofty pile, and shall keep on 
 flourishing, and increasing, and benefiting mankind, 
 long after he shall have ceased lo tread his paternal 
 fields. Indeed it is the nature of such occupations to 
 lift the thoughts above mere worldliness. As the 
 leaves of trees are said lo absorb all noxious qualities 
 of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere, 
 so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid 
 and angry passions, and breathed forth peace and 
 philanthropy. There is a serene and settled majesty 
 in woodland scenery, that enters into the sotd, and 
 dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble incUna- 
 lions. The ancient and hereditary groves, too, that 
 embower this island, are most of them full of story. 
 They are haunted by the recollections of great spirits 
 of past ages, who have sought for relaxation among 
 them from the tumult of arms, or the toils of slate, or 
 have wooed the muse beneath their shade. Who can 
 walk, with soul unmoved, among the stately groves 
 of Penshursl, where Sidney passed his boyhood ; or 
 can look without fondness upon the tree that is said 
 lo have been planted on his birthday ; or can ramble 
 among Ihe classic bowers of Uagley ; or can pause 
 among the solitudes of Windsor Forest, and look at 
 the oaks around, huge, grey, and time-worn, like the 
 old castle towers, and not feel as if he were surround- 
 
r>68 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ed by so many monuments of long-enduring glory ! 
 It is, wlien viewed in this light, that planted groves, 
 and stately avenues, and cultivated parks, have an 
 advantage over the more luxuriant beauties of un- 
 assisted nature. It is that they teem with moral as- 
 sociations, and keep up the ever-interesting story of 
 human existence. 
 
 It is incumbent, then, on the high and generous 
 spirits of an ancient nation, to cherisii these sacred 
 groves that surround their ancestral mansions, and 
 to perpetuate them to their descendants. Republican 
 as I am by birth, and brought up as I have been in re- 
 publican principles and habits, I can feel nothing of 
 the servile reverence for tilled rank, merely because 
 it is titled ; but I trust that I am neither churl nor 
 bigot in my creed. I can both see and feel how he- 
 reditary distinction, when it falls to the lot of a gene- 
 rous mind, may elevate that mind into true nobility. 
 It is one of the effects of hereditary rank, when it falls 
 thus happily, that it multiplies the duties, and, as it 
 were, extends the existence of the possessor. lie 
 does not feel himself a mere individual link in crea- 
 tion, responsible only for his own brief term of being. 
 He carries back his existence in proud recollecUon, 
 and he extends it forward in honourable anticipation. 
 He lives with his ancestry, and he lives with his pos- 
 terity. To t)oth does he consider himself involved in 
 deep responsibilities. As he has received much from 
 those that have gone before, so he feels bound to 
 transmit much to those who are to come after him. 
 His domestic undertakings seem to imply a longer 
 existence than those of ordinary men ; none are so 
 apt to build and plant for future centuries, as noble- 
 spirited men, who have received their heritages from 
 foregone ages. 
 
 I cannot but applaud, therefore, the fondness and 
 pride with which I have noticed English gentlemen, 
 of generous temperaments, and high aristocratic 
 feelings, contemplating those magnificent trees, which 
 rise like towers and pyramids, from the midst of their 
 paternal lands. There is an aflinily between all great 
 natures, animate and inanimate : the oak, in the pride 
 and lustihood of its growth, seems to me to take its 
 range with the lion and the eagle, and to assimilate, 
 in the grandeur of its attributes, to heroic and intel- 
 lectual man. With its mighty pillar rising straight 
 and direct towards heaven, bearing up its leafy ho- 
 nours from the impurities of earth, and supporting 
 them aloft in free air and glorious sunshine, it is an 
 emblem of what a true nobleman should be ; a refuge 
 for the weak, a shelter for the oppressed, a defence 
 for the defenceless ; warding off from them the pelt- 
 ings of the storm, or the scorching rays of arbitrary 
 power. He who is this, is an ornament and a bless- 
 ing to his native land. He who is otherwise, abuses 
 his eminent advantages; abuses the grandeur and 
 prosperity which he has drawn fl'om the bosom of bis 
 country. Should tempests arise, and he be laid pro- 
 strate by the storm, who would mourn over his fall ? 
 Should he be borne down by the oppressive hand of 
 
 power, who would munnar at his fate ?— " why cum- 
 bereth he the ground? " 
 
 A LITERARY ANHQUARY. 
 
 Printed liookcs he contcmncs, as a novelty of this laiier ]'<;. 
 but a muimscript he pores on everlastingly ; es|)ecially if thecovpr 
 he all niotli-eatcn, awl the dust make a parenthesis lietnceni' etm 
 syllable. Mic(H:osxoguapuie, I6js. 
 
 The squire receives great sympathy and support j 
 in his anli(iualed humours, from the parson, of wlioig 
 I made some mention on my former visit to the Hall 
 and who acts as a kind of family chaplain, llehaj 
 been cherished by the squire almost constantly since 
 the time that they were fellow students atOxrordl 
 for it is one of the peculiar advantages of these great 
 universities, that they often link the poor scholar lo 
 the rich patron, by early and heart-felt ties, that last I 
 through life, without the usual humiliations of depend- 
 ence and patronage. Under the fostering pioteclionl 
 of the squire, therefore, the little parson lias pursued! 
 bis studies in peace. Having lived almost cnlireirl 
 among books, and those, too, old books, he is quite! 
 ignorant of the world, and his mind is as antiquated! 
 as the garden at the Hall, where the ilowers areaUJ 
 arranged in formal beds, and the yew-trees < 
 into urns and peacocks. 
 
 His taste for literary antiquities was first imbiMJ 
 in the Bodleian Library at Oxford; where, wlienal 
 student, he past many an hour foraging among ilie| 
 old manuscripts. He has since, at different times, vi 
 sited most of the curious libraries in England, and hi 
 ransacked many of the cathedrals. With all iii 
 quaint and curious learning, he has nothing of ar 
 gance or pedantry; but that unaffected earnesti 
 and guileless simplicity which seem to belong to I 
 literary antiquary. 
 
 He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dryi 
 his manner : yet, on his favourite theme, he kindid 
 up, and at times is even eloquent. Ko fox-liunlerj 
 recounting his last day's sport, could be inoie anio 
 ed than I have seen the worthy parson, when relitj 
 ing his search after a curious <locument, which 
 had traced from library to library, until he fairly i 
 earthed it in the dusty chapter-house of a catliedr 
 When, too, he describes some venerable manuscrip 
 with its rich illuminations, its thick creamy vellao 
 its glossy ink, and the odour of the cloisters that s 
 ed to exhale from it, he rivals the enthusiasm of a I 
 risian epicure, expatiating on themerilsofaPerig 
 pie, or a pdte de Strasbourg. 
 
 His brain seems absolutely haunted with love 
 dreams about gorgeous old works in " silk liiiiii 
 triple gold bands, and tinted leather, locked up i 
 wire cases, and secured from the vulgar haiidsofll^ 
 mere reader;" and, to continue the happy eip 
 sions of an ingenious writer, " dazzling one's eyrsi 
 
 eastei 
 
 He 
 
 inlhc 
 
 belon, 
 
 in on( 
 
 strugf 
 
 glass; 
 
 from t 
 
 book-c 
 
 lion th 
 
 antiqu( 
 
 with p 
 
 temper 
 
 authors 
 
 The 
 
 dilating 
 
 in whic 
 
 ous err 
 
 lions; a 
 
 great in 
 
 that Ion 
 
 and ant 
 
 oneoftl: 
 
 coneeriii 
 
 nay, it is 
 
 been at I 
 
 ceives p; 
 
 I kingdom. 
 
 ' legible m 
 
BRACEBRnXiE HALL. 
 
 3G0 
 
 hisfale?— "whycum- 
 
 NnQUARY. 
 
 i a novelly o( this laller a;e; 
 istingly ; esi>ecially it Ihe covn 
 c a pai-cutliesis liclwccne ct«j 
 
 lICU-COSMOGUAPUIE, \m. 
 
 I sympathy and suppotl, 
 rotn the parson, of whom | 
 y former visit to the Hall, 
 family chaplain. He has I 
 re ahnost constantly since I 
 iUow students alOxfoitl;| 
 advantages of lliesegreall 
 n link the poor scholar to I 
 nd heart-felt ties, that last] 
 ual humiliations of depend- 1 
 ;r the fostering pioleclioii| 
 le little parson lias pureuedl 
 viiig lived almost cnlireltl 
 too, old books, heisquitel 
 I his mind is as antiqualedl 
 where the flowers areal] 
 and the yew-trees ( 
 
 ntiquities was f»-st ImbiWl 
 
 It Oxford; where, when jj 
 
 n hour foraging among llie| 
 
 since, at different limes, vi 
 
 jraries in England, and 111 
 
 cathedrals. With all 
 
 ^, he has nothing of ai 
 
 lat unaffected eaniesUM 
 
 lich seemtohelougioit 
 
 itle man, and rather dry 
 favourite theme, he kindle 
 eloquent. No fox-hunl«f| 
 port, could be more anil 
 vorthy parson, when reW 
 jious document, which f 
 D library, until he fairly 
 apter-houseofacalliedti 
 some venerable manuscri| 
 18, its thick creamy vellui 
 Hur of the cloisters that 
 vals the enthusiasm of a 
 on the merits of a Pel' 
 
 tely haunted with lov( 
 jld works in "silklini 
 inted leather, locked up 
 rom the vulgar hands of 
 
 onlinue the happy ex[ 
 r "dazzling one's eyesli 
 
 eastern beauties, peering through their jealousies." ■ 
 He has a great desire, however, to read such works 
 in the old libraries and chapter-houses to which they 
 belong; for he thinks a black-letter volume reads best 
 in one of those venerable chambers where the light 
 struggles through dusty lancet windows and painted 
 glass; and that it loses half its zest if taken away 
 from the neighbourhood of the quaintly-carved oaken 
 book-case and Gothic reading-desk. At his sugges- 
 tion the squire has had tiie library furnished in this 
 antique taste, and several of the windows glazed 
 with painted glass, that they may throw a properly 
 tempered light upon the pages of their favourite old 
 authors. 
 
 The parson, I am told, has been for some time me- 
 ditating a commentary on Strult, Brand, and JJouce, 
 in which he means to detect them in sundry danger- 
 ous errors in respect to popular games and supersti- 
 tions; a work to which the scpiire looks forward with 
 great interest. He is, also, a casual contributor to 
 that long-established repository of national customs 
 and anti(iuilies, Ihe Gentleman's Alagazine, and is 
 one of those that every now and then make an inquiry 
 concerning some obsolete customs or rare legend; 
 nay, it is said that several of his communications have 
 been at least six inches in length. lie frequently re- 
 ceives parcels by coach from different parts of the 
 kingdom, containing mouldy volumes and almost il- 
 legible manuscripts ; for it is singular what an active 
 correspondence is kept up among literary antiquaries, 
 and how soon the fame of any rare volume, or unique 
 copy, just discovered among the rubbish of a library, 
 is circulated among them. The parson is more busy 
 than common just now^, being a little flurried by an 
 advertisement of a work, said to be preparing for the 
 press, on the mythology of the middle ages. The 
 little man has long been gathering together all the 
 hobgoblin tales he could collect, illustrative of the su- 
 perstitions of former times; and he is in a complete 
 fever, lest this formidable rival should take the held 
 [before 'mn. 
 SI. Illy after my arrival at the Hall, I called at the 
 irsonage, in company with Mr Bracebridge and the 
 neral. The parson had not been seen for several 
 lays, which was a matter of some surprise, as he was 
 in almost daily visitor at the Hall. We found him in 
 lis study ; a small dusky chamber, lighted by a lattice 
 indow that looketl into the churchyard, and was 
 iversliadowed by a yew-tree. His chair was sur- 
 unded by folios and quartos, piled upon the floor, and 
 table was covered with books and manuscripts. 
 he cause of his seclusion was a work which he had 
 ntly received, and with which he had retired in 
 ipture from the worid, and shut himself up to enjoy a 
 iterary honey-moon undisturbed. Never did board- 
 school girl devour the pages of a sentimental 
 ivd, or Don Quixote a chivalrous romance, with 
 re intense delight than did the little man banquet 
 the pages of this delicious work. It was Dibdin's 
 ' D'braeli. Curiosities ofl.itcratiirc. 
 
 Bibliographical Toor; a work calculated to have as 
 intoxicating an effect on the imaginations of literary 
 anti(|iiaries, as the adventures of the heroes of the 
 Round Table, on all true knights ; or the tales of the 
 early American voyagers on the ardent spirits of (he 
 age, filling them with dreams of Mexican and Peru- 
 vian mines, and of Ihe golden realm of El Dorado. 
 
 The good parson had looked forward to this biblio- 
 graphical expedition as of far greater importance than 
 those to Africa, or the North Pole. With w hat ea- 
 gerness had he seized upon the history of the enter- 
 prize ! with what interest had he followed the redoubt- 
 able bibliographer and his graphical squire in their 
 
 adventurous 
 
 among Norman castles and 
 
 cathedrals, and French libraries, and German con- 
 vents and universities; penetrating into the prison 
 houses of vellum manuscripLs, and exquisitely illu- 
 minated missals, and revealing their beauties to Ihe 
 world ! 
 
 When the parson had finished a rapturous eulogy 
 on this most curious and entertaining work, he drew 
 forth from a liil.e drawer a manuscript, lately receiv- 
 ed from a correspondent, which had perplexed him 
 sadly. It was written in Norman French, in very 
 ancient characters, and so faded and mouldered away 
 as to be almost illegible. It was apparently an old 
 Norman drinking song, that might have been brought 
 over by one of William the Conqueror's carousing 
 followers. The writing was just legible enough to 
 keep a keen antiquity-hunter on a doubtful chase ; 
 here and there he would be completely thrown out, 
 and then there would be a few words so plainly 
 written as to put him on the scent again. In this 
 way he had been led on for a whole day, until he had 
 found himself completely at fault. 
 
 The squire encleavoured to assist him, but was 
 equally baffled. The old general listened for some 
 lime to the discussion, and then asked Ihe parson, if 
 he had read Captain Morris's, or George Stevens's, or 
 Anacreon Moore's bacchanalian songs ; on the oilier 
 replying in the negative, " Oh, then, " said the ge- 
 neral, with a sagacious nod, " if you want a drinking 
 song, I can furnish you with the latest collection — I 
 did not know you had a turn for those kind of things; 
 and I can lend you the Encyclopedia of Wit into the 
 bargain. I never travel without them ; they're ex- 
 cellent reading at an inn. " 
 
 It would not be easy to describe the odd look of sur- 
 prise and perplexity of the parson, at this proposal ; or 
 the difficulty the squire had in making the general 
 comprehend, that tliough a jovial song of the present 
 day was but a foolish sound in the ears of wisdom, and 
 beneath the notice of a learned man, yet a trowl, 
 written by a tosspot several hundred years since, was 
 a matter worthy of the gravest research, and enough 
 to set whole colleges by the ears. 
 
 I have since pondered much on this matter, and 
 have figured to myself what may be the fate of our 
 current literature, when retrieved, piecemeal, by fu- 
 ture antiquaries, from among the rubbish of ages, 
 
 47 
 
 ir 
 
370 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 What a Magnns Apollo, for instance, will Moore be- 
 come, among sober divines and dusty schoolmen! 
 Even his festive and amatory songs, which are now 
 the mere quickeners of our social moments, or the 
 delights of our drawing-i-ooms, will then become 
 matters of laborious research and painful collation. 
 How many a grave professor will then waste his mid- 
 night oil, or worry his brain through a long morn- 
 ing, endeavouring to restore the pure text, or illus- 
 trate the biographical hints of" Come, tell me, says 
 Rosa, as kissing and kissed ; " and how many an arid 
 old book-worm, like the worthy little parson, will 
 give up in despair, after vainly striving to (111 up 
 some fatal hiatus in" Fanny of Timmol ! " 
 
 Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as Moore 
 that are doomed to consume the oil of future anti- 
 quaries. Many a poor scribbler, who is now, ap- 
 parently, sent to oblivion by pastry-cooks and cheese- 
 mongers, will then rise again in fragments, and 
 flourish in learned immortality. 
 
 After all, thought I, Time is not such an invariable 
 destroyer as he is represented. If he pulls down, he 
 likewise builds up ; if be impoverishes one, he en- 
 riches another ; his very dilapidations furnish matter 
 for new works of controversy, and his rust is more 
 precious than the most costly gilding. Under his 
 plastic hand trifles rise into importance; the non- 
 sense of one age becomes the wisdom of another; the 
 levity of the wit gravitates into the learning of the 
 pedant, and an ancient farthing moulders into inflnile- 
 ly more value tlian a modern guinea. 
 
 THE FARM-HOUSE. 
 
 -"Love and hay 
 
 Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles." 
 
 BEAUaONT AND FLETCBSB. 
 
 I WAS so much pleased with the anecdotes which 
 were told me of Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, that I 
 got Master Simon, a day or two since, to take me to 
 his house. It was an old-fashioned farm-house, built 
 of brick, with curiously twisted chimneys. It stood 
 at a little distance from the road, .with a southern ex- 
 posure, looking upon a soft, green slope of meadow. 
 There was a small garden in front, with a row of 
 beehives humming among beds of sweet herbs and 
 flowers. Well-scowered milking-tubs, with bright 
 copper hoops, hung on the garden paling. Fruit- 
 trees were trained up agamstthe cottage, and pots of 
 flowers stood in the windows. A fat, superannuated 
 mastiff lay in the sunshine at the door; with a sleek 
 cat sleeping peacefully across him. 
 
 Mr Tibbets was from home at the time of our call- 
 ing, but we were received with hearty and homely 
 welcome by his wife ; a notable, motherly woman, 
 and a complete pattern for wives ; since, according to 
 
 Master Simon's acooant, she never contradicts honest 
 Jack, and yet manages to have her own way, and to 
 control him in every thing. She received us in the 
 main room of the house, a kind of parlour and hall 
 with great brown beams of timber across it, vhich 
 Mr Tibbets is apt to point out with some exultation 
 observing, that they don't put such timl)er in houses 
 now-a-<lays. The furniture was old-fashioned, strong, 
 and highly polished; the walls were hung withcoloar- 
 ed prints of the story of the Prodigal Son, wlio vas 
 represented in a red coat and leather breeches. Over 
 the flre-place was a blunderbuss, and a hard-favonr- 
 etl likeness of Ready-Money Jack, taken when he was 
 a young man, by the same artist that painted the ta- 
 vern sign ; his mother having taken a notion that the 
 Tibbets had as much right to have a gallery of familT 
 portraits as the folks at the Hall. 
 
 The good dame pressed us very much to take some 
 refreshment, and tempted us with a variety of house- 
 hold dainties, so that we were glad to compound bj 
 tasting some of her home-made wines. While we 
 were there, the son and heir-apparent came home; a 
 good-looking young fellow, and something of a rustle 
 beau. He took us over the premises, and showed as 
 the whole establishment. An air of homely but sub- 
 stantial plenty prevailed throughout ; every tiling was j 
 of the best materials, and in the best condition. No- 1 
 thing was out of place, or ill-made ; and you saw everj'- 
 where the signs of a man that took care to hare the | 
 worth of his money, and that paid as he went. 
 
 The farm-yard was well stocked ; under a shed | 
 was a taxed cart, in trim order, in which Readj- 
 Money Jack took his wife about the country. His I 
 well-fed horse neigiied from the stable, and when led I 
 out into the yard, to use the words of young Jack,! 
 " he shone like a bottle ; " for he said the old nun I 
 made it a rule that every thing about him should fan| 
 as well as he did himself. 
 
 I was pleased to see the pride which the yoanf I 
 fellow seemed to have of his father. He gave ns a;-! 
 veral particulars concerning his habits, which werej 
 pretty much to the effect of those I have already men-J 
 tioned. He had never suflered an account to stand gi| 
 his life, always providing the money before he purcbas-I 
 ed any thing; and , if possible, paying in gold and silver.f 
 He had a great dislike to paper money, and seldomj 
 went without a considerable sum in gold about liiiii.[ 
 On my observing that it was a wonder he had neva 
 been waylaid and robbed, the young fellow smiled i 
 the idea of any one venturing upon such an exploa,| 
 for I believe he thinks the old man would be a man 
 for Robin Hood and all his gang. 
 
 I have noticed that Master Simon seldom goesintt 
 any house without having a world of private 
 with some one or other of the family, being a tindo 
 universal counsellor and confidant. We had not I 
 long at the farm, before the old dame got him into^ 
 corner of her parlour, where they bad a long, whi 
 pering conference together ; in which I saw by t 
 shrugs that there were some dubious matters discus 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 371 
 
 iver contradicts honnt 
 her own way, and to 
 Jhe received us in the 
 A of parlonr and liall, 
 imber across it, which 
 witti some exultation, 
 sucli timl)er in houses 
 18 old-fashioned, strong, 
 were hung withcolonr- 
 Prodigal Son, whovas 
 leallier breeches. Orer 
 uss, and a liard-favour- 
 ack, talienwhenhewas 
 rtisl Uiat painted the U- 
 jlalienanotionthatthe 
 have a gallery of latniW 
 
 lall. 
 
 I very much to take some 
 s with a variety of house- 
 re glad to compound by 
 made wines. While we 
 [•-apparent came liome;a 
 and something of a rustic 
 premises, and showed us 
 \n air of homely but sub- 
 •oughout; every thing was 
 n the best condition. No- 
 -made-,andyousaweverj- 
 Ihat took care to have the 
 lat paid as he went. 
 ill stocked ; under a shed 
 1 order, in which Ready- 
 about the country. His 
 ..the stable, and when led 
 ihe words of young Jack, 
 for he said the old nun 
 hing about him should fare 
 
 e pride which the young 
 MS father. He gave us se- 
 •r his habits, which were 
 Uhose I have already men- 
 ered an account to stand ffl] 
 money before he purchas- 
 , paying in gold and silver. 
 
 paper money 
 
 n 
 
 and seldoml 
 lie" sum in gold about him. 
 as a wonder he had nevet] 
 [the young fellow smiled 
 Ling upon such an exploil, 
 I old man would be a mat 
 
 ^ gang. 
 
 Iter Simon seldom goes IB 
 
 L a world of private U) 
 the family, being »W 
 
 ionfidant. We had not to 
 le old dame got bim into 
 
 lerctheybadalong,«r 
 
 Er; in which I saw by 
 
 I dubious matters 
 
 ed and by his nods that he agreed with every thing 
 gbesaid. 
 
 After we had come out, the young man accom- 
 panied us a little distance, and then, drawing Master 
 Simon aside into a green lane, they walked and talked 
 tofrelher for nearly half an hour. Master Simon, 
 vho lias the usual propensity of confidants to blab 
 every thing to the next friend they meet with, let me 
 know that there was a love affair in question ; the 
 voung fellow having been smitten with the charms 
 of Plurbe Wilkins, the pretty niece of the housekeeper 
 at the Hall. Like most other love concerns it had 
 |)fOught its troubles and perplexities. Dame Tibbets 
 liad long been on intimate, gossiping terms with the 
 housekeeper, who often visited tlie farm-house; but 
 when (he neighbours spoke lo her of the likelihood of 
 a match between her son and Phoebe Wilkins, 
 "Marry come up ! " she scouted the very idea. The 
 I girl had acted as lady's maid, and it was beneath the 
 blood of the Tibbets, who had lived on their own 
 lands time out of mind, and owed reverence and 
 thanks to nobody, to have the heir-apparent marry a 
 I servant ! 
 
 These vapourings had faithfully been carried to the 
 I liousekeeper's ear, by one of their mutual go-between 
 {friends. The old housekeeper's blood, if not as an- 
 Icient, was as quick as that of Dame Tibbets. 
 
 She had been accustomed to carry a high head at 
 I the Hall, and among the villagers; and her faded 
 I brocade rustled with indignation at the slight cast 
 lupon her alliance by the wife of a petty farmer. She 
 Imaintained that her niece had been a companion 
 Iratlier than a wailing-maid to the young ladies. 
 ["Thank heavens, she was not obliged to work for her 
 living, and was as idle as any young lady in the land; 
 1, when somebody died, would receive something 
 It would be worth the notice of some folks with all 
 ^heir ready-money." 
 A bitter feud had thus taken place between the two 
 rorthy dames, and the young people were forbidden 
 think of one another. As to young Jack, he was 
 much in love to reason upon the matter; and 
 ig a little heady, and not standing in much awe 
 if his mother, was ready to sacriflce the whole dignity 
 if llie Tibbets to his passion. He had lately, how- 
 jver, had a violent quarrel with his mistress, incon- 
 lence of some coquetry on her part, and at pre- 
 ent stood aloof. The politic mother was exerting 
 I her ingenuity to widen this accidental breach; but, 
 is most commonly the case, the more she meddled 
 rith this perverse inclination of her son, the stronger 
 grew. In the mean time old Ready-Money was 
 ept completely in the dark ; both parties were in awe 
 uncertainly as to what might be his way of tak- 
 : the matter, and dreaded lo awaken the sleeping 
 m. Between father and son, therefore, the worthy 
 frs Tibbets was full of business and at her wits' end. 
 is true there was no great danger of honest Ready- 
 honey's finding the thing out, if left to himself; for 
 was of a most unsuspicious temper, and by no 
 
 means quick of apprehension; but there was daily 
 risk of his attention being aroused by those cobwebs 
 which his indefatigable wife was continually spinning 
 about his nose. 
 
 Such is the distracted state of politics in the domes- 
 tic empire of Ready-Money Jack ; which only shows 
 the intrigues and internal dangers to which the l)e8t 
 regulated governments are liable. In this perplexed 
 situation of their affairs, both mother and son have 
 applied to Master Simon for counsel; and, with all 
 his experience in meddling with other people's con- 
 cerns, he Gnds it an exceedingly diflicult part to play, 
 to agree with both parties, seeing that their opinions 
 and wishes are so diametrically opposite. 
 
 HORSEMANSHIP. 
 
 •»•;•« 
 ■.i^. 
 
 A coacli was a strange monster in those days, and the sight of 
 one put both horse and man into amazement. Some said it was 
 a great crabsheil brought out of Cliina, and some imagined it to 
 be one of the pagan temples, in which Ihe caimibals adored the 
 
 divelL TiVLOH, TUB WiTEB POST. 
 
 I HAVE made casual mention, more than once, of 
 one of the squire's antiquated retainers, old Christy 
 the huntsman. I find that his crabbed humour is a 
 source of much entertainment among the young men 
 of the family; tlie Oxonian, particularly, takes a mis- 
 chievous pleasure now and then in slyly rubbing the 
 old man against the grain, and then smoothing him 
 down again; for the old fellow is as ready to bristle 
 up his back as a porcupuie. He rides a venerable 
 hunter called Pepper, which is a counterpart of him- 
 self, a heady, cross-grained animal, that frets the 
 flesh off its bones; bites, kicks, and plays all manner 
 of villanous tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old 
 as his rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, 
 and is, indeed, the only one that can do any thing 
 with him. Sometimes, however, they have a com- 
 plete quarrel, and a dispute for mastery, and then, 
 I am told, it is as good as a farce to see the heat they 
 both get into, and the wrongheaded contest that en- 
 sues ; for they are quite knowing in each other's ways 
 and in the art of teasing and fretting each other. 
 Notwithstanding these doughty brawls, however, 
 there is nothing that nettles old Christy sooner than 
 to question the merits of his horse; which he upholds 
 as tenaciously as a faithful husband will vindicate the 
 virtues of the termagant spouse, that gives him a cur- 
 tain-lecture every night of his life. 
 
 The young men call old Cluisty their " professor 
 of equitation," and in accounting for the appellation, 
 they let me into some particulars of the squire's mode 
 of bringing up his children. There is an odd mixture 
 of eccentricity and good sense in all the opinions of 
 my worthy host. His mind is like modern Gothic, 
 where plain brickwork is set off with pointed arches 
 and quaint tracery. Though the main ground-work 
 
.i7a 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ofhuopiniuiis is currevt, yet he lias a thousand little 
 notions, picked up from old books, which stand out 
 whimsically on the surface of his mind. 
 
 Thus, in educatin;; his boys, he chose Peachem, 
 Markham, and such old English writers, for his ma- 
 nuals. At an early a;^ he took the lads out of their 
 mother's hands, who was disposed, as mothers are 
 apt to be, to make flne, orderly children of them, 
 that should keep out of sun and rain, and never soil 
 their hands, nnr tear their clothes. 
 
 In place of this, the squire turned them loose to run 
 free and wild about the park, without heeding wind 
 or weather. He was also particularly attentive in 
 making them bold and expert horsemen ; and these 
 were the days when old Christy, the huntsman, en- 
 joyed great importance, as the lads were put under 
 his care to practise them at llie leaping-bars, and to 
 keep an eye upon them in the chase. 
 
 The squire always objected to their using carriages 
 of any kind, and is still a little tenacious on this poiiit. 
 He often rails against the universal use of carriages, 
 and quotes the words of honest Nashe to that effect. 
 " It was thought," says Nashe, in his Qiinternio, " a 
 kind of solecism, and to savour of effeminacy, for a 
 young gentleman in the flourishing time of his age, to 
 creep into a coach, and to shroud himself from wind 
 and weather : our great delight was to out-brave the 
 blustering Boreas upon a great horse ; to arm and pre- 
 pare ourselves to go with Mars and Bellona into the 
 lield, was our sport and pastime ; coaches and caroches 
 we left unto them for whom they were fust invent- 
 ed, for ladies and gentlemen, and decrepit age and 
 impotent people." 
 
 The squire insists that the English gentlemen have 
 lost much of their hardiness and manhood since the 
 introiluction of carriages. " Compare," he will say, 
 " the fine gentleman of former times, ever on horse- 
 back, booted and spurred, and travel-stained, but 
 open, frank, manly, and chivalrous, with the line gen- 
 tleman of the present day, full of affectation and effe- 
 minacy, rolling along a turnpike in his voluptuous 
 vehicle. The young men of those days were render- 
 ed brfive, and lofty, and generous, in their notions, 
 by almost living in their saddles, and having their 
 foaming steeds ' like prouu seas under them.' There 
 is something," he adds, '' in bestriding a fine horse 
 that makes a man feel more than mortal. He seems 
 to have doubled his nature, and to have added to his 
 own courage and sagacity the power, the speed, and 
 stateliness of the superb animal on which he is 
 mounted." 
 
 " It is a great delight," says old Nashe, " to see a 
 young gentleman, with his skill and cuiming, by his 
 voice, rod andspur, better to manage and to command 
 the great Bucephalus, than the strongest Milo, with 
 all his strength ; one while to see him make him tread, 
 trot, and gallop the ring; and one after to see him 
 make him gatiier up roundly; to bear bis head 
 steadily; to run a full career swiftly; to stop a sudden 
 lightly; anon after to see him make him advance, to 
 
 yorke, to go back and sidelong, to turn on eithrr 
 liand ; to gallop the gallop galliard ; to do the caprioit. 
 the chambetta, and dance the curvetty." 
 
 In conformity to these ideas, the squire had tlim, 
 all on horseback at an early age, and made tliem ride, 
 slap-dash, aliout the country, without flinclijn;^ a; 
 hedge, or ditch, or stone wall, to the imminent dan- 
 ger of their necks. 
 
 Even the fair Julia was partially included in this 
 system; and, under the instructions of old Cliristr, 
 has iKTome one oflhebest horsewomen in the countv, 
 The s(]uirc says it is better than all the cosmetics aiitj 
 sweeteners of the breath that ever were inventoi. 
 He extols the } rsemanship of the ladies in former 
 times, when Queen Fiizabelh would scarcely suffer I 
 the rain to slop her accustomed ride. "And ihen 
 think," he will say, " what nobler and sweeter beinys j 
 it made them ! What a difference must there lie, 
 both in mind and body, between a joyous liii^li-spi- 
 riled dame of those days, glowing with heaitli and 
 exercise, freshened by every breeze that blows, 
 seated loftily and gracefully on her saddle, vilh 
 plume on head, and liawk on hand, and her descend- 
 ant of the present day, the pale victim of roiiis and | 
 ball-rooms, sunk languidly in one corner of an enervat- 
 ing carriage!" 
 
 The s(|uire's equestrian system has been attended I 
 with great success, for his sons, having passed tlirou<;bl 
 the whole coinsc of instruction without breakinfl 
 neck or limb, are now healthful, spirited, andaclive,r 
 and have the true Englishman's love for a horse. Ill 
 their manliness and frankness are praised in their la-[ 
 titer's hearing, he quotes the old Persian ninxim, and! 
 says, they have been taught " to ride, to sliuot, and| 
 to speak the truth." 
 
 It is true the Oxonian has now and then practis( 
 the old gentleman's doctrines a little in the extreinej 
 He is a gay youngster, rather fonder of his horse t 
 his book, with a little dash of the dandy; tiiough I 
 ladies all declare that he is " the flower of the Hock." 
 The first year that he was sent to Oxford, he hadi 
 tutor appointed to overlook him, a dry cliipof theunij 
 versity. When he returned home in the vacatioi 
 the squire made many inquiries about how he like^ 
 his college, his studies, and his tutor. 
 
 "Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I've parted with 
 some time since." 
 
 " You have ; and, pray, why so?" 
 ^ " Oh, sir, hunting was all the go at our coliej 
 and I was a little short of funds ; so I discharged i 
 tutor, and took ahorse, you know." 
 
 "Ah, Iwasnotawareofthat, Tom," said the squiit 
 mildly. 
 
 When Tom returned to college his allowance n 
 doubled, that he might be enabled to keep bothboi 
 and tutor. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 573 
 
 long, to turn on eiihfr 
 Uiard ; to do the eapnolt, 
 le curvetty." 
 >as, the squire had thfin 
 age, and made them ridt, 
 ry, williout flincliin^ ai 
 all, to the imminent Osn- 
 
 partially inchidcd in lliij 
 strtictions of old CIIhLsIjt, 
 orsewomen in the counly, 
 Ihan all the cosmelics aiid 
 that ever were iiiveiiletl. 
 p of the ladies in former 
 t'lh would scarcely suffer 
 lomed ride. "Ami then 
 nobler and sweeter bcinjs 
 difference must there lie, 
 jtween a joyous liisli-spi- 
 glowing with health and 
 •very breeze that blows, 
 iilly on her saddle, wilh 
 on hand, and her descend- 
 lie pale victim of routs and 
 in one corner of an cnerral- 
 
 I system has been attended I 
 sons, having passed through I 
 ilrurlion without hreakingl 
 allhful, spirited, andactivtj 
 iiinau's love for a horse. Ill 
 ness are praised in their b-l 
 the old Persian maxim, and! 
 ;ht " to ride, to shoot, audi 
 
 las now and then practiscdl 
 ■ines a little in the exlrenie.| 
 ler fonder of his horse til 
 h of the dandy ;tiious;hth 
 
 "the flower of the Hook.' 
 IS sent to Oxford, lie had i 
 khim, a dry chip of the I 
 ned home in the vacatiw 
 iquiries about how he likei 
 id his tutor, 
 
 sir, I've parted with 
 
 , why so?" 
 
 s all the go at our eollei 
 
 f funds J so I discharged I 
 
 ou know." 
 
 f that, Tom," saidlliesquir 
 
 to college his allowances 
 enabled to keep both hM 
 
 LOVE-SYMFfOMS. 
 
 I «IU tiow begin to iIkIi. read |wcU, look pale, go neaUy, and be 
 I luott ipiKiri'iilly 111 love. Habstun. 
 
 I siioixn not lie surprised if we should liave an- 
 lullier pair of turtles at the Hall, for Master Simon has 
 linforine«l me, in great conlidence, that he suspects 
 |liiei;eiieral of some design upon the snsceplililc heart 
 lofLady Lillycrafl. I have, indeed, noticed a grow- 
 Ijiii; attention and courtesy in the veteran towards her 
 lladysliip; he softens very much in her company, sits 
 Iby her at table, and entertains her with hiiig .stories 
 |ai)oul Seringapatam, and pleasant anecdotes of the 
 iMulligatawiiey club. I have even seen him present 
 llier with a full-blown rose from the hothouse, in a 
 Istyieof the most captivating gallantry, and it was ac- 
 tpied with great suavity and graciousress; lor her 
 ladyship delights in receiving the homage and atlen- 
 Itionoftliejicx. 
 
 Indeed, the general was one of the earliest ndnii- 
 Irers that daiig!e<l in her train during her short reign 
 cflwaiily; and they llirled together for half a season 
 Ijn Lomloii, some thirty or forty years since. She re- 
 Iminded him lately, in the course of a conversation 
 ilwut former days, of the lime when he used to ride 
 I white horse, and to canter so gallantly by the side 
 of her carriage in Hyde Park; whereupon I have re- 
 narked that the veteran has regularly escorted her 
 lince, T.-lien she rides out on horseback; and, I siis- 
 lecl, ho almost persuades himself that he makes as 
 |caplivaliiig an appearance as in his youthful days. 
 
 It would he an interesting and memorable circum- 
 
 ktance in the chronicles of Cupid, if this spark of the 
 
 ender passion, after lying dormant for such a length 
 
 bf time, should again be fanned into a flame, from 
 
 ^midsl tlie ashes of two burnt out hearls. It would 
 
 ; an instance of perdurable fidelity, worthy of being 
 
 blaced lieside those recorded in one of the scpiire's fa- 
 
 jrourite tomes, commemorating the constancy of the 
 
 |)ldentime^ : in which times, we are told, " ftlen and 
 
 ffvinmen coulde love togyders seven yeres, ami no 
 
 tcours liistcs were belwene them, and Ihenne was 
 
 ^e, Iroulhe and feyllifulnes ; and lo in like wyse was 
 
 *d love in Kyng Arthur's dayes." ■ 
 
 Still, however, this may be nothing but a little ve- 
 
 kerable flirtation, the general being a veteran dangler, 
 
 Ind the good lady hahitualed to these kind of alten- 
 
 fons. Master Simon, on the other band, thinks the 
 
 eiieral is looking about him with the wary eye of an 
 
 lid campaigner; and now that be is on the wane, is 
 
 |esirous of getting into warm winter quarters. 
 
 Muchallowance, however, must be made for Master 
 Jimon's uneasiness on the subject, for he looks on 
 ^dy Lillycrafl's house as one of the strong holds, 
 ^here he is lord of the ascendant ; and, with all his 
 iliniration of the general, I much doubt whether he 
 
 • Mort d'Arthur. 
 
 wouKI like to see hini lurtl of the lady and the enla- 
 blishment. 
 
 There are certain other symptoms, notwithstand- 
 ing, that give an air of prol)abilily to Master Simon's 
 intimations. Thus, for instance, I have observeti 
 that the general has lieen very assiduous in his atten- 
 tions to her lailyship's dogs, and has several times ex- 
 |M)sed his lingers to imminent jeopardy, in attempting 
 lo pat Beauty on the head. It is lo be hoped his ad- 
 vances to the mistress will be more favourably receiv- 
 ed, as all his overtures towards a caress are greeted 
 by the pestilent little cur with a wary kindling of the 
 eye, and a most venomous growl. 
 
 He has, moreover, been very complaisant towards 
 my lady's gentlewoman, the immaculate Mrs Hannah, 
 whom he used to speak of in a way that I do not 
 choose to mention. Whether she has the same sus- 
 picions with Muster Simon or not, I cannot say ; but 
 she receives his civilities with no better grace than 
 the implacable Beauty ; unscrewing her mouth into a 
 most acid smile, and looking as though she couhl bite 
 a piece out of him. In short, the |H)or general seems 
 to have as formidable foes to contend with as a hero 
 of ancient fairy tale; who had to light his way to his 
 enchanted [irincess through ferocious monsters of 
 every kind, and lo encounter the brimstone terrors of 
 some liery dragon. 
 
 There is still another circumstance which inclines 
 me to give very considerable credit to Master Simon's 
 suspicions. Lady Lillycraft is very fond of (luoting 
 poetry, and the conversation often turns uiNin it, on 
 which occasions the general is thrown completely out. 
 It happened the other day that Spenser's Fairy Queen 
 was the theme for the great part of the morning, and 
 the poor general sat perfectly silent. I found liim not 
 long after in the library, with spectacles on nose, a 
 book in his hand, and fast asleep. On my approach 
 he awoke, slipt the spectacles into his pocket, and 
 began to read very attentively. After a little while 
 he put a paper in llie place, and laid the volume aside, 
 which I perceived was the Fairy Queen. I have had 
 the curiosity to watch how he got on in his poetical 
 studies; but, though I have repeatedly seen him with 
 the book in his hand, yet I lind the paper has not ad- 
 vanced above three or four pages ; the general being 
 extremely apt to fall asleep when he reads. 
 
 FALCONRY. 
 
 Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch, 
 Whether high low'ring or accousling low, 
 
 But I llic measure of tier fliglit doc search, 
 And alt her prey and all her diet know. 
 
 SprNSBB. 
 
 There are several grand sources of lamentation 
 furnished to the worthy squire, by the improvement 
 of society, and the grievous advancement of know- 
 ledge ; among which there is none, I believe, that 
 
374 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 " according to 
 
 causes him more frequent regret than the unfortunate 
 invention of gunpowder. To this he continually traces 
 the decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed, the 
 general downfall of all chivalrous and romantic usages. 
 " English soldiers," he says, " have never been the 
 men they were in the days of the cross-bow and the 
 long-bow; when they depended upon the strength of 
 the arm, and the English archer could draw a cloth- 
 yard shaft to the head. These were the times when 
 at the battles of Gressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt, the 
 French chivalry was completely destroyed by the 
 bowmen of England. The yeomanry, too, have never 
 been what they were, when, in times of peace, they 
 were constantly exercised with the bow, and archery 
 was a favourite holiday pastime." 
 
 Among the other evils which have followed in the 
 train of this fatal invention of gunpowder, the squire 
 classes the total decline of the noble art of falconry. 
 '' Shooting," he says, " is a skulking, treacherous, 
 solitary sport in comparison; but hawking was a gal- 
 lant, open, sunshiny recreation; it was the generous 
 sport of hunting carried into the skies." 
 
 " It was, moreover, " he says 
 Braithewate, the stately amusement of ' high and 
 mounting spirits ; ' for, as the old Welsh proverb af- 
 firms, in those times ' You might know a gentleman by 
 his hawk, horse, and greyhound.' Indeed, a cavalier 
 was seldom seen abroad without his hawk on his fist ; 
 and even a lady of rank did not think herself com- 
 pletely equipped, in riding forth, unless she had her 
 tassel-gentel held by jesses on her delicate hand. It 
 was thought in those excellent days, according to an 
 old writer, < quite suflicient for noblemen to winde 
 their horn, and to carry their hawke fair; and leave 
 study and learning to the children of mean people.' " 
 
 Knowing the good squire's hobby, therefore, I have 
 not been surprised at finding that, among the various 
 recreations of former times which he has endeavoured 
 to revive in the little world in which be rules, he has 
 bestowed great attention on the noble art of falconry. 
 In this he, of course, has been seconded by his inde- 
 fatigable coadjutor. Master Simon; and even the parson 
 has thrown considerable light on their labours, by 
 various hints on the subject, which he has met with 
 in old English works. As to the precious work of 
 that famous dame Juliana Barnes; the Gentleman's 
 Academic, by Markhnm ; and the other well-known 
 treatises that were the manuals of ancient sportsmen, 
 they have them at their fingers' ends ; but they have 
 more especially studied some old tapestry in the 
 house, whereon is represented a parly of cavaliers 
 and stalely dames, witit doublets, caps, and flaunting 
 feathers, mounted on horse with attendants on fool, 
 all in animated pursuit of the game. 
 
 The squire has discountenanced the killing of any 
 hawks in his neighbourhooil, but gives a liberal bounty 
 for all that are brought him alive; so that the Hall is 
 well stocked with all kinds of birds of prey. On these 
 he and Master Simon have exhausted their patience 
 and ingenuity, enUcavouriiig to '* reclaim" them, as 
 
 it is termed, and to train them up for the sport; bui 
 they have met with continual checks and disappoint. 
 ments. Their feathered school has turned uutthel 
 most untractable and graceless scholars; nor is it the I 
 least of their trouble to drill the retainers who were to I 
 act as ushers under them, and to take immediate I 
 charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy audi 
 the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces against I 
 the whole plan of education; Christy having been I 
 nettled at hearing what he terms a wild-goose eiiase I 
 put on a par with a fox-hunt; and the gamekeeper! 
 having always been accustomed to »ook upon jiaftiil 
 as arrant |)oacheis, wuich it way his duly to sbootl 
 down, and nail, in Urrorem, against the out-houses, [ 
 
 Christy has at length taken the matter in liandj 
 but has done still more mischief by his intermeddling.l 
 lie is us positive and wrong-headed alwut this, ashel 
 is about hunting. Master Simon has continual dis-l 
 pules with him as to feeding and training the liawksJ 
 He reads to him long passages from the old autliorsij 
 have mentioned ; but Christy, who cannot read, hai| 
 a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, andl 
 persists in treating the hawks according to his ovbI 
 notions, which are drawn from his experience, IdI 
 younger days, in the rearing of game-cocks. 
 
 The consequence is, that, between these jarrin J 
 systems, the poor birds have had a most trying aiKJl 
 unhappy time of it. Many have fallen victims tol 
 Christy's feeding and Master Simon's physicking; rwl 
 the latter has gone to work secundum artem, andliail 
 given them all the vomitings and scourings laiddovnl 
 in the books ; never were poor hawks so fed andpli)[ 
 sicked before. Others have been lost by being lill 
 half" reclaimed, " or tamed : for on being taken into 
 the field, they have " raked" after the game quitij 
 out of hearing of the call, and never returned I 
 school. 
 
 All these disappointments had been petty, yetsi 
 grievances to the squire, and had made liim to dei 
 pond about success. He has lately, however, 
 made happy by the receipt of a fine Welsh falo 
 which Master Simon terms a stately highflyer. Hi 
 a present from the squire's friend, Sir VValkyn Wil- 
 liams Wynn; and is, no doubt, a descendant of soni 
 ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that have iooj 
 lorded it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wyniista]j 
 to the very summit of Snowden, or ihe brow ofPeoj 
 manmawr. 
 
 Ever since the squire received this invaluable]; 
 sent, he has been as impatient to sally forth and lit 
 proof of it, as was Don Quixote to assay his suit of ai 
 mour. There have been some demurs as to wliell 
 the bird was in proper health and training; but tit 
 have been over-ruled by the vehement desire to M 
 with a new toy ; and it has been determined, right* 
 wrong, in season or out of season, to have a dajj 
 sport in hawking to-morrow. 
 
 The Hall, as usual, whenever the squire is aLoutl 
 make some new sally on his hobby, is all agog wil| 
 the thing. Miss Templeton, who is brought up in r 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 575 
 
 n up for the sport; but 
 i checks and disappoint- 
 lool has turned oui \k 
 ss scholars; norisittlie 
 lie retainers who wereio 
 and to take immediate 
 jirds. Old Christy and 
 ne, set their faces against 
 n; Christy having l)een 
 terms a wild-goose chase 
 ml; and the gamekeepei 
 imed to lOok upon liawki 
 it waa his duty to slwol 
 1, against the out-houses, 
 ken the matter in liand, 
 hief by his intermeddling. 
 -headed alwut this, as be 
 Simon has continual dis- 
 g and training the hawks, 
 i^es from the old authors I 
 isty , who cannot read, has 
 all book-knowledge, and 
 vks according to his own 
 1 from his experience, in 
 rtg of game-cocks, 
 iiat, between these jarring 
 ive had a most tiding and 
 iny have fallen victims loj 
 iter Simon's physicking;foti 
 •k secundum artem, and ha! 
 i"s and scourings laiddop 
 ^or hawks so fed and phy- 
 ave been lost by being but 
 for on being taken in 
 ked" after the game qui 
 1. and never returned 
 
 [Its had been petty, yeti 
 and had made him to 
 las lately, however, 
 lit of a line Welsh falc 
 „ a stately highflyer. M 
 s friend, Sir VVatkynffl 
 Joubt, a descendant of son 
 ces of the air, that have lot 
 ni of clouds, from WymislaJ 
 iwden, or the brow of Pm 
 
 Iverence for all her guardian's humours, has proposed to 
 
 be of the party, and Lady Lillycraft has talked also of 
 
 Ljjngoul to the scene of action and looking en. This 
 
 has gratified the old gentleman extremely ; he hails 
 
 iias an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry, 
 
 ind does not despair but the time will come when 
 
 it will be again tlie pride of a line lady to carry 
 
 ibout a noble falcon in preference to a parrot or a 
 
 I have amused myself with the bustling prepara- 
 tions of that busj :pir!t, Master Simon, and the con- 
 inual thwartings he receives from tha' genuine son 
 ,, a pepper-box, old Christy. They have had half a 
 I'ozen consultations about how the hawk is to be pre- 
 irwl for the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, 
 js always got in a pet, upon which Master Simon 
 las invariably given up the point, observing in a good- 
 inmoured tone, " Well, well, have it your own way, 
 
 iristy ; only don't put yourself in a passion ; " a re- 
 ly which always nettles the old man ten times more 
 
 in ever. 
 
 IS 
 
 eceived this invaluable p 
 
 lient to sally forth and m 
 
 nxote to assay bis suit oti 
 
 some demurs as to wlietli 
 
 nlthandtraHiing;butilie 
 
 Ihe vehement desire to iJi 
 
 Is been determined, righli 
 
 lof season, to have a ^i 
 
 pw. . , 
 
 Wever the squire is about ' 
 
 [his hobby, is a" agog/" 
 Ion, who is brought up in r 
 
 HAWKING. 
 
 Tlie soarins hawk, from fist that (lies, 
 
 Her falconer dolli constrain 
 Sometimes to ransc the ground about 
 
 To flndher out again; 
 And it by sight, or sound of bell, 
 
 Hisfalconhemay sec, 
 Wo ho ! he cries, with clieerful voice— 
 
 The gladdest man is he. 
 
 HANDEFULL op PLEiSANT DELITES. 
 
 Iat an early hour this morning the Hall was in a 
 W, preparing for the sport of the day. I heard 
 jster Simon whistling and singing under my window 
 [sunrise, as he was preparing the jesses for the 
 |wk's legs, and could distinguish now and then a 
 1 of one of his favourite old ditties : 
 
 "Inpcascod lime, when hound to horn 
 
 Gives note that buck be kiU'd ; 
 And little boy with pipe of com 
 
 Is tending sheep a-ficid," etc. 
 
 I hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was 
 ked up in the great hall. The whole garrison of 
 jainers and hangers-on were in motion, reinforced 
 (volunteer idlers from the village. The horses were 
 1 up and down before the door ; every body had 
 lelhing to say, and something to do, and hurried 
 lier and thither; there was a direful yelping of 
 ts; some that were to accompany us being eager 
 jet off, and others that were to stay at home being 
 Ipped back to their kennels. In short, for once, 
 I good squire's mansion might have been taken as 
 1 specimen ofoneof the rantipole establishments 
 he good old feudal times. 
 
 pakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall 
 Itared to take the fleld. The fair Julia was of the 
 
 party, in a hunting-dress, with a light plame of fea- 
 thers in her riding-hat. As she mounted her favour- 
 ite galloway, I remarked, with pleasure, that old 
 Christy forgot his usual crustiness, and hastened to 
 adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched his cap as 
 she smiled on him and (hanked him ; and then, look- 
 ing round at the other attendants, gave a knowing nod 
 of his head, in which I read pride and exultation at 
 the charming appearance of his pupil. 
 
 Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness 
 the sport. She was dressed in her broad white bea- 
 ver, tied under the chin, and a riding-habit of the last 
 century. She rode iicr sleek, ambling pony, whose 
 motion was as easy as a rocking-chair ; and was gal- 
 lantly escorted by the general, who looked not un- 
 like one of the doughty heroes in the old prints of the 
 battle of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, accompa- 
 nied her on the other side ; for this was a learned 
 amusement in which he took great interest ; and, in- 
 deed, had given much counsel, from his knowledge of 
 old customs. 
 
 At length every thing was arranged, and off we set 
 from the Hall. The exercise on horseback puts one 
 in fine spirits ; and the scene was gay and animating. 
 The young men of the family accompanied Miss 
 Templeton. She sat lightly and gracefully in her 
 saddle, her plumes dancing and waving in the air; 
 and the group had a charming effect as they appeared 
 and disappeared among the trees, cantering along, 
 with the bounding animation of youth. The squire 
 and Master Simon rode together, accompanied by old 
 Christy, mounted on Pepper. The latter bore the 
 hawk on his fist, as he insisted the bird was most ac- 
 customed to him. There was a rabble rout on foot, 
 composed of retainers from the Hall, and some idlers 
 from the village, with two or three spaniels, for the 
 purpose of starting the game. 
 
 A kind of corps tie rHerve came on quietly in the 
 rear, comnosed of Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, 
 the parfion, and a fat footman. Her ladyship ambled 
 gently along on her pony, while the general, mount- 
 ed on a tall hunter, looked down upon her with an 
 air of the most protecting gallantry. 
 
 For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this 
 last party, or rather lagged behind, that I might take 
 in the whole picture; and the parson occasionally 
 slackened his pace and jogged on in company with me. 
 The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in 
 a soft meadow reeking with the moist verdure of 
 spring. A little river ran through it, Itordered by 
 willows, which had put forth their tender early fo- 
 liage. The sportsmen were in quest of herons which 
 were said to keep about this stream. 
 
 There was some disputing, already, among the 
 leaders of the sport. The squire. Master Simon, and 
 old Christy, came every now and then to a pause, to 
 consult together, like the field officers in an army ; 
 and I saw, by certain motions of the head, that Chris- 
 ty was as positive as any old wrong-headed German 
 commander. 
 
 
376 
 
 BKACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 I''' 
 
 in a: 
 
 
 As we were prancing up this quiet meadow, every 
 sound we made was answered by a distinct eclio, from 
 th6 sunny-wall of an old building, that lay on the op- 
 posite margin of the stream , and I paused to listen to 
 this " spirit of a sound," which seems to love such 
 quiet and beautiful places. The parson informed me 
 that this was the ruin of an ancient grange, and was 
 supposed, by the country people, to be haunted by a 
 dobbie, a kind of rural sprite, something like Kobin- 
 good-fellow. They often fancied the echo to be the 
 voice of the dobbie answering them, and were rather 
 shy of disturbing it after dark. He added, that the 
 squire was very careful of this ruin, on account of the 
 superstition connected wilii it. As I considered this 
 local habitation of an "airy nothing," I called to mind 
 the fine description of an echo in Webster's Ducliess 
 of Malfy : 
 
 " 'Yond side o" th' river lies a wall, 
 
 Piece of a cloister, which in my opinion 
 Gives llie best echo that you have ever heard ; 
 So plain in the distinction of our words, 
 That many hove sup^rased it a spirit 
 That answers." 
 
 The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and 
 fanciful appellation which the Jews of old gave to the 
 echo, which they called Balh-kool, that is (o say, 
 " the daughter of the voice;" they considered it an 
 oracle, supplying in the second temple the want of the 
 tu'ini and thuinmin, with wiiicli the first was honour- 
 ed '. Tiie little man was just entering very largely 
 and learnedly upon the subject, when we were star- 
 tled by a prodigious bawling, shouting, and yelping. 
 A flight of crows, alarmed by the approach of our 
 forces, had suddenly risen from a meadow; a cry was 
 put up by the rabble rout on foot, "^'ow, Christy ! 
 now is your time, Christy I " The squire and Master 
 Simon, who were beating up the river banks in quest 
 of a heron, called out eagerly to Christy to keep quiet; 
 the old man, vexed and bewildered by the confusion 
 of voices, completely lost his head : in his Hurry he 
 slipped olT the hood, cast off the falcon, and away 
 (lew the crows, and away soared the haw k. 
 
 I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lil- 
 lycraft and her escort, from whence I had a good 
 view of the sport. I was pleased with the appearance 
 of the party in the meadow, riding along in the di- 
 rection that the bird (lew; their bright beaming faces 
 turned up to the bright skies as they watched the 
 game; the attendants on foot scampering along, look- 
 ing up, and calling out, and the dugs bounding and 
 yelping with clamorous sympathy. 
 
 The hawk had singled out a quarry from among 
 the carrion crew. Il was curious to see the efforts 
 of the two birds to get above each other; one to make 
 the fatal swoop, the other to avoid it. Now they 
 crossed athwart a bright feathery cloud, and now 
 they were against the clear blue sky. I confess, being 
 no sportsman, I was more interested for the poor bird 
 that was striving for its life, than for the liawk that 
 ■ Bekker'i Monde enchants. 
 
 was playing the part of a mercenary soldier. j\t 
 lengtli the hawk got the upper hand, and made a 
 rushing stoop at her quarry, but the latter made a 
 sudden a siu'ge downwards, and slanting up a^ain 
 evaded the blow, screaming and making the best of 
 his way for a dry tree on the brow of a neiglibourjoj 
 hill; while the hawk, disappointed of her blow, soar. 
 ed up again into the air, and appeared to be " rai;. 
 ing " off. It was in vain old Christy called, and 
 whistled, and endeavoured to lure her down- she 
 paid no regard to him; and, indeed, his calls vrere 
 drown in the shouts and yelps of the army of mjijij, 
 that had followed him into the field. 
 
 Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillyciart inadel 
 me turn my head. I beheld a complete confusioi 
 among the sportsmen in the little vale below iis] 
 They were galloping and running towards Iheedi 
 of a bank ; and I was shocked to see R*iss Templeion' 
 horse galloping at large without his rider. I rode 
 the place to which the others were hurrying, ai 
 when I reached the bank, which almost overliiin" 
 stream, I saw at the fool of it, the fair Julia, mIi 
 bleeding, and apparently lifeless, supported in 
 arms of her frantic lover. 
 
 In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes tiirm 
 upward, she had imwarily approached too nearlli 
 hank ; it had given way with her, and she and li 
 horse had been precipitated to the pebbled margin 
 the river. 
 
 I never saw greater consternation. The capiai 
 was distracted ; Lady Lillycraft faulting: the squii 
 in dismay, and Master Simon at his wits' end. Tl 
 beautiful creature at length showed signs of relui 
 ing life; she opened her eyes; looked mound iii 
 upon the anxious group, and comprehending in a 
 ment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet sniili 
 and putting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed feeiii] 
 " I am not nuich hurt, Guy ! " I could have laiii 
 her to my heart for that single exclamation. 
 
 It was found, indeed, that she had escaped a! 
 miraculously, with a contusion of the head, aspraii 
 ankle, and some slight bruises. After iter woni 
 was stanched, she was taken to a neighbouring 
 tage, until a carriage could be summoned to cuiiri 
 her home; and when this had arrived, theeavaicai 
 which had issued forth so gaily on this c>:tei'pri 
 returned slowly and pensively to the Hall. 
 
 I had been charmed by the generous spirit 
 by this young creature, who, amidst pain and danj 
 had been anxious only to relieve the dislre.>is oft 
 around her. I was gratified, therefore, by the 
 versal concern displayed by the domestics on our 
 turn. They o?me crowding down the aveiuie, 
 eager to render assistance. The butler stood 
 with some curiously delicate cordial; the old lioi 
 keeper was provided with half a dozen noslri 
 prepared by her own hands, accoKling to the fai 
 receipt-ljook ; while her niece, the melting Pin 
 having no other way of assisting, stood wringing 
 hands, and weeping aloud. 
 
 Tli( 
 
 this a( 
 
 were( 
 
 patieni 
 
 not oti 
 
 me a I 
 
 here as 
 
 enteria 
 
 Tear 
 
 quite d 
 
 ingexp 
 
 Iiis eidfl 
 
 very ws 
 
 Simon f( 
 
 llie falco 
 
 lia's disa 
 
 nodoubl 
 
 lliehospi 
 
 and may 
 
 ! pluming 
 
 Wynnsta 
 
 o,tl 
 Or if 
 Tow 
 And, 
 That 
 Wliei 
 SIrivi 
 
 The con 
 curious tu 
 wypreval 
 'le present 
 Hark. It< 
 any one ' 
 fe, for th 
 'clock at n 
 ides oft 
 iirseofth 
 fir iisual 
 Dismal 
 I it was 
 ike the 
 II' one inst 
 tended to 
 oltjeetof 
 raused 
 k her he 
 
 as 
 
 IT( 
 
 leaih-war 
 a sick pers( 
 "liere was 
 |a sullen, ni 
 
 *'>j?ils, am 
 
 I when, 
 
 shortly a 
 in a cold II: 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ?>77 
 
 mercenary soldier. All 
 
 »per hand, and made a I 
 
 but the latter made ail 
 
 5, and slanlmpupagainl 
 
 and makhig the best otl 
 
 B brow of a neighbouring! 
 
 winled of her blow, soar-f 
 
 il appeared to be "rak-l 
 
 old Clirisly called, audi 
 
 I to lure her down; she! 
 
 I, indeed, his calls \fe«l 
 
 ;lps of the army of miliiij| 
 
 the field. 
 
 from Lady Lillycraft tnadel 
 leld a complete coiifusionf 
 the little >ale below ii$,| 
 running towards the edgi 
 ted to see »*iss Templeton'tl 
 ithout his rider. 1 rodeti 
 thers were hurrying, an 
 which almost overhung U 
 >l of it, the fair Julia, jBlej 
 f lifeless, supported in I 
 
 along, with her eyes tiirnd 
 ly approached loo near llij 
 with her, and she and hej 
 ted to the pebbled margin (I 
 
 consternation. The caplaJ 
 
 illycrafl fainting: the squiif 
 
 imon at his wit^' end. Tlij 
 
 trib showed signs of relurr 
 
 1- eyes; looked around liJ 
 
 and comprehending in a nJ 
 
 scene, gave a sweet sniiM 
 
 ler lover's, exclaimed feeliil 
 
 P»y 
 
 I" I could havetaW 
 
 single exclamation. 
 
 that she had escaped all 
 llusionofthehead,aspraii 
 
 bruises. After her woui 
 iaken to a neighbouring 
 Iildbe summoned toconfl 
 lis had arrived, the cavaieat 
 1 so gaily on this e.!terpri 
 
 Isively to the Hall. 
 
 ty the generous spirit slioi 
 
 Lho, amidst pain and dan?( 
 
 [o relieve the distress oft'' 
 
 jilled, therefore, by the 
 by the domestics on our 
 
 [ding down the avenue, t 
 
 Ice The huller stood rei 
 
 licate cordial; the old Iw 
 
 L-ith half a dozen noslri 
 
 nds, accoklinglolhefai 
 
 [niece, the meliing Pl'« 
 
 [assisting, stood wringingl 
 
 id. 
 
 The most material effect that is likely to follow 
 this accident is a postponement of the nuptials, which 
 were close at hand. Though I commiserate the im- 
 patience of the captain on that account, yet I shall 
 not otherwise be sorry at the delay, as it will give 
 me a better opportunity of studying the characters 
 here assembled, with which I grow more and more 
 entertained. 
 
 I cannot but perceive that the worthy squire is 
 quite disconcerted at the unlucky result of his hawk- 
 in" experiment, and this unfortunate illustration of 
 his eulogy on female equitation. Old Christy too is 
 very waspish, having been sorely twitted by Master 
 Sinwn for having let his hawk fly at carrion. As to 
 (he falcon, in the confusion occasioned by the fair Ju- 
 jlia's disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I make 
 I no doubt she has made the best of her way back to 
 (he hospitable Hall of Sir Watkyn Williams Wynn; 
 and may very possibly, at this present writing, be 
 pluming her wings among the breezy bowers of 
 Wynnstay. 
 
 ST MARKS EVE. 
 
 0, 'tis a fearful thing to be no more, 
 
 Or if to 1)C, lo wander after deadi ; 
 
 To walk, as spirits ilo, in brakes all day. 
 
 And, when tlie darkness conies, lo glide in paths 
 
 That lead to graves ; and in the silent vault, 
 
 Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it, 
 
 Striving lo enter your forbidden corpse. 
 
 Dbvden. 
 
 The conversation this evening at supper-table took 
 
 |curiousturnon the subject of a superstition, formerly 
 
 |ery prevalent in this part of the country, relative to 
 
 he present night of the year, which is the Eve of St 
 
 llark. It was believed, the parson informed us, that 
 
 [anyone would watch in the church porch on this 
 
 ive, for three successive years, from eleven to one 
 
 fciock at night, he would see, on the third year, the 
 
 i of those of the parish who were to die in the 
 
 bnrse of the year, pass by him into church, clad in 
 
 keir iisnal apparel. 
 
 I Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us 
 at it was formerly a frequent thing for persons to 
 ake the necessary vigils. He had known more 
 an one instance in his time. One old woman, who 
 <etended to have seen this phantom procession, was 
 [object of great awe, for the whole year afterwards, 
 caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she 
 ok her head mysteriously at a person, it was like 
 Heath-warrant; and she had nearly caused the death 
 jasick person by looking ruefully in at the window. 
 There was also an old man, not many years since, 
 |a sullen, melancholy temperament, who had kept 
 I vigils, and began to excite some talk in the vil- 
 iWlien, fortunately for the public comfort, he 
 I shortly after his third w.'.tching; very probably 
 |in a coki (hat he had taken, as the night was tem- 
 
 pestuous. It was reported about the village, how- 
 ever, that he had seen his own phantom pass by him 
 into the church. 
 
 This led to the mention of another superstition of 
 an equally strange and melancholy kind, wiiich, 
 however, is chiefly confined to Wales. It is respect- 
 ing what are called corpse caudles, little wandering 
 fires of a pale bluish light, that move about like ta- 
 pers in the open air, and are supposed to designate 
 the way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lany- 
 lar, late at night, hovering up and down, along the 
 bank of the 1st with, and was watched by the neigh- 
 bours until they were tired, and went to bed. Not 
 long afterwards there came a comely counti^ lass, 
 from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt 
 on the opposite side of the river. She thought to 
 ford the stream at the very place where the light had 
 been first seen, but was dissuaded on account of the 
 height of the flood. She walked to and fro along the 
 bank, just where the candle had moved, waiting for the 
 subsiding of the water. She at length endeavoured to 
 cross, but the poor girl was drowned in the attempt.' 
 
 There was something mournful in this little anec- 
 dote of rural superstition, that seemed to affect all 
 the listeners. Indeed, it is curious to remark how 
 completely a conversation of the kind will absorb the 
 attention of a circle, and sober down its gaiety, how- 
 ever boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one 
 was leaning forward over the table, with eyes earn- 
 estly fixed upon the parson, and at the mention of 
 corpse candles which had been seen about the cham- 
 ber of a young lady who died on the eve of her wed- 
 ding-day. Lady Lillycraft turned pale. 
 
 I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the 
 kind into various evening circles; Ihey were often 
 commenced in jest, and listened to with smiles ; but 
 I never knew the most gay or the most enlightened 
 of audiences, that were nut, if the conversation con- 
 timied for any length of time, completely and solemn- 
 ly interested in it. There is, I believe, a degi-i^e of 
 superstition lurking in every mind; and I doubt if any 
 one can thoroughly examine all his secret notions and 
 impulses without detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even 
 from himself. It seems indeed to he a part of our 
 nature, like instinct in animals, and to act independ- 
 ently of our reason. It is often found existing in lofty 
 natures, especially those that are poetical and aspir- 
 ing. A great and extraordinary poet of our day, 
 whose life and writings evince a mind subject to 
 powerful exaltation, is said lo believe in omens and 
 secret intimations. Caesar, it is well known, was 
 greatly under the influence of such belief; and Napo- 
 leon had his good and evil days, and his presiding 
 star. 
 
 As to the worthy parson, I have no doubt that he is 
 strongly inclined to superstition. He is naturally cre- 
 dulous, and passes so much of his time searching out 
 popular traditions and supernatural tales, that his 
 mind has probably become infected by them. He has 
 
 ' Aubrey's Mlscel. 
 
 •is 
 
o78 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 i: 
 
 i 
 
 lately been immersed in the Demonolatria of Nicho- 
 las Remigius concerning supernatural occurrences in 
 Lorraine, and llie writings of Joachimus Camerarius, 
 called by Vossius the Phienix of Germany; and he en- 
 tertains the ladies with stories from tliem, that make 
 them almost afraid to go to bed at niglit. I have been 
 charmed myself with some of the wild lillle supersti- 
 tions which he has adduced from Blefkenius, Schef- 
 fer, and others; such as those of the Laplanders about 
 the domestic spirits which wake them at night, and 
 summon them to go and fish ; of Thor, the deity of 
 tluiQder, who has imwer of life and death, health and 
 sickness, and who, armed with the rainlmw, shoots his 
 arrows at those evil demons that live on the tops of 
 rocks and mountains, and infest the lakes; of the 
 Juhles or Juhlafolket, vagrant troops of spirits, which 
 roam the air, and wander up and down by forests and 
 mountains and the moonlight sides of hills. 
 
 The parson never openly professes his belief in 
 ghosts, but I have remarked that he has a suspicious 
 way of pressing great names into the defence of su- 
 pernatural doctrines, and making philosophers and 
 saints fight for him. He expatiates at large on the 
 opinions of the ancient philosophers about larves, or 
 nocturnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which 
 wandered like exiles about the earth ; and about those 
 spiritual beings which abode in the air, but descended 
 occasionally to earth, and mingled among mortals, act- 
 ing as agents between them and the gods. He quotes 
 also from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary of the 
 apostles, and, acconling to some, the friend of St Paul, 
 who says that the air is full of spirits of different ranks ; 
 some destined to exist for a time in mortal Imlies, 
 from which, being emancipated, they pass and repass 
 between heaven and earth, as agents or messengers 
 in the service of the deity. 
 
 Out the worthy little man assumes a bolder tone 
 when he quotes from the fathers of the church; such 
 as St Jerome, who gives it as the opinion of all the 
 doctors, that the air is filled with powers opposefl t'> 
 each other; and Lactantius, who says that corrupt 
 and dangerous spirits wander over the earth, and seek 
 to console themselves for their own fall by effecting 
 the ruin of the human race; and Clemens Alexan- 
 drinus, who is of opinion that the souls of the bless- 
 ed have knowledge of what passes among men, the 
 same as angels have. 
 
 I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes 
 have takien such hold of my imagination, that I cannot 
 sleep. The room in which I sit is just fitted to foster 
 such a state of mind. The walls are hung with ta- 
 pestry, the figures of which are faded, and look like 
 unsubstantial shapes melting away from sight. Over 
 the fire-place is the portrait of a lady, who, according 
 to the housekeeper's tradition, pined to death fur the 
 loss of her lover in the battle of hienheim. She has n 
 most pale and plaintive countenance, and seems to fix 
 her eyes mournfully upon me. The family have long 
 tiince retired. I have heard their steps die away, and 
 the distant doors clap to after them. The murmur 
 
 of voices, and the peal of remote langhter, no lon^r 
 reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which 
 so many of the former inhabitants of this house li« 
 buried, has chimed the awful hour of midnight. 
 
 I have sat by the window and mused upon the 
 dusky landscape, watching the lights disappearing, 
 one by one, from the distant village ; and the moon I 
 rising in her silent majesty, and leading up all the j 
 silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon these 
 quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and 
 imperfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, mv 
 mind has been crowded by " thick-coming fancies" | 
 concerning those spiritual beings which 
 
 toon 
 tain 
 
 -walk the eartli 
 
 Unseen, boHi when we wake and when wc sleep." 
 
 Are there, indeed, such beings? Is this space be- 1 
 tween us and the Deity fille<l up by innumerable or- 
 ders of spiritual beings, forming the same gradations I 
 l)etween the human soul and divine perfection, tliji i 
 we see prevailing from humanity downwards to the I 
 meanest insect? It is a sublime and lieautiful doc- 1 
 trine, inculcated by the early fathers, that there are I 
 guardian angels appointed to watch over cities and] 
 nations; to lake care of the welfare of good men, andi 
 to guard and guide the steps of helpless inrancr.l 
 " Nothing," says St Jerome, " gives us a greater ideal 
 of the dignity of our soul, than that God has givenl 
 each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angei to| 
 have care of it." 
 
 Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning io| 
 visit the scenes and beings which were dear to thei 
 during the body's existence, though it has been delu 
 ed by the absurd sui)erstitions of the vulgar, in list 
 is awfully solemn and sublime. However lighllyil 
 may be ridiculed, yet the attention involuntarily yield 
 ed to it whenever it is made the subject ofseriousdt 
 cussion ; its prevalence in all ages and countries, i 
 even among newly-discovered nations, that haveli 
 no previous interchange of thought with other [ 
 of the world, prove it to be one of those myslerioi 
 and almost instinctive lieliefs, to which, if left loo 
 selves, we should naturally incline. 
 
 In spile of all the pride uf reason and philosophy,^ 
 vague doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perl 
 will never be perfectly eradicated; asit isconcen 
 a matter that does not admit of positive demonstralio 
 Every thing connected with our spiritual nature j 
 full of doubt and difficulty. " We are fearfiillya 
 wonderfully made ; " we are surrounded by mysteri 
 and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who [ 
 has been able to comprehend and describe the nalo 
 of the smU, its connexion with the liody, orini 
 part of the frame it is situated ? We know vmi 
 that it does exist; but whence it came, and ' 
 entered into us, and how it is retained, and wheit| 
 is seated, and how it operates, are all matters ofm 
 speculation, and contradictory theories. If, then,! 
 are thus ignorant of this spiritual essence, fveiiwli 
 it forms a part of ourselves, and is continually ji 
 
 I 
 
BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 579 
 
 lote laughter, no longer 
 mi Ihe church, in which 
 nlants of this house lie 
 1 hour of midnight. 
 \v and mused upon the 
 the lights disappearinj, 
 1 village ; and tlie hqood 
 , and leading up all the 
 I have gazed upon these | 
 awns, silvered over, and 
 ;s of dewy moonshine, my 
 " ihick-coming fancies" 
 leings which 
 
 Ik tt\c eartti 
 
 ke and wlien wc sleep." 
 
 leings? Is this space be- 1 
 led up by innumerable or- 
 rming the same gradations I 
 ind divine perfection, tliat 
 imanity downwards to the 
 ;ublime and l)eauliful doc- 
 arly fathers, that there ate 
 1 to watch over cities and 
 e welfare of good men, and 
 steps of helpless infancy] 
 ne ' ' gives us a greater ideal 
 I, than that God lias givcnl 
 n't of our birth, an angel Kil 
 
 eparted spirits returning to 
 
 cs which were dear to llir 
 
 ;e, though it has been del 
 
 ilions of the vulgar, in ilsel 
 
 Liblime. However ligl " 
 
 attention involuntarily yiel 
 
 jde the subject of serious di 
 
 1 all ages and countries, 
 
 vered nations, that have 
 
 of thought with other 
 
 be one of those mysteri 
 
 liefs, to which, if left to 
 
 lly incline. 
 
 ofreason and philosophy, 
 Irk in the mind, and pe' 
 Udicated;asiti8Concei 
 [nit of positive demonslral 
 
 with our spiritual nature 
 Ity. "Weave fearfully ■ 
 lare surrounded by mystei 
 
 ;en to ourselves. Who 
 Ihend and describe the nail 
 In with thel1ody,orin- 
 iiluated? Weknowmei 
 hence it came, and wheti 
 , it is retained, and where 
 rates, are all matters o( 
 
 lictory theories. If, to' 
 spiritual essence, event! 
 
 res, and is continually"^ 
 
 to our consciousness, how can we pretend to ascer- 
 laui or to deny its powers and operations when re- 
 leased from its fleshly prison-house ? It is more the 
 manner, therefore, in which this superstition has 
 lieen degraded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has 
 lirought it into contempt. Raise it above the frivo- 
 lous purposes to which it has been applied, strip it of 
 the gloom and horror w^ith which it has been surround • 
 (d and there is none of the whole circle of visionary 
 creeds that could more delightfully elevate the ima- 
 gination, or more tenderly affect the heart. It would 
 l)econie a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, sooth- 
 ing the hitler tear wrung from us by the agony of our 
 mortal separation. Wiiat could l)c more consoling 
 than the idea, that the souls of those whom we once 
 loved were permitted to return and watch over our 
 welfare ? That affectionate and guardian spirits sat 
 by our pillows wlien we slept, keeping a vigil over 
 jourmost helpless hours ? That beauty and innocence, 
 which had languished into the tomb, yet smiled un- 
 n around us, revealing themselves in those blest 
 ilreams wlierein we live over again Ihe hours of past 
 endearment? A belief of this kind would, I should 
 link, be a new incentive to virtue; rendering us cir- 
 :uiii»itect even in our most secret laomenlji, from the 
 lea that those we once loved and honoured were in- 
 ible v'itnesses of all our actions. 
 It would take away, too, from that loneliness and 
 lestitution which we are apt to feel more and more 
 we get on in our pilgrimage through the wilder- 
 of this world, and lind that those who set for- 
 ard with us, lovingly and cheerily, on the journey, 
 iveone by one dropped away from our side. Place 
 superstition in this light, and I confess I should 
 e to be a believer in it. I see nothing in it that is 
 impatible with the tender and merciful nature of 
 ir religion, nor revolting to Ihe wishes and affections 
 the heart. 
 
 There are departed beings that I have loved as I 
 
 ver again shall love in this world ; — that have loved 
 
 as I never again shall be loved ! If such beings 
 
 ever retain in their blessed spheres the attachments 
 
 [bich they felt on earth ; if they take an interest in 
 
 lepoor concerns of transient mortality, and are per- 
 
 itted to hold communion with those whom they 
 
 ive loved on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour 
 
 night, in this silence and solitude, I could receive 
 
 ir visitation with the most solemn, but unalloyed, 
 
 ilighl. 
 
 In trnth, such visitations would be too happy for 
 world; they would be incompatible with the na- 
 e of this imperfect state of being. We are here 
 iced in a mere scene of spiritual thraldom and re- 
 inl. Our souls are shut in and limited by bounds 
 barriers; shackled by mortal inflrmities, and sub- 
 to all the gross impediments of matter. In vain 
 old they seek to act independently of the body, and 
 ingle together in spiritual intercourse. They can 
 ly act here through their fleshly organs. Their 
 y loves are made up of transient embraces and 
 
 long separations. The most intimate friendship, of 
 what brief and scattered portions of time does it con- 
 sist! We take each other by the hand, and we ex- 
 change a few words and looks of kindness, and we 
 rejoice together for a few short moments, and then 
 days, months, years inter>-ene, and we see and know 
 nothing of each other. Or granting that we dwell 
 together for the full season of this our mortal life, the 
 grave soon closes its gates 'wtween us, and then our 
 spirits are doomed to remain in separation and widow- 
 hood, until they meet again in that more perfect state 
 of being, where soul will dwell with soul in blissful 
 communion, and there will be neither death, nor ab- 
 sence, nor any thing else to interrupt our felicity. 
 
 *+■*" In the foregoing paper I 'have allnded to the 
 writings of some of the old Jewish rabbins. They 
 abound with wild theories; but among them are many 
 truly poetical flights, and their ideas are often very 
 beautifully expressed. Their speculations on the na- 
 ture of angels are curious and fanciful, though much 
 resembling the doctrines of the ancient philosophers. 
 Ii: Ihe writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an account of 
 the temptation of our first parents and the fall of the 
 angels, which the parson pointed out to me as having 
 probably furnished some of the groundwork for " Pa- 
 radise Lost." 
 
 According to Eleazer, the ministering angels said 
 to the Deity, " What is there in man that thou mak- 
 est him of such importance ? Is he any thing else 
 than vanity? for he can scarcely reason a little on 
 terrestrial things." To which God replied, " Do 
 you imagine that I will be exalted and glorifled only 
 by you here above ? I am the same below that I am 
 here. Who is tljere among you that can call all Ihe 
 creatures by their names?" There was none found 
 among them that could do so. A t tliat moment Adam 
 arose, and called all the creatures by their names. 
 Seeing which, the ministering angels said among 
 themselves, " Let us consult together how we may 
 cause Adam to sin against the Creator, otherwise he 
 will nut fail to become our master." 
 
 Sammael, who was a great prince in the heavens, 
 was present at this council, with the saints of the first 
 order, and the seraphim of six bands. Sammael chose 
 several out of Ihe twelve orders to accompany him, 
 and descended below, for the purpose of visiting all 
 the creatures which God had created. He found none 
 more cunning and more lit to do evil than the serpent. 
 
 The rabbi then treats of the seduction and the fall 
 of man ; of the consequent fall of the demon, and Ihe 
 punishment which God inflicted on Adam, Eve, and 
 the serpent. " He made them all come before him; 
 pronounced nine maledictions on Adam and Eve, and 
 condemned Uiem to suffer death; and he precipitatal 
 Sannna^l and all his band from heaven. He cut off 
 Ihe feet of the serpent, which iiad before the figure 
 of a camel (Samma<<l having been mounted on him), 
 and ho cursed him among all beasts and animals." 
 
380 
 
 URACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 GENTILITY. 
 
 -Tnie Gentrie standeth In the traik' 
 
 ;; :::«5f. 
 
 or virtuous life, not in the lleslily line ; 
 For bloud is knit, but Genlrie is divine. 
 
 MiRROH FOR U1GISTB4TES. 
 
 I HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the squire 
 in the education of his sons; but I would not have it 
 thought that his instructions were directed chiefly to 
 ttieir personal accomplishments. He took great pains 
 also to form their minds, and to inculcate what he 
 calls good old English principles, such as are laid 
 down in the writings of Peachem and his contempora- 
 ries. There is one /luthor of whom lie cannot speak 
 without indignation, which is Chesterfield. He avers 
 that he did much, for a time, to injure the true na- 
 tional character, and to introduce, instead of open 
 manly sincerity, a hollow perfidious courtliness. 
 '^ His maxims," he afTirms, " were calculated to chill 
 the delightful enthusiasm of youth; to make them 
 ashamed of that romance which is the dawn of gene- 
 rous manhooti, and to impart to them a cold polish and 
 a premature wordliness. 
 
 " Many of Lord Chesterfield's maxims would make 
 a young man a mere man of pleasure; but an English 
 gentleman should not be a mere man of pleasure. 
 He has no right to such selfish indulgence. His ease, 
 liis leisure, his opulence, are debts due to his country, 
 which he must ever stand ready to discharge. He 
 should be a man at all points, simple, frank, court- 
 eous, intelligent, accomplished, and informed; 
 upright, intrepid, and disinterested; one that can 
 mingle among freemen ; that can cope with stales- 
 men ; that can champion lus country and its rights 
 either at home or abroad. In a country like England, 
 where there is such free and unbounded scope for the 
 exertion of intellect, and where opinion and example 
 liave such weight with the people, every gentleman 
 of fortune and leisure should feel himself bound to 
 employ himself in some way towards promoting the 
 prosperity or glory of the nation. In a country 
 where intellect and action are trammelled and restrain- 
 ed, men of rank and fortune may become idlers and 
 tiillers with impunity; but an English coxcomb is 
 inexcusable; and Ihis, perhaps, is the reason why he 
 is the most offensive and insupportable coxcomb in 
 the world." 
 
 The squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, 
 would often hold forth in this manner to his sous when 
 Ihey were about leaving the paternal roof; one to 
 travel abroad, one to go to the army, and one to the 
 university. He used to liave them with him in the 
 library, which is hung with the portraits of Sydney, 
 Surrey, Raleigh, Wyat, and others. " Look at those 
 models of true English gentlemen, my sons," he 
 would say with enthusiasm; "those were men Ihat 
 Avrealhcd the graces of Ihe most delicate and refined 
 lasle aronnd Ihe stern viilues of Ihe soldier; ihal 
 
 mingled what was gentle and gracious, with wim 
 was hardy and manly; that possessed the true cbi- 
 valry of spirit, which is the exalted essence of man. 
 hood. They are the lights by which the youth of 
 the countiy should array themselves. They were 
 the patterns and the idols of their country at home- 
 they were the illustrators of its dignity abroad. ' Sur- 
 rey,' says Camden, < was the first nobleman that illus- 
 trated his high birth with the beauty of learnin:;. 
 He was acknowledged to be the gallantest man, die 
 politest lover, and the completest gentleman of his 
 time.' And as to Wyat, his friend Surrey most 
 amiably testifies of him, that his person was majestic 
 and beautiful, his visage 'stern and mild;' ihathe 
 sung, and i)layed the lule with remarkable sweet- 
 ness; spoke foreign languages with grace and fluencr 
 and possessed an inexhaustible fund of wit. And see 
 what a high commendation is passed upon these illus- 
 trious friends : ' They were the two chieftains, vh, 
 having travelled into Italy, and Ihere tasted Ihesveel 
 and stately measures and style of the Italian poetry, 
 greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vul- 
 gar poetry from what it had been before, and tlieie- 
 fore may be justly called the reformers ofourEn"- 
 lish poetry and style.' And Sir Philip Sydney, vlw 
 has left us such monuments of elegant Ihotiglit, and 
 generous sentiment, and who illustrated liisciiivalt«oi{ 
 spirit so gloriously in the field. And Sir Walter h 
 leigh, the elegant courtier, the intrepid soldier, llit| 
 enterprizing discoverer, the enlightened pliilnsoplier, 
 the magnanimous martyr. These are the men Inl 
 English gentlemen to study. Chesterfield, with lii 
 cold and courtly maxims, would have chilled and ii 
 poverislied such spirits. He would have blighted 
 the budding romanceof their temperaments. Sydoej 
 would never have WTitten his Arcadia, nor Sui 
 have challenged the world in vindication of Ihebeai 
 ties of his Geraldine. These are the men, my sum, 
 the squire will continue, " that show to whatonr 
 lional character may be exalted, when its strong 
 powerful qualities are duly wrought up and refini 
 The solidest bodies are capable of the highest polisl!; 
 and there is no character that may be wrought lo 
 more exquisite and unsullied brightness, than tlial 
 the true English gentleman." 
 
 When Guy was alwul to depart for the army, 
 squire again took him aside, and gave him n longeij 
 horlalion. He warned him against thai affeelali 
 of cool-blooded indifference, which he was told 
 cultivaled by the young British officers, among w 
 it was a study to " sink the soldier" irithehiereni 
 of fashion. " .* soldier," said he, "without 
 and enlhusK '>.: in his profession, is a mere sanji 
 nary hireling. Nothing dislinguis'ies him from 
 mercenary bravo but a spirit of pa' riolism, or a ll 
 for glory. It is the fashion, now-a-days, my 
 said he, "lo laugh at the spirit of chivalry; 
 that spirit is really extinct, the profession ol 
 soldier liecoines a mere Irade of blood." lie H 
 set before him the conduct of Edward the 
 
 PriDC( 
 
 neroa 
 
 when 
 
 prison 
 
 inlobi 
 
 attend 
 
 nncov( 
 
 I mount 
 
 vas m 
 
 I lieanty 
 
 Itleman 
 
 Final 
 
 [son's hi 
 
 iiimes, I 
 
 fray; oi 
 
 lextract 
 
 (logy of; 
 
 Jihe Lak( 
 
 jthe exec 
 
 llut! thoi 
 
 Ihere llu 
 
 earthly t 
 
 bight ll 
 
 lest frii 
 
 ind thou 
 
 tver lovei 
 
 lliatever 
 
 fiest pers 
 
 tnlghts. 
 
 (entlest tl 
 
 lion were 
 
 Sver put s 
 
 EacI 
 AlTui 
 And 
 Tliei 
 Ifwa 
 The 
 
 As I was 
 lasler Sim 
 m the 
 idely play 
 icnce it c 
 from am 
 lysattrac 
 [good hun 
 ipalli, ar 
 Ige, at 111 
 m gave U! 
 How him 
 !" proved 
 w or foui 
 ls<iil-clul 
 ;rroiiml. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 581 
 
 nd gracious, with what 
 possessed the true chi- 
 exalted essence of man- 
 , by which tlie youth ol 
 ihemselves. Tliey were 
 f their country at home; 
 its dignity abroad. 'Sur- 
 e first nobleman that illus- 
 tlie beauty of learnin'^, 
 le the gallantest man, tlie 
 npletest gentleman of his 
 , his friend Surrey most 
 at his person was majestic 
 stern and mild;' that he 
 ; with remarkable sweet- 
 res with grace and (luency, 
 lible fund of wit. And see 
 n is passed upon these illus- 
 re the two chieftains, who, 
 and there tasted tliesveel 
 style of the Italian poetry, 
 and liomely manner of vul- 
 lad been before, and there- 
 the reformers ofourEng- 
 \nd Sir Philip Sydney, Tshol 
 nts of elegant thought, and 
 who illustrated his chivalrom 
 field. And Sir Walter Ra- 
 er, the intrepid soUlier, Ik 
 the enliglitened pliilosoplier, 
 rr. These are the men k\ 
 idy. Chesterfield, whh hi 
 , would have chilled and 
 ' He would have hlighlcd 
 lieir temperaments. Syd 
 iten his Arcadia, nor Sui 
 fid in vindication of the hen 
 hese are the men, my sons, 
 "that show to what our 
 exalted, when its strong 
 ily wrought up and refini 
 capable of the highest polish 
 .rthat may he wrought to 
 [dlied brightness, than thai 
 
 It to depart for the army.W 
 )ide, and gave him a longfl 
 him against that affeclaM 
 ^nce, which he was told iH 
 (British officers, aiiiong win 
 1 the soldier" in the I'-efen 
 jr," saidhe, "willioutl 
 Vofcssion, is a mere san^ 
 dislinguis'ies him from If 
 Ppiritofpnriotism,orall« 
 Bnon, now-a-<1ays, royf" 
 Ue spirit of chivalry; ' 
 [tinct, the profession ol l 
 I trade of blood." Ho l' 
 tiduct of Kdwavd (he H" 
 
 Prince, who is his mirror of chivalry; valiant, ge- 
 neioos, affable, humane; gallant in the field : but 
 when he came to dwell on his courtesy towards his 
 prisoner, the king of France; how he received him 
 into bis tent, rather as a conqueror than as a captive; 
 attended on him at table like one of his retinue ; rode 
 uncovered beside him on his entry into London, 
 mounted on a common palfrey, while his prisoner 
 was mounted in state on a white steed of stately 
 beauty; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the old gen- 
 tleman's eyes. 
 
 Finally, on taking leave, the good squire put in his 
 son's hands, as a manual, one of his favourite old vo- 
 lumes, the Life of the Chevalier Bayai-d, by Gode- 
 froy; on a blank page of which he had written an 
 extract from the Mort d' Arthur, containing the en- 
 logy of Sir Ector over the body of Sir Launcelot of 
 the Lake, which the squire considers as comprising 
 the excellencies of a true soldier. "Ah, Sir Launce- 
 |lot! thou wert head of all Christian knights ; now 
 here thou liest : thou were never matched of none 
 ■arlhly knights'hands. And thou wert the curtiest 
 ;night that ever bare shield. And thou were the 
 lest friend to thy lover that ever best rood horse; 
 ind thou were the truest lover of a sinfuU man that 
 iver loved woman. And thou were the kindest man 
 hat ever strook with sword ; and thou were the gootl- 
 liest person that ever came among the presse of 
 ;nighls. And thou were the meekest man and the 
 kentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. And 
 Uion were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that 
 Iver put speare in the rest." 
 
 FORTUNE-TELLING. 
 
 Eaeli city, eacli town, and every village, 
 AfTurds us oither an alms or i)illngc. 
 And if lliu vt'catlier lie cold and raw, 
 Then ill a barn we tumble on straw. 
 Ifwariii and fair, by yea-cock and nay-cock, 
 The Oelds will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock. 
 
 Mkbhy Beggars. 
 
 ] As I was walking one evening with (he Oxonian, 
 ■aster Simon, and the general, in a meadow nut far 
 pin the village, we heard the sound of a fiddle, 
 played, and looking in the direction from 
 hence it came, we saw a thread of smoke curling 
 I from among the trees. The sound of music is al- 
 lys attractive ; for, wherever there is music, there 
 |guod humour, or good-will. We passed along a 
 Hpath, and had a peep, through a break in the 
 
 Ige, at the musician and his party, when the Oxo- 
 hn gave us a wink, and told us that if we would 
 llflw him we should have some sport, 
 lit proved lo be a gipsy encampment, consisting of 
 V or four little cabins, or tents, made of blankets 
 fl sjiil-clolh, spread over hoops that were stuck in 
 
 ' ground. It was on one side of a green lane, close 
 
 under a hawthorn hedge, with a broad beech-tree 
 spreading above it. A small rill tingled along close 
 by, through the fresh sward, that looked like a carpet. 
 
 A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of 
 iron, over a fire made from dry sticks and leaves, 
 and two old gipsies, in red cloaks, sat crouched on 
 the grass, gossiping over their evening cup of tea; for 
 these creatures, though they live in the open air, 
 have their ideas of fireside comforts. There were 
 two or three children sleeping on the straw with 
 which the tents were littered ; a couple of donkeys 
 were grazing in the lane, and a thievish-looking dog 
 was lying before the fire. Some of the younger gip- 
 sies were dancing to the music of a fiddle, playeil by 
 a tall slender stripling, in .m old frock coat, with a 
 peacock's feather stuck in his hatband. 
 
 As we approached, a gipsy girl, with a pair of fine 
 roguish eyes, came up, and, as usual, offered to tell 
 our fortunes. I could not but admire a certain de- 
 gree of slattern elegance about the baggage. Her 
 lung black silken hair was curiously plaited in nu- 
 merous small braids, and negligently put up in a pic- 
 turesque style that a painter might have been proud 
 to have devised. Her dress was of figured chintz, 
 rather ragged, and not over clean, but of a variety 
 of most harmonious and agreeable colours ; for these 
 beings have a singularly fine eye for colours. Her 
 straw hat was in her hand, and a red cloak thrown 
 over one arm. 
 
 The Oxonian offered at once to have his fortune 
 told, and the girl began with the usual volubility of 
 her race; but he drew her on one side, near the 
 hedge, as he said he had no idea of having his secrets 
 overheard. I saw he was talking to her instead of 
 she to him, and by his glancing towards us now and 
 (hen, that he was giving the baggage some private 
 hints. When they returned to us, he assumed a 
 very serious air. "Zounds!" saidhe, "it's very 
 astonishing how these creatures come by their know- 
 ledge; this girl has told me some things that I thought 
 no one knew but myself! " 
 
 The girl now assailed the general : "Come, your 
 honour," said she, " I see by your face you're a lucky 
 man ; but you're not happy in your mind ; you're 
 not, indeed, sir : but have a gomi heart, and give me 
 a good piece of silver, and I'll tell you a nice for- 
 tune." 
 
 The general had received all her approaches with 
 a banter, and had suffered her to gel hold of his 
 hand; but at the mention of the piece of silver, he 
 hemmed, looked grave, and turning to us, asked if 
 we had not better continue our walk. " Come, my 
 master," said the girl, archly, "you'd not be in such 
 a hurry if you knew all that I could tell you about a 
 fair lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir, old 
 love burns strong; there's many a one comes to sec 
 weddings that go away brides themselves ! " — Here 
 f.he girl whispered suincthing in a low voice, at which 
 the general coloureii up, was a liKlu fluttered, and 
 suffered himself to lie ilrawn aside under tlie hedge, 
 
582 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 $ 
 
 where he appeared to listen to Iter with great earn- 
 estness, and at the end paid her half-a-erown with 
 the air of a man that has got the worth of his money. 
 
 The girl next made her attack upon Master Simon, 
 who, however, was too old a bird to be caught, kiiow- 
 iug that it would end in an attack upon his purse, 
 about which lie is a little sensitive. As he has a 
 great notion, however, of being considered a royster, 
 he chucked her under the chin, played her off with 
 rather broad jokes, and put on something of tlie rake- 
 helly air, that we see now and then assumed on (he 
 stage, by the sad-boy gentlemen of the old school. 
 ''Ah, your honour," said the girl, with a malicious 
 leer, " you were not in such a tantrum last year, 
 when I told you about tlie widow you know who ; 
 but if you had taken a friend's advice, you'd never 
 have come away irom Doncaster races with a flea 
 in your ear ! " 
 
 There was a secret sting in this speech that seem- 
 ed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He jerked 
 away his hand in a pet, smacked his whip, wliistled 
 to his dogs, and intimated that it was high time to 
 go home. The girl, however, was determined not 
 to lose her harvest. She now turned upon me, and 
 as I have a weakness of spirit where there is a pretty 
 face concerned, she soon wheedled me out of my 
 money, and, in return, read me a fortune; which, if 
 it prove true, and I am determined to believe it, will 
 make me one of the luckiest men in the chronicles 
 of Cupid. 
 
 I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom of all 
 this oracular mystery, and was disposed to amuse 
 himself with the general, whose tender approaches 
 to the widow have attracted the notice of the wag. 
 I was a little curious, however, to know the mean- 
 ing of the dark hints which had so suddenly discon- 
 certed Master Simon ; and took occasion to fall in the 
 rear with the Oxonian on our way home, when he 
 laughed heartily at my questions, and gave me ample 
 information on the subject. 
 
 The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has 
 met with a sad rebuff since my Christmas visit to the 
 Hall. He used at that time to be joked about a 
 widow, a fine dashing woman, as he privately in- 
 formed me. I had supposed the pleasure he betrayed 
 on these occasions resulted from the usual fondness 
 of old baclielors for being teased about gelling mar- 
 ried, and about flirting, and being flckle and false- 
 hearted. I am assured, however, that Master Simon 
 had really persuaded himself the widow had a kind- 
 ness for liiui ; in consequence of which he had been 
 at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and 
 had actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a 
 coat from Stultz. He began to throw out hints about 
 the importance of a man's settling himself in life be- 
 fore he grew old ; he would look grave whenever the 
 widow and matrimony were mentioned in the same 
 sentence ; and privately asked the opinion of the stpiire 
 and parson about the prudence of marrying a widow 
 with a rich jointure, but who had several children. 
 
 An important member of a great family connexion 
 cannot harp much upon the theme of matrimonv I 
 without its taking wind ; and it soon got buzzed aboiii 
 that Mr Simon Bracebridge was actually gone to Don. 
 caster races, with a new horse ; but that he meant 
 to return in a curricle with a lady by his side. Master 
 Simon did, indeed, go to the races, and that wiih , 
 new horse ; and the dashing widow did make Iter ap- 
 pearance in her curricle ; but it was unfortunately b; 
 a strapping young Irish Dragoon, with whom even 
 Master Simon's self-complacency" would not allot I 
 him to venture into competition, and to whom she I 
 was married shortly after. 
 
 It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Simon I 
 for several months, having never before been fuiul 
 committed. The dullest Iiead in the family had J 
 joke upon him ; and tliere is no one tliat likes le^stoj 
 lie bantered than an absolute joker. He took refuge! 
 for a time at Lady Lillycraft's, until the mailer slioukj I 
 blow over; and occupied himself by looking over her I 
 accounts, regulating the village choir, and inculcat-l 
 ing loyalty into a pet bullfinch, by teaching him io| 
 whistle " God save the King. " 
 
 He has now pretty nearly recovered from the mor-l 
 tification ; holds up liis head ; and laughs as much ail 
 any one ; again affects to pity married men, and js| 
 particularly facetious about widows, when Lady Lil-[ 
 iycraft is not by. His only time of trial is when I 
 general gels hold of him, who is infinitely heavy amil 
 perseveringin his waggery, and will interweave a dulif 
 joke through the various topics of a whole dinner tinie| 
 Master Simon often parries these attacks by a slan: 
 from his old work of " Cupid's Solicitor for love : " 
 
 " 'Tis in vain to wooe a widow over long, 
 
 In once or twice her mind yoii may perceive; 
 
 Widows are siiI>Ue, be tliey old or youn^, 
 
 And by their wiles young men they will deceive.' 
 
 LOVE-CHARMS. 
 
 -Come, do not weep, my giri, 
 
 Forget him, pretty pensivcness ; there will 
 Come others, every day, as good as he. 
 
 Siu J. SUCUIIK, 
 
 The approach of a wedding in a family is alffaa 
 an event of great importance, but particularly so in j 
 household like this, in a retired part of the counl[|^ 
 Master Simon, who is a pervading spirit, and, ibroii! 
 means of the butler autl housekeeper, knows eT(i| 
 thing that goes forward, tells me that the maid-« 
 vants are continually trying their fortunes, and I 
 the servants' -hall has of late been quite a scene ofij 
 canlation. 
 
 It Is amusing to notice how the oddities of Ibeb 
 of a family flow down through all the brandies. 
 s(|uire, in the indulgence of his love of every llii 
 that smacks of old times, has hdd so many i 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 58.> 
 
 conversations with the parson at table, about popular 
 superstitions and traditional rites, that they have been 
 carried from the parlour to the kitchen by the listen- 
 in" domestics, ami, being api»rently sanctioned by 
 sQcli high authority, the wliole house has become in- 
 fected by them. 
 
 The servants are all versed in the common modes 
 
 |of trying luck, and the charms to ensure constancy. 
 
 Tliey read their fortunes by drawing strokes in the 
 
 MJies, or by repealing a form of words, and looking 
 
 in a pail of water. Si Mark's eve, I am told, was a 
 
 busy lime with them ; being an appointed night for 
 
 certain mystic ceremonies. Several of Ihem sowed 
 
 jhemp-seed lo be reaped by their true lovers, and they 
 
 |e>'en ventured upon the solemn and fearful prepa- 
 
 ilion of the dumb-cake. This must be done fasting, 
 
 ind in silence. The ingredients are handed down 
 
 traditional form. " An eggshell full of salt, an 
 
 t<^heil full of malt, and an eggshell full of barley- 
 
 leal. " When the cake is ready, it is put upon a 
 
 mover the (ire, and the future husband will appear, 
 
 turn the oake and retire; but if a word is spoken, or a 
 
 St is broken, during this awful ceremony, there is 
 
 iiiiowing what Iwrrible consequences would ensue! 
 
 Tiie experiments, in the present instance, came to 
 
 result; they that sowed the hemp-seed forgot the 
 
 lagic riiyme that they were to pronounce, so the 
 
 le lover never appeared ; and as to the dumb-cake, 
 
 rliat between the awful stillness they had to keep, 
 
 \dthe awfulness of the midnight hour, their hearts 
 
 ^iled Ihem when they had put the cake in the pan ; 
 
 that, on the striking of the great house-clock in the 
 
 trvants'-liail, they were seized with a sudden panic, 
 
 id ran out of the room, to which they did not return 
 
 nil morning, when they found the mystic cake burnt 
 
 I a cinder. 
 
 The most persevering at these spells, however, is 
 icebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's niece. As she is 
 kind of privileged personage, and rather idle, she 
 IS more time to occupy herself with these mailers. 
 le lias always had her head full of love and matri- 
 my. She knows the dream-book by heart, and is 
 lite an oracle among the little girls of the family, 
 lio always come to her to interpret tlieir dreams ui 
 Je mornings. 
 
 |Diiring the present gaiety of the house, however, 
 : poor girl has worn a face full of trouble ; and, to 
 e the housekeeper's words, "has fallen into a sad 
 stericky way lately. " It seems that she was born 
 i brought up in the village, where her father was 
 Hsii clerk, and she was an early playmate and 
 housekeeper, knows evdMeeiiuaft ^f young Jack Tibbets. Since she has 
 
 I great family connexion 
 le theme of matrimony 
 1 it soon got buzzed about I 
 ras actually gone loDoft. 1 
 )rse ; but that he meant 
 lady by his side. Master 
 e races, and that with a 
 ; widow did n>ake lier ap- 
 It it was unfortunately bj 
 agoon, with whom even 
 acency" would not allow 
 elition, and to whom she I 
 
 chagrin to Master Simon 
 ; never before l)een fuUj 
 liead in the family liad a 
 is no one tliat likes less to 
 iite joker. He took refuge 
 fl's, until the mailer sliould 
 limself by looking over her 
 village choir, ami inculcat- 
 llinch, by teaching him lo 
 
 ing." 
 
 ly recovered from Ihe mot- 
 ad ; and laughs as much a* 
 pily married men, and is 
 jt widows, when Lady lil 
 ily time of trial is when ll 
 who is inlinitely heavy aiiil| 
 y , and will interweave a dull 
 opics of a whole dinner time, 
 •ies these attacks by a slai 
 apid's Solicitor for love: 
 
 widow over long, 
 mind you may perceive; 
 iiey otd or younR, 
 ung mcu Uiey wiU deceive." 
 
 CHARMS. 
 
 Inotweep, mygiri, 
 tnsiveness ; tlierc will 
 lay, as good as lie. 
 
 ' SIU 1. SBCiUM. 
 
 Idding in a family is alwaij 
 ance, but particularly so inl 
 I retired part of the counlH 
 lervading spirit, and, ihroif 
 
 I, tells me that the maid-i 
 linglbeir fortunes, andi 
 [late been quite a scene o( 
 
 I how the oddities of the ll 
 Irough all Ihe brandies, 
 te of his love of every lli 
 has htild so many i 
 
 he to live at the Hall, however, her head has l)een 
 little turned. Being very pretty, and naturally 
 bteel, she has been much noticed and indulged ; 
 1 being the housekeeper's niece, she has held an 
 pocal station between a servant and a companion. 
 
 hag learnt somethir j of fashions and notions 
 ^ng the young ladies, which have effected quite a 
 
 lamorphosis ; insomuch that her finery at churah 
 
 on Sundays has given mortal offence to her former in- 
 tinoates ui the village. This has occasioned Ihe mis- 
 representations which have awakened tiie implacable 
 family pride of Dame Tibbets. But what is worse, 
 Pho-be, having a spice of coquetry In her disposition, 
 showed it on one or two occasions to her lover, which 
 produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being very 
 proud and fiery, has absolutely turned his back upon 
 her for several successive Sundays. 
 
 The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and 
 would fain make up with her lover; but he feels his 
 security, and stands aloof. In this he is doubtless en- 
 couraged by his mother, who is continually reminding 
 him what he owes to his family; for this same family 
 pride seems doomed to be the eternal bane of lovers. 
 
 As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt 
 quite concerned for the luckless Phoebe, ever since I 
 heard her story. It is a sad thing to be thwarted in 
 love at any time, but particularly so at this tender 
 season of the year, when every living thing, even to 
 Ihe very butterfly, is sporting with its male; and (he 
 green fields, and the budding groves, and the singing 
 of the birds, and the sweet smell of the flowers, are 
 enough to turn the head of a love-sick giri. I am 
 told that the coolness of young Ready-Money lies 
 very heavy at poor PhoRbe's heart. Instead of singing 
 alwut the house as formerly, she goes about pale and 
 sighing, and is apt to break into tears when her com- 
 panions are full of merriment. 
 
 Mrs Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my Lady 
 Lillycraft, has had long talks and walks with Phoebe, 
 up and down the avenue, of an evening; and has en- 
 deavoured to squeeze some of her own verjuice into 
 the other's milky nature. She speaks with contempt 
 and abhorrence of Ihe whole sex, and advises Phflebe 
 to despise all the men as heartily as she does. But 
 Pho'be's loving temper is not to be curdled ; she has 
 no such thing as hatred or contempt for mankind iu 
 her whole composition. She has all the simple fond- 
 ness of heart of poor, weak, loving woman; and her 
 only thoughts at present are, how to conciliate and 
 reclaim her wayward swain. 
 
 The spells and love-charms, which are matters of 
 sport to the other domestics, are serious concerns 
 with this love-stricken damsel. She is continually 
 trying her fortune in a variety of ways. I am told 
 that she has absolutely fasled for six Wednesdays and 
 three Fridays successively, having understood that it 
 was a sovereign charm to ensure being married to 
 one's liking within the year. She carries about, also, 
 a lock of her sweetheart's hair, and a riband he once 
 gave her, being a mode of producing constancy in her 
 lover. She even went so far as to try her fortune by 
 the moon, which has always had much to do whh lo- 
 vers' dreams and fancies. For this purpose she went 
 out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone in 
 the meadow, and repeated the old traditional rhyme -. 
 
 "All liail to thee, moon, all hail to thee; 
 I pray thee, good moon, now sliow lo mo 
 The youth who my future husband shall bo." 
 
584 
 
 BILVCEBRIDGE HAI.L. 
 
 I«v 
 
 I. m 
 
 \H 
 
 When she came back to the house, she was faint 
 and pale, and went immediately to bed. The next 
 morning she told the porter's wife that she had seen 
 some one close by the hedge in the meadow, which 
 she was sure was young Tibbets; at any rate, she had 
 dreamt of him all night ; both of which, the old dame 
 assured her, were most happy signs. It has since 
 turned out that the person in the meadow was old 
 Christy, the huntsman, who was walking his nightly 
 rounds with the great stag-hound ; so that Phoebe's 
 faith in the charm is completely shaken. 
 
 THE LIBRARY. 
 
 Yesterday the fair Julia made her first appearance 
 down stairs since her accident ; and the si;;;ht of her 
 spread an universal cheerfulness through the house- 
 hold. She was extremely pale, however, and could 
 not walk without pain and difficulty. She was as- 
 sisted, therefore, to a sofa in the library, which is 
 pleasant and retired, looking out among trees; and 
 so quiet, that the little birds come hopping upon the 
 windows, and peering curiously into the apartment. 
 Here several of the family gathered round, and devis- 
 ed means to amuse her, and make the day pass plea- 
 santly. Lady Lillycraft lamented the want of some 
 new novel to while away the time; and was almost in 
 a pet, because the "Author of Waverley" had not 
 produced a work for the last three months. 
 
 There was a motion made to call on the parson for 
 some of his old legends or ghost stories ; but to this 
 Lady Lillycraft objected, as they were apt to give her 
 the vapours. General Ilarbottle gave a minute ac- 
 count, fur the sixth time, of the disaster of a friend in 
 India, who had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst he 
 was imnting; and was proceeding to menace the 
 company with a chapter or two about Tippoo Saib. 
 
 At length the captain bethought himself, and said, 
 he believed he had a manuscript tale lying in one 
 corner of bis campaigning tiunk, which, if he could 
 fmd, and the company were desirous, he would read 
 to them. The offer was eagerly accepted. He re- 
 tired, and soon returned with a roll of blotted ma- 
 nuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly illegible, 
 hand, and a great part written on cartridge-paper. 
 
 " It is one of the scribblings," said he, " of my poor 
 friend, Charles Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a 
 curious, romantic, studious, fanciful fellow; the fa- 
 vourite, and often the unconscious butt of his fellow 
 officers, who entertained themselves with his eccen- 
 tricities. He was in some of the hardest service in 
 the peninsula, and distinguished himself by his gal- 
 lantry. When the intervals of duty permitted, he 
 was fond of roving about the country, visiting noted 
 places, and was extremely fond of Moorish ruins. 
 When at his quarters, lie was a great scribbler, and 
 passed much of his leisure with his pen in his hand. 
 
 ''As I was a much yunngcr officer, and a very 
 young man, he took me, in a manner, under his cartf 
 and we liecame close frienils. He useil often to reail 
 his writings to me, having a great confidence inoiy I 
 taste, for I always praised them. Poor fellow ! he wj, I 
 shot down close by me at Waterloo. We lay wound- 
 ed together fur some lime, during a hard contest ilut 
 took place near at hand. As I was least hurl, I tried 
 to relieve him, and to stanch the blood which flowed 
 from a wound in his breast. He lay with his head in I 
 my lap, and looked up thankfully in my face, but shook I 
 his head faintly, and made a sign that it was all overl 
 with him; and, indeed, he died a few muuilesafler-l 
 wards, just as our men had repulsed the enemy, anjl 
 came to our relief. I have his favonrite dog and his] 
 pistols to this day, and several of his manuscripts,! 
 which he gave to me at different times. The one i| 
 am now going to read, is a tale which he said hel 
 wrote in Spain, during the time that he lay ill of J 
 wound received at Salamanca." 
 
 We now arranged ourselves to hear the story.l 
 The captain seated himself on the sofa, beside tiieiii(| 
 Julia, who I had noticed to be somewhat affecled bfl 
 the picture he had carelessly drawn of wounds a 
 dangers in a fieid of battle. She now leaned her ami 
 fouifiy on his ^J.ouUler, and her eye glistened asii 
 rested on the iji.?nuscript of the poor literary drago( 
 Lady Lillycrafl uuiied herself in a deep, well-cushi 
 ed elbow-chair. Her dogs were nestled on soft a^ 
 at her feet; and the gallant general took his stalii 
 in an arm-chair, at her side, and toyed with liereit 
 gantly ornamented work-bag. The rest of tlie,cir 
 being all e(iually well accommodated, the captain ii 
 gan his story ; a copy of which I have procured ford 
 iKnetil of the reader. 
 
 THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 what a life doe I IcacI with my master ; nothing l)ut blo«iii;i| 
 iMillowes, beating of spirits, and scratnng of crosleLs ! It isan 
 secret science, for none almost can understand tlic language (<H 
 Sublimation, almigalion, calcination, rubiflcatiun, albiiiu 
 and fermentation; witli as many tcrmes uniwssible tokuiiti 
 as the arte to be compassed. Lilly's GAumu,| 
 
 OxcE upon a time, in the ancient city of Grani 
 there sojourned a young man of the name of All 
 nio de Castros. He wore the garb of a s 
 Salamanca, and was pursuing a course of readiiijl 
 the library of the university; and, at inlervalsoflT 
 sure, indulging his curiosity by examining liioseij 
 mains of Moorish magniiicence for which Graiiadil 
 renowned. 
 
 Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently l 
 ticed an old man of a singular appearance, 
 likewise a visitor to the library. He was leani 
 withered, though apparently more from study i 
 from age. His eyes, though bright and vliioi 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 385 
 
 gcr officer, and a very 
 manner, under his care, 
 . He usetl often lo read 
 I great confidence in my 
 !m. Poor fellow ! he va 
 aterloo. AVe lay woimil- 
 uiing a hard conlestlhai 
 si was least hurt, I irieii 
 li the Wood which flowed 
 He lay with his head in 
 fully in my face, buisliook 
 a sign that it was all over 
 s died a few minutes after- 
 1 repulsed the enemy, and 
 ihis favourite dog and liij 
 everal of his manuscripts, 
 ifferenl times. The one ll 
 s a tale which he said lie 
 le time that he lay ill of i| 
 
 mca." 
 
 rselves to hear the story. 
 If on the sofa, beside llieiin] 
 10 be somewhat affected bji 
 ;ssly drawn of wounds ii 
 e. She now leaned her ani{ 
 and her eye glistened ask 
 of the poor literary drai 
 .iselfinadeep,wdkushk 
 )gs were nestled on soft nut 
 ant general took his stati( 
 side, and toyed with here! 
 i-bag. The rest of lli^ 
 commodated, the captain 
 which I have procured for 
 
 ' OF SALAMANCA. 
 
 I my master ; nothing but Uom 
 rtdscraiiiiigofcroslcus: UisJTrt 
 8i can undentand tlie languaseol' 
 llcination, rubificatioii, albii 
 ny icrracs uiiiwssiWelobeull 
 
 LlLU'S GALUTBU. 
 
 ithe ancient city of Grai 
 ig man of the name of Ai 
 lore the garb of a studenlj 
 rsuingacourseofreadinj 
 jrsity;and,atinler«alsol' 
 
 iosity by examining Hiose 
 ficence for which Giaiwhl 
 
 ^is stiuVies, he frequemly 
 iingular appearance, wlio 
 k library. He was lean 
 [lently more from study 
 kough bright and visif 
 
 were sunk in his head, and thrown into shade by 
 overhanging eye-brows. His dress was always the 
 ume: a black doublet, a short black cloak, very 
 rusty and threadbare, a small ruff, and a large over- 
 shadowing hat. 
 
 His appetite for knowledge seemed insatiable. He 
 voidd pass whole days in the library absorbed in 
 study, consulting a multiplicity of authors, as though 
 he were pursuing some interesting subject through 
 all its rainificaliuns ; so that, in general, when even- 
 in' came, he was almost buried among Iwoka and 
 manuscripts. 
 The curiosity of Antonio was excited, and be in- 
 luired of the attendants concerning the stranger. No 
 ine coidd give him any information, excepting that 
 le had been for some time past a casual frequenter 
 I |i,e library ; that his reading lay chiefly among 
 orks treating of the occult sciences, and that he 
 k'as particularly curious in his impiiries after Ara- 
 lian manuscripts. They added, that he never held 
 mmunication with any one, excepting to ask for 
 iriicniar works ; that, after a fit of studious appli- 
 ition he would disappear for several days, and even 
 eeks, and when he revisited the library, he would 
 ik more withered and haggard than ever. The 
 indent fell inlerestetl by this account; he waslead- 
 z rather a desultory life, and had all that capri- 
 curiosity which springs up in idleness. He 
 ilermined to make himself acquainted with this 
 ik-worm, and find out who and what he was. 
 The next lime that he saw the old man at the li- 
 ary he commenced his approaches, by requesting 
 •mission to look into one of the volumes with which 
 le unknown appeared to have done. The latter 
 rely bowed his head in token of assent. After 
 elending to look through the volume with great 
 ention, he returned it with many acknowledg- 
 inls. The stranger made no reply. 
 " May I ask, senor," said Antonio, with some he- 
 lalion, " may I ask what you are searching after 
 all these books?" 
 
 The old man raised his head, with an expression 
 
 surprise, at having his studies interrupted for the 
 
 ;t time, and by so intrusive a question. He sur- 
 
 ed the student with a side glance from head to 
 
 t: "Wisdom, my son," said he, calmly; "and 
 
 search requires every moment of my attention." 
 
 then cast his eyes upon his book and resumed 
 
 studies. 
 
 But, father," said Antonio, " cannot you spare 
 loment to point out the road to others ? It is to 
 lienced travellers, like you, that we strangers in 
 paths of knowledge nuist look for directions on 
 journey." 
 
 he stranger looked disturbed : " I have not lime 
 lugli, my son, to learn," said he, " much less to 
 :h. I am ignorant myself of the path of true 
 wledge; how then can I show it to others? " 
 Well, but, father—" 
 Senor," said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, 
 
 " yoa must see that I have but Tew steps more to the 
 grave. In that short space have I to accomplkh the 
 whole business of my existence. I have no time for 
 words ; every wortl is as one grain of sand of my glass 
 wasted. Suffer me to be alone." 
 
 There was no replying to so complete a closing of 
 the door of intimacy. The student found himself 
 calmly, hut totally repulsed. Though curious and 
 inquisitive, yet he was naturally moflest, and on after- 
 thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion. His mind 
 soon became occupied by other objects. He passed 
 several days wandering among the mouldering piles 
 of Moorish architecture, those melancholy monuments 
 of an elegant and voluptuous people. He paced the 
 deserted halls of the Alhambra, the paiadise of the 
 Moorish kings. He visited the great court of the 
 lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the gal- 
 lant Abencerrages. He gazed with admiration at its 
 mosaic cupolas, gorgeously |>ainted in gold and aznre; 
 its basins of marble, its alabaster vase, supported by 
 lions, and storied with inscriptions. 
 
 His imagination kindled as he wandered among 
 these scenes. They were calculated to awaken all 
 the enthusiasm of a youthful mind. Most of the halls 
 have anciently been beautified by fountains. The 
 fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the sparkling pu- 
 rity and reviving freshness of water, and they erected, 
 as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate ele- 
 ment. Poetry mingles with architecture in the Al- 
 hambra. It breathes along the very walls. Wher- 
 ever Antonio turned his eye, he beheld inscriptions 
 in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish power 
 and splendour within these walls was confidently pre- 
 dicted. Alas ! how has the prophecy heen falsified ! 
 Many of the basins, where the fountains had once 
 thrown up their sparkling showers, were dry and 
 dusty. Some of the palaces were turned into gloomy 
 convents, and the bare-foot monk paced through 
 those conrts, which had once glittered with the ar- 
 ray, and echoed to the music of Moorish chivalry. 
 
 In the course of his rambles, the student more than 
 once encountered the old man of the library. He 
 was always alone, and so full of thought as not to 
 notice any one about him. He appeared to be intent 
 upon studying those half-buried inscriptions, which 
 are found, here and there, among the Moorish ruins, 
 and seem to murmur from the earth the tale of for- 
 mer greatness. The greater part of these have since 
 been translated; but they were supposed by many, 
 at the time, to contain symbolical revelations, and 
 golden maxims of the Arabian sages and astrologers. 
 As Antonio saw the stranger apparently decyphering 
 these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to make 
 his acquaintance, and to participate in his curious 
 researches; but the repulse he had met with at the 
 library deterred him from making any further ad- 
 vances. 
 
 He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred 
 mount, which overlooks the beautiful valley watered 
 by the Darro, the fertile plain of the Vega, and all 
 
 49 
 
 ggR 
 
.186 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL, 
 
 •K .!, 
 
 ,('■'(51 I 
 
 
 llutriclidiversltyof valeand mountain, that surrounds 
 Granada wilh an earthly paradise. It was twili^^ht 
 when he found himself at the place, where, at the 
 present day, are situated the cliapels known by the 
 name of tlie Sacred Furnaces. They are so called 
 fram gnittoes, in which some of the primitive saints 
 arc said to have l>cen burnt. At the time of Anto- 
 nio's visit, the place was an object of much curiosity. 
 In an excavation of tliese {grottoes, several manu- 
 8cri|)t8 had recently been discovered, engraved on 
 plates of lead. They were written in the Arabian 
 language, excepting one, which was in unknown 
 characters. The pope had issued a bull, forbidding 
 any one, under pain of excommunication, to speak 
 of these manuscripts. The prohibition had only ex- 
 cited the greater curiosity; and many reports were 
 whispered about, that these manuscrip(s contained 
 treasures of dark and forbidden knowledge. 
 
 As Antonio was examining the place from whence 
 these mysterious manuscripts Iiad been drawn, he 
 again observed the old man of the library, wandering 
 among the ruins. His curiosity was now fully awak- 
 ened ; the time and place served to stimulate it. He 
 resolved to watch this groper after secret and forgot- 
 ten lore, and to trace him to his halnlation. There 
 was something like adventure in the thing, that 
 charmed his romantic disposition. He followed the 
 stranger, therefore, at a little distance ; at first cau- 
 tiously, but he soon observed him to be so wrapped 
 in his own thoughts, as to take little heed of external 
 objects. 
 
 They passed along by the skirts of the mountain, 
 and then by the shady banks of the Darro. They pur- 
 sued (heir way, forsomedistance from Granada, along 
 a lonely road that led among the hills. The gloom 
 of evening was gathering, and it was quite dark when 
 the stranger stopped at the portal of a solitary man- 
 sion. 
 
 It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment, 
 of what had once been a pile of some consequence. 
 The walls were of great thickness ; tlie windows nar- 
 row, and generally secured by iron bars. The door 
 was of planks, studded with iron spikes, and had been 
 of great strength, though at present it was much de- 
 cayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruinous 
 tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. The 
 edifice had probably been a country retreat, or castle 
 of pleasure, during the occupation of Granada by the 
 Moors, and rendered sufHciently strong to withstand 
 any casual assault in those warlike times. 
 
 The old man knocked at the portal. A light ap- 
 peared at a small window just above it, and a female 
 head looked out : it might liave served as a model for 
 one of Raphael's saints. The hair was beautifully 
 braided, and gathered in a silken net; and the com- 
 plexion, as well as could be judged from the light, 
 was that soft, rich brunette, so becoming in southern 
 beauty. 
 
 "It is I, my child," said the old man. The face 
 instantly disappeared, and soon after a wicket-door in 
 
 the large porta) opened. Antonio, who had ventor- 
 c<] near to the building, caught a transient sight of a 
 delicate female form. A pair of fine black eyes dart- 
 ed a look of surprise at seeing a stranger liovering 
 near, and the door was precipitately closed. 
 
 There was something in this sudden gleam o( | 
 beauty that wonderfully struck the imagination urtbc j 
 student. It was like a brilliant flashing from its dark 
 casket. He saunteretl about, regarding the jrlooniT 
 pile with increasing interest. A few simple, vU 
 notes, from among some rocks and trees at a little 
 distance, attracted his attention. He found there a 
 group of Gitanas, a vagabond gipsy race, which at 
 that time alwunded in Spain, and lived in hovels anil 
 caves of the hills about the neighbourhood of Ciranada. 
 Some were busy about a fire, and others were listen- 
 ing to the uncouth music which one of their compa- 
 nions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was muking with I 
 a split reed. 
 
 Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information I 
 of them concerning the old building and its inhabit-f 
 ants. The one who appeared to be their spokestiunl 
 was a gaunt fellow, with a subtle gait, a whisperinfl 
 voice, and a sinister roll of the eye. He shriiggedl 
 his shoulders on the student's inquiries, and said ihatl 
 all was not right in that building. An old man in-| 
 habited it, whom nobody knew, and whose faniiijl 
 appeared to be only a daughter and a female serrantlT 
 He and his companions, he added, lived up among tin 
 neighbouring hills ; and as they had been about a 
 night, they had often seen strange lights, and lieai^ 
 strange sounds from the tower. Some of the counir 
 people, who worked in the vineyards among the hi 
 believed the old man to be one that dealt in thebia 
 art, and were not over-fond of passing near tlie tove^ 
 at night; " but for our parts," said the Gitano, "i 
 are not a people that trouble ourselves much < 
 fears of that kind." 
 
 The student endeavoured to gain more precise i 
 formation, but they had none to furnish him. l\n 
 l)egan to be solicitous for a compensation for whatthi 
 had already imparted; and recollecting the lonelii 
 of the place, and the vagabond character of his ( 
 panions, he was glad to give them a gratuity, i 
 hasten homewards. 
 
 He sat down to his studies, but his brain was too II 
 of what he had seen and heard; his eye wasi 
 page, but his fancy still returned to the tower, andlj 
 was continually picturing the little window, withll 
 l>eauliful head peeping out ; or the door half open,* 
 the nymph-like form within. He retired to \xi,i 
 the same objects haunted his dreams. He wasyoi 
 and susceptible ; and the excited state of his feeiii 
 from wandering among the abodes of departed j 
 and gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden ii 
 pression from female beauty. 
 
 The next morning he strolled again in the dit< 
 of the tower. It was still more forlorn by the 1 
 glare of day than in the gloom of evening. Then 
 were crumbling, and weeds and moss wave gro* 
 
 |cou!ddis 
 pm the ala 
 ntlifiil. 
 
 iamberof 
 
 [Presently 
 
 pie voice 
 
 jlened. It 
 
 "gnised ii 
 
 Tages on 
 
 i full of J 
 
 pigliteofej 
 
 fthel)anks 
 
DIIACEBUIDGE HALL. 
 
 .T87 
 
 lonlo, who had venlar- 
 Itt a transient sight of a 
 ■of fine black eyes dari- 
 ng a stranger hovering | 
 [tilately dosed. 
 , titis sudden gleam o( I 
 ck tlic imagination uttbt 
 nl Hashing from its ilarii 
 t, regarding llie ploomj 
 it. A few simple, vU 
 ocks and trees al a little 
 lion, lie found there a I 
 »nd gipsy race, which at I 
 1 and lived in hovels and I 
 Bi"'hl)ourhowl of Granada. I 
 •e, and others were lislen- 
 I'hich one of their compa- 
 Ihe rock, was making with I 
 
 ) obtain some information 
 J building and its iiiliabil-l 
 n-ed to be their spokcsniaii| 
 J subtle gait, a \vlilxp«rinf 
 of the eye. He shriigjeill 
 lU's imiuiries, and said thall 
 luilding. An old man in-I 
 y knew, and whose faniilTJ 
 frhter and a female servantj 
 le added, lived up among 111 
 as they had been about 
 en strange lights, and hean 
 ;ower. Some of die counir 
 le vineyards among the li 
 )e one that dealt in the blJ 
 nd of passing near the lows 
 arts," said the Gitano, "r 
 ■ouble ourselves much 
 
 red to gain more precise 
 Lione to furnish him. Tl 
 fa compensation for whati 
 
 id recollectnig Uie loneib 
 Ubond character of his c 
 [give them a gratuity, and i 
 
 lies, but his brain was too 
 [heard; his eye was upon 
 leturned to the tower, andl 
 Ig the little window, with' 
 ]ut; or the door half open, 
 thin. He retired to bed, 
 [his dreams. Hewasjf 
 K excited state of his fe«l 
 [the abodes of departed 
 lisposed him for a sudden 
 
 Vuty- ,, ,. 
 
 IstroUed again m the an 
 Im more forlorn by ihe 
 koom of evening. The 
 feeds and moss were g«" 
 
 iu evei7 crevice. It had the look of a prison rather 
 llian a dwelling-house. In one angle, liowever, he 
 f Tked a window which seemed an exception to 
 (lie .irrouiHliag sr^ualidness. There was a curtain 
 drawn within i*, and ilowei-s standing onihe window- 
 stone. \Vliilst he was looking at it, Ihe curtain was 
 partially withdrawn, and a delicate while arm, of the 
 most beautiful roundness, was put forth to water the 
 flowers. 
 
 The student made a noise to attract the attention 
 of the fair florist. He succeeded. The curtain was 
 furllier drawn, and he had a glance of Ihe same lovely 
 face he had seen the evening before : it was but a mere 
 glance; die curtain again fell, and the casement clos- 
 ed. All this was calculated to excite the filings of 
 a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown under 
 other circumstances, it is probable that he would not 
 have Iwen struck with her beauty ; but this appearance 
 of being shut up and kept aymt gave her ihe value of 
 a treasured gem. He passed and repassed before the 
 [house several times in the course of Ihe day, but saw 
 lOlliing more. He was there again in the evening, 
 he whole aspect of the house was dreary. The nar- 
 iw windows emilled no rays of cheerful light, to in- 
 icate that there was social life within. Anionic 
 itened al the portal, but no sound of voices reached 
 lis ear. Just then he heard the clapping to of a di- 
 nt door, and fearing to be detected in the unworthy 
 ;t of eavesHlropping, he precipitately drew off to Ihe 
 iposite side of lite road, and stood in the shadow of 
 rouied archway. 
 
 He now remarked a light from a window in the 
 iwer. It was fitful and changeable; commonly 
 !ble and yellowish, as if from a lamp; with an oc- 
 ional glare of some vivid metallic colour followed 
 y a dusky glow. A column of dense smoke would 
 w and then rise in the tiir, and hang like a canopy 
 er Ihe lower. There was altogetl'.er such a lone- 
 lessand seeming mystery about the building and its 
 labitants, that Antonio was half inclined to indulge 
 le country people's notions, and to fancy it the den 
 some powerful sorcerer, and the fair damsel lie 
 id seen to he some spellbound beauty. 
 After some time had elapsed, a light appeared in 
 le window where he had seen the bcaulifid arm. 
 e curtain was down, but it was so thin that he 
 Id perceive the shadow of some one passing and 
 ing between it and the light. He fancied that 
 could distinguish that the form was delicate; and 
 im the alacrity of its movements, it was evidently 
 ithful. He had not a doubt but this was the bed- 
 
 T of his beautiful unknown. 
 
 Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and a fe- 
 
 ile voice singing. Ile^lrew near cautiously, and 
 
 ened. It was a plaintive Moorish ballad, and he 
 
 (gnisetl iu it the lamentations of one of the Aben- 
 
 ages on leaving the walls of lovely Granada. It 
 
 full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of the 
 
 ighls of early life; the hours of love it had enjoyed 
 
 the banks of the Darro, and among the blissful 
 
 abodes of the Alhainbra. It Ltewailetl Ihe fallen ho- 
 iioi'rs of the A liencerrages, and imprecated vengeance 
 on their oppressors. Antonio was alTecled by the 
 music. It singularly coincided with Ihe place. It was 
 like the voice of past times echoed in the present, a d 
 breathing among Ihe monuments r' '.ts deparle ' 
 glories. 
 
 The voice ceased ; after a lime the light disappeared, 
 and all wasslill. "She sleeps ! " said Antonio, fomlly. 
 He lingered about the building with the devotion wilii 
 which a lover lingers about the bower of sleeping 
 beauty. The rising moon threw its silver beams on 
 the grey walls, and glitleretl on the casement. The 
 late gloomy landscape gradually became Hooded with 
 its radiance. Finding, therefore, that he could no 
 longer move about in oUscurity, and fearful that his 
 loiterings might be observed, he reluctantly retired. 
 
 The curiosity which had at (irsl drawn the young 
 man to the tower was now secondeil by feelings of a 
 more romantic kind. His studies were almost enlirely 
 abandoned . He maintained a k ind of blockade of the 
 old II insion; he would take a book with him, and 
 pass a great part of the day under the trees in its vici- 
 nity : keeping a vigilant eye ui>on it, and endeavour- 
 ing to ascertain what were the walks of his mysterious 
 charmer. He found, however, that she never went 
 out except to mass, when she was accompanied by her 
 father. He wailed at the door of Ihe church, and 
 offered her the holy water, in the hopes of touching 
 her hand ; a little oflice of gallantry common in catho- 
 lic countries. She, however, modestly declined, 
 without raising her eyes to see who made the offer, 
 and always took it herself from the font. She was 
 attentive in her devotion ; her eyes were never taken 
 from the altar or the priest; and, on returning home, 
 her countenance was almost entirely concealed by her 
 mantilla. 
 
 Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for several 
 days, and was hourly getting more and more interest- 
 ed in the chase, but never a step nearer to Ihe game. 
 His lurkings about the house had probably been no- 
 ticed, for he no longer saw the fair lace at the window, 
 nor the white arm put forth to water the flowers. 
 His only consolation was to repair nightly to his post 
 of observation and listen to her warbling, and if by 
 chance he could catch a sight of her shadow, passing 
 and repassing before the window, he thought him- 
 self most fortunate. 
 
 As he was indulging in one of these evening vi- 
 gils, which were complete revels of the imagination, 
 the sound of approaching footsteps made him withdraw 
 into the deep shadow of the ruined archway, opposite 
 to the tower. A cavalier approached, wrapped in a 
 large Spanish cloak. He paused under the window 
 of the tower, and after a little while began a sere- 
 nade, accompanied by his guitar, iu the usual style of 
 Spanish gallantry. His voice was rich and manly; 
 he touched the instrument with skill, and sang with 
 amorous and impassioned eloquence. The plume of 
 his hat was buckled by jewels that sparkled in the 
 
388 
 
 BUAC£BR1DG£ HALL. 
 
 lii 
 
 moon-beaim; and, as lie played on tlie guitar, his 
 cloak falling off from one shoulder, showed him to be 
 richly dressed. It was evident that he was a person 
 of rank. 
 
 The idea now flashed across Antonio's mind, that 
 the affections of his unknown beauty might be engag- 
 ed. She was young, and doubtless susceptible; and 
 it was not in the nature of Spanish females to be deaf 
 and insensible to music and admiration. The surmise 
 brought with it a feeling of dreariness. There was 
 a pleasant dream of several days suddenly dispelled. 
 He had never before experienced any thing of the 
 tender passion; and, as its morning dreams are al- 
 ways delightful, he would fain have continued in the 
 delusion. 
 
 " But what have I to do with her attachments ?" 
 though^ he, " I have no claim on her heart, nor even 
 on her acquaintance. How do I know that she is 
 worthy of affection ? Or if she is, must not so gallant 
 a lover as this, with his jewels, his rank, and his de- 
 testable music, have completely captivated her ? What 
 idle humour is this that I have fallen into ? I must 
 again to my books. Study, study will soon chase 
 away all these idle fancies." 
 
 The more be thought, however, the more he be- 
 came entangled in the spell which his lively imagina- 
 tion had woven round him; and now that a rival had 
 appeared, in addition to the other obstacles that en- 
 vironed this enchanted beauty, she appeared ten times 
 more lovely and desirable. It was some slight con- 
 solation lo him to perceive that the gallantry of the 
 unknown met with no apparent return from the 
 tower. The light of the window was extinguished. 
 The curtain remained undrawn, and none of the cus- 
 tomary signals were given to intimate tliat the sere- 
 nade was accepted. 
 
 The cavalier lingered for some time about the place, 
 and sang several other tender airs with a taste and 
 feeling that made Antonio's heartache; at length he 
 slowly retired. The student remained with folded 
 arms, leaning against the ruined arch, endeavouring 
 to summon up resolution enough to depart; but there 
 was a romantic fascination that still enchained him to 
 the place. " It is the last time," said he, willing to 
 compromise between his feelings and his judgment, 
 " it is the last time ; then let me enjoy the dream a 
 few moments longer." 
 
 As his eye ranged about the old building to take a 
 farewell look, he observed the strange light in the 
 tower, which he had noticed on a former occasion. 
 It kept beaming up and declining as before. A pillar 
 of ^moke rose in the air, and hung in sable volumes. 
 It was evident the old man was busied in some of 
 those operations that had gained him the reputation 
 of a sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood. 
 
 Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare shone 
 through the casement, followed by a loud report, and 
 then a flerce and ruddy glow. A figure appeared at 
 the window, uttering cries of agony or alarm, but 
 immediately disappeared ; and a body of smoke and 
 
 flame whirled out of the narrow ap?rture. Anlonio I 
 rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with violence. 
 He was only answered by loud shrieks, and found 
 that the females were already in helpless consternation, 
 With an exertion of desperate strength he forced Die 
 wicket from its hinges, and rushed into the house. 
 
 He foimd himself in a small vaulted hall, and in I 
 the light of the moon which entered at the door he! 
 saw a staircase to the left. He hurried up it toa nar-[ 
 row corridor, through which was roiling a volume of | 
 smoke. He found here the two females in a franlicl 
 state of alarm; one of them clasped her hands, < 
 implored him to save her father. 
 
 The corridor terminated in a spiral flight of stepc I 
 leading up to the tower. He sprang up it to a siiial|| 
 door, through the chinks of which came a glow or| 
 light, and smoke was spuming out. He burst it open I 
 and found himself in an antique vaulted cliamher f 
 furnished with a furnace, and various chemical appa. 
 ratus. A shattered retort lay on the stone floor;)! 
 quantity of combustibles, nearly consumed, wiilni-l 
 rious half-burnt books and papers, were sending npl 
 an expiring flame, and filling the chamber with j 
 fling smoke. Just within the threshold lay tlie re-l 
 puted conjuror. He was bleeding, his clothes wei 
 scorched, and he appeared lifeless. Antonio cangL, 
 him up, and bore him down the stairs to a cbamtii 
 in which there was a light, and laid him on a mJ 
 The female domestic was dispatched for such < 
 pliances as the house afforded; but the daughlt^ 
 threw herself frantically beside her parent, and cool 
 not be reasoned out of her alarm. Her dress vas i 
 in disorder ; her dishevelled hair hung in rich coni 
 sion about her neck and bosom, and never was t 
 beheld a lovelier picture of terror and affliction. 
 
 The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon produ 
 signsof returning animation in bis patient. Tiiee 
 man's wounds, though severe, were not dangen 
 They had evidently been produced by the burelingij 
 the retort; in his bewilderment he had heenenreliil 
 cd in the stifling metallic vapours, which had ova 
 powered his feeble frame, and had not Antonioarriij 
 ed to his assistance, it is possible he might neveriuij 
 recovered. 
 
 By slow degrees he came to his senses, lleloolid 
 about with a bewildered air at the chamber, the a 
 tated group around, and the student who was I 
 ing over him. 
 
 "Where am I?" said he, wildly. 
 
 At the sound of his voice his daughter ulterai| 
 faint exclamation of delight. " My poor Inez!"s 
 he, embracing her; then putting his hand to his ha 
 and taking it away stained with blood, he seen 
 suddenly to recollect himself, and to be overce 
 with emotion. 
 
 " Ay ! " cried he, " all is over with me ! all j 
 all vanished I gone in a moment! the labour of ili 
 time lost!" 
 
 His daughter attempted to soothe him, but be I 
 came slightly delirious, and raved incoherently abi 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 S8ij 
 
 row aperture. Anlonio 
 9ckcd at it with violence. 
 loud shrieks, and fomid 
 in helpless consternation, 
 ite strength he forced ihe 
 rushed into the house. 
 nail vaulted hall, and b; 
 h entered at the door, ht 
 He hurried up it to a nar- 
 !h was rolling a volume ol 
 ; two females in a fianlic 
 n clasped her hands, and 
 ither. 
 
 in a spiral flight of steps, 
 [le sprang up it to a suiail 
 of whicli came a glow of 
 ling out. Heburstitopen,! 
 antique vaulted chamber, 
 and various chemical appa- 
 t lay on the stone floor; j 
 nearly consumed, withvj- 
 d papers, were sending dJ 
 ling the diamber willi sti- 
 i the threshold lay the re-j 
 , bleeding, his clothes w 
 id lifeless. Antonio can( 
 )wn the stairs to a chaml 
 rht, and laid him on a bed, 
 as dispatched for such 9[ 
 ifforded; but the daughti 
 beside lier parent, and 001 
 r alarm. Her dress was 
 lied hair hung in rich coi 
 josom, and never was thi 
 [of terror and affliction, 
 of tlie scholar soon prodi 
 Lion in his patient. Tlie 
 ievere, were not dangen 
 .produced by the buiTiling 
 lermentheliadbeenenvelf 
 ic vapours, wliich had ov 
 B, and had not Antonio ani! 
 ^ssible he might neverto 
 
 Ime to his senses, llelook^ 
 air at the diamber, the a 
 the student who was lea 
 
 i he, wildly. , 
 
 loice his daughter ultewj 
 Ight. "My poorlnezlV 
 fputtingliisbandtohisliei 
 Ined with blood, he seen 
 Imself, and to be ovetcc 
 
 111 is over with me! all I 
 nomenl! Ihe labour of all 
 
 Id to soothe him, but he » 
 land raved incoherently aw 
 
 malignant demons, and about the habitation of the 
 green lion being destroyed. His wounds being dress- 
 ed and such other remedies administered as his si- 
 tuation required, he sunk into a state of quiet. An- 
 tonio now turned his attention to the daughter, whose 
 snrrerings had been little inferior to those of her fa- 
 ther. Having with great difficulty succeeded in tran- 
 quillizing her fears, he endeavoured to prevail upon 
 her to retire, and seek the repose so necessary to her 
 frame, proffering to remain by her father until morn- 
 ing. "I am a stranger," said he, " it is true, and 
 my offer may appear intrusive; hut I see you are 
 lonely and helpless, and I cannot help venturing over 
 the limits of mere ceremony. Should you feel any 
 scrapie or doubt, however, say but a word, and I 
 vill instantly retire." 
 
 There was a frankness, a kindness, and a modesty 
 mingled in Antonio's deportment that inspired instant 
 I confidence; and his simple scholar's garb was a re- 
 I commendation in the house of poverty. The females 
 I consented to resign the sufferer to his care, as they 
 k'ould be the belter able to attend to him on the 
 morrow. On retiring, the old domestic was profuse 
 [in her benedictions ; the daughter only looked her 
 jthanks ; but as they shone through the tears that filled 
 jher fine black eyes, the student thought them a thou- 
 jsand times the most eloquent. 
 Here, then, he was, by a singular turn of chance, 
 )mpletely housed within this mysterious mansion. 
 |W'hen left to himr^elf, and the bustle of the scene was 
 Dver, his heart throbbed as he looked round the 
 Ichamber in which he was sitting. It was the daugh- 
 ter's room, the promised land towards which he had 
 asl so many a longing gaze. The furniture was old, 
 ndhad probably belonged to the building in its pro- 
 erousdays; but every thing was arranged with pro- 
 |)riety. The flowers that he had seen her attend 
 I in the window ; a guitar leaned against the table, 
 |in which stood a crucifix, and before it lay a missal 
 nd a rosary. There reigned an air of purity and 
 lerenily about this little nestling place of innocence ; 
 t was the emblem of a chaste and quiet mind . Some 
 |ew articles of female dress lay on the chairs; and 
 ^ere wastlie very bed on which she had slept; the 
 on which her soft cheek had reclined! The 
 or scholar was treading enchanted ground ; for 
 ^hat fairy Innd has more of magic in it than the bed- 
 hamber of innocence and beauty? 
 1 From various expressions of the old man in his rav- 
 m, and from what he had noticed on a subsequent 
 isit to the tower, to see that the fire was exlinguish- 
 i, Antonio had gathered that his patient was an al- 
 pymist. The philosopher's stone was an object 
 kgerly sought after by visionaries in those days ; but 
 ] consequence of the superstitious prejudices of the 
 nes, and the frecpient persecutions of its votaries, 
 ey were apt to pursue their experiments in secret ; 
 [ lonely houses, in caverns and ruins, or in the pri- 
 
 ' of cloistered cells. 
 Iln the course of the night the old man had several 
 
 fits of restlessness and delirium; he would call out 
 upon Theophrastus, and Geber, and Albertus Mag- 
 nus, and other sages of his art ; and anon would mur- 
 muralwut fermentation and projection, until, towards 
 daylight, he once more sunk into a salutary sleep. 
 When the morning sun darted his rays into the case- 
 ment, the fair Inez, attended by the female domestic, 
 came blushing into tlie chaml)er. The student now 
 took his leave, having himself need of repose, but ob- 
 tained ready permission to return and inquire after 
 the sufferer. 
 
 Whia he called again, he found the alchymist 
 languid and in pain, but apparently suffering more in 
 mind than in body. His delirium had left him, and 
 he had been informed of the particulars of his deli- 
 verance, and of the subsequent attentions of the scho- 
 lar. He could do little more than look his thanks, 
 but Antonio did not require them; his own heart re- 
 paid him for all that he had done, and he almost re- 
 joiced in the disaster that had gained him an entrance 
 into this mysterious habitation. The alchymist was 
 so helpless as to need much assistance; Antonio re- 
 mained with him, therefore, the greater part of the 
 day. He repeated his visit the next day, and the next. 
 Every day his company seemed more pleasing to the 
 invalid ; and every day he felt his interest in the lat- 
 ter increasing. Perhaps the presence of tiie daughter 
 might have been at the bottom of this solicitude. 
 
 ile had frequent and long conversations with the 
 alchymist. He found him, as men of his pursuits 
 were apt to he, a mixture of enthusiasm and simplici- 
 ty ; of curious and extensive reading on points of little 
 utility, with great inattention to the every-day oc- 
 currences of life, and profound ignorance of the world. 
 He was deeply versed in singular and obscure branch- 
 es of knowledge, and much given to visionary spe- 
 culations. Antonio, whose mind was of a romantic 
 cast, had himself given some attention to the occult 
 sciences, and he entered upon those themes with an 
 ardour that delighted the pliilosopher. 1 iieir conver- 
 sations frequently turned upon astrology, divination, 
 and the great secret. The old man would forget his 
 aches and wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed, 
 and kindle into eloquence on his favourite topics. 
 When gently admonished of his situation, it would 
 but prompt him to another sally of thought. 
 
 " Alas, my son ! " he would say, " is not this very 
 decrepitude and sufferinganotherproof of the import- 
 ance of those secrets with which we are surrounded? 
 Why are we trammelled by disease, withered by old 
 age, and our spirits quenched, as it were, within us, 
 but because we have lost those secrets of life and 
 youth which were known to our parents before their 
 fall ? To regain these have philosophers been ever 
 since aspiring; but just as they are on the point of 
 securing the precious secrets for ever, the brief period 
 of life is at an end; they die, and with them all their 
 wisdom and experience. * Nothing, ' as De Nuysment 
 observes, ' nothing is wanting for man's perfection 
 but a longer life, less crossed with sorrows and ma- 
 
390 
 
 BUACEBRIDGE UALL. 
 
 W.i 
 
 ladies, to tlie attaining of the full and perfect know- 
 ledge of things. ' " 
 
 At length Antonio so far gained on tlie heart of his 
 patient, as to draw from him the outlines of his story. 
 
 Felix de Vasquez, the alcliymist, was a native of 
 Castile, and of an ancient and honourable hne. Early 
 in life he had married a beautiful female, a descend- 
 ant from one of the Moorish families. The marriage 
 displeased his father, who considered the pure Spa- 
 nish blood contaminated by this foreign mixture. It 
 is true, the lady traced her descent from one of the 
 Abencerrages, llie most gallant rf ^Joorish cavaliers, 
 who had embraced the Christian taith on being exil- 
 ed from the walls of Granada. The. injured pride of 
 the father, however, was not to be appeased. He 
 never saw his son afterwards ; and on dying left him 
 but a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the 
 residue, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the 
 erection of convents, and the performance of masses 
 for souls in purgatory. Don Felix resided for a long 
 time in the neighbourhood of Yalladulid, in a state of 
 embarrassment and obscurity. He devoted himself 
 to intense sludy, having, while at the university of Sa- 
 lamanca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. He 
 was enthusiastic and speculative; he , .nt on from 
 one branch of knowledge to another, until he became 
 zealous in the search after the grand Arcanum. 
 
 He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the 
 hopes of raising himself from his present obscurity, 
 and resuming the rank and dignity to which his birth 
 entitled him; but, as usual, it ended in absorbing 
 every thought, and becoming the business of his exist- 
 ence. He was at length aroused from this mental 
 abstraction by the calamities of his household. A 
 malignant fever swept off his wife and all his children, 
 excepting an infant daughter. These losses for a ti:ne 
 overwhelmed and stupefied him. His home had in a 
 manner died away from around him, and he felt lone- 
 ly and forlorn. When his spirit revived within him, 
 he determined to abandon the scene of his humiliation 
 and disaster ; to bear away the child that was slill left 
 him, beyond the scene of contagion, and never to re- 
 turn to Castile until he should be enabled to reclaim 
 the lionours of his line. 
 
 He had ever since been wandering and unsettled in 
 his abode. Sometimes the resident of populous cities, 
 at other times of absolute solitudes. He had search- 
 ed libraries, meditated on inscriptions, visited adepts 
 of different countries, and souglitto gather and con- 
 centrate the rays which had been thrown by various 
 minds upon the secrets of alchymy. He had at one 
 time travelled quite to Padua to search for (he manu- 
 scripts of Pietro d'Abano, and to inspect an urn which 
 had been dug up near Este, supposed to have been 
 buried by MaximusOlybius, and to have contained the 
 grand elLvir '. 
 
 ■ This urn was found in IS33, It contained a lesser one, in 
 wliich was a bnrnin;; tamp lietwixt two small vinls, the nnr uf 
 Kokl, the other of silver, both of them tbil of a very clear ll(|uor. 
 On (he langett wu an inicripUon, statino (hat Maxiinus Olybiui 
 
 While at Padua he had met with an adept veijieti 
 in Arabian lore, who talked of the invaluable nianii- 1 
 scripts that must remain in the Spanish libraries, pre. 
 served from the spoils of the Moorish academies and 
 imiversities ; of the probability of meeting with pre. 
 cioHs unpublished writings of Geber, and Alfarabius I 
 and Avicenna, the great physicians of the Arabiaij 
 schools, who, it is well known, had treated much of I 
 Alchymy; but above all, he spoke of the Arabian f 
 tablets of lead, which had recently been dug up j„ 
 the neighbourhood of Granada, and which, it viasj 
 confidently believed among adepts, contained Ibe lost I 
 secrete of the art. 
 
 The indefatigable alcbymist once more bent 14 1 
 steps for Spain, full of renovated hope. He had made I 
 his way to Granada : he had wearied himself in the I 
 study of Arabic, in decyphering inscriptions, in rum- 1 
 maging libraries, and exploring every possible trace] 
 left by the Arabian sages. 
 
 In all his wanderings he had been accompanied b? I 
 Inez ; through the rougli and the smooth, the ple.isant| 
 and the adverse ; never complaining, but ratberseek-f 
 ing to soothe his cares by her innocent and playfull 
 caresses. Her instruction had been the employnienll 
 and the deliglit of his hours of relaxaliov.. She lie;; 
 grown up while they were wandering, andhadscarce-l 
 ly ever known any home but by his side, lie wasi 
 family, friends, home, every thing to her. He liadi 
 carried her in his arms when they first bpj>an tlieirl 
 wayfaring ; had nestled her, as an eagle does its yoiinjT 
 among the rocky heights of the Sierra Murena ; j 
 had sported about him in childhood in the solitudal 
 of (he Batuecas ; bad followed him, as a lamb doeil 
 (he shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, and inlotl 
 fair plains of Languedoc ; and now she was grovtl 
 up to support his feeble steps among the ruin 
 abodes of her maternal ances(ors. 
 
 His property bad gradually wasted away in lit 
 course of bis travels and his experiments. Still liopi 
 the constant attendant of (he alchymist, had led ii| 
 on ; ever on the point of reaping the reward of I 
 labours, and ever disappointed. W^ith the credniiljl 
 that often attended his art, he attributed many oriii| 
 disappointments to the machinations of the ninlignai 
 spirits that beset the path of the alchymist, and < 
 ment him in his solitary labours. " It is tbeirc 
 slant endeavour, " he observed," to close up evci 
 avenue to tho^e sublime truths, which would cnaU 
 man to rise above the abject state into wliich lieli 
 fallen, and to return to bis original perfection. " 
 lite evil offices of these demons lie allrihuled hislalj 
 disaster. He had been on the very verge of the j 
 
 shut up in this small vessel elemcnls whicti he had prepared* 
 great toil. There were many diwiuisilions amoiis Hie leaninl^ 
 Itic 8ul)ject. It was the most received opinion, tliat tliis .Ma\iii 
 Olybius was an inhabitant of Padua, that be bad discoveiwH 
 great secret, and that these vessels contained li<|iior, onplolnf 
 mute metals to gold. Uie other to s.ivcr. The peasaiilswliofoo 
 the urn, imagining tids precious liquor to be common watcr.i 
 every drop, so that the art of transmuting metals remains ami 
 a secret as ever. 
 
\\- 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 391 
 
 I with an adept verseil I 
 )f the invahiable nianu- 1 
 e Spanish libraries, pre- 
 Moorish academies and | 
 y of meeting with pre- 
 ■ Geher, ajwl Alfarabius, 
 ysicians of tlie Arabian I 
 m, had treated muchol 
 ; spolie of the Arabian I 
 recently been dug lip in I 
 ada, and which, it was! 
 adepts, contained tlwlosll 
 
 (list once more bent liisi 
 rated hope, lie bad made I 
 d wearied himself in Uie 
 iring inscriptions, in rum- 
 jring every possible trace | 
 
 had been accompanied bj 
 id the smooth, the pleasant 
 nplaining, but rather seek 
 her innocent and playful 
 bad been the employment 
 irs of relaxatiov.. Slie Ik; 
 wandering, and had scarce- 
 but by his side. He wail 
 ery thing to her. He W 
 ■hen they lirst began their 
 r, as an eagle does its young,] 
 of the Sierra Morena; ' 
 childhood in the soliluda] 
 owed him, as a lainb doa 
 ged Pyrenees, and into the] 
 and now she was grovfi 
 steps among the ruii 
 cestors. 
 
 ually wasted away in 
 is experiments. Still hope,] 
 Ihe alchymist, had led hi 
 reaping the reward of hi 
 linted. With the crednt 
 t, he attributed many ofhi 
 chinationsofthemalignr 
 of the alchymist, and t( 
 labt)urs. " It is their 
 served, "to close up evi 
 .ruths, which would em 
 ect state into which be li 
 s original perfection." 
 jmons he attributed his 
 n the very verge of the 
 
 ncnU which he Iw'U'"!'"^* 
 tli«,,r.«lion8 among Ihe loamrf^ 
 bcciveU opinion, tliattliU MM 
 kdua, that lie had aiscovcredl 
 Lcl« contained iMinor, one tow 
 lto8.ivcr. Tl.ci.easaiiU«lw« 
 lis liquor to be commoinvalcM 
 
 ansmutingmetataremainiiMB' 
 
 rioiis discovery; never were the indications more 
 completely auspicious ; aH was going on prosperously, 
 when at the critical moment which should have 
 crowned his labours with success, and have placed 
 bun at the very summit of human power and felicity, 
 the bursting of a retort had reduced his laboratory 
 and himself to ruins. 
 
 "I must now," said he, "give up at the very 
 
 threshold of success. My books and papers are burnt; 
 
 niT apparatus is broken. I am loo old to bear up 
 
 a»ainsl these evils. The ardour that once inspired 
 
 me is gone ; my poor frame is exhausted by study 
 
 and watchfulness, and this last misfortune has hur- 
 
 [ried me towards the grave. " He concluded in a 
 
 one of deep dejection. Antonio endeavoured tocom- 
 
 Ttand reassure h'm; but the poor alchymist had 
 
 [or once awakened to a consciousness of the worldly 
 
 Is that were gathering around him, and had sunk 
 
 jiu despondency. After a pause, and some thought- 
 
 ialnessand perplexity of brow, Antonio ventured to 
 
 lake a proposal. 
 
 "I have long," said he, " been fdled with a love 
 
 r the secret sciences, but have felt too ignorant and 
 
 Snident to give myself up to them. You have ac- 
 
 lired experience ; you have amassed the knowledge 
 
 It a lifetime; it were a pity it should be thrown away. 
 
 oa say you are too old to renew the toils of the la- 
 
 iratory, suffer me to undertake them. Add your 
 
 iffledge to my youth and activity, and what shall 
 
 enot accomplish? As a probationary fee, and a 
 
 indon which to proceed, I will bring into the com- 
 
 n slock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy, 
 
 rhich has enabled me to complete my education. A 
 
 ir scholar cannot boast much ; but I trust we shall 
 
 input ourselves beyond the reach of want; and if 
 
 e should fail, why, I uiust depend, like other scho- 
 
 k upon my brains to car . me through the world." 
 
 The philosopher's spirits, however, were more de 
 
 than the student had imagined. This last 
 
 ick, following in the rear of so many disappoint- 
 
 |ents,had almost destroyed the reaction of his mind. 
 
 fee fire of an enthusiast, however, is never so low, 
 
 ^t that it may be blown again into a flame. By de- 
 
 i the old man was cheered and reanimated by 
 
 (buoyancy and ardour of his sanguine companion. 
 
 tat length agreed to accept of the services of the 
 
 ^dent, and once more to renew his experiments. 
 
 B objected, however, lousing the student's gold, 
 
 |itvrilhstanding that his own was nearly exhausted ; but 
 
 s objection was soon overcome; the student insist- 
 
 lon making it a common slock and common cause; 
 
 land then how absurd was any delicacy about such 
 
 tritle, with men who looked forward to discovering 
 
 b philosopher's stone ! 
 
 hv'hile,tlierefore, the alchymist was slowly recover- 
 
 |, the student busied himself in getting the labora- 
 
 once more in order. II was strewed with the 
 
 icks of retorts and alembics, with old crucibles, 
 
 ^es and phials of powders and tinctures, and half- 
 
 nt books and manuscripts. 
 
 As soon as the old man was sufflciently recovered, 
 the studies and experiments were renewed. Tlie 
 student became a privileged and frequent visitor, and 
 was indefatigable in his toils in the laboratory. The 
 philosopher daily derived new zeal and spirits from 
 the animation of his disciple. He was now enabled 
 to prosecute Ihe enterprize with continued exertion, 
 having so active a coadjutor to divide the U}\\. While 
 he was poring over the writings of Sandivogius, 
 and Philalethes, and Dominus de Nuysment, and 
 endeavouring to comprehend the symbolical language 
 in which they have locked up their mysteries, Antonio 
 would occupy himself among the retorts and crucibles, 
 and keep the furnace in a perpetual glow. 
 
 With all his zeal, however, for the discovery of the 
 golden art, the feelings of the student had not cooled 
 as to the object that flrst drew him to this ruinous 
 mansion. During the old man's illness, he had fire- 
 quent opportunities of being near the daughter; and 
 every day made him more sensible to her charms. 
 There was a pure simplicity, and an almost passive 
 gentleness in her manners; yet with all this was 
 mingled something, whether mere maiden shyness, 
 or a consciousness of high descent, or a dash of Cas- 
 tilian pride, or perhaps all united, that prevented 
 undue familiarity, and made her difficult of approach. 
 The danger of her father , and the measures to be 
 taken for his relief, had at first overcome this coyness 
 and reserve ; but as he recovered and her alarm sub- 
 sided, she seemed to shrink from the familiarity she 
 had indulged with the youthful stranger, and to be- 
 come every day more shy and silent. 
 
 Antonio had read many books, but this was the 
 first volume of womankind that he had ever studied. 
 He had been captivated with the very title-page ; hut 
 the farther he read the more he was delighted. She 
 seemed formed to love ; her soft black eye rolled lan- 
 guidly under its long silken lashes, and wherever it 
 turned, it would linger and repose ; there was tender- 
 ness in every beam. To him alone she was reserved 
 and distant. Now that the common cares of the sick, 
 room were at an end, he saw little more of her than 
 before his admission to the house. Sometimes he met 
 her on his way to and from the laboratory, and at 
 such times there was ever a smile and a blush; but, 
 after a simple salutation, she glided on and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 '"Tis plain," thought Antonio, "my presence is 
 indifferent, if not irksome to her. She has noticed 
 my admiration, and is determined to discourage it ; 
 nothing but a feeling of gratitude prevents her treat- 
 ing me with marked distaste — and then has she not 
 another lover, rich, gallant, splendid, musical ? how 
 can I suppose she would turn her eyes from so bril- 
 liant a cavalier, to a poor obscure student, raking 
 among the cinders of her father's laboratory'?" 
 
 Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader conti- 
 nually haunted his mind. He felt convinced that he 
 was a favoured lover; yet, if so, why did he not fre- 
 quent the tower? Why did he not make his ap- 
 
39!2 
 
 BRACEBRroGE HALL. 
 
 ■1^ 
 
 '1 
 
 ill 
 
 
 proaches by noon-day? There was mystery in this 
 eaves-dropping and musical courtship. Surely Inez 
 could not bie encouraging a secret intrigue ! Oh, no ! 
 she was loo artless, too pure, too ingenuous ! But 
 then Spanish females were so prone to love and in- 
 trigue ; and music and moonlight were so seductive, 
 and Inez had such a tender soul languishing in every 
 look. — "Oh!" would the poor scholar exclaim, clasp- 
 ing his hands, "Oh that I could but once behold 
 those loving eyes beaming on me with affection !" 
 
 It is incredible to those who have not experienced 
 it, on what scanty aliment human life and human love 
 may be supported. A dry crust, thrown now and 
 then to a starving man, will give him a new lease of 
 existence; and a faint smile, or a kind look, bestowed 
 at casual intervals, will keep a lover loving on, when 
 a man in his sober senses would despair. 
 
 When Antonio found himself alone in the labora- 
 tory, his mind would be haunted by one of these looks, 
 or smiles, which he had received in passing. He 
 would set it in every possible light, and argue on it 
 with all the self-pleasing, self-teasing logic of a lover. 
 
 The country around him was enough to awaken 
 that voluptuousness of feeling so favourable to the 
 growth of passion. The window of the tower rose 
 above the trees of the romantic valley of the Darro, 
 and looked down upon some of the loveliest scenery 
 of the Vega, where groves of citron and orange were 
 refreshed by cool springs and brooks of the purest 
 water. The Xenil and the Darro wound their shin- 
 ing streams along the plain, and gleamed from among 
 its bowers. The surrounding hills were covered with 
 vineyards, and the mountains, crowned with snow, 
 seemed to melt into the blue sky. The delicate aii-s 
 that played about the tower were perfumed by the 
 fragrance of myrtle and orange blossoms, and the ear 
 was charmed with the fond warbling of the night- 
 ingale, which, in these happy regions, sings the whole 
 day long. Sometimes, too, there was the idle song of 
 the muleteer, sauntering along the solitary road ; or 
 the notes of the guitar from some group of peasants 
 dancing in the shade. All these were enough to fill 
 the head of a young lover with poetic fancies; and 
 Antonio would picture to himself how he could loiter 
 among those happy groves, and wander by those 
 gentle rivers, and love away his life with Inez. 
 
 lie felt at times impatient at his own weakness, 
 and would endeavour to brush away these cobwebs 
 of the mine!. He would turn his thought, with sudden 
 effort, to iiis occult studies, or occupy himself in some 
 perple? ing process; but often, when he had partially 
 succejded in fixing his attention, the sound of Inez' 
 lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would come steal- 
 ing u.ton the stillness of the chamber, and, as it were, 
 floating round the tower. There was no great art 
 in her performance; but Antonio thought he had 
 never heard music comparable to this. It was perfect 
 witchcraft to hear her warble forth some of her na- 
 tional melodies; those little Spanish romances and 
 Moorish ballads that transport tlie hearer, in idea, to 
 
 the banks of the Guadalquivir, or the walls of the 
 Alhambra, and make him dream of beauties and 
 balconies, and moonlight serenades. 
 
 Never was poor student more sadly beset than An- 
 tonio. Love is a troublesome companion in a studr 
 at the best of times ; but in the laboratory of an akh- 
 mist his intrusion is terribly disastrous. Instead o( I 
 attending to the retorts and crucibles, and walcliin? I 
 the process of some experiment intrusted to his charoe 
 the student would get entranced in one of these love- 
 dreams, from which be would often be aroused br I 
 some fatal catastrophe. The philosopher, on return- 1 
 ing from his researches in the libraries, would lind 
 every thing gone wrong, and Antonio in despair ovtr 
 the ruins of the whole day's work. The old nian I 
 however, took all quietly, for his had been a life of I 
 experiment and failure. 
 
 "We must have patience, my son," would iiesay I 
 "as all the great masters that have gone before us j 
 have had. Errors, and accidents, and delays, are] 
 what we have to contend vilh. Did not Ponlannsl 
 err two hundred times before he could obtain evenl 
 the matter on which to found his experiments? Tliel 
 great Flamel, too, did he not labour four and twentjl 
 years, before he ascertained the first agent ? Whail 
 difficulties and hardships did not Cartilaceos en-l 
 counter, at the very threshold of his discoveries?! 
 And Bernard de Tr'^ves, even after he had allainedJ 
 knowledge of all the requisites, was he not delaycdl 
 full three years ? What you consider accidents, mrl 
 son, are the machinatians of our invisible enemieil 
 The treasures and golden secrets of nature aresiir-| 
 rounded by spirits hostile to man. The air aliontii 
 teems with tliem. They lurk in the fire of tliefm 
 nace, in the bottom of the crucible and llie alembi 
 and are ever on the alert to take advantage of liios 
 moments when our minds are wandering from !» 
 tense meditation on the great truth that wearesedl 
 ing. We must only strive the more to purify on 
 selves from those gross and earthly feelings niii( 
 becloud the soul, and prevent her from piercinginl 
 nature's arcana." 
 
 " Alas !" thought Antonio, " if to be purilied fra 
 all earthly feeling requires that I should cease loloij 
 Inez, I fear I shall never discover the pliilosophn 
 stone!" 
 
 In this way matters went on for some lime at ll 
 alchymist's. Day after day was sending the sladenlj 
 gold in vapour up the chimney; every blast of ll 
 furnace made him a ducat the poorer, without i 
 parently helping him a jot nearer to the golden set 
 Still the young man stood by, and saw piece all| 
 piece disappearing without a murmur : he had i 
 an opportunity of seeing Inez, and felt as iflierfavt 
 would be heller than silver or gold, and Ihatevej 
 smile was worth a ducat. 
 
 Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, whend 
 toils of llie laboratory happened to be suspended,! 
 would walk with the alchymisl in what had onceh 
 a gaixlen belonging to the mansion. There ' 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 rm 
 
 r, or ihe walls of the 
 earn of beauties , and 
 lades. 
 
 re sadly beset than An- 
 ; companion in a study 
 B laboratory of an alclj- 
 disastrous. Instead ol i 
 crucibles, and walcliing 
 It intrusted to his cliarge, 
 ced in one of these lov^ 
 lid often be aroused by 
 ; philosopher, on return- 
 he libraries, would find I 
 d A ntonio in despair over 
 's work. The old nun, I 
 i)r bis had been a lifeot] 
 
 !, my son," would he say, 
 that have gone before m 
 ccidents, and delays, are 
 villi. Did not Ponlanns 
 fore be could obtain e\en 
 iindbis experiments? The 
 not labour four and twenty 
 led the iivst agent? Wliall 
 J did not Carlilaceus en- 
 leshold of his discoveries?' 
 •ven after he had attained 
 [uisites, was be not delayed] 
 you consider accidents, my 
 IS of our invisible enemies.] 
 n secrets of nature are sut' 
 i to man. The air alwnt 
 lurk in the fire of theft 
 fe crucible and tlie aleml 
 to take advantage ofll 
 ds are wandering from 
 reat truth that we are 
 ye the more to purify oi 
 and earthly feelings wli 
 event her from piercing 
 
 onio, 
 
 "iftobepuriiiedfra 
 es that I should cease to lofj 
 fer discover the pliilosopha 
 
 irent on for some timealllj 
 
 lay was sending tliestudem 
 
 Ichimney; every blast of l*^ 
 
 Vat the poorer, without^ 
 
 lot nearer to the golden se( 
 
 lood by, and saw piece a« 
 
 out a murmur: he had M 
 
 I Inez, and felt as if her favt 
 
 lilveroi gold, and that ev(( 
 
 lol of the evening, whenll 
 appened to be suspended,! 
 Iiymistinwhalhadoncel)' 
 ithe mansion. There « 
 
 still the remains of terraces and balustrades, and here 
 and there a marble urn, or mutilated statue over- 
 turned, and buried, among weeds and flowers run 
 wild. It was the favourite resort of the alchymist in 
 Ills hours of relaxation, where be would give full 
 scope to his visionary flights. His mind was tinctureil 
 with the Uosicrucian doctrines. He believed in ele- 
 mentary beings ; some favourable, others adverse to 
 his pursuits ; and, in the exaltation of his fancy, bad 
 often imagined that be held communion with them in 
 his solitary walks about the whispering groves and 
 echoing walls of this old garden. 
 
 When accompanied by Antonio, he wouhl prolong 
 these evening recreations. Indeed, be sometimes did 
 It out of consideration for his disciple, fur be feared 
 lest his too close application, and his incessant seclu- 
 lon in the tower, should be injurious to his health, 
 le was delighted and surprised by this extraordinary 
 and perseverance in so young a tyro, and looked 
 ipon him as destined to be one of the great lu- 
 laries of the art. Lest the student should repine 
 it the time lost in these relaxations, the good alchy- 
 lisl would fill them up with wholesome knowledge, 
 matters connected with their pursuits; and would 
 alk up and down the alleys with bis disciple, im- 
 irtingoral instruction, like an ancient philosopher, 
 all his visionary schemes there breathed a spirit of 
 y, though chimerical, philanthropy, that won the 
 niration of the scholar. Nothing sordid, nor sen- 
 al; nothing petty nor selQsh seemed to enter into 
 s views, in respect to the grand discoveries he was 
 jiticipating. On the contrary, his imagination kin- 
 Iwith conceptions of widelydispensated happiness. 
 [ looked forward to the time when he should be 
 ^e to go about the earth relieving the indigent, com- 
 tting the distressed; and, by his unlimited means, 
 |\ising and executing plans for the complete extir- 
 |tion of poverty, and all its attendant sufferings and 
 nes. Never were grander schemes for general 
 d, for the distribution of boundless wealth and uni- 
 lal competence, devised, than by this poor indi- 
 ct alchymist in his ruined tower. 
 \ntonio would attend these peripatetic lectures 
 1 all Ihe ardour of a devotee ; but there was an- 
 ler circumstance which may have given a secret 
 1 to them. The garden was the resort also of 
 |z, where she took her walks of recreation; the 
 exercise that her secluded life permitted. As 
 ionio was duleously pacing by the side of bis in- 
 
 bctor, he would often catch a glimpse of the 
 ghler, walking pensively about the alleys in the 
 [twilight. Sometimes they would meet her un- 
 ctedly, and the heart of the student would throb 
 1 agitation . A blush too would crimson I he cheek 
 bez, but still she passed on, and never joined them, 
 fe had remained one evening, until rather a late 
 
 I with the alchymist in this favourite resort. It 
 I a delightful night after a sultry day, and the 
 W air of the garden was peculiarly reviving. 
 
 old man was seated on a fragment of a pedestal, 
 
 looking like a part of the niin on which he sat. He 
 was edifying his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from 
 the stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in 
 the dark blue vault of a southern sky ; for he was 
 deeply versed in Behmen, and other of the Rosicru- 
 cians, and talked much of the signature of earthly 
 things, and passing events, which may be discerned 
 in the heavens; of the power of the stars over cor- 
 poreal beings, and their influence on the fortunes of 
 the sons of men. 
 
 By degrees the moon rose, and shed her gleaming 
 light among the groves. Antonio apparently listened 
 with fixed attention to the sage, hut his ear was 
 drinking in the melody of Inez' voice, who was sing- 
 ing to her lute in one of the moonliglit glades of the 
 garden. The old man, having exhausted his Iheme, 
 sat gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio 
 could not resist an inclination to steal a look at this 
 coy beauty, who was thus playing the part of the 
 nightingale, so seiiuestered and musical. Leaving the 
 alchymist in his celestial reverie, he stole gently along 
 one of the alleys. The music had ceased, and he 
 thought he beard the sound of voices. He came to 
 an angle of a copse that had screened a kind of green 
 recess, ornamented by a marble fountain. The moon 
 shone full upon the place, and by its light, he beheld 
 his unknown serenading rival at the feet of Inez. He 
 was detaining her by the hand, which he covered 
 with kisses ; but at sight of Antonio he started up and 
 half drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged, fled 
 back to the house. 
 
 All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio were 
 now confirmed. He did not remain to encounter the 
 resentment of his happy rival at being thus interrupt- 
 ed, but turned from the place in sudden wretched- 
 ness of heart. That Inez should love another would 
 have been misery enough ; but that she should be ca- 
 pable of a dishonourable amour, shocked him to the 
 soul. The idea of deception in so young and appa- 
 rently artless a being, brought with it that sudden 
 distrust in human nature, so sickening to a youthful 
 and ingenuous mind ; but when he thought of the kind 
 simple parent she was deceiving, whose afiections all 
 centered in her, he felt for a moment a sentiment of 
 indignation, and almost of aversion. 
 
 He found the alchymist still seated in his visionary 
 contemplation of the moon. " Come hither, my son, " 
 said he, with his usual enthusiasm, come, " read with 
 me in this vast volume of wisdom, thus nightly un- 
 . folded fur our perusal. Wisely did the Ciialdean 
 sages affirm, that the heaven is as a mystic page, ut- 
 tering speech to those who can rightly understand ; 
 warning them of good and evil, and instructing 
 them in the secret decrees of fate. " 
 
 The student's heart ached fur his venerable mas- 
 ter; and, for a moment, he felt the futility of all his 
 occult wisdom. " Alas ! poor old man ! " thought 
 be, " of what avails all thy study ? Little dost thou 
 dream, while busied in airy speculations among the 
 stars, what a treason against thy liappiness is going 
 
•3»t 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 on under Ihine eyes ; as it were, in thy very bosom ! 
 — Oil Iner ! Inez ! wlicre shall we look for inilh and 
 innocence ; where sliall we re|M)se conlidence in wo- 
 man, if even yon can deceive ? " 
 
 II was a trite apostrophe, such as every lover makes 
 when he duds his mistress not (piite such a goddess 
 as he had painted her. With the student, however, 
 it sprung from honest anguish of heart. lie returned 
 to his lodgings in pitiable confusion of mind. He 
 now deplored the infatuation that had led him on 
 until his feelings were so thoroughly engaged. He 
 resolved to abandon his pursuiU at the tower, and 
 trust to absence to dispel the fascination by which he 
 had been spell-bound, lie no longer thirsted after 
 the discovery of the grand elixir; the dream of al- 
 chymywas over; for without Inez, what was the 
 value of the philosopher's stone ? 
 
 He rose, after a sleepless night, with the determi- 
 nation of taking his leave of the alchymist, and tearing 
 himself from Granada. For several days did he rise 
 with the same resolution, and every night saw him 
 mme back to his pillow to repine at his want of reso- 
 lution, and to make fresh determinations for the mor- 
 row. In the mean while he saw less of Inez than 
 ever. She no longer walked in the garden, but re- 
 mained almost entirely in her apartment. When she 
 met him, she blushed more than usual ; a:id once he- 
 sitated, as if she would have spoken ; but after a tem- 
 porary embarrassment, and still deeper blushes, she 
 made some casual observation, and retired. Antonio 
 read in this confusion a consciousness of fault, and of 
 that fault's being discovered. " What could she have 
 ■wished to communicate ? Perhaps to account for the 
 scene in the garden ; — but how can she account for it, 
 or why should she account for it to me ? What am 
 I to her ?— or rather, what is she to me ? " exclaimed 
 he, impatiently; with a new resolution to break 
 through these entanglements of the heart, and ily 
 from this enchanted spot for ever. 
 
 He was returning that very night to his lodgings, full 
 of this excellent determination, when, in a shadowy 
 part of the road, he passed a person, whom he re- 
 cognised, by his height and form, for his rival : he 
 was going in the direction of ihe tower. If any linger- 
 ing doubts remained, here was an opportunity of set- 
 tling them completely. He determined to follow this 
 unknown cavalier, and under favour of the darkness, 
 observe his movements. If he obtained access to the 
 tower, or in any way a favourable reception, Antonio 
 felt as if it would be a relief to his mind, and would 
 enable him to fix his wavering resolution. 
 
 The unknown, as he came near the tower, was 
 more cautious and stealthy in his approaches. He 
 was joined under a clump of trees by another person, 
 and they had much whispering together. A light 
 was burning in the chamber of Inez, the curtain was 
 down, but the casement was left open, as the night 
 was warm. After some time, the light was extin- 
 guished. A considerable interval elapsed. The ca- 
 valier and ]m companion remained under cover of 
 
 the trees, as If keeping watch. At length tliey ^n. 
 proached the tower with silent and cautious steps 
 The cavalier received a dark lantern from Ins coin- 
 panion, and threw off his cloak. The other then I 
 softly brought something from the clump of trm f 
 which Antonio perceived to be a light ladder: he I 
 placed it against the wall, and the serenader genllr I 
 ascended. A sickening sensation came over Antonio [ 
 Here was indeed a confirmation of every fear. j|J 
 was about to leave the place, never to return, flhe„| 
 he heard a stifled shriek from Inez' chamber. 
 
 In an instant the fellow that stood at the footofi||(| 
 ladder lay prostrate on the ground. Antonio wresiedl 
 a stiletto from his nerveless hand, and hurried up tl 
 ladder. He sprang in at the window, and found Ino 
 struggling in the grasp of his fancied rival : the iatterj 
 disturbed from his prey, caught up his lantern, tun 
 ed its light full -.ipon Antonio, and drawing hissTronjJ 
 made a furious assault; luckily the student sawt 
 light gleam along the blade, and parried the tlin 
 with the stiletto. A fierce, but unequal combat < 
 sued. Antonio fought exposed to the full glare a 
 Ihe light, while his antagonist was in shadow: 
 stiletto, too, was but a poor defence against a rapi 
 He saw that nothing would save him, hulclosingwili 
 his adversary and getting within his weapon : I 
 rushed furiously upon him, and gave him a sera 
 blow with the slilelto ; but received a wound in relni 
 from the shortened sword. At the same moineull 
 blow was inflicted from behind, by the conrederslf 
 who had ascended the ladder; it felled liini to Ij 
 floor, and his antagonists made their escape. 
 
 By this time the cries of Inez had brought lieri 
 ther and the domestic to the room. Antonio i 
 found weltering in his blood, and senseless. Hei 
 conveyed to the chamber of the alchymist, wlion 
 repaid in kind the attentions which the student li 
 once bestowed upon him. Among his varied km 
 ledge he possessed some skill in surgery, whidij 
 this moment was of more value than even liisc 
 mical lore. He stanched and dressed the woiindil 
 his disciple, which on examination proved lessd 
 perate than he had at first apprehended. Forai 
 days, however, his case was anxious, and alteni 
 with danger. The old man watched over him \ 
 the affection of a parent. He felt a double dditl 
 gratitude t'>wardshim on account ofliisdaugiilerij 
 himself; he loved him too as a faithful and zeali 
 disciple; and he dreaded lest Ihe world shouldl 
 deprived of the promising talents of so aspiring Jij 
 chymisl. 
 
 An excellent constitution soon medicinedj 
 wounds; and there was a balsam in Ihelonks^ 
 words of Inez, that had a healing effect on still stn 
 wounds which he carried in his heart. She displ 
 the strongest interest in his safety ; she called Jiiis] 
 deliverer, her preserver. It seemed as if her grit 
 disposition sought, in the warmth of its acknowld 
 ments, to repay him for past coldness. But i 
 most contributed to Antonio's recovery, washerl 
 
 
BRACEBltlDGE MALL. 
 
 Tm 
 
 ;h. At length ihey ap- 
 lent and cautious steps. 
 [ lantern from Iiis coin- 
 cloak. The other ihen 
 fom the clump of Irew, 
 be a light ladder: he 
 md the serenader genily 
 nation came over Antonio. 
 lation of every fear. He 
 e, never lo return, when] 
 mi Inez' chamber, 
 .hat stood at the foot of ihel 
 ground. Antonio wrested! 
 ;shand, and huvrieil up 
 lie window, and found! 
 his fancied rival : the latter, 
 .aught up his lantern, turn, 
 iiio, and drawing his swoni, 
 luckily the student saw tl 
 ide and parried the tlii 
 ce, but unequal combat 
 exposed to the full glare 
 agonist was in shadow:! 
 mv defence against a ra| 
 dd save him, but closing wil 
 ng within bis weapon ; 
 nm, and gave him a sew 
 ut received a wound in reti 
 )vd. At the same moment 
 » behind, by the confederal 
 ( ladder; it felled him to 
 is made their escape. 
 of Inez had brought her 
 lo the room. Antonio 
 ilootl, and senseless, lie 
 «r of the alchymist, who 
 nlions which the student 
 ira. Among his varied ki 
 (le skill in surgery, whick 
 nore value than even Im 
 ed and dressed the wouiiibl 
 examination proved less' 
 irst apprehended. For a 
 se was anxious, and altei 
 man watched over him 
 nt. He felt a double deiill 
 on account of his daughter 
 loo as a faithful and zei 
 
 ded lest the world should 
 |ing talents of so aspiring a| 
 
 litution soon medlcined 
 as a balsam in the loflb 
 a healing effect on still se| 
 lied in his heart. Shedisf 
 lnhis8afety;she called inm 
 It seemed as if Iter p«f 
 he warmth of its acknov.1 
 
 for past coldness. W 
 tonic's recovery, >^'«heti 
 
 |r. 
 
 nianation concerning his supposed rival. It was some 
 
 lime since be had first beheld her at church, and he 
 
 bad ever since persecuted her with bis attritions. 
 
 lie had beset her in her walks, until she bad been 
 
 yjjliwed to confine Iierself to the bouse, except when 
 
 accompanied by her father. He bad besieged her 
 
 with letters, serenades, and every art by which be 
 
 could urge a vehement, but clandestine and disho- 
 
 iourable suit. The scene in the garden was as much 
 
 1 3 surprise to her as to Antonio. Her persecutor 
 
 d been attracted by her voice, and had found bis 
 
 ay over a ruined part of the wall. He had come 
 
 ipon her unawares; was detaining her by force, and 
 
 leading his insulting passion, when the appearance 
 
 {the student interrupted bim, and enabled her to 
 
 ike her escape. She had forborne to mention lo 
 
 ler father the persecution which she suffered ; she 
 
 islied to spare him unavailing anxiety and distress, 
 
 ind had determined lo confine herself more rigorously 
 
 the house; though it appeared that even here she 
 
 not been safe from his daring enterprize. 
 
 Antonio inquired whether she knew the name of 
 
 impetuous admirer? She replied that he bad 
 
 lade his advances under a fictitious name ; but that 
 
 le had heard him once calleil by the name of Don 
 
 ibrosio de Loxa. 
 
 Antonio knew him by report, fur one of the most 
 itermined and dangerous libertines in all Granada, 
 rtful, accomplished, and, if be chose to be so, insi- 
 iting; but daring and headlong in the pursuit of 
 pleasures; violent and implacable in his resent- 
 !nL<s. He rejoiced to And that Inez had been proof 
 inst his setluctions, and bad been inspired with 
 jersion by his splendid profligacy; but he trembled 
 think of the dangers she bad run, and he felt suli- 
 ide about the dangers that must yet environ her. 
 I present, however, it was probable the enemy 
 a temporary quietus. The traces of blooil had 
 n found for some distance from the ladder, until 
 y were lost among thickets; and as nothing had 
 n heard or seen of him since, it was concluded that 
 bad been seriously wounded. 
 s the student recovered from his wounds, he was 
 bled to join Inez and her father in their domestic 
 rcouise. The chamber in which they usually 
 had probably been a saloon of state in former 
 les. The floor was of marble; the walls partially 
 |ered with the remains of tapestry ; the chairs, 
 iljfcaiVedand gilt, were crazed with age, and co- 
 id with tarnished and tattered brocade. Against 
 wall hung a long rusty rapier, the only relique 
 the old man retained of the chivalry of his nn- 
 lors. There might have been something lo pro- 
 |e a smile in the contrast between the mansion and 
 inhabitants; between present poverty and the 
 of departed grandeur ; but the fancy of the stu- 
 Itliad thrown so much romance about the edifice 
 its inmates, that every thing was clothed with 
 The philosopher, with his broken-down 
 le, and hi« strange pinsuits, seemed to comport 
 
 with the melancholy ruin be inhabited; and there 
 was a native elegance of spirit about tlie daughter, 
 that showed she would have graced the mansion in 
 its happier days. 
 
 What delicious moments were these to the student ! 
 Inez was no lunger coy and reserved. She was na- 
 turally artless and confiding; though the kind of per- 
 secution she bad experienced from one admirer bad 
 rendered her, for a lime, suspicious and circumspect 
 toward the other. She now felt an entire confidence 
 in the sincerity and worth of Antonio, mingled with 
 an overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met bis, 
 they beamed with sympathy and kindness; and An- 
 tonio, no longer haunted by the idea of a favoured 
 rival, once more aspired to success. 
 
 At these domestic meetings, however, he had little 
 opportunity of paying his court, except by looks. The 
 alchymist supposing him, like himself, absorl)ed in 
 the study of alchymy, endeavoured lo cheer the te- 
 diousness of his recovei^ by long conversations on the 
 art. He even brought several of his half-burnt vo- 
 lumes, which the student had once rescued from the 
 flames, and rewarded him for their preservation, by 
 reading copious passages. He would entertain him 
 with the great and good acts ofFlamel, which be 
 efiected through the means of the philosopher's stone, 
 relieving widows and orphans, founding hospitals, 
 building churches, and what not; or with the inter- 
 rogatories of King Kalid, and the answers of Morienus, 
 the Roman hermit of Hierusalem ; or the profound 
 questions which Elardus, a necromancer of the pro- 
 vince of Catalonia, put to the Devil, touching the se- 
 crets of alchymy, and the Devil's replies. 
 
 All these were couched in occult language, almost 
 unintelligible to the unpractised ear of the disciple. 
 Indeed, the old man delighted in the mystic phrases 
 and symbolical jargon in which the writers that have 
 treated of alchymy have wrapped their communica- 
 tions; rendering them incomprehensible except to 
 the initiated. With what rapture would he elevate 
 bis voice at a triumphant passage, announcing the 
 grand discovery ! " Thou shall see," would he ex- 
 claim in the words of Henry Kulmrade,' " the stone 
 of the philosophers (our king) go forth of the bed- 
 chamber of his glassy sepulchrr into the theatre of 
 this world ; that is to say, regenerated and made per- 
 fect, a shining carbuncle, a most temperate splen- 
 dour, whose most subtle and depurated parts are 
 inseparable, united into one with a concordial mix- 
 ture, exceeding equal, transparent as crystal, shining 
 red like a ruby, permanently colouring or ringing, 
 lixt in all temptations or trials; yea, in the examina- 
 tion of Iht burning sulphur itself, and the devoiu-ing 
 waters, and in the most vehement persecution of the 
 Are, always incombustible and permanent as a sala- 
 mander ! " 
 
 The student bad a high veneration for the fathers 
 of alchymy, and a profound respect for his instructor ; 
 bill wbat was Ilcnry Kuhnrade, (iebcr, Lully, or 
 
 ..„.,,' ' AiiipliitlicflliPoftlieKlri'i)*! WImIoiu, 
 
7m 
 
 BHACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 Hi 
 
 
 X 
 
 «; 
 
 
 even Albertus Magnus hiiDsclf, compared to the 
 countenance of Inez, whicli presented such a page of 
 beauty to his perusal ? While, therefore, the good 
 aichymist was doling out knowledge by the hour, his 
 disciple would forget books, alchymy, every thing 
 but the lovely object before him. Inez, too, un- 
 practised in the science of the heart, was gradually 
 becoming fascinated by the silent attentions of her 
 lover. Day by day she seemed more and more per- 
 plexed by the kindling and strangely pleasing emo- 
 tions of her bosom. Her eye was oflen cast down in 
 thought. Blushes stole to her cheek wilhoutany ap' 
 parent cause, and light, half-suppressed sighs, would 
 follow these short (its of musing. Her little ballads, 
 though the same that she had always sung, yet 
 breathed a more tender spirit. Either the tones of 
 her voice were more soft and touching, or some pas- 
 sages were delivered with a feeling which she had 
 never before given them. Antonio, besides his love 
 for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music; 
 and never did philosopher touch the guitar more taste- 
 fully. As, by degrees, he conquered the mutual em- 
 barrassment that kept them asunder, he ventured to 
 accompany Inez in some of her songs. He had a 
 voice full of fire and .enderness : as he sang, one 
 would have thought, from the kindling blushes of 
 his companion, that he had been pleading his own 
 passion in her ear. Let those who would keep two 
 youthful Iiearls asunder beware of music. Oh ! this 
 leaning over chairs, and conning the same music- 
 book, and entwining the voices, and melting away in 
 harmonies !— the German waltz is nothing to it. 
 
 The worthy alchynjist saw nothing of all this. 
 His mind could admit of no idea that was not con- 
 nected with the discovery of the grand Arcanum, and 
 he supposed his youthful coadjutor equally devoted. 
 He was a mere child as to human nature ; and, as to 
 the passion of love, whatever he might once have felt 
 of it, he had long since forgotten that there was such 
 an idle passion in existence. But, while he dreamed, 
 the silent amour went on. The very quiet and se- 
 clusion of the place were favourable to the growth 
 of romantic passion. The opening bud of love was 
 able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an adverse 
 wind to check its growth. There was neither offi- 
 cious friendship to chill by its advice, nor insidious 
 envy to wither by its sneers, nor an observing world 
 to look on and stare it out of countenance. There 
 was neither declaration, nor vow, nor any other form 
 of Cupid's canting school. Their hearts mingled to- 
 gether, and understood each other without the aid of 
 language. They lapsed into the fidl current of af- 
 fection, unconscious of its depth, and thoughtless of 
 the rocks that might lurk beneath its surface. Happy 
 lovers I who wanted nothing to make the'r felicity 
 complete, but Ihediscovery ofthe philosopher's stone! 
 
 At length Antonio's health was sufficiently restored 
 to enable him to return to his lodgings in Granada. 
 He felt uneasy, however, at leaving the tower, while 
 lurking danger might surround its almost defenceless 
 
 inmates. He dreaded lest Don Ambrosio, recovereij 
 from his wounds, might plot some new attempt, by I 
 secret art, or open violence. From all that he bad I 
 heard, he knew him to be too implacable to suOtrl 
 his defeat to pass unavenged, and too rash and fear- 1 
 less, when his arts were unavailing, to stopatann 
 daring deed in the accomplishment of his purposes,! 
 He urged his apprehensions to the aichymist and M 
 daughter, and proposed that they should abandon tbel 
 dangerous vicinity of Granada. 
 
 " I have relations," said he, " in Valencia, poof I 
 indeed, but worthy and affectionate. Among ib(a| 
 you will find friendship and quiet, and we may ^ 
 pursue our labours unmolested." He went on i 
 paint the beauties and delights of Valencia with n\ 
 the fondnesr of a native, and all the eloquence «i| 
 which a lover paints the fields and groves wliichb 
 is picturing as the future scenes of his liappiness.| 
 His eloquence, backed by the apprehensions of Ina 
 was successful with the aichymist, who, indeed,! 
 led too unsettled a life to be particular about (Ik 
 place of his residence ; and it was determined, i 
 as soon as Antonio's health was perfectly restw 
 they should abandon the tower, and seek the deli] 
 cious neighbourhood of Valencia.' 
 
 To recruit his strength, the student suspended li| 
 toils in the laboratory, and spent the few reniaini 
 days, before departure, in taking a farewell loot a 
 the enchanting environs of Granada. He felt retoi 
 ing health and vigour as he inhaled the pure tei 
 rate breezes that play about its hills ; and the liapi 
 state of his mind contributed to his rapid recova 
 Inez was oflen the companion of his walks. Herd 
 cent, by the mother's side, from one of the am 
 Moorish families, gave her an interest in this oncelj 
 vourite seat of Arabian power. She gazed wilhe 
 thusiasm upon its magnificent monuments, andb 
 memoi7 was filled with the traditional tales andb 
 laus of Moorish chivalry. Indeed the solitary lifeil 
 had led, and the visionary turn of her father's i 
 had produced an effect upon her character, and g 
 it a tinge of what, in modern days, would be t 
 ed romance. All this was called into full Torcebyl^ 
 new passion; for, when a woman first begins toll 
 life is all romance to her. 
 
 In one of their evening strolls, they had asceni 
 to the mountain ofthe Sun, where is situated theCj 
 neralife, the palace of pleasure in the days of Mo( 
 dominion, but now a gloomy convent of capucli| 
 They had wandered about its garden, among ^ 
 of orange, citron and cypress, where tlie waters,l 
 
 ' Here are tlie stmngest sillts, tlie sweetest wines, tliecicelk 
 almonds, ttie l>e8t oyLsamI l)cautirull'st reinalcs otall S[)ain. 
 very l)ruit animals snake themselves beds of rosemary, anlij 
 fragrant nowcre licrcaliouts; and when one is at sea, if the » 
 blow from the shore, he may smell this soyi iKfurc he c 
 sight of it many leai;ucs off, by the strong odorifpromsceiitil< 
 As it is the must pleasant, so it is also the leni|)erat'st cliimj 
 Spain, and they commonly call it the second Italy; wliicli n 
 MiKU's, whereof many Uiousands were disterr'd anil I 
 hence to Barbary, to think that I'aradiM! was in thatiartd 
 hcavcnt which hung over this uitlo. )lowiiLi.'fi L"! 
 
BRACEBRIDGE ILUX. 
 
 307 
 
 Don Ambroslo, recovered I 
 jt some new attempt, by I 
 le. From all that he had 
 J too implacable to mh\ 
 :d, and too rash and fear- 
 unavailing, to stopatinj 
 [ilishment of his purpose.! 
 IS to the alchymist and hjil 
 at they should abandon tbel 
 lada. I 
 
 id he, " in Valencia, p,l 
 iffectionate. Among ilienl 
 id quiet, and wemaylhi 
 jlested." He went on J 
 elights of Valencia with J 
 and all the eloquence wHl 
 fields and groves whichbJ 
 re scenes of his liappine&l 
 f the apprehensions of I 
 alchymist, who, indeed,! 
 to be particular about I 
 ind it was determined, Ih) 
 jlth was perfectly restorM 
 le tower, and seek the det 
 Valencia." 
 \i, the student suspended iJ 
 and spent the few reraainin 
 , in taking a farewell look I 
 } of Granada, lie fell retui 
 s he inhaled the pure tei 
 jbout its hills; and the hapi 
 ibuted to his rapid recova 
 lanion of his walks. Herd 
 side, from one of the anoa 
 her an interest in thisoncefj 
 power. She gazed withe 
 jnificent monuments, andk 
 1 the traditional tales andh 
 y. Indeed the solitary lite J 
 aryturn of her father's r| 
 upon her character, and gni 
 modern days, would be led 
 was called into full forcebyll 
 1 a woman first begins lol 
 
 iT. 
 
 ing strolls, they had ascei 
 Sun, where is situated tlie( 
 deasure in the days of Mo- 
 gloomy convent of capncl 
 joutils garden, among gr 
 Jj-press, where the waters, 
 
 Iks, ttieswectcst wines, Ihecicel 
 Tbcautitull'st females of all Sinin, 
 Jcmsclves l)eds of rosemary, ana 
 i; aiul wtien one is at sea, it Hie ' 
 laysmeUthissoylltefuicheix 
 Lytlie strong odoriforonsscentil 
 loitisalsotlielpnnicrat'sicli"* 
 tall it llie second Italy; >vliicl'" 
 lusands were disterrd and 
 1 that Paradise was inlhali«ti 
 IhiscUio. Uo«ni.'sW 
 
 Dig in ton-enis or gushing in fountains, or tossed aloft 
 
 in sparkling jets, fill (he air with music and freshness. 
 
 'here is a melancholy mingled with all the beauties 
 
 ,f this garden, that gradually stole over the feelings 
 
 if the lovers. The place is full of the sad story of 
 
 it times. It was the favourite abode of the lovely 
 
 queen of Granada, where she was surrounded by the 
 
 delights of a gay and voluptuous court. It was here, 
 
 too, amidst her own bowers of roses, that her slan- 
 
 lererslaid the base story of her dishonour, and struck 
 
 fetal blow to the line of the gallant Abencerrages. 
 
 The whole garden has a look of ruin and neglect. 
 
 Ifanyofthe fountains are dry and broken; the streams 
 
 liave wandered from their marble channels, and are 
 
 •hoked by weeds and yellow leaves. The reed 
 
 hislles to the wind where it had once sported among 
 
 i, and shaken perfume from the orange blossom. 
 
 he convent bell flings its sullen sound, or the drowsy 
 
 reaper hymn floats along these solitudes, which once 
 
 iounded with the song, and the dance, and the 
 
 iver's serenade. Well may the Moors lament over 
 
 he loss of this earthly paradise ; well may they re- 
 
 lemher it in their prayers, and beseech heaven to 
 
 itoreit to the faithful; m'cII may their ambassadors 
 
 lite their breasts when they behold these monu- 
 
 lents of their race, and sit down and weep among 
 
 16 fading glories of Granada ! 
 
 It is ini|)Ossible to wander about these scenes of 
 
 leparted love and gaiety, and not feel the tenderness 
 
 II the heart awakened. It was then that Antonio 
 
 bl ventured to breathe his passion, and to express 
 
 ly words what his eyes had long since so eloquently 
 
 ivealed. He made his avowal with fervour, but 
 
 ith frankness. He had no gay prospects to hold 
 
 It; he was a poor scholar, dependent on his "good 
 
 Nrits to feed and lothe him." But a woman in 
 
 ire is no interested calculator. Inez listened to him 
 
 ith downcast eyes, but in them was a humid gleam 
 
 lal showed her heart was with him. She had no 
 
 prudery in her nature ; and she had not been sufficient- 
 
 in society to acquire it. ' She loved him with all the 
 
 lence of worklliness of a genuine woman; and, 
 
 jmidst timid smiles and bfUshes, he drew from her a 
 
 ilesl acknowledgment of her affection. 
 
 They wandered about the garden with that sweet 
 
 itoxication of the soul which none but happy lovers 
 
 low. The world about them was all fairy land ; and, 
 
 leed, it spread forth one of its fairest scenes before 
 
 leir eyes, as if to fulfil their dream of earthly hap- 
 
 iness. They looked out from between groves of 
 
 'ange upon the towers of Granada below them ; the 
 
 ignificent plain of the Vega beyond, streaked with 
 
 ening sunshine, and the distant hills tinted with 
 
 iy and purple hues; it seemed an emblem of the 
 
 ippy future that love and hope was decking out for 
 
 lem. 
 
 As if to make the scene complete, a group of Anda- 
 iians struck up a dance, in out of the vistas of the 
 inlen, to the guitars of two wandering musicians. 
 leSpanishmusic is wildand plaintive, yet ihepcnple 
 
 dance to it with spirit and enthusiam. The pictu- 
 resque figures of the dancers ; the girls with their hair 
 in silken nets that hung in knots and tassels down their 
 backs, their mantillas floating round their graceful 
 forms, their slender feet peeping from under their 
 basquinas, their arms tossed up in the air to play the 
 castanets, had a beautiful effect on this airy height, 
 with the rich evening landscape spreading out below 
 them. 
 
 When the dance was ended, two of the parties 
 approached Antonio and Inez; one of them began a 
 soft and tender Moorish ballad, accompanied by the 
 other on the lute. It alluded to the story of the garden, 
 the wrongs of the fair queen of Granada, and the mis- 
 fortunes of the Abencerrages. It was one of those 
 old ballads that abound in this part of Spain, and live, 
 like echoes, about the ruins of Moorish greatness. 
 The heart of Inez was at that moment open to every 
 tender impression; the tears rose into her eyes as she 
 listened to the tale. The singer approached nearer to 
 her; she was striking in her appearance; young, 
 beautiful, with a mixture of wildness and melancholy 
 in her fine black eyes. She fixed them mournfully 
 and expressively on Inez, and suddenly varying her 
 manner, sang another ballad, which treated of impend- 
 ing danger and treachery. All this might have [Kiss- 
 ed for a mere accidental caprice of the singer, had 
 there not been something in her look, manner, and 
 gesticulation, that made it pointed and startling. 
 
 Inez was about to ask the meaning of this evident- 
 ly personal application of the song, when she was in- 
 terrupted by Antonio, who gently drew her from the 
 place. Whilst she had been lost in attention to the 
 music, he had remarked a group of men, in the sha- 
 dows of the trees, whispering together. They were 
 enveloped in the broad hats and great cloaks so much 
 worn by the Spanish, and while they were regarding 
 himself and Inez attentively, seemed anxious to avoid 
 observation. Not knowing what might Ls their cha- 
 racter or intention, he hastened to quit a place where 
 the gathering shadows of evening might expose them 
 to intrusion and insult. On their way down the hill, 
 as they passed through the woods of elms, mingled 
 with poplars and oleanders, that skirt the road lead- 
 ing from the Alhambra, he again saw these men, ap- 
 parently following at a distance; and he afterwards 
 caught sight of them among the trees on the banks of 
 the Darro. He said nothing on the subject to Inez, 
 nor her father, for he would not awaken unnecessary 
 alarm; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain or to 
 avert any machinations that might be devising against 
 the helpless inhabitants of the tower. 
 
 He took his leave of them late at night, full of this 
 pei-plexity. As he left the dreary old pile, he saw 
 some one lurking in the shadow of the waU, apparent- 
 ly watching his movements. He hastened after the 
 figure, but it glided away, and <1isappeared among 
 some ruins. Shortly after he heard a low whistle, 
 which was answered from a little distance. He had 
 no longer a doubt but that some mischief was on foot, 
 
598 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 nnd turned to liasten back to tiie tower, and put its 
 inmates on their guard.' He had scarcely turnetl, how- 
 ever, before he found himself suddenly seized from 
 behind by some one of Herculean strength. His 
 struggles were in vain ; he was surrounded by arme<l 
 men. One threw a mantle over liim that stilled his 
 cries, and enveloped him in its folds; and he was 
 hurried off with irresistible rapidity. 
 
 The next day passed without the appearance of 
 Antonio at the alchymist's. Another, and another 
 day succeeded, and yet he did not come ; nor had any 
 thing been lieard of him at his lodgings. His absence 
 caused, at first, surprise and conjecture, and at length 
 alarm. Inez recollected (he singular intimations of 
 the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which seemed 
 to warn her of impending danger, and her mind was 
 full of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every 
 sound at the gate, or footstep on the staii-s. She 
 would take up Iter guitar and strike a few notes, but 
 it would not do; her heart wassickeningwithsuspense 
 and anxiety. She had never before felt what it was 
 to be really lonely. She now was conscious of the 
 force of that attachment which had taken possession 
 of her breast; for never do we know how much we 
 love, never do we know how necessary the object of 
 our love is to our happiness, until we experience the 
 weary void of separation. 
 
 The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his dis- 
 ciple almost as sensibly as did his daughter. The 
 animating buoyancy of the youth had inspired him 
 with new ardour, and had given to his labours the 
 charm of full companionship. However, he had re- 
 sources and consolations of which his daughter was 
 destitute. His pursuits were of a nature to occupy 
 every thought, and keep the spirits in a state of con- 
 tinual excitement. Certain indications, too, had 
 lately manifested themselves, of the most favourable 
 nature. Forty days and forty nights had the process 
 gone on successfully; the old man's hopes were 
 constantly rising, and he now considered the glorious 
 moment once more at hand, when he should obtain 
 not merely the major lunaria, but likewise the tinc- 
 tura Solaris, the means of multiplying gold, and of 
 prolonging existence. He remained, therefore, con- 
 tinually shut up in his laboratory, watching his 
 furnace ; for a moment's inadvertency might once 
 more defeat all his expectations. 
 
 He was sitting one evening at one of his solitary 
 vigils, wrapped up in meditation; the hour was late, 
 and his neighbour, the owl, was hooting from the 
 battlement of the tower, when he heard the door open 
 behind him. Supposing it to be his daughter coming 
 to take her leave of him for the night, as was her fre- 
 ((uent practice, he called her by name, but a harsh 
 voice met his ear in reply. He was grasped by the 
 arms, and looking up, perceived three strange men in 
 the chamber. He at'cmpled to shake them off, but 
 in vain. He called fur help, but they scoffed at his 
 cries. 
 
 "Peace, dotard!" cried one, " think'st thou the 
 
 servants of lh( most holy inquisition are tobe dauuted 
 by thy clamours? Comrades, away with him !" 
 
 Without heeding his remonstrances and entreaties 
 they seized upon his books and papers, took some note 
 of llie apartment and the utensils, and then bore liiiu 
 off a prisoner. 
 
 Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and lonely 
 evening ; seated by a casement which looked into the 
 garden, she had pensively watclieil star after slat 
 sparkle out of the blue depths of the sky, and vas 
 indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts about her lover 
 until the rising tears began to flow. She was sud- 
 denly alarmed by the sound of voices that seemed lo I 
 come from a distant part of the mansion. There was 
 not long after a noise of several persons tlescending 
 the stairs. Surpriseil at these unusual sounds in their 
 lonely habitation, she remained for a few mometnsin 
 a state of trembling, yet indistinct appreiiensiun, 
 when the servant rushed into the room, wilii terror 
 in her countenance, and informed her that her father | 
 was carried off by armed men. 
 
 Inez did not stop to hear further, but flewdovrol 
 stairs lo overtake them. She had scarcely passed the I 
 threshold, wlien she found herself in the grasp orl 
 strangers. — "Away! —away!" cried she, wildly; [ 
 " do not stop me — let me follow my father." 
 
 "We come to conduct you to him, senora,"iiaid| 
 one of the men, respectfully. 
 
 "Where is he, then?" 
 
 " He is gone to Granada," replied the man; "aal 
 unexpected circumstance requires his presence thetel 
 immediately; but he is among friends." 
 
 " We have no friends in Granada," said Inez,! 
 drawing back; but then the idea of Antonio rushedl 
 into her mind ; something relating to him might liaTel 
 called her father thither. " Is Senor Antonio del 
 Castros with him ?" demanded she with agitation. 
 
 " I know not, senora," replied the man. "liis| 
 very possible. I only know that your father is amoaj 
 friends, and is anxious for you to follow him." 
 
 "Let us go, then," cried she, eagerly. Tiiet 
 led her a little distance lo where a mule was wail 
 and, assisting her to mount, they conducted hersM]| 
 towarils the city. 
 
 Granada was on that evening a scene of fancirnl 
 revel. It was one of the festivals of the MaeslraimJ 
 an association of the nobility to keep up someoriiH 
 gallant customs of ancient chivalry. There had betd 
 a representation of a tournament inoneofthesquaml 
 the streets would still occasionally resound witht 
 beat of a solitary drum, or the bray ofa trumpet, fro 
 some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes Ibi 
 were met by cavaliers, richly dressed in ancient c 
 tuines, attended by Iheir squires, and at one time Ihi 
 passed in sight of a palace brilliantly illuminated 
 from whence came the mingled sounds of music aii| 
 the dance. Shortly after they came to the sqtiai^ 
 where the mock tournament had been held. In 
 thronged by the populace, recreating lhenisehi| 
 among liooths and stalls where refroslinienls wn 
 
BRACEBRIDGE IIALI.. 
 
 :m 
 
 lisilion are lobe tlaunied 
 }, away with him'." 
 nstrances and enlrealies, 
 id papers, Uwk some nole 
 ;nsils, and then bore liiiu 
 
 passed a sad and lonely 
 ent wliich looked inlo the 
 watched star after star 
 pths of the sky, and wa» 
 } lliouglits about her lover, 
 11 to flow. She was sud- 
 i of voices that seemed lo 
 the mansion . There waj ] 
 everal persons descending 
 ese unusual sounds in their 
 lined for a few momelns la I 
 t indistinct apprehension, 
 nto the room, with terror 
 ifornied lier that lier father | 
 
 nen. 
 
 ar further, but flew down I 
 jhe had scarcely passed the 
 nd herself in the crasp o( 
 away!" cried she, wMlj;| 
 follow my father." 
 ; you to him, senora,"aid| 
 lly. 
 
 ida," replied the man; "aai 
 
 ! requires his presence there 
 
 bong friends." 
 
 s in Granada," said Inez, 
 
 le idea of Antonio rushed 
 
 relating to him miglithavel 
 
 " Is Senor Antonio dtj 
 
 landed she with agitation. 
 
 replied the man. "IlisI 
 ow lliat your father is aino:^| 
 
 you to follow him." 
 ied she, eagerly. The 
 where a nuile was wailin;, 
 lit they conducted her slowl] 
 
 evening a scene of fancifi 
 festivals of the Macslraiia, 
 bility to keep up some of liii 
 t chivalry. There had' 
 namentinoneofthesquaiesi 
 
 !casionally resound wiiliU 
 
 (r the bray of a trumpet, fi 
 
 ' revellers. Sometimes lli 
 
 ichly dressed in ancient 
 
 squires, and at one time II 
 
 ilace brilliantly illuminati 
 Imingled sounds of musical 
 r they came tothesqim 
 lent had been held, li' 
 ]ace, recreating thenisehi 
 s where refreshments wi 
 
 5nl(l, and the glare of torches showed the temporary 
 galleries, and gay-coloured awnings, and armorial 
 iropliies. and other paraphernalia of the show. The 
 conductors of Inez endeavoured to keep out of obser- 
 vation, and to traverse a gloomy part of the scpiare ; 
 hut they were detained at one place by the pressnre 
 ofa crowd surrounding a parly of wandering musi- 
 cians, singing one of those ballads of which the Spa- 
 pIjI, populace are so passionately fond. The torches 
 wliicli were held by some of the crowd, threw a 
 strong mass of light upon Inez, and the sight of so 
 beautiful a being, without mantilla or veil, looking so 
 bewildered, and conducted by men, who seemeil to 
 lake no gratification in the surrounding gaiety, oc- 
 casioned expressions of curiosity. One of the ballad- 
 5ii,„ers approached, and striking her guitar with pecu- 
 liar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of 
 sinister forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It 
 vas the same ballad-singer that had addressed her in 
 llhe^arden of Generalife. It was the same air that 
 Liie had then sung. It spoke of impending dangers; 
 they seemed, indeed, to be thickening around her. 
 [she was anxious to speak with the girl, and to ascer- 
 lin whether she really had a knowledge of any de- 
 nile evil that was threatening her; but as she at- 
 inipted to address her, the mule, on which she rode, 
 as suddenly seized, and led forcibly through the 
 Ihrong by one of her conductors, while she saw an- 
 tlier addressing menacing words to the ballad-singer. 
 he latter raised her hand with a warning gesture 
 Inez lost sight of her. 
 
 While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by 
 lis singular occurrence, they stopped at the gate of 
 large mansion. One of her attendants knocked, 
 le door was opened, and they entered a paved court. 
 Where are we?" demanded Inez, with anxiety. 
 At the house of a friend, senora," replied the man. 
 Ascend this staircase with me, and in a moment 
 lu will meet your father." 
 
 They ascended a staircase that led to a suite of 
 ilendid apartments. They passed through several 
 lil they came to an inner chamber. The door 
 ;ned, some one approached : but what was her 
 irror at perceiving, not her father, but Don Am- 
 io! 
 
 The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, 
 least, been more honest in tlieir professions. They 
 Te, indeed, familiars of the inquisition. He was 
 lucted in silence to the gloomy prison of that 
 ible tribunal. It was a mansion whose very as- 
 t withered joy, and almost shut out hope. It was 
 le of those hideous abodes which the bad passions 
 men conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fan- 
 dens of demons and the accursed. 
 ay after day went heavily by without any thing 
 mark the lapse of time, but the decline and re-ap- 
 irance of the light that feebly glimmered through 
 narrow window of the dungeon, in which the 
 fortunate alchymist was buried, rather than con- 
 His mind was harassed with uncertainties and 
 
 fears about his danghter, so helpless and inexperienc- 
 ed. He endeavoured to gather tidings of her from 
 the man who brought his daily portion of food. The 
 fellow stared, as if astonished, at l)eing asked a qnes- 
 lion in that mansion of silence and mystery, but de- 
 parted without saying a word. Every succeeding 
 attempt was equally fruitless. 
 
 The poor alchymist was ofipressed by many griefs ; 
 and it was not the least that he had lieen again in- 
 terrupted in his labours on the very point of success. 
 Never was alchymist so near attaining the golden 
 secret — a little longer, and all his hopes would have 
 been realized. The thoughts ofthese disappointments 
 afflicted him more even than the fear of all that he 
 might suffer from the merciless inquisition. His 
 waking thoughts would follow him into his dreams. 
 He would be transported in fancy to his laboratory, 
 busied again among retorts and alembics, and sur- 
 rounded by Lully, by D'Abano, by Olybius, and the 
 other masters of the sublime art. The moment of 
 projection would arrive ; a seraphic form would rise 
 out of the furnace, liolding forth a vessel, containing 
 the precious elixir; but before he could grasp the prize, 
 he would awake, and find himself in a dungeon. 
 
 All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity were em- 
 ployed to ensnare the old man, and to draw from him 
 evidence that might be brought against himself, and 
 might corroborate certain secret information that had 
 been given against him. He had been accused of 
 practising necromancy and judicial astrology, and a 
 cloud of evidence had been secretly brought forward 
 to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious to 
 enumerate all the circumstances, apparently corrobo- 
 rative, which had been industriously cited by the se- 
 cret accuser. The silence which prevailed about the 
 tower, its desolateness, the very quiet of its inhabit- 
 ants, had been adduced as proofs that something si- 
 nister was perpetrated within. The alchymist's 
 conversations and soliloquies in the garden had been 
 overheard and misrepresented. The lights and 
 strange appearances at night, in the lower, were 
 given w^ith violent exaggerations. Shrieks and yells 
 were said to have been heard from thence at mid- 
 night, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man 
 raised familiar spirits by his incantations, and even 
 compelled the dead to rise from their graves, and 
 answer to his questionings. 
 
 The alchymist, according to the custom of the in- 
 quisition, was kept in complete ignorance of his ac- 
 cuser; of the witnesses produced against him; even 
 of the crimes of which he was accused. He was 
 examined generally, whether he knew why he was 
 arrested, and was conscious of any guilt that might 
 deserve the notice of the holy office? He was exa- 
 mined as to his country, his life, liis habits, his pur-^ 
 suits, his actions, and opinions. The old man was. 
 frank and simple in his replies; he was conscious of 
 no guilt, capable of no art, practised in no dissimula- 
 tion. After receiving a general admonition to be- 
 think himself whether he had not committed any act 
 
400 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 deserving of punishment, and to prepare, by confes- 
 sion, tosectn-e llie well-knowiimercy of the tribunal, 
 be was remanded to his cell. 
 
 He vas now visitetl in bis duni^eon by crafty fami- 
 liars o. the inquisition; who, under pretence of sym- 
 pathy and kindness, came to beguile the tediousness 
 of bis imprisonment with friendly conversation. They 
 casually introduced the subject of nichymy, on wliicli 
 they touchoil with great caution and pretended in- 
 difference. There was no need of such craftiness. 
 The honest enthusiast had no suspicion in his nature : 
 the moment they touched upon his favourite theme , 
 be forgot bis misfortunes and imprisonment, and 
 broke forth inlo rhapsoilies about the divine science. 
 The conversation was artfully turned to the dis- 
 cussion of elementary beings. The alchymist readily 
 avowed his belief in them ; and that there had been 
 instances of their attending upon philosophers, and 
 administering to their wishes. He related many mi- 
 racles said to have been performed by Apollonius 
 Tbyaneus through the aid of spirits or demons ; in- 
 somuch that he was set np by the heathens in oppo- 
 sition to the Messiah, and was even regarded with 
 reverence by many Christians. The familiars eager- 
 ly demanded whether he believed Apollonius to be a 
 true and worthy philosopher. The unaffected piety 
 of the alchymist protected him even in the midst of 
 bis simplicity; for he condemned Apollonius as a sor- 
 cerer and an impostor. No art could draw from him 
 an admission that he had ever employed or invoked 
 spiritual agencies in the prosecution of his pursuits, 
 though he believed himself to have been frequenUy 
 impeded by their invisible interference. 
 
 The inquisitors were sorely vexed at not lieing able 
 to inveigle bim into a confession of a criminal nature; 
 they attributed their failure to craft, to obstinacy, to 
 every cause but the right one, nanely, that the harm- 
 less visionary had nothing guilty to confess. They 
 had abundant proof of a secret nature against him; 
 but it was the practice of the inquisition to endeavour 
 to procure confession from the prisoners. An auto 
 da fe was at hand; the worthy fathers were eager 
 for ins conviction, for they were always anxious to 
 have a good number of culprits condemned to the 
 stake, to grace these solemn triumphs. He was at 
 length brought to a final examination. 
 
 The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy. 
 At one end was a huge crucifix, the standard of tlie 
 inquisition. A long table extended through the centre 
 of the room, at which sat the inquisitors and their 
 secretary; at the otlier end a stool was placed for the 
 prisoner. 
 
 He was brought in, according to custom, bare- 
 beaded and bare-legged. He was enfeebled by con- 
 finement and affliction; by constantly brooding over 
 the unknown fate of his child, and the disastrous in- 
 terruption of liis experiments. He sat bowed down 
 and listless; bis head sunk upon his breast; his whole 
 appearance that of one " past hope, abandoned, and 
 by himself given over." 
 
 The accusation allegetl against bim was now l)roQ»|,t J 
 forward in a specific form ; he was called by narn« 
 Felix dc Vas(|ucz, formerly of Castile, to answer lo I 
 the charges of necromancy and demonology. He q-g, 
 told that the charges were amply subslanliatpcj; ,in(| l 
 was asked whether he was ready, by full coufcssi,,;! 
 lo throw himself upon the well-known mercy of i||i> j 
 holy iu(|uisitiou. 
 
 'i'lie philosopher testified some slight surprise at ih« I 
 nature of the accusation, but simply replied, "lam 
 innocent." 
 
 " What proof have you to give of your innocence?" I 
 "It rather remains for you to prove your ciiarsfs " I 
 said the old man. " I am a stranger and a sojourner 1 
 in the land, and know no one out of the dnursufmyl 
 dwelling. I can give nothing in my vindication but | 
 the word of a nobleman and a Castilian." 
 
 The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to re- 1 
 peat the various inquiries that bad before been made I 
 as to his mode of life and pursuits. The poor alcliv- 
 mist was too feeble and tdC weary at heart to make I 
 any but brief replies. He requested that somenianl 
 of science might examine his laboratory, ami al! iiisj 
 books and papers, by which it would be made abun- 
 dantly evident that he was merely engaged in liie| 
 study of alchymy. 
 
 To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy haill 
 become a mere covert for secret and deadly sinsT 
 That the praclisers of it were apt to scruple at nol 
 means to satisfy their inordinate greediness of gnldj 
 Some had been known to use spells and inipious ce-l 
 remonies ; to conjure the ai<l of evil spirits; navT 
 even to sell their souls to the enemy of ninnkiiid, s 
 that they might riot in boundless wealth while liviogj 
 The poor alchymist had heard all palicnily, or.alT 
 least, passively. He had disdained to vindicale m 
 name otherwise than by his word; he had smiled al 
 the accusations of sorcery, when applied merely I 
 himself; but when the sublime art, which had i 
 the study and passion of his life, was assailed, 
 could no longer listen in silence. His head gradid| 
 rose from bis bosom ; a hectic colour came in li\n 
 streaks to his cheek, played about there, disappeared 
 returned, and at length kindled into a burning ^'bj 
 The clammy dampness dried from his forehead; 
 eyes, which had been nearly extinguished, liglilediq 
 again, and burned with their wonted and visioiiar 
 fires. He entered into a vindication of his favourii 
 art. His voice at first was feeble and broken ; I 
 gathered strength as he proceeded, until it rolled ij 
 a deep and sonorous volume. He gradually i 
 from his seat as he rose with his sulvjecl; he tlire 
 back the scanty black mantle which had iiilber 
 wrapped his limbs; the very uncouthnessofliisfot 
 and looks gave an impressive effect to what be i 
 tered; it was as though a corpse had becomes 
 denly animated. 
 
 He repelled with scorn tlie aspersions cast uponil 
 chymy by the ignorant and vulgar. He anirnieJl 
 to be the mother of all art and science, citing tlieii{ 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 KN 
 
 nslhimwasnowbroo^lu 
 lie was calle«l by name. 
 Df CaslUc, to answer lo 
 lid (leinonoloiiy. He was 
 mply subslaiiliatetl; and 
 ready, by full eoiifessMi, 
 sell-known mercy of lli- 
 
 5omeslisht surprise aUhe I 
 III simply replied, "lam 
 
 ) "ive of your innocence?" ' 
 )U to prove your cliara;es," 
 aslrangerandasojoiirnerl 
 )iie out of die doois of my 
 liiif in my vindication kl | 
 ul a Castilian." 
 . bead, and went on to re- 
 Ibat bad before been made] 
 pursuits. Tbe poor alchy- 
 flC weary at bcart lo make I 
 i requested tbat some man I 
 his laboratory, and al! hisi 
 icb it would be niatie abim-l 
 vas merely engaged in llie 
 
 (bserved, tbat alcliymyWl 
 for secret and deadly sins.! 
 were apt to scruple al ml 
 ordinate greediness of gnUJ 
 use spells and impious ce-| 
 be aid of evil spirits; n, 
 the enemy of mankind, 
 undlessweallb while liviii;,| 
 d beavd all patiently, or, 
 l disdained lo vindicate liiJ 
 bis word; be bad smiled al| 
 y, wben applied merely 
 Sublime art, wbich had ' 
 of bis life, was assailed, ' 
 silence. His bead gradiiallj 
 beclic colour came iii fail 
 ed about lbere,disapi)care 
 [kindled into a burning glow] 
 Med from bis forehead;' 
 arly extinguished, lighleil" 
 Ibeir wonted and visionni 
 [a vindication of bis favouii 
 , as feeble and broken; but j 
 proceeded, until it rolled i 
 volume. Ue gradually « 
 witb bis subject; he m 
 mantle wbich bad Into 
 very uncoutbnessoflusfot 
 Vessive effect to what be i 
 lb a corpse bad becomes 
 
 In tlie aspersions cast upon 
 and vulgar. He anirm«i 
 Irt and science, citing the 
 
 nions of Paracelsns, Sandivugbis, Raymond Lully, 
 and others, in support of his assertions. He main- 
 tained that it was pure and iimocent, and honourable 
 Iwlh in its purposes and means. VVIial were its ol>- 
 jecis? The perpetuation of life and youth, and the 
 production of gold. " The elixir vi(a>," said he, " is 
 110 cliarnied potion, but merely a concentration of 
 those elements of vitality which nature has scattered 
 through her works. The philosopher's stone, or linc- 
 liire, or |>owder, as it is variously called, is no necro- 
 mantic talisman, but consists siniply of those particles 
 whieli gold contains within itself for its reproduction; 
 for gold, like other things, has its seed within itself, 
 tliougli bound up with inconceivable firmness, from 
 tlie vigour of innate fixed salts and sulphurs. In 
 seeking lo discover the elixi:- of life, then," continued 
 he, " we seek only lo apply some of nature's own 
 specifics against the disease and decay to which our 
 bodies are subjected; and what else does the physi- 
 cian, when he tasks bis art, and uses subtle com- 
 pounds and cunning distillations to revive our lan- 
 guishing powers, and avert the stroke of death for a 
 season? 
 
 " In seeking to multiply tbe precious metals, also, 
 ve seek but to germinate and multiply, by natural 
 means, a particular species of nature's productions ; 
 and what else does the husbandman, who consults 
 times and seasons, and, by what might be deemed 
 a natural magic, from the mere scattering of his hand, 
 covers a whole plain with golden vegetation? The 
 mysteries of our art, it is true, are deeply and darkly 
 {hidden; hut it requires so much the more innocence 
 and purity of tbougbl lo penetrate unto them. No, 
 faiher ! the true alchymist must be pure in mind and 
 body: he must be temperate, patient, chaste, watch- 
 jful, meek, humble, devout. 'My son,' says Hermes 
 rismegisles, the great master of our art, 'My son, 
 recommend you above all things to fear Go<l.' And 
 ideed it is only by devout castigalion of the senses 
 ind pnriGcati'jn of tbe soul, that tbe alchymist is 
 Enabled to enter into the sacred chambers of truth. 
 Labour, pray, and read,' is the motto of our science. 
 isDeNuysmentwell obsei-ves, * these high and sin- 
 nlar favours are granted unto none, save only unto 
 he sons of Gwl, (that is to say, Ihe virtuous and de- 
 [out,) who, under bis paternal benediction, have ol)- 
 lined the opening of the same, by the helping hand 
 Ihe queen of arts, divine Philosophy.' Indeed, so 
 :red has the nature of this knowledge been consi- 
 ired, that we are told it has four times been ex- 
 communicated by God to man, having made 
 part of that cabalislical wisdom wliieh was revealed 
 Adam to console him for the loss of Paradise, and 
 Moses in the bush, and to Solomon in a dream, and 
 Esdras by the angel. 
 
 "So far from demons and malign spirits being tbe 
 
 and abettors of the alchymist, they are the 
 
 ilinual foes with which be has to contend. It is 
 
 Jir constant endeavour to shut up the avenues to 
 
 Irullis which would enable him lo rise above 
 
 the abject stale hito which he has fallen, and return 
 to that excellence whicli was Ids original birth right. 
 For what would be the effect of (his length of days, 
 and this abundant wealth, but to enable the possessor 
 to go on from art lo art, froni science lo science, with 
 energies unimpaired by sickness, uninterrupted by 
 death? Fortius have sages and philosophers shut 
 themselves up in cells and solitudes; buried them- 
 selves in caves ami dens of the earlh ; turning from 
 the joys of life, and the pleasance of the world; en- 
 during scorn, poverty, persecution. For this was 
 Raymond Lully stoned lo death in Mauritania. For 
 this did the immortal Pielro D'Abano suffer persecu- 
 tion at Padua, and when be escaped from his oppress- 
 ors by death, was despilefidly burnt in effigy. For 
 this have illustrious men of all nations intrepidly suf- 
 fered martyrdom. For Ibis, if unmolested, have Ihey 
 assiduously employed tbe latest hour of life, the ex- 
 piring throb of existence; hoping to the last that they 
 mighl yet seize upon the prize for which they had 
 slrriggled, and pluck themselves back even from the 
 very jaws of Ihe grave ! 
 
 " For, when once tbe alchymist shall have attained 
 the object of his toils; when the sublime secret shall 
 be revealed lo his gaze, how glorious will be the 
 change in his condition ! How will he emerge from 
 his solitary retreat, like the sun breaking forth from 
 the darksome chamber of the night, and darting his 
 beams Ihroughoul the earth! Gifted with perpetual 
 youth and boundless riches, lo what heights of wisdom 
 may he attain ! How may he carry on, uninterrupted, 
 the tbi.'ad of knowledge, M'hich has hitherto been 
 snapped al the death of each philosopher! And, as 
 the increase of wisdom is tbe increase of virtue, how 
 may he become the benefactor of his fellow-men; dis- 
 pensing with liberal, but cautious and discriminating 
 nand, that inexhaustible wealth which is at his dis- 
 posal ; banishing poverty, which is the cause of so 
 much sorrow and wickedness; encouraging the arts; 
 promoting discoveries, and enlarging all the means 
 of virtuous enjoyment ! His life will be the connect- 
 ing band of generations. History will live in his re- 
 collection ; distant ages will speak with his tongue. 
 The nations of the earth will look lo him as their pre- 
 ceptor, and kings will sit at his feet and learn wis- 
 dom. Oh glorious! Oh celestial alcbymy ! " — 
 
 Here be was interrupted by the inquisitor, who had 
 suffered him to go on thus far, in hopes of gathering 
 something from his unguarded enthusiasn; , ' ' Senor," 
 said he, " this is all rambling, visionary talk. You are 
 charged with sorcery, and in defence you give us a 
 rhapswly alrout alcbymy. Have you nothing belter 
 than this to offer in your defence ? " 
 
 The old man slowly resumed his seal, but did not 
 deign a reply. The fire that had beamed in bis eye 
 gradually expired. His cheek resumed ils wonted 
 paleness; but he did not relapse into inanity. He 
 sat with a steady, serene, patient look, like one pre- 
 pared not to contend but lo suffer. 
 
 His trial continued for a long lime, with cruel. 
 
 51 
 
 I. 
 
402 
 
 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ii 
 
 mockery of justice, fur no witnesses were ever, in 
 this court, confronted witli the accused, and the latter 
 had continually to defend himself in the dark. Some 
 unknown and powerful enemy had alleged charges 
 against the unfortunate alchymist, but who he could 
 not imagine. Stranger and sojourner as he was in 
 the land ; solitaiy and harmless in his pursuits, how 
 could he liave provoked such hostility ? The tide of 
 secret testimony, however, was too strong against 
 him; he was convicted of the crime of ma'^ic, and 
 condemned to expiate his sins at the slake, at (he ap- 
 proaching auto da fi. 
 
 While the unhappy alchymist was undergoing his 
 trial at the inquisition, his daughter was exposed to 
 trials no less severe. Don Ambrosio, uito whose 
 hands she had fallen, was, as has before been iAl- 
 mated, one of the most daring and lawless profligates 
 in all Granada. He was a man of hot blood and 
 flery passions, who stopped at nothing in the grati- 
 fication of his desires; yet with all this he possessed 
 manners, address and accomplishments, that had 
 made him eminently successful among the sex. From 
 the palace to (he cottage he had extended his amor- 
 ous enterprizes; his serenades harassed the slumbers 
 of half the husbands in Granada ; no balcony was 
 too high for bis adventurous attempts, nor any cot- 
 tage too lowly for bis perfidious seductions. Yet he 
 was as fickle as he was ardent ; success had made 
 him vain and capricious; he had no sentiment to at- 
 tach him to the victim of his arts ; and many a pale 
 cheek and fading eye, languishing amidst the spark- 
 ling of jewels, and many a breaking heart, throbbing 
 under the rustic boddice, bore testimony to his 
 triumplis and his faithlessness. 
 
 He was sated, however, by easy conquests, and 
 wearied of a life of continual and prompt gratifica- 
 tion. There had been a degree of difficulty and en- 
 terprize in the pursuit of Inez, that he had never 
 before experienced. It bad aroused him from the 
 monotony of mere sensual life, and stimulated him 
 with the charm of adventure. He had become an 
 epicure in pleasure ; and now that he had this coy 
 beauty in his power, he was determined to protract 
 hisenjoyment, by the gradual conquestof her scruples, 
 and downfall of her virtue. lie was vain of his per- 
 son and address, which be thought no woman could 
 long Avithstand; and it was a kind of trial of skill, 
 to endeavour to gain by art and fascination, what he 
 was secure of obtaining at any time by violence. 
 
 When Inez, therefore, was brought into bis pre- 
 sence by his emissaries, he affected not to notice her 
 terror and suiprise, but received her with formal and 
 stately courtesy. He was too wary a fowler to flut- 
 ter the bird when just entangled in the net. To her 
 eager and wild inquiries about her father, he begged 
 her not to be alarmed ; that he was safe, and bad 
 been there, but was engaged elsewhere in an affair 
 of moment, from which he would soon return; in 
 the mean time he had left word, that she should 
 await his return in patience. After some stately ex- 
 
 pressions of general civility, Don Ambrosio made a 
 ceremonious bow and retired. 
 
 The mind of Inez was full of trouble and perplexity. 
 The stately formality of Don Ambrosio was so im- 
 expected as to check the accusations and reproaches 
 that were springing to her lips. Had he had evil 
 designs, would he have treated her with such frigid 
 ceremony when he had her in his power ? But why, 
 then, was she brought to his house ? Was not the 
 mysterious disapfiearance of Antonio connected with 
 this? A thought suddenly darted into her mind, 
 Antonio had again met with Don Ambrosio—ihey 
 had fought— Antonio was wounded— perhaps dyin»! 
 —It was him to whom her father had gone.— Ii vas 
 at his request that Don Ambrosio had sent for ihem 
 to soothe his dying moments ! These, and a llionsand i 
 such horrible suggestions, harassed her mind ; bat 
 she tried in vain to get information from the do- 
 mestics; they knew nothing but that her father had j 
 been there, had gone, and would soon return. 
 
 Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought and I 
 vague yet cruel apprehensions. She knew not what I 
 to do, or what to l)elieve : whether she oiigiit to fly 
 or to remain ; but if to fly, how was she to extricate I 
 herself? and where was she to seek her father? As I 
 the day dawned without any intelligence of him, hw I 
 alarm increased ; at length a message was brooglit I 
 from him, saying that circumstances prevented hii| 
 return to her, but begging her to hasten (o him widi-| 
 out delay. 
 
 With an eager and throbbing heart did she set I 
 forth with the men that were to conduct her. She! 
 little thought, however, that she was merely chang-l 
 ing her prison-house. Don Ambrosio had feared iesti 
 she should be traced to his residence in Granada; orl 
 that he might be interrupted there before he coalil| 
 accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her not I 
 conveyed, therefore, to a mansion which he possesscdl 
 in one of the mountain solitudes in the neighbourhoodl 
 of Granada, a lonely, but beautiful retreat. In Taiii,| 
 on her arrival, did she look around fur her father, otl 
 Antonio; none but strange faces met her eye; meniali| 
 profoundly respectful, but who knew nor saw aiij| 
 thing but what their master pleased. 
 
 She had scarcely arrived before Don Ambn 
 made his appearance, less stately in his manner,! 
 still treating her with the utmost delicacy and i 
 Terence. Inez was too much agitated and alarmed n 
 be baffled by his courtesy, and became vehement iij 
 her demand to be conducted to her father. 
 
 Don Ambrosio now put on an -appearance ofti 
 greatest embarrassment and emotion. After 
 delay, and much pretended confusion, he at len{ 
 confessed that the seizure of her father wiis alia sin 
 tagem ; a mere false alarm to procure him the pre 
 opiMrtunity of having access to her, and endeavm 
 ing to mitigate that obduracy, and conquer thif ' 
 pugnance, which he declared had almost driven 1 
 to distraction. 
 
 He assured her that her fatlier was again at I 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 405 
 
 Don Ambrosio made a 
 
 f trouble and perplexity. 
 I Ambrosio was so \in- 
 jsations and reproacliM 
 lips. Had he had evil 
 ed her wilh such frigid 
 n his power? Rutwliy, 
 s house ? Was not llie 
 
 Antonio connected with 
 
 darted into her mind. 
 Lh Don Ambrosio— ihey 
 ounded— perhaps dying! 
 father had gone.— II was 
 ibrosio had sent for them 
 5 ! These, and a thousand 
 
 harassed her mind ; but 
 [iformalion from tlie do- 
 g but that her father liad 
 would soon return. 
 
 tumultuous thought and I 
 ons. She knew not wliat | 
 ■whether she ouglittoily, 
 
 how was she to extricate I 
 le to seek her father? As 
 ny intelligence of him, lier 
 h a message was brougbtl 
 rcumstances prevented m 
 ' her to hasten to him witlh 
 
 irobbing heart did slie set 
 tvere to conduct her. She 
 liat slie was merely cliang- 
 on Ambrosio had feared lest 
 is residence in Granada; or 
 ipted there before he could 
 luction. He had hernoi 
 mansion which he possessed 
 itudes in the neighbourhood 
 beautiful retreat. Invaiiv 
 [)k around for her father, ot 
 e faces met her eye; meniak 
 jt who knew nor saw anj 
 ter pleased, 
 ved before Don Ambi 
 8 stately in his manner, 
 lie utmost delicacy and 
 [uch agitated and alarmed 
 , and became vehement i 
 ^ted to her father, 
 [ut on an appearance of 
 and emotion. After s 
 [\ei\ confusion, he at lei 
 , ofher father was alia 8ii 
 11 to procure him the pr 
 jess to her, and endeav 
 jracy, and conquer tlidt 
 lared had almost driven 
 
 lerfiiUier wasngainatl 
 
 in safety, and occupied in his usual pursuits ; having 
 been fully satisfied that his daughter was in honour- 
 able hands, and would soon be restored to him. It 
 was in vain that she threw herself at his feet, and 
 implored to be set at liberty ; he only replied, by 
 gentle entreaties, that she would pardon the seeming 
 violence he had to use ; and that she would trust a 
 little while to his honour. " You are here, " said he, 
 "absolute mistress of every thing; nothing shall be 
 $aid or done to offend you ; I will not even intrude 
 upon your ear the unhappy passion that is devouring 
 my heart. Should you require it, I will even absent 
 myself from your presence ; but to part with you en- 
 tirely at present, with your mind full of doubts and 
 resentments, would be worse than death to me. No, 
 beautiful Inez, you must first know me a little better, 
 and know by my conduct, that my passion for you is 
 as delicate and respectful as it is vehement. " 
 
 The assurance of her father's safely had relieved 
 Inez from one cause of torturing anxiety, only to 
 render her fears the more violent on her own ac- 
 count. Don Ambrosio, however, continued to treat 
 her with artful deference, that insensibly lulled her 
 apprehensions. It is true she found herself a captive, 
 [but no advantage appeared to be taken of her help- 
 . She sootiied herself with the idea that a 
 little while would sufiice to convince Don Ambrosio 
 )f the fallacy of his hopes, and that he would be in- 
 luced to restore her to her home. Her transports of 
 error and affliction, therefore, subsided, in a few 
 lys, into a passive, yet anxious melancholy, wilh 
 rhich she awaited the hoped-for event. 
 In the mean whihall those artifices were employed 
 lat are calculated to charm the senses, ensnare the 
 ilings, and dissolve the heart into tenderness. Don 
 Lmbrosio was a master of the subtile arts of seduc- 
 )n. His very mansion breathed an enervating at- 
 sphere of languor and delight. It was here, amidst 
 rilight saloons and dreamy chambers, buried among 
 )ves of orange and myrtle, that he shut himself up 
 times from the prying world, and gave free scope 
 the gratilication of his pleasures. 
 The apartments were furnished in the most sump- 
 |ous and voluptuous manner ; the silken couches 
 relied to the touch, and sunk in downy softness 
 eneath the slightest pressure. The paintings and 
 itues all told some classic tale of love, managed, 
 iwever, wilh an insidious delicacy ; which, while it 
 lished the grossness that might disgust, was the 
 )re calculated to excite the imagination. There the 
 )ming Adunis was seen, not breaking away to 
 [rsue the boisterous chase, butcrowned wilh flowers, 
 iguisl<.ing in the embraces of celestial beauty. 
 lere Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade, with the 
 Hlian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them. 
 [ere were depicted groups of fauns and dryads, 
 lly rec!inttig in summer bowers, and listening to 
 liquid piping of the reed ; or the wanton satyrs 
 vising some wood-nympli during her noontide 
 iber. There, too, on the storied tapestry, might 
 
 be seen the chaste Diana, stealing, In the mystery of 
 moonlight, to kiss the sleeping Endymion ; while Cu- 
 pid and Psyche, entwined iu immortal marble, breath- 
 ed on each other's lips the early kiss of love. 
 
 The ardent rays of the sun were excluded from 
 these balmy halls; soft and tender music from unseen 
 musicians floated around, seeming- to mingle with the 
 perfumec that were exhaled from a thousand flowers. 
 At night, when the moon shed a fairy light over the 
 scene, the tender serenade would rise from among 
 the bowers of the garden, in which the fine voice of 
 Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished ; or. the 
 amorous flute would be heard along the mountain, 
 breathing in its pensive cadences the very soul of a 
 lover's melancholy. 
 
 Various enterluinmenls were also devised to dispel 
 her loneliness, and to charm away the idea of confine- 
 ment. Groups of Andalusian dancers performed, 
 in the splendid saloons, the various picturesque dances 
 oftlieircounti7;or represented little amorous ballets, 
 which turned upon some pleasing scene of pastoral 
 coquetry and courtship. Sometimes there were bands 
 of singers who, to the romantic guitar, warbled forth 
 ditties full of passion and tenderness. 
 
 Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and volup- 
 tuousness ; but the heart of Inez turned with distaste 
 from this idle mockery. The tears would rush into 
 her eyes as her thoughts reverted from this scene of 
 profligate splendour, to the humble but virtuous home 
 from whence she had been betrayed ; or if the witch- 
 ing power of music ever soothed her into a tender re- 
 verie, it was to dwell with fondness on the image of 
 Antonio. But if Don Ambrosio, deceived by this 
 transient calm, should attempt at such time to whisper 
 his passion, she would start as from a dream, and 
 recoil from him with involuntary shuddering. 
 
 She had passed one long daiy of more than ordinary 
 sadness, and in the evening a band of these hired 
 performers were exerting all the animating powers 
 of song and dance to amuse her. But while tlie lofly 
 saloon resounded with their warblings, and the light 
 sound of feet upon its marble pavement kept time to 
 the cadence of the song, poor Inez, with her face bu- 
 ried in the silken couch on which she reclined, was 
 only rendered mure wretched by the sound of gaiety. 
 
 At length her attention was caught by the voice of 
 one of the singers, that brought wilh it some inde- 
 finite recollections. She raised her head, and cast an 
 anxious look at the performers, who, as usual, were 
 at ihe lower end of the saloon. One of them advanc- 
 ed a little before the others. It was a female, dressed 
 in a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the character she 
 was sustaining ; but her countenance was not to be 
 mistaken. It was Ihe same ballad-singer that had 
 twice crossed her path, and given her mysterious in- 
 timations of the lurking mischief that surrounded her. 
 When the rest of the performances were concluded, 
 she seized a tanihuurine, and tossing it aloft, danced 
 alone to the melody of her own voice. In the course 
 of her dancing she approached to where Inez reclined ; 
 
 
4(>i 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 f 
 
 aiid as she struck the tamhouriiie, contrived, dex- 
 terously, to throw a folded paper on the couch. Inez 
 seized it with avidity, and concealed it in her bosom. 
 The singing and dancing were at an end ; the motley 
 crew retired ; and Inez, left alone, hastened with 
 anxiety to unfold the paper thus mysteriously con- 
 veyed. It was written in an agitated, and almost il- 
 legible, hand-writing; "Be on your guard ! you are 
 surrounded by treachery. Trust not to the forbear- 
 ance of Don Ambrosio; you arc marked out for his 
 prey. An humble victim to his perfidy gives you this 
 warning ; she is encompassed by too many dangers 
 to be more explicit.— Your father is in the dungeons 
 of the inquisition ! " 
 
 The brain of Inez reeled as she read this dread- 
 ful scroll. She was less tilled with alarm at her own 
 danger, than horror at her father's situation. The 
 moment Don Ambrosio appeared, she rushed and 
 threw herself at his feet, imploring him to save her 
 tialher. Don Ambrosio started with astonishment; 
 but immediately regaining his seif-iwssession, endea- 
 voured to soothe her by his blandishments, and by as- 
 surances that her father was in safety. She was not 
 to be pacified ; her fears were too much aroused to be 
 trilled with. She declared her knowledge of her 
 father's being a prisoner of the inquisition, and reite- 
 rated her frantic supplications that he would save 
 him. 
 
 Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in perplexity, 
 but was too adroit to be easily confounded. " That 
 your father is a prisoner," replied he, " I have long 
 known. I have concealed it from you, to save you 
 from fruitless anxiety. You now know the real rea- 
 son of the restraint I have put upon your liberty : 
 I have been protecting instead of detaining you. 
 Every exertion has been made inyour father's favour; 
 but I regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which 
 he stands charged have been too strong to be contro- 
 verted. Still," added he, "I have it in my power to 
 save him; I have influence, I have means at my beck; 
 it may involve me, it is true, in diHiculties, perhaps 
 in disgrace ; but what would I not do in the hopes of 
 being rewarded by your favour? Speak, beautiful 
 Inez," said he, his eyes kindling witii sudden eagerness, 
 " it is with you to say the word that seals your father's 
 fate. One kind word, say but you will be mine, and 
 you will behold me at your feel, your father at liberty 
 and in affluence, and we shall all be happy ! " 
 
 Inez drew back from him with scorn and disbelief. 
 " My father," exclaimed she, "is too innocent and 
 blameless to be convicted of crime ; this is some base, 
 some cruel artifice!" Don Ambrosio repeated his 
 asseverations, and with them also his dishonourable 
 proposals; but his eagerness overshot its mark; her 
 indignation and her incredulity were alike awakened 
 by his base suggestions ; and he retired from her pre- 
 sence checked and awed by the sudden pride and di- 
 gnity of her demeanour. 
 
 The unfortunate Inez now l)ecame a prey to the 
 most harrowing anxieties. Don Ambrosio saw that 
 
 the mask had fallen from his face, and that the nature 
 of his machinations was revealed. He had gone too 
 far to retrace his steps, and assume the affectation of 
 tenderness and respect ; indeed he was mortified and 
 incensed at her insensibility to his attractions, anr| 
 now only sought to subdue her through her fears. 
 He daily represented to her the dangers that threaten- 
 ed her father, and that it was in his power alone to 
 avert them. Inez was still incredulous. She was 
 too ignorant of the nature of the inquisition to knov 
 that even innocence was not always a protection 
 from its cruelties ; and she confided too surely in the 
 virtue of her father to believe that any accusation 
 could prevail against him. 
 
 At length, Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow 
 to her confidence, brought her the proclamation of I 
 the approaching auto da fi, in which the prisoner | 
 were enumerated. She glanced her eye over it, and 
 beheld her father's name, condemned to the slake for | 
 sorcery. 
 
 For a moment she stood transfixed with horror. 
 Don Ambrosio seized upon the transient calm. 
 "Think, now, l)eauliful Inez," said he, with alonel 
 of affected tenderness, " his life is still in your hands; I 
 one word from you, one kind word, and I can yet I 
 save him." 
 
 " Monster! wretch !" cried she, coming to herself,] 
 and recoiling from him with insuperable abhorrence; 
 " 'tis you that are the cause of this — 'tis you that attl 
 his murderer ! " Then, wringing her hands, sbel 
 broke forth into exclamations of the most franlicagonjr.f 
 
 The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of lier| 
 soul, and anticipated from it a triumph. He saw I 
 she was in no mood, during her present paroxysm, lol 
 listen to his words ; but he trusted that the horrail 
 of lonely rumination would break down her spiril,! 
 and subdue her to his will. In this, however, lie « 
 disappointed. Many were the vicissitudes ofmindit 
 the wretched Inez ; one time she would embrace li 
 knees with piercing supplications ; at nnollier i 
 would shrink with nervous horror at his very apj 
 proach ; but any intimation of his passion only excM 
 the same emotion of loathing and detestalion. 
 
 At length the fatal day drew nigh. " To-morroffil 
 said Don Ambrosio, as he left her one evening, "T«| 
 morrow is the auto da /<*. To-morrow you will li* 
 the sound of the bell that tolls your father lo liisdealii 
 You will almost see the smoke that rises from his foj 
 neral pile. I leave you to yourself. It is yet inn 
 power to save him. Think whether you can sla 
 to-morrow's horrors without shrinking. Think win 
 ther you can endure the after-reflection, that ] 
 were the cause of his death, and that mTcly tlm 
 a perversity in refusing proffered happiness." 
 
 What a night was it to Inez ! Her heart, alit 
 harassed and almost broken by repeated n>ul proin 
 ed anxieties ; her strength wasted and enfeebled, 
 every side liorrors awaited her; her father's dfi 
 her own dishonour; there seemed no esea|)e fni 
 misery or perdition. ' ' Is there no relief IVoui in 
 
BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 405 
 
 ice, and that the nature 
 
 lied. He had gone too 
 
 ssume the affectation of 
 
 id he was mortined and 
 
 to his attractions, and 
 
 her through her fears. 
 
 le dangers that threaten- 
 
 IS in his power alone to 
 
 incredulous. Slie was 
 
 the inquisition to know 
 
 lot always a protection 
 
 3nfided too surely in the 
 
 ieve that any accusation 
 
 , to give an effectual blow 
 her the proclamation of 
 ), in which the prisoners 
 uiced her eye over it, and 
 ondemned to the slake for 
 
 d transfixed with horror. 
 pon the transient calm. 
 iiez," said he, with a lone I 
 is life is still in your hands; 
 kind word, and I can yet] 
 
 ried she, coming to herself, 
 Ih insuperahle abhorrence; 
 seof this— 'tis you that are 
 wringing her hands, sIk 
 )nsof the most franlicagony. 
 sio saw the torture of het 
 I it a triumph. He saw Hut] 
 iig her present paroxysm, Ki 
 le trusted that the horron 
 lid hreak down her spirit 
 
 In this, however, he 
 •e the vicissitudes of mind 
 lime she would embrace 
 •plications ; at another 
 ous horror at his very 
 an of his passion only excit 
 ling and detestation. 
 
 re w nigh. "To-morrow,' 
 e left her one evening, "T( 
 To-morrow you will li 
 tolls your father 10 his dea 
 imoke that rises from liisti 
 to yourself. It is yd in 
 link whether youcansti 
 hout shrinking. Think «1 
 le after-retleclion, that 
 jth, and that mnelyth 
 noffered happiness." 
 Lo Inez ! Her heart, alreJ 
 ten hy repeated ami proli 
 h wasted and enfeebled, 
 led her; her father's di 
 ere seemed no escape ft 
 Is there no relief IVom lit! 
 
 I „o pity In heaven ? " exdabned she. " What— what 
 
 Lave we done that we should be thus wretched?" 
 
 j^g llie dawn approached, the fever of her mind 
 
 ■rose to agony ; a thousand times did she try the doors 
 
 windows of her apartment, in the desperate hope 
 
 )f escaping. Alas! with all the splendour of her 
 
 )rison, it was too faithfully secured for her weak 
 
 lands to work deliverance. Like a poor bird, that 
 
 Its its wmgs against its gilded cage, until it sinks 
 
 inling in despair, so she threw herself on the floor 
 
 1 hopeless anguish. Her blood grew hot in her veins, 
 
 •rlongue was parched, her temples throbbed with 
 
 liolence, she gasped rather than breathed; it seemed 
 
 if her brain was on lire. " Blessed Virgin ! " ex- 
 
 laimed she, clasping her hands and turning up her 
 
 rained eyes, " look down with pily, and support me 
 
 this dreadful hour!" 
 
 Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key 
 im soflly in the door of her apartment. She dread- 
 lest it should be Don Ambrosio; and the very 
 lought of him gave her a sickening pang. It was a 
 ;niale, clad in a rustic dress, with her face concealed 
 her mantilla. She stepped silently into the room, 
 )ked cautiously round, and then, uncovering her 
 ice, revealed the well-known features of the ballad- 
 inger. Inez uttered an exclamation of surprise, al- 
 itof joy. The unknown slarted back, pressed her 
 |nger on her lips enjoining silence, and beckoned 
 ;r to follow. She hastily wrapped herself in her 
 iiland obeyed. They passed with quick but noise- 
 steps through an anti-chamber, across a spacious 
 ill, and along a corridor; all was silent; the house- 
 )ld was yet locked in sleep. They came to a door, 
 which the unknown applied a key. Inez' heart 
 lisgave her ; she knew not but some new treachery 
 ^as menacing her; she laid her cold hand on the 
 ranger's arm : " Whither are you leading iiie ? " 
 lid she. "To liberty," replied the other, in a 
 [liisper. 
 
 " Do you know the passages about this mansion?" 
 "But too well!" replied the girl, with a melan- 
 loly shake of the head. There was an expression 
 sad veracity in her countenance that was not to be 
 strusted. The door opened on a small terrace, 
 jhich was over-looked by several wiiulows of the 
 nsion. 
 
 I" We must move across this (juickly," said the girl, 
 )r we may be observed." 
 
 iThey glided over it as if scarce touching the ground. 
 iBiglil of steps led down into the garden; a wicket 
 llie bottom was readily unbolted : they passed with 
 taihless velocity along one of the alleys, still in sight 
 the mansion, in which^ however, no person ap- 
 ired to be stirring. At length they came to a low 
 |vale-(loor in the wall, partly hidden by a fig-tree, 
 fas secured by rusly bolls, that refused to yield lo 
 (ir feeble efforts. 
 
 f'Holy Virgin!" exclaimed the slranger, "what 
 lo be done ? one moment more, and we may be 
 tvered." 
 
 She seized a stone that lay near by; a few blows, 
 and the bolts flew back; the door grated harshly as 
 they opened it, and the next moment they found 
 themselves in a narrow road. 
 
 "Now," said the stranger, "for Granada as 
 quickly as possible! The nearer we approach it, 
 the safer we shall be ; for the road will be more fire- 
 quented." 
 
 The imminent risk they ran of being pursued and 
 taken gave supernatural strength to their limbs ; they 
 flew rather than ran. The day had dawned; the 
 crimson streaks on the edge of the horizon gave tokens 
 of the approaching sunrise : already the light clouds 
 that floated in the western sky were tinged with gold 
 and purple; though the broad plain of the Vega, 
 which now began to open upon their view, was co- 
 vered with the dark haze of morning. As yet they 
 only passed a few straggling peasants on the road, 
 who could have yielded them no assistance in case of 
 their being overtaken. They continued to hurry 
 forward and had gained a considerable distance, when 
 the strength of Inez, which had only been sustained 
 by the fever of her mind, began to yield to fatigue : 
 she slackened her pace, and faltered. 
 
 " Alas ! " said she, " my limbs fail me ! I can go 
 no farther ! " " Bear up, bear up, " replied her com- 
 panion cheeringly; " a little farther, and we shall be 
 safe : look! yonder is Granada, just showing itself in 
 the valley below us. A little farther, and we shall 
 come to the main road, and then we shall find plenty 
 of passengers to protect us." 
 
 Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get forward, 
 but her weary limbs were unequal to the eagerness 
 of her mind; her mouth and tbi-oat were parched by 
 agony and terror : she gasped for breath, and leaned 
 for support against a rock. " It is all in vain ! " ex- 
 claimed she ; " I feel as though I should faint. " 
 
 " Lean on me, " said the other ; " let us get into 
 the shelter of yon thicket, that will conceal us from 
 the view; I hear the sound of water, which will re- 
 fresh you. " 
 
 With much difficulty they reached the thicket, 
 which overhung a small mountain stream, just where 
 its sparkling waters leaped over the rock and fell into 
 a natural basin. Here Inez sank upon the ground 
 exhausted. Her companion brcught water in the 
 palms of her hands, and bathed her pallid temples. 
 The cooling drops revived her ; she was enabled to 
 get to the margin of the stream, and drink of its 
 crystal current ; then, reclining her head on the bosom 
 of her deliverer, she was first enabled to murmur 
 forth her heartfelt gratitude. 
 
 " Alas ! " said the oilier, " I deserve no thanks ; I 
 deserve not the good opinion you express. In me 
 you behold a victim of Don Ambrosio's arts. In early 
 years he seduced me from the cottage of my parents : 
 look ! at the foot of yonder blue mountain in the di- 
 stance lies my native village : but it is no longer a 
 home for me. From thence he lured me when I 
 was too young for refiection ; he educated me, taught 
 
 '^ .-: 
 
 ?fti 
 
406 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ■1^ 'i. 
 
 p 
 
 'm. 
 
 
 me various accomplishments, made me sensible to 
 love, to splendoar, to refinement ; tlien having grown 
 weary of me, he neglected me, and cast me upon 
 tiie world. Happily the accomplishments he taught 
 me have kept me from ulter want ; and the love with 
 which he inspired me has kepi me from further de- 
 gradation. Yes ! I confess my weakness; all his per- 
 fidy and wrongs cannot efface him from my heart. 
 I have been brought up to love him ; I have no other 
 idol : I know him to be base, yet I canuot help ador- 
 ing him. I am content to mingle among the hireling 
 throng that administer to his amusements, that I may 
 still hover about him, and linger in those halls where 
 I once reigned mistress. What merit, then, have I 
 in assisting your escape ? I scai-ce know whether I 
 am acting from sympathy, and a desire to rescue 
 another victim from his power ; or jealousy and an 
 eagerness to remove too powerful a rival ! " 
 
 While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its 
 splendour ; first lighting up the mountain summits, 
 then stealing down height by height, until its rays 
 gilded the domes and towers of Granada, which they 
 could partially see from between the trees, below 
 them. Just then the heavy tones of a bell came 
 sounding from a distance, echoing, in sullen clang, 
 along the mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound. 
 She knew it to be the great bell of the cathedral, rung 
 at sunrise on the day of the auto da p, to give note of 
 funeral preparation. Every stroke beat upon her 
 heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang. 
 She started up wildly. " Let us be gone ! " cried 
 she ; " there is not a moment for delay ! " 
 
 " Slop ! " exclaimed the other, " yonder are horse- 
 men coming over the brow of that distant height ; if 
 I mistake not, Don Ambrosio is at llieir head— Alas ! 
 'tis he; we are lost. Hold! " continued she, " give 
 me your scarf and veil ; wrap yourself in this mantilla. 
 I will fly up yon foot-path that leads to the heights. 
 I will let the veil flutter as I ascend ; perhaps they 
 may mistake me fur you, and they must dismount to 
 follow me. Do you hasten forward : you will soon 
 reach the main road. You have jewels on your 
 fingers : bribe the first muleteer you meet to assist 
 you on your way. " 
 
 All this was said with hurried and breathless ra- 
 pidity. The exchange uf garments was made in an 
 instant. The giil darted up the mountain-path, her 
 white veil fluttering among the dark shrubbery; while 
 Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather new 
 terror, flew to the road, and trusted to Providence to 
 guide her tottering steps to Granada. 
 
 All Granada was in agitation on the morning of 
 this dismal day. The heavy bell of the cathedral 
 continued to ulter its clanging tones, that pervaded 
 every part of the city, summoning all persons to the 
 tremendous spectacle that was about to be exhibited. 
 The streets through which the procession was to pass 
 were crowded with the populace. The windows, 
 the roofs, every place that could admit a face or a 
 fooUiold, was alive with spectators. In the great 
 
 square a spacious scaffolding, like an amphitheatre I 
 was erected, "vhere the sentences of the prisooenl 
 were to be read, and the sermon of faith to be preaeh-f 
 ed; and close by were the stakes prepared, whenl 
 the condemned were to be burnt to death, Seaul 
 were arranged for the great, the gay, the beaotifo|.| 
 for such is the horrible curiosity of human nature I 
 that this cruel sacrifice was attended with more eagerJ 
 ness than a theatre, or even a bull feast. 
 
 As 'he day advanced, the scaffolds and balcoD<{ 
 were filled with expecting multitudes; the sunshoi 
 brightly upon fair faces and gallant dresses; one woiildl 
 have thought it some scene of elegant festivity, instead! 
 of an exhibition of human agony and death. Bm 
 what a different spectacle and ceremony was 
 from those which Granada exhibited in llie days ( 
 her Moorish splendour ! " Her galas, her tourajJ 
 ments, her sports of the ring, her f^tes of St JohoJ 
 her music, her Zambras, and admirable tilts of canesi 
 Her serenades, her concerts, her songs in Generalirel 
 The costly liveries of the Abencerrages, tiieir ej 
 quisite inventions, the skill and valour of tiie Al« 
 baces, the superb dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, an 
 Gomeles ! " '—AH these were at an end. The dan 
 of chivalry were over. Instead of the prancing ( 
 valcade, with neighing steed and lively trumpet; villi 
 burnished lance, and helm, and buckler ; with i 
 confusion of plume, and scarf, and banner, v,!k 
 purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and evei 
 gay colour were mingled with cloth of gold and I 
 embroidery ; instead of this crept on the gloomy | 
 geant of superstition, in cowl and sackcloth; wilhcro 
 and coffin, and frightful symbols of human sufTeri 
 In place of the frank, hardy knight, open and braTej 
 witii his lady's favour in his casque, and amuro 
 motto on his shield, looking, by gallant deeds, towi^ 
 the smile of beauty, came the shaven, unmanly i 
 with downcast eyes, and head and heart hleachedi 
 the cold cloister, secretly exulting in this bi^ 
 triumph. 
 
 The sound of bells gave notice that the dismal p 
 cession was advancing. It passed slowly through ll 
 principal streets of the city, bearing in advance I 
 awful banner of the holy office. The prisoners val 
 ed singly, attended by confessors, and guarded 1 
 familiars of the inquisition. They were clad in ( 
 ferent garments according to the nature of tlieir|i 
 nishments; those who were to suffer death worell 
 hideous Samarra, painted with flames and den 
 The procession was swelled by choirs of boys, hyd 
 ferent religious orders and public dignitaries, 
 al)ove all, by the fathers of the faith, moving " 
 slow pace, and profound gravity, truly triumpliiq| 
 as becomes the principal generals of tlial great i 
 lory." ' 
 
 As the sacred banner of the inquisition advan 
 the ountless throng sunk on their knees before i 
 they bowed their faces to the very earth as it | 
 
 ' Uodd's civil Wars of Granudu. 
 > GoitNlviuSit). 133. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 407 
 
 , like an amplutheatre, 
 itenccs of Ihe prisonen 
 non of faith to he preach- 
 stakes prepared, where 
 burnt to death, SeaU 
 
 land then slowly rose again, like a great nndnlating 
 How. A murmur of tongues prevailed as the pri- 
 lers approached, and eager eyes were strained, 
 lingers pointed, to distinguish the different or- 
 rs of penitents, whose habits denoted the degree 
 the gay. ^*»e beautihil'Kf punishment they were to undergo. But as those 
 iosity of human nature'Hrew near whose frightful garb marked them as des- 
 lined to the flames, the noise of the rabble subsided ; 
 ley se«>med almost to hold in their breaths; filled 
 i(b that strange and dismal interest with which we 
 itemplate a human being on the verge of suffering 
 
 ._ death. 
 
 It is an awful thing— a voiceless, noiseless multi- 
 ile! The hushed and gazing stillness of the snr- 
 inding thousands, heaped on walls, and gates, and 
 ife, and hanging, as it were, in clusters, heighten- 
 the effect of the pageant that moved drearily on. 
 ,e low murmuring of the priests could now be 
 in prayer and exhortation, with the faint res- 
 of the prisoners, and now and then the voices 
 the choir at a distance, chanting the litanies of Ihe 
 
 jts. 
 
 Tiie faces of the prisoners were ghastly and dis- 
 ilale. Even those who had been pardoned, and 
 ire the San-benito, or penitential garment, bore 
 8 of the horrors they had undergone. Some 
 ire feeble and tottering from long confinement ; 
 le crippled and distorted by various tortures ; 
 iiy countenance was a dismal page, on which 
 jht be read the secrets of their prison-house. But 
 ttie looks of those condemned to death there was 
 lething fierce and eager. They seemed men bar- 
 ed up by the past, and desperate as to the future. 
 y were anticipating, with spirits fevered by des- 
 , and fixed and clenched determination, the vehe- 
 l struggle v'ith agony and death which they were 
 lly to undergo. Some cast now and then a wild 
 anguished look about them upon the shining day, 
 "sun-bright palaces," the gay, the beautiful 
 Id, which they were soon to quit for ever; or a 
 ice of sudden indignation at the thronging tliou- 
 , happy in liberty and life, who seemed, in con- 
 iplaling their frightful situation, to exult in their 
 comparative security. 
 
 le among the condemned, however, was an ex- 
 lion to these remarks. It was an aged man, some- 
 it bowed down, with a serene, though dejected 
 itenance, and a beaming, melancholy eye. It 
 thealchymist. The populace lookeil upon him 
 a degree of compassion, which they were not 
 16 to feel towards criminals condemned by the 
 lisition; but when they were told that he was 
 led of the crime of magic, they drew back with 
 and abhorrence. 
 
 lie procession had reached the grand square. 
 first part had already mounted the scaffolding, 
 llie condemned were approaching. The press 
 populace became excessive, and was repelled, 
 were, in billows by the guards. Just as the 
 mned were entering the square, a shrieking 
 
 ttended with more eager- 
 a bull feast, 
 e scaffolds and balconi^ 
 nuUiludes; the sun si 
 jallant dresses; one woulil 
 )f elegant festivity, hisleirf| 
 I agony and death, 
 and ceremony was 
 exhibited in the days 
 " Her galas, her toui 
 ing, her ffites of St John 
 id admirable tilts of canes 
 5, her songs in Generalite 
 J Abencerrages, their ex- 
 ill and valour of the Al 
 of the Zegiies, Mazas, ai 
 svere at an end. The i» 
 nstead of the prancing 
 edand lively trumpet; ml 
 m, and buckler; with 
 scarf, and banner, v'a 
 ;reen, and orange, and ev( 
 I with cloth of gold and 
 his crept on the gloomy 
 )\vland sackcloth; with CI 
 symbols of human sulferii 
 ly knight, open and bravi 
 his casque, and amoi 
 ng, by gallant deeds, to 
 the shaven, unmanly 
 lead and heart bleached 
 ly exulting in this bi 
 
 notice that the dismal 
 It passed slowly through 
 ly, bearing in advance 
 office. The prisoners vii 
 confessors, and guarded 
 They were clad in i 
 ig to the nature of their 
 ere to suffer death wore 
 id with flames and dei 
 led by choirs of boys, by 
 nd public dignitaries, at 
 of the faith, moving "wl 
 gravity, truly triunipl 
 generals of that great 
 
 jf the inquisition advai 
 
 tk on their knees before 
 
 the very earth as it 
 
 ll Wars of Granadu. 
 
 was heard from the crowd. A female, pale, frantic, 
 dishevelled, was seen struggling throngh the multi- 
 tude. " My father ! my father ! " was all Ihe cry she 
 uttered, but it thrilled through every heart. The 
 crowd instinctively drew back, and made way for her 
 as she advanced. 
 
 The poor alchymist had made his peace with Hea- 
 ven, and, by hard struggle, had closed his heart upon 
 the world ; the voice of bis child called him once more 
 back 10 worldl; thought and agony. He turned 
 towards the wel' known voice; his knees smote to- 
 gether; he endeavoured to stretch forth his pinioned 
 arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his 
 child. The emotions of both were too agonizing for 
 utterance. Convulsive sobs, and broken exclama- 
 tions, and embraces more of ;4nguish than tenderness, 
 were all that passed between them. The procession 
 was interrupted for a moment. Tlie astonis'iied 
 monks and familiars were filled with involuntary 
 respect at this agony of natural affection. Ejacula- 
 tions of pity broke from the crowd, touched by the 
 filial piety, the extraordinary and hopeless anguish of 
 so young and beautiful a being. 
 
 Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on her to 
 retire, was unheeded; at length they endeavoured to 
 separate her from her father by force. The move- 
 ment roused her from her temporary abandonment. 
 With a sudden paroxysm of fury, she snatched a 
 sword from one of the familiars. Her late pale coun- 
 tenance was flushed with rage, and fire flashed from 
 her once soft and languishing eyes. The guards 
 shrunk back with awe. There was something in 
 this filial frenzy, this feminine tenderness wrought 
 up to desperation, that touched even their hardened 
 hearts. They endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain. 
 Her eye was eager and quick as the she-wolfs guard- 
 ing her young. With one arm she pressed her fa- 
 ther to her bosom, with the other she menaced every 
 one that approached. 
 
 The patience of the guards was soon exhausted. 
 They had held back in awe, but not in fear. With 
 all her desperation the weaiwn was soon wrested 
 from her feeble hand, and she was borne shrieking 
 and struggling among the crowd. The rabble mur- 
 mured compassion ; but such was the dread inspired 
 by the inquisition, that no one attempted to interfere. 
 
 The procession again resumed its march. Inez 
 was ineffectually struggling to release herself from the 
 hands of the familiars that detained her, when sud- 
 denly she saw Don Ambrosio before her. " Wretched 
 girl !" exclaimed he with fury, " why have you fled 
 from your friends ? Deliver her," said he to the fa- 
 miliars, '' to my domestics; she is under my protec- 
 tion." 
 
 His creatures advanced to seize her. " Oh no ! oh 
 no!" cried she, with new terrors, and clinging to the 
 familiars, "I have fled from no friends. He is not 
 my protector ! He is the murderer of my father ! " 
 
 The familiars were perplexed ; the crowd pressed 
 on with eager curiosity. " Stand off!" cried the fiery 
 
 hi 
 
 ■' 1 
 
408 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 m 
 
 m 
 
 Ambrosio, dashing the throng firom around him. 
 Then turning to the familiars, with sudden modera- 
 tion, " My friends," said he, " deliver this poor girl 
 tome. Her distress has turned her brain; she has 
 escaped from her friends and protectors this morning; 
 but a little quiet and kind treatment will restore her 
 to tranqniliity." 
 
 " I am not mad ! I am not mad !" cried she vehe- 
 mently. " Oh, save me ! — save me from these men ! 
 I have no protector on earth but my father, and him 
 they are murdering!" 
 
 The familiars shook their heads ; her wildness cor- 
 roborated the assertions of Don Ambrosio, and his 
 apparent rank commanded respect and belief. They 
 relinquished their charge to him, and he was consign- 
 ing the struggling Inez to his creatures. — 
 
 " Let go your hold, villain !" cried a voice from 
 among the crowd, and Antonio was seen eagerly 
 tearing his way through the press of people. 
 
 *' Seize him! seize him !" cried Don Ambrosio to 
 the familiars : " 'tis an accomplice of the sorcerer's." 
 
 '' Liar !" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the mob to 
 the right and left, and forced himself to the spot. 
 
 The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an instant 
 from the scabbard; the student was armed, and equally 
 alert. There was a lierce clash of weapons ; the crowd 
 made way for them as they fought, and closed again, 
 so as to hide them from the view of Inez. All was 
 tumult and confusion for a moment; when there was 
 a kind of shout from the spectators, and the mob again 
 opening, she beheld, as she thought, Antonio welter- 
 ing in his blood. 
 
 This new shock was too great for her already over- 
 strained intellect. A giddiness seized upon her; 
 every thing seemed to whirl before her eyes; she 
 gasped scire incoherent words, and sunk senseless 
 upon (he ground. 
 
 Days— weeks elapsed before Inez returned to con- 
 sciousness. At length she opened her eyes, as if out 
 of a troubled sleep. She was lying upon a magni- 
 ficent bed, in a chamber richly furnislied with pier 
 glasses and massive tables inlaid with silver, of ex- 
 quisite workmanship. The walls were covered with 
 tapestry ; the cornices richly gilded ; through the door, 
 which stood open, she perceived a superbsaloon, willi 
 statues and crystal lustres, and a magnificent suite of 
 apartments beyond. The casements of the room were 
 open to admit the soft breath of summer, which stole 
 in, laden with perfumes from a neighbouring garden; 
 from whence, also, the refreshing sound of fountains 
 and the sweet notes of birds came in mingled music 
 to her ear. 
 
 Female attendants were moving, with noiseless step, 
 about the chamber; but she feared to address them. 
 She doubted whether this were not all delusion, or 
 whether she was not still in the palace of Don Am- 
 brosio, and that her escape, and all its circumstances, 
 had not been but a feverish dream. She closed her 
 eyes again, endeavouring to recall the past, and to 
 separate the real from the imaginary. The last scenes 
 
 of consciousness, however, rushed too forcibly, vju 
 all their horrors, to her mind to be doubted, and» 
 turned shuddering from the recollection, to gazeom 
 more on the quiet and serene magnificence aronn 
 her. As she again opened her eyes, they rested o 
 an object that at once dispelled every alarm. Attb 
 head of her bed sat a venerable form watching oTa 
 her with a look of fond anxiety— it was her father! 
 
 I will not attempt todescril)e the scene that ensuedj 
 nor the moments of rapture which more than repaJ 
 
 all the sufferings that her affectionate heart had undeii 
 gone. As soon as their feelings bad become mon 
 calm, the alchymist stepped out of the room to inli 
 ducc a stranger, to whom he was indebted fori 
 life and liberty. He returned, leading in Antt 
 no longer in his poor scholar's garb, but in the i 
 dress of a nobleman. 
 
 The feelings of Inez were almost oveipoweredli 
 these sudden reverses, and it was some lime belii 
 she was sufficiently composed to comprehend liiee 
 planation of this seeming romance. 
 
 It appeared that the lover, who had sought her a 
 fecticns in the lowly guise of a student, was the « 
 son and heir of a powerful grandee of Valencia. 
 had been placed at the university of Salamanca;! 
 a lively curiosity and an eagerness for adventure 1 
 induced him to abandon the university, without I 
 father's consent, and to visit various parts of Sp; 
 His rambling inclination satisfied, he had remaini 
 incognito for a time at Granada, until, by furthi 
 study and self-regulation, he could prepare iiimselfl 
 return home with credit, and atone for his tran 
 sions against paternal authority. 
 
 How hard he had studied does not remain on il 
 cord. All that we know is his romantic advenluitl 
 the tower. It was at first a mere youthful capi 
 excited by a glimpse of a beautiful face. Int 
 ing a disciple of the alchymist, he probably tliouj 
 of nothing more than pursuing a light love-afG 
 Further acquaintance, however, had completely fi 
 his affections ; and he had determined to conduct Ii 
 and her father to Valencia, and to trust to hem 
 to secure liis father's consent to their union. 
 
 In (he mean time he had been traced to liis ' 
 ccalment. His father had received intelligence! 
 his being entangled in the snares of a mysterious j 
 venturer and his daughter, and likely to beconiej 
 dupe of the fascinations of (he la(ter. Tnislye 
 saries had been dispatched to seize upon him byi 
 force, and convey him without delay to the pale 
 home. 
 
 What eloquence he had used with his 
 convince him of (he innocence, the honour, anii| 
 high descent of (he alchymist, and of (he exalted « 
 of his daughter, does not appear. All that well 
 is, that the father, though a very passionate, i 
 very reasonable man, as appears by his com 
 that his son should retuni to Granada, and i 
 Inez, as his affianced bride, to Valencia. 
 
 Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, I 
 
rnshed too forcibly, win 
 nd to be doabled, and» 
 irecolleclion, togazeon 
 ■ene magnificence aroun 
 her eyes, they rested o 
 ;lled every alarm. Atihi 
 rable fornn waldiingova 
 jjety — it was her father! 
 libe the scene llial ensued! 
 ■e which more than repail 
 ffeclionate liearthad underl 
 feelings had become mo 
 edoutof theroomloinli 
 m he was indebted fori 
 iirned, leading in Anloni 
 olar'sgarb, but in Ihet 
 
 rere almost ovei-powered 
 nd it was some time bel 
 posed to comprehend the 
 ; romance. 
 
 »ver, who had sought her 
 se of a student, was the 
 ful grandee of Valencia, 
 university of Salamanca; 
 I eagerness for adventure 
 1 the university, without 
 ) visit various parts of 8| 
 »n satisfied, he had remai 
 t Granada, until, by futt! 
 in, he could prepare Mmselfl 
 t, and alone for his tra 
 
 ulhorily. 
 
 tudied does not remain on 
 
 sv is his romantic adventuni 
 Fust a mere youthful ca] 
 f a beautiful face. Inlx 
 Ichymist, he probably llioi 
 pursuing a light lovesil 
 however, had completely! 
 lad determined to conduct 
 jcia, and to trust to her 
 jnsent to their union. 
 [e had been traced to his 
 had received intelligence 
 the snares of a mysterious 
 liter, and likely to beconit 
 IS of the latter. Trusty f 
 ;hed to seize upon him by 
 without delay to the pat 
 
 had used with his fall« 
 Inocence, the honour, ani 
 Tiymist,andofthecxalte(i 
 hot appear. All that we 
 bugh a very passionate, 
 [ as appears by his eoi" 
 Lurn to Granada, and 
 bride, to Valencia. 
 fAntonlo hurried back, 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ii*- 
 
 409 
 
 joyous anticipations. He still forbore to throw off 
 bis disguise, fondly picturing to :iiniself what would 
 be the surprise of Inez, when, having won her heart 
 and hand as a poor wandering "cholar , he should raise 
 her and her father at once to opultiice and splen- 
 Idour. 
 
 On his arrival he had been shocked at finding the 
 
 (ower deserteii by its inhabitants. In vain be sought 
 
 L intelligence concerning them; a mystery hung 
 
 iver their disappearance which he could not pene- 
 
 ■ale, until he was thunderstruck, on accidentally 
 
 cading a list of the prisoners at the impending atito 
 
 fi, to find the name of his venerable master among 
 
 |he condemned. 
 
 It was the very morning of the execution. The 
 
 iwession was already on its way to the grand square. 
 
 >iot a moment was to be lost. The grand inquisitor 
 
 ras a relation of Don A ntonio, though they had never 
 
 ;t. His first impulse was to make himself known; 
 
 exert all his family influence, the weight of his 
 
 le, and the power of his eloquence, in vindication 
 
 the alchymist. But the grand inquisitor was al- 
 
 lady proceeding in all his pomp, to the place where 
 
 I faUl ceremony was to be performetl. How was 
 
 10 lie a;>proached ? Antonio threw himself into 
 
 I crowd, in a fever of anxiety, and was forcing his 
 
 lay to the scene of horror, when he arrived just in 
 
 le to rescue Inez, as has been mentioned. 
 
 It was Don Ambrosio that fell in their contest. 
 
 iinj desperately wounded, and thinking his end 
 
 iproaching, he had confessed, to an attending father 
 
 the inquisition, that he was the sole cause of the 
 
 ^iiymist's condemnation, and that tiie evidence on 
 
 Wh it was grounded was altogether false. The 
 
 ilimony of Don Antonio came in corroboration of 
 
 ! avowal; and his relationship to the grand inqui- 
 
 ir had, in all probability, its proper weight. Thus 
 
 the poor alchymist saatclied, in a manner, from 
 
 very flames; and so great had been the sympathy 
 
 lakened in his case, that for once a populace re- 
 
 " at being disappointed of an execution. 
 
 he residue of the story may readily be imagined 
 
 ivery one versed in this valuable kind of history. 
 
 Antonio espoused the lovely Inez, and took her 
 
 her father with him to Valencia. As she had 
 
 a loving and dutiful daughter, so she proved a 
 
 and tender wife. It was not long before Don 
 
 mio succeeded to his father's titles and estates, 
 
 he and his fair spouse were renowned for being 
 
 [handsomest and happiest couple in all Valencia. 
 
 to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered to the 
 
 fment of a broken constitution and a blasted 
 
 I, and hid his remorse and disgraces in a con- 
 
 wliile the poor victim of his arts, who had as- 
 
 Inez in her escape, unable to conquer the early 
 
 •n that he had awakened in her bosom, though 
 
 ineed of the baseness of the object, retired from 
 
 wld, and became an humble sister in a nunnery. 
 
 le worthy alchymist took up his abode with his 
 
 'I. A pavilion, in the garden of their palace, 
 
 was assigned to him as a laboratory, where he re- 
 sumed his researches, with renovated ardour, after 
 the grand secret. He was now and then assisted by 
 his son-in-law : but the latter slackened grievously in 
 his zeal and diligence, after marriage. Still he would 
 listen with profound gravity and attention to the old 
 man's rhapsodies, and his quotations from Paracelsus, 
 Sandivogius, and Pietro D'Abano, which daily grew 
 longer and longer. In this way the good alchymist 
 lived on quietly and comfortably, to what is called a 
 good old age, that is to say, an age that is good for 
 nothing, and, unfortunately for mankind, was hur- 
 ried out of life in his ninetieth year, just as he was 
 on the point of discovering the Philosopher's Stone. 
 
 Such was the story of the captain's friend, with 
 which we whiled away the morning. The captain 
 was, every now and then, interrupted by questions 
 and remarks, which I have not mentioned, lest I 
 should break the continuity of the tale. He was a 
 little disturbed, also, once or twice, by the genera!, 
 who fell asleep, and breathed rather hard to the great 
 horror and annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long 
 and tender love-scene, also, which was particularly 
 to her ladyship's taste, the imlucky general, having 
 his head a little .sunk upon his breast, kept making a 
 sound at regular intervals, very much like the word 
 })($/{, long drawn out. Atlength he made an odd abrupt 
 guttural sound, that suddenly awoke him; he hem- 
 med, looked about with a slight degree of consterna- 
 tion, and then began to play with her ladyship's work- 
 bag, which, however, she rather pettishly withdrew. 
 The steady sound of the captain's voice was still too 
 potent a soporific for the poor general ; he kept gleam- 
 ing up and sinking in the socket, until the cessation 
 of the tale again roused him, when he started awake, 
 put his foot down upon Lady Lillycrafl's cur, the 
 sleeping Beauty, which yelped, and seized him by the 
 leg, and, in a moment, the whole library resounded 
 with yelpings and exclamations. Never did a man 
 more completely mar his fortunes while he was 
 asleep. Silence being at length restored, the com- 
 pany expressed their thanks to the captain, and gave 
 various opinions of the story. The parson's mind, I 
 found, had been continually running upon the leaden 
 manuscripts, mentioned in the beginning, as dug up 
 at Granada, and he put several eager questions to 
 the captain on the subject. The general could not 
 well make out the drift of the story, but thought it a 
 little confused. "I am glad, however," said he, 
 "that they burnt the old chap of the tower; Ihave no 
 doubt he was a notorious impostor." 
 
 :.:>9 
 
 
 ,".2 
 
410 
 
 BBACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 
 ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN. 
 
 Iliii certain life, that never can deceive him. 
 Is fult of thousand swecls and rich content ; 
 :' : The smooth-leaved lieeches in the field receive him 
 .^ . With coolest shade, till noontide's heat be spent. 
 
 His life is neither tost in boisterous seas 
 Or the vexatious world ; or lost in slothful ease. 
 Pleased and (iiUblest he lives when he his God can please. 
 
 PBINEA8 FLETGHER. 
 
 I TAKE great pleasure in accompanying the squire 
 in his perambulations about his estate, in which lie is 
 often attended by a kind of cabinet council. His 
 prime minister, the steward, is a very worthy and 
 honest old man, that assumes a right of way ; that is 
 to say, a right to have his own way, from having lived 
 time out of mind on the place. He loves the estate 
 even better than he does the squire; and thwarts the 
 latter sadly in many of his projects of improvement, 
 being a little prone to disapprove of every plan that 
 does not originate with himself. 
 
 In the course of one of these perambulations, I 
 have known the squire to point out some important 
 alteration which he was contemplatmg, in the dispo- 
 sition or cultivation of the grounds; this of course 
 would be opposed by the steward, and a long argu- 
 ment would ensue over a stile, or on a rising piece of 
 ground, until the squire, who has a high opinion of 
 the other's ability and integrity, would be fain to give 
 up the point. This concession, I observed, would 
 immediately mollify the old man, and, after walking 
 over a field or two in silence, with his hands behind 
 his back, chewing the cud of reflection, he would sud- 
 denly turn to the squire and observe, that " he had 
 been tui*ning the matter over in his mind, and, upon 
 the whole, he believed he would take his honour's 
 advice." 
 
 Christy, the huntsman, is another of the squire's 
 occasional attendants, to whom he continually refers 
 in all matters of local history, as to a chronicle of the 
 estate, having, in a manner, l)een acquainted with 
 many of the trees, from the very time that they were 
 acorns. Old Nimrod, as has been shown, is rather 
 pragmatical in those points of knowledge on which he 
 values himself; but the squire rarely contradicts him, 
 and is, in fact, one of the most indulgent potentates 
 that ever was hen-pecked by his ministry. 
 
 He often laughs about it himself, and evidently 
 yields .0 these old men more from the bent of his 
 own humour, than from any want of proper authority. 
 He likes this honest independence of old age, and is 
 well aware that these trusty followers love and honour 
 him in their hearts. He is perfectly at ease about his 
 own dignity and the respect of those around him; 
 nothing disgusts him sooner than any appearance of 
 fiiwning or sycophancy. 
 
 I really have seen no display of royal state that 
 could compare with one of the squire's progresses about 
 his paternal fields and through his hereditary wood- 
 lands, with several of these faithful adherents alwiit 
 
 him, and followed by a body-guard of dogs. He en- 
 courages a frankness and manliness of deportment 
 among his dependents, and is the personal friend of 
 his tenants ; in(iuiring into their concerns, and assist. 
 ing them in times of difficulty and hardship. Tliiij 
 has rendered him one of the most popular, and o( 
 course one of the happiest of landlords. 
 
 Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condiiiogj 
 of life, than that of an English gentleman, of sound 
 judgment and good feelings, who passes the greater! 
 part of his time on an hereditary estate in thecounir;. 
 From the excellence of the roads and the rapidity an] 
 exactness of the public conveyances, he is enabled io| 
 command all the comforts and conveniences, all 
 intelligence and novelties of the capital, while he 
 removed from its hurry and dislraclion. He 
 ample means of occupation and amusement withi 
 his own domains ; he may diversify his time by ninl 
 occupations, by rural sports, by study, and by 
 delights of friendly society collected within his ow 
 hospitable halls. 
 
 Or if his views and feelings are of a more exlensii 
 and liberal nature, he has it greatly in his |)o\ver 
 do good, and to have Ihat good immediately reflecl 
 back upon himself. He can render essential sei 
 to his country, by assisting in the disinterested 
 ministration of the laws ; by watching over the 
 nions and principles of the lower orders ti-?iind liiia 
 by diffusing among them those lights which niay 
 important to their welfare; by mingling franl 
 among them, gaining their confidence, becoming 
 immediate auditor of their complaints, informiiigi 
 self of their wants, making himself a channel tliri 
 which their grievances may be quietly coramunical 
 to the proper sources of mitigation and relief; or 
 becoming, if need he, the intrepid and incorrupt 
 guardian of their liberties— Ihe enlightened champi 
 of their rights. 
 
 All tills, it appears to me, can be done without 
 sacrifice of personal dignity, without any degn 
 arts of popularity, without any truckling to vul 
 prejudices, or concurrence in vulgar clamour; 
 by the steady influence of sincere and friendly coi 
 of fair, upright, and generous deporlment. Wl 
 ever may be said of English mobs and English d( 
 gogues, I have never met with a people moreo| 
 reason, more considerate in their tempers, more 
 able by argument in the roughest times, than 
 English. They are remarkably quick at discei 
 and appreciating whatei r is manly and lionoui 
 They are by nature and habit methodical and onli 
 and they feel the value of all that is regular and 
 pectable. They may occasionally be deeeive(|| 
 sophistry, and excited into turbulence by publie 
 tresses and the misrepresentations of designing 
 bnt open their eyes, and they will eventually 
 round the land-n^arks of steady truth anddelil 
 good sense. They are fond of established cu 
 they are fond of long-established names; and Ihill 
 of order and quiet which characterizes the 
 
 I gives I 
 
 I ramilie 
 
 Ifromti 
 
 It is 
 
 Iprivileg 
 
 ■neglect 
 
 Jfeclions 
 
 Irighls ol 
 
 ltd and 
 
 ognes: 
 
 alriot is 
 
 90t am( 
 
 lelves, li 
 
 ningatti 
 
 ititnted 
 
 import 
 
 ing in ad 
 
 feroneis 
 
 rich and 
 
 society w 
 
 whole i 
 
 Though 
 
BKACEimiDGE HALL. 
 
 411 
 
 r-giiardofdogs. Hetn- 
 naiiUness of deportment I 
 
 is the personal friend o( I 
 Ijeir concerns, and assist- [ 
 dty and hardship. T,m\ 
 he most popular, and o|| 
 if landlords. 
 
 1 more enviable conditionl 
 i"lish gentleman, of sonndl 
 ^s, who passes the greaterl 
 litary estate in thecounlrjT 
 roads and the rapidity andl 
 iveyances, he is enabled lol 
 s and conveniences, all l 
 
 of the capital, while he ii 
 and distraction. He lu 
 on and amusement wilhiiJ 
 r diversify his time by nira^ 
 orts, by study, and by t 
 ty collected within his owij 
 
 lin"« are of a more exlensis 
 ts it greatly inhisiwwerl 
 t good immediately rcilettd 
 can render essential ser 
 iin" in the disinterested i 
 ;; by watching over llie( 
 lie lower orders «-^undliira| 
 1 those lights which may I 
 ;lfare ; by mingling franll 
 ^eir confidence, becoming l 
 ii- complaints, informinghiii 
 himself a channel thro 
 may be quietly communicaK 
 mitigation and relief; orl 
 he intrepid and incorrupfi 
 es— the enlightened cbainji 
 
 me, can be done without 
 gnily, without any degri 
 Uoul any truckling to n\ 
 ;nce in vulgar clamour; 
 (fsincere and friendly coi 
 lenerous deportment. W 
 tlish mobs and English 
 let with a people more o| 
 Ite in their tempers, more 11 
 Ithe roughest times, than 
 ;markably quick at discer 
 T r is manly and honoHi 
 tl habit methodical and onli 
 of all that is regular and 
 occasionally he deceiv«l| 
 into turbulence by pu* 
 resentations of designing - 
 md they will eventually 
 of steady truth and deli 
 le fond of established ci: 
 jtablished names; and Ih* 
 liicb characterizes the " 
 
 gives a vast influence to the descendants of (he old 
 families, whose forefathers have been lords of (he soil 
 from lime immemorial. 
 
 It is when the rich and well-educated and highly 
 privileged classes neglect their duties, when (hey 
 neglect to study the interests, and conciliate the af- 
 fections, and instruct the opinions and champion (he 
 rights of the people, (hat the latter become discontenl- 
 |ed and Kirbulent, and fall into the hands ofdcma- 
 iie8:the demagogue always steps in where the 
 itriot is wanting. There is a common high-handed 
 int among the high-fed, and, as they fancy (hem- 
 ilves, high-minded men, alwut putting down the 
 lb; but all true physicians know that it is belter to 
 eelen the blood than attack the tumour, to apply 
 emollient rather than the cautery. It is absurd 
 a country like England, where there is so much 
 lorn, and such a jealousy of right, for any man to 
 iume an aristocratical (one, and to (alk supcrci- 
 msly of the common people. There is no rank 
 It makes him independent of the opinions and af- 
 :tion$ of iiis fellow-men ; there is no rank nor dis- 
 iclion that severs him from his fellow-subject ; and 
 f, by any gradual neglect or assumption on the one 
 le, and discontent and jealousy on the other, the 
 lers of society should really separate, let those who 
 ind on the eminence l)eware that the chasm is not 
 ling at their feet. The orders of society in all well 
 titnted governments are mutually bound together, 
 important to each other; there can be no such 
 ingin a free government as a vacuum ; and wiien- 
 fer one is likely to take place by the drawing off of 
 rich and intelligent from the poor, the bad passions 
 society will rush in to (ill up the space, and rend 
 whole asunder. 
 
 Though born and brought up in a republic, and 
 ire and more coniirmed in republican principles by 
 !ry year's observation and experience, yet I am not 
 nsible to the excellence that may exist in other 
 of government, nor to the fact that they may 
 more suitable to the situation and circumstinces of 
 countries in which they exist: I have endeavoured 
 ler to look at them as they are, and to observe how 
 !y are calculated (o effect the end which they pro- 
 Considering, therefore, the mixed nature of 
 government of this country, and its representative 
 I have looked with admiration at the manner 
 which the wealth and influence and intelligence 
 spread over its whole surface ; not as in some 
 larchies, drained from the eountiy, and collected 
 towns and cities. I have considered the great rural 
 ilishroents of the nobility, and the lesser establish- 
 itsof the gentry, as so many reservoirs of wealth 
 intelligence distributed about the kingdom, apart 
 the towns, to irrigate, freshen, and fertilize the 
 lunding country. I have looked upon them, too, 
 leaugust retreats of patriots and statesmen, where, 
 Ihe enjoyment of honourable independence and 
 rtl leisure, they might train up their minds to 
 n in those legislative assemblies, whose debates 
 
 and decisions furui the study and precedents of other 
 nations, and involve the interests of the world. 
 
 I have been bo(h surprised and disappoin(ed, (here- 
 fore, at finding, that on this subject I was often in- 
 dulging in an Utopian dream, rather than a well- 
 founded opinion. I have been concerned at finding 
 (hat these fine estates were too often involved, and 
 mortgaged, or placed in the hands of creditors, and 
 the owners exiled from their paternal lands. There 
 is an extravagance, I am told, that runs parallel with 
 wealth; a lavish expenditure among the great; a 
 senseless competition among the aspiring; a heedless, 
 joyless dissipation, among all the upper ranks, that 
 oRen beggars even these splendid establishments, 
 breaks down the pride and principles of Iheir pos- 
 sessors, and makes too many of them mere place- 
 himters, or shifting absentees. It is thus (hat so 
 many are thrown into the hands of government; and 
 a court, which ought to be the most pure and ho- 
 nourable in Europe, is so often degraded by noble, 
 but importunate time-servers. It is thus, too, that 
 so many become exiles from their native land, crowd- 
 ing the hotels of foreign countries, and expending 
 upon thankless strangers the wealth so hardly drained 
 from their laborious peasantry. I have looked upon 
 these latter with a mixture of censure and concern. 
 Knowing the almost bigoted fondness of an English- 
 man for his native home, I can conceive what must 
 be their compunction and regret, when, amidst the 
 sunburnt plains of France, they call to mind the green 
 fields of England; (he hereditary groves which they 
 have abandoned, and the hospitable roof of their fa- 
 thers, which they have left desolate, or to be inha- 
 bited by strangers. But retrenchment is no plea for 
 an abandonment of country. They have risen with 
 the prosperity of (he land ; let them abide its fluctua- 
 tions, and conform to its fortunes. It is not for the 
 rich to fly because the country is suffering : let them 
 share, in their relative proportion, the common lot ; 
 they owe it to the land that has elevated them to ho- 
 nour and affluence. When the poor have to diminish 
 their scanty morsel of bread; when they have to com- 
 pound with the cravings of nature, and study with 
 liow little they can do, and not be starved; it is not 
 then for the rich to fly, and diminish still further the 
 resources of the poor, that they themselves may live 
 in splendour in a cheaper country. Let them rather 
 retire to their estates, and there practise retrench- 
 ment. Let them return to that noble simplicity, that 
 practical good sense, that honest pride, which form 
 the foundation of true English character, and from 
 them they may again rear the edifice of fair and ho- 
 nourable prosperity. 
 
 On the rural habits of the English nobility and 
 gentry; on the manner in which they discharge their 
 duties on their patrimonial possessions, depend great- 
 ly the virtue and welfare of (he nation. So long as 
 tliey pass the greater part of their time in (he quiet 
 and purity of the country; surrounded by (he monu- 
 ments of their illustrious ancestors ; surrounded by 
 
 *»;* 
 
m 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ii'f 
 
 every thing that can inspire generoas pride, noble 
 emulation^ and amiable and magnanimous sentiment; 
 so long they are safe, and in them the nation may re- 
 pose its interests and its honour. But the moment that 
 they become the servile throngers of court avenues, 
 and give themselves up to the political intrigues and 
 heartless dissipations of the metropolis, that moment 
 they lose the real nobility of their natures, and be- 
 come the mere leeches of the country. 
 
 That the great majority of nobility and gentry in 
 England are endowed with high notions of honour 
 and independence, I thoroughly believe. They have 
 evidenced it lately on very important questions, and 
 have given an example of adherence to principle, in 
 preference to party and power, that must have asto- 
 nished many of the venal and obsequious courts of 
 Europe. Such are the glorious effects of freedom, 
 when infused into a constitution. But it seems to 
 me that they are apt to forget the positive nature of 
 their duties, and to fancy that their eminent privi- 
 leges are only so many means of self-indulgence. 
 They should recollect that in a constitution like that 
 of England, the tilled orders arc intended to be as 
 useful as they are ornamental, and it is their virtues 
 alone that can render them both. Their duties are 
 divided between the sovereign and the subject ; sur- 
 rounding and giving lustre and dignity to the throne, 
 and at the same time tempering and mitigating its 
 rays, until they are transmitted in mild and genial 
 radiance to the people. Born to leisure and opulence, 
 they owe the exercise of their talenU, and the ex- 
 penditure of their wealth, to their native country. 
 They may be compared to the clouds j which, being 
 drawn up by the sun, and elevated in the heavens, 
 reflect and magnify his splendour; while they repay 
 the earth, from which they derive their sustenance, 
 by returning their treasures to its bosom in fertilizing 
 showers. 
 
 A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS. 
 
 " I'll live a private, pensive, single life." 
 
 TlIE COLLIEB OF CBOYDON. 
 
 I WAS sitting in my room a morning or two since, 
 reading, when some one tapped at the door, and 
 Master Simon entered. He had an unusually fresh 
 appearance; he had put on a bright green ridingTCoat, 
 with a bunch of violets in the bultonThole, and had 
 the air of an old bachelor trying to rejuvenate him- 
 self. He had not, however, his usual briskness and 
 vivacity, but loitered about the room with somewhat 
 of absence of manner, humming Ihe old song,-^" Go, 
 lovely rose, tell her lliat wastes her time and me;" 
 and then, leaning against the window, and looking 
 upon the landscape, he uttered a very audible sigh. 
 As I had not been accustomed to see Master Simon in 
 
 a pensive mood, I thought there might be woie 
 vexation preying on his mind, and I endeavoured to 
 introduce a cheerful strain of conversation; but he 
 was not in the vein to follow it up, and proposed thii 
 we should lake a walk. 
 
 It was a beautiful morning, of that soft vernal teiu. 
 perature, that seems to thaw all the frost out of one's 
 blood, and to set all nature in a ferment. The very 
 lishes felt its influence; the cautious trout ventured 
 out of his dark hole to seek his mate, the roach and 
 the dace rose up to the surface of the brook to bask in 
 the sunshine, and the amorous frog piped from amon? 
 the rushes. If ever an oyster can really fall in lore 
 as has been said or sung, it must be on such a morn- 
 ing. 
 
 The weather certainly had its effect even iipoa 
 Master Simon, for he seemed obstinately bent upon 
 the pensive mood. Instead of stepping briskly alon". 
 smacking his dog-whip, whistling quaint ditties or 
 telling sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my arm, and 
 talked about the approaching nuptials ; from whence! 
 he made several digressions upon the cliaracler 
 womankind, touched a little upon the tender passion I 
 and made sundry very excellent, though rather trite, 
 observations upon disappointments in love. It v. 
 evident that he had something on his mind which 
 wished to impart, but felt awkward in approacbi 
 it. I was curious to see to what this strain \toi 
 lead; but I was determined not to assist him. 
 deed, I mischievously pretended to turn the conver- 
 sation, and talked of his usual topics, dogs, hoi 
 and hunting ; but he was very brief in his replies, ai 
 invariably got back, by hook or by crook, into 
 sentimental vein. 
 
 At length we came to a clump of trees ihatow] 
 hung a whispering brook, with a rustic bench at 
 feet. The trees were grievously scored with letl 
 and devices, which had grown out of all siiape 
 size by the growth of the bark ; and it appeared 
 this grove had served as a kind of register of the 
 mily loves from time immemorial. Here Mi 
 Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of Oowi 
 threw them one by one into the water, and at Jen;. 
 turning somewhat abruptly upon me, asked me il| 
 had ever been in love. I confess the question slai 
 me a little, as I am not over fond of making 
 fessions of my amorous follies; and above ail si 
 never dream of choosing my friend Master Simon 
 a confldant. He did not wait, however, for a re{ 
 Ihe inquiry was merely a prelude to a confession 
 his own part, and after several circumlocutions 
 whimsical preambles, he fairly disburlhened iii 
 of a very tolerable story of his having been crossedj 
 love. 
 
 The reader will, very probably, suppose that it 
 lated to the gay widow who jilted him not long 
 at Doncaster races ;— no such thing. It was al 
 sentimental passion that he once had for a most 
 tiful young lady, who wrote poetry and played 
 the harp. He used to serenade her; and indeed! 
 
fiRACEBRlDGE HALL. 
 
 41^ 
 
 t there might be some I tieicribed several tender and gallant scenes, in which 
 td, and I endeavoured to I be was evidently picturing himself in his mind's eye 
 of conversation; but he I as some elegant hero of romance, though, unfortu- 
 r it up, and proposed ttut I nately for the tale, I only saw him as he stood before 
 Die, a dapper little old bachelor, with a face like an 
 g, of that soft vernal tem- ■ ,pp|e that has dried with the bloom on it. 
 ,v all the frost out of one'} I What were the particulars of this tender tale I have 
 in a ferment. The very I already forgotten ; indeed I listened to it with a heart 
 
 J cautious trout ventured I 
 Ic his mate, the roach and I 
 race of the brook to bask iii | 
 BUS frog piped from amonj 
 ster can really fall in love, I 
 , must be on such a morn- 
 had its effect even iipoal 
 ned obstinately bent uponl 
 d of stepping briskly alon;.[ 
 whistling quaint (lillies,or| 
 he leaned on my arm, andl 
 ling nuptials ; from whencel 
 ons upon the character ( 
 Itle upon the tender passionJ 
 :cellent, though rather trite] 
 lointmenls in love. It wi 
 (thing on his mind which 1 
 'U awkward in approach 
 e to what this strain woa 
 ined not to assist him. 
 retended to turn the comer'] 
 s usual topics, dogs, iior 
 k very brief in his replies, an 
 hook or by crook, into I 
 
 a clump of trees that otb] 
 i, with a rustic bench alii 
 riievously scored with lei 
 
 1 grown out of all shape 
 ebark; and it appeared 
 s a kind of register of the 
 immemorial. Here Mi 
 pulled up a tuft of flow 
 into the water, and allenj 
 ptly upon me, asked me il| 
 I confess the question star"' 
 lot over fond of making 
 
 follies; and above all si 
 my friend Master Simon 
 
 it wait, however, for a rer 
 a prelude to a confession 
 several circumlocutions ■ 
 
 ,e fairly disburlhened M 
 of his having been cvosseil 
 
 /probably, suppose that itj 
 'who jilted him not long r 
 
 such thing. Itwasabr 
 It he once had for a moslb 
 
 wrote poetry and plajMJ 
 serenade her; and ind««I 
 
 like a very pebble stone, having hard work to repress 
 a smile while Master Simon was putting on the 
 amorous swain, uttering every now and then a sigh, 
 and endeavouring to look sentimental and melancholy. 
 Ail that I recollect is, that the lady, according to 
 bis account, was certainly a little touched ; for she 
 used to accept all the music that he copied for her 
 ibarp, and all the patterns that he drew for her dresses; 
 md he began to flatter himself, after a long course of 
 lelicate attentions, that he was gradually fanning up 
 gentle flame in her heart, when she suddenly ac- 
 ted the hand of a rich, boisterous, fox-hunting ba- 
 inet, without either music or sentiment, who earried 
 lerhy storm, after a fortnight's courtship. 
 Master Simon could not help concluding by some 
 ibservation about " modest merit," and the power of 
 lid over the sex. As a remembrance of his passion, 
 pointed out a heart carved on the bark of one of 
 le trees ; but which, in the process of time, had 
 iwn out into a large excrescence : and he showed 
 lea lock of her hair, which he wore in a true lover's 
 tot, in a large gold brooch. 
 
 I have seldom met wi'.'i un old bachelor that had 
 it, at some time oi uiher, his nonsensical moment, 
 hen he would become tender and sentimental, talk 
 ut the concerns of the heart, and have some con- 
 ion of a delicate nature to make. Almost every 
 lan has some little trait of romance in his life, which 
 looks back to with fondness, and about which he 
 apt to grow garrulous occasionally. He recollects 
 If as he was at the time, young and gamesome ; 
 id forgets that his hearers have no other idea of the 
 ro of the tale, but such as he may appear at the 
 le of telling it; peradvenlure, a withered, whim- 
 il, spindle-shanked old gentleman. With married 
 in, it is true, this is not so frequently the case ; their 
 lorous romance is apt to decline after marriage; 
 ly, I cannot for the life of me imagine ; but with a 
 iielor, though it may slumber, it never dies. It is 
 ays liable to break out again in transient flashes, 
 1 never so much as on a spring morning in the 
 ntry ; or on a winter evening, when seated in his 
 litary chamber, stirring up the fire and talkuig of 
 primony. 
 
 The moment that Master Simon had gone through 
 [confession, and, to use the common phrase, " had 
 de a clean breast of it," he became quite himself 
 lin. He had settled the point which had been 
 ying his mind, and doubtless considered himself 
 ^blished as a man of sentiment in my opinion. 
 bre we had flriished our morning's stroll, he was 
 ng as blithe as a grasshopper, whistling to his 
 
 dogs, and telling droll stories; and I reooUect that he 
 was particularly facetious that day at dinner, on the 
 subject of matrimony, and uttered several excellent 
 jokes, not to be found in Joe Miller, that made the 
 bride elect blush and look down; bat set all the old 
 gentlemen at the table in a roar, and absolutely 
 brought tears into the general's eyes. 
 
 ENGLISH GRAVITY. 
 
 "Herrle England! 
 
 Ancient Phiasb. 
 
 There is nothing so rare as for a man to ride his 
 hobby without molestation. I fmd the squire has not 
 so undisturbed an indulgence in his humours as I had 
 imagined ; but has been repeatedly thwarted of late, 
 and has suffered a kind of well-meaning persecution 
 from a Mr Faddy, an old gentleman of some weight, 
 at least of purse, who has recently moved into the 
 neighbourhood. He is a worthy and substantial ma- 
 nufacturer, who, having accumulated a large fortune 
 by dint of steam-engines and spinning jennies, has 
 retired from business, and setup for a country gentle- 
 man. He has taken an old country seat and refit- 
 ted it; and painted and plastered it, until it looks not 
 unlike his own manufactory. He has been particu- 
 larly careful in mending the walls and hedges, and 
 putting up notices of spring-guns and man-traps in 
 every part of his premises. Indeed he shows great 
 jealousy about his territorial rights, having stopped up 
 a foot-path that led across his fields ; and given warn- 
 ing, in staring letters, that whoever shoud he found 
 trespassing on those grounds would be prosecuted 
 with the utmost rigour of the law. He has brought 
 into the country with him all the practical maxims of 
 town, and the bustling habits of business ; and is one 
 of those sensible, useful, prosing, troublesome, into- 
 lerable old gentlemen that go about wearying and 
 worrying society with excellent plans for public uti- 
 lity. 
 
 He is very much disposed to be on intimate terms 
 with the squire, and calls on him every now and then, 
 with some project for the good of the neighbourhood, 
 which happens to run diametrically opposite to some 
 one or other oflhe squire's peculiar notions; but which 
 is " too sensible a measure" to lie openly opposed. 
 He has annoyed him excessively by enforcing the va- 
 grant laws ; persecuting the gipsies, and endeavour- 
 ing to suppress country wakes and holiday games ; 
 which he considers great nuisances, and reprobates as 
 causes of the deadly sin of idleness. 
 
 There is evidently in all this a little of the ostenta- 
 tion of newly acquired consequence ; the tradesman 
 is gradually swelling into the aristocrat ; and he begins 
 to grow excessively intolerant of every thing that i& 
 not genteel. He has a great deal to say about '' the 
 common people;" talks much of his park, his preserves , 
 
414 
 
 UHACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 i ^M-F:f 
 
 ilt 
 
 and the necessity of enforcing the game laws more 
 strictly ; and makes frequent use of the phrase, " the 
 gentry of (he neighbourhood. " 
 
 He came to tiie Hall lately, with a face full of busi- 
 ness, that he and the squire, to use his own words, 
 *' might lay their heads together," to hit upon some 
 mode of putting a stop to the frolicking at the village 
 on the approaeliing May-day. It drew, he said, idle 
 people (ogelher from all parts of tlie neighbourhood, 
 who spent the day fiddling, dancing, and carousing, 
 instead of staying at home to work for their families. 
 Now, as the squire, unluckily, is at the bottom of 
 these May-day revels, it may be supposed that Ihe sug- 
 gestions of the sagacious Mr Faddy were not received 
 with the best grace in the world. It is true, the old 
 gentleman is too courteous to show any temper to a 
 guest in his own house, but no sooner was he gone 
 than the indignation of Ihe squire found vent, at hav- 
 ing his poetical cobwebs invaded by this buzzing, 
 blue-bottle lly of traflic. In his warmth he inveighed 
 against the whole raceof manufacturers, who, I found, 
 were sore disturbers of his comfort. " Sir," said he, 
 with emotion, " it makes my heart bleed to see all 
 our line streams dammed up and bestrode by cotton- 
 mills ; our valleys smoking with steam-engines, and 
 the din of Ihe hammer and the loom scaring away all 
 our rural delights. What's to become of nierry old 
 England, when its manor-houses are all turned into 
 manufactories, and ils sturdy peasantry into pin- 
 makers and stocking-weavers ? I have looked in vain 
 for merry Sherwood, and all the greenwood haunts 
 of Robin Hood ; the whole country is covered with 
 manufacturing towns. I have stood on the ruins of 
 Dudley Castle, and looked round, with an aching 
 heart, on what were once its feudal domains of verdant 
 and beautiful country. Sir, I beheld a mere campus 
 phlegra;; a region of fire ; reeking with coal-pits, and 
 furnaces, and smelting-houses, vomiting forth llames 
 and smoke. The pale and ghastly peo|ne, toiling 
 among vile exhalations, looked more like demons 
 than human beings; the clanking wheels and engines, 
 seen through the murky atmosphere, looked like in- 
 struments of torture in this pandemonium. What is 
 to become of the country with these evils rankling in 
 its very core? Sir, these manufactures will be the 
 ruin of our rural manners; they will destroy the na- 
 tional character; they will not leave materials for a 
 single line of poetry ! " 
 
 The squire is apt to wax eloquent on such themes; 
 and I could hardly help smiling at this whimsical la- 
 mentation over national industry and public improve- 
 ment. I am told, however, that he really grieves at 
 the growing spirit of t vade, as destroying the charm of 
 life. He considers every new short-hand mode of 
 doing things, as an inroad of snug sordid method ; and 
 thinks that this will soon become a mere matter-of- 
 fact world, where life will be reduced to a mathema- 
 tical calculation of conveniences, and every thing will 
 be done by steam. ' 
 
 He maintains also, that the nation has declined in 
 
 its free and joyous spirit in proportion; as it has luruttj 
 its attention to commerce and manufactures; aiMJi 
 that in old times, when England was an idler, it vm \ 
 also a merrier Utile island. In support of this opinion 
 he adduces the fre(|uency and splendour of ancient 
 festivals and merry-makings, and the hearty spiriJ 
 with which they were kept up by all classes of peo|iie, 
 His memory is stored with Ihe accounts given b; I 
 Stow, in his Survey of London, of the holiday reveM 
 at the inns of court, the Christmas mummeries, and 
 the masquings and Iranfires about the streets. |.un. 
 don, he says, in those days, resembled Ihe conlinenlaj 
 cities in it's picturesque manners and aniusemenii. 
 The court used to dance after dinner on public occa- 1 
 sions. After the coronation-dinner of UiclianI ||. 
 for example, the king, the prelates, the nobles, ibej 
 knights, and the rest of the company danced in Wm- 
 minsler Hall to the music of the minstrels. Thel 
 example of the court was followed by the middling 
 classes, and so down to the lowest, and the wholel 
 nation was a dancing, jovial nation. He quotes]) 
 city-picture of the times, given by Stow, wliicli re- 
 sembles the lively scenes one may often see in tliegajj 
 city of Paris; for he tells us that on holidays, afltrj 
 evening prayers, the maidens in London used to aj. 
 senible before the door, in sight of their masters andl 
 dames, and while one played on a timbrel, Iheoliimj 
 danced for garlands, hanged athwart the street. 
 
 " Where will we meet with such merry groii|ii| 
 now-a-days ? " the squire will exclaim, shaking hi 
 head mournfully ; — ' ' and then as to the gaiety il 
 prevailed in dress lln-ou;j;lKiut all ranks of society, 
 and made the very streets so fine and picture! 
 ' I have myself, ' says Gervaise Markhani, ' niel 
 ordinary tapster in his silk stockings, garters di 
 fringed with gold lace, Ihe rest of his apparel siiilal 
 with cloak lined witii velvet ! ' Nashe, too, irl 
 wrote in iSHS, exclaims at the finery of the naii 
 ' England, the players' stage of gorgeous allire, 
 ape of all nations superfluities, the continual masqi 
 in outlandish habiliments. ' " 
 
 Such are a few of the authorities quoted bytti 
 squire by way of contrasting what he supposes 
 have been the former vivacity of Ihe nation willi 
 present monotonous character. "John Bull," 
 will say, " was then a gay cavalier, with a sword 
 his side and a feather in his cap ; but he is now apli 
 ding citizen, in snuff-coloured coat and gaiters." 
 
 By the bye, there really appears to have been s 
 change in the national character since the days 
 which the squire is so fond of talking; those 
 when this little island acquired its favourite old 
 of" merry England." This may be attributed 
 part to the growing hardships of the times, and 
 necessity of turning the whole allenlion to the 
 of subsistence ; but England's gayest customs pn 
 ed at limes when her common people enjoyed 
 paratively few of the comtbrts and conveniences 
 they do at present. It may be still more altril 
 to the universal spirit of gain, and Ihe calculi 
 
 habits 
 I fiiiied 
 
 the lih 
 liixiac 
 Afr 
 I They 
 
 liieir II 
 jinteresl 
 land to 
 Inualex 
 I tenser 
 
 more in 
 
 less |)la] 
 
 nation ; 
 
 |mind;l( 
 
 It is w 
 
 bught 
 
 ind lolly 
 
 ilniost t« 
 
 ifer occi 
 
 import 
 
 !llecl. ] 
 
 lian Ihe t 
 
 [ais of laL 
 
 intere 
 
 iborioiis. 
 
 The Fr( 
 
 'hy? Pai 
 
 because 
 
 inls whji 
 
 (lib dang( 
 
 ar 
 
 ssing pie 
 
 ave had i 
 
 I within 
 
 |nlially c 
 
 Idegree ( 
 
 I Ihbi men 
 
 opie. 
 
 'Iial'slhat 
 
 [feast and i 
 
 OTIIieyple 
 
 There"! 
 
 ii.vcB the 
 led in a 
 m haunti 
 iilive inle 
 ;a"g that 
 lie great 
 yards ofi 
 !yare,h( 
 squire, 
 good ol( 
 
BRACERRIDGE HALL. 
 
 MH 
 
 •oiiorlioi* 88 U has tunicd 
 and manufactures ; and 
 ;laml wasan idler, il was 
 In support of this opinion 
 »n(l splendour of ancimi 
 i»s, and Uie hearly spirji 
 up by all classes of peojile, 
 h the accounts given by 
 (Ion, of the holiday revels 
 iristmas nuunmeries, and 
 i about the streets, lon- 
 resenibletl the conlinenlal 
 nanners and amusenienls. 
 fter dinner on public occa- 
 ioiMlinner of l\iclianl 11, 
 e prelates, the nobles, lhe| 
 ; company danced in West- 
 ic of the minstrels. The 
 followed by the middlin? 
 he lowest, and llie whole 
 ivial nation. He quotes a 
 given by Slow, which re- 
 me may often see in llie gay 
 us that on holidays, afltr 
 dens in l^ondon used lo as- 
 n si"ht of their masters and 
 lyed on a tind)rel, the otlm 
 ged athwart the street. 
 let with such merry groupi 
 •e will exclaim, shaking!' 
 nd then as to the saiety ll 
 iijrliout all ranks of society; 
 ;l!s so fine and pictnres 
 iervaise Markhain, ' met 
 silk stockings, j;arters de 
 16 rest of his apparel siiital 
 velvet I ' Nashe, too, \(l 
 at the finery of the naii 
 stage of gorj;eous attire, 
 uities, the continual raasqi 
 
 I habit!) that commerce has Introduced ; but I am in- 
 rlined to attribute it chiefly to the gradual increase of 
 the liberty of the subject, and the growing freedom 
 I and activity of opinion. 
 
 A free people are apt to be grave and thoughinii. 
 I They iiave high and important matters to occupy 
 their minds. They feel that it is their right, their 
 interest, anu their duty to mingle in public concerns, 
 1,0(1(0 watch over the general welfare. The conti- 
 Inual exercise of the mind on political topics gives in- 
 lienser habits of thinking and a more se ious and 
 learnest demeanour. A nation l)ecomes less gay, but 
 imore intellectually active and vigoruus. It evinces 
 lless |)lay of the fancy, but more power of the iniagi- 
 Ination ; less taste and elegance, but more grandeur of 
 Imind ; less animated vivacity, hut deeper enthusiasm. 
 It is when men are shut out of the regions of manly 
 llioughl by a despotic government; when every grave 
 Lnd lofty theme is rendered perilous to discussion and 
 mmi to reflection ; it is then that they turn to the 
 afer occupations of taste and amusement ; trifles rise 
 I imprtance, and occupy the craving activity of in- 
 lellect. No being is more void of care and reflection 
 hanthe shave; none dances more gaily in his inter- 
 nals of labour : but make him free, give hiiii rights 
 nd interests to guard, and he becomes thoughtftd and 
 orions. 
 
 The French are a gayer people than the English. 
 fhy? Partly from temperament, perhaps; but great- 
 because they have been accustomed to govern- 
 ents which surrounded the free exercise of thought 
 filh danger, and where he only was safe who shut 
 pseyes and ears lo public events, and enjoyed the 
 ssing pleasure of the day. Within late years they 
 five had more opportunity of exercising their minds; 
 I within late years the nnlinnnl character has es- 
 Jntially changed. Never did the French enjoy such 
 (degree of freedom as they do at this moment : and 
 ]this moment the French are comparatively a grave 
 «ple. 
 
 s. 
 
 jc authorities quoleilbyltj 
 •asting what he supposes J 
 irivacily of the nation wiihi 
 aracler. "John Bull," j 
 ;ay cavalier, with a swordN 
 his cap; but he is now a H 
 loured coat and gaiters." 
 ly appears to have been s 
 character since the daysj 
 fond of talking; those d 
 icquireditsfavotuileold 
 
 This may be altribuledl 
 rdships of the times, and^ 
 whole attention to the IT 
 ;land's gayest customs pn 
 •ommon people enjoyed ( 
 miforts and conveniences 1 
 may be still more allrlM 
 of gain, and the calculai 
 
 1 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 J^liat's Itiat to at)solute freedom ; such as llie very IwRgars have ; 
 
 |teast and revel here to-day, and yonder to-morrow ; next day 
 
 |eretliey please ; and soon still, the whole country or kingdom 
 
 There's liberty '. the birds of the air can take no more. 
 
 JOVUL CHKW. 
 
 SixcE the meeting with the gipsies, which I have 
 laled in a former paper, I have observed several of 
 km haunting the purlieus of the Hall, in spite of a 
 litive interdiction of the squire. They are part of 
 laiig that has long kept about this neighbourhood, 
 jllie great annoyance of the farmers, whose poul- 
 Vyards often suffer from their nocturnal invasions. 
 by are, however, in some measure, patronized by 
 I squire, who considers the race as belonging to 
 I good old times; which, to confess the private 
 
 truth, seem to have abounded with good-for-nothing 
 characters. 
 
 This roving crew is called " Star-light Tom's Gang," 
 from the name of its chieftain, a notorious poacher. 
 I have heard repeatedly of the misdeeds of this " mi- 
 nion of the moon ;" for every midnight depredation 
 that takes place in park, or fold, or farm-yard, is laid 
 to his charge. Star-light Tom, in fact, answers to 
 his name ; he seems to walk in darkness, and, like a 
 fox, lo be traced in the morning by the mischief he 
 has done. He reminds me of that fearfid personage 
 in the nursery rhyme : 
 
 who goes round the house at night ? 
 
 Kone but bloody Tom ! 
 Who steals all the sheep at night? 
 
 ^onc but one by one ! 
 
 In short. Star-light Tom is the scape-goat of the 
 neighbourhood ; but so cunning and adroit, that there 
 is no detecting him. Old Christy and the game- 
 keeper have watched many a night in hopes of en- 
 trapping him; and Christy often patrols the park 
 with his dogs, for the purpose, but all in vain. It 
 is said that the sqiure winks hard at his misdeeds, 
 having an indulgent feeling towards the vagabond, 
 because of his being very expert at all kinds of games, 
 a great shot with the cross-bow, and the best morris- 
 dancer in the country. 
 
 The squire also suffers the gang to lurk unmo- 
 lested about the skirts of his estate, on condition that 
 they do not come about the house. The approach- 
 ing wedding, however, has made a kind of Saturnalia 
 at the Hall, and has caused a suspension of all sober 
 rule. It bus produced a great sensation throughout 
 the female part of the household ; not a housemaid 
 but dreams of wedding-favours, and has a husband 
 running in her head. Such a time is a harvest for 
 the gipsies : there is n public foot-path leading across 
 one part of the park, by which they have free in- 
 gress, and they are continually hovering about the 
 grounds, telling the servant girls' fortimes, or getting 
 smuggled in to the young ladies. 
 
 I believe the Oxonian amuses himself very much 
 by furnishing them with hints in private, and be- 
 wildering all the weak brains in the house with their 
 wonderful revelations. The general certainly was 
 very much astonished by the communications made 
 to him the other evening by the gipsy girl : he kept 
 a wary silence towards us on the suhjet-t, and af- 
 fected to treat it lightly; but I have noticed that he 
 has since redoubled his attentions to Lady Lillycraft 
 and her dogs. 
 
 I have seen also Phopbe Wilkias, the housekeeper's 
 pretty and love-sick niece, holding a long conference 
 with one of these old sibyls behind a large tree in the 
 avenue, and often looking round to see that she was 
 not observed. I make no doubt that she was en- 
 deavouring to get some favourable augury about t'lc 
 result of her love-quarrel with young Ready-Morsiv, 
 as oracles have always been more consulletl on iiive- 
 affairs than upon any thing else. I fear, how -v , 
 
416 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HAIX. 
 
 i 
 
 !' iim 
 
 ■m ' 
 
 |i 
 
 that in this instance the response was not so favour- 
 able as usaal, for I perceived poor Phoebe returning 
 pensively towards the house; her head hanging down, 
 her hat in her hand, and the riband trailing along tlie 
 ground. 
 
 At another time, as I turned a corner of a terrace, 
 at the bottom of the garden, just by a clump of trees, 
 and a large .stone urn, I came upon a bevy of the 
 young girls of the family, attended by this same 
 Phoebe Wilkins. I was at a loss to comprehend the 
 meaning of their blushing and giggling, and their ap- 
 parent agitation, unlil I saw the red cloak of a gipsy 
 vanishing among the shrubbery. A few moments 
 after I caught sight of Master Simon and the Oxonian 
 stealing along one of the walks of the garden, chuck- 
 ling and laughing at their successful waggery; having 
 evidently put the gipsy up to the thing, and instructed 
 her what (o say. 
 
 After all, there is something strangely pleasing in 
 these tamperings with the future, even where we 
 are convinced of the fallacy of the prediction. It is 
 singular how willingly the mind will half deceive it- 
 self, and with what a degree of awe we will listen 
 even to these babblers about futurity. For my part, 
 T cannot feel angry with these poor vagabonds, that 
 seek to deceive us into bright hopes and expectations. 
 I have always been somelliing of a castle-builder, and 
 have found my liveliest pleasures to arise from the il- 
 lusions which fancy has cast over common-place real- 
 ities. As I get on in life, I find it more difficult to 
 deceive myself ui this delightful manner; and I should 
 be thankful to any prophet, however false, that would 
 conjure the clouds which hang over futurity into pa- 
 laces, and all it.s doubtful regions into fairy-land. 
 
 The squire, who, as I have observed, has a private 
 good-will towards gipsies, has sufTered considerable 
 annoyance on their account. INot that they requite 
 his indulgence with ingratitude, for they do not de- 
 predate very flagrantly on his estate; but because 
 their pilferings and misdeeds occasion loud mm-murs 
 in the village. I can readily understand the old gen- 
 tlemait's humour on this point; I have a great tole- 
 ration for all kinds of vagrant sunshiny existence, and 
 must confess I take a pleasure in observing the ways 
 of gipsies. The English, who are accustomed to 
 them from childhood, and often suffer from their 
 petty depredations, consider them as mere nuisances; 
 but I have been very much struck with their pecu- 
 liarities. I like to behold their clear olive com- 
 plexions, their romantic black eyes, their raven locks, 
 their lithe slender figures, and to hear them, in low 
 silver tones, dealing forth magnificent promises of 
 honours and estates, of world's wealth, and ladies' 
 love. 
 
 Their mode of life, too, has something in it very 
 fanciful and picturesque. They are the free denizens 
 of nature, and maintain a primitive independence, in 
 spite of law and gospel ; of county goals and country 
 magistrates. It is curious to see this obstinate ad- 
 herence to the wild unsettled habits of savage life 
 
 transmitted from generation to generation, and pr^ I 
 served in the midst of one of the most cultivated 
 populous, and systematic countries in the world. I 
 They are totally distinct from the busy, thrifty people I 
 about them. They seem to be, like the Indians ofl 
 America, either above or below the ordinary cai^l 
 and anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power A 
 honours, of wealth; and indifferent to the fliicloa-r 
 tions of the times; the rise or fall of grain, orstod I 
 or empires, they seem to laugh at the toiling, frettintl 
 world around them, and to live according to the phi- 1 
 losophy of the old song : 
 
 " Who wouid ambition shun, 
 
 And loves to lie i' the sun. 
 
 Seeking Ihe food he eats, 
 
 And pleased with what he gets. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither : 
 
 Here shall he see 
 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather." 
 
 In this way they wander from county to coudItI 
 keeping about the purlieus of villages, or in plenteoiii| 
 neighbourhoods, where there are fat farms and ridil 
 country-seals. Their encampments are gener; 
 made in some beautiful spot; either a green sliadrl 
 nook of a road ; or on the border of a common, iindetl 
 a sliellering hedge; or on the skirls of a fine spreadT 
 ing wood. They are always to be found Iurkiii;| 
 about fairs and races, and viistic gatherings, vlier-r 
 ever there is pleasure, and throng, and idlenestl 
 They are the oracles of milk-maids and simple s(n-| 
 ing girls ; and sometimes have even the honour o 
 perusing the white hands of gentlemen's dauglilerii 
 when rambling about their fathers' grounds. TIh 
 are the bane of good housewives and thrifty farn 
 and odious in the eyes of country justices; but, lilt 
 all other vagabond beings, they have sometliiii;! 
 commend them to the fancy. They are among I 
 last traces, in these matter-of-fact days, of IhemoUi 
 populationof former times; and are whimsically i 
 sociated in my mind with fairies and witches, Robij 
 Good Fellow, Robin Hood, and the other fantastic^ 
 personages of poetry. 
 
 MAY-DAY CUSTOMS. 
 
 Ilnppy the age, and liarmlessc were the dayes, 
 ( For then true love and amity was fouiidj 
 When every village did a May-itolc raise. 
 
 Ami Wlii(son-alcs and May-games did abound i 
 And all the lusty yonlierit in a rout, 
 With mnrry lasses daunced Ihe ro<l about, 
 Then fiicndship to their tiamiuets bid the guests. 
 And poore men far'd the better for their Feasts. 
 
 Pasqvil's I'UII(0«| 
 
 The month of April has nearly passed away,i 
 we arc fast approaching that poetical day, whichi 
 considered, in old times, as the boundary that pari 
 the frontiers of winter and summer. With all \\»i 
 
BUACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4i7 
 
 to generation, and pr^ I 
 i ot the most cultivated,' 
 countries in the world.! 
 m the busy, thrifty people I 
 
 be, like the Indians ol| 
 lelow the ordinary carts I 
 
 Heedless of power, oil 
 ndifferent to the flnctai.[ 
 
 1 or fall of grain, or stock, I 
 ugh at the toiling, freUingj 
 live accoi-ding to the phj-l 
 
 tion shun, 
 he sun, 
 3 eats, 
 
 vliat lie gets, 
 iliillier, coraehiUier: 
 
 le see 
 
 jgli weather." 
 
 er from county to county; 
 
 IS of villages, or in plenleonil 
 
 here are fat farms and rich 
 
 icampments are generally 
 
 spot; either a green sliadyj 
 
 ! border of a common, undo 
 
 ri the skirts of a fine spread- 
 
 ilways to be found Mw>\ 
 
 id iuslic gatherings, wlier 
 
 and throng, and idlene&l 
 
 milk-maids and simple sen- 
 
 8 have even the honour 
 
 s of gentlemen's dauglilei 
 
 eir fathers' grounds. Tli 
 
 isewives and thrifty farmei 
 
 f country justices; bul,lil 
 
 gs, they have sometliiiig 
 
 rtcy. They are among 
 
 er-of-fact days, of the moll 
 
 es; and are whimsically 
 
 h fairies and witches, R 
 
 d, and the other fantastii 
 
 CUSTOMS. 
 
 larmtesse were ttie dayes, 
 Ic and ainily was found) 
 ltd a May-pole raise, 
 1 and May-games did alwund 
 licrt in a rout, 
 uncetl lt»e rotl about, 
 Ielrl)amiucl8 bid lliti guests, 
 
 Irtic better for tlicir feasts. 
 
 Ihas nearly passed away, 
 that poetical day, which 
 Las the boundary that pai 
 Ind summer. With all its 
 
 prices, however, I like the month of April. I like 
 
 these laughing and crying days, when sun and shade 
 
 geem to run in billows over (he landscape. I like to 
 
 see the sudden shower coursing over the meadow and 
 
 giving all nature a greener smile; and the bright sun- 
 
 llieanis chasing the flying cloud, and turning all its 
 
 ips into diamonds. 
 
 I was enjoying a morning of the kind in company 
 
 ith the squire in one of the finest parts of the park. 
 
 tVe were skirtinga beautiful grove, and he was giving 
 
 lea kind of biographical account of several of his fa- 
 
 ourile forest-trees, when we heard the strokes of an 
 
 ixe from the midst of a thick copse. The squire 
 
 used and listened, with manifest signs of uneasi- 
 
 less. He turned his steps in the direction of the 
 
 iintl. The strokes grew louder and louder as we 
 
 vanced ; there was evidently a vigorous arm wield- 
 
 gtlie axe. The squire quickened his pace, but in 
 
 lain; a loud crack and a succeeding cra.sh told that 
 
 le mischief had been done, and some child of the fo- 
 
 l laid low. W hen we came to the place, we found 
 
 aster Simon and several others standing about a tall 
 
 id beautifully straight young tree, which had just 
 
 n felled. 
 
 The squire, (hough a man of most harmonious dis- 
 
 iilions, was completely put out of tune by this cir- 
 
 imstance. He felt like a monarch witnessing the 
 
 nier of one of his liege subjects, and demanded, 
 
 ithsome asperity, the meaning of the outrage. It 
 
 ned out to be an affair of Master Simon's, who had 
 
 ected the tree, from its height and straightness, for 
 
 lay-pole, the old one which stood on the village 
 
 !en being unfit for further service. If any thing 
 
 iild have soothed the ire of my worthy host, i( would 
 
 e been (he reflecdon that his tree had fallen in 
 
 good a cause; and I saw (hat there was a great 
 
 iggle between his fondness lor his groves, and his 
 
 lotion to May-day. He could not contemplate the 
 
 trate tree, however, without indulging in lamen- 
 
 ioii, and making a kind of funeral eulogy, like Mark 
 
 itonyover the body of Cxsar; and he forbade that 
 
 trep should thenceforward be cut down on his 
 
 le without a warrant from himself; being deter- 
 
 led, he said, to hold the sovereign power of life 
 
 death in his own hands. 
 
 his mention of the May-pole struck my attention, 
 
 I inquired whether the old customs connected 
 
 li it were really kept up in this part of 'he country. 
 
 squire shook his head mournfully ; and I found I 
 
 touched on one of his tender points, for he grew 
 
 le melancholy in bewailing (he (o(al decline of old 
 
 day. Though it is regularly celebrated in the 
 
 hboming village, yet it has been merely resusci- 
 
 liy the worthy squire, and is kept up in a forced 
 
 of existence at his expense. He meets with con- 
 
 1 discouragements; and finds great difficulty in 
 
 ing the country bumpkins to play their parts toler- 
 
 He manages to have every year a "Queen of 
 
 lay;" but as to Robin Howl, Friar Tuck, the 
 
 the Hobby Horse, and all the other modey 
 
 crew that used to enliven the day with their mnm- 
 mery, he has not ventured to introduce them. 
 
 Still I look forward wi(h some interest to the pro- 
 noised shadow of old May-day, even though it be but 
 a shadow; and I feel more and more pleased with the 
 whimsical, yet harmless hobby of my host, which is 
 surrounding him with agreeable associations, and 
 making a little world of poetry about him. Brought 
 up, as I have been, in a new country, I may appre- 
 ciate too highly (he faint vestiges of ancient customs 
 which I now and then meet with, and the interest I 
 express in them may provoke a smile from (hose who 
 are negligendy suffering them to pass away. But 
 with wliatever indifference they may be regarded by 
 those '* to the manner born," yet in my mind the 
 lingering flavour of them imparts a charm to rustic 
 life, which n'>thing else could readily supply. 
 
 I .shall never forget the delight I felt on first seeing 
 a May-pole. It was on the banks of the Dee, close 
 by the picturesque old bridge that stretches across the 
 river from (he quaint Utile city of Chester. I had al- 
 ready been carried back into former days by the an- 
 tiquities of that venerable place; the examination of 
 which is equal to turning over the pages of a black- 
 Ie((er volume, or gazing on the pictures in Froissart. 
 The May-pole on the margin of that poetic stream 
 completed the illusion. My fancy adorned it with 
 wrea(hs of flowers, and peopled the green bank with 
 all the dancing revelry of May-day. The mere sight 
 of this IMay-pole gave a glow to my feelings, and spread 
 a charm over the country for the rest of the day; and 
 as I traversed a part of the fair plain of Cheshire, and 
 the beautiful Iwrders of Wales, and looked from 
 amongswellinghillsdown a long green valley, through 
 which *' the Deva wound its wizard stream," my 
 imagination turned all into a perfect Arcadia. 
 
 Whether it be owing to such poetical associations 
 early instilled into my mind, or whether there is, as 
 it were, a sympathetic revival and budding forth of 
 the feelings at this season, certain it is, (hat I always 
 experience, wherever I may be placed, a delightful 
 expansion of the heart at the return of May. It is 
 said (hat birds about (his time will become restless in 
 (heir cages, as if instinct with the season, coascious 
 of the revelry that is going on in the groves, and im- 
 patient to break from (heir bondage, and join in the 
 jubilee of the year. In like manner I have felt my- 
 self exci(ed, even in (he midst of the metropolis, 
 when the windows, which had been churlishly clos- 
 ed all winter, were again thrown open to receive the 
 balmy breath of May, when the sweets of the country 
 were breathed into the town, and flowers were cried 
 about the streets. I have considered the treasin-es of 
 flowers thus poured in, as so many missives from 
 nature inviting us forth to enjoy the virgin l)eauty of 
 the year, before its freshness is exhaled by the lieats 
 of sunny summer. 
 
 One can readily imagine what a gay scene it mus' 
 have been in jolly old London, when the doors were 
 decorated with flowering branches, when every liat 
 
418 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 t » ' 
 
 
 was decked .vrith hawthorn, and Robin Hood, Friar 
 Tuck, Maid Marian, the morris- dancers, and all the 
 other fantastic masks and revellers, were performing 
 their antics abont the May-polein every partof the city. 
 
 I am not a bigoted admirer of old times and old 
 castoms merely because of their antiquity. But while 
 I rejoice in the decline of many of the rude usages 
 and coarse amusements of former days, I cannot but 
 regret that this innocent and fanciful festival lias 
 fallen into disuse. It seemed appropriate to this 
 verdant and pastoral country, and calculated to 
 light up the too pervading gravity of the nation. I 
 value every custom that tends to infuse poetical feel- 
 ing into the common people, and to sweeten and 
 soften the rudeness of rustic manners, without des- 
 troying their simplicity. Indeed, it is to the decline 
 of this happy simplicity that the decline of this custom 
 may be traced ; and the rural dance on the green, and 
 the homely May-day pageant, have gradually disap- 
 peared, in proportion as the peasantry have become 
 expensive and artificial in their pleasures, and too 
 knowing for simple enjoyment. 
 
 Some attempts, the squire informs me, have been 
 made of late years, by men of both taste and learn- 
 ing, to rally back the popular feeling to these stan- 
 dards of primitive simplicity; but the time has gone 
 by, the feeling has become chilled by habits of gain 
 and traffic, the country apes the manners and amuse- 
 ments of the town, and little is heard of May-day at 
 present, except from the lamentations of authors, 
 who sigh after it from among the brick walls of the 
 city: 
 
 " For O, for O, the Hobby Horse is forgot." 
 
 VILLAGE WORTHIES. 
 
 Nay, I tell yon, I am so well beloved in our town, that not (he 
 wont dog in the street will hurt ray little finger. 
 
 Collier op CRovnoN. 
 
 As the neighbouring village is one of those out-of- 
 the-way, but gossiping little places, where a small 
 matter makes a great stir, it is not to be supposed that 
 the approach of a festival like that of May-iday can be 
 regarded with indifference, especially since it is made 
 a matter of such moment by the great folks at the Hall. 
 Master Simon, who is the faithful factotum of the 
 worthy squire, and jumps with his humour in every 
 thing, is ft-equent just now in his visits to the village, 
 to give directions for the impending fdte; and as I 
 have taken the liberty occasionally of accompanying 
 him, I have been enabled to get some insight into the 
 characters and internal politics of this very sagacious 
 little community. 
 
 Master Simon is in fact the Caesar of the village. 
 It is true the squire is the protecting power, but his 
 factotum is the active and busy agent. He intermed- 
 dles in all its concerns, is acquainted with all the in- 
 
 habitants and their domestic history, gives connsel 
 to the old folks in their business matters, and the yoang 
 folks m their love affairs, and enjoys the proud sa- 
 tisfaction of being a great man in a little world. 
 
 He is the dispenser too of the squire's charily,! 
 which is bounteous; and, to do Master Simon justice i 
 he performs this part of his functions with great 
 alacrity. Indeed I have been entertained wiih the 
 mixture of bustle, importance, and kind-heartedness [ 
 which he displays. He is of too vivacious a tempe- 
 rament to comfort tiie afflicted by sitting down mop- 1 
 ing and whining and blowing noses in concert; bnt 
 goes whisking about like a sparrow, chirping conso- 
 lation into every hole and corner of the village. I 
 have seen an old woman, in a red cloak, hold him fori 
 half an hour together with some long phthisical taiel 
 of distress, which Master Simon listened to wiihl 
 many a bob of the head, smack of his dog-wlijp, audi 
 other symptoms of impatience, though he aftern'anJsl 
 made a most faithful and circumstantial report of iiie| 
 case to the squire. I have watched him, too, durin* 
 one of his pop visits into the cottage of a superannual-j 
 ed villager, who is a pensioner of the squire, when 
 he fidgeted about the room without sitting don 
 made many excellent off-hand reflections with 
 old invalid, who was propped up in his chair, ah 
 the shortness of life, the certainty of death, and I 
 necessity of preparing for "that awful change;' 
 quoted several texts of Scripture very incorrectly, 
 much to the edification of Uie cottager's wife; ant 
 coming out pinched the daughter's rosy cheeii, n 
 wondered what was in the young men, Uiat 
 pretty face did not get a husband. 
 
 He has also his cabinet counsellors in the tIIIj 
 with whom he is very busy just now, preparing I 
 Uie May-day ceremonies. Among these is the t1 
 tailor, a pale-faced fellow, that plays the clarioneli| 
 the church choir ; and being a great musical gen 
 has frequent meetings of the band at his house, i 
 they " make night hideous" by their concerts. 
 is, in consequence, high in favour with Master Sin 
 and, through his influence, has the making, or rail 
 marring, of all the liveries of the Hall ; wiiich 
 rally look as though they had been cut outhyooej 
 those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of Lap 
 who took measure of their customers with a quadn 
 The tailor, in fact, might rise to be one of tlie i 
 men of the village, was he not rather too pruiie| 
 gossip, and keep holidays, and give concerts, 
 blow all his substance, real and personal, tiiroughl 
 clarionet ; which literally keeps him poor \m 
 body and estate. He has for the present tiiroiraj 
 all his regular work, and suffered the breeches ofj 
 village to go unmade and unmended, while lieii| 
 cnpied in making garlands of party-coloured raji 
 imitationof flowers, for the decoration of IheMay-f 
 
 Another of Master Simon's counsellors is lliei 
 tliecary, a short, and rather fat man, with a 
 prominent eyes, Uiat diverge like those of a 
 He is the village wise man ; very sententious, amll 
 
 ofpn 
 
 inon I 
 
 ratiiei 
 
 him c 
 
 horsei 
 
 jbyihe 
 
 iobsen 
 
 I such a 
 
 I boxes. 
 
 Iveryfii 
 
 Jvliich 
 
 Isis, tha 
 
 [upon V 
 
 "(hat's 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 419 
 
 ! history, gives counsel 
 is matters, and the young 
 id enjoys the proud sa- 
 il in a little world, 
 of the squire's charity, 
 do Master Simon justice, 
 lis functions with greal 
 ■en entertained wilh the 
 ce, and kind-hearledness 
 ,f too vivacious a tempe- 
 ted by sitting down mop- 
 ing noses in concert; tal 
 sparrow, chirping conso- 
 
 corner of the village. I 
 n a red cloak, hold Wm for 
 I some long phlhisical lalel 
 r Simon listened to wilhl 
 mack of his dog-whip, and 
 ;nce, though he afterwatdj 
 circumstantial report otlk] 
 e watched him, too, duriiij 
 hecoltageofasupevannujt. 
 isioner of the squire, wha 
 oom without silting doi 
 ff-hand reflections with 
 ipped up in his chair, al 
 
 certainty of death, and 
 for "that awful change;' 
 cripturevery incorreclly, 
 of Uie cottager's wife; andi 
 
 daughter's rosy cheek, a 
 
 of profound remarks on shallow subjects. Master Si- 
 mon often quotes his sayings, and mentions him as 
 raliier an extraordinary man; and even consults 
 him occasionally in desperate cases of the dogs and 
 ses. Indeed he seems to have been overwhelmed 
 by the apothecary's philosophy, which is exactly one 
 lobservation deep, consisting of indisputable maxims, 
 I jgcb as may be gathered from the mottoes of tobacco- 
 I boxes. I bad a specimen of his philosophy in my 
 very first conversation with him; in the course of 
 which he observed, with great solemnity and empha- 
 5 that " man is a compound of wisdom and folly; " 
 ■upon which Master Simon, who had hold of my arm, 
 Ipressed very hard upon it, and whispered in my ear, 
 ("that's a devilish shrewd remark ! " 
 
 .;<.«. 
 
 THE SCH00L5USTER. 
 
 I There will no mosse stick to tliR stone of Sisiplius, uo grasso 
 111" on tlie ticcles of Mercury, no butler cleave on tlie l)read of a 
 laveller. For as tlic eagle at every flight loseth a feather, which 
 iketli her bauld in her age, so tlie traveller in every country 
 iclli some ileece, which maketh hiin a beggar in his youth, by 
 tiying tliat for a pound which he cannot sell again for a penny— 
 KDtance. Lilly's Uupuues. 
 
 I Ahosg the worthies of the village, that enjoy the 
 
 !Culiar conRdence of Master Simon, is one who has 
 
 Iruck my fancy so much, that I have thought him 
 
 lortliy of a separate notice. It is Slingsby, the school- 
 
 jsler, a thin elderly man, rather threadbare and 
 
 the young men, tliat sutliWovenly, somewhat indolent in manner, and with an 
 
 husband. 
 
 et counsellors in the villi 
 
 ,usy just now, preparing i 
 
 J. Among these is the villi 
 
 w, that plays the clarioneti 
 
 leing a great musical gen- 
 
 llhe band at his house, wi 
 
 ous" by their concerts. 
 
 in favour with Master Sin 
 
 nee, has the making, or rati 
 
 Iries of the Hall; which g« 
 
 ley had been cut out hyoM] 
 
 ,f the Flying Island of Lap^ 
 
 eir customers with a « 
 
 ht rise to be one of the 1 
 
 'she not rather too prone] 
 
 fidays, and give conccrtsj 
 
 real and personal, ihro#l 
 
 ally keeps him poor boU 
 [has for the present throw 
 nd suffered the breeches o[| 
 ndunmended, while he »] 
 nds of party-coloured rap 
 llie decoration of iheMayi 
 .imon's counsellors 18 the I 
 .rather fat man, with a Ji 
 diverge like those of a loj 
 man; very sententioiiMi^l 
 
 sy good-humoured look, not often met with in his 
 aft. I have been interested in bis favour by a few 
 becdotes which I have picked up concerning him. 
 I He is a native of the village, and was a contempora- 
 I and playmate of Ready-Money Jack in the days of 
 eir boyhood. Indeed, they carried on a kind of 
 bue of mutual good offices. Slingsby was rather 
 ny, and wilhal somewhat of a coward, but very apt 
 [hb learning: Jack, on the contrary, was a bully- 
 out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books, 
 helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons; 
 |ck fought all Slingsby's battles ; and they were in- 
 arable friends. This mutual kindness continued 
 pn after they left the school, notwithstanding the 
 Bimilarity of their characters. Jack took to plough- 
 ; and reaping, and prepared himself to till his pa- 
 iial acres; while the other loitered negligently on 
 Itlie path of learning, until he penetrated even into 
 ! confines of Latin and mathematics, 
 ^n an unlucky hour however, he took to reading 
 and travels, and was smitten with a desire 
 !the world. This desire increased upon him as 
 [grew up ; so, early one bright sunny morning he 
 1 all his effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, 
 staff in hand, and called in his way to take leave 
 ^isearly schoolmate. Jack was just going out wilh 
 plough: the friends shook hands over the farm- 
 
 house gate ; Jack drove his team afleld, and Slingsby 
 whistled " over Uie hills and far away, " and sallied 
 forth gaily to '' seek his fortune." 
 
 Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slings- 
 by was forgotten ; when, one mellow Sunday after- 
 noon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in 
 life, wilh a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen 
 gaiters, and a few things tied in a handkerchief, and 
 slung on the end of a stick, was seen loitering 
 through the village. lie appeared to regard several 
 houses attentively, to peer into the windows that 
 were open, to eye the villagers wistfully as they re- 
 turned from church, and then to pass some time in 
 tlie churchyard, reading the tomb-stones. 
 
 At length he found his way to the farm-house of 
 Ready-Money Jack, but paused ere he attempted the 
 wicket ; contemplating the picture of substantial inde- 
 pendence before him. In the porch of the house sat 
 Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress ; with bis hat 
 upon his head, liis pipe in his mouth, and his - !<ard 
 before him, the monarch of all he surveyed. Reside 
 him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poul- 
 try were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard ; the 
 bees hummed from their hives in the garden; the cattle 
 lowed in the rich meadow ; while the crammed barns 
 and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest. 
 The stranger opened the gate and advanced du- 
 biously towards the house. The mastiff growled at 
 the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but was 
 immediately silenced by his master ; who, taking his 
 pipe from his mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect 
 the addressof this equivocal personage. The stranger 
 eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his dimen- 
 sions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast 
 a glance upon his own threadbare and starveling con- 
 dition, and the scanty bundie which he held in his 
 hand; then giving his shrunk waistcor a twitch to 
 make it meet his receding waistband, ati casting 
 another look, half sad, half humorous, A the sturdy 
 yeoman, " I suppose," said he, "Mr '"• ibbets, you 
 have forgot old times and old playmu;es. 
 
 The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but 
 acknowledged that he had no recollection of him. 
 
 ''Like enough, like enough," said the stranger; 
 " every body seems to have forgotten poor Slingsby ! " 
 " Why, no sure ! it can't be Tom Slingsby ! " 
 " Yes, but it is, though ! " replied the stranger, shak- 
 ing his head. 
 
 Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; 
 thrust out his hand, gave his ancient crony the gripe 
 of a giant, and slapping the other hand on a bench, 
 *' Sit down there," cried he, " Tom Slingsby ! " 
 
 A long conversation ensued about old times, while 
 Slingsby was regaled wilh the l)est cheer that the 
 farm-house afforded ; for he was hungi^ as well as 
 way-worn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedes- 
 trian. The early playmates then talked over their 
 subsequent lives and adventures. Jack had but little 
 to relate, and was never good at a long story. A 
 prosperous life, passed til home, has little incident 
 
420 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 1 1 ■*•■. 
 
 'Hi 
 
 for narrative ; It is only poor devils, ttiat are tossed 
 about tlie world, tliat are the true lieroes of story. 
 Jacic liad stucic by tlie paternal farm, followed tlie 
 same plough that his forefathers had driven, and had 
 waxed richer and richer as lie grew older. As to 
 Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the old 
 proverb, '* a rolling stone gathers no moss. " He had 
 sought his fortune al)out the world, without ever find- 
 ing it, being a thing oflener foundat home than abroad. 
 He had been in all kinds of situations, and liad learnt 
 a dozen different modes of making a living ; but had 
 found his way back to his native village rather poorer 
 than when he left it, his knapsack having dwindled 
 down to a scanty bundle. 
 
 As luck would have it, the squire was pas.<:ing by 
 the farin-hnuse that very evening, and called there, 
 as is often his custom. He found the two schoolmates 
 still gossiping in the porch, and, according to the good 
 old Scottish song, ''taking a cup of kindness yet, for 
 auld lang syne." The squire was struck by the 
 contrast in appearance and fortunes of ihcse early 
 playmaies*. Heady-Money Jack, seated in lordly 
 state, surrounded by the good things of (his life, with 
 golden guineas hanging to liis very watch-chain, and 
 the poor pilgrim Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all 
 his worldly effects, his bundle, hat, and walking-staff, 
 lying on the ground beside bim. 
 
 The good squire's heart warmed towards the lock- 
 less cosmopolite, for he is a little prone to like such hal f- 
 vagrant characters. He cast about in his mind how 
 he should contrive once more to anchor Slingsby in his 
 native village. Honest Jack had ali-eady offered him 
 a present shelter under his roof, in spite of the hints, 
 and winks, and half remonstrances of the shrewd 
 Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his permanent 
 maintenance was Ihe question. Luckily the squire 
 bethought himself that the village school was witliout 
 a teacher. A little further conversation convinced 
 him that Slingsby was as fit for that as for any thing 
 else, and in a day or two he was seen swaying the 
 rod of empire in tlie very school-house where he had 
 often been horsed in the days of his boyhood. 
 
 Here he has remained fur several years, and, being 
 honoured by tlie couutenance of the squire, and the 
 fast friendship of Mr Tibbets, he has grown into muoli 
 importance and consideration in the village. I am 
 told, however, that he still shows, now and (hen, a 
 degree of restlessness, and a disposition to rove abroad 
 again, and see a little more of the world; an inclina- 
 tion which seems particularly to haunt him about 
 spring-time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer 
 as the vagrant humour, when once it has been fully 
 indulged. 
 
 Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, 
 I have more than once mused upon the picture pre- 
 sented by him .nd his schoolmate Ready-Money 
 Jack, on their co:<iing together again after so long a 
 separation. It is diflicult to determine between lots 
 in life, where each is attended with its peculiar dis- 
 contents. He who never leaves his home repines at 
 
 his monotonous existence, and envies the traveller 
 whose life is a constant tissue of wonder and adven- 
 ture; while he, who is tossed about the world, lootjl 
 back wilh many a sigh to the safe and quiet sliorel 
 which he has abandoned. I cannot help tliinki,ig i 
 however, that (he man that stays at home, and eulti.] 
 vates the comforts and pleasures daily springing npl 
 around him, stands the best chance for happiness,! 
 There is nothing so fascinating (o a young niindasl 
 the idea of (ravelling; and there is very witchcraft in | 
 the old phrase found in every nursery tale, of" j 
 to seek one's fortune." A continual change of place I 
 and change of object, promises a continual succession I 
 of adventure and gratillcalion of curiosity. Buttlierel 
 is a limit to all our enjoyments, and every desire beanj 
 its death in its very gratification. Curiosity langui$|ies| 
 under repeated stimulants, novelties cease to e.\cilesur-| 
 prise, until at length we cannot wonder evenataoii-r 
 racle. He who has sallied forth into the world, like! 
 poor Slingsby, full of sunny anticipations, finds tool 
 soon how different the distant scene becomes wjienl 
 visited. The smooth place roughens as he appioaclKj 
 the wild place becomes tame and barren; the faiiy 
 lints that beguiled him on still fly to the distant liil( 
 or gather upon the land he has left behind, andevei] 
 part of the landscape seems greener than the spotb 
 stands on. 
 
 TIIE SCHOOL. 
 
 But to come down from grc tt men and higher matters lo n 
 little cliildrcn and poor schoot-t'ousc again; I will, God will 
 go forward orderly, as I purposed, to iiislruct children and tog 
 uicn both [or learning and manners. Houeu Asciiit, j 
 
 Havino given the reader a slight sketch of llieT 
 lage schoolmaster, he may be curious to learn sod 
 thing concerning his school. As (he squire lab 
 much in(erest in (he educadon of (he nciglibouii 
 children, he put into the hands of (he teaciier, i 
 first installing him in oflice, a copy of Roger Asoiiai 
 Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, toconor^ 
 that portion of old Peachem which treats of ihediil 
 of masters, and which condemns (he favourite metl 
 of making boys wise by flagellation. 
 
 He exhorfed Slingsby not to break down or dep 
 (he free spirit of the boys, by harshness and $la«ij 
 fear, but to lead them freely and joyously onint 
 path of knowledge, making it pleasant and desin 
 in their eyes. He wished Jo see the yoiitli Iraii 
 up in the manners and habitudes of (he peasanti]f| 
 (he good old (imcs, and (hus to lay a fuundatioiif 
 the accomplishment of his favourite object, (lie revij 
 of old English customs and character. He re 
 mended that all the ancient holidays should be^ 
 served, and that the sports of the boys, in their i 
 of play, should be regulated according to the stan 
 authorities laid down in Strutt ; a copy of wli 
 
 tamet 
 
 alf-tatter 
 |ne side ( 
 
 r loiterin 
 
 iillicr, am 
 |oiise-lio 
 
 Somethi 
 Irards the 
 father, 
 
 »nies; it 
 hen of va{ 
 liere is soi 
 leling; or 
 flien lie h 
 j wreck to 
 le motive 
 p<l many ( 
 ffeigii par 
 
 iwilnesi 
 fK more 
 liiid him 
 hmed as 
 kslant, 01 
 (I'lider 81 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4S1 
 
 antl envies Ibe traveller, 
 je of wonder and adven- 1 
 ed about the world, looks I 
 Ihe safe and quiet shore I 
 
 I cannot help lliinki,ig,l 
 t stays at home, and cuili-l 
 asures daily springing upl 
 (est, chance for happiness.! 
 lating 10 a young niindasl 
 lliere is very wilclicrafiinj 
 ery nursery tale, of "going j 
 
 continual change of place,! 
 nises a continual successioal 
 ion of curiosity. Butlherel 
 enls, and every desire bean! 
 ation. Curiosity languishesl 
 
 novelties cease to excilesur-l 
 ;annot wonder evenatami-l 
 ;d forth into the world, likel 
 nny anticipations, finds tool 
 lislant scene becomes whet| 
 ; roughens as he approaches; 
 tame and barren; the fairj 
 a slill tty to the distant If 
 lie has left behind, and evei 
 ms greener than the spolb 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 It men and higher matters to 1 
 „. .'ousc again; 1 will, God «i 
 )S(h1, '.0 instruct cUiltlic" anilyoi 
 auners. HouEBAsciia' 
 
 )H 
 
 ider a slight sketch of Ik 
 lay be curious to learn s 
 chool. As the siiiiire lal 
 
 ication of the neiglibou 
 he bands of the teaclier, 
 ice, acopyofRogerAschau] 
 ed him, moreover, locoiiotf 
 
 lem which treats of the dr 
 ondemns Ihe favourite mei 
 
 tlagellalion. 
 not to break down or del 
 oys, by harshness and slafl 
 freely and joyously on in' 
 king it pleasant ami desin 
 lied to see the youllilrai 
 habiludes of the peasantrj! 
 d thus to lay a foiindalion' 
 lis favourite object, the refl 
 i and character. Hereof 
 ncient holidays should be 
 ^rlsoftheboys, i'lllielf' 
 ated according to the sUi 
 Strult; a copy of who* 
 
 valuable work, decorated with plates, was deposited 
 in the school-house. Above all, he exhorted the pe- 
 da<^g<ie to abstain from the use of the birch, an In- 
 strument of instruction which the good squire regards 
 vlth abhorrence, as fit only for the coercion of brute 
 natures, that cannot be reasoned with. 
 
 MrSllngshy has followed the squire's instructions 
 to the best of his disposition and abilities. He never 
 flo'^ the hoys, because he is too easy, good-humour- 
 (d a creature to inflict pain on a worm. He is l)ountl- 
 H iu holidays, because he loves holiday himself, and 
 has a sympathy with the urchins' impatience of con- 
 finement, from having divers times experienced its 
 irksomeness iring the times that he was seeing the 
 \rorld. As to sports and pastimes, the boys are failh- 
 ifully exercised in all that are on record, quoits, races, 
 prison-bars, tipcat, trap-ball, bandy-ball, wrestling, 
 [leaping, and what not. The only misfortune is, that 
 Ihaving banished the birch, honest Slingsby has not 
 itndied Roger Ascham sufficiently to find out a sub- 
 itilute, or rather he has not the management in his 
 ature to apply one ; his school, therefore, though 
 me of the happiest, is one of the most unruly in the 
 :ountry ; and never was a pedagogue more liked, or 
 lesslieeded, by his disciples than Slingsby. 
 He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of himself, 
 ing another stray sheep that has returned to the 
 iilage fold. This is no other than the son of the 
 lusieal tailor, who had bestowed some cost upon his 
 iuealion, hoping to see him one day arrive at the 
 ignily of an exciseman, or at least of a parish clerk. 
 he lad grew up, however, as idle and musical as his 
 ther; and, being captivated by the drum and fife 
 fa recruiting party, he followed them off to the army. 
 [e returned not long since, out of money, and out at 
 16 elbows, the prodigal son of Ihe village. He 
 mained fur some time lounging about the place in a 
 ilf-tattered soldier's dress, with a foraging cap on 
 me side of his head, jerking stones across the brook, 
 loitering about the tavern door, a burlhen to his 
 itlicr, aiul regarded with great coldness by all warm 
 wise-holders. 
 
 Somelhiiig, however, drew honest Slingsby bo- 
 ards the youth. It might be the kindness he bore to 
 is father, who is one of the schoolmaster's great 
 inies; it might be that secret sympathy which draws 
 leii of vagrant propensities towards each other; for 
 ere is something truly magnetic in the vagabond 
 «ling; or it might be, that he remembered the time, 
 hen he himself had come back like this yoimgsler, 
 wreck to his native place. At any rate, whatever 
 le motive, Slingsby drew towards the youth. They 
 many conversations in the village tap-room alwut 
 eign parts, and the various scenes and places they 
 witnessedduring their wayfaring about the world, 
 lie more Slingsby talked with him, the more he 
 lid him to his taste : and finding him almost as 
 imed as himself, he forthwith engaged him as an 
 
 nt, or usher. In the school. 
 Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may 
 
 be supposed, flourishes apace; and if the scholars do 
 not become versed in all the holiday accomplishments 
 of the good old times, to the squire's heart's content, 
 it will not be the fault of their teachers. The pro- 
 digal son has become almost as popular among the 
 boys as the pedagogue himself. His instructions are 
 not limited to school-hours ; and having inherited the 
 musical taste and talents of his father, he has bitten 
 the whole school with the mania. He is a great hand 
 at beating a drum, which is often heard rumbling from 
 the rear of the school-house. He is teaching half the 
 boys of the vilhge, also, to play the fife, and the 
 pandean pines ; and they wear' the whole neighlwur- 
 hood with their vague pipings, as they sit perched on 
 stiles, or loitering about the barn-doors in the even- 
 ings. Among the other exercises of the school, also, 
 he has introduced the ancient art of archery, one of 
 the squire's favourite themes, with such success, that 
 the whipsters roam in truant bands about the neigh- 
 bourhood, practising with their bows and arrows 
 upon the birds Ok the air, and the beasts of the field ; 
 and not unfrequently making a foray into the squire's 
 domains, to the great indignationof the game-keepers. 
 In a word, so completely are the ancient English 
 customs and habits cultivated at this school, that I 
 should not be surprised if the squire should live to see 
 one of his poetic visions realized, and a brood reared 
 up, worthy successors to Robin Hood, and his merry 
 gang of outlaws. 
 
 A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. 
 
 I am a rogue if I do not thinl( I was designed for the helm of 
 stale; I am so full of nimble stratagems, that I should have order- 
 ed affairs, and carried it against tlie slraam of a factioa, with as 
 much ease as a slupper would lavcr againsl the mnii. 
 
 THE GOBLINS. 
 
 In one of my visits to the village with Master Simon, 
 he proposed that we should stop at the inn, which he 
 wished to show me, as a specimen of a real country 
 inn, the head-quarters of village gossip. I had re- 
 marked it before, in my perambulations about the 
 place. It has a deep old-fashioned porch, leading into 
 a large hall, which serves for tap-room and travellers'- 
 room; having a wide fire-place, with high-hacked 
 settles on each side, where the wise men of the vil- 
 lage gossip over their ale, and hold their sessions 
 during the long winter evenings. The landlord is an 
 easy, indolent fellow, shaped a little like one of his 
 own beer barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his 
 door, with his wig on one side, and his hands in his 
 pockets, whilst his wife and daughter attend to 
 customers. His wife, however, is fully competent to 
 manage the establishment ; and, indeed, from long 
 habitude, rules over all the frequenters of the tap- 
 room as completely as if they were her dependents 
 instead of her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but 
 
422 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 
 pays homage to her, having, no doubt, been often in 
 her arreaivt I liave already hinted that she is on very 
 good terms with Ready-Money Jack. He was a 
 sweetheart of iiers in early life, and has always coun- 
 tenanced the tavern on her account. Indeed, he is 
 quite the ''cock of the walk" at the tap-room. 
 
 As we approached the inn, we heard some one 
 talking with great volubility, and distinguished the 
 ominous words, " taxes," "poor's rates," and." agri- 
 cultural distress." It proved to be a thin, loquacious 
 fellow, who had penned the landlord up in one cor- 
 ner of the porch, with his hands in his pockets as 
 usual, listening with an air of the most vacant ac- 
 quiescence. 
 
 The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Mas- 
 ter Simon, as he squeezed my arm, and altering his 
 course, sheered wide of the porch, as though he had 
 not had any idea of entering. This evident evasion 
 induced me to notice the orator more particularly. 
 He was meagre, but active in his make, with a long, 
 pale, bilious face; a black, ill-shaven beard, a feverish 
 eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides, into a most 
 pragmatical shape. He had a newspaper in his hand, 
 and seemed to be commenting on its contents, to the 
 thorough conviction of mine host. 
 
 At sight of Master Simon the landlord was evi- 
 dently a little flurried, and l)egan to rub his hands, 
 edge away from his corner, and make several pro- 
 found publican bows; while the orator took no other 
 notice of my companion than to talk rather louder 
 than before, and with, as I thought, something of an 
 air of defiance. Master Simon, however, as I have 
 before said, sheered off from the porch, and passed 
 on, pressing my arm within his, and whispering as 
 we got by, in a tone of awe and horror, " That's a 
 radical ! he reads Cobbett ! " 
 
 I endeavoured to get a more particular account of 
 him from my companion, but he seemed unwilling 
 even to talk about hun, answering only in general 
 terms, that he was " a cursed busy fellow, that had 
 a confounded trick of talking, and was apt to bother 
 one about the national debt, and such nonsense ; " 
 from which I suspected that Master Simon had i)een 
 rendered wary of him by some accidental encounter 
 on the fleld of argument; for these radicals are con- 
 tinually roving about in quest of wordy warfare, and 
 never so happy as when they can tilt a gentleman-lo- 
 gician out of his saddle. 
 
 On subsequent inquiry my suspicions have been 
 confirmed. I fmd the radical has but recently found 
 his way into the village, where he threatens to com- 
 mit fearful devastations with his doctrines. He has 
 already made two or three complete converts, or 
 new lights; has shaken the faith of several others ; 
 and has grievously puzzled the brains of many of the 
 oldest villagers, who had never thought about po- 
 litics, or scarce any thing else, during their whole 
 lives. 
 
 He is lean and meagre fiom the constant restless- 
 ness of mind and body ; worrying about with news- 
 
 papers and pamphlets in his pockets, which he J 
 ready to pull out on all occasions. He has shocked I 
 several of the stanchest villagers by talking lightly of I 
 the squire and his family; and hinting that it would f 
 be better the park should be cut up into small faMnjI 
 and kitchen-gardens, or feed good mutton instead ofl 
 worthless deer. 
 
 He is a great thorn in the side of the squire, whoisl 
 sadly afraid that he will introduce politics into ihtl 
 village, and turn it into an unhappy, thinking com.! 
 munity. He is a still greater grievance to Master! 
 Simon, who has hitherto been able to sway the poli.| 
 tical opinions of the place, without much cost o(| 
 learning or logic ; but has been very much puzzledf 
 of late to weed out the doubts and heresies alreadfl 
 sown by this champion of reform. Indeed, the latierl 
 has taken complete command at the tap-room of (IkI 
 tavern, not so mucii because he has convinced, atl 
 because he has out-talked all the old establishedl 
 oracles. The apothecary, with all his philusophfj 
 was as naught before him. He has convinced andl 
 converted the landlord at least a dozen times ; w|io,f 
 however, is liable to be convinced and converted ihi 
 other way by the next person with whom he talks,! 
 It is true the radical has a violent antagonist in thel 
 landlady, who is vehemently loyal, and thorougliljl 
 devoted to the king. Master Simon, and the squirej 
 She now and then comes out upon the reformer villi 
 all the fierceness of a cat-o'-mountain, and doesn 
 spare her own soft-headed husband, for listening ii 
 what she terms such "low-lived politics." VYIi 
 makes the good woman the more violent, is the pet-l 
 feet coolness with which the radical listens to { 
 attacks, drawing his face up into a provoking, i 
 perciiious smile; and when she has talked hers 
 out of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of 1 
 homebrewed. 
 
 The only person that is in any way a match I 
 this redoubtable politician is Ready-Morey Jack Til) 
 bets; who maintains his stand in the tap-room, i 
 defiance of the radical and all his works. Jack I 
 one of the most loyal men in the country, 
 being able to reason about the matter. He has I 
 admirable quality for a tough argner, also, that I 
 never knows when he is beat. He has half a do2 
 old maxims, which he advances on all occasions, a 
 though his atitagopist may overturn them never s 
 often, yet he always . rings them anew to the fiel^l 
 He is like the '^hber in Ariosto, who, thought 
 head might b° cu. off half a hundred times, y^ 
 whipped it on his shouldeis again in a twinkling, i 
 returned as sound a man as ever to the charge. 
 
 Whatever does not square with Jack's simple a 
 obvious creed, he sets down for " French politics;| 
 for, notwithstanding the peace, he cannot be | 
 suaded that the French are not still laying plo 
 ruin the nation, and to get hold of the Bank ofl 
 land. The radical attempted to overwhelm liimu 
 day by a long passage from a newspaper; but J)^ 
 neither reads nor believes in newspapers. In r(F 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 43R 
 
 lis pockets, which he J 
 asions. He has sliocliedl 
 igers by talking; lightly ot 
 and hinting tliat it would 
 e cut up into small farmsj 
 id good mutton instead oil 
 
 ; side of the squire, whoisi 
 ntroduce politics into ihel 
 i unhappy, thinking com-I 
 »ater grievance to Master I 
 een able to sway the poli.| 
 ce, without much cost A 
 s been very much puzzled | 
 )uhts and heresies alreadjl 
 ■eform. Indeed, the latletl 
 and at the tap-room of thel 
 uise he lias convinced, ail 
 •d all the old eslablishedl 
 , with all his philosophyl 
 n. He has convinced andl 
 least a dozen times ; vhol 
 )nvinced and converted ihel 
 rson witb whom he talksJ 
 a violent antagonist in thel 
 ;ntly loyal, and thoroiigUjI 
 ler Simon, and the squirej 
 out upon the reformer uilli 
 ;-o' -mountain, and does r 
 d husband, for listening t 
 low-lived politics." W'b 
 he more violent, is the pet-| 
 I the radical listens to M 
 B up into a provoking. 
 hen she has talked hers 
 ling her for a taste of t 
 
 is in any way a match fo^ 
 
 lisReady-MoreyJackTib 
 
 stand in the tap-room,! 
 
 ind all his works. JackiJ 
 
 en in the country, willioi 
 
 It the matter. He has tin 
 
 tough argner, also, that 1 
 
 beat. He has half a do 
 
 vances on all occasions, 
 
 ay overturn them never i 
 
 gs them anew to the fid 
 
 1 Ariosto, who, though! 
 
 half a hundred times, y^ 
 
 eis again in a twinkling, J 
 
 as ever to the charge. 
 
 uare with Jack's simple a 
 
 )wn for " French politics;] 
 
 . peace, he cannot be j 
 
 are not still laying ploisj 
 
 ;et hold of the Bank off 
 
 ipted to overwhelm liim" 
 rom a newspaper; butftj 
 B8 in newspapers, hi " 
 
 Ibe "ave him one of the stanzas which he has by heart 
 om his favourite, and indeed only author, old Tus- 
 and which he calls his Golden Rules : 
 
 Leave princes' affairs undcscanled on, 
 And tend to sucli doings as stand tliee upon i 
 Fear God, and offend not the lUng nor his laws, 
 And lieep thyself out of tlie magistrate's claws. 
 
 When Tibbets had pronounced this with great em- 
 
 Lhasis he pulled out a well-filled leathern purse, took 
 
 at a handful of gold and silver, paid his score at the 
 
 ar with great punctuality, returned his money, 
 
 liece by piece, into his purse, his purse into his poc- 
 
 L wliich he buttoned up; and then, giving his 
 
 ad^el a stout thump upon the floor, and bidding the 
 
 i)lcal "good morning, sir!" with the tone of a 
 
 an who conceives he has completely done for his 
 
 ntagonist, he walked with lion-like gravity out of 
 
 he house. Two or three of Jack's admirers who 
 
 rere present, and had been afraid to take the field 
 
 hemselves, looked upon this as a perfect triumph, 
 
 ind winked at each other when the radical's liack 
 
 I turned. " Ay, ay ! " said mine host, as soon as 
 
 be radical was out of hearing, " let old Jack alone ; 
 
 I'll warrant he'll give him his own! " 
 
 THE ROOKERY. 
 
 But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime 
 In still repeated circles, screaming loud, 
 Tlie jay, the pie, and e'en tlie boding owl, 
 Tlial hails the rising moon, have charms for me. 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 I In a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a 
 rrace-walk, just on the skirts of the garden, is an 
 |icient rookery, which is one of the most important 
 minces in tlie squire's rural domains. The old 
 kntleman sets great store by his rooks, and will not 
 ■ffer one of them to be killed ; in consequence of 
 jhichthey have increased amazingly; the tree-tops 
 
 loaded witb their nests; they have encroached 
 ion the great avenue, and have even established, in 
 nes long past, a colony among the elms and pines 
 [the churchyard, which, like other distant colonies, 
 
 1 already thrown off allegiance to the mother- 
 hintry. 
 
 JTlie rooks are looked upon by the squire as a very 
 Icient and honourable line of gentry, highly aristo- 
 latical in their notions, fond of place, and attached 
 I church and state; as their building so loftily, keep- 
 
 ; about churches and cathedrals, and in the vener- 
 Me groves of old castles and manor-houses, suf- 
 jiently manifests. The good opinion thus expressed 
 I the squire put me upon observing more narrowly 
 very respectable birds; for I confess, to my 
 ^me, I had been apt to confound them with their 
 
 isins-german the crows, to whom, at the first 
 knee, they bear so great a family resemblance. 
 
 Nothing, it seems, could be more unjust or injurious 
 than such a mistake. The rooks and crows are, 
 among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards and 
 Portuguese are among nations, the least loving, in 
 consequence of their neighbourhood and similarity. 
 The rooks are old-established housekeepers, high- 
 minded gentlefolk, that have had tlieir hereditary 
 abodes time out of mind ; but as to the poor crows, 
 they are a kind of vagabond, predatory, gipsy race, 
 roving about the country without any settled home; 
 ''their hands are against every body, and every 
 body's against them," and Ihey are gibbeted in every 
 corn-field. Master Simon assures me that a female 
 rook, that should so far forget herself as to consort 
 with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and 
 indeed would be totally discarded by all her genteel 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The squire is very watchful over the interests and 
 concerns of his sable neighbours. As to Master Si- 
 mon, he even pretends to know many of them by 
 sight, and to have given names to them; he points 
 out several, which he says are old heads of families, 
 and compares them to worthy old citizens, beforehand 
 in the world, that wear cocked hats, and silver 
 buckles in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protect- 
 ing benevolence of the squire, and their being resi- 
 dents in his empire, ihfy seem to acknowledge no 
 allegiance, and to hold no intercourse or intimacy. 
 Their airy tenements are built almost out of the reach 
 of gun-shot; and notwitlistanding their vicinity to the 
 Hall, they maintain a most reserved and distrustful 
 shyness of mankind. 
 
 There is one season of the year, however, which 
 brings all birds in a manner to a level, and tames the 
 pride of the loftiest highflyer; which is the season of 
 building their nests. This takes place early in the 
 spring, when the forest-trees first begin to show their 
 buds; the long, withy ends of the branches to turn 
 green; when the wild strawberry, and other herbages 
 of the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender 
 and tinted leaves, and the daisy and the primrose 
 peep from under the hedges. At this time there is a 
 general bustle among the feathered tribes; an inces- 
 sant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirping, indica- 
 tive, like the germination of the vegetable world, of 
 the reviving life and fecundity of the year. 
 
 It is then that the rooks forget their usual state- 
 lincss, and their shy and lofty habits. Instead of 
 keeping up in the high regions of the air, swinging 
 on the breezy tree-tops, and looking down with 
 sovereign contempt upon the humble crawlers upon 
 earth, they are fain to throw off for a time the 
 dignity of the gentleman, to come down to the ground, 
 and put on the pains-taking and industrious character 
 of a labourer. They now lose their natural shyness, 
 become fearless and familiar, and may he seen plying 
 about in all directions, with an air of great assiduity, 
 in search of building materials. Every now and then 
 your path will be crossed by one of these busy old 
 gentlemen, worrying about with awkward gait, as if 
 
4i4 
 
 BRAGEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 troubled with the gout, or with corns on his toes, 
 casting about many a pryin<; look, turning down first 
 one eye, then the other, in earnest consideration, upon 
 every straw lie meets with, until, espying some mighty 
 twig, large enough to make a rafter for his air-castle, 
 he will seize upon it with avidity, and hurry away 
 with it to the tree-top; fearing, apparently, lest you 
 should dispute with him the invaluable prize. 
 
 Like other castle-builders, these airy architects 
 seem rather fanciful in the materials with which they 
 build, and to like those most which come from a di- 
 stance. Thus, though there are abundance of dry 
 twigs on the surrounding trees, yet they never think 
 of making use of them, but go foraging in distant 
 lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from the 
 ends of the earth, each bearing in his bill some pre- 
 cious piece of timber. 
 
 Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to 
 say, rather derogates from the grave and honourable 
 character of these ancient gentlefolk, that, during the 
 architectural season, they are subject to great dissen- 
 sions among themselves; that they make no scruple 
 to defraud and plunder each other ; and that some- 
 times the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and 
 commotion, in consequence of some delinquency of 
 the kind. One of the partners generally remains ou 
 the nest to guard it from depredation ; and I have 
 seen severe contests, when some sly neighbour has 
 endeavoured to filch away a templing rafter that had 
 captivated his eye. As I am not willing to admit 
 any suspicion hastily that should throw a stigma on 
 the general character of so worshipfid a people, I am 
 inclined to think that these larcenies are very much 
 discountenanced by the higher classes, and even rigor- 
 ously punished by those in authority; for I have now 
 and then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon the nest 
 of some individual, pull it all to pieces, carry off the 
 spoils, and even buffet the luckless proprietor. I have 
 concluded this to be some signal punishment inflicted 
 upon him, by the officers of the police, for some pil- 
 fering misdemeanour ; or, perhaps, that it was a crew 
 of bailiffs carrying an execution into his house. 
 
 I have been amused with another of their move- 
 ments during the building-season. The steward has 
 suffered a considerable number of sheep to graze on 
 a lawn near the house, somewhat to the annoyance 
 of the squire, who thinks this an innovation on the 
 dignity of a park, which ought to be devoted to deer 
 only. Be this as it may, there is a green knoll, not 
 far from tlie drawing-room window, where the ewes 
 and lambs are accustomed to assemble towards even- 
 ing, for the benefit of the setting sun. No sooner 
 were they gathered here, at the time when these po- 
 litic birds were building, than a stately old rook, who 
 Master Simon assured me was the chief magistrate 
 of this community, would settle down upon the head 
 of one of the ewes, who, seeming conscious of this 
 condescension, would desist from grazing, and stand 
 fixed in motionless reverence of her august burthen; 
 the rest of the rookery would then come wheeling 
 
 down, in imitation of their leader, until eveiy eve 
 had two or three of them cawing, and fluttering, am] 
 battling upon her back. Whether they reqiiiiei* iiiej 
 submission of the sheep, by levying a conlributionl 
 upon their fleece for the benefit of the rookery, I an,! 
 not certain; though I presume they followed the I 
 usual custom of protecting powers. 
 
 The latter part of May is the time of great tribula-l 
 tion among the rookeries, when the young are instl 
 able to leave the nests, and balance themselves on the I 
 neighboui'ing branches. Now comes on the season I 
 of " rook shooting;" a terrible slaughter of the iiino.! 
 cents. The squire, of course, prohibits all invasion I 
 of the kind on bis territories ; but I am told that a la-i 
 menlable havoc takes place in the colony about ihtl 
 old church. Upon this devoted commonwealili ihel 
 village charges "with all its chivalry." Every jditl 
 wight that is lucky enough to possess an old gim orl 
 blunderbuss, together with all the archery of Slings-I 
 by's school, take the field on the occasion. In vaigl 
 does the little parson interfere, or remonstrate, igl 
 angry tones, from his study window that looks i 
 the churchyard ; there is a continual popping froml 
 morning till night. Being no great marksmen, tbeirl 
 shots are not often effective; but every now and tliejl 
 a great shout from the besieging army of bumpkiul 
 makes known the downfall of some unlucky, sqiulil 
 rook, which comes to the ground with the empiiasiil 
 of a squashed apple-dumpling. 
 
 Nor is the rookery entirely free from other troablol 
 and disasters. In so aristocratical and lofty-miniMl 
 a community, which boasts so much ancient blood audi 
 hereditary pride, it is natural to supiwse that qiia 
 tions of etiquette will sometimes arise, and afTaireoi 
 honour ensue. In fact, this is very often the case J 
 bitter quarrels break out between individuals, vjiid 
 produce sad scufflings on the tree-tops, and I liaiij 
 more than once seen a regular duel take place bet\ra 
 two doughty heroes of the rookery. Their field i 
 battle is generally the air; and their contest is i 
 naged in the most scientific and elegant niani)(t| 
 wheeling round and round each other, and towerioi 
 higher and higher to get the 'vantage gronnd, unlj 
 they sometimes disappear in the clouds before I 
 combat is determined. 
 
 They have also fierce combats now and then villi 
 an invading hawk, and will drive him off from I 
 territories by a posse comitattis. They are also ei| 
 tremely tenacious of their do.nains, and will suffi 
 no other bird to inhabit the grove or its viciDii; 
 There was a very ancient and respectable old baclt 
 lor-owl that had long had his lodgings in a corneal 
 the grove, but has been fairly ejected by the rootil 
 and has retired, disgusted with tlie world, toanfigi| 
 bouring wood, where he leads the life of a lien 
 and makes nightly complaints of his ill trealnieiit. 
 
 The hootings of this unhappy gentleman may; 
 nerally be heard in the still evenings, when llie rod 
 are all at rest; and I have often listened to Ihenioll 
 moonlight night, with a kind of mysterious grair 
 
 , unl 
 »ve, wh( 
 «ugli the 
 1 1 like at 
 oves, am 
 opie roosi 
 
 I, the 
 [liegradu 
 «n there 
 jiarrelling 
 Itisli 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4!r> 
 
 leader, nnlil evet? ewe 
 vin?, and fluttering, and 
 lielher they requUeiMhe 
 f levying a contribulion 
 efit of the rookery, I am 
 nme they followed ihe" 
 owers. 
 
 the time of great Iribala- 
 irhen the young are just I 
 balance themselves on lliej 
 ow comes on the season I 
 ble slaughter of the iiino. I 
 •se, prohibits all invasion 
 s;butIamtoUlthalala- 
 • in the colony about the I 
 voted commonweallli ihe| 
 its chivalry." Every idlej 
 I to possess an old gun or I 
 1 all the archery of Slings-I 
 on the occasion. In vainl 
 erfere, or remonstrate, ittl 
 ly window that looks intol 
 a continual popping fioinl 
 ' no great marksmen, tlieitl 
 re ; but every now andthenl 
 sieging army of bunipkiajj 
 ill of some unlucky, squabl 
 > ground with the empkasbl 
 jling. 
 
 rely free from other tronblal 
 itocratical and lofly-mindedl 
 s so much ancient blood aiil| 
 itural to suppose Ihatqna 
 netimes arise, and affairs o 
 his is very often the case!] 
 between individuals, wliie 
 the tree-tops, and I hawj 
 tular duel lake place belwei 
 ho rookery. Their 
 lir; and their contest is i 
 itilic and elegant maniidj 
 id each other, and towera 
 the 'vantage grouml, unfl 
 ir in the clouds before 
 
 combats now and then wil 
 i-ill drive him off from Uxii 
 lifahis. They are also ei| 
 lir do.nains, and will sul 
 It the grove or its vicinil 
 Jjt and respectable old bad 
 Id his lodgings in a cornet 
 Ifairly ejected by the roob| 
 .withtheworld, toaneigT 
 
 leads the life of a lien 
 flaints of his ill treatment, 
 
 Inhappy gentleman may 
 [till evenings, when tbeti 
 *e often listened to tbem oil 
 kind of mysterious graar 
 
 lion. This grey-bearded misanthrope of course is 
 highly respected by the squire; but tlie servants have 
 superstitious notions about him; and it would l)e dif- 
 ficult to get the dairy-maid to venture after dark near 
 to the wood which he inhabits. 
 
 Besides the private quarrels of tlie rooks, there are 
 other misfortunes to which they are liable, and which 
 often bring distress into the most respectable families 
 of the rookery. Having the true baronial spirit of 
 the good old feudal times, they are apt now and then 
 to issue forth from their castles on a foray, and to lay 
 the plebeian fields of the neighbouring country under 
 contribution; in the course of which chivalrous expe- 
 ditions they now and then get a shot from '.he rusty 
 artillery of some refractory farmer. Occasionally, 
 too, while they are quietly taking the ai',- beyond the 
 park boundaries, they have the incaution to come 
 within the reach of the truant bowmen o' Slingsby's 
 school, and receive a flight shot from some unlucky 
 urchin's arrow. In such case the wounded adven- 
 torer will sometimes have just strength enough to 
 bring himself home, and, giving up the ghost at the 
 rookery, will hang dangling "all abroad" on a Iwugh, 
 like a thief on a gibbet ; an awful warning to his 
 friends, and an object of great commiseration to the 
 squire. 
 
 But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks 
 
 have, upon Ihe whole, a happy holiday life of it. 
 
 When their young are reared, and fairly launched 
 
 upon their native element, the air, the cares of the 
 
 old folks seem over, and they resume all their arislo- 
 
 cratical dignity and idleness. I have envied them 
 
 the enjoyment which they appear to have in their 
 
 jethereal heights, sporting with clamorous exultation 
 
 lut their lofty bowers; sometimes hovering over 
 
 lem, sometimes partially alighting upon the topmost 
 
 anches, and there balancing with outstretched 
 
 ings, and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes they 
 
 !m to take a fashionable drive to the church, and 
 
 luse themselves by circling in airy rings about its 
 
 lire; at other times a mere garrison is left at home 
 
 mount guard in their strong hold at the grove, 
 
 hile the res^ roam abroad to enjoy the fine weather. 
 
 bout sunset the garrison gives notice of their return ; 
 
 ir faint cawing will l)e heard from a great distance, 
 
 id they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and 
 
 !n, nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring 
 
 me. Then they perform several grand circuits in 
 
 air, over the Hall and garden, wheeling closer and 
 
 loser, until they gradually settle down upon the 
 
 ive, when a prodigious cawing takes place, as 
 
 lugh they were relating their day's adventures. 
 
 I like at such times to walk about these dusky 
 
 lies, and hear the various sounds of these airy 
 
 pie roosted so high above me. As the gloom in- 
 
 lases, their conversation subsides, and they seem 
 
 be gradually dropping asleep; but every now and 
 
 in there is a querulous note, as if some one was 
 
 larrelling for a pillow, or a litll*' iiore of the blan- 
 
 It is late in the evening before tiiey completely 
 
 sink to repose, and llien their old anchorite neigh- 
 bour, the owl, begins his lonely hootings from his 
 bachelor's-Iiall, In the wood. 
 
 MAY-DAY. 
 
 It ts tlie choice lime of the year, 
 For the violets now appear ; 
 Now the rose receives Its birlli, 
 And pretty primrose decks the eartli. 
 
 Then to the May- pole come away, 
 
 For it is now a holiday. 
 
 ALTEON AND DUNA. 
 
 As I was lying in hei this morning, enjoying one 
 of those half dreams, half reveries, which are so plea- 
 sant in the country, when the birds are singing alwut 
 the window, and the sunbeams peeping through the 
 curtains, I was roused by the sound of nmsic. On 
 going down stairs, I found a number of villagers 
 dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole, or- 
 namented with garlands and ribands, and accom- 
 panied by the village band of music, under the direc- 
 tion of the tailor, the pale fellow who plays on the 
 clarionet. They had all sprigs of hawthorn, or, as 
 it is called, " the May, " in their hats, and had 
 brought green branches and flowers to decorate the 
 Hall door and windows. They had come to give 
 notice that the May-pole was reared on the green, 
 and to invite the household to witness Ihe sports. The 
 Hall, according to custom, became a scene of hurry 
 and delightful confusion. The servants were all agog 
 with May and music; and there was no keeping either 
 the tongues or the feet of the maids quiet, who were 
 anticipating the sports of the green, and the evening 
 dance. 
 
 I repaired to the village at an early hour to en- 
 joy the merry-making. The morning was pure and 
 sunny, such as a May morning is always described. 
 The fields were white with daisies, the hawthorn 
 was covered with its fragrant blossoms, the bee hum- 
 med about every bank, and the swallow played high 
 in the air about the village steeple. It was one of 
 those genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure 
 with the very air we breathe, and to feel happy we 
 know not why. Whoever has felt the worth of worthy 
 man, or has doted on lovely woman, will, on such 
 a day, call them tenderly lo mind, and feel his 
 heart all alive with long-buried recollections. " For 
 thenne, " says the excellent romance of King Arthur, 
 " lovers call ageyne to their mynde old gentilness and 
 old servyse, and many kind dedes that were forgotten 
 by neglygence. " 
 
 Before reaching the village, t saw the May-pole 
 towering above the cottages, with its gay garlands 
 and streamers, and heard the sound of music. I found 
 that there had been booths set up near it, for the re- 
 ception of company ; and a bower of green branches 
 
 3< 
 
tao 
 
 BRACEBRTDGE HALL. 
 
 oitm^. I 
 
 ■-;; 
 
 i'\} 
 
 and flowers for tlie Queen of May, a fresh, rosy- 
 cheeked girl of the village. 
 
 A band of morris-dancers were capering on the 
 green in their fantastic dresses, jingling with hawks' 
 Itells, with a boy dressed up as Maid Marian, and the 
 Kltcndant fool rattling his box to collect contributions 
 from the by-standers. The gipsy-women too were 
 already plying their mystery in by-corners of the 
 village, reading the hands of the simple country girls, 
 and no doubt promising them all good husbands and 
 Iribrs of children. 
 
 The squire made his appearance in the course of 
 tlie morning, attended by the parson, and was receiv- 
 ed with loud acclamations. He mingled among the 
 country people throughout the day, giving and re- 
 <;eiving pleasure wherever he went. The amusements 
 of the day were under the management of Slingsby, 
 the sclioolmaster, who is not merely lord of misrule 
 in his school, but master of the revels to the village. 
 }fe was bustling about with the perplexed and anxious 
 air of a man who has the oppressive burthen of pro- 
 moting other people's merriment upon his mind. 
 He had involved himself in a dozen scrape's in consa- 
 quencc of a politic intrigue, which, by the bye. Mas- 
 ter Simon t^sid the Oxonian were at the bottom of, 
 which had for object the election of the Queen of 
 May. He had met with violent opposition from a 
 faction of ale-drinkers, who were in favour of a bounc- 
 ing bar-maid, the daughter of the innkeeper ; but he 
 had been too strongly backed not to carry his point, 
 though it shows that these rural crowns, like ail 
 others, are objects of great ambition and heart-burn- 
 ing. I am told that Master Simon takes great interest, 
 though in an underhand way, in the election of these 
 May-day Queens, and that tlie chaplet is generally 
 secured for some rustic beauty that has found favour 
 in his eyes. 
 
 In the course of the day there were various games 
 of strength and agility on the green, at which a knot 
 of village veterans presided, as judges of the lists. 
 Among these I perceived that Ready-Money Jack 
 took the lead, looking with a learned and critical eye 
 on the merits of the different candidates ; and though 
 he was very laconic, and sometimes merely expressed 
 himself by a nod, yet it was evident that his opinions 
 far outweighed those of the most loquacious. 
 
 Young Jack Tibbets w^as the hero of the day, and 
 carried off most of the prizes, though in some of the 
 feals of agility lie was rivalled by the " prodigal son," 
 who appeared much in his element on this occasion ; 
 but his most formidable competitor was the notorious 
 gipsy, the redoubtable " Star-light Tom. " I was re- 
 joiced at having an opportunity of seeing this" minion 
 of the moon" in broad daylight. I found him a 
 tall, swarthy, good-looking fellow, with a lofty air, 
 something like what I liave seen in an Indian chief- 
 lain ; and with a certain lounging, easy, and almost 
 graceful carriage, which I have often remaiked in 
 beings of ths lazaroni order, that lead an idle, loiter- 
 ing life, and have a gentlemanlike contempt of laliour. 
 
 Master Simon and the old general reconnoitred tlie 
 ground together, and uidulged a vast deal of harmlew 
 raking among the buxom country girls. Master Si- 
 mon would give some of them a kiss on meeting with 
 them, and would ask after their sisters, for lie ig ac- 
 quainted with most of the farmers' families. Some 
 times he would whisper, and a'fect to talk mischieT- 
 ously with them, and, if bantered on the subject, 
 would turn it ofT with a laugh, though it was evident 
 he liked to be sus[iected uf being a gay Lothario 
 amongst them. 
 
 He had much to say to the farmers about their 
 farms ; and seemed to know all their horses by name. 
 There was an old fellow, with a round ruddy face, 
 and a night-cap under his hat, the village wit, vho I 
 took several occasions to crack a joke with him in the 
 hearing of his companions, to whom he would turn j 
 and wink hard when Master Simon had passed. 
 
 The harmony of the day, however, had nearly, at I 
 one time, been interrupted, by the appearance ofliie 
 radical on the ground, with two or three of his dis- 1 
 ciples. He soon got engaged in argument in the very i 
 thick of the throng, above which I could heariii$| 
 voice, and now and then see his meagre hand, 
 a rnile out of the sleeve, elevated in the air in viulent] 
 gesticulation, and flourishing a pamphlet by way ofl 
 truncheon. He was decrying these idle nonsensicaif 
 amusements in times of public distress, when it wttl 
 every one's business to think of other matters, andlol 
 be raiseraUe. The honest village logicians coajdl 
 make no stand against him, especially as he was se-l 
 conded by his proselytes ; when, to their great J3y,[ 
 Master Simon and the general came drifting dovi 
 into the field vyf action. I saw that Master Simon n 
 for making off, as soon as he found himself m tb 
 neighbourhood of this fire-ship; but the genera! \n 
 too loyal tosuffersuchtalkin his hearing, and tlioughlJ 
 no doubt, that a look and a word from a gentlen 
 would be sufficient to shut up so shabby an oralorj 
 The latter, however, was no respecter of persons, I 
 rather seemed to exult in having such importantanli 
 gonists. He talked with greater volubility than eva 
 and soon drowned them in declamation on the subjei 
 of taxes, poors' rates, and the national debt. MasK 
 Simon endeavoured to brush along in his usual esc 
 sive manner, which had always answered amazin 
 well with the villagers ; but the radical was one I 
 those pestilent fellows that pin a man down to bt 
 and, indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in I 
 pocket, to support every thing he advanced by pri 
 ed documents. The general, too, found himself I 
 trayed into a more serious action than his dignity ( 
 brook, and looked like a mighty Dutch Indian 
 grievously peppered by a petty privateer. It \vas| 
 vain that he swelled and looked big, and talked I 
 and endeavoured to make up by pomp of manner^ 
 poverty of matter ; every home-thrust of the r* 
 made him wheeze like a bellows, and seemed toi 
 volume of wind out of him. In a word, tiie I 
 worthies from the Hall were completely dumlvfw 
 
 jaling. 
 
 %l: but I 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HAU.. 
 
 427 
 
 neral reconnoitred llie 
 a vast (leal of harmlew 
 itry girls. Master 8i- 
 a kiss on meeting Willi 
 ir sisters, for he is «- 
 mers' families. Som? 
 a'fect to talk mischiev- 
 iitered on the subjwt, 
 I, though it was evident 
 being a gay l-o«»arii) 
 
 he farmers about Mx 
 all their horses by name, 
 ith a round ruddy face, 
 lat, the village wit, who 
 cka joke with him in the 
 to whom he would lum 
 r Simon had passed, 
 however, had nearly, at 
 by the appearance of the 
 I two or three of Ms dis- 
 id in argument in the very 
 i which I could hear his 
 nee his meagre hand, hall 
 ;vated in the air in viulent 
 ng a pamphlet by way of 
 ^ing these idle nonsensial 
 jbric distress, whenitvnsl 
 nk of other matters, andtoj 
 est village logicians conUJ 
 
 ed and this too in ttie presence of several of Master 
 Sioion's stanch admirers, who liad always looked up 
 to him as infallible. I do not know how he and the 
 literal would have managed to draw their forces 
 decently from the neld, had there not been a match 
 gt •'tinning through a horse-collar announced, where- 
 upon tlie radical retired with great expression of con- 
 tempt, and, as soon as his back was turned, the argu- 
 ment was carried against him all hollow. 
 
 "Did you ever hear such a pack of stuff, general?" 
 said Master Simon; " there's no talking with one of 
 these chaps whenheoncegets that confounded Cobbett 
 in his head." 
 
 "'Sblood, sir!" said the general, wiping his fore- 
 iiead, " such fellows ought all to he transported!" 
 
 In the latter part of the day the ladies from the 
 Hall paid a visit to the green. The fair Julia made 
 her appearance, leaning on her lover's arm, and look- 
 ing extremely pale and interesting. As she is a great 
 bvourite in the village, where she has been known 
 from childhood; and as her late accident had been 
 imuch talked alwul, the sight of her caused very mani- 
 t delight, and some of the old women of the village 
 lessed her sweet face as she passed. 
 While they were walking about, I noticed the 
 loolmaster in earnest conversation with the young 
 irl that represented the Queen of May, evidently en- 
 lavouring to spirit her up to some formidable under- 
 iking. At length, as the party from the Hall ap- 
 ichcd her bower, she came forth, faltering at 
 tn, especially as he was se-Kery step, until she reached the spot where the fair 
 when, to their great joy,^„lij giood between her lover and Lady Lillycraft. 
 he little Queen then took the chaplet of flowers from 
 :r head, and attempted to put it on that of the bride 
 t; but the confusion of both was so great, that the 
 reath would have fallen to the ground, had not the 
 icer caught it, and, laughing, placed it upon the 
 lushing brows of his mistress. There was some- 
 i; charming in the very embarrassmentof these two 
 ingcreatures, both so beautiful, yet so different in 
 ir kinds of beauty. Master Simon told me, after - 
 ards, that the Queen of May was to have spoken a 
 verses which the schoolmaster had written for 
 ; but that she had neither wit to understand, nor 
 lory to recollect them. "Besides," added he, 
 itween you and I, she murders the king's English 
 nably ; so she has acted the part of a wise w< )nian 
 ingher tongue, and trusting to her pretty face." 
 mong the other characters from the Hall was Mrs 
 nah, my Lady Lillycraft's gentlewoman : to my 
 she was escorted by old Christy the huntsman, 
 followed by bis ghost of a greyhound; but I find 
 are very old acquaintances, beingdrawn together 
 some sympathy of disposition. Mrs Hannah mov- 
 [ahout with starched dignity among the rustics, who 
 :w back from her with more awe than they did 
 her mistress. Her mouth seemed shut as with 
 lasp; excepting that I now and then heard the 
 " fellows ! " escape from between her lips, asshe 
 Mcidentally jostled in the crowd. 
 
 reneral came drifting doirii| 
 saw that Master Simon wai 
 IS he found himself in tht 
 e-ship;butthegeaeral\fii 
 Linhi8hearing,andUiougl'.'.] 
 a word from a gentleni 
 ut up so shabby an oralotj 
 no respecter of persons, f 
 having such imporlantantt 
 greater volubility dianew 
 u declamation on the subjw 
 
 . the national debt. Masld 
 nsh along in his usual exa 
 always answered amazii^ 
 but the radical was one! 
 .at pin a man down to fedl 
 |o or three pamphlets inP 
 thing he advanced by pn 
 eral, too, found lumselfb 
 action than his dignity CM 
 a mighty Dutch Indian 
 a petty privateer. It «>M 
 lookedbig, and talked larj 
 .eupbypompofmannef^ 
 
 y home-thrust of the t» 
 bellows, and seemed 10 
 him. In a word, the l^ 
 
 ft-ere completely dumlvrM 
 
 But there was one other heart present that did not 
 enter into llie merriment of the scene, which was 
 that of the simple Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper')! 
 niece. The poor girl has continued to pine and whine 
 for some time past, in consequence of the obstinate 
 coldness of her lover ; never wasa little flirtation more 
 severely punished. She appeared this day on the 
 green, gallanted by a smart servant out of livery, and 
 had evidently resolved to try the hazardous experi- 
 ment of awakening the jealousy of her lover. She 
 was dressed in her very best ; affected an air of great 
 gaiety; talked loud and girlishly, and laughed when 
 there was nothing to laugli at. There was, however, 
 an aching, heavy heart, in the poor baggage's bo- 
 som, in spite of all her levity. Her eye turned eveiT 
 now and then in quest of her reckless lover, and her 
 cheek grew pale, and her fictitious gaiety vanished, 
 on seeing him paying his rustic homage to the little 
 Blay-day Queen. 
 
 My attention was now diverted by a fresh stir and 
 bustle. Music was heard from a distance ; a banner 
 was seen advancing up the road, preceded by a rustic 
 band playing something like a march, and followed 
 by a sturdy throng of country lads, the chivalry of a 
 neighbouring and rival village. 
 
 No sooner had they reached the green than they 
 challenged the heroes of the day to new trials of 
 strength and activity. Several gymnastic contests 
 ensued for the honour of the respective villages. In 
 the course of these exercises, young Tibbets and the 
 champion of the adverse party had an obstinate match 
 at wrestling. They tugged, and strained, and pant- 
 ed, without either getting the mastery, until both 
 came to the ground, and rolled upon the green. Just 
 then the disconsolate Phoebe came by. She saw her 
 recreant lover in fierce contest, as she thought, and in 
 danger. In a moment, pride, pique, and coquetry 
 were forgotten : she rushed into the ring, seized upon 
 the rival champion by the hair, and was on the point 
 of wreaking on him her puny vengeance, when a 
 buxom, strapping country lass, the sweetheart of the 
 prostrate swain, pounced upon her like a hawk, and 
 would have stripped her of her fine plumage in a 
 twinkling, had she also not been seized in her turn. 
 
 A complete tumult ensued. The chivalry of the 
 two villages became embroiled. Blows began to be 
 dealt, and sticks to be flourished. Phoebe was carried 
 off from the field in hysterics. In vain did the sages 
 of the village interfere. The sententious apothecary 
 endeavoured to pour the soothing oil of his philosophy 
 upon this tempestuous sea of passion, but was tum- 
 bled into the dust. Slingsby the pedagogue, who is a 
 great lover of peace, went into the midst of the (hrong, 
 as marshal of the day, to put an end to the commo- 
 tion; but was rent in twain, and came out with his 
 garment hanging in two strips from his shoulders : 
 upon which the prodigal son dashed in with fury to 
 revenge the insult which his patron had sustained. 
 The tumult thickened; I caught glimpses of the jockey 
 cap of old Christy, like the helmet of a chieftain, boh 
 
4tt 
 
 DRACEBRIDGE IIALL. 
 
 I 
 
 m. 
 
 ::Ml 
 
 liing about in the midst of the scnflle; wliile Mistress 
 Ilannali, separated from lier dougiity protector, was 
 squalling and striking at riglit and left with a faded 
 (larasol ; being tossed and touzled about by the crowd 
 in such wise as never happened to maiden gentle- 
 woman berore. 
 
 At length I beheld old Ready-Money Jack making 
 Jiis way into the very thickest of the throng; tearing 
 it, as it were, apart, and enforcing peace, vi et armis. 
 It was surprising to see the sudden quiet that ensued. 
 1'he storm settled down at once into tranquillity. The 
 jiarties, having no real grounds of hostility, were 
 readily pacified, and in fact were a little at a loss to 
 k now why and how they had got by the ears. Slingsby 
 was speedily stitched together again by his friend the 
 tailor, and resumed his usual good humour. Mrs 
 Hannah drew on one side to plume her rumpled 
 feathers; and old Christy, having repaired his da- 
 mages, took her under his arm, and they swept back 
 again to the Hall, ten times more bitter against man- 
 kind than ever. 
 
 The Tibbets family alone seemed slow in recover- 
 ing from the agitation of the scene. Young Jack was 
 evidently very much moved by the heroism of the un- 
 lucky Plunbe. His mother, who had been summoned 
 to the field of action by news of the affray, was in a 
 sad panic, and had need of all her management to 
 keep him from following his mistress, and coming to 
 a perfect reconciliation. 
 
 What heightened the alarm and perplexity of the 
 p;ood managing dame was, that the matter had rous- 
 ed the slow apprehension of old Ready-Money him- 
 self; who was very much struck by the intrepid inter- 
 ference of so pretty and delicate a girl, and was sadly 
 puzzled to understand the meaning of the violent agi- 
 tation in his family. 
 
 When all this came to the ears of the squire, he 
 was grievously scandalized that his May-day fdteshould 
 have been disgraced by such a brawl. He ordered 
 Phflebe to appear before him, but tlie girl was so 
 frightened and distressed, that she came sobbing and 
 trembling, and, at the first question he asked, fell 
 again into hysterics. Lady Lillycraft, who had un- 
 derstood that there was an aflair of the heart at the 
 bottom of this distress, immediately took tlie girl into 
 great favour and protection, and made her peace with 
 the squire. This was the only thing that disturbed 
 the harmony of the day, if we except the discomfiture 
 of Master Simon and the general by the radical . Upon 
 the whole, therefore, the squire had very fair reason 
 to be satisfied that he had rode his hobby throughout 
 the day without any other molestation. 
 
 The reader, learned in these matters, will perceive 
 that all this was but a faint shadow of the once gay 
 and fanciful riles of May. The peasantry have lost 
 the proper feeling for these rites, and hav€ grown al- 
 most as strange to them as the boors of La Mancba 
 were to the customs of chivalry in the days of the va- 
 lorous Don Quixote. Indeed, I considered it a proof 
 of the discretion mlh which the squire rides liis hobby, 
 
 that he had not pnshed the tiling any further, nor at- 
 tempted to revive many obsolete usages of the day 
 which, in the present matter-of-fact times, would an. 
 pear affected and absurd. I must say, tliough I do it 
 under the rose, the general brawl in which this fes- 
 tival had nearly terminated, has made me doubt wiie- 
 ther these rural customs of the gowl old times were 
 always so very loving and innocent as we are apt lo 
 fancy them; and whether the peasantry in those timei 
 were really so Arcadian as they have been fondly re- 
 presented. I l»egin to fear— 
 
 "Those (lays wore never ; airy drcaiiu 
 
 Sat for tlic pirliiru, and llic poct'H hand, 
 Iin|»rtin!; aidMlance lo an empty Khade, 
 Imposed a gay delirium for a trulli. 
 lirant it ; I still mnsl envy them an age 
 That favuur'd such a dream." 
 
 THE MANUSCRIPT. 
 
 YiJSTEnnAT was a day of quiet and repose after ilie I 
 bustle of May-day. During the morning I joined the I 
 ladies in a small sitting-room, the windows uf vhichl 
 came down to the floor, and opened upon a terrace of I 
 the garden, which was set out with delicate slmibil 
 and fiowers. The soft sunshine that fell into tlie| 
 room through the branches of trees that overhang ihel 
 windows, the sweet smell of the flowers, and thel 
 singing of the birds, seemed to produce a pleasinjj 
 yet calming effect on the whole party, for sometim 
 elapsed without any one speaking. Lady Lillyci 
 and Miss Templeton were sitting by an elegant wod-j 
 table, near one of the windows, occupied with i 
 pretty lady-like work. The captain was on a stool^ 
 his mistress' feet, looking over some music; andp 
 Phoebe Wilkins, who has always been a kind orp 
 among the ladies, but who has risen vastly in faToi 
 with I^dy Lillycraft, in consequence of some ten 
 confessions, sat in one corner of the room, wilhsvol 
 eyes, working pensively at some of the fair Julii'l 
 wedding ornaments. 
 
 The silence was internipted by Iier ladyship, vlj 
 suddenly proposed a task to the captain. "I ami 
 your debt," said she, " for that tale you read toiisiJ 
 other day; I will now furnish one in return, if yo«| 
 read it; and it is just suited to this sweet May nioi 
 ing, for it is all about love ! " 
 
 The proposition seemed to delightevery one pre! 
 The captain smiled assent. Her ladyship rung rorli| 
 page, and dispatched him to her room for thenui 
 script. ''As the captain," said she, "gaveusi 
 account of the author of his story, it is bnl rin 
 should give one of mine. It was written br^ 
 clergyman of the parish where I reside. Ueisal! 
 elderly man, of a delicate constitution, but posiliij 
 one of the most charming men that ever lived, 
 lost his wife a few years since, one of the sw« 
 women you ever saw. He has two sons, wbw| 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4;20 
 
 ng any further, nor at- 
 ilete usages of the day, 
 sf-fact times, would ap. 
 miist8ay,tlK»ugliIdoii 
 )rawl in whicli this tn- 
 las made me doubt wIk- 
 ilie gootl old times were 
 iiocent as we are apt to 
 I peasantry in tliose limei 
 ley have been fondly re- 
 
 never;airydrcaiii» 
 cpocfshand, 
 I empty Rhailc. 
 DT a trulli. 
 f Uiem an age 
 am." 
 
 iliicatesliimself; both of whom already write delight- 
 Ill poetry. His parsonage is a lovely place, close by 
 lie church, all overrun with ivy and honeysuckles , 
 ilb liie sweetest flower-garden about it; for, you 
 iiow ourcountry clergymen are almowtalwaysfondof 
 wers, and make their parsonages perfect pictures. 
 " His living is a very good one, and he is very much 
 loved, and does a great deal of good in the neigh- 
 rliood, and among the poor. And (hen such ser- 
 as he preaches ' Oh, if you could only hear 
 le taken from a text in Solomon's Song, all about 
 ive and matrimony, one of the sweetest things you 
 er heard ! He preaches it at least once a-ycar, in 
 irifi" time, for lie knows I am fond of it. He always 
 nes with me on Siuidays, and often brings me some 
 the sweetest pieces of poetry, nil about the pleasures 
 melancholy and such subjects, that make me cry so, 
 u can't think. I wish he would publish. I think 
 has some things as sweet as any thing in Moore or 
 Byron. 
 
 He fell into very ill health some time ago, and 
 OS advised to go to the continent; and I gcive him 
 f quiet and repose after Ik B> peace until he went, and promised to take care of 
 
 ,.. the morning I joined the W l"" •*>}'» """' ''« ^elmned. 
 " " lie was gone for above a year, and was quite 
 
 itnrcd. When he came back, he sent me the tale 
 going to show you. — Oh, here it is ! " said she, 
 the page put in her hands a beautiful box of satin- 
 She unlocked it, and from among several 
 ircels of notes on embossed paper, cards of cha- 
 les, and copies of verses, she drew out a crimson 
 vet case, that smelt very much of perfumes. From 
 she took a manuscript, daintily written on gill- 
 vellum paper, and stitched with a light blue 
 ind. This she handed to the captain, who read 
 following tale, which I have procured for the en- 
 lioment of the reader. 
 
 USCRIPT. 
 
 om, the windows of which 
 id opened upon a terrace oil 
 t out with delicate shnih 
 mnshine that fell into tht 
 ;s of trees that overlmng Ihel 
 ell of the flowers, and tht 
 med to produce a pleasing,] 
 whole party, for sometim 
 •speaking. LadyLillyci 
 • sitting by an elegant woil-| 
 iidows, occupied with ! 
 he captain was on a stooU 
 oversome music; and p 
 s always been a kind of p 
 iio has risen vastly in tm 
 consequence of some tem 
 rner of the room, with swot 
 at some of the fair Juiial 
 
 tipted by her ladyship, 
 ;k to the captain. "Iaiiii| 
 tor that tale you read to usil 
 krnishone in return, ify« 
 Itedto this sweet May moi 
 
 ke!" 
 tdtodelighteveryonepr« 
 
 lit. Her ladyship rung fotbj 
 
 |m to her room for the man 
 
 Jin," said she, "gaveusj 
 
 I of his story, itisbulriji^ 
 
 tne. It was written 
 
 [where I reside. Heisa« 
 
 Ite constitution, but positiij 
 
 [ng men that ever lived. 
 
 livs since, one of the swe 
 
 lie has two sons, whonj 
 
 ANNETTE DELARBRE. 
 
 Tlie solilier frac Hie war returns. 
 
 And tlie inercliaut frae llie main, 
 But I liae parted wi' my love, 
 
 And ne'er to meet again, 
 My dear, 
 
 And ne'er to meet again. 
 
 vviien day is gone, and niglit is come, 
 
 And a' are l)oun to 8lee|>, 
 1 tliinli on tliem (liat's far awa 
 Tlie lec'lang nigtit and weep, 
 
 My dear, 
 Tlic lee-lang night and weep. 
 
 OtD scoTcu Ballad. 
 
 In the course of a lour that I once made in Lower 
 jrmandy, I remained for a day or two at the old 
 tn uf Ilondeur, which stands near the mouth of 
 I Seine. It was the time of a fi'te, and all the 
 pd was thronging in the evening to dance at the 
 , held l)efore the chapel of Our Lady of Grace. 
 
 As I like all kinds of innocent merry-making, I joined 
 the throng. 
 
 The chapel is sitnale<I at lh« lop of a high hill, or 
 promontory, from whence its bell may be lieard at a 
 distance by the mariner at night. It a said to have 
 given the name to the {tort of Havre de Grace, which 
 lies directly opposite on the other side of the Seine. 
 The road up to the chapel went in a zig-zag course, 
 along the brow of the steep coast; it was shaded by 
 trees, from between which I had beautiful peeps at 
 the ancient towers of Ilontleur below, the varied 
 scenery of the opposite shore, the white buildings of 
 Havre in the distance, and the wide sea beyond. The 
 road was enlivened by groups of peasant girls, in 
 their bright crimson dresses, and tall caps; and I 
 found all the flower of the neighbourhood assembled 
 on the green that crowns the summit of the hill. 
 
 The chnpel of Notre-Dame de Grace is a favourite 
 resort of the inhabilants of Honileur and its vicinity, 
 both for pleasure and devotion. At this little chapel 
 prayers arc put up by the mariners of the port pre- 
 vious to their voyages, and by their friends during 
 their absence ; and votive offerings are hung alraut its 
 walls, in fullilment of vows made during times of 
 shipwreck and disaster. The cbafiel is surrounded 
 by trees. Over the portal is an image of the Yirgin and 
 Child, with an inscription which struck me as being 
 quite i)octical: 
 
 " Kloile dc la mer, pricz pour nous ! " 
 (Star ofttie sea, pray for us. ) 
 
 On a level spot near the cb:ipel, under a grove of 
 noble trees, the populace daiioe on line summer even- 
 ings; and here are lield frequent fairs and fdles, which 
 assemble all the rustic l)eauty of the iuveliest pzrls of 
 Lower Normandy. The present was an occasion of 
 the kind. Booths and tents were erected among the 
 trees : there were the usual displays of finery to tempt 
 the niral coquette, and of wonderful shows to entice 
 the curious ; mountebanks were exerting their elo- 
 quence ; jugglers and fortune-lcllers astonishing the 
 credulous ; while whole rows of grotesque saints, in 
 wood and wax-work, were offered for the purchase 
 of the pious. 
 
 The fi^te had assembled in one view all the pic- 
 turesque costumes of the Pays d'Auge, and the Cdte 
 de Caux. I beheld tall, stately caps, and trim bod- 
 dices, according to fashions which have been handed 
 down from mother to daughter for centuries, the 
 exact counterparts uf those worn in the lime of the 
 Conqueror; and which surprised me by '.heir faithful 
 resemblance to those which I had seen in the old pic- 
 tures of Froissart's Chronicles, and in the paintings of 
 illuminated manuscripts. Any one, also, that has 
 been in Lower Normandy, must have remarked the 
 beauty of the peasantry, and that air of native elegance 
 which prevails among them. It is to this country, 
 undoubtedly, that the English owe their good looks. 
 It was from hence that llie bright carnation, the fine 
 blue eye, the light auburn hair, passed over to Eng- 
 
430 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 land in the train of tlie Conqueror, and lilted ttie land 
 Willi beauty. 
 
 Ttie scene liefore me was perfectly enclianting : the 
 assemblage uf so many fresh and blooming faces ; the 
 gay groups in fanciful dresses, some dancing on the 
 green, others strolling about, or seated on the grass; 
 the fine clumps of trees in the fore-ground, bor- 
 dering the brow of this airy height ; and the broad 
 green sea, sleeping in summer tranquillity, in the 
 distance. 
 
 Whilst I was regarding this animated picture, I 
 was struck with the appearance of a beautiful girl, 
 Avho passed through the crowd without seeming to 
 take any interest in their amusements. She was 
 slender and delicate in her form ; she had not the 
 bloom upon her cheek that is usual among the peasant- 
 ry of Normandy, and her blue eyes had a singular and 
 melancholy expression. She was accompanied by a 
 venerable-looking man, whom I presumed to be lier 
 father. There was a whisper among the by-slanders, 
 and a wistful look after her as she passed ; the young 
 men touched their hats, and some of (he children fol- 
 lowed her at a little distance, watching her move- 
 ments. She approached the edge of the hill, where 
 there is a little platform, from whence the people of 
 Honfleur look out for the approach of vessels. Here 
 she stood for some time waving her handkerchief, 
 though there was nothing to be seen but two or three 
 lishing-boats, like mere specks on the bosom of the 
 distant ocean. 
 
 These circumstances excited my curiosity, and I 
 made some inquiries about her, which were answer- 
 eil with readiness and intelligence by a priest of the 
 neighbouring chapel. Our conversation drew toge- 
 ther several of the by-s(anders, each of whom had 
 something to communicate, and from them all I ga- 
 thered the following particulars. 
 
 Annette Delarbre was the only daughter of one of 
 the higher order of farmers, or small proprietors, as 
 they are called, who lived at Pont-l'Ev^que, a plea- 
 sant village not far from Hontleur, in that rich pas- 
 toral part of Lower Normandy called the Pays d'Auge. 
 Annette was the pri«le and delight of her parents, and 
 was brought up with the fondest indulgence. She 
 was gay, tender, petulant, and susceptible. All her 
 feelings were (|uick and ardent ; and having never 
 experienced contradiction or restraint, she was little 
 practised in self-control : nothing but the native good- 
 ness of her heart kept her from running continually 
 into error. 
 
 Even while a child, her susceptibility was evinced 
 in an attachment which she formed to a playmate, 
 Eugene La Forgue, the only son of a widow who 
 lived in the neighbourhood. Their chililish love was 
 an epitome uf maturer passion ; it had its caprices, 
 and jealousies, and quarrels, and reconciliations. It 
 was assuming something of a graver character as 
 Annette enlered her liftcenth, and Eugene his nine- 
 tecnlli year, when he was suddenly carried off to the 
 army by the conscription. 
 
 It was a heavy blow to his widowed mother, i 
 he was her only pride and comfort; but it was i 
 of those sudden bereavv^ments which mothers wei 
 peiiKtually doomed to fee^ in France, during tlie tin 
 that continual and bloody wars were incessanllJ 
 draining her youth. It was a temporary afijictio 
 also to Annette, to lose her lover. With tender fmj 
 braces, half childish, half womanish, she parted frogf 
 him. The tears streamed from her blue eyes, as^ 
 bound a braid of her fair hair round his wrist ■ I 
 the smiles still broke through ; for she was yet i 
 young to feel how serious a thing is separation, an 
 how many chances there are, when parting in i 
 wide world, against our ever meeting again. 
 
 Weeks, months, years tlew by. Annette increaie 
 in beauty as she increased in years, and Avast 
 reigning belle of the neighbourhood. Her time [ 
 ed innocently and happily. Her father was a manol 
 some consequence in the rural community, andb 
 house was the resort of the gayest of the villa 
 Annette held a kind of rural court; she was alwatj 
 surrounded by companions of her own age, amou 
 whom she shone unrivalled. Much of their timevj 
 past in making lace, the prevalent manufacture of tl 
 neighbourhood. As they sat at tliis delicate andftj 
 minine labour, the merry tale and sprightly i 
 went round : none laugheil with a lighter heart tlui 
 Annette; and if she sang, her voice was perfect mel 
 dy. Their evenings were enlivened by the dano 
 or by those pleasant social games so prevalent anx 
 the French ; and when she appeared at the ^ 
 ball on Sunday evening, she was the theme of i 
 versal admiration. 
 
 As she was a rural heiress, she did not want forsoij 
 ors. Many advantageous offers were made her, b 
 she refused them all. She laughed at the preteiui 
 pangs of her admirers, and triumphed over themwii 
 the caprice of buoyant youth and conscious l)eaiil| 
 With all her apparent levity, however, could aiiyoi 
 have read the story of her heart, they might liii 
 traced in it some fond remembrance of her early pli|| 
 mate, not so deeply graven as to be painful, I 
 deep to be easily obliterated ; and they might I 
 noticed, amidst all her gaiety, the tenderness t 
 marked her manner towards tlie mother uf Eug( 
 She would often steal away from her youthful c 
 panions and their amusements, to pass whole ( 
 with the good widow; listening to her fund talk alu 
 her boy, and blushing with secret pleasure Avhenlj 
 letters were read, at finding herself a constant tlia 
 of recollection and inquii-y. 
 
 At length the sudden return of peace, which ! 
 many a warrior to his native cottage, brought I 
 Eugene, a young, sun-hurnt soldier, to the villijj 
 I need not say how rapturously his retuin was ;te 
 ed by his mother, who saw in liim the pride andil 
 of her old age. He had risen in the service by| 
 merit; but brought away little from the wars,i 
 cepting a soldier-like air, a gallant name, and a a 
 across the forehead. He brought back, howcTetl 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 431 
 
 his widowed inotlier, I 
 comfort; but it vras i 
 ;nts which mothers wei 
 in France, during tliet 
 y wars were incessanil]| 
 vas a temporary affliciioi 
 r lover . W ilh lender eml 
 vomanish, slie parted fronj 
 from her blue eyes, ass 
 hair round his wrist ;1 
 )ugh ; for she was yel i 
 a thing is separation, ani 
 are, when parting in thi 
 ;ver meeting again. 
 Hew by. Annette increase 
 sed in years, and was t 
 [jbourhood. Her lime i 
 
 f. Her father was a mano{ 
 B rural community, and! 
 f the gayest of the vBla 
 ural court ; she was alwajj 
 ons of her own age, amonj 
 led. Much of their lime»j| 
 prevalent manufacture ofll 
 iy sat at tliis delicate andlej 
 irry tale and sprigluly i 
 [leawithaliglilerliearllluj 
 
 g, her voice was perfect mtl 
 ifcre enlivened by the dam 
 lial games so prevalent anw 
 
 I she appeared at the villaj 
 . she was the theme of i 
 
 iress, she did not want forsii 
 )us offers were made her,' 
 Slie laughed at the preteii 
 ind triumphed over them si 
 
 youth and conscious beanl] 
 evity, however, could any 
 
 her heart, they might 1 
 emembrance of her early pla] 
 aven as to be painful, bnt 
 irated ; and they might 
 
 gaiety, 
 
 the tenderness I 
 
 )wards the mother of Eugi 
 iway from her youthful 
 iisements, to pass whole 
 islening to her fond talk al 
 
 with secret pleasure when 
 ding herself a constant lli( 
 
 iry. 
 n return of peace 
 
 which 
 
 native cottage, hroughl 
 
 k-burnt soldier, to the villi 
 [,turously his return was SI 
 saw in him the pride and 
 hd risen in the service by 
 Iway little from the wars, 
 Vir, a gallant name, and a 
 (lie brought back, howewj 
 
 iture unspoiled by the camp. He was frank, open, 
 letous, and ardent. His heart was quick and kind 
 its impulses, and was 'perhaps a little softer from 
 iving suffered : it was full of tenderness for Annette. 
 le had received frequent accounts of her from his 
 her; and the mention of her kindness to his lonely 
 irent had rendered her doubly dear to him. He 
 been wounded ; he had been a prisoner ; he had 
 n In various troubles, but he had always preserv- 
 the braid of her hair, which she had bound round 
 arm. It had been a kind of talisman to him; he 
 many a time looked upon it as he lay on the hard 
 mnd, and the thought that he might one day see 
 iwette again, and the fair flelds about his native 
 iage, had cheered his heart, and enabled him to 
 irup against every hardship. 
 He had left Annette almost a child ; he found her a 
 iming woman. If he had loved her before, he 
 ff adored her. Annette was equally struck with 
 improvement which time had made in her lover, 
 le noticed, with secret admiration, his superiority 
 the other young men of the village : the frank, lofty, 
 lilary air, that distinguished him from all the rest 
 their rural gatherings. The more she saw him, 
 more her light, playful fondness of former years 
 ned into ardent and powerful affection. But 
 tte was a rural belle. She had tasted the sweets 
 dominion, and had been rendered wilful and ca- 
 ious by constant indulgence at home, and admi- 
 in abroad. She was conscious of her power over 
 ne, and delighted in exercising it. She some- 
 treated him with petulant caprice, enjoying the 
 which she inflicted by her frr v ns, from the idea 
 soon she would chase it away again by her smiles, 
 took a pleasure in alarming his fears, by affecting 
 imporary preference to some one or other of his 
 Is; and then would delight in allaying them by an 
 le measure of returning kindness. Perhaps there 
 some degree of vanity gratified by all this ; it 
 it be a matter of triumph to shew her absolute 
 ler over the young soldier, who was the universal 
 t of female admiration. Eugene, however, was 
 serious and ardent a nature to be trifled with. 
 loved too fervently not to be fi'led with doubt. 
 saw Annette surrounded by admirers, and full of 
 tion; the gayest among the gay at all their rural 
 ivities, and apparently most gay when he was 
 dejected. Every one saw through this caprice 
 himself; every one saw that in reality she doted 
 lim; but Eugene alone suspected the sincerity of 
 affection. For some time he bore this coquetry 
 secret impatience and distrust ; but his feelings 
 r sore and irritable, and overcame his self-com- 
 id. A slight misunderstanding took place; a 
 el ensuetl. Annette, unaccustomed to be thwarl- 
 ind contradicted, ainl full of the insolence of youlh- 
 auty, assumed an air of disdain. She refused 
 planations to her lover, and they parted in anger, 
 very evening Eugene saw her, full of gaiety, 
 ins with one of his rivals ; and as her eye caught 
 
 his, flxed on her with unfeigned distress, it sparkled 
 with more than usual vivacity. It was a finishing 
 blow to his hopes, already so much impaired by se- 
 cret distrust. Pride and resentment both struggle<l 
 in his breast, and seemed to rouse his spirit to all its 
 wonted energy. He retired from her presence with 
 the hasty determination never to see her again. 
 
 A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than 
 a man, because love is more the study and business of 
 her life. Annette soon repented of her indiscretion : 
 she felt that she had used her lover unkindly; she felt 
 that she had trifled with his sincere and generous nature 
 — and then he looked so handsome w hen he parted after 
 their quarrel— his fine features lighted up by indigna- 
 tion. She had intended making up with him at the 
 evening dance ; but his sudden departure prevented 
 her. She now promised herself that when next they 
 met she would amply repay him by the sweets of a 
 perfect reconciliation, and that, thenceforward, she 
 would never — never teaze him more ! That promise 
 was not to be fulfilled. Day after day passed ; but 
 Eugene did not make his appearance. Sunday even- 
 ing came, the usual time when all the gaiety of the 
 village assembled; but Eugene was not there. She 
 inquired after him ; he had left the village. She now 
 became alarmed, and, forgetting all coyness and af- 
 fected indifference, called on Eugene's mother for an 
 explanation. She found her full of affliction, and 
 learnt with surprise and consternation that Eugene 
 had gone to sea. 
 
 While his feelings were yet smarting with u^r af- 
 fected disdain, and his heart a prey to alternate indi- 
 gnation and despair, he had suddenly embraced an 
 invitation which had repeatedly been made him by a 
 relation, who was fitting out a ship from the port of 
 Honfleur, and who wished him to be the companion 
 of his voyage. Absence appeared to him the only 
 cure for his unlucky passion; and in the temporary 
 transports of his feelings, there was something grati- 
 fying in the idea of having half the world intervene 
 between them. The hurry necessary for his depar- 
 ture left no time for cool reflection; it rendered him 
 deaf to the remonstrances of his afflicted mother. He 
 hastened to HonHeur just in time to make the needful 
 preparations for the voyage; and the first news that 
 Annette received of this sudden deterniii\ition was a 
 letter delivered by his mother, returning her pledges 
 of affection, particularly the long-treasured braid of 
 her hair, and bidding her a last farewell, in terms 
 more full of sorrow and tenderness than upt)raitling. 
 This was the first stroke of real anguish that An- 
 nette had ever received, and is ovei came her. The 
 vivacity of her spirits was apt to hurry her to ex- 
 tremes; she for a time gave way to ungovernable 
 transporlsof affliction and remorse, and munifested, 
 in the violence of her grief, the real ardour of her af- 
 fection. The thought occurred to her that the ship 
 might not yet have sailed; she seized on the hope 
 with eagerness, and hastened with her father to 
 Honfleur. The ship had sailed that very morning. 
 
4881 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 K.^- 
 
 From the heights above the town she saw it lessening 
 to a speck on the broad bosom of the ocean, and 
 before evening tlie white sail liad fadeil from her 
 sight. She turned full of anguislt to the neighbour- 
 ing chapel of Our Lady of Grace, and throwing her- 
 self on the pavement, poured out prayers and tears 
 for the safe return of her lover. 
 
 When she returned home the cheerfulness of her 
 spirits was at an end. She looked back with re- 
 morse and self-upbraiding at her past caprices; she 
 turned witii distaste from the adulation of her ad- 
 mirers, and had no longer any relish for the amuse- 
 ments of the village. With humiliation and diffi- 
 dence she sought the widowed mother of Eugene ; 
 but was received by her with an overflowing heart, 
 for she only behvld in Annette one who could sym- 
 pathize in her doting fondness for her son. It seem- 
 ed some alleviation of her remorse to sit by the mother 
 all day, to study her wants, to beguile her heavy 
 hours, to hang about her with the caressing endear- 
 ments of a daughter, and to seek by every means, if 
 possible, to supply the place of the son, whom she 
 reproached herself with having driven away. 
 
 In the mean time the ship made a prosperous 
 voyage to her destined port. Eugene's mother re- 
 ceived a letter from him, in which he lamented the 
 precipitancy of his depiirture. The voyage had given 
 him time for sober retleclion. If Annette had been 
 unkind to him, he ought not to have forgotten what 
 was due to his mother, who was now advanced in 
 years. He accused himself of selfishness in only lis- 
 tening to the suggestions of his own inconsiderate 
 passions. He promised to return with the ship, to 
 make his mind up to his disappointment, and to think 
 
 of nothing but making his mother happy "And 
 
 when he does return," said Annette, clasping her 
 hand with transport, "it shall not be my fault if he 
 ever leaves us again." 
 
 The time approached for the ship's return. She 
 was daily expected, when the weather became dread- 
 fully tempestuous. Day alter day brought news of 
 vessels foundered, or driven on shore, and the sea 
 coast was strev/ed with wrecks. Intelligence was re- 
 ceived of the looked-for ship having been dismasted 
 in a violent storm, and the greatest fears were en- 
 tertained for her safety. 
 
 Annette never left the side of Eugene's mother. 
 She watched every change of her countenance with 
 painful solicitude, and endeavoured to cheer her with 
 hopes, while her own mind was racked by anxiety. 
 She tasked her efrorls to be gay; but it was a forced 
 and unnatural gaiety : a sigh from the mother would 
 completely check it; and when she could no longer 
 restrain the rising leard, siie would hurry away and 
 pour out her agony in secret. l'>ery anxious look, 
 every anxious inquiry of ihe mother, whenever a duor 
 opened, or a strange face appeared, was an arrow to' 
 lier soul. SIvp considered tvery disappointment as 
 a pang of her own inlliction, and her heart sickened 
 under the care-worn expression of the maternal eye. 
 
 At length this suspense became insupportable, siv 
 left tlie village and hastened to Honfleur, hopigi 
 every hour, every moment, to receive some tidind 
 of her lover. She paced the pier, and wearied i 
 seamen of the port with her in(|uiries. She made j 
 daily pilgrimage to the chapel of Our Lady of Grace! 
 hung votive garlands on the wall, and passed iioutj 
 either kneeling before the altar, or looking out fro 
 the brow of the hill upon the angry sea. 
 
 At length word was brought that the long-wisim 
 for vessel was in sight. She was seen standing ju 
 the mouth of the Seine, shattered and ciippleg 
 bearing marks of having been sadly tempest-loi 
 There was a general joy diffused by her return; am 
 there was not a brighter eye, nor a lighter iieari 
 than Annette's in the little port of Honlleur. 
 ship came to anchor in the river; and shortly after J 
 boat put off for the shore. The populace crovdi 
 down to the pier-head to welcome it. Annettesi 
 blushing, and smiling, and trembling, and weepiiu 
 for a thousand painfully pleasing emotions agitata 
 her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and recoi 
 cilialion about to take place. Her heart throbbedl 
 pour itself out, and atone to her gallant lover for^ 
 its errors. At one moment she would place hen 
 in a conspicuous situation, where she might catcbli 
 view at once, and surprise him by her welcome; I 
 the next moment a doubt would come across I 
 mind, and she would shrink among llie tim 
 trembling and faint, and gasping with lier emotioi 
 Her agitation increased as the boat drew near, i 
 it became distressing; and it was almost a relie[| 
 her when she perceived that lior lover was noil 
 She presinned that some accident had detained t 
 on board of the ship; and she felt tiiat llieddl 
 would enable her to gather more self-possessiooj 
 the meeting. As the boat neared the shore, 
 inquiries were made, and laconic answers re'uni 
 At length Annette heard some inquiries after l| 
 lover. Her heart palpitated; there was a nioiini| 
 pause; the reply was brief, but awful, lie had b 
 washed from (he deck, with two of the crew, in| 
 midst of a stormy night, when it was impossible! 
 render any assistance. A piercmg shriek hroiie& 
 among the crowd ; and Annette had nearly I 
 into the waves. 
 
 The sudden revulsion of feelings after such a I 
 sient gleam of happiness, was too nmch for lier| 
 rassed frame. She was carried home senseless. 
 life was for some time despaired of^ and it wasnioJ 
 before she recovered her health ; but she neverl 
 perfectly recovered her mind : it still reniaiiiedj 
 settled with respect to her lover's fate. 
 
 " The subject," continued inv informer, "isn 
 mentioned in her hearing; but she sometimes^ 
 of it herself, and it seems as though lliere wcreij 
 vague train of impressions in her mind, in wliitiill 
 and fear are strangely mingled; some impfrlertj 
 of her lover's shipwreck, and yet some expwlj^ 
 of his return. 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 435 
 
 ime insupportable. Sli 
 id to Ilonfleur, hopii 
 to receive some lidinj 
 le pier, and wearied il 
 r imiuiries. She made 
 lel of Our Lady of Grace] 
 e wall, and passed liom 
 lUar, or looking out fi 
 lie angry sea. 
 ight that the long-wishi 
 lie was seen standing ii 
 shattered and crippli 
 iieen sadly tennpesl-li 
 iffusedby her return; ai 
 eye, nor a lighter liea 
 lie port of Hontlear, 
 i river; and shortly after 
 !. The populace crowi 
 welcome it. Annette 
 ,d trembling, and weepi 
 pleasing emotions agilal 
 is of the meeting and r 
 ace. Her heart throbbed 
 B to her gallant lover for 
 lent she would place liei 
 n, where she might calch 
 se him by her welcome; 
 n,V)t would come across 
 shrink among the Ibi 
 d gasping with her emolk 
 I as the boat drew near, ui 
 1 and it was almost a reM| 
 I that t«n- lover was iiollli 
 »e accitlent had detained 
 . and she feU that the di 
 ather more self-possession 
 ,oat neared the sliore, 
 nd laconic answers re'ui 
 ard some inquiries aflet 
 ilated; there was a moini 
 lief, but awful, lie had' 
 with two of the crew, in 
 t, when it was inipossii 
 A piercmg shriek hroke 
 id Aimelte had nearly ii 
 
 Li of feelings after such a L-j 
 
 [ss, was too much for liet 
 s carried home senseless, 
 lespaued of, audit was ra( 
 ,er health; but she never 
 V mind : it still loniained 
 her lover's fate, 
 tinned mv informer, "is 
 
 ing ; but slic sometimes 
 ,ms as though there were 
 lions in her mind, in wbicli 
 mingled; someimirrW 
 leek, and yel some exp«i 
 
 " Her parents have tried every means to cheer her, 
 and to banish these gloomy images from her thoughts. 
 They assemble round her the young companions in 
 (those society she used to delight; and they will 
 work, and chat, and sing, and laugh, as formerly ; 
 but she will sit silently among Iheni, and will some- 
 times weep in the midst of their gaiety ; and, if spoken 
 (0, will make no reply, but look up with streaming 
 eves, and sing a dismal little song, which she has 
 learned somewhere, about a shipwreck. It makes 
 every one's heart ache to see her in this way, for she 
 used to be the happiest creature in the village. 
 
 " She passes the greater part of the lime with En- 
 trene's mother; whose only consolation is her society, 
 and who doles on her with a mother's tenderness. 
 She is the only one that has perfect intluence over 
 Annette in every mood. The poor girl seems, as 
 formerly, to make an effort to be cheerful in her com- 
 pany; bill will sometimes gaze upon her with the 
 most piteous look, and then kiss her grey hairs, and 
 on her neck and weep. 
 
 She is not always melancholy, however; she has 
 
 iasional intervals when she will he bright and ani- 
 
 iiated for days together; but there is a degree of 
 
 ildness attending these fits of gaiety, that prevents 
 
 Iheir yielding any satisfaction to her friends. At such 
 
 limesshe will arrange her room, which is all covered 
 
 ilhpictuves of ships and legends of saints ; and w ill 
 
 reaihe a white chaplel, as if for a wedding, and pre- 
 
 re wedding-ornaments. She will listen anxiously 
 
 lllliedoor, and look frecpienlly out at the window, 
 
 if expecting jonie one's arrival. It is supposed 
 
 lal at such times she is looking for her lover's re- 
 
 m; hut, as no one touches upon the theme, or 
 
 lentions his name in her presence, the current of 
 
 ir thoughts is mere matter of conjecture. Now 
 
 id then she will make a pilgrimage to the chapel 
 
 Notre-Uaine de Grace ; where she will pray for 
 
 lurs at the altar, and decorate the images w'ilh 
 
 eatlis t! it she has woven; or will wave herhand- 
 
 irchief from the terrace, as you have sfcMi, if there 
 
 any vessel in the distance." 
 
 Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now 
 
 psed without effacing from her mind this singidar 
 
 nliif insanity; still lier friends hoped il might gra- 
 
 ly wear away. They had al one lime removed 
 
 to a distant part of the country, in hopes that 
 
 ncc from the scenes connected with her story 
 
 ;hlhave a salutaiy fffL'Ot; but, when herperiod- 
 
 meiRik'holy retr<ne(l, she became more restless 
 
 p wietched than isual, and, secretly escaping from 
 
 friends, s^.. at on foot, wilhout knowing the 
 
 , on one of her pilgrimages to the cha|»('l. 
 
 his iilile story entirely drtw my allenlion from 
 
 p\ si^ne of the ftHe, and lixed it upon the beau- 
 
 \nnelle. While she was yet slaiuling on the 
 
 Iff, Ihc vesper-bell was rung from the neigli- 
 
 iii;; chapel. She lislened for a moment, and 
 
 , drawing a small rosary from her bosom, walked 
 
 lat direction. Several of the peasiinlry followed 
 
 her in silence ; and I felt too much interested not to 
 do the same. 
 
 The chapel, as I said before, w in the midst of a 
 grove, on the high promontory. The inside is hung 
 round with Ihe little models of ships, and rude paint- 
 ings of wrecks and pckils at sea, and providential de- 
 liverances; the vo'.ve ofl'erings of captains and crews 
 that have lieen saved. On entering, Annette paused 
 for a moment beftire a picliire of the \ irgin, w I.'ch, 
 I observed, had recently been decorated with a wreath 
 of arlilicial flowers. When she reached the middle 
 of the chapel she knell down, and those who followed 
 her involuntarily did the same at a little distance. 
 The evening sun shone softly through the chequered 
 grove into one window of the chapel. A perfect 
 stillness reigned within; and this stillness was the 
 more impressive, contrasted with the distant sound 
 of music and merriment from the fair. I could not 
 take my eyes off from the poor suppliant; her lips 
 moved as she told her beads, hut her prayers were 
 breathed in silence. It might have been mere fancy 
 excited by the scene, thai, as siie raised her eyes to 
 heaven, I Ihoughl they had an expression truly sera- 
 phic. But I am easily affected by female beauty, and 
 there was something in this mixture of love, devoJon, 
 and partial insanity, that was inexpressibly touching. 
 
 As the poor girl left the chapel, there was a sweet 
 serenity in her looks ; and I was told that she would 
 return home, and in all probabilily be calm and cheer- 
 lul for days, and even weeks ; in w hich time it was 
 supposed that hope predominated in her mental ma- 
 lady; and that, when the dark side of her mind, as 
 her friends call it, was about to turn up, it woulil be 
 known by her neglecting her distaff or her lace, sing- 
 ing plaintive songs, and weeping in silence. 
 
 She passed on from the chapel without noticing the 
 fete, but smiling and speaking to many as she passed. 
 I followed her with my eye as she descended the 
 winding road towards Ilonlleur, leaning on her fa- 
 ther's arm. " Heaven," thought I, " has ever its 
 store of balms for the hurt mind and wounded spirit, 
 and may in time rear up this broken llower to be once 
 more 'he pride and joy of the valley. The very de- 
 lusion in which the poor girl walks may be one of 
 those mists kindly diffused by Providence over the 
 regions of thought, when Ihey become too fruitful of 
 misery. The veil may gradually be raised which ob- 
 scures the horizon of l.o" '^lind, as she is enabled 
 steadily and calmly to con..;mplule the sorrows at 
 present hidden in mercy from her view." 
 
 On my return from Paris, about a year afterwards, 
 I turned off from the beaten route al lloiu^n, to re- 
 visit some of the nu)st striking scenes of Lower Nor- 
 mandy. Having passed through the lovely country 
 of the Pays d'Auge, I reached ilonlleur on a line af- 
 ternoon, intending to cross to Havre the next morn- 
 ing, and embark for England. /\s I had no belter 
 way of passing the evening, I strolled up the hill to 
 
ATtii 
 
 BRACEBRIDGC HALL. 
 
 enjoy the fine prospect from the chapel orNotre-Dame 
 de Grace; and wliile there, I thought of hiquiring 
 after the fate of poor Annette Delarbre. The priest 
 who had told ine her story w<is officiating at ves[)ers, 
 after wiiich I accosted liim, and learnt from liim the 
 remaining circumstances. He told me tiiat from tlie 
 time I liad seen her at the chapel, her disorder took 
 a sudden turn for the worse, and her health rapidly 
 declined. Her cheerful intervals became shorter and 
 less frequent, ind attended with more incoherency. 
 She grew languid, silent, and moody in her melan- 
 choly ; her form was wasted, her looks pale and dis- 
 consolate, and it was fearcrl she would never recover. 
 She became impatient o^all sounds of gaiety, and w".s 
 never so contented as when Eugene's mother was 
 near her. The good woman watched over her with 
 patient, yearning solicitude; and in seeking to beguile 
 her sorrows, would half forget her own. Sometimes, 
 as she sat looking upon her pallid face, the tears would 
 fill her eyes, which, when Annette perceived, she 
 would anxiously wipe them away, and tell her not to 
 grieve, for that Eugene would soon return ; and then 
 she woulil affect a forced gaiety, as in former limes, 
 and sing a lively air ; but a sudden recollection would 
 come over her, and she would burst into tears, hang 
 on the po;ir mother's neck, and entreat her not to 
 curse her for having destroyed her son. 
 
 Just at this time, to the astonishment of every one, 
 news was received of Eugene, who, it appeared, was 
 still living. When almost drowned, he had fortur 
 nately seized upon a spar which had been washed from 
 the ship's deck. Finding himself nearly exhausted, 
 he had fastened himself to it, and lloated for a «lay 
 and night, until all :,ense had left him. On recover- 
 ing, he had found himself on board a vessel bound to 
 India, hut so ill as not to move without assistance. 
 His health had continued precarious throughout the 
 voyage ; on arriving in India he had experienced ma- 
 ny vicissitudes, and had been transferred from ship to 
 ship, and hospital to hospital. His constitution had 
 enabled him to struggle through every hardship ; and 
 he was now in a distant port, waiting only for the sail- 
 ing of a ship to return home 
 
 Great caution was necessary in imparting these 
 tidings to the mother, and even then she was nearly 
 overcome by the transports of her joy. But how to 
 impart them to Annette was a matter of still greater 
 perplexity. Her state of mind had been so morbid ; 
 she had lieen subject to such violent changes, and the 
 cause of her derangement had been of such an incon- 
 solable and hopeless kind, that her friends had always 
 forborne to tam[ter with her feelings. They had never 
 even hinted at the subject of her griefs, nor encourag- 
 ed the theme when slie adverted to it, but had passed 
 it over in silence, hoping that time would gradually 
 wear the traces of it from her recollection, or, at least, 
 would render them less painfid. They now felt at a 
 loss how to undeceive her even in her misery, lest the 
 sudden recurrence of happiness might confirm the es- 
 trangement of her reason, or might overpower her 
 
 enfeebled frame. They ventured, however, topiDbf 
 those wounds which they formerly did not dare to 
 touch, for they now liad the balm to pour into thein. 
 They led the conversation to those topics which they 
 had hitherto shunned, and endeavoured to ascertain 
 the current of her thoughts in those varying moods 
 that had formerly [lei-piexed them. They found 
 however, that her mind was even more affected tlian | 
 they had imagined . All her ideas were confused and 
 wandering. Her bright and ch erful moods, wliidi 
 now grew seldomer than ever, were all the effects of 
 mental delusion. At such times she had no recollec- 
 tion oi her lover's having been in danger, bntwaj 
 only rsnlicipating his arrival. "Wlien the winter 
 has passed away," saiu she, 'and the trees put on 
 their blossoms, and the swallow comes back over ilie 
 sea, he will return." Wlien she was drom)injT jmi 
 desponding, it was in \.iin to remind her oT whai s|ie| 
 had said in her gayer moments, and to assure herlliatj 
 l']ugene would indeed return shortly. Shr- wept 
 in silence, and appeared insensible to their words,! 
 I$ut at times her agitation became violent, when si 
 would tipbraid herself with having driven Eugei 
 from his mother, and bioughl sorrow on iieri;i 
 hairs. Her mind admitted but one leading idea at 
 lime, whicii nothing <m)mI(I divert or efface; orifll 
 ever succeeded in interrupting the current of lierfai 
 cy, it only became the more incoherent, and increi 
 ed the feverislnuss that preyeil upon liolli miiidai 
 body. Her friends felt more alarm for her than eii 
 for they feared that her senses were irrecover; 
 gone, and her constitution completely undermined, 
 
 In the mean time Eugene returned to the v 
 He was violently affected when the story of Aimi 
 was told him. With bitterness of heart he iiplri 
 bis own rashness and infatuation that had luin 
 him away from her, and accused himself aslheaiill 
 of all her woes. His mother would describe to 
 all the anguisii and remorseof poor Annette; tlieti 
 derness with whicli she clung to her, and (Muleav 
 ed, even in the midst of her insanity, to console 
 for thi! loss of her son, and the touciiing expressioii!| 
 affection that were mingled with her most iiicnhi 
 wanderings of thought, until his feelings would 
 wound up to agony, and he would entreat lierlo 
 sist from the recital. They did not dare as yel 
 bring him into Annette's sight; but he waspermill 
 to s<'(! her when she was sleeping. The tears slrei 
 ed down his sunburnt cheeks as he contempli 
 the ravages which grief and malady had inaile ; 
 his heart swelled almost to breaking as he liel 
 round her neck the very braid of hair wliif^h siiem 
 gave him in token of girlish affection, and wliicli| 
 had returned to her in anger. 
 
 At length the physician that attendetl lu'id.ic 
 ed to adventure upon an e':periment; in iiiktJili 
 tagc of one of lh(we cheerfid moods when her 
 was visited by hope, and to endeavour to in|.'ial 
 it were, the reality upon the delusions of her 
 These mmMis had now Itecome very rare, foi 
 
 viass 
 
 talnii 
 
 grovi 
 
 I a clie( 
 
 I favour 
 
 ber;tl 
 
 I dancec 
 
 I and iio 
 
 jjengtii 
 
 [leaves; 
 
 I bouse, 
 
 J the wii 
 
 jSlie bej! 
 
 Itiringin^ 
 
 llo work 
 
 liler cum 
 
 oliced t 
 tilossoni. 
 ■a? D( 
 Eujfene li 
 ul that ( 
 Her \\c 
 !ized on 
 llioiild be 
 rere echo 
 the rein 
 iiiffialnla 
 a,>vsiste( 
 ig Ihe san 
 il lo recei 
 [Jely. i 
 coming ' 
 r, aiK 
 Her fri 
 iinient 
 icy liac 
 le ill a I 
 'fily, Hi; 
 (ason, .see 
 mees. 
 ir senses ' 
 X'lAiliie.s, 
 iely lliat J 
 Tiienexli 
 (lie occi 
 ay from 
 Teilhisior 
 ilraclcd, 
 i*roneof! 
 lour 
 niEiigeii 
 liaiid aci 
 enileav 
 room, an 
 "ilh an 
 Wind wo 
 "1 Ihe 111 
 
 01 
 
 1(1 
 
 ilieielai 
 
 «( 
 
 now that 
 
UKACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4^ 
 
 ired, however, to pjtAt 
 meily did nol dare to 
 ►aim 10 powr into them. 
 Lliose topics which Ihej 
 ideavoured to ascertain 
 in those varying rtioods 
 d them. They found, 
 even more affected llian 
 ideas were confused and 
 [Ich evful moods, which 
 er were all the effects ol 
 imes she had no recoilcc- 
 heen in danger, but was 
 al. " "When the winter 
 ;^ -and the trees put on 
 il'low comes back over ihe 
 len she was dromin? and 
 
 10 remind her oTwhatslie 
 tnls and to assure her llBtl 
 in-n shortly. Sho wepionj 
 insensible to their words, 
 became violent, when si 
 ith having driven Eujei 
 •oiisht sorrow on her 
 ;d but one leading idea at 
 a divert or efface; or if tl 
 ijiliiig the current of her fai 
 lore incoherent, and inrrw 
 nreyed upon Iwlh iniwl ai 
 mre alarm for her than ev( 
 .1- senses were irrecoveral 
 on completely undermined, 
 rrene returned to the v " 
 d when the story of Anni 
 lternessofhearlheiiphrai( 
 
 nfatnalion that had hurrii 
 
 11 accused himself as Ihe aull 
 
 other would describe to 
 orse of poor Annette; tlie 
 lung to her, andemleav 
 fher insanity, to console 
 ndthetouciungexpressmi 
 Tied with her most incflhei 
 
 " until his feelings woA 
 d he would entreat her 10 
 
 They did not dareasyel 
 ssi"ht;bulhew.'>spenwlt 
 s sleeping. The tears stre,- 
 I cheeks as he conte,t>nli 
 f and malady bad made; 
 ,ost 10 breaking as he 1« 
 Y braid of hair wl.icl>sie 
 .irlish affection, and whu 
 
 anger. 
 |,an that attended l.enl.u 
 
 ane':perimenl;W''^'l^;''« 
 ,eerful moods wlico lier 
 nd to endeavour to m;:iai 
 lon the delusions 
 ; iMjcome very rare 
 
 was sinking under the continual pressure of her men- 
 tal malady, and the principle of reaction was daily 
 vioving weaker. Every effort was tried to bring on 
 a cheerful interval of the kind. Several of her mo&t 
 favourite companions were kept continually about 
 ber;ll>ey chatted gaily, they laughed, and sang, and 
 danced; but Annette reclined with languid frame 
 and hollow eye, and look no pari in their gaiety. At 
 length the winter was gone; the trees put foklli Ibeir 
 leaves; the swallows began to build in the eaves of the 
 house, and the robin and wren piped all day beneath 
 Ihe window. Annette's spirits gradually revived. 
 She began lo deck her person with unusual cai e ; and 
 liringing forlli a basket of arlilicial llowers, she went 
 to work to wreathe a bridal chaplel of white roses, 
 iller companions asked her why she prepared the chap- 
 it. "VVhatI " said she with a smile, "have you not 
 lOliced the trees pulling on their wedding dresses of 
 ilossom ? Has not the swallow tlown back over the 
 :a? Do you not know that the time is come for 
 lugeneto return? that he will be home to-morrow, 
 id that on Sunday we are lo be married?" 
 lier words were rei>ealed to Ihe physician, and he 
 izedonlhemat once. He directed that her idea 
 ibonld be encouraged and acted upon. Her words 
 ere echoed through the house. Every one talked 
 Ihe return of Eugene as a matter of course ; they 
 ingralulated her upon her approaching happiacss, 
 assisted her in her preparations. The next morn- 
 is Ihe same theme was 'esumed. She was dressed 
 il lo receive her lover. Every bosom tlullered wilh 
 ielv. A cabriolet drove into the village. "Eugene 
 
 I coming!" was the cry. 
 
 of herd 
 
 for 
 
 She saw him alight at the 
 
 or, and rushed with a shriek into his arms. 
 
 Iller friends trembled for the result of this critical 
 
 pcrinient ; but she did not sink under it, forhci' 
 
 ncy had prepared her for his return. She was as 
 
 he in a dream, to whom a tide of unlooked-for pro- 
 
 erily, thai would have overwhelmed his waking 
 
 lason, seems but the natural current of eircuni- 
 
 inccs. Her conversation, however, showed that 
 
 kr senses were wandering. There was an absolut*; 
 
 gt'lfidness of all past sorrow; a wild and feverish 
 
 jiely that at limes was incoherent. 
 
 JThenexl morning she awoke languid and exhausted. 
 
 |l the occurrences of the preceding day had passed 
 
 jay from her mind as though they had been the 
 
 tre illusions of her fancy. She rose melancholy and 
 
 pacled, and as she dressed herself, was heard to 
 
 ji; one of her plaintive ballads. When she entered 
 
 ! parlour her eyes were swoln wilh weeping. She 
 
 prd Eugene's voice without and started. She passed 
 
 : hand across her forehead, and stood musing, like 
 
 B endeavouring lo recall a dream. Juigene entered 
 
 irooni, and advanced towards her; she looked al 
 
 1 with an eager, searching look, nun inured some 
 
 blind words, and, before he coidd i< <ich her, sank 
 
 [il the tloor. 
 
 Ihe relaitsed into a wild and unsettled simile of mind ; 
 liiow that the (irsl shock was over, the physician 
 
 ordered that Eugene should keep continually hi her 
 sight. Sometimes slie did not know him ; at other 
 times she would talk to him as if he were going lo sea, 
 and would implore him not to part from her in anger ; 
 and when he was not present, she would speak of him 
 as if buried in the ocean, and would sit, wilh clasped 
 hands, looking upon the ground, the picture of despair. 
 
 As the agitation of her feelings subsided, and her 
 frame recovered from the shock which il had received, 
 she became more placid and coherent. Eugene kept 
 almost continually near lier. He formed the real 
 object round which her scattered ideas once more 
 gathered, and which linked them once more with the 
 realities of life. But her changeful disorder now ap- 
 peared to take a new turn. She became languid 
 and inert, and would sit for hours silent, and almost 
 in a slate of lethargy. If roused from this stupor, il 
 seemed as if her mind would make some allempls to 
 follow up a train of thought, but would soon become 
 confused. She would regard every one that ap- 
 proached her with an anxious and inquiring eye that 
 seemed continually i > disappoint itself. Sometimes, 
 as her lover sat holding her band, she would look pen- 
 sively in his face without saying a word, until his heart 
 was overcome; and after these transient fits of intel- 
 lectual exertion, she would sink again into lethargy. 
 
 By degrees this stupor increased ; her mind appear- 
 ed lo have subsided into a stagnant and almost death- 
 like calm. For the greater part of the time her eyes 
 were closed ; her face almost as fixed and passionless as 
 that of a corpse. She no longer took any notice of sur- 
 roundingohjects. There was an awfulness in this tran- 
 quillity that filled her friends with apprehension. The 
 physician ordered that she should be kept perfectly 
 quiet; or that, if she evinced any agitation, she should 
 be gently lulled, like a child, by some favourite tune. 
 
 She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming 
 to breathe, and apparently sinking into the sleep of 
 death. Her chamber was profoundly still. The at- 
 tendants moved about it wilh noiseless tread ; every 
 thing was cunnnunicated by signs and whispers. Her 
 lover sat by her side watching her with painful 
 anxiety, and fearing thai every breath which stole 
 from her pale lips would be the last. 
 
 At length she heaved a deep sigh; and from some 
 convulsive motions appeared lo iie troubled in her 
 sleep. Her agitation increased, accompanied by an 
 indistinct moaning. One of her companions, re- 
 membering the physician's instructions, endeavoured 
 lo lull her by singing, in a low voice, a lender little 
 air, which wasaparticular favourite of Annette's. Pro- 
 bably it had some connexion in her mind wilh hr»' 
 own story ; for every fond girl has some dilty of the 
 kind, linked in her thoughts wilh sweet and sad re- 
 membrances. 
 
 As she sang, the agitation of Amiette subsided. A 
 streak of faint colour cane into her cheeks ; her eye- 
 lids became swoln wilh rising tears, which trembled 
 there for a moment, and then, stealing forth, coursed 
 down her pallid cheek. When the song was endcl, 
 
 ;# 
 
T; 
 
 43ii 
 
 BRACEBKIDGE HALL. 
 
 she opened her eyes and looked about her, as one 
 awaking in a strange place. 
 
 "Oh, Eugene! Eugene!" said she, "it seems as 
 if I Iiave had a long and dismal dream : what has 
 happened, and what has been the matter with me?" 
 
 The questions were embarrassing; and before they 
 
 could be answered, the physician, who was in tlie 
 
 next room, entered. She took him by the hand, 
 
 lookr up in his face, and made the same inqriry. 
 
 He endeavoured to put her off with some evasive 
 
 ; f answer ; — "No, no ! " cried she, " I know I've been 
 
 ill, and I have been dreaming strangely. I thouglit 
 
 Eugene had left us — and that he had gone to sea— 
 
 jic and that — and that he was drowned! — But be has 
 
 \ , been to sea ! " added she earnestly, as recollection 
 
 kept flashing upon her, " and he has been wrecked — 
 
 and we were all so wretched — and he came home 
 
 • ! again one bright morning — and Oh ! " said she, 
 
 pressing her hand against her forehead with a sickly 
 smile, "I see how it is; all has not been right here, 
 I begin to recollect — but it is all past now — Eugene 
 is here ! and his mother is happy — and we shall never 
 — never part again— shall we, Eugene ? " 
 
 She sunk back in her chair exhausted ; the tears 
 streamed down her cheeks. Her companions hovered 
 ' round her, not knowing what to make of this sudden 
 
 dawn of reason. Her lover sobbed aloud. She opened 
 her eyes again, and looked upon them with an air of 
 the sweetest acknowledgment. "You are all so good 
 ' to me ! " said she, faintly. 
 
 The physician drew the father aside. "Your daugh- 
 ter's mind is restored," said he; " sheissensible that 
 she has been deranged ; she is growing conscious of the 
 past, and conscious of the present. All that now re- 
 mains is to keep her calm and quiet until her health 
 is re-established, and then let her be married, in 
 God's name!" 
 
 "The wedding took place," continued the good 
 priest, "but a short time since; they were here at 
 the last Kle during their honey-moon, and a hand- 
 somer and happier couple was not to be seen as they 
 danced under yonder trees. The young man, his 
 wife, and mother, now live on a line farm at Pont- 
 I'Ev^que; and that model of a ship which you see 
 yonder, with white flowers wreathed round it, is 
 Annette's offering of thanks to Our Lady of Grace, 
 for having listened to her prayers, and protected her 
 lover in the hour of peril'." 
 
 The captain having finished, there was a nvjment- 
 ary silence. The tender-hearted Lady Lillycraft, who 
 
 ' whoever lias seen the pathetic ballet of Nina, may be rcminil- 
 ed cf it by some of the passases in the latter part of the above tale. 
 The story, it is true, was sltetehed before seeinK that liallil ; but 
 in re-writins it, the author's memory was hauiitetl by the inimit- 
 able performance of UiKoltini. in Nina, and the vivid ivcolliction 
 of it may have (iroduced an occ.isional similarity. He is in sonic 
 measure prompted to make ibis aclinowledsmrut, for the purpose 
 of expressiuK his admiratii n of the wonderful powtu-s of that 
 aelresf , who has ^iven a di;'i>,.y and pathos to the ballet, of which 
 he liad not 8up|)osed it capalilo. 
 
 knew the story by heart, had led the way in wetti- 
 ing, and indeed had often begun to shed tears before 
 they had come to the right place. 
 
 The fair Julia was a little flurried at the passage 
 where wedding preparations were mentioned; bu> 
 the auditor most affected was the simple Phoebe Wi|. 
 kins. She had gradually dropt her work in her lap, 
 and sat sobbing through the latter part of the storj'. 
 until towards tlte end, when the happy reverse had 
 nearly produced another scene of hysterics. " Go 
 take this case (o my room again, child," said Lady 
 Lillycraft kindly, "and don't cry so much." 
 
 " I won't, an't please your ladyship, if I can help 
 it;— but I'm glad they made all up again, and were 
 married ! " 
 
 By the way, the case of this love-lorn damsel begins 
 to make some talk in the household, especially among 
 certain little ladies, not far in their teens, of whom 
 she has made confidants. She is a great favourite 
 with them all, but particularly so since she has con- 
 fided to them her love secrets. They enter into iier 
 concerns with all the violent zeal and overwiielmiiij 
 sympathy with which little boarding-school ladie 
 engage in the politics of a love affair. 
 
 I have noticed them frequently clustering abontl 
 her in private conferences, or walking up and donj 
 the garden terrace under my window, listening 
 some long and dolorous story ?f her afllictions; 
 which I could now and then distinguish the ever- 
 recurring phrases "says he," and "says she." 
 
 I accidentally interrupted one of these lilllecoum 
 of war, when Ihey were all huddled together uni 
 a tree, and seemed to be earneslly considering soi 
 interesling document. The flutter at my appro! 
 showed that there were some secrels under disci 
 sion ; and I observed the disconsolate Pha'be cruniplii 
 into her bosom either a love-letter or an old vaieiilii 
 and brushing away the tears from her cheeks, 
 
 The girl is a good girl, of a soft melting nature, 
 shows her concern at the cruelty of her lover only 
 tears and drooping looks ; but with the lillie iai 
 who have espoused her cause, it sparkles iipiiilolii 
 indignation; and I have noticed on Sunday many 
 glance darted at the pew of the Tibbels's, enough en 
 to melt down the silver buttons on old IVeady-Mone] 
 jacket. 
 
 TRAVELLING. 
 
 A citizen, for recreation sake, • 
 To see the country would a journey take 
 ■Some dozen mile, or v(>ry little more ; 
 Takins bis leave with friends two moolhs brfDre, 
 With drinking' healths, and shaking' by llie liaiid, 
 As he had travail'd to some new-found land. 
 
 DucTUH Meuuib-Man, Ml 
 
 The squire has lately received another shock in j 
 .saddle, and been almost unsealed by his inar-ff 
 
 He iamet 
 ■ivaey, aiu 
 It more es 
 'asantry, a 
 m. A gi 
 le manner: 
 sols and ii 
 ingersofi 
 the counli 
 Tlie sqnin 
 looks hat 
 enjoiirne 
 extraordi 
 1(1 roads, ha 
 'nied to se 
 lofthe w 
 [kindofino 
 iieid ills ( 
 lo Willi ,i| 
 ting liiui! 
 irld williin 
 iis.ils local 
 lilts were i 
 Kaiuleriiifi'j 
 ravel out i 
 It Iwd hofi) 
 of his life 
 Vliat a die 
 
BKACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 457 
 
 1 led the way in we«i»- 
 ;un to shed tears before 
 ace. 
 
 flurried at the passage 
 \ were mentioned; bu*. 
 the simple Phcebe Wil- 1 
 ipt lier work in her lap, 
 latter part of the slorj', 
 n the happy reverse had 
 ine of hysterics. " Go, 
 again, child," said Lady I 
 I cry so much." 
 jr ladyship, if I can help I 
 e all up again, and were I 
 
 is love-lorn damsel begins 
 usehold, especially among 
 r in their teens, of whom 
 She is a great favourite 
 jrly so since she has con- 
 •ets. They enter into her 
 nt zeal and overwhelminjl 
 lie boarding-school ladiuj 
 ove affair, 
 equently clustering abooll 
 }, or walking up and (lorn 
 my window, listening to 
 story of her afflictions ;ol 
 then distinguish Ihe ever- 
 »e," and "says she." 
 ,ed one of these lillle cound 
 all huddled together um 
 earneslly considering SOI 
 rhe flutter at my ai)pioa( 
 some secrets under ilisci 
 .sconsolatePliffibecruntpli 
 ve-lelleroranoldvaleni 
 
 ears from her cheeks, 
 of a soft melting nature, 
 
 cruelty of her lover only 
 
 _, but with the lillle lail 
 
 ause, it sparkles up inlo III 
 
 noticed on Suntiay many 
 BflheTibbels's,enoiii;hew 
 uttonsonoldUeady-Monei 
 
 ELLING. 
 
 Inei'bbour, the indefatigable Mr Faddy, who rides 
 
 lilsjog-trof. hobby with equal zeal; and is so bent 
 
 Inpon improving and reforming the neighbourhood, 
 
 thai the squire thinks, in a little while, it will be 
 
 tree worth living in. The enormity that has just 
 
 imposed my worthy host, is an attempt of the 
 
 lanufacturer to have a line of coaches eslablished, 
 
 that sball diverge from tlie old route, and pass through 
 
 the neiglibouring village. 
 
 I believe I have mentioned that the Hall is situated 
 
 In a retired part of the country, at a distance from 
 
 ly great coach road ; insomuch that the arrival of a 
 
 traveller is apt to make every one look out of the win- 
 
 ]ow, and to cause some talk among the ule-drinkers 
 
 It the little inn. I was at a loss, therefore, to ac- 
 
 )unt for the squire's indignation at a measure ap- 
 
 irenlly fraught with convenience and advantage, 
 
 intil I found that the conveniences of travelling were 
 
 long his greatest grievances. 
 
 In fact, he rails against stage-coaches, poslchaises, 
 
 id turnpike-roads, as serious causes of the corrup- 
 
 jon of English rural manners. They have given faci- 
 
 (lies, he says, to every hum-drum citizen to trundle 
 
 lis family about the kingdom, and have sent the 
 
 Hies and fashions of town whirling, in coach-loads, 
 
 the remotest parts of the island. The whole coun- 
 
 r, he says, is traversed by these flying cargoes ; 
 
 lery by-road is explored by enterprizing tourists 
 
 mi Clieapside and the Poultry, and every genlle- 
 
 lan's park and lawns invaded by cockney sketchers 
 
 both sexes, wilh portable chairs and portfolios for 
 
 awing. 
 
 He laments over this as destroying the charm of 
 ivaey, and interrupting the quiet of country life ; 
 It more especially as affecting tlie simplicity of the 
 asantry, and lilling their heads with half city no- 
 ins. A great coach inn, he says, is enough to ruin 
 nners of a whole village. It creates a horde 
 sots and idlers; makes gapers and gazers and news- 
 ingersof Ihe common people, and knowing jockeys 
 the country bumpkins. 
 
 The squire has something of the old feudal feeling. 
 
 looks back with regret to the " good old times," 
 
 leii journeys were only made on Iforseback, and 
 
 extraordinary difliculties of travelling, owing to 
 
 1(1 roads, bad accommotlations, and highway robbers, 
 
 med to separate 'jach village and hamlet from the 
 
 I of the world. The lord of the manor was then 
 
 jkind of monarch in the little realm around him. 
 
 liis court in his paternal hall, and was looked 
 
 to with almost as much loyalty anil deference as 
 
 ion sake, • 
 
 oHlil a journey take 
 
 very liltli! more ! 
 1 fi-icmls two nioiillw l)ffore, 
 . anil sliakinK Ijy III'' '«'• 
 ) somi: nc\v-fmiu(l land. 
 
 DOCTOR Mehhik-M*», I6»| 
 
 received another shock inj 
 St unsealed by his mi 
 
 !king himself. Every neighbourhood was a little 
 1 within itself, having its local manners and cus- 
 ns, its local history, and local opinions. The inlia- 
 ^iils were fonder of llieir homes, and thought less 
 Iwaiuleiiiig. It was lookeil upon as an expedition 
 Iravel out ol' sight of the parish stivple; and a man 
 |tliad been to London was a \iHage oracle for the 
 I of his life. 
 JVIial a difference between the mode itf travelling 
 
 in those days and at present ! At that time, when a 
 gentleman went on a distant visit , he sallied forth like 
 a knight-errant on an enterprize, and every family 
 excursion was a pageant. How splendid and fanci- 
 ful must one of those domestic cavalcades iiave been, 
 where the beautiful dames were mounted on palfries 
 magniticenlly caparisoned, wilh embroidered harness, 
 all tinkling with silver bells; attended by cavaliers 
 richly attired on prancing steeds, and followed by 
 pages and serving-men, as we see them represented 
 in old tapestry. The gentry, as they travelled about 
 in those days, were like moving pictures. They de- 
 lighted the eyes and awakened the admiration of the 
 common people, and passed before them like supe- 
 rior beings ; and indeed they were so ; there was a 
 hardy and healthful exercise connected with this eques- 
 trian style, that made them generous and noble. 
 
 In his fondness for the old style of travelling, the 
 squire makes most of his journeys on horseback, 
 though he laments the modern deficiency of incident 
 on the road, from the want of fellow-wayfarers, and 
 the rapidity with which every one is whirled along 
 in coaches and post-chaises. In the " good old 
 limes," on the contrary, a cavalier jogged on through 
 bog and mire, from town to town, and hamlet to 
 hamlet, conversing with friars and franklins, and all 
 other chance companions of the road ; beguiling the 
 way with travellers' tales, which then were truly 
 wonderful, for every thing beyond one's neighbour- 
 hood was full of marvel and romance ; slopping at 
 night at some " hostel," where the bush over the 
 door proclaimed good wine, or a pretty hostess made 
 bad wine palatable ; meeting at supper wilh travellers 
 like himself; discussing their day's adventures, or 
 listeninii to the song or merry story of the host, who 
 was generally a boon companion, and presided ut his 
 own board; for, according to old Tusser's "Inn- 
 holder's Posie," 
 
 "At mralcs my friend who villetti here 
 
 And sittc'lti wiHi tiis tiost, 
 Stiall Ixiili he sure of l)etter cliecre, 
 
 And 'scape witli lesser cost." 
 
 The squire is fond, too, of stopping at those inns 
 which may be met wiiii, here and there, in ancient 
 houses of wood and plaster, or culiinanco houses, as 
 they are called by aiitiiiunries, with deep porches, 
 diamond-paned how-windows, panelled rooms and 
 great iire-places. lie will prefer them to more spa- 
 cious and modern inns, and w ill cheerfully put up 
 with bad cheer and bad acciMinnodalions in the gra- 
 tificalidii of his humour. They give him, he says, 
 the feeling of old limes, insomuch that ho almost 
 expects, in Ihe dusk of the evening, to see some 
 party of weary travellers ride up to the door, with 
 plumes and mantles, trtmk-hose, wide boots, and long 
 rapiers. 
 
 The good squire's remarks brought to mind a visit 
 thai I once paid to the Tabard Inn, famous for being 
 the place of assend»lage from whence Chaucer's pil- 
 grims sel forth for (Canterbury. It is in the borough 
 
458 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ofSouthwark, not fiir from London Bridge, and bears, 
 at present, the name of " the Talbot." It has sadly 
 declined in dignity since the days of Chaucer, being 
 a mere rendezvousand packing-placeofthegreat wag- 
 guns that travel into Kent. The court-yard, which 
 was anciently the mustering-place of the pilgrims 
 previous to their departure, was now lumbered with 
 huge waggons. Crates, boxes, hampers, and baskets, 
 containing the good things of town and cotmtry, were 
 piled about them ; while, among the straw and litter, 
 the motherly iiens scratched and clucked, with their 
 hungry broods at their iieels. Instead of Chaucer's 
 motley and splendid throng, I only saw a grou]> of 
 waggoners and stable-boys enjoying a circulating pot 
 of ale ; while a long-boilied dog sat by, with head on 
 one side, ear cocked up, and wistful gaze, as if wait- 
 ing for his turn at the tankard. 
 
 Notwiiistanding this grievous declension, however, 
 I was gralilied at perceiving that the present occu- 
 pants were not unconscious of the poetical renown of 
 their mansion. An inscription over the gateway pro- 
 claimed it to be the inn where Chaucer's pilgrims 
 slept on the night previous to their de(mrture, and at 
 the bottom of the yard was a magnilicent sign, re- 
 presenting them in the act of sallying forth. I was 
 pleased, too, at noticing, that though the present inn 
 was comparatively modern, yet the form of the old 
 inn was preserved. There were galleries round tlie 
 yard, as in old times, on which opened the chambers 
 of the guests. To these ancient inns have antiquaries 
 ascribed the present forms of our theatres. Plays 
 were originally acted in inn-yards. The guests lolled 
 over the galleries which answered to our modern 
 dress-circle ; the critical mob clustered in the yard 
 instead of the pit; and the groups ga7:ing from the 
 garret windows, were no bad representatives of the 
 gods of the shilling-gallery. When, therefore, the 
 drama grew important enough to have a house of its 
 own, the architects took a hint for its construction 
 from the yard of the ancient '' hostel. " 
 
 I was so well pleased at finding these remem- 
 brances of Chaucer and his poem, that I ordered my 
 dinner in the little parlour of the Talbot. Whilst it 
 was prepu. .ng, I sat at the window, musing and gaz- 
 ing into Ihecourt-yard, and conjiu'ing up recollections 
 of the scenes depicted in such lively colours by the 
 poet, until by degrees, bales, boxes and hampers, 
 boys, waggoners, and dogs, faded from sight, and 
 my fancy peopled the place with the motley throng 
 of Canterbury pilgrims. The galleries once more 
 swarmed with idle gazers, in the rich dresses of 
 Chaucer's lime, and the whole cavalcade seemed to 
 pass before me. 'J'here was the stately knight on 
 sober steed, who had ridtlen in Christendom and 
 healhncsse, and had " foughten for our faith at 
 Traniissene ; " — ami his son, the young squire, a 
 lover, and a lusty hachelor, with curled locks and gay 
 embroidery ; a b^WM rider, a dancer, and a writer of 
 verses, Mnging and fluting all day long, and " fresh 
 Hi the month of May ; "—and his " knot-headed " 
 
 yeoman ; a bold forester, in green, with horn 
 baudrick, and dagger, a mighty bow in hand, andjl 
 sheaf of peacock arrows shining beneath his belt -I 
 and the coy, smiling, simple nun, with her grey eyes I 
 her small re<l mouth and fair forehead, her dainivl 
 person clad in featly cloak and " 'ypinchcd wimple 'f 
 her coral beads about her arm, her golden brducj 
 with a love motto, and her pretty oath '* by SainJ 
 Eloy ; "—and the merchant, solemn in speech anj 
 high on horse, with forked beard and " Flaundrisiil 
 beaver hat ; " — and the lusty monk, " full fat aiidij 
 gootl point, " with berry-brown palfrey, his \\q^\ 
 fastened with gold pin, wrought with a lovekiioi[ 
 his bald head shining like glass, and his face glisiei).| 
 ing as though it had been anointed ; — and Die lean I 
 logical sententious clerke of Oxenforde, upon liisi 
 half-starved, scholar-like horse; — and the bowsinrl 
 sompnour, with liery cherub face, all knobbed wiii|l 
 pimples, an eater of garlick and onions, and drJDk-l 
 er of "strong wine, red as blood," tlml carried jl 
 cake for a buckler, and babbled Latin in hit: cups;! 
 of whose brimstone visage" children were sore aferd;'1 
 — and the buxom wife of Bath, the widow of liij 
 huslKinds, upon her ambling nag, with her lialbru 
 as a buckler, her red stockings and sharp spurs;- 
 and the slender, choleric reeve of Norfolk, beslridii 
 his good grey slot ; with close-shaven beard, liis hii 
 cropped ronnd his ears, long, lean, calfless legs,; 
 a rusty blade by his side ; — and the jolly LimiiomJ 
 with lisping tongue and twinkling eye, well belore 
 of franklins and housewives, a great promoter oft 
 riages among young women, known at the tave 
 in every town, and by every " hosteler and 
 tapstere. " In short, belore I was roused from 
 reverie by the less poetical, but more subslaiitiali 
 parition of a smoking beefsteak, I had seen tliewli 
 cavalcade issue forth from the hostel-gate, wi 
 brawny, double-jointed, red-haired miller, platii 
 the bagpipes before them, and the ancient hostofll 
 Tabard giving them his farewell God-send to 
 terbury. 
 
 When I told the squire of the existence of ilm I 
 gilimate descendant of the ancient Tabard Inn, I 
 eyes ai)solutely glistened with delight. He delen 
 ed to hunt it up the very first time he visited Luiidoi 
 and to eat a dinner there, and drink a cup of 
 host's best wine, in memory of old Chaucer. 
 general, who happened to be present, i.iimediaK 
 begged to be of llie party, for he liked to encoun 
 these long-established houses, as they are apt to I 
 choice old wines. 
 
 with fami 
 !y, on a i 
 a candle, 
 lion, swe 
 llleries. 
 lTotelltl« 
 talie a piei 
 llous storie 
 lely and 
 lienever h 
 endeavoui 
 litation an 
 'lliese stor 
 liised with 
 Ik to !iim 
 !)' Iwve l»e( 
 
BRACEBRIDGE IIAI.L. 
 
 410 
 
 gre«n, with horn and I 
 hly bow in hand, and a I 
 ling beneaUi his belt;~l 
 nun, with lier grey eyes, [ 
 lir forehead, her dainiyi 
 wl " 'ypinchcd wimple, 'I 
 arm, lier golden bniochl 
 ;r pretly oalli " by SainJ 
 t, solemn in speech arijl 
 I beard and " llaumliistil 
 ly monk," full fal and ij 
 l)rown palfrey, his iioodl 
 roiighl with a love-knoll 
 ;lass, and his face glisleii.| 
 anointed ;— and the lean,! 
 of Oxenforde, upon liis| 
 iiorse; — and the bowsinpl 
 ub face, all knobbed viM 
 ck and onions, and dtink-[ 
 as blood," that carried al 
 abided Latin in his cupsl 
 ' children were soreafcnl;"! 
 Bath, the widow of fiT^ 
 ng nag, with her bat brut! 
 ckings and sharp spurs;- 
 reeve of Norfolk, bestridiii! 
 ilose-shaven beard, his ii 
 )iig, lean, calfless legs,; 
 !;— andlhe jolly Limilontj 
 twinkling eye, well belovJ 
 es a great promoter otiiHfl 
 men, known at the tavenj 
 every " hosteler and m 
 fore I was roused from n] 
 al, but more subslaiilialj 
 [fsteak, Ihadseenthewy 
 11 the hostel-gate, willill 
 red-haired miller, plajinj 
 .,and the ancient host ofll 
 farewell God-send to " 
 
 k of the existence oflliisl 
 the ancient Tabard hin, 
 
 with delight, lie deleit 
 
 lirsl lime he visited Loniloi 
 re, and drink a cup of 
 fnory of old Chaucer. 
 
 to be present, i.nmediali 
 |y, for he liked to encoun 
 
 )use8,astheyare apt to 1 
 
 POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies, 
 
 Good lioiucwives now may uy ; 
 For now fowle sluls in dairies 
 
 Do fare as well as Ihcy : 
 And Ihougli they swih'im; llieir hearths no lesse 
 
 Tlian maids were wont to doe, 
 Yet who of tale fur cloaulinesse 
 
 Finds sixpence ia Iter sliooc 7 
 
 Bisuop ConnET. 
 
 I HAVE mentioned the s(piire's fondness for the 
 narvelious, and his predilection for legends and ro- 
 mances. His library contains a curious collection 
 bf old works of this kind, which bear evident marks 
 [f having been much read. In his great love for all 
 liat is antiquatei), he cherishes popular superstitions, 
 i listens, with very grave attention, to every tale, 
 jiowever strange ; so that, through his countenance, 
 [he liouseliold, and, indeed, the whole neighbotniiood, 
 iwell stocked with wonderful stories; and if ever a 
 oubt is expressed of any one of them, the narrator 
 (01 generally observe, that "the sqiiive thinks there's 
 iieihing in it. " 
 
 The Hall of course comes in for its share, the corn- 
 on people having always a propensity to furnish a 
 Teat superannuate!! building of the kind with su- 
 ernatural inhabitants. The gloomy galleries of such 
 ild family mansions; the stately chambers, adorned 
 I ill) grotesque carvings and failed paintings; the 
 Hinds that vaguely echo about them ; the moaning 
 If the wind; the cries of rooks and ravens from the 
 lees and cliininey-tops; all produce a state of mind 
 |vuurable to superstitious fancies. 
 In one cliainl)er of the Hall, just opposite a door 
 [liich opens upon a dusky passage, there is a full- 
 rtgtii •wrlrait of a warrior in armour: when, on 
 [iddeniy turning into the passage, I have caught a 
 btof the portrait, thrown into strong relief by the 
 krk pannelling against which it hangs, I have more 
 ianonee l)een startled, as though it were a figure 
 Ivanciiig towards me. 
 
 I To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by 
 I strange and melancholy stories that are connect- 
 Uith family paintings, it needs but little stretch of 
 cy, on a moonlight night, or by the llickering light 
 [a candle, to set the old pictures on the walls in 
 ption, sweeping in their robes and trains about the 
 lileries. 
 
 ITo tell the truth, the squire confesses that he used 
 jtake a pleasure in his younger days in setting mar- 
 kus stories afloat, and connecting them with the 
 jiely and peculiar places of the neighbourhood. 
 [Iienever he read any legend of a striking nature, 
 lendeavoured to transplant it, and give it a local 
 Dilation among the scenes of his boyhood. Many 
 IHiese stories took root, and he says he is often 
 jused with the odd 8i>apes in which they will come 
 fk to him in some old woman's narrative, after 
 |y have lieen circulating for years among the pea- 
 
 santry, and undergoing rustic additions and amend- 
 ments. Among these may doubtless be numbered 
 that of the crusader's ghost, which I liave mention- 
 ed in the account of my Christmas visit ; and an- 
 other about the hard riding squire of yore, the fa- 
 mily Nimrod; who is sometimes heard on stormy 
 winter nights, galloping, with hound and horn, over 
 a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall. This 
 I apprehend to have had its origin in the famous story 
 of the wild huntsman, the favourite goblin in German 
 tales; though, by the bye, as I was talking on the 
 subject with Master Simon the other evening in the 
 dark avenue, he hinted, that he had himself once or 
 twice heard odd sounds at night, very like a pack of 
 hounds in cry ; and that once, as he was returning 
 rather late from a hunting-dinner, he had seen a 
 strange figure galloping along this same moor; but 
 as he was riding rather fast at the time, and in a 
 hurry to get borne, he did not slop to ascertain what 
 it was. 
 
 Popular superstitions are fast fading away in Eng- 
 land, owing to the general diffusion of knowledge, 
 and the bustling intercourse kept up throughout the 
 country; still they have their strong holds and lin- 
 gering places, and a retired neighbourhood Me this 
 is apt to he one of them. The parson tells me that 
 he meets with many traditional beliefs and notions 
 among the common people, which he has been able 
 to drrw from them in the course of familiar conver- 
 sation, though they are rather shy of avowing them 
 to strangers, and particularly to " the gentry," who 
 arc apt to laugh at them. He says there are several 
 of his old parishioners who remember when the vil- 
 lage had its l)ar-guest, or bar-ghost; a spirit supposed 
 'o belong to a town or village, and to predict any im- 
 pending misfortune by midnight shrieks and wailings. 
 'J'lie last time it was heard was just before the death 
 of Mr Bracebridge's father, v.'ho was much beloved 
 throughout the neighbourhood; though there are not 
 wanting some obstinate unbelievers, who insisted 
 that it was nothing but the howling of a watch-dog. 
 I have been greatly Jelighted, however, at meeting 
 with some traces of my old favourite, Robin Good- 
 fellow, though under a different appellation from any 
 of those by which I have heretofore heard him called. 
 The parson assures me that many of the peasantry be- 
 lieve in household goblins, called Dobbies, which live 
 about particular farms and houses, in tlte same way that 
 Robin Good-fellow did of old. Sometimes t hey haunt 
 the barns and outhouses, and now and then will assist 
 the farmer wonderfully, by getting in all his hay or 
 corn in a single night. In general, however, they 
 prefer to live within doors, and are fond of keeping 
 about the great hearths, and basking at night, after 
 the family have gone to bed, by the glowing embers. 
 When put in particular good humour by the warmth 
 of their lodgings, and the tidiness of the housemaids, 
 they will overcome their natural laziness, and do a 
 vast deal of household work before morning ; churn- 
 ing the cream, brewing the beer, or spinning all the 
 
440 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL 
 
 good dame's flax. All this is precisely the conduct 
 of Robin Good-fellow, described so charmingly by 
 Milton : 
 
 " TpIU how Ihc (InKlRins goblin sweat 
 To earn his cre.im-howl duly set, 
 When in one nisht. ere slimi'sc of morn. 
 Ills shadowy Rail had (lirc.tiril Ihc corn 
 That ten day-lalK)ur'crs could not end ; 
 Then lays him down (lie hililH-r-nvud, 
 And sirclch'd out all tho chimney's length, 
 Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
 And cro|)-rull, out of door he llings 
 Ere the first cock his matin rings." 
 
 But beside these householil Dobbies, there are 
 ithers of a more gloomy and unsocial nature, that 
 keep about lonely barns at a distance from any dwell- 
 ing-house, or about ruins niid old bridges. These 
 are full of mischievous, and often malignant tricks, 
 and are fond of playing pranks upon benighted tra- 
 vellers. There is a story, among the old people, of 
 one that haunted a ruined mill, just by a bridge that 
 crosses a small stream ; how that late one night, as a 
 traveller was passing on horseback, the Dobbie jump- 
 ed up behind him, and grasped him so close round 
 the body that he had no power to help himself, but 
 expected to be squeezed to death : luckily his heels 
 were loose, with which he plied the sides of his steed, 
 and was carried, with the wonderful instinct of a 
 traveller's horse, straight to the village inn. Had the 
 inn been at any greater distance, there is no doubt but 
 he would have been strangled to death ; as it was, the 
 good people were a long time in bringing him to bis 
 senses, and it was remarked that the first sign he 
 showed of returning consciousness was to call for a 
 bottom of brandy. 
 
 These mischievous Dobbies bear much resemblance 
 in their natures and habits to those sprites which 
 Hey wood in his Hierarchic calls pugs or hobgoblins : 
 
 'Their dwellings be 
 
 In comers of old houses least fretiuented, 
 
 Or beneath stacks of wood, and these convented, 
 
 Make fearfull noise in butteries and in dairies ; 
 
 Robin Good-fellow sonic, some call them fairies. 
 
 Ill solilarie rooms these uprores keep. 
 
 And l)eate at doorcs, to wake men from their slepe. 
 
 Seeming to force lockcs, be they nere so strong. 
 
 And keeping Chrislmassc gambols all night long. 
 
 Pots, glasses, trenchers, dishes, pannes and kettles 
 
 They will make dance about the shelves aud settles, 
 
 As if about the kitchen tost and cast. 
 
 Yet in the morning nothing found misplac'l. 
 
 Others such houses to their use have fitted 
 
 In which base murthers have been once committed 5 
 
 Some have their fearful habitations taken 
 
 In dcsolat houses, ruin'd and forsal sn." 
 
 In the account of our unfortunate hawking expe- 
 dition, I mentioned an instance of one of these sprites 
 supposed to haunt the ruined grange that stands in a 
 lonely meadow, and has a remarkable echo. The 
 parson informs me also, that the belief was once very 
 prevalent, that a household Dobbie kept about the old 
 farm-house of the Tibbets. It has long been tradi- 
 tional, he says, that one of these good-natured goblins 
 
 is attached to the Tibbets' family, and came vjij, 
 them when they moved into this part of the counlrv' 
 for it is one of the pecidiarities of these hotiseliold 
 sprites, that they attach themselves to the fortunfti 
 of certain families, and follow them in all tlieir re- 
 movals. 
 
 There is a large old-fashioned lire-place in the 
 farm-house, which affords fine (jiiarters for a 
 ney-coriicr sprite that likes to lie w.irm; especially as 
 Ready-Money Jack keeps up rousing lires in lliewii|.j 
 ter time. The old people of the village recollectj 
 many stories alwut this goblin that were current io 
 their young days. It was thought to have broii»ht 
 gooil luck to the house, and to be the reason wiiyihe 
 Tibbets were.ihvays beforehand in the world, aiidwhv 
 their irm was always in belter order, Iheli' liavfoj 
 in sooner, and their rorn belter stacked than thai 
 their neighbours. 'J lie present Mrs Tibbets, at |Ik{ 
 time of her courlship, had a number of these storii 
 told lier by the country gossips ; and when married, 
 was a little fearful alioul living' in a house where sui 
 a hobgoblin was said to liauul : Jack, however, wl 
 has always treated this story with great contempl,! 
 assiu'cd her that there was no spirit kept about lii 
 house that he could not at any time lay in Ijie 11 
 Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. Still hiswil 
 has never got completely over her notions on the sui 
 ject, but has a horseshoe naiUd on the tliresliold, 
 and keeps a branch of rauntry, or moiintain-asl 
 with ils red berries, suspended from one of liie greal 
 beams in the parlour, — a sure protection from all eii 
 spirits. 
 
 These stories, however, as I before observed, ai 
 fast fading away, and in another generation nr t 
 will probably be completely forgotten. There 
 something, however, about these rural superstitii 
 that is exiremely pleasing to the imagination; pai 
 cularly those which relate to the good-humoured ri 
 of household demons, and indeed to the whole fail 
 mythology. The English have given an inexpressil 
 charm to these superstitions, by the manner in wiu 
 they have associated them with whatever is nn 
 homefelt and delightful in rustic life, or refreshi 
 and beautiful in nature. I do not know a morefi 
 cinatiiig race of beings than these little fabled peo{ 
 that haunted the southern sides of hills and moi 
 tains, lurked in flowers and about fountaiii-hei 
 glided through key-holes into ancient halls, watchi 
 over farm-houses and dairies, danced on the gre' 
 by summer moonlight, and on the kitchen hearth 
 winter. They seem to me to accord with the nali 
 of English housekeeping and English scenery. I 
 ways have them in mind when I see a line old Ei 
 lish mansion, with its wide hall and spacious kitcii 
 or a venerable farm-house, in which there is so 11 
 fire-side comfort and good housewifery. There 
 something of national character in their love of 01 
 and cleanliness; in the vigilance with which 
 watched over the economy of the kitchen, and 
 functions of the servant; munificently rewai 
 
 "By 
 \ 
 
 And I 
 \ 
 
 Indeed i 
 filh lliat t 
 lem, have 
 lagery w 
 ins, and 
 lose contii 
 liry, lliej 
 our mill 
 le. Itis( 
 !lions hav 
 ml. The 
 ions wit 
 'ery subjet 
 n more ( 
 the rays 
 inipiislie 
 in fain to 
 ilions of ' 
 ffromt 
 »e look tl 
 tiiat the 
 lar fane 
 have ad 
 ic origins 
 Midsiiniii 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 441 
 
 family, and came wiihl 
 thispartof IhecounlnJ 
 ities of these liousehowl 
 ■mselves to tlie forlunesl 
 (V them in all their r^| 
 
 hionc'l fire-place in the' 
 Ine (iiKiiters for a iliim- 
 to lie warm; especially k] 
 prousiiVp'liresiulhewin- 
 ! of the village recollecti 
 jlin that were current in| 
 Ihou^'ht to have broiijlill 
 lie be the reason wliyihel 
 iiaiulinlhe world, and niy 
 letter order, Iheiv liay sot| 
 )elter stacked than tlial 
 esenl Mrs Tibbels, al ibej 
 
 a number of these slori( 
 ,ssips ; and when marrieii, 
 ivini!; in a house where su( 
 aunl: Jack, however, ul 
 itory with '^rcai comempl,| 
 as no spirit kept about li 
 t any time lay in tlie II 
 F his cudgel. Still his \\il( 
 over her notions on lliesul 
 ,e nailed on the threshold, 
 
 rauntry, or monnlaiii-asi 
 (ended from one of the graj 
 
 sure protection from all e\i 
 
 nith silver sixpence in shoe, the tidy housemaid, but 
 venting their direful wrath, in midnight Imhs and 
 pinches, upon the sluttish dairy-maid. I think I can 
 trace the good effects of (his ancient fairy sway over 
 household concerns, in the care that prevails to the 
 present day among English housemaids to put their 
 kitchens in order before they go to bed. 
 
 Ihave said, too, that these fairy superstitions seemed 
 tome to accord wjlli the nature of Englisii scenery. 
 Xht y suit these small landscapes, which are divided 
 br huneysuckled liedges into sheltered fields and 
 meadows, where the grass is mingled with daisies, 
 biillerciii>s, and hare-bells. When I lirst found my- 
 Iself among English scenery, I was continually re- 
 minded of the sweet pastoral images which distinguish 
 their fairy mythology ; and wlien for the lirst lime a 
 Icircle in the grass was pointed out to me as one of 
 Itlie rings where they were formerly sujiposed to have 
 Iheld their moonlight revels, it seemed for a moment 
 las if fairy-land were no longer fable. Brown, ii) his 
 iBritannia's Pastorals, gives a picture of the kind of 
 Iscenery to \,hich I allude : 
 
 A pleasant rncnd 
 
 m 
 
 :r, as I before observed, arj 
 another generation nr It 
 [iletely forgotten. There! 
 lout these rural supersliiioc 
 ,^ to the imagination; part 
 le to the good-humoured rad 
 id indeed to the whole taiij 
 [h have given an inexpressiklj 
 lons, by the manner in \vlii( 
 lem with whatever is nii^ 
 rustic life, or refreshii] 
 I do not know a more Id 
 Ihan these little fabled peoi^ 
 ,in sides of hills and nwui 
 Is and about founlaiu-heai 
 ts into ancient halls, watchJ 
 
 lairies, danced on the g» . 
 ud on the kitchen hearth I 
 me to accord with the natr 
 
 ; and English scenery. IJ 
 .1 when I see a line old hnj 
 de hall and spacious kilclitf 
 ise, in which there is so .u« 
 
 lod housewifery. There^ 
 .aracter in their love oori 
 
 vigilance with which M 
 my of the kitchen, andll 
 .. . ^■niilicp.ntlv reward 
 
 ^t; 
 
 muniiicenlly 
 
 where fair! !s ofleti did tlicir lucasiires tread ; 
 Wliicli in I le meadows makes sucli circles green 
 As if Willi ' arlands it liad cruw iied liecn. 
 Williin one of llicse rounds w as to be seen 
 A hillock rise, where o(l the fairy ([uecn 
 Al twilight sat." 
 
 /tnd there is another picture of the satne, in a poem 
 kscribed to Ben Jonson. 
 
 "By wells and rills In meadowes preen, 
 
 We iiiglilly dance our hey-day guise. 
 And lo our fairy kin^ and queen 
 
 We cliant our moonlight minstrelsies." 
 
 Indeed it seems to me, that the older British poets, 
 
 lith thai true feeling for nature which distinguishes 
 
 lem, have closely adhered to the simple and familiar 
 
 lagery which they found in these popidar supersti- 
 
 ms, and have thus given lo their fairy mythology 
 
 lose continual allusions to the farm-house and the 
 
 liry, the green meadow and the fountain-head, that 
 
 our minds with the delightful associations of rural 
 
 [e. It is curious lo observe how the most beautiful 
 
 ilions have their origin among the rude and igno- 
 
 Int. There is an indescribai)le charm about the il- 
 
 Isions with which chimerical ignorance once clothed 
 
 |ery subject. These twilight views of nature are 
 
 ten more captivating than any which are revealed 
 
 the rays of enlightened philosophy. The most 
 
 «mplished and poetical minds, therefore, have 
 
 ten fain to search back into these accidental con- 
 
 blions of what are termed barbarous ages, and to 
 
 Jaw from them their finest imagery and machinery. 
 
 |welook through our most admired poets, we shall 
 
 i that their minds have been impregnated by these 
 
 ular fancies, and that Tiose have succeeded best 
 
 ) have adhered closest to the simplicity of their 
 
 llic originals. Such is the case wilh Shakspeare in 
 
 1 Midsummer-Night's Dream, which so minutely 
 
 describes the employments and amusements of fairies, 
 and embodies all the notions concerning them which 
 were current among the vulgar. II is thus that 
 poetry in England has echoed back every rustic note, 
 softened into perfect melody ; it is thus that it has 
 spread its charms over every-day life, displacing no- 
 thing, taking things as it found them, but tinting them 
 up with its own magical hues, until every green bill 
 and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every 
 humble flower, is full of song and story. 
 
 I am dwelling loo long, perhaps, upon a threadbare 
 subject ; yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious 
 recollections of those happy days of childhood, when 
 the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained had 
 not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy- 
 tale was true history to me. I have often been so 
 transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as 
 almost to wish that I had been born in the days when 
 the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I 
 cannot look upon those fanciful creations of ignorance 
 and credulity, without a lurking regret that they have 
 all passed away. The experience of my early days 
 tells me that they were sources of exquisite delight ; 
 and I sometimes rpieslion whether the naturalist who 
 can dissect the flowers of the field, receives half the 
 pleasure from contemplating them, that he did who 
 considered them the abode of elves and fairies. I 
 feel convinced that the true interests and solid hap- 
 piness of man are promoted by the advancement of 
 truth ; yet I cannot but mourn over the pleasant er- 
 rors which it has trampled down in its progress. 
 The fauns and sylphs', the household-sprite, tlie moon- 
 light revel, Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious 
 realms of fairy-land, all vanish before the light of 
 true philosophy ; but who does not sometimes turn 
 with distaste from the cold realities of morning, and 
 seek to recall tlie sweet visions of the night? 
 
 THE CULPRIT. 
 
 From fire, from water, and all things amiss, 
 Deliver the house of an honest jitstice. 
 
 TDE Widow. 
 
 Til!': serenity of tlie Hall has l)een suddenly inter- 
 rupted by a very important occurrence. In the course 
 of this morning a posse of villagers was seen trooping 
 up the avenue, with boys shouting in advance. As 
 it drew near, we perceived Ready-Money Jack Tib- 
 bels striding along, wielding his cudgel in one band, 
 and with the other grasping the collar of a tall fellow, 
 whom, on still nearer approach, we recognized for 
 the redoubtable gipsy hero Star-light Tom. He was 
 now, however, completely cowed and crestfallen, 
 and Ins courage seemed to have quailed in the iron- 
 gripe of the lion-hearted Jack. 
 
 The whole gang of gipsy-women and childi-en 
 came draggling in the rear ; some in tears, others 
 
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 Hiotographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
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 23 WIST MAIN STMIT 
 
 WIMTM.N.Y. U5M 
 
 (716) •72-4503 
 

442 
 
 nRACEBRIDGE IIALI.. 
 
 
 inakin)^ n violent rlamonr almiit the earsof oUI Ready- 
 Money, who, however, trudged on in Nilence with 
 his prey, lieeding liieir abuse as liltic as a liawli Hint 
 has pounced upon a biirn-door liero regards llic out- 
 cries and caclilings of liis wliolc fcallicred seraKJio. 
 
 He liad passed tlirough tlie village on his way to the 
 Hall, and or course had made a great sensation in that 
 most excitable place, where every event is a mailer 
 or gn/e and gossip. The re{H)rt flew like wildlire, 
 that Star-light Tom was incuslo<ly. The alc-drink- 
 ers forlhwilh alrandoned the tap-room; Slingshy's 
 school broke loose, and master and lN>y8 swelled the 
 tide that came rolling at the heels of old Heady-Mo- 
 ney and his captive. 
 
 Tiio uproar increased as they approached the Hall; 
 it aroused Ihe whole garrison of dogs, and the crew 
 of hauger$H)n. The great niaslifT hiirked from the 
 dog-house; the stag-hound and the grey-hound and 
 Ihe spaniel issued barking from Ihe hall-door, and 
 my Laily Lillycrafl's little dogs ramped and barked 
 from the parlour window. I remarked, however, 
 that the gipsy dogs made no reply lo all these me- 
 naces and insults, but crept close to the gang, looking 
 round with a guilty, poaching air, and now and then 
 glancing up a dubious eye to their owners; which 
 shows that the moral dignity, even of dogs, may be 
 ruined by l)ad company ! 
 
 When the throng reached Ihe fronl ^f the house, 
 they were brought to a halt by n kind of advanced- 
 guard, composed of old Christy, the gamekee[)er, and 
 two or three servants of the house, who had been 
 brought out by Ihe noise. The* common herd of the 
 village fell back with respect; the boys were driven 
 biick by Christy and his compeers; while Ueady- 
 Money Juck maintained his ground and his hold of 
 tbe prisoner ; and was surrounded by Ihe tailor, the 
 schoolmaster, and several other dignitaries of the 
 village, and by the clamorous brood of gipsies, who 
 were neither lo be silenced nor inlimidaled. 
 
 Hy this time the whole household were brought to 
 the doors and windovs, and the squire to the portal. 
 An audience was demanded by Ready-Money Jack, 
 who had detected the prisoner in Ihe very act of 
 sheep-slealing on his domains, and had borne him off 
 to be examined before the s(iuire, who is in the com- 
 mission of Ihe peace. 
 
 A kindoftribunal was immediately held in Ihe ser- 
 vants' hall, a large chamber, with a stone floor and 
 n long table in the centre, at one end of which, just 
 under an enormous clock, was placed the squire's 
 chair of justice, while Master Simon look his place at 
 the table as clerk of Ihe court. An attempt had l)een 
 made by old Christy to keep out Ihe gipsy gang, 
 but in vain ; and they, with the village worthies, and 
 the household, half iilled the hall. The old house- 
 keeper and the butler were in a panic at this danger- 
 ous irruption. They hurried away all Ihe valuable 
 things and portable articles that were at hand, and 
 even kept a dragon watch on the gipsies, lest they 
 shonld carry off the house-clock, or Ihe deal table. 
 
 Old Christy, and his faithful coadjutor the gamt- 
 kee|)er, acted as constables lo guard the prisnnpr, 
 triumphing in having at last got this terrible olTeiHler 
 in their clutches. Indeed I am inclintHi to think iIh> 
 old man iMirc some pevisli recollection of liavin;; 
 lieen handled rather roughly by the gipsy in the 
 chance-medley affair of Maynlay. 
 
 Silence was now commanded by Master Simon; 
 but it was difficult lo be enforced in such a moller 
 assemblage. There was a continual snarling; ancl 
 yelping of dogs, and as fast as it was quelled in uik 
 corner, it broke out in another. The poor gi|t8y cun, 
 who, like errant thieves,could not hold up I heir heads 
 in an honest house, were worried and insulted by the 
 gentlemen dogs oftlie establishment, without ofTeiing 
 to make resistance; the very cure of my Lady Lillj. 
 craft bullied ll-eni with impunity. 
 
 I'he examination was conducted with great mild- 
 ness and indulgence by the squire, partly from ^ 
 kindness of his nature, and [mrlly, I suspect, bwaiw 
 his heart yearned towards the culprit, who had round 
 great favour in his eyes, as I have already olMerred, 
 from the skill he had at various limes displayed io 
 archery, morris-dancing, and other obsolete accom-{ 
 plishments. Proofs, however, were loo 
 Ready-Money Jack told his story in a straight-funtanll 
 independent way, iiothiiig daunted by the presence 
 in which he found himself. He had suffered rroal 
 various depredations on his sheepfold and poultry- 
 yard, and liad at length kept watch, and caught 
 delin(|uent in the very act of making off with asli 
 on his shoulders. 
 
 1'ibbels was repeatedly interrupted, in the com 
 of his testimony, by Ihe culprit's mother, a ftirii 
 old behlame, with an insufferable tongue, and w 
 in fact, was several limes kept, with some diflicullyj 
 from flying at him tooth and nail. The wife, too, 
 the prisoner, whom I am told he does not beat aboi 
 half a dozen times a week, completely interesi 
 Lady Lillycraft in her husband's behalf, by her 
 and supplicalions ; and several of the other gi|i!j| 
 women were awakening strong sympathy among 
 young girls and maid servants in Ihe back-groi 
 The pretty black-eyed gipsy-girl, whom I have 
 tioned on a former occasion as the sibyl that read 
 fortunes of the general, endeavoured to wheedle I 
 doughty warrior into Iheir interests, and even 
 some approaches to her old acquaintance. Master 
 mon ; but was repelled by Ihe latter with all the di 
 nity of ofiice, having assumed a look of gravity 
 importance suitable lo the occasion. 
 
 I was a little surpriijil, at iirst, to find Ik 
 Slingsby, the schoolmaster, rather opposed to his 
 crony Tibbets, and coming forward as a nind of 
 cate for the accused. It seems that he had taken 
 passion on Ihe forlorn fortunes of Star-light Tom, 
 liad been trying his eloquence in his favour Ihe vl 
 way from the village, but without effect. Di 
 Ihe examination of Ready-Money Jack, Slinfjsby 
 stood like «• dejected pi!y at his side, " seeking 
 
 er;ai 
 lishmei 
 lit Tom 
 iiliehul 
 Table I 
 the CO 
 lly out 
 Christ 
 wedl 
 It lo ar 
 uses, 
 int gua 
 |i>«loptv 
 'nd niac 
 one arr 
 •ncient 
 Itch over 
 lirthat 
 great! 
 iicom 
 
 
 fling. 
 
 •heir 
 »l'ng;w 
 
BRACEBRIDGE IIAIJ.. 
 
 44.' 
 
 ifnl coadjalor the gamt- 
 i lo giianl the prisoner, 
 , gol Uiis terrible offemlet 
 [ am inclined to tliink ihe 
 ill recollection of liaviii>; 
 Illy by the gipsy in tiit I 
 ynlay. 
 
 iiuled by Master Simon; 
 1 forced in such a motley 
 a continual snarling ami 
 t as it was quelled in oik 
 lier. The poor gi|«y curs, 
 )uld nothold up their heads 
 vorried and insulted by Ihe 
 Dlishinent, without offering 
 !ry curs of my Lady Lilly- 
 ipiniity. I 
 
 londucled with great miM- 
 ,hc sqiure, partly from thei 
 1 partly, I suspect, becaiiKl 
 (the culprit, who had found 
 IS I have already obserredj 
 various times displayed in I 
 and other obsolete aixom-l 
 wever, were too slronjT 
 lis story in a straighl-fonianll 
 ig daunted by the presencel 
 iclf. lie had suffered fromj 
 his sheepfold and poiillHl 
 kept watch, and cauglil I' 
 cl of making off with ash 
 
 ly interrupted, in the coui 
 5 culprit's mother, a furit 
 sufferable tongue, and wl 
 ;s kept, with some diflicullj, 
 I and nail. The wife, too^ 
 n told he does not bcatal 
 week, completely inlei 
 lusbaiid's behalf, by her t( 
 several of the other M 
 g- strong sympathy among' 
 tervants In the back-grof 
 ;ip8y-gni,whomIliavei 
 sion as the sibyl that read 
 endeavoured to wheedle ll 
 leir Interests, and even m 
 old acquaintance. Master 
 l»y the latter with all the' 
 jssumed a look of gravity 
 he occasion, 
 ijd, at tlrst, to find li( 
 iter, rather opposed to liB 
 ling forward as a rind of 1^ 
 seems that hft had taken 
 —.•luncs of Star-light Tom 
 (luence In his favour the tfl 
 
 but without effect. D" 
 
 idy-Money Jack, Slinpby 
 
 vat his side, "seeking' 
 
 now and then, by a soft word, to soothe any esa- 
 certMlion of his ire, or lo <|ualify any hnrsh expression. 
 He now ventured to make a few observations to Ihe 
 jqoire in palliation of the delinquent's offence ; hut 
 nuor Slingsby spoke more from the heart than the 
 head, and was evidently actuatv<l merely by a general 
 lympatliy for every poor devil in trouble, and a liberal 
 toleratiun fur all kinds of vagabond existence. 
 
 The ladies, ton, large ond small, with the kind- 
 heartedness of the sex, were zealous on the side of 
 mercy, and interceded strenuotL^ly with the squire ; 
 insomuch that the prisoner, linding himself unexpect- 
 edly snrroimded by active friends, once more reared 
 his crest, and seemed disposed for a time to put on 
 the air of injured iimocence. The scpiire, however, 
 with all his benevolence of heart and his lurking 
 weakness towards the prisoner, was too conscientious 
 to swerve from the strict path of justice. There was 
 abundant concurring testimony tliat made the proof 
 of guilt incontrovertible, and Star-light Tom's mitli- 
 {dus was made out accordingly. 
 
 Tlie sympathy of the ladies was now greater than 
 jtver ; they even made some attempts to mollify the 
 of Heady-Money Jack; but that sturdy poten- 
 ile had been too nuich incensed by the repeated 
 irsions that had been made into his territories by 
 16 predatory band of Star-light Tom, and he was re- 
 ived, lie said, to drive the " varment reptiles" out 
 tlie neighbourhood. To avoid all further impor- 
 inities, as soon as the mitlinnis was made out, be 
 lednp his loins, and strode back to his seat of eni- 
 t,accum|)anied by his interceding friend, Slingsby, 
 followed by a detachment of the gipsy gang, who 
 on his rear, assailing him with mingled prayers 
 execrations. 
 Tlie question now was, how to dispose of the pri- 
 ler; a mailer of great moment in this peaceful es- 
 liihment, where so formidable a character as Star- 
 lit Tom was like a hawk entrapped in a dove-col. 
 Ilie hubbub and examination had occupied a cori- 
 traUe lime, it wos too late in the day to send him 
 the county-prison, and that of the village was 
 ily out of repair from long want of occupation. 
 Christy, who took great interest In the affair, 
 that the culprit should be committed fur the 
 It lo an upper loft of a kind of lower in one of the 
 luses, where he and the gamekeeper would 
 int guard. After much deliberation this measure 
 |i8adopte<l; the premises in (piestion were examin- 
 and made secure, and Christy and his trusty ally, 
 one armed with a fowling-piece, the oilier with 
 ancient blunderbuss, turned out as sentries to keep 
 Itch over this donjon-keep. Such is the momentous 
 lirthat has just taken place, and it is an event of 
 great moment in this quiet little world, not to 
 it completely topsy-turvy. Labour is at a stand. 
 Iiouse has been a scene of confusion the whole 
 'Ring. It has been beleaguered by gipsy-women, 
 their children on their backs, wailing and la- 
 Xing; while the old virago of a mother has cniised 
 
 up and down the lawn in front, shaking her head 
 and muttering to herself, or now and then breaking 
 into a paroxysm of rage, brandishing her list at the 
 Hall, and denouncing ill luck upon Ready-Money 
 Jack, and even upon the squire himself. 
 
 Lady Lillycrafl has given rqH'ated audiences to the 
 culprit's weeping wife, at the Hall door ; and the ser- 
 vant-maids have stolen out to confer with Ihe gipsy- 
 women under the trees. As to the little ladies of Ihe 
 family, Ihey arc all outrageous at Iteady-Muney Jack, 
 whom they look u[ion in the light of a tyrannical 
 giant of fairy-tale. I'IkpIm: Wilkins, contrary to her 
 usual nature, is the only one that is pitiless in thu 
 affair. She thinks Mr Tihhels quite in the right; aiul 
 thinks the gipsies deserve to be punished severely for 
 meddling with the sheep of the TibbeLs's. 
 
 In the mean time the females of the family have 
 evinced all the provident kindness of the sex, ever 
 ready to soothe and succour the distressed, right or 
 wrong. ]>ady Lillycrafl has had a mattress taken lu 
 the outhouse, and comforts and delicacies of all kinds 
 have been taken to the prisoner ; even the little girlH 
 have sent their cakes and sweetmeats ; so tha'., I'll 
 warrant, the vagabond has never fared so well in his 
 life before. Old Christy, it is true, looks upon every 
 thing with a wary eye ; struts aliout with his blun- 
 derbuss with the air of a veteran canipaigiier, and 
 will hardly allow himself to be s|iokeii to. The gipsy- 
 women dare not come within gunsiiot, and every 
 tatterdemalion of a lioy has been frightened from the 
 park. The old fellow is determined lo lodge Star- 
 light Tom in prison with his own hands ; and hopes, 
 he says, to sec one of the poaching crew made an 
 example of. 
 
 I doubt, after all, whether the worthy s(|uire is not 
 the greatest sufferer in the whole afl'air. His honoui - 
 able sense of duty obliges him to be rigid, but the 
 overllowing kindnessof his nature makes thisagrievous 
 trial lo him. 
 
 He is not accustomed to have such demands upon 
 his justice in his truly patriarchal domain ; and it 
 wounds his benevolent spirit, that, while prosperity 
 and happiness are flowing in thus bounteously upon 
 him, he should have to inflict misery upon a fellow* 
 being. 
 
 He has been troubled and cost down the whole 
 evening ; took leave of the family, on going to bed, 
 with a sigh, instead of his usual hearty andafl'eclionalu 
 lone; and will, in all probability, have a fur mora 
 sleepless night than his prisoner. Indeed this un- 
 lucky affair has cast a damp upon the whole house- 
 hold, as there appears to be an universal opinion that 
 the unlucky culprit will come to the gallows. 
 
 Morning. — 'J'hc clouds of last evening are all blown 
 over. A load has l)een taken from Ihe squire's heart, 
 and every face is once more in smiles. The game- 
 keeper made his appearance at an early liour, com- 
 pletely shamefaced and crestfallen. Star-light Tom 
 liad made his escape in the night ; how he had gol out 
 of the luit no one couUI tell ; the Devil they think must 
 
 Jt. 
 
44i 
 
 BRACXBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 17 
 
 have assisted him. Old Christy was so mortified that 
 he would not show his face, but had shut himself up 
 in liis strong hold at the dog-liennel, and would not 
 be spoken witli. What lias particularly relieved the 
 squire is, that there is very little likelihood of the 
 culprit's being retaken, having gone off on one of tlie 
 old gentleman's best hunters. 
 
 FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 
 
 " The night has been unnily ; where we lay, 
 The chimneys were blown down. 
 
 MlCBETn. 
 
 We have for a day or two past had a flaw of unruly 
 weather, which has intruded itself into this fair and 
 flowery month, and for a time has quite marred the 
 beauty of the landscape. Last night the storm at- 
 tained its crisis ; the rain beat in torrents against the 
 casements, and the wind piped and blustered alwut 
 the old Ilall with quite a wintry vehemence. The 
 morning, however, dawned clear and serene; the 
 face of the heavens seemed as if newly washed, and 
 the sun shone witli a brightness that was undimmed 
 by a single vapour. Nothing over-head gave traces 
 of the recent storm ; but on looking from my window 
 I beheld sad ravage among the shrubs and flowers ; 
 the garden walks had formed the channels for little 
 torrents; trees were lopped of their branches, and a 
 small silver stream that wound through the park, and 
 ran at the bottom of the lawn, had swelled into a 
 turbid, yellow sheet of water. 
 
 In an establishment like this, where the mansion is 
 vast, ancient, and somewhat afflicted with the in- 
 firmities of age, and where there are numerous and 
 extensive dependencies, a storm is an event of a very 
 grave nature, and brings in its train a multiplicity of 
 cares and disasters. 
 
 While the squire was taking his breakfast in the 
 great hall, he was continually interrupted by some 
 bearer of ill tidings from some part or other of his 
 domains; he appeared to me like the commander of a 
 besieged city, after some grand assault, receiving at 
 his head-quarters reports of damages sustained in the 
 various quarters of the place. At one lime the house- 
 keeper brought him intelligence of a chimney blown 
 down, and a desperate leak sprung in the roof over 
 the picture-gallery, which threatened to obliterate a 
 whole generation of his ancestors. Then the steward 
 came in witii a dolcfid story of the mischief done in 
 the woodlands ; while the gamekeeper bemoaned the 
 loss of one of his finest bucks, whose bloated carcass 
 was seen floating along the swoln current of the river. 
 
 When the squire issued forth, he was accosted, 
 before the door, by the old, paralytic gardener, with 
 a face full of trouble, reporting, as I supposed, the de- 
 vastation of his flower-beds, and the destruction of his 
 wall-fruit. I remarked, however, that his intelli- 
 
 gence caused a peculiar expresf >on of concern not 
 only with the squire and Master Simon, but with the 
 fair Julia and Lady Lillycraft, who happened to be 
 present. From a few words which reached niy ear 
 I found there was some tale of domestic calamity jn 
 the case, and that some unfortunate family had been 
 rendered houseless by the storm. Many ejaculalions 
 of pity broke from the ladies; I heard the expression) 
 of "poor helpless beings," and " unfortunate little 
 creatures," several times repeated ; to which the i 
 gardener replied by very melancholy shakes of the | 
 head. 
 
 I felt so interested, that I could not help callin!;i,i| 
 the gardener, as he was retiring, and asking what iin- 1 
 fortunate family it was that had suffered so severely > 
 The old man touched his hat, and gazed at me for an I 
 instant, as if hardly comprehending my (|iieslion,| 
 " Family ! " replied he : " there be no family iinhel 
 case, your honour; but here have been sad mischiefl 
 done in the rookery ! " 
 
 I had noticed the day before that the high and gimJ 
 winds which prevailed had occasioned great disqiiittl 
 among these airy house-holders; their nesis l)eini;all| 
 filled with young, who were in danger of being lijiet 
 out of their tree-rocked cradles. Indeed, llie olil| 
 birds themselves seemed to have hard work lo nam 
 tain a foothold ; some kept hovering and cawin;' i 
 the air; or if they ventured to alight, they had IoIki 
 fast, flap their wings, and spread their tails, and ihig 
 remain see-sawing on the topmost twigs. 
 
 In the course of the night, however, an awful c 
 lamity had taken place in this most sage and poliliJ 
 community. There was a great tree, the tallest i| 
 the grove, which seemed to have been the kind ii{ 
 court-end of the metropolis, and crowded wilii tin 
 residences of those whom Master Simon considers lli| 
 nobility and gentry. A decaye<l limb of this tree I 
 given way with the violence of the storm, and I 
 come down with all its air-castles. 
 
 One should be well aware of the humours oft 
 good squire and his houseliold, to understand I 
 general concern expressed at this disaster. It \ 
 quite a public calamity in this rural empire, andi 
 seemed to feel for the poor rooks as for fellow-citia 
 in distress. 
 
 The ground had been strewed with the cali« 
 young, which were now cherished in the aprons i 
 !H)soms of the maid-servants, and the little ladies j 
 the family. I was pleased with this touch of natori 
 this feminine sympathy in the sufferings of the ( 
 spring, and the maternal anxiety of the parent bin 
 
 It was interesting, too, to witness the general agil| 
 tion and distress that seemed to prevail throughout tl 
 feathered community; the common cause lliati 
 made of it ; and the incessant hovering, and flullerinl 
 and lamenting, that took place in the whole rovken 
 There is a chord of sympathy that runs through if 
 whole feathered race as to any misfortunes oft! 
 young; and the cries of a wounded bird in thebrt 
 Ing-season will throw a whole grove in a flutter* 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 44» 
 
 pres;.on of concern not 
 sterSimon, but wilhthel 
 ift, who happened to be 
 s which reached my ear, 
 i of domestic calamity in 
 >rUinate family had been 
 Lorm. Many ejaculatiom 
 j; I heard the expressions 
 ' and " unfortunate little | 
 ipeatetl ; to whicli the < 
 melanclioly sliakes of the I 
 
 I could not help calling 1(1 1 
 liring, and asking wliatun- 
 t had suffered so severely ' 
 liat, and gazed at me for an I 
 iprehending my (iiieslion.f 
 " there be no family inihel 
 ere have been sad miscliief| 
 
 ;fore that the high and gnslyl 
 id occasioned great disquiell 
 olders; their nesis beinjall| 
 ere in danger of being lillfi 
 cradles. Indeed, the oU 
 to have hard work to nuin 
 .pt hovering and cawin;'iiJ 
 ed to alight, they had to ho! 
 d spread their tails, andlhui 
 le topmost twigs, 
 iglit, however, an awful c 
 [in this most sage and polilij 
 a great tree, the tallest ii 
 ed to have been the kind li 
 lolis, and crowded with thi 
 Master Simon considers Ibj 
 decayed limb of this tree 1 
 jnce of the storm, i 
 nr-castles. 
 ware of the humours ott 
 (usehold, to understand ikj 
 sed at this disaster. It wi 
 this rural empire, and J 
 rooks as for fellow-citia 
 
 I ID aiarin. Indeed, why should I confine it to the 
 feathered tribe? Nature seems to me to have im- 
 planted an exipiisite sympathy on this subject, which 
 extends through all her works. It is an invariable 
 aliribute of the female heart, to melt at the cry of 
 early helplessness, and to take an instinctive interest 
 I in the distresses of the parent and its young. On the 
 I present occasion the ladies of the family were full of 
 I pity and commiseration; and I shall never forget the 
 look tliat Lady Lillycraft gave the general, on his ob- 
 lifTvingtliat the young birds woilUi make an excellent 
 [carry, or au especial gootl rook-pie. 
 
 (1 
 
 in 
 ar 
 
 in strewed with the call 
 cherished in tlie aprons 
 
 vants, and the little ladiesi 
 ed with this touch of nalur 
 
 in the sufferings of the 
 
 anxiety of the parent liii 
 
 , to witness the general agil 
 
 med to prevail throughoulf' 
 
 the common cause that 
 isant hovering, and nutterir 
 
 place in the whole rookei 
 pathy that runs through' 
 s to any misfortunes of 
 a wounded bird in the Iw 
 
 whole grove in a fluWer 
 
 LOVERS' TROUBLES. 
 
 " Tlie poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, 
 
 Sing all a green willow ; 
 Her hand on her l)osom, her head on licr knee, 
 
 sing willow, willow, w illow ; 
 Sing all a green willow must be my garland." 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 The fair Julia having nearly recovered from the 
 
 lelfeclsofher hawking disaster, it begins to be thought 
 
 lliigh lime to appoint a day for the wedding. As 
 
 IcTery domestic event in a venerable and aristocratic 
 
 Ifunily connexion like Ibis is a matter of moment, the 
 
 tilling upon Ibis important day has, of course, given 
 
 Irise to much conference and debate. 
 
 Some slight difficulties and demurs have lately 
 
 gng lip, originating in the peculiar humours that 
 
 are prevalent at the Hall. Thus, I have overheard a 
 
 Tery solemn consultation between Lady Lillycraft, 
 
 parson, and Master Simon, as to whether the 
 
 arriage ought not to be postponed until the coming 
 
 onlh. 
 
 Wilh all the charms of the flowery month of May, 
 ere is, I find, an ancient prejudice against it as a 
 arrjing month. An old proverb says, " To wed in 
 lay is to wed poverty." Now, as Lady Lillycraft 
 iTery much given to believe in lucky and unlucky 
 and seasons, and indeed is very superstitious 
 I all points relating to the tender passion, this old 
 orerb seems to have taken great hold upon her 
 nd. She recollects two or three instances in her 
 |fn knowledge of matches that took place in this 
 onth, and proved very unfortunate. Indeed, an 
 in cousin of hers, who married on a May-day, lost 
 husband by a fall from his horse, after they had 
 M happily together for twenty years. 
 The parson appeared to give great weight to her 
 yship's objections, and acknowledged the existence 
 [a prejudice of the kind, not merely confined to 
 dern times, but prevalent likewise among the an- 
 ents. In confirmation of this, be quoted a passage 
 I Ovid, which had a great effect on Lady Lilly- 
 ill, being given in a language which she did not 
 erstand. Even Master Simon was staggered by 
 
 it; for he listened with a puzzled air; and then, 
 shaking his head, sagaciously observed, that Ovid was 
 certainly a very wise man. 
 
 From this sage conference I likewise gathered se- 
 veral other important pieces of information relative 
 to weddings; such as that, if two were celebrated in 
 the same church, on the same day, the first would 
 he happy, the second unfortunate. If, on going to 
 church, the bridal party should meet the funeral of a 
 female, it was an omen that the bride would die first; 
 if of a male, the bridegroom. If the newly married 
 couple were to dance together on their wedding-day, 
 the wife would thenceforth rule the roast; with many 
 other curious and unquestionable facts of the same 
 nature, all which made me ponder more than ever 
 upon the perils which surround this happy state, and 
 the thoughtless ignorance of mortals as to the awful 
 risks they run in venturing upon it. I abstain, how- 
 ever, from enlarging upon this topic, having no in- 
 clination to promote the increase of bachelors. 
 
 Notwilhslanding the due weight which the squire 
 gives to traditional saws and ancient opinions, yet I 
 am happy to liiid that he makes a firm stand for the 
 credit of this loving month, and brings to his aid a 
 whole legion of poetical authorities; all which, I pre- 
 sume, have been conclusive with the young couple, 
 as I understand they are perfectly willing to marry 
 in May, and abide the consequences. In a few days, 
 therefore, the wedding is to take place, and the Hall 
 is in a buzz of anticipation. The housekeeper is 
 bustling alwut from morning till night, wilh a look 
 full of business and importance, liaving a thousand 
 arrangements to make, the sipiire intending to keep 
 open house on the occasion; and as to the house- 
 maids, you cannot look one of tlicm in the face, but 
 the rogue begins to colour up and simper. 
 
 While, however. Ibis leading love-affair is going 
 on with a tranquillity quite inconsistent wilh the rules 
 of romance, I cannot say that tlie underplots are 
 c(|ually propitious. The '■'■ opening bud of love " be- 
 tween the general and Lady Lillycraft seems to have 
 experienced some blight in the course of this genial 
 season. I do not think the general has ever been 
 able to retrieve the ground he lost, when be fell 
 asleep during the captain's story. Indeed, Master Si- 
 mon thinks his case is completely desperate, her 
 ladyship having determined that he is quite destitute 
 of sentiment. 
 
 The season has been equally unpropitious to the 
 love-lorn Pha?l)e Wilkins. I fear the reader will be 
 impatient at having this bumble amour so often al- 
 luded to; but I confess I am apt to take a great in- 
 terest in tlie love-troublrs of simple girls of this class. 
 Few people have an idea of the world of care and 
 perplexily that these poor damsels have in managing 
 the affairs of the heart. 
 
 We talk and write almut the tender passion; we 
 give it all the colourings of sentiment and romance, 
 and lay the scene of its influence in high life; but, 
 after all, I doubt whether its sway is not more abso- 
 
 J^' 
 
Mb 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE IIALL. 
 
 lute among females of a humbler sphere. How often, 
 coald we but look into the heart, should we find the 
 sentiment throbbing in all its violence, in the bosom 
 of the poor lady's-maid, rather than in that of the 
 brilliant beauty she is decking out for conquest; 
 whose brain is probably bewildered with beaux, ball- 
 looms, and wax-light chandeliers ! 
 
 With these humble beings love is an honest, en- 
 grossing concern. They have no ideas of settlements, 
 establishments, equipages, and pin-money. The 
 heart — the heart is all-in-all with them, poor things! 
 There is seldom one of them but has her love-cares, 
 and love-secrets ; her doubts, and hopes, and fears, 
 equal to those of any heroine of romance, and ten 
 times as sincere. And then, too, there is her secret 
 board of love-documents; — the broken sixpence, the 
 gilded brooch, the lock of hair, the unintelligible love- 
 scrawl, all treasured up in her box of Sunday finery, 
 for private contemplation. 
 
 How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from 
 some lynx-eyed dame, or staid old vestal of a mis- 
 tress, who keeps a dragon watch over her virtue, 
 and scouts the lover from the door! But then, how 
 sweet are the little love scenes, snatched at distant 
 intervals of holiday, and fondly dwelt on through 
 many a long day of household labour and confine- 
 ment ! If in the counli-y — it is the dance at the fair 
 or wake, the interview in the churchyard after ser- 
 vice, or the evening stroll in the green lane. If in 
 town, it is perhaps merely a stolen moment of deli- 
 cious talk between the bars of the area, fearful every 
 instant of being seen; — and then, how lightly will 
 the simple creature carol all day afterwards at her 
 labour ! 
 
 Poor baggage ! after all her crosses and difficulties, 
 when she marries, what is it but to exchange a life of 
 comparative ease and comfort, for one of toil and un- 
 certainty ! Perhaps, too, the lover, for whom in the 
 fondness of her nature she has committed herself to 
 fortune's freaks, turns out a worthless churl, the dis- 
 solute, hard-hearted husband of low life, who, taking 
 to the alehouse, leaves her to a cheerless home, to 
 labour, penury, and childbearing. 
 
 When I see poor Phoebe going about with droop- 
 ing eye, and her head hanging " all o' one side," I 
 cannot help calling to mind the pathetic little picture 
 drawn by Desdemoua :— 
 
 " Mjr mother had a maid, called Barbara ; 
 ' - She was in love ; and he she loved proved mad, 
 And did forsake her : she had a sonf; of willow, 
 '.■ ■ .f An old thing 'twas ; but it exprew'd her fortune, 
 Aud she died singing it." 
 
 I hope, however, that a better lot is in reserve for 
 Phoebe Wilkins, and that she may yet "rule the 
 roast" in the ancient empire of the Tibbets ! She is 
 not fit to battle with hard hearts or hard times. 
 She was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother, who 
 was proud of the beauty of her child, and brought her 
 up more tenderly than a village girl ought to be ; and, 
 ever since she has been left an orphan, the good ladies 
 
 at the Hall have completed the softening and spoiling 
 of her. 
 
 I have recently observed her holding long conrer- 
 ences in the churchyard, and up and down one of I 
 the lanes near the village, with Slingsby the school- f 
 master. I at first thought the pedagogue might bej 
 touched with the tender malady so prevalent in Uine I 
 parts of late ; but I did him injustice. Honest Slingi- 1 
 by, it seems, was a friend and crony of her late father I 
 the [larish clerk, and is on intimate terms with tli«| 
 Tibbets family : prompted, therefore, by his good- 
 will towards all parties, and secretly instigated, per-j 
 haps, by the managing dame Tibbels, he has under- 1 
 taken to talk with Pliccbe upon the subject. He gJTts I 
 her, however, but little encouragement. Slingsbjl 
 has a formidable opinion of the arislocratical feeliii>| 
 of old Ready-Money, and thinks, if Pha'be were even | 
 to make the matter up with the son, she would lindj 
 the father totally hostile to the match. The poor dam-l 
 sel, therefore, is reduced almost to despair; amll 
 Slingsby, who is too good-natured not to sympaliiiiel 
 in her distress, has advised her to give up all thouj;liij 
 of young Jack, and has proposed as a substitute! 
 learned coadjutor, the prodigal son. He has etei 
 in the fulness of his heart, od'ered to give up 
 school-house to them; though it would leave I 
 once more adrift in the wide world. 
 
 THE HISTORIAN. 
 
 l/ermione. Pray you sit by us, 
 
 And tell 's a laic. 
 
 lUamitius. Merry or sad shall 't be ? 
 
 Het-mione. As merry as you will. 
 
 juamilitis. A sad tale 's best for win 
 
 I have one of sprites and goblins. 
 
 Hermione. Let 's have that, sir. 
 
 WitlTKB's Till. 
 
 As this is a story-telling age, I have been tempi 
 occasionally to give the reader one of the many t 
 that are served up with supper at the Hall. I mi; 
 indeed, have furnished a series almost equal in nu 
 ber to the A rabian Nights ; but some were rather lu 
 neyed and tedious ; others I did not feel warranted | 
 betraying into print ; and many more were of the o 
 general's relating, and turned principally upon tij 
 hunting, elephant-riding, and Seringapatani, enlivej 
 ed Ly the wonderful deeds of Tippoo Saib, and t 
 excellent jokes of iVIajor Pendergast. 
 
 I had all along maintained a quiet post at a con 
 of the table, where I had been able to indulge i 
 humour undislurl)ed ; listening attentively when I 
 story was very good, and dozing a Utile when iti 
 rather dull, which I consider the perfection of anj 
 torship. 
 
 I was roused the other evening from a slight In 
 into which I had fallen during one of the gen 
 histories, by a sudden call from the squire to fun 
 
 |> find (hat t 
 i'liMbcen( 
 ' tuindcd o 
 
 I M 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 417 
 
 lie softening and spoiling | 
 
 her holding long confer- 
 nd up and down one ot 
 nlh Slingsby U»e sclwol- 
 Ihe pedagogue miglitbe 
 lady so pievalenl in these 
 injustice. Honest Slingj- 
 id crony of lier late father, 
 intimate terms with the 
 , tlierefore, by his good- 
 d secretly instigated, pcr- 
 ne Tibbets, he has under- 
 pon the subject. He gives 
 encouragement. Slit 
 )f the arislocratical teelingi 
 thinks, if Phttbe were even 
 Ih the son, she would lind 
 I the match. Tl.e poor dam- 
 i almost to despair; and 
 l-natured not to sympa(liitt| 
 d her to give up all thought 
 )roposed as a substitute 
 rodigal son. He has evn,| 
 ■art, ohered to give up ll 
 hough it would leave" 
 vide world. 
 
 ISTORIAN. 
 
 Vrayyousitbyiu, 
 
 or sad shall 't be? 
 you will 
 
 ^ne entertainment of the kind in my tnm. Having 
 lieenso profound a listener to others, I could not in 
 (onitcience refuse ; but neither my memory nor inven- 
 tion being ready to answer so unexpected a demand, 
 I begged leave to read a manuscript tale from the pen 
 lyf my fellow-countryman, the late Mr Diedrich 
 Knickerbocker, the historian of New -York. As this 
 ancient chronicler may not be better known to my 
 LjKlers than he was to the company at the Hall, a 
 vordor two concerning him may not be amiss, be- 
 Lreproceeding to his manuscript. 
 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker was a native of New-York, 
 li descendant from one of the ancient Dutch families 
 which originally settled in that province, and remain- 
 |fd there after it was taken possession of by the Eng- 
 lish in 1604. The descendants of these Dutch fami- 
 lies still remain in villages and neighbourhoods in va- 
 rious parts of the country, retaining, with singular 
 stinacy, the dresses, manners, and even language 
 [their ancestors, and forming a very distinct and 
 irious feature in the motley population of the state. 
 ^5 a hamlet whose spire may be seen from New-York, 
 [ising above the brow of a hill on the opposite side of 
 |he Hudson, many of the old folks, even at the pre- 
 ttday, speak English with an accent, and the Do- 
 linie preaches in Dutch ; and so completely is the 
 litary love of quiet and silence maintained, that 
 : one of these drowsy little villages, in the middle of 
 ivarm summer's day, the buzzing of a stout blue- 
 ttlefly will resound from one end of the place to the 
 (her. 
 
 With the laudable hereditary feeling thus kept up 
 long these worthy people, did Mr Knickerbocker 
 ndertake to write a history of his native city, com- 
 ing the reign of its three Dutch governors during 
 ^e lime that it was yet under the domination of 
 
 iins. 
 
 Let '8 have that, sir. 
 
 WIHTEH'S Till. 
 
 \gadtale'8be8ttor\iiiiMHeHogenmogens of Holland. In the execution of 
 
 ^is design the little Dutchman has displayed great 
 
 Istorical research, and a wonderful consciousness of 
 
 B dignity of his subject. His work, however, has 
 
 len so little understood, as to lie pronounced a mere 
 
 ; of humour, satirizing the follies of the times, 
 
 in politics and morals, and giving whimsical 
 
 Itws of human nature. 
 
 JBethis as it may : — among the papers left behind' 
 
 iwere several tales of a lighter nature, apparently 
 
 mn together from materials which he had galher- 
 
 I during his profound researches for his history, and 
 
 )icb he seems to have cast by with neglect, as un- 
 
 rtliy of publication. Some of these have fallen 
 
 ) my hands by an accident which it is needless at 
 
 lent to mention ; and one of these very stories, 
 
 I its prelude in the words of Mr Knickerbocker, I 
 
 pertook to read, by way of acquitting myself of the 
 
 vrhich I owed to the other story-tellers at the 
 
 . I subjoin it for such of my readers as are fond 
 
 Hories '. 
 
 ng age, I have been temp 
 reader one of the many' 
 Upper at the Hall. Imig 
 la series almost equal in nt 
 Is ;butsomewereratherlii 
 Irsldidnotfeelwarranledi 
 id many more were of tlie( 
 
 turned principally wpoHtif 
 _;,andSeringapaUm,enUve 
 leedsof TippooSaib,and' 
 
 Pendergast. 
 lainedaquietpostata 
 ladbeen able to indulge i 
 listening attentively when 
 .id dozing a little when It' 
 Insider the perfection ofau 
 
 ±r evening from a slight tti 
 fi duruig one of the gen 
 lall from the squire to (iin 
 
 ll find that the tale of Rip Van Winkle, given in the Sketch 
 
 \, has been discovered by divers writers in magaxines. to have 
 
 f (mndol on a IIKIc Gorman tradition, and the mailer has 
 
 TIIE HAUNTED HOUSE. 
 
 FBOM THE MSS. OF TUB LATB DIBDBICH BNICKBHOCKBI. 
 
 Formerly almost every place had a house of this kind. If a 
 house was sealed on some melancholy place , or built in some old 
 romantic manner, or if any particular accident had happened in 
 it, such as murder, sudden death, or the like, to be sure that 
 house had a mark set on it, and was afterwards esteemed the ha- 
 bitaUon of a ghost. Boubne's ahtiquitibb. 
 
 In the neighbourhood of the ancient city of the 
 Manhattoes there stood, not very many years since, 
 an old mansion, which, when I was a boy, went by 
 the name of the Haunted House. It was one of the 
 very few remains of the architecture of the early 
 Dutch settlers, and must have been a house of some 
 consequence at the time when it was built. It con- 
 sisted of a centre and two wings, the gable ends of 
 which were shaped like stairs. It was built partly of 
 wood, and partly of small Dutch bricks, such as the 
 worthy colonists brought with them from Holland, 
 before they discovered that bricks could be manufac- 
 tured elsewhere. The house stood remote from the 
 road, in the centre of a large field, with an avenue of 
 old locust-trees ' leading up to it, several of which had 
 been shivered by lightning, and two or three blown 
 down. A few apple-trees grew straggling about the 
 field; there were traces also of what had been a 
 kitchen-garden; but the fences were broken down, 
 the vegetables had disappeared, or had grown wild 
 and turned to little better than weeds, with here and 
 there a ragged rose-bush, or a tall sunflower shooting 
 up from among brambles, and hanging its head sor- 
 rowfully, as if contemplating the surrounding desola- 
 tion. Part of the roof of the old house had fallen in, 
 the windows were shattered, the pannels of the doors 
 broken, and mended with rough boards, and there 
 were two rusty weathercocks at the ends of the house, 
 which made a great jingling and whistling as they 
 whirled about, but always pointed wrong. The ap- 
 pearance of the whole place was forlorn and desolate 
 at the best of times; but, in unruly weather, the howl- 
 ing of the wind about the crazy old mansion, the 
 screeching of the weathercocks, the slamming and 
 banging ofa few loose window-shutters, had altogether 
 so wild and dreary an effect, that the neighbourhood 
 stood perfectly in awe of the place, and pronounced 
 
 been revealed to the world as if it were a foul instance of plagia- 
 rism marvellously brought to lif;ht. In a note which follows that 
 tale I had alluded to the su|)erstition on which it was founded, and 
 I thought a mere allusion was suflicicnt, as the tradition was so 
 notorious as to be inserted in almost every collection of German 
 legends. 1 had seen it myself in three. I could hardly have hop- 
 ed, therefore. In the present age, when every source of ghost and 
 goblin story Is ransacked, that the origin of the tale would escape 
 discovery. In fact, I had considered popular tradllioo* of the 
 kind as fair foundations for authors of Action to build upon, and 
 had made use of the one In question accordingly. I am not dis- 
 pwed to contest the matter, however, and indeed consider my scit 
 so completely overpaid by the public for my triviid performances, 
 that I am content to submit to any deduction which, in their 
 aRcr-lhoughts, they may think proper to make. 
 • Acacias. 
 
448 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 it the rendezvous of hobgoblins. I recollect the old 
 building well; for I remember how many times, 
 when an idle, unlucky urchin, I have prowled rotmd 
 iU precincts, with some of my graceless companions, 
 on holiday afternoons, when out ona freebootingcruise 
 among the orchards. There was a tree standing near 
 the house that bore the most beautiful and tempting 
 fruit; but then it was on enchanted ground, for the 
 place was so charmed by frigiitful stories that we 
 dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would ven- 
 ture in a body, and get near the Hesperian tree, 
 keeping an eye upon the old mansion, and darling 
 fearful glances into its shattere<l windows; when, 
 just as we were about to seize upon our prize, an ex- 
 clamation from some one of the gang, or an accident- 
 al noise, would throw us all into a panic, and we 
 would scamper headlong from the place, nor stop un- 
 til we had got quite into (he road. Then there were 
 sure to be a host of fearful anecdotes told of strange 
 cries and groans, or of some hideous face suddenly 
 seen staring out of one of the windows. By degrees 
 we ceased to venture into these lonely grounds, but 
 would stand at a distance and throw slones at the 
 building; and there was something fearfully pleasing 
 in the sound as they rattled along the roof, or some- 
 times struck some jingling fragments of glass outof the 
 windows. 
 
 The origin of this house was lost in the obscurity 
 that covers the early period of the province, while un- 
 der (he government of their high mightinesses the 
 states-general. Some reported it to have been a 
 country-residence of Wilhehnus Kiefl, commonly 
 called the Testy, one of the Dutch governors of New 
 Amsterdam ; olhers said that it had been built by a 
 naval commander who served under Van Tromp, and 
 who, on being disappointed of preferment, retired 
 from the service in disgust, became a philosopher 
 through sheer spite, and brought over all his wealth 
 to the province, that he might live according to his 
 humour, and despise the world. The reason of its 
 having fallen to decay was likewise a matter of dis- 
 pute ; some said that it was in chancery, and had al- 
 ready cost more than its worth in legal expenses; but 
 the most current, and, of course, the most probable 
 account, was that it was haunted, and that nobody 
 could live quietly in it. There can, in fact, be very 
 little doubt that this last was the case, there were so 
 many corrolrarating stories to prove it, — not an old 
 woman in the neighbourhood but could furnish at 
 least a score. There was a grey-headed curmudgeon 
 of a negro that lived hard by, who had a whole bud- 
 get of them to tell, many of which had happened to 
 himself. I recollect many a time stopping with my 
 schoolmates, and gelling him to relate some. The 
 old crone lived in a hovel, in the midst of a small patch 
 of potatoes and Indian corn, which his master had 
 given him on setting him free. He would come to 
 us, with Iiis hoe in his hand, and as we sat perched, 
 like a row of swallows, on the rail of the fence, in (he 
 mellow twilight of a summer evening, he would tell 
 
 us such fearful stories, accompanied by such avful i 
 rollings of his white eyes, that we were almost afraid ' 
 of our own footsteps as we returned home afterwards 
 in the dark. 
 
 Poor old Pompey ! many years are past since he I 
 died, and went to keep company with the ghosts Ik I 
 was so fond of talking about. He was buried in )| 
 corner of his own little potatoe-patch ; the plough s<ioo I 
 passed over his grave, and levelled it wi(h the rest ofl 
 ihe field, and nobody thought any more of the grej-f 
 headed negro. By singular chance I was s(rollingio| 
 (hat neighbourhood several years afterwards, when [I 
 liad grown up to be a young man, and I found a knot! 
 of gossips speculating on a skull which had just beeal 
 turned up by a ploughshare. They of course determin-l 
 ed it to be the remains of some one tliat had beeal 
 murdered, and they had raked up with it some ofliiel 
 traditionary tales of the Haunted House. I knev m 
 at once to be the relic of pour Pompey, but I heldoifl 
 tongue; for I am too considerate of other people's t 
 joyment ever to mar a slory of a ghost or a murdcrj 
 I look care, however, to see the bones of my i 
 friend once more bunetl in a place where they na 
 not likely to be disturbed. As I sat on Ihe turf j 
 watched the interment, I fell into a long conversaii 
 with an old gentleman of the neighbourhood, Jo| 
 Josse Yandernioere, a pleasant gossiping man, wh 
 whole life was spent in hearing and telling the new 
 of the province. He recollected old Pompey, am 
 his stories about the Haunted House ; but he assui 
 me he could give me one still more strange than i 
 that Pompey had related; and on my expressing] 
 great curiosity to hear it, he sat down beside me a 
 the turf, and told the following lale. I have endei 
 voured to give it as nearly as possible in his vroi 
 hut it is now many years since, and I amgrowno 
 and my memory is not over-good. I cannol tlieref«{ 
 vouch for the language, but I am always scrup 
 as to fads. D. K, 
 
 DOLPII HEYLIGER. 
 
 " I take the (own of concord, where I dwell, 
 
 AH Kilborn be my wUnpss, Ifl were not 
 
 Begot in bashfulncss. brought up in shameraccdnoiK; 
 
 Let 'un bring a dog but to my vace that can 
 
 Zay I have beat 'un, and without a vault ; 
 
 Or but a cat will swear upon a book, 
 
 I have as much as zel a vire her tail, 
 
 And I'll give him or her a crown for 'mends." 
 
 TiLE or k 1 
 
 In the early lime of the province of New-Yoj 
 while it groaned under the tyranny of the £ii{ 
 governor, Lord Cornbury, who carried his criK 
 towards the Dutch inhabitants so far as to allow | 
 Dominie, or schoolmaster, to officiate in their I 
 gnage, without his special licence ; about this i 
 there lived in the jolly, little old city of the I 
 
 I decent ( 
 tan every 
 Bd now 
 ^illi sud( 
 e other ( 
 jigabond 
 bily-lnity 
 I spit, 
 :nant as 
 ■ approai 
 ■But thoi 
 I lliose hii 
 iupaf 
 ithe 
 i Ihe fan 
 fherm; 
 ^ed by 
 was 
 ^hbourhc 
 
BRACEBRIDGK HA1.L. 
 
 449 
 
 )mpanied by such avful 
 lial we were almost afrakl ' 
 relumed home afterffardi , 
 
 r years are past since he I 
 npany with the ghosts Ik 
 lut. He was buried in i 
 toe-patch ; the plougli sitoo 
 levelled it with the rest of | 
 ight any more of the grej- 
 ar chance I was strolling in I 
 il years afterwards, wlienll 
 ng man, and I found aiinotl 
 I skull which had just beta 
 e. They of course determin-l 
 of some one that had beeal 
 raked up with it some o[tlie| 
 Haunted House. 1 knew 
 poor Pompey, but Iliddmyl 
 iiderate of other people's! 
 ury of a ghost or a murderJ 
 
 see the bones of my 
 in a place where they \te 
 
 a. As I sat on the lurt id 
 
 1 fell into a long conversali 
 of the neighbourhowl, Jo 
 ileasant gossiping man, wl 
 hearing and telling Die nei 
 ■ecollected old Pompey, 
 lunted House; butlieassa 
 16 still more strange than 
 ed; and on my expressing j 
 lit, he sal down beside ine( 
 )u'owing tale. I have ende 
 lily as possible in liis won 
 rs since, and I am grownri 
 )ver-good. I cannot Iheretoi 
 . butlamalwaysscrupi 
 
 •"' D. K. 
 
 IIEYLIGER. 
 
 oncord, where I dwell, 
 Itness, iflwerenot 
 [brouglitup In sliaraefaccdnoss 
 lit to my vace that can 
 Ld williout a vault ; 
 ur upon a liook, 
 lavireherlail, 
 her a crown (or "mends." 
 
 tkht OF I II 
 
 bf the province of New4( 
 tr the tyranny of the Er" 
 tury, who carried his en 
 tiabitants so far as to allow 
 lister, to officiate in theit 
 clallicence; about this II 
 little old city of the 
 
 baKoes, a kind motherly dame, known by the name 
 of Dame Heyiiger. She was the widow of a Dutch 
 lea-captain, who died suddenly of a fever, in con- 
 sequence of working too hard, and eating too hearti- 
 |f. at the lime wlien all the inhabitants turned out 
 in a panic, to fortify the place against the invasion of 
 asinail French privateer." He left her with very 
 little money, and one infant son, the only survivor 
 of several children. The good woman had need of 
 much management to make both ends meet, and 
 keep np a decent appearance. However, as her 
 husband had fallen a victim to his zeal for the public 
 safety, it was universally agreed that '^ something 
 ouslit 10 be done for the widow ; " and on the hopes 
 of this " something " she lived tolerably for some 
 lyears; in the mean time every body pitied and spoke 
 well of her, and that helped along. 
 She lived in a small house, in a small street, called 
 aitlen-slreet, very probably from a garden which 
 y have flourished there some time or other. As 
 T necessities every year grew greater, and the talk 
 tlieptiblic about doing " something for her " grew 
 ;, she had to cast about for some mode of doing 
 imelhing for horself, by way of helping out her 
 lender means, and maintaining her independence, 
 which she was somewhat tenacious. 
 Living in a mercantile town, she had caught some- 
 ngof ihe spirit, and determined to venture a little 
 the great lottery of commerce. On a sudden, 
 refore, to the great surprise of the street, there 
 lared at her window a grand array of ginger- 
 ead kings and queens, with their arms stuck a- 
 iibo, after the invariable royal manner. There 
 ere also several broken tumblers, some iilled with 
 igar-plums, some with marbles; there were, more- 
 rer, cakes of various kinds, and barley-sugar, and 
 lolland dolls, and wooden horses, with here and 
 re gilt-covered picture-books, and now and then 
 skein of thread, or a dangling pound of candles. 
 the door of the house sat the good old dame's cat, 
 decent demure-looking personage, that seemed to 
 iQ every body that passed, to criticize their dress, 
 now and then to stretch her neck, and look out 
 ilh sudden curiosity, to see what was going on at 
 other end of the street; but if by chance any idle 
 igabond dog came by, and offered to be uncivil — 
 lily-toity !— how she would bristle up, and growl, 
 spit, and strike out her paws! she was as in- 
 lant as ever was an ancient and ugly spinster on 
 approach of some graceless profligate. 
 at though the good woman had to come down 
 lliose humble means of subsistence, yet she still 
 up a feeling of family pride, having descended 
 Ibe Yanderspiegels, of Amsterdam; and she 
 the family arms painted and framed, and hung 
 her mantel-piece. She was, in truth, much re- 
 ted by all the poorer people of the place ; her 
 was quite a resort of the old wives of the 
 ;bbourhood ; they would drop in there of a winter's 
 
 ' 1703. 
 
 aflernoon, as she sat knitting on one side of her fire- 
 place, her cat pnrring on the other, and the tea-kettle 
 singing before it ; and they would gossip with her 
 until late in the evening. There was always an 
 arm-chair for Peter de Groodt, sometimes called Long 
 Peter, and sometimes Peter Longlegs, the clerk and 
 sexton of the little Lutheran church, who was her 
 great crony, and indeed the oracle of lier fire-side. 
 Nay, the Dominie himself did not disdain, now and 
 then, to step in, converse about the state of her mind, 
 and take a glass of her special good cherry-brandy. 
 Indeed, he never failed to call on new year's day, 
 and wish her a happy new year; and the good 
 dame, who was a little vain on some points, always 
 pi<|ued herself on giving him as large a cake as any 
 one in town. 
 
 I have said that she had one son. He was the 
 child of her old age; but could hanlly be called the 
 comfort, for, of all unlucky urchins, Dolph Heyiiger 
 was the most mischievous. Not that the whipster 
 was really vicious ; he was only full of fun and frolic, 
 and had that daring, gamesome spirit, which is ex- 
 tolled in a rich man's child, but execrated in a poor 
 man's. He was continually getting into scrapes : his 
 mother was incessantly harassed with complaints of 
 some waggish pranks which he had played off : bifis 
 were sent in for windows that he had broken; in a 
 word, he had not reached his fourteenth year before 
 he was pronounced by all the neighbourhood, to be 
 a " wicked dog, the wickedest dog in the street ! " 
 Nay, one old gentleman, in a clarel-coloured coat, 
 with a thin red face, and ferret eyes, went so far as 
 to assure Dame Heyiiger, that her son would, one 
 day or other, come to the gallows ! 
 
 Yet, notwithstanding all this, the poor old soul 
 loved her boy. It seemed as though she loved him 
 the better the worse he behaved ; and that he grew 
 more in her favour, the more he grew out of favour 
 with the world. Mothers are foolish fond-hearted 
 beings ; there's no reasoning them o>' • i iheir dotage ; 
 and, indeed, this poor woman's cin : vas all that 
 was left to love her in this world ;— so .ve must not 
 think it hard that she turned a deaf ear to her good 
 friends, who sought to prove to her that Dolph would 
 come to a halter. 
 
 To do the varlet justice, too, he was strongly at- 
 tached to his parent. He "vould not willingly have 
 given her pain on any account ; and when he had 
 been doing wrong, it was but for him to catch his 
 poor mother's eye fixed wistfully and sorrowfully 
 upon him, to fill his heart with bitterness and con- 
 trition. But he was a heedless youngster, and could 
 not, for the life of him, resist any new temptation to 
 fun and mischief. Though quick at his learning, 
 whenever he could be brought to apply himself, yet 
 he was always prone to be led away by idle company, 
 and would play tryanl to hunt after birds' nests, tu 
 rob orchards, or to swim in the Hudson. 
 
 In this way he grevk' up, a tall, lubberly boy ; and 
 his mother began to be greatly perplexed what to do 
 
4m 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 ■%! 
 
 4 : 
 
 U 
 
 irH'" 
 
 with him, or how to put him in a way to do for him- 
 self; for he had acquhred iinch an unlucky reputation, 
 that no one iwemed willing to employ him. 
 
 Many were the consultations that she held with 
 Feter de Groodt, the clerk and sexton, who was her 
 prime counsellor. Peter was as much perplexed as 
 herself, for he had no great opinion of the boy, and 
 thought he would never come to good. He at one 
 time advised her to send him to sea ; a piece of advice 
 only given in the most desperate cases ; but Dame 
 Heyiiger would not listen to such an idea; she could 
 not think of letting Dolph go out of her sight. She 
 was sitting one day knitting by her fire-side, in great 
 perplexity, when the sexton entered with an air of 
 unusual vivacity and briskness. He had just come 
 from a funeral. It had been that of a boy of Dolph's 
 years, who had been apprentice to a famous German 
 doctor, and had died of a consumption. It is true, 
 there had been a whisper that the deceased had l)een 
 brought to his end by being made the subject of the 
 doctor's experiments, on which he was apt to try the 
 effects of a new compound, or a quieting-draught. 
 This, however, it is likely, was a mere scandal ; at 
 any rate, Peter de Groodt did not think it worth men- 
 tioning; though, had we time to philosophize, it would 
 be a curious matter for speculation, why a doctor's 
 family is apt to be so lean and cadaverous, and a but- 
 cher's so jolly and rubicund. 
 
 Peter deGroodt, as I said before, entered tliehouse 
 of Dame Heyiiger with unusual alacrity. He was 
 full of a bright idea that had popped into his head at 
 the funeral, and over which he had chuckled as he 
 shovelled the earth into the grave of the doctor's dis- 
 ciple. It had occurred to him, that, as the situation of 
 the deceased was vacant at the doctor's, it would be 
 the very place for Dolph. The boy had parts, and 
 could pound a pestle, and run an errand with any 
 boy in the town, and what more was wanted in a 
 student? 
 
 The suggestion of the sage Peter was a vision of 
 glory to the mother. She already saw Dolph, in her 
 mind's eye, with a cane at his nose, a knocker at his 
 door, and an M. D. at the end of his name— one of 
 the established dignitaries of the town. 
 
 The matter, once undertaken, was soon effected : 
 the sexton had some influence with the doctor, they 
 having had much dealing together in the way of their 
 separate professions; and the very next morning he 
 called and conducted the urchin, clad in his Sunday 
 clothes, to undergo the inspeelion ofDr Karl Lodovick 
 Knipperhausen. 
 
 They found the doctor seated in an elbow-chair, in 
 one corner of his study, or laboratory, with a large 
 volume, in German print, before him. He was a 
 short fat man, with a dark square face, renderedmore 
 dark by a black velvet cap. He had a little knobbed 
 n se, not unlike the ace of spades, with a pair of spec- 
 tacles gleaming on each side ofhis dusky countenance, 
 like a couple of bow windows. 
 
 Dolph felt strnck with awe on entering into the 
 
 presence of this learned man; and gazed about himi 
 with boyish wonder at the furniture of this chamber I 
 of knowledge, which ap|ieared to him almost as thel 
 deii of a magician. In the centre stood a claw-fooiedj 
 table, with pestle and mortar, phials and galli|)oij,| 
 and a |»ir of small burnished scales. At one end) 
 was a heavy cluthes-press, turneil into a recepiacifl 
 for drugs and compounds; against which iiung tlttl 
 doctor's hat and cloak, and gold-headed cane, and ogl 
 the top grinned a human skull. Along the nianttl-l 
 piece were glass vessels, in whicli were snakes and iJ 
 zards, and a human foetus preserved in spirits. \\ 
 closet, the doors of which were taken off, containril 
 three whole shelves of hooks, and some tooorn)ij>liiT| 
 folio dimensions ; a collection, the like of which Dolpbl 
 had never before beheld. As, however, the librarrl 
 did nut take up the whole of the closet, the doctor'if 
 thrifty housekeeper had occupied the rest with | 
 of pickles and preserves; and had hung about i 
 room, among awful implements of the lieaiing art 
 strings of red pepper and corpulent cucumlters, cii 
 fully preserved for seed. 
 
 Peter de Groodt, and his proUiji, were rectiid 
 with great gravity and stnteliness by the doctor, vhi 
 was a very wise, digniiied little man, and never s 
 rd. He suneyed Dolph from head to foot, aiuvtj 
 and under, and through his spectacles, and tliep 
 lad's heart quailed as these great glasses glared onh 
 like two full moons. The doctor heard all that Pd 
 de Groodt had to say in favour of the youthful ( 
 didate; and then, wetting his thumb with theendt 
 his tongue, he began deliberately to turn over | 
 after page of the great black volume before him. 
 length, after many hums and haws, and strokingsil 
 the chin, and all that hesitation and deliberation nq 
 which a wise man proceeds to do what he inteii 
 to do from the very first, the doctor agreed to t 
 the lad as a disciple; to give him bed, l)oard,i 
 clothing, and to instruct him in the healing arl;i| 
 return for which he was to have his services until li 
 twenty-first year. 
 
 Behold, then, our hero, all at once transfon 
 from an unlucky urchin, running wild about l 
 streets, to a student of medicine, diligently pound 
 a pestle, under the auspices of the learned 
 Karl Lodovick Knipperhausen. It was a happy In 
 sition for his fond old mother. She was delight^ 
 with the idea of her boy's being brought up wori 
 ofhis ancestors; and anticipated the day niien^ 
 would be able to hold up his head with the Ian 
 that lived in the large house opposite; or, peradrtj 
 ture, with the Dominie himself. 
 
 Doctor Knipperhausen was a native of the Pal 
 nate in Germany ; from whence, in company 
 many ofhis countrymen, he had taken refuge in i 
 land, on account of religious persecution. He ' 
 one of nearly three thousand Palatines, who i 
 over from England in \1\(i, under the protectiM| 
 Governor Hunter. Where the doctor had stu 
 how he had acquired his medical knowledge,! 
 
 "W 
 
BIlACfiBRlDGE HALL. 
 
 461 
 
 i; and gazed about him 
 urnilure of this chamber I 
 red to him almost as tht I 
 entre stootl a claw-tootalj 
 tar, phials and gaUipouJ 
 ned scales. At one end! 
 turned into a recepiaclfl 
 against which liung tiiel 
 goUl-headed cane, and ogl 
 ikuU. Along the nunttl-l 
 which were snakes and 1^1 
 , preservetl in spirits. Al 
 were taken off, contaimdl 
 ks and some too of nilM 
 on, the like of which Dolphj 
 As, however, thelibrar 
 of the closet, the dnciot'!| 
 ccupied the rest with| 
 ; and had hung about l 
 ements of the healing art 
 corpulent cucumlwrs, cai 
 
 his prothji. were recent* 
 ateliness by the doctor, wh 
 dlittle man, and never sm 
 1 from head to foot, abovf| 
 his spectacles, and the [ 
 se great glasses glared onh 
 lie doctor heard all thai Pelej 
 I favour of the youthful ( 
 in his thumb with the endd 
 eliberately to turn over | 
 lack volume before him. 
 
 and haws, and strokingsj 
 jsitalion and deliberation ^ 
 eeds to do what he inten' 
 the doctor agreed to I 
 give him bed, l)oard, 
 him in the healing art; i 
 to have his services until k 
 
 A, 
 
 t 
 
 transfer 
 
 ,lwre lie had received his diploma, it is hard at pre- 
 sent to say, for nobody knew at the time ; yet it is cer- 
 tain (hat his profound skill and abstruse knowledf^e 
 were the talk and wonder of (he common people, far 
 and near. 
 
 lib practice was totally different from that of any 
 iotiier physician ; consisting in mysterious compounds, 
 Ikoovrn only to himself, in the preparing and admi- 
 nistering of which, it was said, he always consulted 
 {(be stars. So high an opinion was entertained of his 
 ill, particularly by the Orman and Dutch inhabit- 
 ils, that they always resorted to liim in desperate 
 He was one of those infallible doctors, that 
 i always effecting sudden and surprising cures, 
 [ben the patient has been given up by all the regu- 
 physicians ; unless, as is shrewdly observed, the 
 has l)een left too long before it was put into their 
 Is. The doctor's library was the talk and marvel 
 tiie neighbourhood, I might almost say of the entire 
 irgh. The good people looked with reverence at 
 nian that had read three whole shelves full of liooks, 
 some of lliem too as large as a family Bible. 
 !re were many disputes among (he members of 
 little Lutheran church, as to which was the wisest 
 I, the doctor or the Dominie. Some of his aduii- 
 eren went so far as to say, that he knew more 
 in tlie governor himself— in a word, it was thought 
 It there was no end to his knowledge. 
 No sooner was Dolph received into the doctor's fa- 
 |iiY, than he was put in possession of the lodging of 
 predecessor. It was a garret-room of a sleep- 
 fed Dutch house, where the rain pattered on the 
 igies, and the lightning gleamed, and the wind 
 through the crannies in stormy weather; and 
 irewiiole troops of hungry rats, like Don Cossacks, 
 
 about, in defiance of Ith\)s and rat.sbane. 
 
 le was soon up to his ears in medical studies, being 
 
 iloyed, morning, noon, and night, in rolling pills, 
 
 ing tinctures, or pounding the pestle and mortar 
 
 {oDe corner of the laboratory ; while the doctor 
 
 take his seat in another corner, when he had 
 
 liingelse to do, or expected visitors, and, arrayed 
 
 morning-gown and velvet cap, would pore over 
 
 Icontents of some folio volume. It is true, that the 
 
 lar thumping of Doiph's pestle, or, perhaps, the 
 
 'sy buzzing of the summer flies, would now and 
 
 lull tlie little man into a slumber; but then his 
 
 were always wide awake, and studiously 
 
 ling the book. 
 
 ire was another personage in the house, how- 
 
 f, to whom Dolph was obliged to pay allegiance. 
 
 igh a bachelor, and a man of such great dignity 
 
 jimportance. yet the doctor was, like many other 
 
 men, subject to petticoat government. He was 
 
 itely under the sway of his housekeeper ; a 
 
 busy, fretting housewife, in a little, round, 
 
 German cap, with a huge bunch of keys jin- 
 
 at the girdle of an exceedingly long waist. Frau 
 
 (or Frow Ilsy as it was pronounced) had accom- 
 
 him in his various migrations from Germany 
 
 He 
 
 to England, and from England tu the province; ma- 
 naging his establishment and himself too; ruling him, 
 it is true, with a gentle hand, but carrying a high 
 band with all the world beside. How she had ac- 
 quired such ascendancy I do not pretend tu say. 
 People, it is true, did talk— but liave not people been 
 prone to talk ever since the world began ? Who can 
 tell how women generally contrive to get the upper 
 hand? A husband, it is true, may now and then be 
 master in his own house; but who ever knew a ba- 
 chelor that was not managed by his housekeeper? 
 
 Indeed, Frau Ilsy's power was not confined to the 
 doctor's household. She was one of those prying . 
 gossips that know every one's business better than 
 they do themselves; and whose all-seeing eyes, and 
 all-telling tongues, are terrors throughout a neigh- 
 liourhood. 
 
 Nothing of any moment transpired in the world of 
 scandal of this little burgh, but it was known to Frau 
 Ilsy. She had her crew of cronies, that were per- 
 petually hurrying to her little parlour with some pre- 
 cious bit of news; nay, she would sometimes discuss a 
 whole volume of secret history, as she held the street- 
 door ajar, and gossiped with one of these garrulous 
 cronies in the very teeth of a December blast. 
 
 Between the doctor and the housekeeper it may 
 easily be supposed that Dolph had a busy life of it. 
 As Frau Ilsy kept the keys, and literally ruled the 
 roast, it was starvation to offend her, though he found 
 the study of her temper more perplexing even than 
 that of medicine. When not busy in the laboratory, 
 she kept him miming hither and thither on her errands; 
 and on Sundays he was obliged to accompany her to 
 and from church, and carry Iter Bible. Many a time 
 has the poor varlet stood shivering and blowing his 
 lingers, or holding bis frost-bitten nose, in the church- 
 yard, while Ilsy and her cronies were huddled toge- 
 ther, wagging their heads, and tearing some unlucky 
 character to pieces. 
 
 With all his advantages, however, Dolph made 
 very slow progress in his art. This was no fault of 
 the doctor's, certainly, for he took unwearied pains 
 with the lad, keeping him close to (he pestle and 
 mortar, or on the trot about town with phials and 
 pill-boxes; and if he ever flagged in his industry, 
 which he was rather apt to do, the doctor would fly 
 into a passion, and ask him if he ever expected to learn 
 his profession, unless he applied himself closer to his 
 study. The fact is, he still retained the fondness for 
 sport and mischief that had marked his childhood ; ttie 
 habit, indeed, had strengthened with his years, and 
 gained force from being thwarted and constrained. He 
 daily grew more and more untractable, and lost favour 
 in the eyes both of the doctor and the housekeeper. 
 
 In the mean time tlie doctor went on, waxing 
 wealthy and renowned. He was famous for his skill 
 in managing cases not laid down in the books. He had 
 cured several old women and young girls of witchcraft; 
 a terrible complaint, nearly as prevalent in the pro- 
 vince in those days as hydrophobia is at present. He 
 
453 
 
 BRACEBKIDGE HALL. 
 
 had even restored one strapping cuuntry-girl to per- 
 fect health, who had gone so far as to vomit croolied 
 pins and needles; which is considered a desfierate 
 stage of the malady. It was whispered, also, that he 
 was possessed of the art of preparing love-powders ; 
 and many applications had he in conse(|iience from 
 love-sick patients of both sexes. But all these cases 
 formed the mysterious part of his practice, in which, 
 according to the cant phrase, " secrecy and honour 
 might be depended on." Dolpli, therefore, was 
 obliged to turn out of Ihe study whenever such con- 
 sultations occurred, though it is said he learnt more 
 of the secrets of the art at the key-hole, than by all the 
 rest of his studies put together. 
 
 As the doctor increased in wealth, he began to ex- 
 tend his |H)ssessions, and to look forward, like other 
 great men, to the time when he should retire to the 
 repose of a country-seat. For this purpose he had 
 purchased a farm, or, as the Dutch settlers called it, 
 a bmverie, a few miles from town. It had been the 
 residence of a wealthy family, that had returned some 
 time since to Holland. A large mansion-house stood 
 in the centre of it, very much out of repair, and 
 which, in consequence of certain reports, had receiv- 
 ed the appellation of the Haunted House. Either 
 from these reports, or from its actual dreariness, the 
 doctor had found it impossible to get a tenant; and, 
 that the place might not fall to ruin before he could 
 reside in it himself, he had placed a country boor, 
 with his family, in one wing, with the privilege of 
 cultivating the farm on shares. 
 
 The doctor now felt all the dignity of a landholder 
 rising within him. He had a little of the German 
 pride of territory in his composition, and almost 
 looked upon himself as owner of a principality. He 
 began to complain of the fatigue of business; and 
 was fond of riding out *' to look at his estate." His 
 little expeditions to his lands were attended with a 
 bustle and parade that created a sensation through- 
 out the neighbourhood. His wall-eyed horse stood 
 stamping, and whisking off the flies, for a full hour 
 before the house. Then the doctor's saddle-bags 
 would be brought out and adjusted; then, after a 
 little while, his cloak would be rolled up and strapped 
 to the saddle; then his umbrella would be buckled to 
 the cloak; while, in the mean time, a group of ragged 
 boys, that observant class of beings, would gather 
 before (he door. At length the doctor would issue 
 forth, in a pair of jack-bools that reached above his 
 knees, and a cocked hat flapped down in front. As 
 he was a short, fat man, he took some time to mount 
 into the saddle ; and when there, he took some time 
 to have Ihe saddle and stirrups properly adjusted, 
 enjoying the wonder and admiration of the urchin 
 crowd. Even after he had set off, he would pause 
 in the middle of the street, or trot back two or three 
 times to give some parting orders; which were an- 
 swered by the housekeeper from the door, or Dolph 
 frum the study, or the black cook from the cellar, 
 or the chambermaid from the garret-window ; and I 
 
 there were generally some last words bawled after 
 him, just as he was turning the corner. 
 
 The whole neighbourhood would be aroused br 
 this pomp and circumstance. The cobbler wwilil 
 leave his last; the liarber would thrust out his frizzled 
 head, with a comb slicking in it; a knot would cuj. 
 lect at the grocer's door, and the word would k 
 buzzed from one end of the street to the other, "Tiie 
 doctor's riding out to his country seat ! " 
 
 These were golden moments for Dulph. No sooner 
 was the doctor out of sight, than pestle and moriar 
 were abandoned ; the laboratory was left to take cirtj 
 of itself, and the student was off on some mad-cai 
 frolic. 
 
 Indeetl, it must be confessed, the youngster, as 
 grew up, seemed in a fair way to fuliil the predici 
 of the old, claret-coloured gentleman. He was il 
 ringleader of all holiday sports, and midnight gai 
 bols; ready for all kinds of mischievous pranks, ai 
 harebrained adventures. 
 
 There is nothing so troublesome as a hero on 
 small scale, or, rather, a hero in a small town. M| 
 soon became Ihe abhorrence of all drowsy, In 
 keeping, old citizens, who haled noise, and iiad 
 relish for waggery. The good dames, loo, consi 
 ed him as little better than a reprobate, gathered tl 
 daughters under their wings whenever he apfii 
 ed, and pointed him out as a warning to their s( 
 ]\o one seemed to hold him in much regard, en 
 ing the wild striplings of the place, who were q 
 valcd by his open-hearted, daring manners, and 
 negroes, who always look upon every idle, do-noti 
 youngster, as a kind of gentleman. Even the 
 Peter de Groodt, who had considered himselfa 
 of patron of Ihe lad, began to despair of him; 
 would shake his head dubiously, as he listened itj 
 long complaint from the housekeeper, and si| 
 glass of her raspberry brandy. 
 
 Still his mother was not to be wearied out of 
 affection by all the waywardness of her boy; nor 
 heartened by the stories of his misdeeds, widi 
 her good friends were continually regaling her. 
 had, it is true, very little of the pleasure which 
 people enjoy, in always hearing their children 
 ed; but slie considered all this ill-will as a ki 
 persecution which he suffered, and she liked iiioi 
 better on that account. She saw him growing 
 fine, tall, good-looking youngster, and she loub 
 him Willi the secret pride of a mother's heart, 
 was her great desire that Dolph should appear 13 
 gentleman, and all the money she could save 
 towards helping out his pocket and his ward< 
 She would look out of the window after him, 
 sallied forth in his l)est array, and her heart w 
 yearn with delight; and once, when Peter deGi 
 struck with Ihe youngster's gallant appearance 
 bright Sunday morning, observed, " Well, adi 
 Dolph does grow a comely fellow ! " the learof| 
 started into the mother's eye : "Ah, ueigl 
 neighbour!" exclaimed she, " they may say 
 
 tb( 
 
 wii 
 
 I 
 
 and 
 was 
 kiie 
 ent( 
 nut 
 slioT 
 ofkE 
 tervs 
 andi 
 (lays, 
 ing a 
 could 
 wliol( 
 All 
 no fat 
 mn 
 apprei 
 ever fi 
 about] 
 bouse, 
 length 
 was to 
 Ibat gb 
 thing 1 
 youngsl 
 ranny \ 
 the do( 
 beat the 
 ternish 
 thedoct 
 Indee 
 usually! 
 and vexi 
 upon hit 
 hy the n 
 Ihe old I 
 upon th( 
 fent-free 
 »as teasi 
 and fearl 
 lurbed 
 ftelting , 
 whole Ik 
 Ihalaffec 
 Uireatene 
 properly; 
 nal const 
 house! 
 h was ( 
 1, the ( 
 IWmself; 
 ifflain on 
 way 
 ilwul in II 
 «creU)e 
 ills life i 
 indee 
 
BRVCEBRIDGE }IALL. 
 
 4(0 
 
 last words bawled after | 
 ; the corner. 
 i)d would be aroused by 
 :e. The cobbler would 
 ould tbrusl out bis frizzW 
 ' in it; a knol would ndl 
 and Ibe word would he I 
 
 • street 10 lbeolber,"Tlie| 
 ounlryseat!" 
 lenls for Dolpb. Nosoonerl 
 lit, Iban peslle and morlarl 
 iratory was left to lake carel 
 
 was off on some mad-capf 
 
 fessed, the youngster, as b 
 
 • way to fuHil ibe prediciic 
 id gentleman, lie was it 
 sports, and midnight gam 
 i of miscbievous pranks, an 
 
 roublesome as a hero on j 
 heroin a small town. D«lpl 
 •cnce of all drowsy, li« 
 i,\io baled noise, andliado 
 ,e gootl dames, loo, conside 
 an a reprobate, gathered ibi 
 ivings whenever be appro* 
 It as a warning to theirs 
 him in much regard, ext 
 of the place, who were ca[ 
 ted, daring manners, and' 
 ok upon every idle, do-nolb 
 f gentleman. Even the- 
 bad considered himself a 
 began to despair of him; 
 dubiously, as he listened 
 he housekeeper, and sir 
 
 hrandy. 
 not to be wearied out of 
 
 ^wardnessofherboy;nor 
 
 fes ofbis misdeeds, with v" 
 
 continually regaling her. 
 
 tile of the pleasure which 
 -shearing their children p 
 
 •d all this ill-will as a ku 
 iuffered, and she liked himl 
 She saw bim growing" 
 .youngster, and she loofe 
 prideofa mother's heart, 
 hat Dolpb should appear 1" 
 L money she could save 
 bis pocket and his war(i| 
 if Ibe window aaer htm, ■ 
 .8t array, and her heart'" 
 ul once, when Peter deOr« 
 
 Kstei's gallant appearance 
 
 L, observed, "Well, atle 
 
 mely fellow!" the learo 
 
 Lher's eye : "Ah, neigW 
 
 ,ed she, "they may say 
 
 tbey please; poor Dolph will yet lioUl up bis head 
 with the best of them I" 
 
 Dolph Ueyliger had now nearly attained his one- 
 and-twentieth year, and the termofhis medical studies 
 was just expiring; yet it must be confessed, that he 
 knew little more of the profession than when he first 
 entered the doctor's doors. This, however, could 
 not he from any want of quickness of parts, fur he 
 showed amazing aptness in mastering other branches 
 of knowledge, which he could only have studied at in- 
 tervals. He was, for instance, a sure marksman, 
 and won all the geese and turkeys at Christmas-holi- 
 days. He was a Iwld rider; he was famous for leap- 
 ing and wrestling; he played tolerably on the fiddle; 
 could swim like a lish ; and was the Itest hand in the 
 whole place at fives or ninepins. 
 
 All these accomplishmenis, however, procured him 
 no favour in the eyes oftlie doctor, who grew more and 
 mn crabbed and intolerant the nearer the term of 
 apprenticeship approached. Frau Ilsy, too, was fur 
 ever finding some occasion to raise a windy tempest 
 about his ears; and seldom encountered him about the 
 bouse, without a clatter of the tongue; so that at 
 length the jingling of her keys, as she approached, 
 was to Dolph like the ringing of llie prompter's bell, 
 that gives notice of a theatrical thunder-storm. No- 
 thing but the inflnite good humour of the heedless 
 youngster enabled him to bear all this domestic ty- 
 ranny without open rebellion. It was evident that 
 the doctor and his housekeeper were preparing to 
 beat the poor youth out of the nest, the moment his 
 tenn should have expired; a short-hand mode which 
 the doctor had of providing for useless disciples. 
 
 Indeed the little man had been rendered more than 
 usually irritable lately, in consefjuence of various cares 
 and vexations which his country estate had brought 
 upon him. The doctor had been repeatedly annoyed 
 by the rumours and tales which prevailed concerning 
 Ibe old mansion ; and found itdirTicult to prevail even 
 upon the countryman and his family to remain there 
 [ rent-free. Every time he rode out to the farm he 
 was teased by some fresh complaint of strange noises 
 and fearful sights, with which the tenants were dis- 
 turbed at night; and the doctor would come home 
 ftetting and fuming, and vent his spleen upon the 
 vhole household. It was indeed a sore grievance, 
 that affected him Iwth in pride and purse. He was 
 threatened with an absolute loss of the profits of his 
 properly; and then, what a blow to his territo- 
 rial consequence, to be tlie landlord of a haunted 
 
 It was observed, however, that with all his vexa- 
 
 llion, the doctor never proposed to sleep in the house 
 
 |hiinself; nay he could never be prevailed upon (o 
 
 tmain on the premises after dark, hut made the best 
 
 f his way for town is soon as the bats began to flit 
 
 ^boui in the twilight. The fact was, the doctor had 
 
 • secret iKliefin ghosts, having passed the early part 
 
 I hb life in a country where they particularly abound; 
 
 indeed the story went, that, when a boy, he 
 
 had once seen the devil upon tlie Hartz nHHinlains in 
 Germany. 
 
 At length the doctor's vexations on this head were 
 brought to a crisis. One morning, as he sat dozing 
 over a volume in his study, he was suddenly startled 
 from his slumbers by the bustling in of the house- 
 keeper. 
 
 " Here's a line to do ! " cried she, as she entered 
 the room. " Here's Glaus Hop|)er come in, bag and 
 baggage, from the farm, and swears he'll have no- 
 thing more to do with it. The whole family have 
 been frightened out of their wits ; for there's such 
 racketing and rummaging alMut the old house, that 
 they can't sleep quiet in their beds ! " 
 
 " Donner und blitzen ! " cried the doctor, impa- 
 tiently ; " will they never have done chattering about 
 that house ? What n pack of fools, to let a few rats 
 and mice frighten them out of good quarters ! " 
 
 " Nay, nay, " said the housekeeper wagging her 
 head knowingly, and pi(|ued at having a good ghost- 
 story doubted, " there's more in it Ihan rats and mice. 
 All the neighbouriiood talks about the house; and 
 then such sights have been seen in it! Peter de 
 Groodt tells me, that the family that sold you the 
 house, and went to Holland, dropped several strange 
 hints about it, and said, 'they wished you joy of your 
 bargain ; ' and you know yourself there's no gelling 
 any family to live in it." 
 
 " Peter de Groodt's a ninny— an old woman, " 
 said the doctor, peevishly ; " I'll warrant he's been 
 filling these people's heads full ofslories. It's just like 
 his nonsense about the ghost that haunted the church 
 belfry, as an excuse for not ringing Ibe hell that cold 
 night when Harmanns BrinkheriiofTs house was on 
 fire. Send Glaus to me. " 
 
 Glaus Hopper now made his appearance : a simple 
 country lout, full of awe at finding himself in the 
 very study of Dr Knipperiiausen, and loo much em- 
 barrassed to enter in much detail of the mailers that 
 had caused his alarm. He stood twirling his hat in 
 one hand, resting sometimes on one leg, sometimes 
 on the other, looking occasionally at the doctor, and 
 now and then stealing a fearful glance at the death's- 
 head that seemed ogling bim from the top of the 
 clothes-press. 
 
 The doctor tried every means to persuade him to 
 return to Ihe farm, but all in vain ; he maintained a 
 doirged determination on the subject ; and at the close 
 of every argument or solicitation would make the 
 same brief, inflexible reply, " Ich kan nicht, myn- 
 heer. " The doctor was a" Uttlepot, andsoonhot;" 
 his patience was exhausted by these continual vexa- 
 tions about his estate. The stubborn refusal of Glaus 
 Hopper seemed to him like flat rebellion ; his temper 
 suddenly boiled over, and Glaus was glad to make a 
 rapid retreat to escape scalding. 
 
 When the bumpkin got to the housekeeper's room, 
 he found Peter de Groodt, and several other true be- 
 lievers, ready to receive him. Here he indenmified 
 himself for the restraint he had suffered in tl;e study, 
 
4S4 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 :r.. 
 
 and opened a builgel of stories about the Haunted 
 House that astonished all his hearers. Tlie house- 
 keeper believed them all, if it was only to spite the 
 doctor for having received her intelligence so un- 
 oourteously. Peter de Groodt matched them with 
 many a wonderful legend of the times of the Dutch 
 dynasty, and of the Devil's Stepping-stones; and of 
 the pirate that was hanged at Gibliet Island, and con- 
 tinued to swing there at night long after the gallows 
 was taken down ; and of the ghost of the unfortunate 
 Governor I^isler, who was hanged for treason, which 
 haunted the old fort and the government-house. The 
 gossiping knot dispersed, each charged with direful 
 intelligence. The sexton disburdened hiir Keif at a 
 veslry-meetin? that was held that very day, and the 
 black cook forsook her kitchen, and spent half of the 
 day at the street-pump, that gossiping-place of ser- 
 vants, dealing forth the news to all that came fur 
 water. In a little time the whole town was in a buzz 
 with tales alMut the Haunted House. Some said that 
 Glaus Hopper had seen the devil, while others hinted 
 that the house wus haunted by the ghosts of some of 
 the patients wl»om the doctor had physicked out of 
 the world, and that was the reason why lie did not 
 venture to live in it himself. 
 
 All this put the lillle doctor in a terrible fume. He 
 threatened vengeance on any one who should affect 
 the value of his properly by exciting popular preju- 
 dices. He complained loudly of thus being in a manner 
 dispossessed of his territories by mere bugbears ; but 
 he secretly determined to have the house exorcised 
 by the Dominie. Great was his relief, therefore, 
 when, in the midst of his perplexities, Dolph stepped 
 forward and undertook to garrison the Haunted House. 
 The youngster had been li ening to all the stories of 
 Glaus Hopper and Peter de Groodt : he was fond of 
 adventure, he loved the marvellous, and his imagina- 
 tion had become quite excited by these tales of 
 wonder. Besides, he had led such an uncomfortable 
 life at the doctor'*, uemg subjected to the intolerable 
 thraldom of early hours, that he was delighted at tlie 
 prospect of having a house to himself, even tliougi» 
 it slmdd be a haunted one. His offer was eagerly 
 accepted, and it was determined that he should mount 
 guard that very night. His only stipulation was, 
 that the cnterprize should be kept secret from his 
 mother ; for he knew the poor soul would not sleep 
 a wink if she knew that her son was waging war 
 with the lowers of darkness. 
 
 When night came on he set out on this perilous 
 exiHHlition. The old black cook, his only friend in 
 the household, had provided him with a little mess 
 for supper, and a rushlip'i-t ; and she tied round his 
 neck an amulet, given her by an African conjuror, 
 as a charm against evil spirits. Dolph was escorted 
 on his way by the doctor and Peter de Groodt, who 
 had agreed to accompany him to the house, and to 
 see him safe lodged. The night was overcast, and it 
 was very dark when they arrived at the grounds 
 which surrounded the mansion. The sexton led the 
 
 way with a lantern. As they walked along the ate 
 nue of acacias, the fitful light, catching from bush to 
 bush, and tree to tree, often startled tlie doughty 
 Peter, and made him fall back upon his followers ■ 
 and the doctor grappled still closer hold of bolph's 
 arm, observing that the ground was very slippery and 
 uneven. At one time they were nearly put to to- 
 tal rout by a Iml, which came flitting about the lan- 
 tern; and the notes of the insects from the trees, and 
 the frogs from a neighbouring pond, formed a roost 
 drowsy and doleful concert. 
 
 The front door of the mansion opened with a grat- 
 ing sound, that made the doctor turn pale. They 
 entered a tolerably large hall, such as is common in 
 American country-houses, and which serves for a 
 sitting-room in warm weather. From hence they 
 went up a wide staircase, that groaned and creaked 
 as they trod, every step making its particular note, 
 like the key of a harpsichord. This led t .other 
 hall on the second story, from whence they entered 
 the room where Dolph was to sleep. It w s large, 
 and scantily furnished ; the shutters were ciused; bai 
 as they were much broken, there was no want of a 
 circulation of air. It appeared to have been thai 
 sacred chamber, known among Dutch housewives by 
 the name of " the best bed-room; " which •• the best 
 furnished room in the house, but in whic. siarceany 
 iHxIy is ever i)erinitted to sleep. Its splendour, how- 
 ever, was all at an end. There were a few broken | 
 articles of furniture about the room, and in t'-e centre 
 stood a heavy deal table and a large arm-r' uir, bolli 
 of which had the look of being coeval wi' the man- 
 sion. The fire-place was wide, and bac teen Taced I 
 with Dutch tiles, representing Scripture .oi'ies;but 
 some of them had fallen out of their pi' js, and lay 
 shattered about the hearth. The ser a had lit the 
 rushlight; and the doctor, looking f fully about the 
 room, was just exhorting Dolph *' e of goo<l cheer, 
 and to pluck up a stout heai t, v ma noise in the 
 chimney, like voices and strugg ig, struck a sudden 
 panic into the sexton. He tooK o his heels with 
 the lantern; the doctor followed hard after him; tlie| 
 stairs groaned and creaked as they hurrird down, in- 
 creasing their agitation and spee*i by its noises. The | 
 front door slammed after them; and Dolph heanll 
 them scrambling down the avenue, till the sound of I 
 their feet was lost in the distance. That he did not | 
 join in this precipitate retreat might have been owing I 
 to his possessing a little more courage than his com- [ 
 panions, or perhaps that be had caught a glimpse oil 
 the cause of their dismay, in a nest of chimney swal-[ 
 lows, that came tumbling down into the fire-place, 
 
 Being now left to himself, he secured the front I 
 door by a strong bolt and bar ; and having seen thall 
 the other entrances were fastened, he returnetl lohiij 
 desolate chamber. Having made his supper from tliel 
 basket which the good old cook had provided, he| 
 locked the chaml)er door, and retired to rest oni 
 mattress in one corner. The night was calm anJl 
 still ; and nothing broke upon (he profound quiet, Nl 
 
'**^iiv^ 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4^ 
 
 walked along the ave 
 catching from bush to 
 sUrtled tlie doughty 
 k upon hia fol'owere ; 
 closer hold of bolph's 
 1 was very slippery and 
 ifere nearly put to to- 
 ; flitting about the lan- 
 •cts from the trees, and 
 tg pond, formed a most 
 
 sion opened with a gral 
 oclor turn pale. They 
 such as is common in 
 »nd which serves for a 
 lier. From hence tliey 
 at groaned and creaked 
 
 king its particular note, 
 ■d. This led t .other 
 im whence they entered 
 to sleep. It >\ s large, 
 shutters were ciosed; bul 
 , there was no want of a 
 eared to have been thai 
 long Dutch housewives by 
 -room;" whicV- ''the best 
 e, butinwhit.staiceany 
 jep. Its splendour, liow- 
 Ihere were a few broken 
 he room, and in t'e centre 
 id a large arm-r' m, both 
 eing coeval wi' the man- 
 wide, and hat )een faced 
 Ling Scripturf .ories;bul 
 It of their pi' ^s, and lay 
 The sex a had lit the 
 looking f tuUy about the 
 Oolph »' e of good cheer, 
 •ak t V *n a noise in the 
 lru"g "g» struck a sadden 
 e loOK his heels with 
 owed hard after him; lh« 
 as they hurried down, in- 
 speed by its noises. The 
 liiem; and Dolph heard 
 avenue, till the sound ol 
 islance. That he did nol 
 at might have been owin? 
 re courage than his corn- 
 bad caught a glimpse ot 
 ma nest of chimney 8*al- 
 down inUT the lire-place. 
 ;elf, he secured the front 
 lar; and having seen iW 
 stened, he returned to h» 
 , made his supper from ilie 
 Id cook had provided, lie] 
 and retired to rest on»| 
 The night was calm aiw 
 the profound quiet, Wl 
 
 the lonely chirping of a cricket from the cl imney of 
 a distant chamber. The rushlight, which stood in 
 the centre of the deal table, shed a feeble yellow ray, 
 dimly illumining the chamber, and making uncouth 
 shapes and shadows on Mie walls, from the clothes 
 whicii Dolph had thrown over a chair. 
 
 With all his boldness of heart there was something 
 I subduing in this desolate scene ; and he felt his spi- 
 I rits Hag within him, as he lay on his hard bed and 
 gazed about the room. He was turning over in his 
 mind his idle habits, his doubtful prospects, and now 
 and then heaving a heavy .<iigh, as he thought on his 
 poor old mother ; for there is nothing like the silence 
 and loneliness of night to bring dark shadows over 
 the brightest mind. By and bye he thought he heard 
 a sound as it some one was walking below stairs. He 
 ILttened, and distinctly heard a step on the great stair- 
 case. It approached solenmly and slowly, tramp — 
 tramp— tramp ! It was evidently the tread of some 
 heavy personage; and yet how could he have got into 
 (he house without making a noise? He had exa- 
 Duned all the fastenings, and was certain that every 
 lenlrance was secure. Still the steps advanced, tramp 
 l-tramp— tramp I It was evident that the person 
 ipproaching could not be a robber, the step was too 
 dand deliberate; a robber would either he stealthy 
 precipitate. And now the footsteps had asceiuled 
 Ihe staircase; they were slowly advancing along the 
 ge, resounding through the silent and empty 
 tments. The very cricket had ceased its me- 
 icholy note, and nothing interrupted their aw- 
 distinctness. The door, which had been locketl 
 tlie inside, slowly swung open, as if self-moved. 
 le footsteps entered the room ; but no one was to 
 seen. They passed slowly and audibly across it, 
 ■amp— tramp — tramp! but whatever made the 
 ind was invisible. Dolph rubbed his eyes, and 
 red about him; he could see to every part of the 
 ily-lighted chamber ; all was vacant ; yet still he 
 atd those mysterious footsteps, solemnly walking 
 int the chamber. They ceased, and all was dead 
 ience. There was something more appalling in 
 is invisible visitation, than there would have been 
 
 fany thing that addressed itself to the eyesight. It 
 
 8 awfully vague and indelinile. He felt his heart 
 
 »t against his ribs ; a cold sweat broke out upon his 
 
 tiiead ; he lay for some time in a state of violent 
 
 ^lalion; nothing, however, occurred to increase his 
 
 His light gradually burnt down into the sock- 
 
 L and he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad 
 
 ^yiight ; the sun was peering through the cracks of 
 
 1 window-shutters, and the birds were merrily 
 
 ^ng about the house. The bright cheery day 
 
 put to flii^'ht all the terrors of the preceding 
 
 fat. Dolph laugl.od, or rather tried to laugh, at 
 
 I that had passed, and endeavoured to persuade 
 
 «if that it was a mere freak of the imagination, 
 
 hjured up by the stories he had heard; but he was 
 
 pttle puzzled to find the door of his room locked on 
 
 inside, notwithstanding that he had |>08ilively 
 
 seen it swing open as the footsteps had entered. He 
 returned to town in a state of considerable perplexity ; 
 but he determined to say nothing on the subject, un- 
 til his doubts were either confirmed or removed by 
 another night's watching. His silence was a grievous 
 disappointment to the gossips who had gathered at 
 the doctor's mansion. They had prepared their 
 minds to hear direful tales ; and they were almost in 
 a rage at being assured that he had nothing to relate. 
 
 The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil. 
 He now entered the house with some trepidation. 
 He was particular in examining the fastenings of all 
 the doors, and securing them well. He locked the 
 door of his chamber and placed a chair against it ; 
 then having dispatched his supper, he threw himself 
 on his mattress and endeavoured to sleep. It was all 
 in vain ; a thousand crowding fancies kept him wak- 
 ing. The time slowly dragged on, as if minutes were 
 spinning themselves out into hours. As the night 
 advanced, he grew more and more nervous ; and he 
 almost started from his couch when he heard the 
 mysterious footstep again on the staircase. Up it 
 came, as before, solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp 
 — tramp ! It approached along the passage ; the door 
 again swung open, as if there had been neither lock 
 nor impediment, and a strange-looking figure stalked 
 into the room. It was an elderly man, large and ro- 
 bust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion. He had on 
 a kind of short cloak, with a garment under it, l)elted 
 round the waist ; trunk -hose, with great bunches or 
 bows at the knees; and a pair of russet-hoots, very 
 large at top, and standing widely from his legs. His 
 hat was broad and slouched, with a feather trailing 
 over one side. His iron-grey hair hung in thick masses 
 on his neck; and he had a short grizzled beard. He 
 walked slowly round the room, as if examining that 
 all was safe ; then hanging his hat on a peg beside the 
 door, he sat down in the elbow-chair, and leaning 
 his elbow on the table, he fixed his eyes on Dolph 
 with an unmoving and deadening stare. 
 
 Dolph was not naturally a coward ; but he had 
 been brought up in an implicit belief in ghosts and 
 goblins. A thousand stories came swarming to his 
 mind that he had heard about this building; and as 
 he looked at this strange personage, with his uncouth 
 garb, his pale visage, his grizzly beard, and his fixed, 
 staring, fish-like eye, his teeth began to chatter, his 
 hair to rise on his head, and a cold sweat to break out 
 all over his body. How long he remained in this si- 
 tuation he could not tell, for he was like one fascinat- 
 ed. He could not take his gaze off from the spectre ; 
 but lay staring at him, with his whole intellect ab- 
 sorbed in the contemplation. The old man remained 
 seated behind the table, without stirring, or turning 
 an eye, always keeping a dead steady glare upon 
 Dolpii. At length tlie household cock, from a neigh- 
 bouring farm, clapped his wings, and gave a loud 
 cheerful crow that rung over the fields. At the sound 
 the old man slowly rose, and took down his hat from 
 the peg; the door opened, and closed after him; he 
 
i'i*^ 
 
 4^ 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HAIX. 
 
 was heard to go slowly down the staircase, tramp- 
 tramp— tramp !— and when he had got to the bottom, 
 all was again silent. Dolph lay and listenetl earnest- 
 ly; counted every footfall; listened, and listened if 
 the steps should return, until, exhausted with watch- 
 ing and agitation, he fell inio a troubled sleep. 
 
 Daylight again brought fresh courage and assu- 
 rance. He would fain have considered all that had 
 passed as a mere dream ; yet there stood the chair in 
 which the unknown had seated himself; there was 
 the table on which he had leaned; there was the peg 
 on which he had hi ng his hat; and there was the 
 door, locked precisely as he himself had locked it, 
 with the chair placed against it. He hastened down 
 stairs, and examined the doors and windows; all 
 were exactly in the same state in which he had left 
 them, and there was no apparent way by which any 
 being could have entered and left tiie house, without 
 leaving some trace behind. " Pooh !" said Dolph to 
 himself, "it was all a dream :"— but it would not do; 
 the more he endeavoured to shake the scene off from 
 his mind, the more it haunted him. 
 
 Though he persisted in a strict silence as to all that 
 he had seen and heard, yet his looks betrayed the un- 
 comfortable night that he had passed. It was evident 
 thai there was something wonderful hidden under 
 this mysterious reserve. The doctor took him into 
 the study, locked the door, and sought to have a full 
 and coniidential communication ; but he could gel no- 
 thing out of him. Fran Ilsy took him aside into the 
 pantry, but to as little purpose; and Peter de Groodt 
 held him by the button for a full hour, in the church- 
 yard, the very place to get at the bottom of a ghost- 
 slory, but came off not a whit wiser Ihan the rest. 
 It is always the case, however, that one truth con- 
 cealed makes a dozen current lies. It is like a guinea 
 locked up in a bank, that has a dozen paper repre- 
 sentatives. Before the day was over, Ihe neighbour- 
 hood was full of reports. Some said that Dolph Iley- 
 liger watched in the Haunted House, with pistols 
 loaded with silver bullets ; others, that he had a long 
 talk with a spectre without a head ; others, that Doctor 
 Knipperhausen and the sexton had been hunted down 
 the Bowery-lane, and quite into town, by a legion of 
 ghosts of their customers. Some shook their heads ; 
 and thought it a shame that the doctor should put 
 Dolph to pass the night alone in that dismal house, 
 where he might be spirited away, no one knew whi- 
 ther; while others observed, with a shrug, that if the 
 devil did carry off the youngster, it would but be tak- 
 ing his own. 
 
 These rumours at length reached the ears of Ihe 
 good Dame Heyliger, and, as may be supposed, threw 
 her into a terrible alarm. For her son to have op- 
 posed himself to danger from living foes, would have 
 been nothing so dreadful in her eyes, as to dare alone 
 the terrors of the Haunted House. She hastened to 
 the doctor's, and passed a great part of the day in at- 
 tempting to dissuade Dolph from repeating his vigil ; 
 she told him a score of tales, which her gossiping 
 
 friends had just related to her, of persons who had 
 been carried off, when watching alone, in old nijQ. 
 ous houses. It was all to no effect. Dolph's pride 
 as well as curiosity, was piqued. He endeavoured to 
 calm the apprehensions of his mother, and to assure I 
 her that there was no truth in all the rumours slie 
 had heard. She looked at him dubiously, and shook 
 her head ; but finding his determination was not lobe j 
 shaken, she brought him a little thick Dutch Bible I 
 with brass clasps, to take with him, as a sword ffher^ 
 with to fight the powers of darkness; and, lest that 
 might not be sufficient, the housekeeper gave him tbel 
 Heidelburgh catechism by way of dagger. 
 
 The next night, therefore, Dolph took up his qnar- 
 ters for the third time in the old mansion. Whe-| 
 ther dream or not, the same thing was repeated. 
 Towards midnight, when every thing was still, the] 
 same sound echoed through the empty halls— trampl 
 — tramp — tramp ! The stairs were again ascended;! 
 the door again swung open; the old manenteredl 
 walked round the room ; hung up his hat, and seated! 
 himself by Ihe table. The same fear and treniblingl 
 came over poor Dolph, though not in so viulentad^| 
 gree. He lay in the same way, motionless and I 
 cinated, staring at the figure, which regarded bima 
 before with a dead, fixed, chilling gaze. In tliiswayi 
 they remained tor a long lime, till, by degrees, Delphi 
 courage began gradually to revive. Whether alivj 
 or dead, this being had certainly some object in I 
 visitation, and he recollected to have heard iu 
 that spirits have no power to speak until they 
 spoken to. Summoning up resolution, tlierefurej 
 and making two or three attempts, before he coul 
 get his parched tongue in motion, he addressed tin 
 unknown in the most solemn form of adjuration t 
 he could recollect, and demanded to know what vij 
 the motive of his visit. 
 
 IVo sooner had he finished, than the old mam 
 look down his hat, the door opened, and he wentootj 
 looking buck upon Dolph just as he crossed the tlin 
 old, as if expecting him to follow. The youn^ 
 did not hesitate an instant. He took the candle | 
 his hand, and the Bible under his arm, and obeyij 
 the tacit invilation. The candle emitted a Feebl 
 uncertain ray; but still he could see the figure belt 
 him, slowly descending the stairs. He foilowt^ 
 trembling. When it had reached the boli.omofli 
 stairs, it turned through the hall towards the badj 
 door of the mansion. Dolph held the light overti 
 balustrades; but, in his eagerness to catch a sigiitj 
 the unknown, he flared his feeble taper so siiddeoij 
 that il went out. Still there was sufficient light fnj 
 the pale moonbeams, that fell through a narrow v 
 dow, to give him an indistinct view of the li^ 
 near the door. He followed, therefore, downslaij 
 and turned towards the place; but when he had|{ 
 there, Ihe unknown had disappeared. The i 
 remained fast barred and boiled; there was no c 
 mode of exit; yet the being, whatever he mightll 
 was gone. He unfastened tiie door, and lookedl 
 
 into 
 
 that 
 
 slam 
 
 path 
 
 both 
 
 pause 
 
 ceede 
 
 him, 
 
 fassei 
 
 near I 
 
 loan 
 
 pliedtl 
 
 sight a 
 
 ti 
 
:f 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HAIJ.. 
 
 4,'»7 
 
 into tlie fields. It was a hazy, moonlight night, so 
 that the eye could distinguish objects at some di- 
 stance. He thought he saw the unknown in a foot- 
 paili that led from the door. He was not mistaken ; 
 bat how had he got out of tlie house? He did not 
 pause to think, hut followed on. The old man pro- 
 eeeiled at a measured pace, without looking about 
 him, his footsteps sounding on the hard ground. He 
 passed through the orchard of apple-trees that stood 
 near the house, always keeping the footpath. It led 
 to a well, situated in a little hollow which had sup- 
 tiousekeeper gave him the H pjiedthe farm with water. Just at this well Dolph lost 
 
 ir of persons who had 
 ling alone, in old niin- 
 effect. Dolph's pride, 
 ed. He endeavoured to I 
 s mother, and to assure 
 in all the rumours she 1 
 im dubiously, and shook 
 ermination was not to be 
 little thick Dutch Bible, 
 h him, as a sword whew- 1 
 darkness; and, lest that| 
 
 vay of dagger. 
 , Dolph took up his quat- 
 Ihe old mansion. W'he-| 
 ame thing was rep 
 every thing was slill, thel 
 h the empty halls-lrampl 
 airs were again ascended;! 
 en; the old manenUred;! 
 iunguphishat,andseatedl 
 le same fear and Iremblinjl 
 ough not in so violent ad^| 
 ,e way, motionless and I 
 ure, which regarded liima 
 , chilling gaze. ' " 
 ime, till, by degrees, Delphi 
 I to revive. Wlielheraliv(| 
 certainly some object in I 
 lecled to have heard it saidj 
 ft-er to speak until they 
 
 up resolution, therefun 
 ^e attempts, before he coii 
 
 motion, he addressed lb 
 lemn form of adjuration I 
 iemanded to know what «a| 
 
 shed, than the old man 
 loor opened, and he wenloi 
 lijuslas he crossed the thi 
 
 He thought 
 
 10 follow. The young! 
 nt. He look the candle 
 
 under his arm, and obc)! 
 he candle emitted a feel 
 Ihe could see the liguveM 
 
 _ the stairs. He follow 
 
 ad reached the bollora of 
 
 h the hall towards the" 
 
 olph held the light over 
 eagerness to catch a sight 
 his feeble taper so suddri 
 Itherewassuflicientlighltr 
 .at fell through a narrow 
 ndislinct view of the tigi 
 wed, therefore, downsii 
 place; but when he had 
 ad disappeared. The 
 iHllJolled; there was no 
 eing, whatever he m.?W 
 
 led the door, and looW 
 
 sii^ht of him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again ; 
 but nothing was to be seen of the unknown. He 
 reached the well, but nobody was there. All the 
 surrounding ground was open and clear; there was 
 no bush nor hiding-place. He looked down the well 
 and saw, at a great depth, the reflection of the sky 
 in the still water. After remaining here for some 
 lime, without seeing or hearing any thing more of 
 his mysterious conductor, he returned to the house, 
 full of awe and wonder. He boiled the door, grop- 
 ed his way back to bed, and it was long before lie 
 could compose himself to sleep. 
 His dreams were strange and troubled. 
 he was following the old man along the side of a 
 »reat river, until they came to a vessel that was on 
 die point of sailing; and that his conductor led him 
 onboard and vanished. He remembered the com- 
 mander of the vessel, a short swarthy man, with 
 cris|ied hlack hair, blind of one eye, and lame of one 
 leg; but the rest of his dream was very confused. 
 iHietimes he was sailing; sometimes on shore; now 
 lidst storms and tempests, and now wandering 
 [oietly in unknown streets. The figure of the old 
 lan was strangely mingled up with the incidents of 
 Ihedream; and the wliole distinctly wound up by his 
 Wing himself on board of the vessel again, relurn- 
 iig home, with a great bag of money ! 
 When he woke, the grey, cool light of dawn was 
 ilreaking the horizon, and the cocks passing the revet ( 
 I) farm to farm throughout the country. He rose 
 ire harassed and perplexed than ever. He was 
 gularly confounded by all that he had seen and 
 
 preamt, and began to doubt whether his mind was 
 
 I affected, and whether all that was passing in his 
 
 loughts might not be mere feverish fantasy. In his 
 
 esent stale of mind, he did not feel disposed to re- 
 
 |im immediately to the doctor's, and undergo the 
 
 iss-<|uestioning of the household. He made a 
 
 anly breakfast, therefore, on the remains of the last 
 
 kill's provisions, and then wandered out into the 
 
 lelds to meditate on all that had licfallen him. Lost 
 
 [thought, he rambled about, gradually approaching 
 
 ilown, until the morning was far advanced, when 
 
 ! was roused by a hurry and bustle around him. 
 
 (found himself near the water's edge, in a throng 
 
 [people, hurrying to a pier, where there was a ves- 
 
 headytoniake sail. He was unconsciously carried 
 
 Nghy theimpulseof the crowd, and found that it was 
 
 a sloop, on the point of sailing up the Hudson to Al- 
 bany. There was much leave-taking, and kissing of 
 old women and children, and great activity in carrying 
 on board baskets of bread and cakes, and provisions 
 of all kinds, notwithstanding the mighty joints of meat 
 that dangled over the stern; for a voyage to Albany 
 was an expedition of great moment in those days. 
 The commander of the sloop was hurrying about, and 
 giving a world of orders, which were not very strictly 
 attended to; one man being busy in lighting his pipe, 
 and another in sharpening his snicker-snee. 
 
 The appearance of the commander suddenly caught 
 Dolph's attention. He was short and swarthy, with 
 crisped black hair ; blind of one eye, and lame of one 
 leg — the very commander that he had seen in his 
 dream ! Surprised and aroused, he considered the 
 scene more attentively, and recalled slill further traces 
 of his dream : the appearance of the vessel, of the ri- 
 ver, and of a variety of other objects, accorded with 
 the imperfect images vaguely rising to recollection. 
 
 As he stood musing on these circumstances, the 
 captain suddenly called to him in Dutch, " Step on 
 board, young man, or you'll be left behind!" He 
 was startled by the summons; he saw that the sloop 
 was cast loose, and was actually moving from the 
 pier; it seemed as if he was actuated by some irre- 
 sistible impulse ; he sprang upon the deck, and the 
 next moment the sloop was bun-ied off by the wind 
 and tide. Dolph's thoughLs and feelings were all in 
 tumult and confusion. He had been strongly worked 
 upon by the events that had recently befallen him, 
 and could not but think that there was some connexion 
 between his present situation and his last night's 
 dream. He felt as if he was under supernatural in- 
 fluence ; and he tried to assure himself with an old 
 and favourite maxim of his, that '* one way or other, 
 all would turn out for the best." For a moment, the 
 indignation of the doctor at his departure, without 
 leave, passed across his mind, but that was matter of 
 little moment; then he thought of the distress of his 
 mother at his strange disappearance, and the idea 
 gave him a sudden pang : he would have entreated to 
 be put on shore ; but he knew with such wind an«l 
 tide the entreaty would have been in vain. Then 
 the inspiring love of novelty and adventure came 
 rushing in full tide through his bosom ; he felt himself 
 launched strangely and suddenly on the world, and 
 under full way to explore the regions of wonder that 
 lay up this mighty river, and beyond those blue 
 mountains that had boimded his horizon since child- 
 hood. While he was lost in this whirl of thought, 
 the sails strained to the breeze ; the shores seemed to 
 hurry away behind him ; and, before he perfectly re- 
 covered his self-possession, the sloop was ploughing 
 her way past Spiking-devil and Yonkers, and the tall- 
 est chimney of the ManhalAocs had faded frpni his 
 sight. 
 
 I have said that a voyage up the Hudson in thoso 
 days was an undertaking of some moment; indeed, 
 it was as much thought of as a voyage to Europe is at 
 
 .'W 
 
4^ 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 Iiresent. The sloops were often many days on the 
 way ; the cautious navigators taking in sail when it 
 blew fresh, and coming to anchor at night; and stop- 
 ping to send the boat ashore for milk for tea, without 
 which it was impossible for the worthy old lady-pas- 
 sengers to subsist. And then there were the much- 
 talked-of perils of the Tappaan-zee, and the highlands. 
 In short, a prudent Dutch burgher would talk of such 
 a voyage for months, and even years, beforehand ; 
 and never undertook it without putting his affairs in 
 order, making his will, and having prayers said for 
 him in the Low-Dutch churches. 
 
 In the course of such a voyage, therefore, Dolph 
 was satisfied he would have time enough to reflect, 
 and to make up his mind as to what he should do 
 when he arrived at Albany. The captain, with his 
 blind eye, and lame leg, would, it is true, bring his 
 strange dream to mind, and perplex him sadly for a 
 few moments ; but of late his life had been made up 
 so much of dreams and reaUties, his nights and days 
 had been so jumbled together, tliat he seemed to be 
 moving continually in a delusion. There is always, 
 however, a kind of vagabond consolation in a man's 
 having nothing in this world to lose; with this Dolph 
 comforted his heart, and determined to make the 
 most of the present enjoyment. 
 
 In the second day of the voyage they came to the 
 highlands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry 
 day, that they floated gently with the tide between 
 these stern mountains. There was that perfect quiet 
 which prevails over nature in the languor of summer 
 heat; the turning of a plank, or the accidental falling 
 of an oar on deck, was echoed from the mountain-side, 
 and reverberated along the shores; and if by chance the 
 captain gave a shout of command, there were airy 
 tongues that mocked it from every cliff. 
 
 Dolph gazed about him in mute delight and won- 
 der at these scenes of nature's magnificence. To the 
 left the Dunderberg reared its woody precipices, 
 height over height, forest over forest, away into the 
 deep summer sky. To the right strutted forth the 
 bold promontory of Anthony's Nose, with a solitary 
 eagle wheeling about it; while beyond, mountain 
 succeedeil to mountain, until they seemed to lock 
 their arms together, and confine this mighty river in 
 their embraces. There was a feeling of quiet luxury 
 in gazing at the broad, green bosoms, here and there 
 scooped out among the precipices; or at woodlands 
 high in air, nodding over the edge of some beetling 
 bluff, and their foliage all traasparent in the yellow 
 sunshine. 
 
 In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a 
 pile of bright, snowy clouds peering above the west- 
 ern heights. It was succeeded by another and an- 
 other, each seemingly pushing onwards its predeces- 
 sor, and towering, with dazzling brilliancy, in the 
 deep blue atmospliere ; and now muttering peals of 
 thunder were faintly heard rolling behind tiie moun- 
 tains. The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting 
 pictures of die sky and land, now showed a dark 
 
 ripple at a distance, as the breeze came creeping up It, 
 The fish-hawks wheeled and screamed, and sought 
 their nests on the high dry trees; the cmws flew cla- 
 morously to the crevices of the rocks, and all nature 
 seemed conscious of the approaching thunder-gust. 
 
 The clouds now rolled in volumes over the moun- 
 tain tops ; their summits still bright and snowy, but 
 the lower parts of an inky blackness. The rain 
 began to patter down in broad and scattered drops; 
 the wind freshened, and curled up the waves; at 
 length it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn 
 open by the mountain tops, and complete torrents of 
 rain came rattling down. The lightning leaped from 
 cloud to cloud, and streamed quivering against the 
 rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest forest trees. 
 The thunder burst in tremendous explosions; the 
 peals were echoed from mountain to mountain ; thef 
 crashed upon Dunderberg, and rolled up the long de- 
 file of the highlands, each headland making a newecho, 
 until old Bull-hill seemed to bellow back the stonn, 
 
 For a time tho scudding rack and mist, and llw 
 sheeted rain, alnn ' hid the landscape from the si»lii. 
 There was a fearfi. loom, illumined still more fear- 
 fully by the streau of lightning which glittered 
 among the raindrops. Never had Dolph beheld such 
 an absolute warring of the elements ; it seemed as if 
 the storm was tearing and rending its way through 
 this mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery 
 of heaven into action. 
 
 The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, 
 until she came to where the river makes a 
 bend, the only one in the whole course of its majestic 
 career '. Just as they turned the point, a violent 
 flaw of wind came sweeping down amountain-gi 
 bending the forest before it, and, in a moment, lash- 
 ing up the river into white froth and foam. Tl 
 captain saw the danger, and cried out to lower 
 sail. Before the order could be obeyed the flai 
 struck the sloop, and threw her on her beam-ends, 
 Every thing now was fright and confusion : the lla{ 
 ping of the sails, the whistling and rushing of ll 
 wind, the bawling of the captain and crew, tlie$liri(li| 
 ing of the passengers, all mingled with the rolliogai 
 bellowing of the thunder. In the midst of the iipi 
 the sloop righted; at the same time the main! 
 shifted, the boom came sweeping the quarler-di 
 and Dolph, who was gazing unguardedly at tliecloi 
 found himself, in a moment, flnundering in the rivi 
 
 For once in his life one of his idle accomplishmei 
 was of use to him. The many truant hours whi 
 he had devoted to sporting in the Hudson had 
 him an expert swimmer ; yet with all his strength ai 
 skill, he found great difficulty in reaching the sin 
 His disappearance from the deck had not been noli 
 ed by the crew, who were all occupied by their oi 
 danger. The sloop was driven along with incoi 
 able rapidity. She had hard work to weather a I 
 promontory on the eastern shore, round which 
 
 • Tills must have bocn tlic Iwiid at Wrst Pnliil. 
 
 npice. 
 instant; 
 land, fine 
 |a cleft of 
 111 inten 
 Ihe vicif 
 i writ 
 vith ,1 
 urhoot 
 he 9 
 ihe tail ol 
 At lenj 
 lit of a 
 
 'St. 
 
 le trees, 
 liffi, one 
 lins over 
 
 cullivai 
 
 lo ii 
 
 •«s wild 
 
 tee of f 
 
 i'i?ed wi 
 
BRACEBRIOGE HALL. 
 
 CiO 
 
 ezecamecreciMngupU. 
 1 screamed, and sought 
 eec; the Ckows flewcla- 
 he rocks, and all nature 
 )aclung thunder-gust, 
 volumes over the moun- 
 , bright and snowy, but 
 y blackness. The rain 
 ad and scattered drops; 
 urled up the waves; at 
 ellying clouds were torn 
 and complete torrents of 
 rhe lightning leaped from 
 led quivering against the 
 ; the stoutest forest trees. 
 Inendous explosions; the 
 )untain to mountain; they 
 androlledupthelongde-j 
 ladland making a new echo, 
 to bellow back the storm, 
 g rack and mist, and the 
 ,e landscape from the siglit, 
 I, illumined still more fear- 
 lightning which glilterd 
 jver had Dolph beheld such I 
 B elements; it seemed as ill 
 ,d rending its way through! 
 had brought all the arlillery| 
 
 ion by the increasing wind, 
 > the river makes a sudden 
 i whole course of its majestic 
 turned the point, a violenl 
 [)ing down a mounlaln-guily, 
 ! it%nd, in a moment, lasihl 
 Ihite froth and foam. Tl 
 
 and cried out to lower 
 I could be obeyed the flu 
 Irew her on her beam-ends, 
 right and confusion: the flai 
 
 [histUng and rushing of ll 
 captain and crew, the slinet 
 mingled with the rolling aH 
 In the midst of the upr 
 ie same time the mail 
 sweeping the quarler-di 
 ing unguardedly at the cloi 
 lent, floundering in therm 
 leofhisidleaccomplishmei 
 
 ke many truant hours wh» 
 ing in the Hudson had nw 
 ; yet with all his strength ai 
 
 liculty in reaching the slioi 
 the deck had not been noil 
 ire all occupied by lUeir 01 
 driven along with inconcf 
 .hard work to weather all 
 Item shore, round which" 
 
 onrtw-tJondatWrctPnlHt- 
 
 river turned, and which completely shut her from 
 Dolph's view. 
 
 It was on a point of the western shore that he land- 
 ed, and, scrambling up the rocks, he threw himself, 
 faint and exhausted, at the foot of a tree. By de- 
 grees the thunder-gust passe<l over. The clouds roll- 
 ed away to the east, where they lay piled in feathery 
 masses, tinted with the last rosy rays of the sun. The 
 distant play of the lightning might be still seen abont 
 tlieir dar': Imscs, and now and then might be heard 
 tlie faint muttering of the thunder. Dolph rose, and 
 sought about to see if any path led from the shore, hut 
 all was savage and trackless. The rocks were piled 
 upon each other ; great trunks of trees lay shattered 
 about, as they had been blown down by the strong 
 winds which draw through these mountains, or had 
 fellen through age. The rocks, loo, were overhung 
 with wild vines and briars, which completely malted 
 themselves together, and opposed a barrier to all 
 ingress; every movement tliat he made shook down a 
 sliower from the dripping foliage. He attempted to 
 scale one of these almost perpendicular heights; but, 
 though strong and agile, he found it an Herculean 
 undertaking. Often he was supported merely by 
 crumbling projections of the rock, and sometimes he 
 clung lo roots and branches of trees, and hung almost 
 suspemlal in the air. The wood-pigeon came cleav- 
 ing his whistling flight by him, and the eagle scream- 
 ed from the brow of the impending cliff. As be was 
 llius clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold 
 of a shrub to aid his ascent, when something rustled 
 among the leaves, and he saw a snake quivering along 
 like lightning, almost from under bis hand. It coiled 
 itself up immediately, in an attitude of defiance, with 
 flattened head, distended jaws, and quickly-vibrating 
 tongue, fliat played like a little flame al)out its mouth. 
 Dolph's heart turned faint within him, and he had 
 well nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down the pre- 
 cipice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for an 
 instant ; it was an instinctive movement of defence ; 
 and, finding there was no attack, it glided away into 
 acleftofthe rock. Dolph's eye followed it with fear- 
 |ful intensity; and he saw at a glance that he was in 
 llie vicinity of a nest of adders, that lay knotted, 
 ind writhing, and hissing in the chasm. He hasten- 
 vith all speed to escape from so frightful a neigh- 
 lurhood. His imagination was full of this new hor- 
 ; he saw an adder in every curling vine, and heard 
 tail of a rattle-snake in every dry leaf that rustled. 
 At length he succeeded in scrambling to the sum- 
 lit of a precipice ; but it was covered by a dense 
 St. Wherever he could gain a look out between 
 le trees, he saw that the coast rose in heights and 
 i, one rising beyond another, until huge moun- 
 ins over-topped the whole. There were no signs 
 if cultivation, nor any smoke curling amongst the 
 lo indicate a human residence. Every thing 
 a» vild and solitary. As be was standing on the 
 Ir* of a precipice that overlooked n deep ravine 
 nged with trees, his feet <lelached a great fragment 
 
 of rock ; it fell, crashing its way through the tree 
 tops, down into the chasm. A loud whoop, or ra- 
 ther yell, issued ft-om the bottom of the glen; llm 
 moment after there was the report of a gun ; and .1 
 ball came whistling over his head, cutting the twigs 
 and leaves, and burying itself deep in the bark of a 
 diestnut-tree. 
 
 Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a 
 precipitate retreat ; fearing every moment to hear the 
 enemy in pursuit. He succeeded, however, in re- 
 turning unmolested to the shore, and determined to 
 penetrate no farther into a country so beset with sa- 
 vage perils. 
 
 He sat himself down, dripping disconsolately, on 
 a wet stone. What was to l)e done? where was he 
 to shelter himself? The hour of repose was approach- 
 ing; the birds were seeking their nests, the bat began 
 to flit almut in the twilight, and the night-hawk, 
 soaring high in heaven, seemed to be calling out the 
 stars. Night gradually closed in, and wrapped every 
 thing in gloom ; and though it was the latter part of 
 summer, yet the breeze stealing along the river, and 
 among these dripping forests, was chilly and pene- 
 trating, especially to a half-drowned man. 
 
 As he sat drooping and despondent in this com- 
 fortless condition, he perceived a light gleaming 
 through the trees near the shore, where the winding 
 of the river made a deep bay. It cheered him with 
 the hopes that here might l)e some human habita- 
 tion where be might get something to appease the 
 clamorous cravings of his stomach, and, what was 
 equally necessary in his shipwrecked condition, a 
 comfortable shelter for the night. It was with ex- 
 treme difficulty that he made his way towaitl the 
 light, along ledges of rocks, down which he was in 
 danger of sliding into the river, and over great trunks 
 of fallen trees; some of which had been blown tlown 
 in the late storm, and lay so thickly together, that he 
 bad to struggle through their branches. At length 
 he came to the brow of a rock that overhung a small 
 dell, from whence the light proceeded. It was from 
 a fire at the foot of a great tree that stood in the midst 
 of a grassy interval or plat among the rocks. Th*^ 
 fire cast up a red glare among the grey crags, and 
 impending trees; leaving chasms of deep ^'loom, that 
 resembled entrances to caverns. A small brook rippled 
 close by, betrayed by the quivering reflection of the 
 flame. There were two figures moving about th« 
 fire, and others squatted before it. As they wer« 
 between him and the light, they were ui complete 
 shadow : but one of them happening to move round 
 to the opposite side, Dolph was startled at perceiving, 
 by the full glare falling on painted features, and glit- 
 tering on silver ornaments, that he was an Indian. 
 He now lookeil more narrowly, and saw guns lean- 
 ing against a tree, and a dead body lying on the 
 ground. 
 
 Dolph began to doubt whether he was not in a 
 worse condition than before ; here was the very foe 
 that had fired at him from the glen, lie enilcavoured 
 
im 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 
 tu relrtat quielly, not caring to entrust himself to 
 tliese half-human beings in so savage and lonely a 
 place. It was too late : the Indian, with that eagle 
 quickness of eye so remarkable in his race, perceived 
 something stirring among the bushes on the rock : he 
 seized one of the guns that leaned against the tree ; 
 one moment more, and Dolph might have had his 
 passion for adventure cured by a bullet. He hallooed 
 loudly, with the Indian salutation of friendship; the 
 whole party sprang upon their feet; the salutation 
 was returned, and Uie straggler was invited to join 
 them at the fire. 
 
 On approaching, he found, to his consolation, that 
 the party was composed of white men, as well as In- 
 dians. One, who was evidently the principal per- 
 sonage, or commander, was seated on a trunk of a 
 tree before the fire. He was a large, stout man, some- 
 what advanced in life, but hale and hearty. His 
 face was bronzed almost to the colour of an Indian's; 
 he had strong but rather jovial features, an aquiline 
 nose, and a mouth shaped like a maslifTs. His face 
 was half thrown in shade by a broad hat, with a 
 buck's tail in it. His grey hair hung siiort in his 
 neck. He wore a hunting-frock, with Indian leg- 
 gings, and mocassins, and a tomahawk in the broad 
 wampum-belt round his waist. As Dolph caught a 
 distinct view of his person and features, he was struck 
 with something that reminded him of the old man of 
 the Haunted House. The man before him, however, 
 was different in his dress and age; he was more 
 cheery too in his as[>ect, and it was hard to define 
 where the vague resemblance lay : but a resem- 
 blance there certainly was. Dolph felt some degree 
 of awe in approaching him; but was assured by the 
 frank, hearty welcome with which he was received. 
 As he cast his eyes about, too, he was still further 
 encouraged, by perceiving that the dead body, whicli 
 had caused him some alarm, was that of a deer ; and 
 his satisfaction was complete in discerning, by the 
 savoury steams which issued from a kettle, suspend- 
 ed by a hooked slick over the fire, that there was a 
 part cooking fur the evening's repast. 
 
 He now found that he had fallen in with a ram- 
 bling hunting-party ; such as often took place in those 
 days among the settlers along the river. The hunter 
 is always hospitable ; and nothing makes men more 
 social and unceremonious than meeting in the wil- 
 derness. The commander of the parly poured him 
 out a dram of cheering liquor, which he gave him 
 with a merry lear, to warm his heart ; and ordered 
 one of his followers to fetch some garments from a 
 pinnace, which was moored in a cove close by ; while 
 those in which our hero was dripping might be dried 
 before the fire. 
 
 Dolph found, as he had suspected, that the shot 
 from the glen, wliich had come so near giving him 
 his quietus when on the preei[)ice, was from (he party 
 before him. He Ind nearly crushed one of liiem by 
 the fragment of rock which he had detached ; and the 
 jovial old lituiler, in the broad hat and buck tail, had 
 
 fired at the place where he saw the bnshes move, 
 supposing it to be some wild animal. He laughed 
 heartily at the blunder; it being what is considered 
 an exceeding good joke among hunters ; " but, faith, 
 my lad, " said he, " if I had but caught a glimpse of 
 you to take sight at, you would have followed (he 
 rock. Antony Vander lleyden is seldom known to 
 miss his aim. " These last words were at once a 
 clue to Dolph's curiosity ; and a few questions let him 
 completely into the character of the man before liim 
 and of his band of woodland rangers. The com- 
 mander in the broad hat and hunting-frock was no 
 less a personage than the Ileer Antony Yander Her- 
 den, of Albany, of whom Dolph had many a time 
 heard. He was, in fact, the hero of many a story; 
 being a man of singular humours and whimsical lia- 
 bits, that were matters of wonder to his quiet Dutch 
 neighbours. As he was a man of property, having 
 had a father before him, from whom he iniieriled 
 large tracts of wild land, and whole barrels full of 
 wampum, he could indulge his humours witiioutl 
 control. Instead of staying quietly at home; 
 and drinking at regular meal-times; amus'ig \nms/A[\ 
 by smoking his pipe on the bench before the door;f 
 and then turning into a comfortable bed at night; he I 
 delighted in all kinds of rough, wild expeditions. He i 
 was never so happy as when on a hunting-party in [ 
 the wilderness, sleeping under trees or bark-sheds, 
 or cruising down the river, or on some woodland lake, 
 fishing and fowling, and living the Lord knows how.l 
 
 He was a great friend to Indians, and (oan Indianl 
 mode of life ; which he considered true natural lihertyl 
 and manly enjoyment. When at home he had alwaysl 
 several Indian hangers-on, who loitered alraut hisl 
 house, sleeping like hounds in the sunshine, or pre-l 
 paring hunting and fishing-tackle for some ne^Y ei-f 
 pedition, or shooting at marks with bows and arrows.) 
 
 Over these vagrant beings Heer Antony had as pcr-f 
 feet command as a huntsman over his pack ; tliou°;h| 
 they were great nuisances to the regular people ol hisl 
 neighbourhood. As he was a rich man, no one ven-f 
 tiu-ed to thwart his humours ; indeed, he had a heaityl 
 joyous manner about him, that made him univers<illjr[ 
 popular. He would troll a Dutch song as he tranijie 
 along the street ; hail every one a mile off; and whed 
 he entered a house, he would slap (he good man fa-j 
 miliarly on the back, shake him by the hand t 
 roared, and kiss his wife and daughters before hi^ 
 face — in short, there was no pride nor ill humoufj 
 about Heer Antony. 
 
 Besides his Indian hangers-on, he had three or rouij 
 humble friends among the whi(e men, wliu looked 
 up to him as a patron, and had the run of his kilclienJ 
 and the favour of being taken with him occasioiiall| 
 on his expeditions. It was with a medley of siicl 
 retainers that he was at present on a cruise aloiiijllij 
 shores of (he Hudson, in a pinnace which he koptfii 
 his own recreation. There were two while men will 
 him, dressed partly in (he Indian style, with uiociissinj 
 aud hunling-shirls; the rest of his crew consisted • 
 
BRACE6RIDGE HALL. 
 
 mi 
 
 jaw the bushes move, Ifimr favourite Indians. They had been prowling 
 1 animal. He laughed Igiioat the river, without any deHnite object, until 
 ling what is considered lihey found themselves in the highlands, where they 
 g hunters ; " but, failh, l|^ passed two or three days, hunting the deer which 
 Dut caught a glimpse of |j(i|| lingered among these mountains. 
 
 ■onld have followed the 
 en is seldom known to 
 words were at once a 
 1 a few questions let him 
 p of the man before him, 
 nd rangers. The com- 
 ,d hunling-frock was no 
 ;er Antony Vancler lley- 
 )olph had HJany a time 
 e hero of many a story; 
 nours and whimsical lia- 
 onder to his quiet Dutch 
 man of property, having 
 from whom he inherited 
 ind whole barrels full ot 
 ge his humours without 
 Ig quietly at home; eating 
 jal-liraes; amus"ig himself 
 e bench before the door; 
 mfortable bed at night; lie 
 igh, wild expeditions. He 
 lien on a hunting-party in 
 uuler trees or bark-sheds, 
 , or on some woodland lake, 
 iving the Lord knows how. 
 oindians, and to an Indian 
 isidered true natural liberty 
 hen at home he had always 
 ,n, who loitered alwutbis 
 lis' in the sunshine, or pre- 
 g-lackle for some new cs-] 
 rks with bows and arrow, 
 gs lleer Antony had as per 
 nan over his pack ; thoughj 
 to the regular people odiisj 
 irasarichman, nooneven• 
 |u•s•,indeed,hehadaheally| 
 that made him uiiiversallr 
 Dutch song as he tramp 
 fyoneamileQff;andwhei 
 lould slap the good man fj' 
 16 him by the hand till hi 
 U and daughters before 
 110 pride nor ill Immoni 
 
 " It is a lucky circumstance, young man, " said An- 
 tony Vander Heyden,"thatyou happened to be knock- 
 ed overboard to-day ; as to-morrow morning we start 
 Ljriy on our return homewards ; and you might then 
 hare looked in vain for a meal among these moun- 
 ilains— but come, lads, stir about ! stir about ! Let's 
 see what prog we have for supper ; the kettle has Imil- 
 lon; enough ; my stomach cries cupboard ; and I'll 
 arrant our guest is in no mood to dally with his 
 ■ncher." 
 
 There was a bustle now in the little encampment; 
 me took off the kettle and turned a part of the con- 
 tents into a huge wooden bowl. Another prepared 
 flat rock for a table; while a third brought various 
 itensils from (he pinnace, which was moored close 
 iv;and Heer Antony himself brought a flask or two 
 precious liquor from his own private locker; know- 
 ijliis boon companions too well to trust any of them 
 ith the key. 
 
 A rude but hearty repast was soon .spread; consist- 
 
 of venison smoking from the kettle, with cold ba- 
 
 , boiled Indian corn , and mighty loaves of good 
 
 ivn household bread. Never had Dolph made a 
 
 ire delicious repast; and when he had washed it 
 
 ivn by two or three draughts from the Heer An- 
 
 y's flask, and felt the jolly liquor sending its 
 
 larmlh through his veins, and glowing round his 
 
 TV heart, he would not have changed his situation, 
 
 I, not with the governor of the province. 
 
 The lleer Antony, too, grew cliirping and joyous ; 
 
 Id half a dozen fat stories, at which his white fol- 
 
 ers laughed immoderately, though the Indians, 
 
 usual, maintained an invincible gravity. 
 
 "This is your true life, my boy!" said he, slap- 
 
 g Dolph on the shoulder; "a man is never a man 
 
 he can defy wind and weather, range woods and 
 
 Ids, sleep under a tree, and live on bass-wood 
 
 ives!" 
 
 And then would he sing a stave or two of a Dutch 
 
 {iiiking-song, swaying a short, squab Dutch bottle 
 
 hisliand, while his myrmidons would join in chorus, 
 
 the woods echoed again; — as the good old song 
 
 Lrs-on,hehadlhrceorM 
 \e while men, who loukef 
 hadlherunofhiskilclieiil 
 fiken with him occasional! 
 Las with a medley of sucP 
 Ircsentonacruisealoni,'! 
 
 pinnace which he kept tij 
 re were two white men will 
 Indian style, with uiocussij 
 lest of his crew consisted f 
 
 "They all wilh a slioiit made tlic elements ring, 
 
 So soon as llio office was o'er j 
 To [casting; tliey went, witli (rue merriment) 
 
 And tippled strong liquor gillore." 
 
 Hhemidsl of his joviality, however, lleer Antony 
 j not lose sight of discretion. Though he pushed 
 [boille without reserve to Dolph, yet he always 
 i care to help his followers himself, knowing the 
 jigs he had to deal with; and he was particular in 
 filing but a moderate allowance to the Indians. 
 ! repast being ended, Ihe Indians having drunk 
 r liquor, and smoked (heir pipes, now wrapped 
 
 themselves in their blankets, stretched themselves on 
 the ground, with their feet to the fire, and soon fell 
 asleep, like so many tired hounds. The rest of the 
 party remained chatting before the (ire, which the 
 gloom of tlie forest, and the dampness of the air from 
 the late storm, rendered extremely grateful and com- 
 forting. The conversation gradually moderated from 
 the hilarity of supper-time, and turned upon hunting 
 adventures, and exploits and perils in the wilderness; 
 many of which were so strange and improbable, that 
 I will not venture to repeat them, lest the veracity of 
 Antony Vander Heyden and his comrades should be 
 brought into question. There were many legendary 
 tales told, also, about the river, and the settlements 
 on its borders; in which valuable kind of lore the 
 Heer Antony seemed deeply versed. As (he sturdy 
 bush-beater sat in a twisted root of a tree, that served 
 him for a kind of arm-chair, dealing forth these wild 
 stories, wi(h the fire gleaming on his strongly-mark- 
 ed visage, Dolph was again repeatedly perplexed by 
 something (hat reminded him of the phantom of (he 
 Haunted House; some vague resemblance (hat could 
 not be fixed upon any precise feature or lineament, 
 but which pervaded the general air of his countenance 
 and figure. 
 
 The circumstance of Dolph's falling overboard 
 being again discussed, led to the relation of divers 
 disasters and singular mishaps that had befallen 
 voyagers on this great river, particularly in the earlier 
 periods of colonial history ; most of which the Heer 
 deliberately attributed to supernatural causes. Dolph 
 stared at his suggesdon ; but the old gentleman assur- 
 ed him that it was very currently believed by the 
 settlers along the river, (hat these highlands were 
 under the dominion of superna(ural and mischievous 
 beings, which seemed (o have taken some piqiieagainst 
 the Dutch colonists in the early time of the settlement. 
 In consequence of this, they have ever since taken 
 particular delight in venting their spleen, and indulg- 
 ing their humours, upon the Dutch skippers; bothei- 
 ing them with flaws, head-winds, counter-currents, 
 and all kinds of impediments; insomuch, that a Dutch 
 navigator was always obliged to be exceedingly wary 
 and deliberate in his proceedings; (o come to anchor 
 at dusk ; to drop his peak, or take in sail, whenever he 
 saw a swag-bellied cloud rolling over the mountains; 
 in short, to take so many precautions, (hat he was often 
 apt to be an incredible time in toiling up the river. 
 
 Some, he said, believed these mischievous powers 
 of the air to be evil spirits conjured up by the Indian 
 wizards, in the early times of the province, to revenge 
 themselves on (he strangers who had dispossessed 
 (hem of (heir country. They even attributed (o 
 their incantations the misadventure which befell the 
 renowned Hendritk Hudson, when he sailed so gal- 
 lantly up (his river in quest of a north-west passage, 
 and, as he thought, run his ship aground ; which (hey 
 affirm was nothing more nor less (ban a spell of these, 
 same wizards, (o prevent his getting to China in this 
 direction. 
 
ion 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ' The greater part, however. Heer Antony obeerved, 
 accoanted for ail the extraordinary circumstances at- 
 tending this river, and the perplexities of the skippers 
 which navigated it, by the old legend of the Storm- 
 ship which haunted Point-no-point. On finding 
 Dolph to be utterly ignorant of this tradition, the Heer 
 fltaned at him for a moment with surprise, and won- 
 dered where he had passed his life, tu be uninformed 
 on so important a point of history. To pass away the 
 remainder of the evening, therefore, he undertook 
 the tale, as far as his memory would serve, in the very 
 words in which it had been written out by Mynheer 
 Selyne, an early poet of the New Nederlandts. Giv- 
 ing, then, a stir to the fire, that sent up his sparks 
 among the trees like a little volcano, he adjusted 
 himself comfortably in his root of a tree; and throwing 
 back his head, and closing his eyes for a few moments, 
 to summon up his recollection, he related the follow- 
 ing legend. 
 
 THE STORM-SHIP. 
 
 In the golden age of the province of the New Nether- 
 lands, when it was under the sway of Wouter Van 
 Twiller, otherwise called the Doubter, the peo|)le of 
 the Manhattoes were alarmed one sultry afternoon, 
 just about the time of the summer solstice, by a tre- 
 mendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain 
 descended in such torrents as absolutely to spatter up 
 and smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the 
 thunder rattled and rolled over the very roofs of the 
 houses; the lightning was seen to play about the 
 church of St Nicholas, and to strive three times, in 
 vain, to strike its weathercock. Garret Van Home's 
 new chimney was split almost from top to bottom ; 
 and Doffue Mildeberger was struck speechless from 
 his bald-faced mare, just as he was riding into town. 
 In a word, it was one of those unparalleled storms, 
 that only happen once within the memory of that ve- 
 nerable personage, known in all towns by the appel- 
 lation of " the oldest inhabitant." 
 
 Great was the terror of the good old women of the 
 Manhattoes. They gathered their children together, 
 and took refuge in the cellars; after having hung a 
 shoe on the iron point of every bed-post, lest it should 
 attract the lightning. At length the storm abated; 
 the thunder sunk into a growl, and the setting-sun, 
 breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds, 
 made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea 
 of molten gold. 
 
 The word was given from the fort that a ship was 
 standing up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, 
 and street to street, and soon put tiie little capital in 
 a bustle. The arrival of a ship, in those early times 
 of the settlement, was an event of vast importance to 
 the inhabitants. It brought them news from the old 
 world, from the land of their birth, from which they 
 were so completely severed : (o the yearly ship, too, 
 
 they looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, A 
 comforts, and almost of necessaries. The good wroawl 
 could not have her new cap nor new gown until ilnl 
 arrival of the ship ; the artist waited for it for his tooh J 
 the burgomaster for his pipe and his supply of \\^ 
 lands, the schoolboy for his top and marbles, andth 
 lordly landholder for the bricks with which he wasti 
 build his new mansion. Thus every one, rich an 
 poor, great and small, looked out for the arrival of i] 
 ship. It was the great yeariy event of the town ( 
 New Amsterdam ; and from one end of the year I 
 the other, the ship— the ship— the ship— was thecooj 
 tinual topic of conversation. 
 
 The news from the fort, therefore, brought i 
 populace down to the battery, to behold the wjsl 
 for sight. It was not exactly the time when siieli 
 been expectal to arrive, and the circumstance was | 
 matter of some speculation. Many were the grouj 
 collected about the battery. Here and there miji 
 be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravitjj 
 giving his opinion with great confidence to a cro» 
 of old women and idle boys. At another place w«| 
 knot of old weather-beaten fellows, who had 1 
 seamen or fishermen in their times, and were f 
 authorities on such ocAisions; these gave diffet 
 opinions, and caused great disputes among theirsevd 
 adherents : but the man most looked up to, and folloi^ 
 ed and watched by the crowd, was Hans VanPe) 
 an old Dutch sea-captain retired from service, 
 nautical oracle of the place. He reconnoitred ill 
 ship through an ancient telescope, covered with Ian 
 canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself, aiidsij 
 nothing. A hum, however, from Hans Van Pellh 
 always more weight with the public than a t 
 from another man. 
 
 In the mean time the ship became more dislinct| 
 the naked eye; she was a stout, round, Dutcli-bi 
 vessel, with high bow and poop, and bearing Dotj 
 colours. The evening sun gilded her bellying (im\ 
 as she came riding over the long waving 
 The sentinel who had given notice of her appn 
 declared, that he first got sight of her when sliev 
 in the centre of the bay ; and that she broke sudde^ 
 on his sight, just as if she had come out of diet 
 of the black thunder-cloud. The by-standei-s I 
 at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would say tolj 
 report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his moulii ol« 
 together, and said nothing; upon which some! 
 their heads, and others shrugged their shoulders.! 
 
 The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but nia(le| 
 reply, and passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudi 
 A gun was brought to Iwar on her, anil, with i 
 difficulty, loaded and fired by Hans Van Pell,j 
 garrison not being expert in artillery. Thei 
 seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and lo j 
 along the water on the other side, but no notice J 
 taken of it ! What was strange, she had all lier j 
 set, and sailed right against wind and tide. 
 were both down the river. Upon this Hans] 
 Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master, ordew 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4(» 
 
 f of luxuries, of finery, A 
 «saries. The good wroowl 
 p nor new gown until tlii| 
 It waited for il for his toohl 
 le and his supply of liol j 
 top and marbles, amii 
 icks with which he wasl 
 rhus every one, rich an 
 ed out for the arrival oft 
 sarly event of the town ( 
 (m one end of the year I 
 lip— the ship— was tlie com 
 
 n. 
 
 ;, therefore, brought all I 
 
 tery, to behold the wishedJ 
 ctly the time when she I 
 md the circumstance vas j 
 ,n. Many were the gronpl 
 >ry. Here and there mi{ 
 f slow and pompous graviij| 
 great confidence lo a cron 
 )ys. At another place vasj 
 iten fellows, who had 
 their times, and were sn 
 isions; these gave ditferei 
 itdisputes amonglheirsevfl 
 most looked up to, andfolloij 
 crowd, was Hans Van Pel 
 lin retired from senice, 
 place. He reconnoitred ill 
 ; telescope, covered with laij 
 eh tune to himself, ands 
 ever, from Hans Van Pellb 
 ith the public than a 
 
 ship became more dislinrti 
 s a stout, round, Dutcli-W 
 jndpoop, and bearing Dul 
 sun gilded her bellying cam 
 rer the long waving billoi 
 [given notice of her appi 
 ;ot sight of her when she 
 J and that she broke suddi 
 Ihehad come out of the l 
 jud. Theby-standersli 
 [see what he would say to 
 !lt screwed his mouth cl 
 ling; upon which some 
 i shrugged their shoulders, 
 peatediy hailed, but made 
 ]e fort, stood on up the Hu'^ 
 Iwar on her, and, with 
 fired by Hans Van Pell, 
 cpert in artillery. The 
 iss through the ship, and 10 
 
 other side, but no noliM 
 js strange, she had all her 
 
 [gainst wind and tide. ' 
 
 river. Upon this Hans 
 
 barbmu-master, order 
 
 It, and set off to board her ; bnt after rowing two 
 lliree hours, he returned without success. Some- 
 he would get within one or two hundred yards 
 her, and then, in a twinkling, she would be half a 
 le off. Some said it was because his oars-men, who 
 ,er« rather pursy and short-winded, stopped every 
 iwand then lo take breath, and spit on their hands; 
 It Ibis it is probable was a mere scandal. He got 
 nr enough, however, to see the crew, who were all 
 in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and 
 |i>hhats and feathers : not a word was spoken by any 
 on board ; they stood as motionless as so many 
 lataes, and the ship seemed as if left to her own go- 
 lent. Thus she kept on, away up the river, 
 >ning and lessening in the evening sunshine, until 
 faded from sight, like a little white cloud melting 
 ray in the summer sky. 
 
 The appearance of this ship threw the governor 
 
 ilo one of the deepest doubts that ever beset him in 
 
 vhole course of his administration. Fears were 
 
 ilertained for the security of the infant settlements 
 
 the river, lest this might be an enemy's ship in 
 
 s^ise, sent to lake possession. The governor called 
 
 itber his council repeatedly, to assist him with 
 
 Ir conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built 
 
 timber from the sacred forest of the Hague, and 
 
 ied his long jasmin pipe, and listened to all that 
 
 counsellors had to say on a subject about which 
 
 ty knew nothing ; but in spite of all the conjectur- 
 
 ofthe sagest and oldest heads, the governor still 
 
 itiiiued to doubt. 
 
 Messengers were dispatched to different places on 
 river ; but they returned without any tidings — 
 ship had made no port. Day after day, and week 
 |er week, elapsed, but she never returned down the 
 in. As, however, the council seemed solicitous 
 intelligence, they had it in abundance. The cap- 
 ofthe sloops seldom arrived without bringing 
 le report of having seen the strange ship at the 
 !rent parts of the river; sometimes near the Pal- 
 loes, sometimes off Crolon Point, and sometimes 
 the highlands; but she never was reported as 
 ig been seen above the highlands. The crews 
 |lhe sloops, it is true, generally differed among 
 ilves in their accounts of these apparitions; but 
 may have arisen from the uncertain situations in 
 they saw her. Sometimes it was by the flashes 
 thunder-storm lighting up a pitchy night, and 
 ing glimpses of her careering across Tappaan-zee, 
 lewide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At one mo- 
 ll she would appear close upon them, as if likely to 
 them down, and would throw them into great 
 lie and alarm; bnt the next flash would show her 
 iff, always sailing against the wind. Sometimes, 
 juiet moonlight nights, she would be seen under 
 high bluff of the highlands, all in deep shadow, 
 tpting her top-sails glittering in the moonbeams ; 
 |hetime, however, that the voyagers would reach 
 ilace, there would be no ship to be seen ; and 
 in they had past on for some distance, and looked 
 
 back, behold! there she was again, with her top-sail* 
 in the moonshine ! Her appearance was always just 
 after, or just before, or just in the midst of unruly 
 weather; and she was known by all the skippers and 
 voyagers of (he Hudson by the name of " the Storm- 
 ship." 
 
 These reports perplexed the governor and his council 
 more than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the 
 conjectures and opinions that were uttered on tlie 
 subject. Some quoted cases in point, of ships seen off 
 the coast of New England, navigated by witches and 
 goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who had been more 
 than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of Good 
 Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutch- 
 man which had so long haunted Table Bay ; but being 
 unable to make port, had now sought another harbour. 
 Others suggested, that, if it really was a supernatural 
 apparition, as there was every natural reason to be- 
 lieve, it might be Hendrick Hudson, and his crew of 
 the Half-moon ; who, it was well known, had once 
 run aground in the upper part of the river, in seeking 
 a north-west passage to China. This opuiion hail 
 very little weight with liie governor, but it passed 
 current out of doors; for indeed it had already been 
 reported, that Hendrick Hudson and his crew haunted 
 the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it appeared very reason- 
 able to suppose, that his ship might infest the river 
 where the enterprize was baffled, or that it might bear 
 the shadowy crew to theu* periodical revels in the 
 mountain. 
 
 Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and 
 doubts of the sage Wouter and his council, and the 
 Storm-ship ceased to be a subject of deliberation at 
 the board. It continued, however, to be a matter of 
 popular belief and marvellous anecdote through the 
 whole lime of the Dutch government, and particu- 
 larly just before the capture of New Amsterdam, and 
 the subjugation of the province by the English squa- 
 dron. About that time the Storm-ship was repeatedly 
 seen in the Tappaan-Zee, and about Weehawk, and 
 even down as far as Hoboken ; and her appearance 
 was supposed to be ominous of the approaching squall 
 in public affairs, and the downfaU of Dutch domina- 
 tion. 
 
 Since that time we have no authentic accounts of 
 her; though it is said she still haunts the highlands, 
 and cruises about Point-no-point. People who live 
 along the river, insist that they sometimes see her in 
 summer moonlight; and that in a deep still midnight 
 they have heard the chant of her crew, as if heaving 
 the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptive along 
 the mountainous shores, and about the wide l)ays and 
 long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have 
 very strong doubts u|ion the subject. 
 
 It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have 
 been seen in these highlands in storms, which are 
 considered as connected with the old story of the 
 ship. The captains of the river-craft talk of a little 
 bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose and 
 sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking-trumpet in his hand, 
 
401 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 I.' ' 
 
 which they say keeps about the Dunderbei^. ' They 
 declare tliat they have heard him, in stormy weather, 
 in the midst of the turmoil, giving orders in Low- 
 Butch for the piping up of a fresh gust of wind, or 
 the rattling off of another thunder-clap. That some- 
 times he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little 
 imps in broad breeches and short doublets; tumbling 
 head over heels in the rack and mist, and playing a 
 thousand gambols in the air; or buzzing like a swarm 
 of flies about Anthony's Nose; and that, at such times, 
 the hurry-scurry of the storm was always greatest. 
 One time a sloop, in passing by the Dunderberg, 
 was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring 
 round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over 
 the vessel. Though tight and well ballasted, yet she 
 laboured dreadfully, until the water came over the 
 gimwale. All the crew were amazed, when it was 
 discovered that there was a little white sugar-loaf hat 
 on the mast-head, which was known at once to be 
 the hat of the Ileer of the Dunderlierg. Nobody, 
 however, dared to climb to the mast-head, and get 
 rid of this terrible hat. The sloop continued labour- 
 ing and rocking, as if she would have rolled her mast 
 overboard. She seemed in continual danger either 
 of upsetting or of running on shore. In this way she 
 drove quite through the highlands, until she had pass- 
 ed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction 
 of the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had 
 she passed this bourne, than the little hat, all at once, 
 spun up into the air like a lop ; whirled up all the 
 clouds into a vortex, and hurried them back to the 
 summit of the Dunderberg; while the sloop righted 
 herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond. 
 Nothing saved her from utter wreck but the fortunate 
 circumstance of having a horse-shoe nailed against 
 the mast ; a wise precaution against evil spirits, which 
 has since been adopted by all the Dutch captains that 
 navigate this haunted river. 
 
 There is another story told of this foul-weather 
 nrchin, by Skipper Daniel Ousleslicker, of Fish-Hill, 
 who was never known to tell a lie. He declared, 
 that, in a severe squall, he saw him seated astride of 
 his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt against 
 Anthony's nose, and that he was exorcised by Do- 
 minie Van Gieson, of Esopus, who happened to he 
 on board, and who sung the hymn of St Nicholas ; 
 whereupon the goblin threw himself up in the air like 
 a ball, and went off in a whirlwind, carrying away 
 with him the night-cap of the Dominie's wife ; which 
 was discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on 
 the weathercock of Esopus' church steeple, at least 
 forty miles off! After several events of this kind had 
 taken place, the regular skippers of the river, for a 
 long time, did not venture to pass the Dunderberg, 
 without lowering their peaks, out of homage to the 
 Ileer of the Mountain; and it was observed that all 
 such as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to 
 pass unmolested. 
 
 ■ <. e, the " Tliiindcr-Mountain," so callfd from iU pclioe!<. 
 
 "Such," said Antony Vander Heyden, "areafc* 
 of the stories written down by Selyne the poet, con. 
 cerning this Storm-ship; which he affirms to bat( 
 brought this colony of mischievous imps into the pro-] 
 vince, from some old ghost-ridden country of Eq. 
 rope. I could give you a host more, if necessary 
 for all the accidents that so often befall the river. 
 craft in the highlands are said to be tricks plav 
 off by these imps of the Dunderberg; but I seeti 
 you are nodding, so let us turn in for the night."' 
 
 The moon had just raised her silver horns abori 
 the round back of Old Bull Hill, and lit up tlie 
 rocks and shagged forests, and glittered on the irar] 
 ing bosom of the river. The night dew was falli 
 and the late gloomy mountains began to soften ai 
 put on a grey aerial tint in the dewy light, 
 hunters stirred the fire, and threw on fresh fuel 
 qualify the damp of the night air. They then pi 
 pared a bed of branches and dry leaves under a 
 of rocks for Dolph; while Antony Vander Iley( 
 wrapping himself up in a huge coat made of skii 
 stretched himself before the fire. It was sometii 
 however, before Dolph could close his eyes, lie 
 contemplating the strange scene before him ; 
 wild woods and rocks around ; the fire throwing 
 ful gleams on the faces of the sleeping savages; 
 the Ileer Antony, too, who so singularly, yet vagui 
 reminded him of the nightly visitant to the Hai 
 House. Now and then he heard the cry of 
 animal from the forest ; or the hooting of the ov{ 
 or the notes of the whip-poor-will, which seemed 
 abound among these solitudes; or the splash ofa sti 
 geon, leaping out of the river, and falling back 
 length on its placid surface. He contrasted all 
 with his accustomed nest in the garret room of 
 doctor's mansion ; where the only sounds he 
 at night were the church clock telling the hour;l{ 
 drowsy voice of the watchman, drawling out all 
 
 ' Among the superstitions which prevailed in the i 
 during tlie early times of tlic settlements, there seems lu jiaiel^ 
 a singular one about phantom-ships. The superstitious fai 
 men are always apt to turn upon those objects which ( 
 their daily occupations. The solitary ship, which, froin;| 
 to year, came like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to ihe 
 habitants of a settlement the comforts of life from the worMij 
 which they were cut off, was apt to be present to their drr^ 
 whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight from s 
 a sail gliding along Ihe horizon in those, as yet, lonely sc«,| 
 apt to be a matter of much talk and 8[)eculation. There u I 
 lion made in one of Ihe early New England writers, of a sbiq 
 vigated by witches, with a great horse that stood by the nuiu 
 I have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship IhatdtDif 
 shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails all set i 
 table spread in the cabin, as if to regale a number of gues 
 not a living being on board. These phantom-ships alwajiij 
 in the eye of the wind ; or ploughed their way with great vdi 
 making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when notal^ 
 ofair was stirring. 
 
 Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of Ihe « 
 a little tale, which, within a small compass, contains IIkI 
 essence of this species of supernatural fiction. I allude If 
 S|>eclre-Shlp bound to Headman's Isle. 
 
 that] 
 
 led iipi 
 
 iroftlu 
 
 nionai 
 
 ^,andl 
 
 nl: anc 
 
 110 
 
BRACEBRIDGE IIALL. 
 
 AdS 
 
 inderHeyden/'areafewl 
 by Selyne ihe poet, con-| 
 ivliich he affirms to havJ 
 hievoiis imps into thepro-l 
 isi-riiklen country of Eu-I 
 host more, if necessaryf 
 so oaen befall the river-J 
 B said to be tricks play« 
 )underberg;butlse«tl« 
 5 turn in for the niglit." 
 sed her silver horns abofl 
 nil Hill, and Ut up tlie 
 s, and puttered on tliewTJ 
 The night dew was ' " 
 imtains began to soften Ji 
 ,t in the dewy light, 
 and threw on fresh fuel 
 night air. They then 
 and dry leaves under all 
 ile Antony Vander Heyi 
 a huge coat made of si 
 ilhefne. It was some lii 
 could close his eyes. He 
 nn-e scene before him : 
 around; the lire throwingii| 
 I of the sleeping savages; 
 vho so singularly, yet vagiiel] 
 lightly visitant to the Haul 
 en he heard the cryofsoi 
 . or the hooting of the o»l 
 i'p-poor-will, which seemed 
 ,Uludes;orlhesplashofaslr 
 lie river, and falling back' 
 irface. We contrasted all 
 est in the garret room ol 
 re ihe only sounds he hei 
 rch clock telling the hour; 
 atchman, drawling out all 
 
 ,8 which prcvailcil in the 
 settlements, there seenwlohwei 
 
 Invships. ThesuperstilioiBtf 
 
 li upon those objects 
 
 iThe soUlary ship, wl 
 in the wilderness, bringing loiM 
 
 comforts otlifc from ihejortlj 
 « apt to be present to lhe.rdi^ 
 The accidental sigiit from* 
 Un in those, as yet, lonely «1 
 talk and si.eculat.on. There^^ 
 ly New England writers, olaa 
 ,4.thorsethalstoodbythen.ai« 
 rV somewhere, otashiptMd^j 
 I'U weather, with sails a isetd 
 if to regale a number of gua* 
 
 , These phantom-ships alwajij 
 
 toushed their way with great «<2 
 
 tefore their bows, wheanoiali 
 
 It up oneof these legends ofthei 
 L small compass. cont^mM 
 
 I supernatural tiction. 1 aWwi'l 
 
 [Iman's lolt-'- t 
 
 vrell; the deep snoring of the doctor's dubbed nose 
 from below stairs ; or the cautious labours of some 
 (irpenter-ral gnawing in tiie wainscot. His thoughts 
 then wandered tu his poor old mother : what would 
 slie think of his mysterious disappearance — what 
 anxiety and distress would she not suffer ? This 
 was the thought that would continually intrude it- 
 [itir tu mar his present enjoyment. It brought with 
 [iiafeeling of pain and compimction, and he fell asleep 
 f ilk liie tears yet standing in his eyes. 
 Were this n mere tale of fancy, here would be a fine 
 irtunily for weaving in strange adventures among 
 se wild mountains, and roving htmters ; and, after 
 ivolving my hero in a variety of perils and diniciillies, 
 uing liim from them all by some miraculous conlri- 
 ; but as this is al)solutely a true story, I must con- 
 it myself with simple facts, and keep to probabilities. 
 At an early hour of the next day, therefore, after a 
 y morning's meal, the encampment broke up, 
 our adventurers embarked in Ihe pinnace ofAn- 
 ly Vander Heyden. There being no wind for the 
 1, the Indians rowed her gently along, keeping 
 to a kind of chant of one of the white men. 
 day was serene and beautiful; the river without 
 wave; and as the vessel cleft the glassy water, it 
 a long undulating track behind. The crows, who 
 il scented the hunters' banquet, were already ga- 
 lling and hovering in the air, just where a column 
 lliin, blue smoke, rising from among the trees, 
 wed the place of their last night's quarters. As 
 coasted along the bases of the moimlains, the 
 irAnlony pointed out to Dolph a bald eagle, the 
 itereign of these regions, who sat perched on a dry 
 that projected over the river; and, with eye 
 led upwards, seemed to be drinking in the splen- 
 irof llie morning sun. Their approach disturbed 
 monarch's meditations. He first spread one 
 ins;, and then (he other; balanced himself for a mo- 
 ;nt; and then, quilting his perch with dignified 
 iposure, wheeled slowly over their heads. Dolph 
 ilclied upa gim, and sent a whistling ball after him 
 It cut some of the feathers from his wing ; the report 
 legun leaped sharply from rock (oroek, and awaken- 
 a thonsand echoes ; but the monarcli of the air 
 
 1 calmly on, ascending higher and higher, and 
 leling widely as he ascended, soaring up the green 
 iom of the woody mountain, imtil he disappeared 
 rtlie brow of a beetling precipice. Dolph felt in 
 manner rebuked by this proud tranquillity, and 
 
 I reproached himself for having so wantonly in- 
 
 Ihis majestic bird. Heer Antony told him, 
 hing, to remember that he was not yet out of the 
 glories of the lord of the Dunderberg; and an old 
 iansliook his head, and observed, that there was 
 I luck in killing an eagle ; the hunter, on the con- 
 h, should always leave him a portion of his spoils. 
 |olliing,liowever, occurred to molest them on their 
 
 ige. They passed pleasantly through magnificent 
 |lonely scenes, until they came to where Pollopol's 
 
 ilay, like a floating bower, at the extremity of the 
 
 highlands. Here they landed, until the heat of the day 
 should abate, or a breeze spring up, tliat might super- 
 sede the labour of the oar. Some prepared the mid- 
 day meal, while others reposed under the shade of the 
 trees in luxurious summer indolence, looking drowsily 
 forth upon the beauty of the scene. On the one side 
 were the highlands, vast and cragged, feathered to 
 the top with forests, and throwing their shadows on 
 the glassy water that dimpled at their feet. On the 
 other side was a wide expanse of the river, like a 
 broad lake, with long sunny reaches, and green head- 
 lands; and the distant line of Shawimgunk mountains 
 waving along a clear horizon, or chequered by a fleecy 
 cloud. 
 
 But I forbear to dwell on the particulars of their 
 cruise along the river : this vagrant, amphibious life, 
 careering across silver sheets of water ; coasting wild 
 woodland shores; banqueting on shady promontories, 
 with the spreading tree over head, the river curling 
 ils light foam to one's feet, and distant mountain, 
 and rock, and tree, and snowy cloud, and deep blue 
 sky, all mingling in summer beauty before one ; all 
 this, though never cloying in the enjoyment, would 
 be but tedious in narration. 
 
 When encampetl by the water-side, some of the 
 party would go into the woods and hunt; others 
 would lish : sometimes they would amuse themselves 
 by shooting at a mark, by leaping, by running, by 
 wrestling; and Dolph gained great favour in (he eyes 
 of Antony Vander Ileyden, by his skill and adroit- 
 ness in all these exercises ; which the Heer consider- 
 ed as the highest of manly accomplishments. 
 
 Thus did they coast jollily on, choosing only the 
 pleasant hours for voyaging; sometimes in the cool 
 morning dawn, sometimes in the sober evening twi- 
 light, and sometimes when the moonshine spangled 
 (he crisp curling waves that whispered along the 
 sides of their little bark. Never had Dolph felt so 
 completely in his element ; never had he met with 
 any thing so completely to his taste as this wild, hap- 
 hazard life. He was the very man to second Antony 
 Vander Heyden in his rambling humours, and gained 
 continually on his affections. The heart of the old 
 bushwhacker yearned towards the young man, who 
 seemed thus growing up in his own likeness; and as 
 they approached to the end of their voyage, he could not 
 help inquiring a little into his history. Dolph frankly 
 told him his course of life, his severe medical studies, 
 his little proficiency, and his very dubious prospects. 
 The Heer was shocked to find that such amazing ta- 
 lents and accomplishments were to be cramped and 
 buried under a doctor's wig. He had a sovereign 
 contempt for the healing art, having never had any 
 other pliysician than (he butcher. He bore a mortal 
 grudge to all kinds of study also, ever since he had 
 been flogged about an unintelligible book when he 
 was a boy. I>ut to think that a young fellow like 
 Dolph, of such wonderful abilities, who could shoot, 
 lish, run, jump, ride and wrestle, should be obliged 
 to roll pills, and administer juleps for a living — 'twas 
 
4tt 
 
 BRACEBHIDGE HALL. 
 
 I I 
 
 monstrous ! He told Dolph nerer to despair, bill lo 
 "throw physic to the dogs;" for a young fellow of 
 his prodigious talents could never fail lo make his 
 way. ** As you seem lo liave no acquaintance in 
 Albany," said Ileer Aniony, "you sliall go home 
 with me, and remain under my roof until you can 
 look about you ; and in the mean time we can take 
 an occasional bout at shooting and fishing, for it is a 
 pity such talents should lie idle. " 
 
 Dolph, who was at the mercy of chance, was not 
 hard lo lie persuaded. Indeed, on turning over mat- 
 ters in his mind, which he did very sagely and deli- 
 berately, he could not but think tliat Antony Vander 
 Heyden was, "somehow or oilier," connected with 
 tlie story of the Haunted House; that the misadven- 
 ture in the highlands, which had thrown them so 
 strangely together, was, "somehow or other," lo 
 work out something good : in short, there is nothing 
 so convenient as litis "somehow or other" way of 
 accommodating one's self to circumstances; it is the 
 main stay of a heedless actor, and tardy reasoner, 
 like Dolph Heyliger ; and he who can, in this loose, 
 easy way, link foregone evil to anticipated good, pos- 
 sesses a secret of happiness almost equal to the phi- 
 losopher's stone. 
 
 On their arrival at Albany, the sight of Dolph's 
 companion seemed to cause universal satisfaction. 
 Many were the greetings al the river-side, and the 
 salutations in the streets; the dogs bounded liefore 
 him , the boys whooped as he passed ; every body 
 seemed to know Antony Vander Heyden. Dolph 
 followed on in silence, admiring the neatness of Ihis 
 worthy burgh ; for in those days Albany was in all ils 
 glory, and inhabited almost exclusively by the des- 
 cendants of the original Dutch settlers, for it had not 
 as yet been discovered and colonized by the restless 
 people of New England. Every thing was quiet and 
 orderly; every thing was conducted calmly and lei- 
 surely; no hurry, no bustle, no struggling and scram- 
 bling for existence. The grass grew about the unpav- 
 ed streets, sni relieved the eye by its refreshing 
 verdure. Tall sycamores or pendent willows shaded 
 the houses, with caterpillars swinging, in long silken 
 strings, from their branches; or moths, fluttering 
 about like coxcombs, in joy at their gay transforma- 
 tion. The houses were built in the old Dutch style, 
 with the gable ends towards the street. The thrifty 
 housewife was seated on a bench before her door, in 
 close crimped cap, bright flowered gown, and white 
 apron, busily employed in knitting. The husband 
 smoked his pipe on the opposite bench, and the little 
 pet negro girl, seated on the step at her mistress' feet, 
 was industriously plying her needle. The swallows 
 sported about the eaves, or skinuned along the streets, 
 and brought back some rich booty for their clamor- 
 ous young; and the little housekeeping wren flew in 
 and out of a Lilliputian house, or an old hat nailed 
 against the wall. The cows were coming home, 
 lowing through the streets, to Ikc milked at their 
 owner's door; and if, perchance, there were any 
 
 loiterers, some negro urchin, wilh a long goad, »i, 
 gently urging them homewards. 
 
 As Dolph's companion passed on, he received i 
 tranquil nod from the burghers, and a friendly word 
 from tlieir wives; all calling him familiarly by iIh 
 name of Antony ; for it was the custom in Ihis stront 
 hold of the patriarchs, where they had all groirn ml 
 together from childli«M)d, lo call every one by |J 
 christian name. The Heer did not pause to luve U 
 usual jokes with them, for he was impatient to rei 
 his home. At length they arrived at his mam 
 It was of some magnitude, in the Dutch style, vii 
 large iron figures on the gaMes, that gave the dale 
 its erection, and showed that it had bteii built In n 
 earliest times of the settlement. 
 
 The news of the Heer Antony's arrival liad 
 ceded him, and the whole household wasontlie 
 out. A crew of negroes, large and small, had col 
 lected in front of the house to receive him. The 
 white-headed ones, who had grown grey in his itt\ 
 vice, grinneil for joy, and made many awkwi 
 bows and grimaces, and the little ones capered al 
 his knees. Hut the most happy being in the In 
 hold was a little, plump, blooming lass, his only 
 and the darling of his heart. She came Iwundi 
 out of the house ; but tiie sight of a strani^e y 
 man with her fatiier called up, for a moment, ail 
 bashfuincss of a home-bred damsel. Dolph gazed 
 her with wonder and deligiit; never had he seen, 
 he thought, any thing so comely in the shape of n 
 man. She was dressed in the good old Dulcli lai 
 with long stays, and full, short petticoats, so adi 
 rably adapted lo show and set off the female fi 
 Her hair, turnetl up under a small round cap, 
 played the fairness of her forehead ; she iiad iinelili 
 laughing eyes ; a trim, slender waist, and soft sti 
 — hut, in a word, she was a little Dutch divinii 
 and Dolph, who never slopt half-way in a new i 
 pulse, fell desperately in love wilh her. 
 
 Dolph was now ushered into the house vil 
 hearty welcome. In the interior was a mingled 
 play of Heer Antony's taste and habits, and of 
 opulence of his predecessors. The chambers m 
 furnished with good old mahogany ; the beaufels 
 cupboards glittered with embossed silver, and paii 
 china. Over the parlour fire-place was, as 
 the family coat of arms, painted and framed ; 
 which was a long, duck fowling-piece, flanked bj 
 Indian pouch and a powder-horn. The room 
 decorated wilh many Indian articles, such as pi{ 
 peace, tomahawks, scalping-knives, hunting-poi 
 and belts of wampum ; and there were various 
 of fishing-tackle, and two or three fowling-pii 
 the comers. The household affairs seemed to be 
 ducted, in some measure, after the master's Inn 
 corrected, perhaps, by a little quiet managemi 
 the daughter's. There was a great degree of 
 triarchal simplicity, and good-humoured indul| 
 The negroes came into the room without being 
 merely Jq look at their master, and hear of liis 
 
 low an( 
 of the 1 
 werei 
 leasing 
 III a pelt 
 Uie nieai 
 ly Vai 
 silent, s 
 he vii 
 irhicli 
 [one of hi 
 cliambe 
 up, I 
 'ed, that 
 fort 
 [laud, loo 
 Ugly; 
 !if had 
 'liechanil 
 lus, an( 
 clotlies- 
 waxed, 
 contaii 
 house 
 
 oiru 
 
 •h's mil 
 note of 
 Ipconii 
 
eRACEBKIDGK HALL. 
 
 MVI 
 
 1, wi«h a long goad, «m 
 
 irda. 
 
 Mssed on, Ue received j 
 \iers, and a friendly woni 
 ng him fandliarly by the 
 tlie cnslom in tliis sttoni 
 •re lliey had all grown n^l 
 10 call every one by thel 
 ;r did not pause to lwveliii| 
 • he was impatient lo re; 
 lY arrived at his mansion, 
 I, in the Dutch style, wii 
 ^'aWes, that gave the dale 
 lhatithadbt«:nbuiUinll 
 
 iment. 
 
 r Antony's arrival Iwd 
 
 le household was on tlw 
 
 large and small, had col. 
 186 to receive him. The" 
 , had grown grey in hi* swi 
 and made many awkwi 
 [the little ones capered al 
 *t happy being in llielioi 
 .blooming lass, his only 
 heart. She came Iwundi 
 ihe sight of a strange y 
 lied up, for a moment, all 
 wed damsel. Dolphgai«l 
 lelighl; never had he seen, 
 so comely in the shape of w( 
 din the good old Dutch lai 
 111, short petticoats, so adi 
 and set off the female f( 
 iniler a small round cap, 
 er forehead; she had tine l)li 
 slender waist, and sotl si( 
 was a little Dutch divinil 
 slopt half-way in a nevr 
 in love with her. 
 ihered into the house wil 
 he interior was a mingled 
 taste and habits, and o( 
 Icessors. The chambers w 
 id mahogany; the beaufeu 
 h embossed silver, and pai 
 Hour lire-place was, as 
 „ painted and framed; 
 k fowling-piece, tlankedbjl 
 wder-horn. The room- 
 Indian articles, such as pi] 
 ,lping-knives,hunliug-po> 
 ; and there were various 
 
 two or three fowling-pie 
 sehold affairs seemed to be 
 re, after the master'slmr 
 a little quiet managemei 
 ■e was a great degree of 
 d good-hnmoured indulf 
 the room without being' 
 master, and hear of liB 
 
 «(aUires ; lliey would stand listening at the d«Nir until 
 
 Ik liad linished a story, and then go off on a broad 
 
 trin, to repeat il in the kitchen. A couple of pet 
 
 [g((n> children were playing about the Hoor with Ihe 
 
 L^, and sharing with them their bread and butter. 
 
 All the domestics looked hearty and happy ; and when 
 
 table was set for the evening repast, the variety 
 
 abundance of gooti household luxuries bore tes- 
 
 ny to the open-handed liberality of the lleer, and 
 
 notable housewifery of his daughter. 
 
 In the evening there dropped in several of the 
 
 lorlhies of the place, the Van lleimscllaers, and the 
 
 insevurts, and the lloselMMms, and others of An- 
 
 ly Vander lleyden's intimates, to hear an account 
 
 his expedition ; for he was the Sindbad of Albany, 
 
 [| his exploits and adventures were favourite topics 
 
 conversation among the inhabitants. While these 
 
 gossiping together about Ihe door of the hall, and 
 
 jng long twilight stories, Dolph wascozily seated, 
 
 rtaining Ihe daughter on a window-bench. He 
 
 already gut on intimate terms; for those were 
 
 limes of false reserve and idle ceremony : and, 
 
 «les, there is something wonderfidly propitious to 
 
 iver's suit, in the delightful dusk of a long summer 
 
 ling; it gives courage to the most timid tongue, 
 
 hides the blushes of the baslifid. The stars 
 
 twinkled brightly; and now and then a iire-tly 
 
 his transient light before the window, or, 
 
 indering into the room. Hew gleaming about the 
 
 What Dolph whispered in her ear that long sum- 
 evening it is impossible to say : his words were 
 low and indistinct, that they never reached the 
 of the historian. It is probable, however, that 
 7 were tu the purpose ; for he had a natural talent 
 leasing the sex, and was never long in company 
 Iha petticoat without paying proper court lo it. 
 Ilie mean time the visitors, one by one, departed ; 
 ly Vender Heydeil, who had fairly talked him- 
 silent, sal nodding alone in his chair by the door, 
 he was suddenly aroused by a hearty salute 
 which Dolph Heyliger had unguardedly rounded 
 [wie of his periods, and which echoed through the 
 chamber like the re|)ort of a pistol. The Heer 
 up, rubbed his eyes, called for lights, and ob- 
 ed, that it was high time to go to bed ; though on 
 for the night, he scpieezed Dolph heartily by 
 jhaud, looked kindly in his face, and shook his head 
 |wingly; for the Heer well remembered what he 
 If had been at the youngster's age. 
 be chamber in which our hero was lodged was 
 IDS, and pannelled with oak. It was furnished 
 cloliies-presses, and mighty chests of drawers, 
 waxed, and glittering with brass ornaments, 
 contained ample stock of family linen; for the 
 housewives had always a laudable pride in 
 ing off their household treasures to strangers. 
 I's mind, however, was loo full lo lake parli- 
 iiote of the objects around him ; yet he could 
 lelp continually comparing the free, open-iieart- 
 
 ed cheeriness of this e«tablishtn«nt, with the slarvfl- 
 ing, sonlid, joyless housekeeping, at Doctor Knipper- 
 hausen's. Still there was something that marred the 
 enjoyment ; the idea that he must take leave of his 
 hearty host, and pretty hostess, and cast himself once 
 more adrill upon Ihe world. To linger here would 
 Ite folly ; he should only get dee|>er in love : and for 
 a poor varlet, like himself, to aspire lo the daughter 
 of the great Heer Vander lieyden — it was madness 
 to think of such a thing ! The very kindness that the 
 girl had shown towards him prompteil him, on re- 
 Heclion, lo hasten his departure; it would be a poor 
 return for Ihe frank hospitality of his host, to entangle 
 his daughter's heart in an injudicious attachment. In 
 a word, Dolph was, like many other young reasoners, 
 of excee<iing good hearts, and giddy heads; who think 
 after they act, and act differently from what they 
 think ; who make excellent determinations over night, 
 and forget lo keep them the next morning. 
 
 '' This is a line conclusion, truly, of my voyage," 
 siiid he, as he almost buried himself in a sumptuous 
 fealher-be<l, and drew Ihe fresh while sheets up lo 
 his chin. " Here am I, instead of linding a bag of 
 money to carry home, launched in a strange place, 
 with scarcely a stiver in my pocket; and, what is 
 worse, have jumped ashore up to my very ears in love 
 into the bargain. However," adde<l he, after some 
 pause, stretching himself, and turning himself in bed, 
 "I'm in good quarters for the present, at least; so 
 I'll e'en enjoy the present moment, and let the next 
 lake care of itself; I dare say all will work out, ' so- 
 mehow or other,' for the best." 
 
 As he said these words he reached out his hand to 
 extinguish the candle, when he was suddenly struck 
 with astonishment and dismay, for he thought he be- 
 held the phantom of the Haunted House, staring on 
 him from a dusky part of the chamber. A second look 
 reassured him, as he perceived that what he had taken 
 for the spectre was, in fact, nothing but a Flemish 
 portrait, that hung in a shadowy corner, just behind 
 a clothes-press. It was, however, the precise repre- 
 sentation of his nightly visitor. The same cloak and 
 belted jerkin, the same grizzled beard and fixed eye, 
 the same broad slouched hat, with a feather hanging 
 over one side. Dolph now called lo mind the resem- 
 blance he had fre(]uenlly remarked between his host 
 and the old man of the Haunted House ; and was fully 
 convinced that they were in some way connected, 
 and that some especial destiny had governed his 
 voyage. He lay gazing on the {(ortrait with almost 
 as much awe as he had gazed on the ghostly original, 
 until the shrill house-clock warned him of the lateness 
 of the hour. He put out the light : but remained for 
 a long time turning over these curious circumstances 
 and coincidences in his mind, until he fell asleep. 
 His dreams partook of the nature of his waking 
 thoughts. He fancied that he still lay gazing on the 
 picture, until, by degrees, it became animated; tliat 
 the ligm-c descended from the wall, and walked out 
 of the room; that he followed it, and found himself 
 
 I 
 
*u» 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 1^' 
 
 I: 
 
 by the well, to which the old man pointed, smiled on 
 him, and disappeared. 
 
 In the morning when Dolph waked, he found his 
 host standing by his bed-side, wiio gave him a hearty 
 morning's salutation, and asked him how he had 
 slept. Dolph answered cheerily ; but took occasion 
 to inquire about the portrait that hung against the 
 wall. " Ah," said Heer Antony, " that's a portrait 
 of old Killian Vander Spiegel, once a burgomaster of 
 Amsterdam, who, on some popular troubles, aban ■ 
 doned Holland, and came over to the province during 
 the government of Peter Stuyvesant. He was my 
 ancestor by the mother's side, and an old miserly 
 curmudgeon he was. When the English took posses- 
 sion of New Amsterdam, in 4604, he retired into the 
 country. He fell into a melancholy, apprehending 
 that his wealth would be taken from him, and that he 
 would come to beggary. He turned all his properly 
 into cash, and used to hide it away. He was for a 
 year or two concealed in various places, fancying him- 
 self sought after by the English, to strip him of his 
 wealth; and Anally was found dead in his bed one 
 morning, without any one being able to discover 
 where he had concealed the greater part of his mo- 
 ney." 
 
 When his host had left the room, Dolph remained 
 for some linie lost in thought. His whole mind was 
 occupied by what he had heard. Vander Spiegel 
 was his mother's family name, and he recollected to 
 have heard her speak of this very Killian Vander 
 Spiegel as one of her ancestors. He had heard her 
 ' ^?y,'too^ that her father was Killian's righirul heir, 
 , only that the old man died without leaving any tiling 
 to be inherited. It now appeared that Heer Antony 
 was likewise a descendant, and perhaps an heir also, 
 of this poor rich man; and that thus the Heyligers 
 and the Vander Heydens were remotely connected. 
 
 •' What," thought he, " if, after all, this is the in- 
 terpretation of my dream, that this is the way I am to 
 make my fortune by this voyage to Albany, and that 
 I am to hnd the old man's hidden wealth in the 
 bottom of that well? But what an odd roundabout 
 mode of commimicating the matter ! Why the plague 
 could not the old goblin have told mc about the well 
 at once, without sending me all the way to Albany, 
 to hear a story that was to send me all the way back 
 again ? " 
 
 These thoughts passed through his mind while he 
 was dressing. He descended the stairs, full of per- 
 plexity, when the bright face of Marie Vander Ileyden 
 suddenly beamed in smiles upon him, and seemed (o 
 give him a clue to the whole mystery. " After all," 
 thought he, " the old goblin is in the riglit. If I am 
 to get his wealth, he means that I shall marry his 
 pretty descendant; thus both branches of the family 
 will be again united, and the property go on in the 
 proper channel." 
 
 No sooner did this idea enter his head, than it car- 
 ried conviction with it. He was now all impatience 
 to hyrry back and secure the treasure, which, he did 
 
 not doubt, lay at the bottom of the well, and whidi 
 he feared every moment might be discovered by some 
 other person. "Who knows," thought he, "bui 
 this night-walking old fellow of the Haunted House 
 may be in the habit of haunting every visitor, and 
 may give a hint to some shrewder fellow than myself, 
 who will take a shorter cut to the well than by Uk 
 way of Albany ? " He wished a thousand times tl«i 
 the babbling old ghost was laid in the Red Sea, and 
 his rambling portrait with him. He was in a perfect 
 fever to depart. Two or three days elapsed iiefore 
 any opportunity presented for returning flown >lie| 
 river. They were ages to Dolph, notwith: 
 that he was basking in the smiles of the pretty MarieJ 
 and daily getting more and more enamoured. 
 
 At length the very sloop from which he had 
 knocked overboard prepared to make sail. Doii 
 made an awkward apology to his host for his siiddei 
 departure. Antony Vander Heyden was sorely 
 tonished. He tiad concerted half a dozen excursi 
 into the wilderness; and his Indians were aetuaili 
 preparing for a grand expedition to one of (he lain 
 He took Dolph aside, and exerted his eloquence 
 get him to abandon all thoughts of business and 
 remain with him, but in vain ; and he at length gai 
 up the attempt, observing, " that it was a thoui 
 pitiessofine a young man should throw himselfaway,' 
 Ileer Antony, however, gave him a hearty ihake 
 the hand at parting, with a favourite fuwling-pii 
 and an invitation to come to his house whenever 
 revisited Albany. The pretty little Marie said 
 thing ; but as he gave her a farewell kiss, her dimj 
 cheek turned pale, and a tear stood in her eye. 
 
 Dolph sprang lightly on board of the vessel. Tl 
 hoisted sail; the wind was fair; they soon lost sight 
 Albany, and its green hills, and embowered ii 
 They were wafted gaily past the Kaatskill mounlai 
 whose fairy heights were bright and cloudless, 
 passed prosperously through the highlands, will 
 any molestation from the Dunderberg goblin and 
 crew ; they swept on across Haverslraw Bay, and 
 Croton Point, and through the Tappaan-zee, and 
 der the Palisadoes, until, in the afternoon of the lli 
 day, they saw the promontory of Hoboken, lian: 
 like a cloud in the air; and, shortly alter, tlieriiol 
 the Manhatloes rising out of the water. 
 
 Dulph's first care was to repair to his niothi 
 house ; for he was continually goaded by the iili 
 the uneasiness she must experience on his ai 
 He was|>uzzling his brains, as he went along, (oil 
 how he should account for his absence, without 
 Irnying (he secre(s of the Haunted House. In 
 midst of these cogitations, he entered the siln 
 which his mother's house was situated, when iie( 
 thunderstruck at beholding it a heap of ruins. 
 
 There had evidently been a great lire, wliiolij 
 destroyed several large houses, and the humbled* 
 ingofpoor Dame Heyliger had been involvedinj 
 cunllagration. The walls were not so conijil 
 destroyed, but (hat Dolph could disliiignish i 
 
 trace 
 
 abou 
 
 name 
 
 Bible 
 
 ffi(h 
 
 ofthe 
 
 ^ven 
 
 by it' 
 
 alas.'f 
 
 For 
 
 sight;: 
 
 liadp< 
 
 ever, i 
 
 neighb 
 
 formed 
 
 The 
 
 (hisunl 
 
 soinleii 
 
 neighbt 
 
 of poor 
 
 without 
 
 gallant. 
 
 the wor 
 
 fate of tl 
 
 Asit ' 
 
 jilOicdon 
 
 pnblic, h 
 
 Irhefurii 
 
 and cerei 
 [injury of 
 ed un (li 
 bgtii, h( 
 [Heyliger. 
 universal 
 [than ever 
 
 lSll-g0( 
 
 Kwast 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 4ti9 
 
 1 of the well, and wliidi 
 ght be discovered by sonte 
 ows," thought he, "bul 
 »w of the Haiintetl House 
 unling every visitor, and 
 ewder fellow than myself, 
 It to the well than by ihe 
 ihed a thousand limes tliai 
 i laid in the Red Sea, and 
 him. He was in a perfect 
 three days elapsed liefore! 
 d for returning down .he 
 lo Dolph, nolwilh tanding] 
 B smiles of the pretty Marie, 
 d more enamoured, 
 ip from which he had 
 ared to make sail. Dolj 
 ;y to his host for his sudde: 
 uler Ueyden was sorely 
 rted half a dozen excursioi 
 id his Indians were acliiali] 
 pedition to one of the laki 
 id exerted his eloquence 
 thoughts of business and 
 vain; and he at length gji 
 ng, " that it was a Ihou! 
 I should throw himself away, 
 gave him a hearty shake 
 i'lh a favourite fowling-pii 
 me lo his house whenever 
 3 pretty little Marie said 
 erafarewell kiss, her '■ 
 a lear stood in her eye, 
 on board of the vessel. Tl 
 vas fair; they soon lost sighli 
 
 ills, and embowered ii" 
 past the Kaalskillmounlai 
 re bright and cloudless. Tli 
 rough the highlands, witl 
 IhcDunderberg goblin and 
 ross llavcrslraw Bay, and 
 ugh the Tappaan-zee, and 
 ii, in the afternoon of the 111 
 
 nontory of Uoboken 
 and, shortly after, llierool 
 
 ut of the water. 
 
 .as to repair lo his moll 
 
 tinually goaded by the idi 
 St experience on liis ar 
 
 ;ains, as he went along, loll 
 
 t for his absence, wilhoul 
 
 the llaunled House. In 
 
 ons, he entered the sin 
 
 luse was situated, when he 
 
 )lding it a heap of ruins. 
 , been a great lire, which 
 J bouses, and the humble* 
 liger had been involved in 
 „all8 were not so comply 
 IDolph could dislingnish 
 
 traces of the scene of his childhood. The fire-place, 
 jibout which he had often played, still remained, or- 
 namented with Dutch tiles, illustrating passages in 
 Bible history, on which he had many a time gazed 
 vith admiration. Among the rubbish lay the wreck 
 of the good dame's ellww-chair, from which she had 
 given him so many a wholesome precept; and hard 
 by it was the family Bible, with brass clasps ; now, 
 alas! reduced almost to a cinder. 
 
 For a moment Dolph was overcome by iV.la aismal 
 sight, for he was seized wit'li the fear that his mother 
 hiri perished in the flames. He was relieved, how- 
 ever, from this horrible apprehension, by one of the 
 neigbhotu's who happened to come by, and who in- 
 formed him that his mother was yet alive. 
 
 The good woman hati, indeed, lost every thing by 
 this unlooked-for calamity ; for the populace had been 
 so intent upon saving the line furniture of her rich 
 neighbours, that the little tenement and the little all 
 of poor Dame Heyliger had been suffered to consume 
 vrilhout interruption; nay, had it not been for the 
 gallant assistance of her old crony, Peter de Groodt, 
 the worthy dame and her cat might have shared the 
 fate oF their habitation. 
 
 As it was, she had been overcome w^ilh fright and 
 Jiction, and lay ill in body, and sick at heart. The 
 pnblic, however, had showed her its wonted kindness. 
 The furniture of her rich neighbours being, as far as 
 possible, rescued from the flames; themselves duly 
 md ceremoniously visited and condoled with on the 
 injury of their property, and their ladies commiserat- 
 |edun the agitation of their nerves; Ihe public, at 
 toglii, began to recollect something about poor Dame 
 jileyliger. She forthwith became again a subject of 
 nniversal sympathy; every body pitied her more 
 |lhanever; and if pity could but have been coined into 
 ill— good Lord ! how rich she would have been ! 
 It was now determined, in good earnest, that some- 
 ling ought to be done for her without delay. The 
 iminie, therefore, put up prayers for her on Sun- 
 lay, in which all the congregation joined most 
 leartily. Even Cobus Groesbeek , the alderman, and 
 Bynheer Milledollar, the great Dutch merchant, 
 |lood up in their pews, and did not spare their voices 
 1 the occasion ; and it was Ihought the prayers of 
 |ocli great men could not but have their due weight. 
 ictor Knipperhausen, loo, visited her professionally, 
 iHlgave her abundance of advice gratis, and was uni- 
 tersally lauded for his charity. As to her old friend, 
 "elerde Groodt, he was a poor man, whose pily, and 
 'ayers, and advice, could be of but lillle avail, so he 
 hve her all that was in his power— he gave her 
 pelter. 
 
 ITo the humble dwelling of Peter de Groodt, 
 en, did Dolph turn his steps. On his way thither, 
 ' recalled all the tenderness and kindness of his 
 Jniple-hearled parent, her indidgence of his errors, 
 fr blindness to his faults; and then he bethought 
 "self of his own idle, harum-scarum life. "I've 
 Kn a sad scapegrace," said Doli>li, shaking his head 
 
 sorrowfully. " I've been a complete sink-pocket, 
 that's the truth of it !— But," added he briskly, and 
 clasping his hands, "only let her live— only let her 
 live— and I'll show myself indeed a son ! " 
 
 As Dolph approached the house he met Peter de 
 Groodt coming out of it. The old man started back 
 aghast, doubling whether it was not a ghost that 
 stood before him. It being bright daylight, how- 
 ever, Peter soon plucked up heart, satisfied that no 
 ghost dare show his face in such clear sunshine. 
 Dolph iiow learned from the worthy sexton th'» con- 
 sternation and rumour to which his mysterious disap- 
 pearance had given rise. It had been universally 
 believed that he had been spirited away by those 
 hobgoblin gentry that infested the Haunted House; 
 and old Abraham Vandozer, who lived by the great 
 Button-wood trees, at the three-mile stone, affirmed, 
 that he had heard a terrible noise in the air, as he was 
 going home late at night, which seemed just as if a 
 flightof wild-geese were over-head, passing off towards 
 the northward. The Haunted House was, in conse- 
 quence, looked upon with ten times more awe than 
 ever ; nobody would venture to pass a night in it for 
 the world, and even the doctor had ceased to make 
 his expeditions to it in the daytime. 
 
 It reqiured some preparation before Dolph's return 
 could be made known to his mother, the poor soul 
 having bewailed him as lost; and her spirits having 
 been sorely broken down by a number of comforters, 
 who daily cheered her with stories of ghosts, and of 
 people carried away by the devil. He found her 
 confined lo her bed, with the other member of the 
 Heyliger family, the good dame's cat, purring l)eside 
 her, bul sadly singed, and utterly despoiled of those 
 whiskers, which were the glory of her physiognomy. 
 The poor woman threw her arms about Dolph's neck : 
 "My boy! my boy! art thou still alive?" For a 
 lime she seemed to have forgot' i all her losses and 
 troubles in her joy at his return. Even the sage gri- 
 malkin showed indubitable signs of joy at the return 
 of the youngster. She saw, perhaps, that they were 
 a forlorn and undone family, and felt a touch of that 
 kindliness which fellow-sufferers only know. Bul, 
 in truth, cats are a slandered people; they have mure 
 affection in them than the world commonly gives 
 them credit for. 
 
 The good dame's eyes glistened as she saw one 
 being, at least, beside herself, rejoiced at her son's 
 return. " Tib knows thee ! poor dumb beasl ! " said 
 she, smoothing down the mottled coal of her favourite ; 
 then recollecting herself, with a melancholy shake of 
 the head, "Ah, my poor Dolph!" exclaimed she, 
 " lliy mother can help thee no longer ! She can no 
 longer help herself! What will become of thee, my 
 poor boy ! " 
 
 " Mother," said Dolph, "don't talk in that strain; 
 I've been loo long a charge upon you; it's now my 
 part lo take care of you in your old days. Gome ! be 
 of good he.irl ! You, and I, and Tib, will all see belter 
 days. I'm here, you see, young, and sound, and 
 
i70 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 hearty ; then don't let us despair, I dare say thuigs 
 will all, somehow or other, turn out for the best. " 
 
 While this scene was going on with the Heyliger 
 family, the news was carried to Doctor Knipper- 
 hauscn, of the safe return of his disciple. The Itltle 
 doctor scarcely knew whether lo rejoice or be sorry 
 at the tidings. He was happy at having the foul re- 
 ports which had prevailed concerning his country- 
 mansion tlius disproved ; but he grieved at having 
 his disciple, of whom he had supposed himself fairly 
 disencumbered, thus drifting back a heavy charge 
 upon his hands. While he was balancing between 
 these two feelings, he was determined by the counsels 
 of Frau Ilsy, who advised him to take advantage of 
 the truant absence of the youngster, and shut the 
 door upon him fur ever. 
 
 At (he hour of bed-time, therefore, when it was 
 supposed the recreant disciple would seek his old 
 quarters, every thing was prepared for his reception. 
 Dolph having talked his mother into a state of tran- 
 quillity, sought the mansion of his quondam master, 
 and raised the knocker with a faltering hand. Scarce- 
 ly, however, had it given a dubious rap, when the 
 doctor's head, in a red night-cap, popped out of one 
 window, and the housekeeper's, in a white night-cap, 
 out of another. He was now greeted with a tre- 
 mendous volley of hard names and haitl language, 
 mingled with invaluable pieces of advice, such as are 
 seldom ventured to be given excepting to a friend in 
 distress, or a culprit at the bar. In a few moments 
 not a window in the street but had its particular 
 night-cap, listening to the shrill treble of Frau Ilsy, 
 and the guttural croaking of Dr Knipperhausen ; and 
 the word went from window to window, " Ah ! 
 here's Dolph Heyliger come back, and at his old 
 pranks again. " In short, poor Dolph found he was 
 likely to get nothing from the doctor but good ad- 
 vice ; a commodity so abundant as even to be thrown 
 out of the window ; so he was fain to beat a retreat 
 and take up his quarters fur the night under the 
 lowly roof of honest Peter de Groodt. 
 
 The next morning, bright and early, Dolph was 
 out at the Haunted House. Every thing looked just 
 as he had left it. The fields were grass-grown and 
 matted, and it ap|ieared as if nol)ody had traversed 
 them since his departure. With palpitating heart 
 he hastened to the well. He looked down into it, 
 and saw that it was of great depth, with water at 
 the iHittom. He had provided himself with a strong 
 line, such as the lishermen use on the banks of New- 
 foundland. At (he end was a heavy plummet and 
 a large fish-hook. With (his he began (o sound (he 
 bottom of the well, and lo angle about in the water. 
 He found that the water was of some depth ; there 
 appeared also to be much rubbish, stones from the 
 top having fallen in. Several times his hook got en- 
 tangled, and he came near breaking his line. Now 
 and then, too, he hauled up mere trash, such as the 
 scull of a horse, an iron hoop, and a shattered iron- 
 i)onnd bucket. He had now been several hours em- 
 
 ployed without finding any thingto repay his trouljie 
 or to encourage him to proceed. He began to think 
 himself a great fool, to be thus decoyed into a wild- 
 goose-chase by mere dreams, and was on the point 
 of throwing line and all into the well, and giving 
 up all further angling. 
 
 " One more cast of the line, " said he, " and (hat 
 shall be the last. " As he sounded he felt the 
 plummet slip, as it were, through the interstices of { 
 loose stones ; and as he drew back the line, he felt 
 tha( (he hook had taken hold of something heavy, 
 He had to manage his line with great caution, lestji I 
 should be broken by the strain upon it. By degrees 
 the rubbish that lay upon the article which he Jud 
 hooked gave way ; he drew it to the surface of the 
 water, and what was his rapture at seeing sometiiing 
 like silver glittering at the end of his line ! Almost 
 breathless with anxiety, he drew it up to the moulkof I 
 the well, surprised at ils great weight, and fearing I 
 every instant that his hook would slip from its hold, 
 and his prize tumble again to the bottom. At length I 
 he handed it safe beside the well. It was a j,'real I 
 silver porringer, of an ancient form, richly embossed I 
 and with armoriul bearings, similar to those over hi J 
 mother's mantel-piece, engraved on its side. The lid I 
 was fastened down by several twists of wire; Dolph I 
 loosened them with a trembling hand, and, on I 
 the lid, behold ! the vessel was filled with broad goidenl 
 pieces, of a coinage which he had never seen before!] 
 It was evident he had hit on the place where old kil-| 
 Han Yander Spiegel had concealed his treasure. 
 
 Fearful of being seen by some straggler, he cau-l 
 liously retired, and buried his pot of money in a se-l 
 cret place. He now spread terrible stories about liie| 
 Haunted House, and deterred every one fromapproacb-l 
 ing it, while he made frequent visits lo it in stonnrT 
 days, when no one was stirring in the neighbourio 
 fields; though, to tell the truth, he did nut care li 
 venture there in the dark. For once in his life I 
 was diligent and industrious, and followed uphisnei^ 
 trade of angling with such perseverance and suo 
 that in a little while he had hooked up wealth eiiougl 
 to make him, in those moderate days, a rich burglt 
 for life. 
 
 It would lie tedious to detail minutely the rest o 
 his story. To tell how he gradually managed lo i)ri 
 his properly into use without exciting surprise ani 
 inquiry — how he satisfied all scruples with regard I 
 retaining the property, and at the same lime gratifiej 
 his own feelings by marrying the pretty Marie Vaa 
 der Heyden — and how he and Heer Antony hadmai^ 
 a merry and roving expedition together. 
 
 I must nut uniil lo say, however, thai Dolph I 
 his mother home to live with him, and cherished h 
 in her old days. The good dame, too, had the sai 
 faction of no longer hearing her son made liie then 
 of censure; on the contrary, he grew daily inpuiil 
 esteem ; eVery body spoke well of him and his win 
 and (he lordliest burgomaster was never known I 
 decline his invitation to dinner. Dolph often relatij 
 
BKACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 471 
 
 ngto repay hb troullt, 
 id. He began to think 
 IS decoyed into a wiW- 
 and was on the point 
 , the well, and giving 
 
 «," said he, "and thai 
 J sounded he felt the 
 irougli Uie interstices of ] 
 Bv back the line, he fell 
 )ld of something heavy. 
 villi great caution, leslii I 
 Jin upon it. By degrees 
 ihe article which he liad 
 II it to the surface of 11k 
 pture at seeing somelliing 
 end of his line! Almo8l| 
 drew it up to the moulljot 
 great weight, and fearing 
 'would slip from itslioU, 
 to the bottom. Atleiiglh 
 Ihe well. It was a gnat 
 lent form, richly embossed 
 '8, similar to those over his 
 graved on its side. Tlielid 
 /eral twists of wire; Dolph 
 nblinshand,and,oiiliaiii? 
 was niled with broad golden 
 h he had never seen before! 
 on the place where old Kil- 
 concealed his treasure, 
 by some straggler, he cau- 
 d his pot of money inast 
 ad terrible stories about the 
 red every one fromapproaci^j 
 jquent visits to it in storm] 
 stirring in the neighbour! 
 lie truth, he did not care 
 k. For once in his life li 
 oiis, and followed up his UP 
 ;h persevferance and succi 
 ad hooked up wealth enoui 
 loderate clays, a rich burgh 
 
 detail minutely the rest 
 ■ gradually managed loir 
 [ithout exciting surprise ai 
 Id all scruples with regard 
 ind at the same time gralifK 
 frying the pretty Marie Vai 
 le and lleer Antony had mai 
 
 tdition together, 
 jy, however, that Dolph 
 1 with him, and cherishedt^ 
 |ood dame, too, had the sal 
 Iring her son made the thei 
 
 rary, he grew daily in P»l 
 ie well of him and his WM 
 tnasler was never known 
 linner. Dolph often velal 
 
 at his own table, the wicked pranks which had once 
 t)een the abhorrence of the town; but they were now 
 considered excellent jokes, and the gravest dignitary 
 vas fain to hold his sides when listening to them. No 
 one was more struck with Dolph's increasing merit 
 than his old master the doctor ; and so forgiving was 
 Doiph, that he absolutely employed the doctor as his 
 family physician, only taking care that iiis prescrip- 
 tions should be always thrown out of the window. 
 His mother had often her junto of old cronies to take 
 a snng cup of tea with her in her comfortable little 
 parlour ; and Peter de Groodt, as he sat by the lire- 
 siile, with one of her grandchildren on his knee, 
 would many a time congratulate her upon her son 
 tnrning out so great a man ; upon which the good old 
 soul would wag her head with exultation, and ex- 
 claim, "Ah, neighbour, neighbour! did I not say 
 thai Dolph would one day or other hold up his head 
 with the best of them?" 
 
 Thus did Dolph Heyliger go on, cheerily and pros- 
 
 TOiisly, growing merrier as he grew older and wi- 
 
 , and completely falsifying the old proverb about 
 
 mey got over the devil's back ; for he made good 
 
 of his wealth, and became a distinguished citizen, 
 
 ind a valuable member of the community. lie was a 
 
 !at promoter of public institutions, such as beef- 
 
 lak-societies and catch-clubs. He presided at all 
 
 ihlic dinners, and was the first that introduceil 
 
 irile from the West Indies. He improved the breed 
 
 race-horses and game-cocks, and was so great a 
 
 ilron of modest merit, that any one, who could sing 
 
 good song, or tell a good story, was sure to find a 
 
 lace at his table. 
 
 He was a member, too, of the corporation, made 
 eral laws for the protection of game and oysters, 
 liequeathed to the board a large silver punch- 
 iwl, made out of the identical porringer before-men- 
 d, and which is in the possession of the corpora- 
 te Ihis very day. 
 Finally, he died, in a florid old age, of an apo- 
 ty at a corporation-feast, and was buried with 
 :athonoursin the yard of the little Dutch church in 
 iiden-street, where his tombstone may still be seen, 
 ilhamotle.st epitaph in Dutch, by his friend Myn- 
 T Justus Benson, an ancient and excellent poet of 
 province. 
 
 he foregoing tale rests on better authority than 
 males of the kind, as I have it at second-hand 
 the lips of Dolph Heyliger himself. He never 
 ted it till towards the latter part of his life, 
 then in great confidence, (for be was very di- 
 l,) to a few of his particular cronies at his own 
 le, over a supernumerary bowl of punch; and 
 inge as the hobgoblin parts of the story may seem, 
 never was a single doubt expressed on the sub- 
 by any of his guests. It may not be amiss, be- 
 concluding, to observe that in addition to his 
 accomplishments, Dolph Heyliger was noted 
 'ing the ablest drawer of the long-bow in the 
 « province. 
 
 THE WEDDING. ' 
 
 No more, no more, much honor aye Iwtide 
 , The lofty bridegroom, and the lovely bride i 
 Thai all of their succeeding days may say, 
 Bach day appears like to a wedding-day. 
 
 BBilTHWAITi. 
 
 Notwithstanding the doubts and demurs of Lady 
 Lillycraft, and all the grave objections that were con- 
 jured up against the month of May, yet the wedding 
 has at length happily taken place. It was celebrated 
 at the village church, in presence of a numerous com- 
 pany of relatives and friends, and many of the te- 
 nantry. The squire must needs have something of 
 the old ceremonies observed on the occasion; so, at 
 the gate of the churchyard, several little girls of the 
 village, dressed in white, were in readiness with bas- 
 kets of flowers, which they strewed before the bride; 
 and the butler bore before her the bride-«up, a great 
 silver embossed bowl, one of the family reliques 
 from the days of the hard drinkers. This was filled 
 with rich wine, and decorated with a branch of rose- 
 mary, tied with gay ribands, according to ancient 
 custom. 
 
 " Happy is the bride that the sun shines on," says 
 the old proverb ; and it was as sunny and auspicious 
 a morning as heart could wish. The bride looked 
 uncommonly beautiful; but, in fact, what woman 
 does not look interesting on her wedding-day ? I 
 know no sight more charming and touching than that 
 of a young and timid bride, in her robes of virgin 
 white, led up trembling to the altar. When I thus 
 behold a lovely girl, in the tenderness of her years, 
 forsaking Ihe house of her fathers, and the home of 
 her childhood ; and, with the implicit confiding, and 
 the sweet self-abandonment, which belong to woman, 
 giving up all the world for the man of her choice ; 
 when I hear her, in the good old language of the ri- 
 tual, yielding herself to him, " for better for worse, for 
 richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, 
 honour, and obey, till death us do part," it brings to 
 my mind the beautiful and affecting self-devotion of 
 Ruth: "Whither thou goest I will go, and where 
 thou lotlgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my 
 people, and thy God my God." 
 
 The fair Julia was supported on Ihe trying occa- 
 sion by Lady Lillycrall, whose heart was overflowing 
 with its wonted sympathy in all matters of love and 
 matrimony. As the bride approached the altar, her 
 face would be one moment covered with blushes, 
 and the next deadly pale; and she seemed almost 
 ready to shrink from sight among her female com- 
 panions. 
 
 I do not know what it is that makes every one se- 
 rious, and, as it were, awe-struck at a marriage ce- 
 remony ; which is generally considered as an occasion 
 of festivity and rejoicing. As the ceremony was per- 
 forming, I observed many a rosy face among the 
 cniintry-girls turn pale, and I did not see a smile 
 
472 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 throughout the church. The young ladies from the 
 Hall were almost as much frightened as if it had been 
 their own case, and stole many a look of sympathy at 
 their trembling companion. A tear stood in the eye 
 of the sensitive Lady Lillycrafl; and as to Phcebe 
 Wilkins, v/ho was present, she absolutely wept and 
 sobbed aloud; but it is hard to tell, half the lime, what 
 these fond foolish creatures arc crying about. 
 
 The captain, too, though naturally gay and uncon- 
 cerned, was much agitated on the occasion ; and, in 
 attempting to put the ring upon the bride's flnger, 
 dropped it on the floor ; which Lady Lillycraft has 
 since assured me is a very lucky omen. Even Master 
 Simon had lost his usual vivacity, and had assumed a 
 most whimsically-solemn face, which he is apt to do 
 on all occasions of ceremony. He had much whis- 
 pering with the parson and parish-clerk, for he is 
 always a busy personage in the scene ; and he echoed 
 the clerk's amen with a solemnity and devotion that 
 edilied the whole assemblage. 
 
 The moment, however, that the ceremony was 
 over, the transition was magical. The bride-cup 
 was passed round, according to ancient usage, for 
 the company to drink to a happy union; every one's 
 feelings seemed to break forth from restraint ; Mas- 
 ter Simon had a world of bachelor-pleasantries to 
 utter, and as to the gallant general, he bowed and 
 cooed alwut the dulcet Lady Lillycraft, like a mighty 
 cock pigeon about his dame. 
 
 The villagers gathered in the churchyard, to cheer 
 the happy couple as they left the church; and the 
 musical tailor had marshalled his band, and set up 
 a hideous discord, as the blushing and smiling bride 
 passed through a lane of honest peasantry to her car- 
 riage. The ciiildren shouted and tln-ew up their hats ; 
 the bells rung a merry peal that set all the crows and 
 rooks Hying and cawing about the air, and threatened 
 to bring down the balllements of the old tower ; and 
 there was a continual popping off of rusty lirelocks 
 from every part of the neighbourhood. 
 
 The prodigal son ilistinguislied himself on the oc- 
 casion, having hoisted a flag on the lop of the school- 
 house, and kept the village in a hubbub from sunrise, 
 with the sound of drum and fife and pandeanpipe; 
 in which species of music several of his scholars are 
 making wonderful proliciency. In his great zeal, 
 however, he had nearly done mischief; for on re- 
 turning from church, the horses of the bride's cir- 
 riage took fright from the discharge of a row of old 
 gun-barrels, which he had mounted as a park of ar- 
 tillery in front of the school-liouse, to give the cap- 
 lain a military salute as he passed. 
 
 The day passed off with great rustic rejoicings. 
 Tables were spread under the trees in the park, 
 where all the peasantry of the neighbourhood were 
 regaled with roast beef and plum-pudding, and oceans 
 of ale. Ready-Money Jack presided at one of the 
 tables, and became so full of good cheer, as to unbend 
 from his usual gravity, to sing a song oul of all tune, 
 and give two or tliree shouts of laughter, that almost 
 
 electrifled his neighbours, like so many peals of thun- 
 der. The schoolmaster and the apothecary vied with 
 each other in making speeches over their liquor ; and 
 there were occasional glees and musical performances 
 by the village band, (hat must have frightened every i 
 faun and dryad from the park. Even old Christy, 
 who had got on a new dress, from top to tue, and | 
 shone in all the splendour of bright leather breeclies, j 
 and an enormous wedding-favour in his cap, forgot 
 his usual crustiness, became inspired by wine and 
 wassail, and absolutely danced a hornpipe on one of 
 the tables, with all the grace and agility of a man- [ 
 nikin hung upon wires. 
 
 Equal gaiety reigned within doors, where a lar^ j 
 party of friends were entertained. Every one lauglied I 
 at his own pleasantry, without attending to that of| 
 his neighlwurs. Loads of bride-cake were distri- 
 buted. The young ladies were all busy in passing] 
 morsels of it through the wedding-ring to dream ( 
 and I myself assisted a fine little boarding-school girtj 
 in putting up a quantity for her companions, w|iic||| 
 I have no doubt will set all the little heads in llie| 
 school gadding, for a week at least. 
 
 After dinner all the company, great and smailJ 
 gentle and simple, abandoned themselves to the dancel 
 not the modern quadrille, with its graceful graviiyJ 
 but the merry, social, old country-dance ; the tni| 
 dance, as the squire says, for a wedding occasion; a 
 it sets all the world gigging in couples, hand in handJ 
 and makes every eye and every heart dance merriljf 
 to the music. According to frank old usage, 
 gentlefolks of the HaU mingled, for a time, inllH 
 dance of the i)easantry, who had a great lent creel«| 
 for a ball-room; and I think 1 never saw Master Si] 
 mon more in his element than when figuring alt 
 among his rustic admirers, as master of the 
 monies ; and, with a mingled air of protection < 
 gallantry, leading out the quondam Queen of Majj 
 all blushing at the signal honour conferred uponiiei 
 
 In the evening the whole village was illuminaleil 
 excepting the houseofthe radical, whohasnotsiioir 
 his face during the rejoicings. There was a displaj 
 of fireworks at the school-house, got up by tiiepn 
 gal son, which had well nigh set fire to the Luiidinj 
 The squire is so much pleased with the exlraordiid 
 services of this last-mentioned worthy, that he Ul| 
 of enrolling him in his list of valuable retainers, i 
 promoting him to some important post on the eslalj 
 peradvenlure to be ftdconer, if the hawks caneverj 
 brought into proper training. 
 
 There is a well-known old proverb, that says, "ol 
 wedding makes many,"— or something to the saif 
 purpose; and I should not be surprised it if holds ^ 
 in llie present instance. I have seen several 
 tions among the young people, that have been hrouj 
 together on this occasion ; and a great deulofstroili 
 about in pairs, among the retired walks aHdhiossoj 
 ing shrubberies of the old garden ; and if groves v 
 really given to whispering, as poets would fain i 
 us believe. Heaven knows what love-tales the |;nl 
 
 looki 
 
 inigli 
 
 TJ 
 
 volio 
 
 caslin 
 
 dinne 
 
 was a 
 
 lir th< 
 
 ral, in 
 
 heart . 
 
 power 
 
 aflectic 
 
 Her lac 
 
 of the 
 
 liiere \ 
 
 tobeap 
 
 !y have 
 
 not unli 
 
 of lamb. 
 
 dal)lein< 
 
 Thus 
 
 I daring t 
 
 lily with 
 
 ■so orerpi 
 
 Iflesii, an 
 
 Slllesurpi 
 
 ri 
 
 -fe 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 475 
 
 8 80 many peals of Ihun- 
 he apothecary vied wilh I 
 ■8 over their liquor; I 
 id musical performances I 
 it have frightened every 
 rk. Even old Chrisly, 
 is, from top to toe, and 
 h'right leather breeches. 
 avour in his cap, forsoi 
 e inspired by wine and 
 :ed a hornpipe on one oil 
 iceandagilityof aman- 
 
 hin doors, where a large 
 [lined. Every one laughed I 
 bout attending to Ihal o(| 
 • bride-cake were dislri' 
 were all busy in passing] 
 s-edding-ring to dream « 
 
 • little boarding-school girt 
 )r her companions, 
 
 all the little heads in thel 
 k at least. 
 
 jmpany, great and small. 
 [ledlhemselveslolhedance;! 
 , with its graceful gra\ily, 
 d country-dance; Ihetrai 
 
 for a wedding occasion; 
 ig in couples, hand in hand, 
 I every heart dance raerril] 
 „.r 10 frank old usage, " 
 iFngled, for a lime, in 
 ,vlio had a great tent mclBl 
 
 link 1 never saw Master 
 than when iiguring al 
 ers, as master of Uie cei 
 inglcd air of protection 
 quondam Queen of Ma; 
 honour conferred upon hf 
 
 "lole village was illuminaK 
 e radical, wbohas not she 
 
 cings. There was a" 
 l-house,gotupbytUcpr» 
 ni^hsetiiretolhebuiWii 
 easal with the exlraordiiii 
 
 tioncd worthy, ll»all»« 
 ist of valuable relainers 
 
 important post on the eslat 
 
 ner, if the hawks can ever 
 
 Ining- ,. 
 
 li old proverb, Ibalsays. ( 
 
 '-or something to the mi 
 9t be surprised it if boWs?< 
 
 I have seen sc 
 Uple, that have bee.ib.0. 
 
 Landagreatdealotsro 
 [he retired walks andblo^' 
 lid garden; and if groves- 
 ling, as poets would fain 
 Ls what love-lales lite ?«! 
 
 looking old trees abont this venerable country-seat 
 might blab to the world. 
 
 The general, too, has waxed very zealous in his de- 
 votions within the last few days, as the time of her 
 ladyship's departure approaches. I observed him 
 casting many a tender look at her during the wedding- 
 dinner, while the courses were changing ; though he 
 Wis always liable to be interrupted in his adoration 
 by the appearance of any new delicacy. The gene- 
 ral, in fact, has arrived at that time of life, when the 
 heart and the stomach maintain a kind of balance of 
 power; and when a man is apt to be perplexed in his 
 affections between a fine woman and a truffled turkey. 
 Her ladyship was certainly rivalled through the whole 
 of the first course by a dish of stewed carp ; and 
 there was one glance, which was evidently intended 
 tobeapoint-blank shot at her heart, and could scarce- 
 ly have failed to effect a practicable breach, had it 
 not unluckily been diverted away to a tempting breast 
 of lamb, in which it immediately produced a formi- 
 dable incision. 
 Thus did this faithless general go on, coquetting 
 during the whole dinner, and committing an infidel- 
 ity with every new dish ; until in the end, he was 
 so overpowered by the attentions he had paid to iisli, 
 Besh, and fowl; to pastry, jelly, cream, and blanc- 
 mange, that he seemed to sink within himself : his 
 eyes swam beneath their lids, and their fire was so 
 luaeh slackened, that he could no longer discharge a 
 .single glance that would rei^ch across the table. Upon 
 the whole, I fear the general ate himself into as much 
 di^race, at this memorable dinner, as I have seen 
 {bim sleep himself into on a former occasion. 
 I am told, moreover, that young Jack Tibbets was 
 touched by the wedding ceremony, at which he 
 as present, and so captivated by the sensibility of 
 ir Phecbe Wilkins, who certainly looked all the 
 :tter for her tears, that he had a reconciliation with 
 T that very day, after dinner, in one of the groves 
 if the park, and danced with her in the evening, (o 
 complete confusion of all Dame Tibbets' domestic 
 ilitics. I met them walking together in the park, 
 irlly after the reconciliation must have taken place. 
 bung Jack carried himself gaily and manfully ; but 
 loebe hung her head, blushing, as I approached. 
 lovrever, just as she passed me, and dropped a 
 lurlesy, I caught a shy gleam of her eye from under 
 rbonnet ; but it was immediately cast down again. 
 saw enough in that single gleam, and in the invo- 
 lolary smile that dimpled about her rosy lips, to feel 
 ilisOed that the little gipsy's heart was happy again. 
 What is more. Lady Lillycraft, with her usual 
 evolence and zeal in all matters of this tender 
 lUire, on hearing of the reconciliation of the lovers, 
 iertook the critical task of breaking the matter to 
 idy-Money Jack. She thought liiere was no time 
 the present, and attacked the sturdy old yeoman 
 livery evening in the park, while his heart was 
 lifted up with the squire's good cheer. Jack was 
 Itlle surprised at bcingdrawn aside by her ladysbip, 
 
 but was not to be flurried by snch an honour : he was 
 still more surprised by the nature of her communica- 
 tion, and by this first intelligence of an affair that 
 had been passing under his eye. He listened, how- 
 ever, wilh his usual gravity, as her ladyship repre- 
 sented the advantages of the match, the good qualities 
 of the girl, and the distress which she had lately suf- 
 fered ; at length his eye began to kindle, and his hand 
 to play with the head of his cudgel. Lady Lillycraft 
 saw that something in the narrative had gone wrong, 
 and hastened to mollify his rising ire by reiterating 
 the soft-hearted Phoebe's merit and fidelity, and her 
 great unhappiness ; when old Ready-Money suddenly 
 interrupted her by exclaiming, that if Jack did not 
 marry the wench, he'd break every bone in his body ! 
 The match, therefore, is considered a settled thing; 
 Dame Tibbets and the housekeejier have made friends, 
 and drank tea together; and Phcpbe has again re- 
 covered her good looks and good spirits, and is carol- 
 ling from morning till night like a lark. 
 
 But the most whimsical caprice of Cupid is one that 
 I should be almost afraid to mention, did I not know 
 that I was writing for readers well experienced in the 
 waywardness of this most mischievous deity. The 
 morning after the wedding, therefore, while Lady 
 Lillycraft was making preparations for her departure, 
 an audience was requested by her immaculate hand- 
 maid, Mrs Hannah, who, wilh much primming of 
 the mouth, and many maidenly hesitations, requested 
 leave to stay behind, and that Lady Lillycraft would 
 supply her place with some other servant. Her lady- 
 ship was astonished : "What ! Hannah going to quit 
 her, that had lived with her so long ! " 
 
 '' Why, one could not help it ; one must settle in 
 life some time or other. " 
 
 The good lady was still lost in amazement; at length 
 the secret was gasped from the dry lips of the maiden 
 gentlewoman: "she had been some time thinking of 
 clianging her condition, and at length had given her 
 word, last evening, to Mr Christy, the huntsman." 
 
 How, or when, or where this singular coui'tship 
 had been carried on, I have not been able to learn ; 
 nor how she has been able, with the vinegar of her 
 disposition, to soften the stony heart of old Nimrod : 
 so, however, it is, and it has astonished every one. 
 With all her ladyship's love of match-making, this 
 last fume of Hymen's torch has been loo much for 
 her. She has endeavoured to reason with Mrs Han- 
 nah, but all in vain ; her mind was made up, and 
 she grew tart on the least contradiction. Lady Lilly- 
 craft applied to the .stjuire for his interference. " She 
 did not know what she should do without Mrs Han- 
 nah, she had been used to have her about her so long 
 a lime." 
 
 The squire, on the contrary, rejoiced in the match, 
 as relieving the good lady from a kind of toilet-tyrant, 
 under whose sway she had suffered for years. In- 
 stead of thwarting the affair, therefore, he has given 
 it his full countenance ; and declares that he will set 
 up the young couple in one of the best collages on his 
 
 m 
 
474 
 
 fiRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 '• !(l • 
 
 estate. The approbation of the squire has been fol- 
 lowed by that of the whole household : they all de- 
 clare, that if ever matches are really made in heaven, 
 this must have been ; for that old Christy and Mrs Han- 
 nah were as evidently formed to be linked togMher 
 as ever were pepper-box and vinegar-cruet. 
 
 As soon as this matter was arranged, Lady Lilly- 
 craft took her leave of the family at the Hall ; taking 
 with her the captain and his blushing bride, who are 
 to pass the honeymori with her. Master Simon ac- 
 companied them on horseback, and indeed means to 
 ride on a-head to make preparations. The general, 
 who was fishing in vain for an invitation to her seat, 
 handed her ladyship into her carriage with a heavy 
 sigh; upon which liis bosom friend. Master Simon, 
 who was just mounting his horse, gave me a know- 
 ing wink, made an abominably wry face, and, lean- 
 ing from his saddle, whispered loudly in my ear, 
 "It won't do ! " Then putting spurs to his horse, 
 away he cantered off. The general stood for some 
 time waving his hat after the carriage as it rolled 
 down the avenue, until he was seized with a fit of 
 sneezing, from exposing his head to the cool breeze. 
 I observed that he returned rather thoughtfully to the 
 house, whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his hands 
 behind his back, and an exceedingly dubious air. 
 
 The company have now almost all taken their de- 
 parture. I have determined to do the same to-mor- 
 row morning; and I hope my reader may not think 
 that I have already lingered too long at tlie Hall. I 
 have been tempted to do so, however, because I 
 thought I had lit upon one of the retired places where 
 there are yet some traces to be met with of old Eng- 
 lish character. A little while hence, and all these 
 will probably have passed away. Ready-Money Jack 
 will sleep with his fathers : the good squire, and all 
 his peculiarities, will be buried in the neighbouring 
 church. The old Hall will be modernized into a 
 fashionable country-seat, or peradventure a mani'.- 
 factory. The park will be cut up into petty farms 
 and kitchen-gardens. A daily coach will run through 
 the village ; it will become, like all other common- 
 place villages, thronged with coachmen, post-boys, 
 tipplers, and politicians; and Christmas, F^ay-day, 
 and all the other hearty merry-makings of the "good 
 old times" will be forgotten. 
 
 THE AUTHORS FAREWELL. 
 
 And so, without more circumstance at all, 
 I hold it fit that we shake hands, and part. 
 
 Hamlet. 
 
 Having taken leave of the Hall and its inmates, 
 and brought the history of my visit to something like 
 a close, there seems to remain nothing further than 
 to make my bow and exit. It is my foible, however, 
 to get on such companionable terms with my reader 
 
 in the course of a work, that it really costs me some 
 pain to part with him, and I am apt to keep him by 
 the hand, and have a few farewell words at the end 
 of my last volume. 
 
 When I cast an eye back upon the work I am just 
 concluding, I cannot but be sensible how full it must 
 be of errors and imperfections; indeed how should it 
 be otherwise, writing as I do, about subjects and 
 scenes with which, as a stranger, I am but partially I 
 acquainted? Many will, doubtless, find cause to 
 smile at very obvious blunders which I may hate 
 made; and many may, perhaps, be offended at vhat 
 they may conceive prej udiced representations. Some 
 will think I might have said much more on such sub- 
 jects as may suit their peculiar tastes; whilst othen 
 will think I had done wiser to liave left those subjects I 
 entirely alone. 
 
 It will, probably, be said, too, by some, that I view I 
 England with a partial eye. Perhaps I do ; for I can I 
 never forget that it is my "father land." Andyttl 
 the circumstances under which I have viewed it hare I 
 by no means lieen such as were calculated to produce I 
 favourable impressions. For tlie greater part ofthel 
 tune that I have resided in it, I have lived almost uo-l 
 knowing and unknown; seeking no favours, andre<| 
 ceiving none; "a stranger and a sojourner in the! 
 land," and subject to all the chills and neglects llui| 
 are the common lot of the stranger. 
 
 When I consider these circumstances, andrecollettl 
 how often I have taken up my pen, with a mind ill| 
 at ease, and spirits much dejected and cast down, I 
 cannot but think I was not likely to err on the favour-| 
 able side of the picture. The opinions I have given « 
 English character have been the result of much quiet 
 dispassionate, and varied observation. It is a charade 
 not to be hastily studied, for it always puts on a i 
 pulsive and ungracious aspect to a stranger, 
 those, then, who condemn my representations as li 
 favourable, observe this people as closely and < 
 berately aslhave done, and they will, probably, cbani 
 their opinion. Of one thing, at any rate, I am( 
 tain, that I have spoken honestly and sincerely, I 
 the convictions of my mind, and the dictates of i 
 heart. When I first published my former writir 
 it was with no hope of gaining favour in English eye^ 
 for I little thought they were to become current i 
 of my own country ; and had I merely sought | 
 pularity among my own countrymen, I should M 
 taken a more direct and obvious way, by gratiflyi 
 rather than rebuking the angry feelings that we^ 
 then prevalent against England. 
 
 And here let me acknowledge my wa'-ii , i:, 
 ful feelings, for the manner in which onu «i my trii^ 
 lucubrations has been received. I allude to the e 
 in the Sketch Book, on the subject of the Wen 
 feuds between England and America. I cannot < 
 press the heartfelt delight I have experienced, atl 
 unexpected sympathy and approbation with wlr 
 those remarks have been received on both sides oflj 
 Atlantic. 1 speak this not from any paltry feelin 
 
BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 47H 
 
 , it really costs me somt 
 
 am apt to keep him by 
 
 rewell words at the end 
 
 ipon the work lam just 
 sensible how full it Diust 
 is; indeed how should it 
 do, about subjects and ] 
 jnger, I am but partially 
 doubtless, find cause to I 
 iders which I may have 
 laps, be offended at what 
 id representations. Some 
 I much more on such sub- 
 iliar tastes; whilst olhera 
 ■to have left those subjects 
 
 too, by some, that I view 
 J. Perhaps I do; for lean 
 
 "fatherland." And yet 
 rtiich I have viewed it have 
 were calculated lo produce 
 For tlie greater part of the 
 lit I have lived almost UB- 1 
 seeking no favours, andre-| 
 ger and a sojourner in ' 
 "the chills and neglects thatl 
 
 le stranger. 
 
 ! circumstances, andrecoUett 
 jp my pen, with a mind i| 
 [j dejected and cast down, 
 ot likely to err on the favour- 
 The opinions I have given ' 
 een the result of much quii 
 observation. ItisacharacI 
 , for it always puts on a 
 ' aspect to a stranger, 
 nn my representations as 
 
 , people as closely and deH^ 
 ndtheywill,probably,char- 
 
 iiing, at any rate, I am 
 honestly and sincerely, 
 And, and the dictates of 
 Wished my former writi 
 laining favour in Englishes 
 were to become current 
 d had I merely sought 
 |i countrymen, I should tai 
 obvious way, by gratifly" 
 he angry feelings that w 
 
 flgland. 
 
 ywledgemywan.. u, ID. 
 nerinwhichont-oimytn' 
 ceived. lailudetolheer 
 the subject of the htei 
 .and America. I cannot 
 htlhave experienced, at 
 and approbation with vi 
 In received on both sidesC 
 
 iot from any paltry'**'" 
 
 graiifled vanity ; for I attribute the effect to no merit 
 of my pen. The paper in question was brief and ca- 
 sual, and the ideas it conveyed were simple and ob- 
 vious. " It was the cause, it was the cause" alone. 
 There was a predisposition on the part of my readers 
 to be favourably affected. My countrymen respond- 
 ed in heart to the filial feelings I had avowed in their 
 name towards the parent country ; and there was a 
 generous sympathy in every English bosom towards 
 a solitary individual, lifting np his voice in a strange 
 land, to vindicate the injured character of his nation. 
 There are some causes so sacred as to carry with them 
 an irresistible appeal to every virtuous bosom ; and he 
 needs but little power of eloquence, who defends the 
 iwnour of his wife, his mother, or his country. 
 
 I hail, therefore, the success of that brief paper, as 
 stiowing how much good may be done by a kind 
 word, however feeble, when spoken in season — as 
 showing how much dormant good feeling actually 
 exists in each country towards the other, which only 
 wants the slightest spark to kindle it into a genial 
 lame— as showing, in fact, what I have all along be- 
 ilieved and asserted, that the two nations would grow 
 L^ether in esteem and amity, if meddling and ma- 
 
 lant spirits would but throw by their mischievous 
 
 lis, and leave kindred hearts to the kindly impulses 
 
 {nature. 
 
 I once more assert, and I assert it with increased 
 
 snviction of its truth, that there exists, among the 
 
 eat majority of my countrymen, a favourable feel- 
 
 j towards England. I repeat this assertion, because 
 
 Ithink it a truth that cannot too often be reiterated, 
 
 because it has met with some contradiction. 
 
 bong all the liberal and enlightened minds of my 
 
 ountrymen, among all those which eventually give a 
 
 ne to national opinion, there exists a cordial desire 
 
 I be on terms of courtesy and friendship. But, at 
 
 isame time, there exists in those very minds a dis- 
 
 St of reciprocal good-will on the part of England. 
 
 hey have been rendered morbidly sensitive by the 
 
 Hacks made upon their country by the English pi'ess ; 
 
 their occasional irritability on this subject has 
 
 1 misinterpreted into a settled and unnatural hos- 
 
 lily. 
 
 iFor my part, I consider this jealous sensibility as 
 
 )longing to generous natures. I should look u\wu 
 
 conntrymen as fallen indeed from that independ- 
 
 !of spirit which 's their birth-gift; as fallen in- 
 
 . from that pride of <^haracter which they inherit 
 
 I the proud nation from which they sprung, could 
 
 |ty tamely sit down under the intliction of contumely 
 
 I insult. Indeed the very impatience which they 
 
 |iv as to the nisreprescntations of the press, proves 
 
 -respect for English opinion, and their desire for 
 
 [lishamily ; .or there is never jealousy where tnere 
 
 Dot strong regard. 
 
 [lis easy to say that these attacks are all the efTu- 
 
 of worthless scribblers, and treated with silent 
 
 ^lempt by the nation ; but alas ! the slanders of the 
 
 Met travel abroad, and the silent contempt of the 
 
 nation is only known at home. With England, then, it 
 remains, as I have formerly asserted, to promote a 
 mutual spirit of conciliation ; she has but to hold the 
 language of friendship and respect, and she is secure 
 of the good-will of every American bosom. 
 
 In expressing these sentiments I would utter no- 
 thing that should commit the proper spirit of my 
 countrymen. We seek no boon at England's hands : 
 we ask nothing as a favour. Her friendship is not ne- 
 cessary, nor would her hostility be dangerous to our 
 well-being. We ask nothing from abroad that we 
 cannot reciprocate. But with respect to England, 
 we have a warm feeling of tlie heart, the glow of 
 consanguinity, that still lingers in our blood. In- 
 terest apart— past differences forgotten— we extend 
 the hand of old relationship. We merely ask, Do not 
 estrange us from you ; do not destroy the ancient tie 
 of blood; do not let scoffers and slanderers drive a 
 kindred nation from your side : we would fain be 
 friends ; do not compel us to be enemies. 
 
 There needs no better rallying ground for inter- 
 national amity, than that furnished by an eminent 
 English writer : " There is, " says he, " a sacred 
 bond between us of blood and of language, which no 
 circumstances can break. Our literature must always 
 be theirs ; and though their laws are no longer the 
 same as ours, we have the same Bible, and we address 
 our common Fatlier in the aame prayer. Nations 
 are too ready to admit that they have natural ene- 
 mies ; why should they be less willing lo believe that 
 they have natural friends? " ■ 
 
 To the magnanimous spirits of both countries must 
 we trust to carry such a natural alliance of affection 
 into full effect. To pens more powerful than mine I 
 leave the noble task of promoting the cause of national 
 amity. To the intelligent and enlightened of my own 
 country, I address my parting voice, entreating them 
 to show themselves superior to the petty attacks of 
 the ignorant and the worthless, and still to look with 
 dispassionate and philosophic eye to the moral cha- 
 racter of England, as the intellectual source of our 
 rising greatness ; while I appeal to every generous- 
 minded Englishman from the slanders which disgrace 
 the press, insult the understanding, and belie the ma- 
 gnanimity of his country : and I invite him to look to 
 America, as to a kindred nation, worthy of its origin; 
 giving, in the healthy vigour of its growth, the best 
 of comments on its parent stock ; and reflecting, in 
 the dawning brightness of its fame, the moral ef- 
 fulgence of British glory. 
 
 I am sure that such appeal will not be made in 
 vain. Indeed I have noticed, for some lime past, an 
 essential change in English sentiment with regard to 
 America. In parliament, that fountain-liead of public 
 opinion, there seems to be an emulation, on both 
 sides of the house, in holding the language of courtesy 
 and friendship. The same spirit is daily becoming 
 
 ' From an article ( said to be by Robert Southcy, Esq.) pu- 
 blished in the Quarterly Review. It is to be lamented that that 
 publication should so often forget the generous text here given '. 
 
47C 
 
 BRACEBRIDGE HALL. 
 
 more and more prevalent in good society. There is 
 a growing curiosity concerning my country, a craving 
 desire for correct information, that cannot fail to lead 
 to a favourable understanding. The scotTer, I trust, 
 has had his day : the time of the slanderer is gone 
 by. The ribald jokes, the stale common-places, which 
 have so long passed current when America was the 
 theme, are now banished to the ignorant and the vul- 
 gar, or only perpetuated by the hireling scribblers 
 and traditional jesters of the press. The intelligent 
 and high-minded now pride themselves upon making 
 America a study. 
 
 But however my feelings may be understood or 
 reciprocated on either side of the Atlantic, I utter 
 them without reserve, for I have ever found that to 
 speak frankly is to speak safely. I am not so san- 
 guine as to believe that the two nations are ever to 
 be bound together by any romantic ties of feeling ; 
 but I believe that much may be done towards keep- 
 ing alive cordial sentiments, were every well-disposed 
 mind occasionally to throw in a simple word of kind- 
 
 ness. If I have, indeed, contributed in any degree 
 to produce such an effect by my writings, it will be 
 a soothing reflection to me, that for once, in the 
 course of a rather negligent life, I have been useful; 
 that for once, by the casual exercise of a pen which 
 has been in general but too unprofitably employed, I 
 have awakened a chord of sympathy between the I 
 land of my fathers and the dear land that gave me birtii. 
 In the spirit of these sentiments I now take tny I 
 farewell of the paternal soil. With anxious eye do I 
 I behold the clouds of doubt and difTiculty that are I 
 lowering over it, and earnestly do I hope that ijiey I 
 may all clear up into serene and settled sunsiiine. 
 In bidding this last adieu, my heart is filled vjijil 
 fond, yet melancholy emotions; and still I linger,! 
 and still, like a child, leaving the venerable abodes! 
 of his forefathers, I turn to breathe forth a filial lie-l 
 nediction : " Peace be within thy walls, oh Eng-[ 
 land! and plenteousness within thy palaces; formal 
 brethren and my companions' sake I will now sar,| 
 Peace be within thee ! " 
 
 E^D OF »KAC£BK]DG£ lULL. 
 
 ^rii:^.. 
 
ntributed in any degree 
 ( my writings, it will be 
 B, that for once, in the I 
 life, I have been useful; 
 exercise of a pen which I 
 unprofitably employed, I 
 sympalliy between the | 
 arlandthat gave me birth, 
 ntiments I now take my I 
 1. "With anxious eye do 
 bt and difficulty that are 
 estly do I hope that they] 
 >ne and settled sunshine. 
 , my heart is filled with I 
 otions; and still I linger,! 
 ving the venerable abodes I 
 breathe forth a filial he- 1 
 rithin thy walls, oh Enj-f 
 within thy palaces; forniy| 
 ions' sake I will now i 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 BV 
 
 f6tot(vt^ Crajion, <B>tnt, 
 
 I am neillicr your minotaure, nor your cenlaure, nor your 
 satyr, nor your liyxna, nor your babion, but your mecr Ira- 
 vdter, believe me. Beh Jonso.n. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 WOnTDT AND DEAR READER! 
 
 Hist thou ever been waylaid in the midst of a pleasant 
 rby some treacherous malady ; thy heels tripped up, and 
 loa left to count the tedious minutes as they passed, in the 
 iude of an inn-chamber? If thou hast, thou wilt be able 
 9 pity me. Behold me, internipted in the course of my 
 Tieying up the fair banks of the Khine, and laid up by 
 idispusilion in this old frontier town of Menlz. I have 
 korii out every source of amusement. I know the sound of 
 Wy dock that strikes, and l)eU that rings, in the place. 
 I know to a second when to listen for the first tap of the 
 ssian drum, as it summons the garrison to parade ; or at 
 liliatbour to expect the distant sound of the Austrian mi- 
 liary band. AU these have grown wearisome to me ; and 
 ken the well-known step of my doctor, as he slowly paces 
 kecorridor, with healing in (he creak of bis shoes, no longer 
 s an agreeable interruption to the monotony of my 
 nent. 
 
 I For a time I attempted to beguile the weary hours by 
 dying German under the tuition of mine host's pretty 
 
 jliedjnghter, Katrine ; but I soon found even German had 
 It power to cliarm a languid ear, and that the conjugating 
 \«h hebe might be powerless, however rosy the lips which 
 lit. 
 
 II tried to read, but my mind would not fix itself; I turu- 
 lover Tolnme afler volume, but threw them by with dls- 
 Me : " Well, then," said I at length in despair, " If I can- 
 jlread a book, I will write one." Never was there a more 
 diyidca; it at once gave me occupation and amusement. 
 
 he writing of a book was considered, in old times, as an 
 leiprise of toil and difficulty, insomuch that the most 
 
 iQg lucubration was denominated a "work," and the 
 
 1 talked with awe and reverence of " the labours of the 
 These matters are better understood now-^nlays. 
 jinlis to the improvements in au kind of manufactures, the 
 |of hook-makmg has been made familiar to the meanest 
 
 Kity. Every body is an author. The scribbling of a 
 ^IoIb the mere pastime of the idle; the young gcntlc- 
 
 1 throws off his brace of duodecimos in the intervals of 
 |iporting season, and the young lady produces her set of 
 
 DCS with the same facility that her great-grandmoth .■ 
 
 M a set of chair-bottoms. 
 
 he Idea linviiig struck me, therefore, to write a book, 
 Ireader will easily perceive that the execution of it was 
 
 no difficult matter. I rummaged my port-folio, and cast 
 about, in my recollection, for those floating materials which 
 a man natiu-ally collects in travelling ; and here I have ar- 
 ranged them in this little work. 
 
 As I know this to be a story-telling and a story-reading 
 age, and that the world is fond of being taught by apologue, 
 I have digested the instruction I would convey into a num- 
 ber of tales. They may not possess the power of amuse- 
 ment which the tales told by many of my contemporaries 
 possess ; but then I value myself on the sound moral which 
 each of thcni contains. This may not be apparent at first, 
 but the reader will be sure to find it out in the end. I am 
 for curing the world by gentle alteratives, not by violent 
 doses ; indeed the patient should never be conscious that he 
 is taking a dose. I have learnt this nmch from my expe- 
 rience under the hands of the worthy Hippocrates ofMenta. 
 
 I am not, therefore, for those barefaced tales which carry 
 their moral on the surface, staring one in the face; they are 
 enough to deter the squeamish reader. On the contrary, I 
 have often hid my moral from sight, and disguised it as 
 much as possible by sweets and spices ; so that while the 
 simple reader is listening with open mouth to a ghost or a 
 love story, be may have a bolus of sound morality popped 
 down his throat, and be never the wiser for the fraud. 
 
 As the public is apt to be curious about the sources from 
 whence an author draws his stories, doubtless that it may 
 know how far to put faith in them, I would observe, that the 
 Adventure of the German Student, or rather the latter part 
 of it, is founded on an anecdote related to me as existing 
 somewhere in French ; and, indeed, I have been told, since 
 writing it, that an ingenious tale has lieen founded on it by 
 an English writer; but I have never met with cither the 
 former or the latter in print. Some of the circumstances 
 in the Adventure of the Mysterious Picture, and in the Story 
 of the Toung Italian, are vague recollections of anecdotes 
 related to me some years since; but from what source 
 derived I do not know. The Adventure of the Young 
 Painter among the banditti is taken almost entirely from an 
 authentic narrative in manuscript. 
 
 As to the other talcs contained in this work, and, indeed, 
 to my talcs generally, I can make but one observation. I 
 am an old traveller. I have read somewhat, heard and seen 
 more, and dreamt more than all. My brain is filled, there- 
 fore, with all kinds of odds and ends. In travelling, these 
 heterogeneous matters have become shaken up in my mind, 
 as the articles arc apt to be in an ill-packed travelling-lnmk ; . 
 so that when I attempt to draw forth a fact, I cannot deter- 
 
478 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 mine whether I have read, heard, or dreamt it; and I am 
 always at a low to know how much to believe of my own 
 stories. 
 
 These matters being premised, fall to, worthy reader, 
 with good appetite, and above all, with good humour, to 
 what is here set before thee. If the talcs I have furnished 
 should prove to be bad, they will at least be found short; so 
 that no one will be wearied long on the same theme. " Va- 
 riety is charming," as some poet oliserves. There is a cer- 
 tain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse ; 
 as I have found in travelling in a stage-coach, that it is often 
 a comfort to shift one's position and be bruised in a new 
 place. 
 
 Ever thine, 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON. 
 
 Dated from the Hotel dr Daiimstadt, 
 ci-devant Hotel de Paris, 
 SlENTZ, otherioisc called Mavence. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 STRANGE STORIES. 
 If 
 
 A NERVOUS GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I'll tell you more, there was a Rsh taken, 
 
 A monstrous fish, with a sword by 's side, a long sword, 
 
 A pike in 's neck, and a gun in 's nose, a huge gun. 
 
 And letters of mart in 's mouth from the Duke of Florence. 
 
 Cleanthes. Thiii is a monstrous lie. 
 
 Tony. I do confess it. 
 
 Do you think I 'd tell you truths ? 
 
 rivrcBtu's fJ^ife for a Month. 
 
 THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 The following adventures were related to me by 
 the same nervous gentleman who told me the ro- 
 mantic tale of the Stout Gentleman, published in 
 Bracebridge Hall. It is very singular, that although 
 I expressly stated that story to have been told to me, 
 and described the very person who told it, still it has 
 been received as an adventure that happened to my- 
 self. Now I protest I never met with any adventure 
 of the kind. I should not have grieved at this had it 
 not been intimated by the author of Waverley, in an 
 introduction to his novel of Peveril of the Peak, that 
 he was himself the stout gentleman alluded to. I 
 have ever since been importuned by questions and 
 letters from gentlemen, and particularly from ladies 
 without number, touching what I had seen of the 
 Great Unknown. 
 
 Now all this is extremely tantalizing. It is like 
 Iteing congratulated on the high prize when one has 
 drawn a blank; for I have just as great a desire as any 
 
 one of the public to penetrate the mystery of that vtr* I 
 singular personage, whose voice hlls every corner or| 
 the world, williout any one being able to tell froiof 
 whence it comes. 
 
 My friend, the nervous gentleman, also, who is A 
 man of very shy retired habits, complains that he Iml 
 been excessively annoyed in consequence of its gettin»| 
 about in his neighbourhood that he is the fortunate 
 personage. Insomuch, that he has become a ciiarjcJ 
 ter of considerable notoriety in two or three countrri 
 towns, and has been repeatedly teased to exhih 
 himself at blue-slocking parties, for no other rea 
 than that of being " the gentleman who has hit 
 glimpse of the author of Waverley." 
 
 Indeed the poor man has grown ten times as nenj 
 ous as ever, since he has discovered, on such j 
 authority, who the stout gentleman was; and vi|| 
 never forgive himself for not having made a inon 
 resolute effort to get a full sight of him. He ] 
 anxiously endeavoured to call up a recollection of nh, 
 he saw of tiiat portly personage ; and has ever sin 
 kept a curious eye on all gentlemen of more IhanocJ 
 dinary dimensions, whom he has seen getting imj^ 
 stage-coaches. All in vain! The features iiel 
 caught a glimpse of seem common to the a iiole r 
 of stout gentlemen, and the Great Unknowyi ren 
 as great an unknown as ever. 
 
 Having premised these circumstances, I willt 
 let the nervous gentleman proceed with his stories.! 
 
 THE HUNTaVG DINNER. 
 
 I WAS once at a hunting dinner, given by a wort 
 fox-hunting old Baronet, who kept bachelor's I 
 jovial style, in an ancient rook haunted family t 
 sion, in one of the middle counties. He had beeni 
 devoted admirer of the fair sex in his young da;^ 
 but, having travelled much, studied the sex in < 
 rious countries with distinguished success, 
 turned home profoundly instructed, as he supp 
 in the ways of woman, and a perfect master of (hei 
 of pleasing, he had the mortiflcation of being jiilj 
 by a little boarding-school girl, who was 
 versed in the accidence of love. 
 
 The Baronet was completely overcome by sucii j 
 incredible defeat; retired from the world in disgm 
 put himself under the government of his lioui 
 keeper; and took to fox-hunting like a perfect Kif 
 rod. Whatever poets may say to the contrary, a n 
 will grow out of love as he grows old ; and a | 
 fox-hounds may chase out of his heart even tiiei 
 mory of a boarding-school goddess. The 
 was, when I saw him, as merry and mellow anj 
 bachelor as ever followed a hound; and the 
 had once felt for one woman had spread itself m 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 470 
 
 tl« whole sex; so that there was not a pretty face in 
 
 the mystery of that Ttrjld^ whole country round but came In for a share. 
 
 roice h\\» every corner o(l xhe dinner was prolonged till a late hour ; for our 
 
 ! being able to tell frool^t having no ladies in his household to summon us 
 
 nio the drawing-room, the boltle maintained its true 
 
 entleman, also, who is il 
 (its, complains that he h«| 
 I consequence of ils gellii^l 
 d that he is the foitunjtej 
 It he has become a chancf 
 y in two or three counlnJ 
 leatedly teased to exhiW 
 irties, for no other reason] 
 ;entleman who has M i 
 Vaverley." 
 
 as grown ten times as mni 
 , discovered, on such | 
 t gentleman was; and- 
 r not having made a inort 
 full sight of him. lie 1 
 calluparecolleclionotrt 
 rsonage ; and has ever siiu 
 gentlemen of more Ihanotl 
 m he has seen gelling Inl^ 
 lain ! The feature* lie 1 
 n common to the ; holer 
 the Great Unknowuren 
 
 i ever. 
 
 se circumstances, I vrillnoJ 
 laa proceed with his stories. 
 
 [imG DUSNER. 
 
 and 
 
 ing dinner, given by a woi 
 it who kept bachelor's Ml 
 4 rooK haunted family ma 
 ^le counties. He had been] 
 |e fair sex in his young da] 
 
 uich, studied the sex m 
 [istinguished success, 
 ly instructed, as he sup] 
 
 and a perfect master of ihe 
 
 ie mortification of being Jill 
 :hool girl, who was 
 
 of love. 
 
 ipletely overcome by sach 
 
 [ed from the world in disgf 
 
 government of his W 
 
 Ix-hunling like a perfect M 
 
 maysaylotheconlrary.a 
 
 she grows old; and a pa 
 
 out of his heart even to 
 
 chool goddess. The 
 as merry and mellow »ii 
 red a hound; and ihe love 
 
 fomn had spread ilself 
 
 klor sway, unrivalled by its [lotent enemy the 
 
 kettle. The old hall in which we dined echoed 
 
 bursts of robustious fox-hunting merriment, that 
 
 [e the ancient antlers shake on the walls. By 
 
 , however, the wine and Ihe wassail of mine 
 
 X began to operate upon bodies already a little 
 
 by the chase. The choice spirits which flash- 
 
 at the beginning of the dinner, sparkled for a 
 
 e then gradually went out one after another, or 
 
 ily emitted now and then a faint gleam from the 
 
 Itt. Some of the briskest talkers, who had given 
 
 ^eso bravely at the first burst, fell fast asleep; 
 
 none kept on their way but certain of those long- 
 
 inded prosers, who, like short-legged hounds, wor- 
 
 on unnoticed at the bottom of conversation, but 
 
 sure to be in at the death. Even these at length 
 
 ided into silence; and scarcely any thing was 
 
 lid but the nasal communications of two or three 
 
 in masticators, who having been silent while 
 
 rake, were indemnifying the company in their 
 
 At length the announcement of tea and coffee in 
 cedar-parlour roused all hands from this tempo- 
 torpor. Every one awoke marvellously renovat- 
 , and while sipping the refreshing beverage out of 
 Baronet's old-fashioned hereditary china, began 
 think of departing for their several homes. But 
 a sudden uifQculty arose. While we had been 
 longing our rep^ist, a heavy winter storm had set 
 wilh snow, rain, and sleet, driven by such bitter 
 its of wind, that they threatened to penetrate to 
 very bone. 
 
 |"lt'8 all in vain," said our hospitable host, "to 
 
 ik of putting one's head out of doors in such 
 
 ler. So, gentlemen, I hold you my guests for 
 
 niglil at least, and will have your quarters pre- 
 
 accordingly." 
 
 le unruly weather, which became more and 
 tempestuous, rendered the hospitable sugges- 
 onanswerable. The only question was, whether 
 an unexpected accession of company to an al- 
 ly crowded house would not put the housekeeper 
 trumps to accommodate them. 
 Pshaw," cried mine host, "did you ever know 
 bachelor's hall that was not elastic, and able to 
 late twice as many as it could hold ?" So, 
 of a good-humoured pique, the housekeeper was 
 ned to a consultation before us all. "The old 
 appeared in her gala suitof faded brocade, which 
 led with flurry and agitation ; tor, in spite of our 
 i's bravado, she was a little perplexed. But in a 
 !lor's house, and with bachelor guests, these 
 are readily managed. There is no lady of 
 se to stand upon squeamish points about lodg- 
 igentlemen in odd holes and corners, and expos- 
 
 ing the shabby parts of the establishment. A bache- 
 lor's housekeeper is used to shifls and emergencies; 
 so, after much worrying to and fro, and divers con- 
 sultations about the red-room, and the blue-room, and 
 the chintz-room, and the damask-room, and the little 
 room with the bow-window, the matter was linally 
 arranged. 
 
 When all this was done, we were once more sum- 
 moned to the standing rural amusement of eating. 
 The time that had been consumed in dozing after 
 dinner, and in the refreshment and consultation of Ihe 
 cedar-parlour, was sufficient, in the opinion of the 
 rosy-faced butler, to engender a reasonable appetite 
 for supper. A slight repast had, therefore, been 
 tricked up from the residue of dinner, consisting of a 
 cold sirloin of beef, hashed venison, a devilled leg of 
 a turkey or so, and a few other of those light articles 
 taken by country gentlemen to ensure sound sleep 
 and heavy snoring. 
 
 The nap after dinner had brightened up every one's 
 wit ; and a great deal of excellent humour was expend- 
 ed upon the perplexities of mine host and his house- 
 keeper, by certain married gentlemen of the compa- 
 ny, who considered themselves privileged in joking 
 with a bachelor's establishment. From this the 
 banter turned as to what quarters each would find, 
 on being thus suddenly billeted in so antiquated a 
 mansion. 
 
 " By my soul," said an Irish captain of dragoons, 
 one of the most merry and boisterous of the party, 
 " by my soul but I should not be surprised if some of 
 those good-looking gentlefolks that hang along the 
 walls should walk about the rooms of this stormy 
 night; or if I should iind the ghost of one of those 
 long-waisted ladies turning into my bed in mistake 
 for her grave in the churchyard." 
 
 " Do you believe in ghosts, then ? " said a thin hat- 
 chet-faced gentleman, with projecting eyes like a 
 lobster. 
 
 I had remarked this last personage during dinner- 
 time for one of those incessant questioners, who have 
 a craving, unhealthy appetite in conversation. He 
 never seemed satisfied with the whole of a story ; 
 never laughed when others laughed; but always put 
 the joke to the question. He never could enjoy the 
 kernel of the nut, but pestered himself to get more 
 out of the shell.— " Do you believe in ghosts, then ? " 
 said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 "Faith but I do," replied the jovial Irishman. 
 "I was brought up in the fear and belief of them. 
 We had a Benshee in our own family, honey." 
 
 "A Benshee, and what's that?" cried the ques- 
 tioner. 
 
 " Why, an old lady ghost that tends upon your real 
 Milesian families, and waits at their window to let 
 them know when some of them are to die." 
 
 "A mighty pleasant piece of information! " cried 
 an elderiy gentleman with a knowing look, and wilU 
 a flexible nose, to which he could give a whimsical 
 twist when he wished to be waggish. 
 
48U 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 '?i * 
 
 "By my soul, bal I'd have you to know il's a piece 
 of (lislinGtion to be waited on by a Renshee. Il's a 
 proof that one has pure blood in one's veins. liut 
 i'faith, now we are talking of ghosts, there never was 
 a house or a night better litted than tlie present fur a 
 ghost adventure. Pray, Sir John, haven't you such 
 a thing as a haunted chamber to put a guest inl' " 
 
 "Perhai)s," said the liaronet, smiling, "I might 
 accommodate you even on that point." 
 
 " Oh, I should like it of all things, my jewel. Some 
 dark oaken room, with ugly, wo-hegone portraits, 
 that stare dismally at one; and about which the 
 housekeeper has a power of delightful stories of love 
 and murder. And then a dim lamp, a table with a 
 rusty sword across it, and a spectre all in while, to 
 drawaside one's curtains at midnight — " 
 
 " In truth," said an old gentleman at one end of the 
 table, " you put me in mind of an anecdote—" 
 
 " Oh, a ghos! story ! a ghost story ! " was vociferat- 
 ed round the board, every one edging his chair a little 
 nearer. 
 
 The attention of the whole company was now 
 turned upon the speaker. He was an old gentleman, 
 one side of whose face was no match fur the other. 
 The eyelid drooped and hung down like an unhinged 
 window-shutter. Indeed the whole side of his head 
 was dilapidated, and seemed like the wing of a house 
 shut up and haunted. I'll warrant that side was well 
 stuffed with ghost stories. 
 
 There was a universal demand for the tale. 
 
 " Nay," said the old gentleman, 'Mi's a mere anec- 
 dote, and a very common-place one ; but such as it is 
 you shall have it. It is a slory that I once heard my 
 uncle tell as having happened to liimself. He was a 
 man very apt to meet with strange adventures. I 
 have heard him tell of others much more singular." 
 
 "What kind of a man was your uncle?" said the 
 questioning gentleman. 
 
 " Why, he was rather a dry, shrewd kind of body ; 
 a great traveller, and fond of telling his adventures." 
 
 " Pray, how old might he have been when that 
 happened ? " 
 
 "When what happened?" cried the gentleman 
 with the flexible nose, impatiently. "Egad, you 
 have not given any thing a chance to happen. Come, 
 never mind our uncle's age; let us have his adven- 
 tures." 
 
 The inquisitive gentleman being for the moment 
 silenced, the old gentleman with the haunted head 
 proceeded. 
 
 •raE ADVENTURE OF MY UNCLE. 
 
 Many years since, some lime before the French 
 revolution, my uncle had passed several months at 
 Paris. The English and French were on better terms 
 in those days than at present, and mingled cordially 
 
 together in society. The English went abroad to I 
 spend money then, and the French were always read* I 
 to help them : they go abroad to save money at pr^| 
 sent, and that they can do witiiout French assistanceT 
 Perhaps llic Iravelliug English were fewer and clioirtr| 
 then than at present, when the whole nation 
 broke loose and inundated the continent. At anrl 
 rale, (hey circulated more readily and currently 
 foreign society, and my uncle, during his residenci 
 in Paris, made many very intimate acquaintanca 
 among the French noblesse. 
 
 Sume time afterwards, he was making a joumti 
 in the winter lime in that part of Nornianily callal 
 the Pays de Caux, when, as evening was closinsin, 
 he perceived (lie turrets of an ancient chateau lisin 
 out of the trees of its walled park; each turret, wiiji 
 its high conical roof of grey slate, like a candle mi| 
 an extinguisher on it. 
 
 "To whom does that chateau belong, friend?'] 
 cried my uncle to a meagre but llery postilion, v\» 
 with tremendous jack-hoots and cocked hat, vJ 
 floundering on before him. 
 
 "To Munseigneur the Marquis de ," saidll 
 
 postilion, touching his hat, partly out of respect ton 
 uncle, and partly out of reverence to the noble i 
 pronounced. 
 
 My uncle recollected the IVIarquis for a parlioiil 
 friend in Paris, who had often expressed a wblij 
 see him at his paternal chateau. My uncle was t 
 old traveller, one who knew well how to turn thin 
 to account. He revolved for a few moments inl 
 mind huw agreeable it would be to his friend I 
 Marquis to be surprised in this sociable way byap 
 visit; and how much more agreeable to hini5e![| 
 get into r.nug quarters in a chateau, and have a rel 
 of the Marquis's well-known kitchen, and a .smack j 
 his superior ClianipHgne and Burgundy, rather! 
 put up with the miserable lodgment and miseral 
 fare of a provincial inn. In a few minutes, tlierefotj 
 the meagre postilion was cracking his whip likeavej 
 devil, or like a true Frenchman, up the long strai 
 avenue that led to the chateau. 
 
 You have no doubt all seen French chateausj 
 every body travels in France now-a-days. Tliisv 
 one of the oldest; standing naked and alone inlj 
 midst of a desert of gravel walks and cold stone ti 
 races; with a cold-looking formal garden, cut i 
 angles and rhomboids ; and a cold leafless | 
 divided geometrically l.y straight alleys; and twoj 
 three cold-looking noseless statues; and founUj 
 spouting cold water enough to make one's 
 chatter. At least such was the feeling they impi 
 on the wintry day of my uncle's visit ; though, inj 
 summer weather, I'll warrant there was glareem 
 to scorch one's eyes out. 
 
 The smacking of the postilion's whip, which j 
 more and more intense the nearer they appn 
 frightened a flight of pigeons out of the dovf 
 and rooks out of the roofs, and finally a crew ofij 
 vantsout of the chateau, with the Marquis all 
 
TALES OF A TRAVFXLER. 
 
 481 
 
 English went abroad to I 
 'reiu;li were always reaiijl 
 ad lo save money al pr^l 
 .illiout French assislan«.l 
 sh were fewer ami clioicerl 
 L<n Ihe whole nation hul 
 the continent. At any| 
 I readily and currently i 
 icle, during his residen 
 y intimate acquainlanca 
 
 e. 
 
 lie was making a journejl 
 il part of Normandy calia 
 as evening was closin? in, 
 of an ancient chateau lisini 
 led park; each turret, wii 
 
 ey slate, 
 
 like a candle mil 
 
 . chateau belong, friend?] 
 r;re but liery postilion, «!» 
 ioots and cocked hat, voj 
 
 in. 
 
 ; Marquis de ," saiatl 
 
 at, partly out of respect ion 
 reverence lo the noble I 
 
 the Marquis for a parlicul 
 lad often expressed a widi 
 chateau. My uncle was 
 knew well how to turn llii 
 ed for a few moments in 
 t would be to his friend 
 1 in this sociable way by a 
 more agreeable to liirasdH 
 n a chateau, and have a rel 
 iiown kitchen, and a smack 
 ,e and Burgundy, ralbertl 
 ble lodgment and miser; 
 In a few minutes, ilietet 
 scracking his whip like an 
 nchman, up the long sUi 
 haleau. 
 
 all seen French chaleaus, 
 
 ranee now-a-days. This 
 
 Inding naked and alone iiH 
 
 vel walks and cold stone' 
 
 ,king formal garden, cut 
 
 is- and a cold leafless 
 
 y straight alleys; and l«ol 
 
 eless statues; and founi 
 enough to make one's 
 was the feeling they imi 
 y uncle's visit; though, I" 
 arrant there was glare er 
 
 postilion's whip, which 
 
 the nearer they approa 
 
 pigeons out of the dov 
 
 ,ofs, and finally a crew ol 
 
 au, wilhUieMarquBal 
 
 <lMd. He was enchanted to see my uncle, for his 
 Idateau, like the house of our ortliy host, iiad not 
 iBjny more guests at the time n i k coi'.id acenin- 
 giodate. So he kissed my uncle on each chci:k, after 
 llie French fashion, and ushered him into the castle. 
 The Marquis did the honours of his house with the 
 urbanity of his country. In fact, he was proud ofhis 
 family chateau, for part of it was extremely old. 
 Ifliere was a tower and chapel which had been built 
 I before the memory of man ; but the rest was 
 ire modern, the castle having been nearly demolish- 
 during the wars of the League. The Maripiis 
 Itelt upon this event with great satisfaction, and 
 led really to entertain a grateful feeling towards 
 lenry the Fourth, for having thought iiis paternal 
 ion worth battering down. He had many stories 
 tell of the prowess of his ancestors ; and several 
 ill-caps, helmets, and cross-bows, and divers huge 
 its, and buff jerkins, to show, which had been 
 urn by the Leaguers. Above all, there was a two- 
 idled sword, which he could hardly wield, but 
 hich he displayed, as a proof that there had been 
 ints in his family. 
 
 In truth, he was but a small descendant from such 
 
 [at warriors. When you looked at their bluff vi- 
 
 ^es and brawny limbs, as depicted in their portraits, 
 
 then at the little Marquis, with his spindle shanks, 
 
 his sallow lantern visage, flanked with a pair of 
 
 iwdered ear-locks, or ailes de pigeon, that seemed 
 
 y to fly away with it, you could hardly believe 
 
 to be of the same race. But when you looked 
 
 the eyes that sparkled out like a beetle's from each 
 
 ofhis hooked nose, you saw at once that he in- 
 
 Ited all the fiery spirit of his forefathers. In fact, 
 
 Frenclunan's spirit never exhales, however his 
 
 ly may dwindle. It rather rarifies, and grows 
 
 uillammable, as the earthy particles diminish; 
 
 Ihave seen valour enough in a little fiery-hearted 
 
 ich dwarf to have furnished out a tolerable giant. 
 
 {When once the Marquis, as he was wont, put on 
 
 of Ihe old helmets that were stuck up in his hall, 
 
 gh his head no more filled it than a dry pea its 
 
 , yet his eyes flashed from the bottom of the 
 
 cavern with the brilliancy of carbuncles; and 
 
 n he poised the ponderous two-handled sword of 
 
 ancestors, you would have thought you saw the 
 
 ;iity litde David wielding the sword of Goliath, 
 
 ill was unto him like a weaver's beam. 
 
 lowever, gentlemen, I am dwelling too long on 
 
 description of the Marquis and his chateau, but 
 
 must excuse me ; be was an old friend of my 
 
 le; and whenever my uncle told the story, he was 
 
 lays fond of talking a great deal about his host.— 
 
 r little Marquis ! He was one of that handful of 
 Jint courtiers who made such a devoted but hope- 
 jstand in the cause of their sovereign, in the cha- 
 |of tlie Tuileries, against the irruption of the mob 
 i sad tenth of August. He displayed the valour 
 jpreux French chevalier to the last; flourished 
 Vy his little court-sword with a ra-ra! in face of a 
 
 whole legion of sans-rulotte$ : bat was pinned to the 
 wall like a butterfly, by the pi'kC of a poissanle. and 
 his heroic soul was borne up to Heaven on his ailes dx 
 pigeon. 
 
 But all this lias nothing to do with my story. To 
 the point then — When the hour arrived fur retiring 
 for the night, my uncle was shown to his room in a 
 venerable old tower. It was the oldest part of the 
 chateau, and had in ancient limes been the donjon or 
 strong-hold; of course the chamber was none of the 
 best. The Marquis had put him there, however, be- 
 cause he knew him to be a traveller of taste, and fond 
 of antiquities; and also because the better apartments 
 were already occupied. Indeed he perfectly recon- 
 ciled my uncle to his quarters by mentioning the great 
 personages who had once inhabited them, all of whom 
 were, in some way or other, connected wilh the fa- 
 mily. If you would take his word for it, John Ba- 
 liol, or as he called him, Jean de Bailleul, had died of 
 chagrin in this very chamber, on hearing of the success 
 of his rival, Robert the Bruce, ai the battle of Ban- 
 nockburn. And when he added that the Duke de 
 Guise had slept in it, my uncle was fain to felicitate 
 himself on being honou><:d with such distinguished 
 quarters. 
 
 The night was shrewd and windy, and tlie cham- 
 ber none of the warmest. An old long-faced, long- 
 bodied servant, in quaint livery, who attended upon 
 my uncle, threw down an armful of woo<l beside the 
 fire-place, gave a queer look about the room, and then 
 wished him bon repos with a grimace and a shrug 
 that would have been suspicious from any other than 
 an old French servant. 
 
 The chamber had indeed a wild crazy look, enough 
 to strike any one who had read romances with ap- 
 prehension and foreboding. The windows were high 
 and narrow, and had once been loop-holes, but had 
 been rudely enlarged, as well as the extreme thick- 
 ness of the walls would permit ; and the ill-iilted case- 
 ments rattled to every breeze. You would have 
 thought, on a windy night, some of the old leaguers 
 were tramping and clanking about the apartment in 
 their huge boots and rattling spurs. A door which 
 slooil ajar, and, like a true French door, would stand 
 ajar in spite of every reason and effort to the contrary, 
 opened upon a long dark corridor, that led the Lord 
 knows whither, and seemed just made for ghosts to 
 air themselves in, when they turned out of their 
 graves at midnight. The wind would spring up into 
 a hoarse nmrmur through this passage, and creak the 
 door to and fro, as if some dubious ghost were ba- 
 lancing in its mind whether to come in or not. In a 
 word, it was precisely the kind of comfortless apart- 
 ment that a gliost, if ghost there were in the chateau, 
 would single out for its favourite lounge. 
 
 My uncle, however, though a man accustomed to 
 meet with strange adventures, apprehended none at 
 the time. He made several attempts to shut the door, 
 but in vain. Not that he apprehended any thing, for 
 he was too old a traveller to be daunted by a wild- 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 looking apartment ; but the night, as I have said, was 
 cold and gusty, and the wind howled about the old 
 turret prelly much as it does round this old mansion 
 at this moment; and the breeze from tlie long dark 
 corridor came in as damp and chilly as if from a dun- 
 geon. My uncle, therefore, since he could not close 
 the doer, threw a quantity of wood on the fire, which 
 soon sent up a flame in the great wide-mouthed chim- 
 ney that illumined the whole chamber, and made the 
 shadow of the tongs on (he opposite wall look like a 
 long-legged giant. My uncle now clamlwred on the 
 top of the half score of mattresses which form a French 
 bed, and which stood in a deep recess; then tucking 
 himself snugly in, and burying himself up to the chin 
 in the bed-clothes, he lay looking at the fire, and lis- 
 tening to the wind, and thinking how knowingly he 
 had come over his friend the Marquis for a night's 
 lodging — and so he fell asleep. 
 
 He had not taken above half of his first nap when 
 he was awakened by the clock of the chateau, in the 
 turret over his chamber, which struck midnight. It 
 was just such an old clock as ghosts are fond of. It 
 had a deep, dismal tone, and struck so slowly and te- 
 diously that my ancle thought it would never have 
 done. He counted and counted till he was confident 
 he counted thirteen, and then it stopped. 
 
 The lire had burnt low, and the blaze of the last 
 faggot was almost expiring, burning in small blue 
 flames, which now and then lengthened up into little 
 white gleams. My uncle lay with his eyes half clos- 
 ed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. 
 His fancy was already wandering, and began to 
 mingle up the present scene with the crater of Ve- 
 suvius, the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, 
 Dolly's chop-house in London, and all the farrago of 
 noted places with which the brain of a traveller is 
 crammed :— in a word, he was just falling asleep. 
 
 Suddenly he was aroused by the sound of footsteps, 
 that appeared to be slowly pacing along the corridor. 
 My uncle, as I have often heard him say himself, was 
 a man not easily frightened. So he lay quiet, sup- 
 posing that this might be some other guest, or some 
 servant on his way to bed. The footsteps, however, 
 approached the door; the door gently opened; whe- 
 ther of its own accord, or whether pushed open, my 
 uncle could not distinguish : a figure all in white 
 glided in. It was a female, tall and stately in person, 
 and of a most commanding air. Her dress was of an 
 ancient fashion, ample in volume, and sweeping the 
 floor. She walked up to the fire-place, without re- 
 garding my uncle, who raised his night-cap with one 
 hand, and stared earnestly at her. She remained fur 
 some time standing by the tire, which, flashing up 
 at intervals, cast blue and white gleams of light, that 
 enabled my uncle to remark her appearance mi- 
 nutely. 
 
 Her face was ghastly pale, and perhaps rendered 
 still more so by the bluish light of the fire. It pos- 
 sessed beauty, but its beauty was saddened by care 
 and anxiety. There was the look of one accustomed 
 
 to trouble, but of one whom trouble con!d not i 
 down or subdue; for there was still the predomin 
 ing air of proud unconquerable resolution. Suchd 
 least was the opinion formed by my uncle, and I 
 considered himself a great physiognomist. 
 
 The figure remained, as I said, for some time li 
 the fire, putting out first one hand, then the oUkt] 
 then each foot alternately, as if warming itself; | 
 your ghosts, if ghost it really was, are apt to bee 
 My uncle, furlhern>orp, remarked that it worehijl 
 heeled shoes, after an ancient fashion, with paste il 
 diamond buckles, that sparkled as though they wg 
 alive. At length the figure turned gently roi 
 casting a glassy look about the apartment, which, | 
 it passed over my uncle, made his blood run ( 
 and chilled the very marrow in his bones. It i 
 stretched its arms towards heaven, clasped its 1 
 and wringing them in a supplicating manner, ; 
 slowly out of the room. 
 
 My uncle lay for some time meditating on timi 
 sitation, for (as he remarked when he told me I 
 story) though a man of firmnes-s, he was also a i 
 of reflection, and did not reject a thing because iti 
 out of the regular course of events. However, 1 
 as I have before said, a great traveller, and i 
 tomed to strange adventures, he drew his nighl-e 
 resolutely over his eyes, turned his back to thed 
 hoisted the bed-clothes high over his shoulders, i 
 gradually fell asleep. 
 
 How long he slept he could not say, when he i 
 awakened by the voice of some one at his lied-aj 
 He turned round, and beheld the old French sen 
 with his ear-locks in tight buckles on each side ( 
 longlantern-face, on which habit had deeply wrinld 
 an everlasting smile. He made a thousand grin 
 and asked a thousand pardons for disturbing I 
 sieur, but the morning was considerably advan 
 While my uncle was dressing, he called vaguelfl 
 mind the visitor of the preceding night. He i 
 the ancient domestic what lady was in the liabitl 
 rambling about this part of the chateau at m 
 The old valet shrugged his shoulders as high as I 
 head, laid one hand on his bosom, threw upenj 
 other with every finger extended, made a 
 whimsical grimace, which he meant to be ( 
 mentary : 
 
 " It was not for him to know any thing; offRlj 
 lies fortunes of Monsieur." 
 
 My uncle saw there was nothing satisfactory li 
 learnt in this quarter. — After breakfast, he wasi 
 ing with the Marquis through the modern aparti 
 of the chateau, sliding over the well-waxed 
 silken saloons, amidst furniture rich in gilding | 
 brocade, until they came to a long picture-g 
 containing many portraits, some in oil and i 
 chalks. 
 
 Here was an ample field for the eloquence ( 
 host, who had all the pride of a nobleman of i 
 cien rigime. There was not a grand name inl 
 mandy, and hardly one in France, which wnj 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 485 
 
 lom ironble con'd not i 
 e was slill the predomin 
 erable resohilion. Suchi 
 ned by my uncle, and I 
 t pliysiognomisl. 
 as I said, for some time I 
 one band, then tlie otber| 
 r, as if warming itself; i 
 !ally was, are apt to be eo 
 remarked tbat it wore biji 
 icient fashion, with paste « 
 larkled as tbough theywer 
 igure turned gently ro 
 lUt the apartment, which, J 
 , made his blood run ( " 
 rrow in his bones. It th 
 •ds heaven, clasped its 1 
 supplicating manner, gM 
 
 e lime meditating on tills 1 
 irked when he told me I 
 firmnesh, he was also a i 
 (t reject a thing because iti 
 e of events. However,! " 
 a great traveller, and 
 ilures, he drew his night^ 
 s, turned his back to thed 
 i high over his shoulders, i 
 
 le could not say, when he 
 3 of some one at his bed 
 [beheld Ihe old I'renchsei 
 ght buckles on each side( 
 hich habit had deeply wrinlj 
 e made a thousand grin 
 pardons for disturbing 1 
 was considerably advan 
 ressing, he called vaguely] 
 _ preceding night. He 
 vhat lady was in the lialitj 
 part of the chateau at nif 
 his shoulders as high as I 
 n his bosom, threw «p| 
 ger extended, made 
 vhich he meant to be i 
 
 to know any thing of l«l| 
 
 frur." 
 
 was nothing satisfactory « 
 -After breakfast, he was* 
 Lhrough the modern apartm 
 
 over the well-waxed ilofl 
 
 furniture rich in gildingj 
 ame to a long picture-gr 
 
 raits, some in oil and f 
 
 I field for the eloquence 
 pride of a nobleman of ' 
 was not a grand name in 
 ne in France, wblch wai 
 
 I lome way or other, connected with his house. 
 
 by uncle stood listening with inward impatience, 
 
 Dg sometimes on one leg, sometimes on the other, 
 
 I the little Marquis descanted, with his usual Are 
 
 [ vivacity, on the achievements of bis ancestors, 
 
 (hose portraits hung along the wall ; from the mar- 
 
 Ideeds of the stern warriors in steel, to the gal- 
 
 ptries and intrigues of the blue-eyed gentlemen, 
 fair smiling faces, powdered ear-locks, laced 
 
 Oes, and pink and blue silk coats and breeches; — 
 
 tfurgetling the conquests of the lovely shepherd- 
 
 ; with hooped petticoats and waists no thicker 
 
 I an hour-glass, who appeared ruling over their 
 
 ) and their swains, with dainty crooks decorated 
 
 jilh fluttering ribands. 
 
 I In the midst of his friend's discourse, my uncle 
 s startled on beholding a full-length portrait, which 
 ned to him the very counterpart of his visitor of 
 s preceding night. 
 
 |"Methinks," said he, pointing to it, *' I have seen 
 (original of this portrait." 
 
 |"Pardonnez-moi," replied the Marquis politely, 
 at can hardly be, as the lady has been dead more 
 1 a hundred years. That was the beautiful Du- 
 sde Longueville, who figured during the minor- 
 
 j of Louis the Fourteenth." 
 
 I" And was there any tiling remarkable in her his- 
 y?" 
 
 Never was question more unlucky. The little 
 
 tjois immediately threw himself into the attitude 
 
 iDian about to tell a long story. In fact, my uncle 
 
 1 pulled upon himself the whole history of the civil 
 
 r of the Fronde, in which the beautiful Duchess 
 
 I played so distinguished a part. Turenne, Co- 
 
 |iy, Mazarine, were called up from their graves to 
 
 ibis narration ; nor were the affairs of the Bar- 
 
 », nor the chivalry of the Port Cocheres for- 
 
 len. My uncle began to wish himself a thousand 
 
 i off from the Marquis and his merciless me- 
 
 y, when suddenly the little man's recollections 
 
 I; a more interesting turn. He was relating the 
 
 ^nment of the Duke de Longueville with the 
 
 bices Conde and Conti in the chateau of Vincen- 
 
 Land the ineffectual efforts of the Duchess to rouse 
 
 [sturdy Normans to their rescue. He had come 
 
 part where she was invested by the royal 
 
 sin the Castle of Dieppe. 
 
 fTiie spirit of the Duchess," proceeded the Mar- 
 
 f,"rose with her trials. It was astonishing to 
 
 Isodelicate and beautiful a being buffet so reso- 
 
 jly with hardships. She determined on a despe- 
 
 [ineans of escape. You may have seen the chateau 
 
 jrliich she was mewed up ; an old ragged wart of 
 
 dillce standing on the knuckle of a hill, just 
 
 k the rusty little town of Dieppe. One dark un- 
 
 I night she issued secretly out of a small postern- 
 
 I of the castle, which the enemy had neglected to 
 
 The postern-gate is there to this very day ; 
 
 ling upon a narrow bridge over a deep fosse be- 
 
 > the castle and the brow of the hill. She was 
 
 followed by her female attendants, a few domestics, 
 and some gallant cavaliers, who sUU remained faith- 
 ful lo her fortunes. Her object was to gain a small 
 port about two leagues distant, where she had pri- 
 vately provided a vessel for her escape in case of 
 emergency. 
 
 " The little band of fugitives were obliged to per- 
 form the distance on foot. When they arrived at the 
 port the wind was high and stormy, the tide con- 
 U-ary, the vessel anchored far off in the road ; aud 
 no means of getting on board but ^y a fishing shallop 
 that lay tossing like a cockle-shell on the etlge of the 
 surf. The Duchess determined to risk the attempt. 
 The seamen endeavoured to dissuade her, but the im- 
 minence of her danger on shore, and the magnani- 
 mity of her spirit, urged her on. She had to be borne 
 to the shallop in the arms of a mariner. Such was 
 the violence of the winds and waves that he faltered, 
 lost his foot-hold, and let his precious burthen fall 
 into the sea. 
 
 " The Duchess was nearly drowned, but partly 
 through her own struggles, partly by the exertions 
 of the seamen, she got to land. As soon as she had 
 a little recovered strength, ihe insisted on renewing 
 the attempt. The storm, however, had by this time 
 become so violent as to set all efforts at defiance. To 
 delay, was to be discovered and taken prisoner. As 
 the only resource left, she procured horses, mounted, 
 with her female attendants, en croupe behind the 
 gallant gentltinien who accompanied her, and scoured 
 the country to seek some temporary asylum. 
 
 " While the Duchess," continued the Marquis, 
 laying his forefinger on my uncle's breast to arouse 
 his flagging attention, "while the Duchess, poor 
 lady, was wandering amid the tempest in this dis- 
 consolate manner, she arrived at this chateau. Her 
 approach caused some uneasiness ; for the clattering 
 of a troop of horse at dead of night up the avenue 
 of a lonely chateau, in those unsettled times, and 
 in a troubled part of the country, was enough to oc- 
 casion alarm. 
 
 " A tall, broad-shouldered chasseur, armed to the 
 teeth, galloped a-head, and announced the name of 
 the visitor. All uneasiness was dispelled. The house- 
 hold turned out with flambeaux to receive her; and 
 never did torches gleam on a more weather-beaten, 
 travel-strained band than came tramping into the 
 court. Such pale, care-worn faces, such bedraggled 
 dresses, as the poor Duchess and her females pre- 
 sented, each seated behind her cavalier : while the 
 half-drenched, half-drowsy pages and attendants 
 seemed ready to fall from their horses with sleep and 
 fatigue. 
 
 " The Duchess was received with a hearty wel- 
 come by my ancestor She was ushered into the hall 
 of the chateau, and the fires soon crackled and blazed, 
 to cheer herself and her train; and every spit and 
 stewpan wan put in requisition to prepare ample re- 
 freshment for the wayfarers. 
 
 « She had a right to our hospitalities," continued 
 
iH^ 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the Marquis, drawing himself up with a slight degree 
 of stateliness," for she was related to our family. I'll 
 tell you how it was. Her father, Henry de Bourbon, 
 Prince of Conde " 
 
 " But, did the Duchess pass the night in the cha- 
 teau?" said my uncle rather abruptly, terrified at the 
 idea of getting involved in one of the Marquis's ge- 
 nealogical discussions. 
 
 " Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the very 
 apartment you occupied last night, which at that time 
 was a kind of state-apartment. Her followers were 
 ({uartered in the chambers opening upon the neigh- 
 bouring corridor, and her favourite page slept in an 
 adjoining closet. Up and down the corridor walked 
 the great chasseur who had announced lier arrival, 
 and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He 
 was a dark, stern, powerful-looking fellow ; and as 
 the light of a lamp in the corridor fell upon his deeply- 
 marked face and sinewy form, he seemed capable of 
 defending the castle with his single arm. 
 
 "It was a rough, rude night; about this time of 
 the year — apropos ! — now I think of it, last night was 
 the anniversary of her visit. I may well remember 
 the precise date, for it was a night not to be forgotten 
 by our house. There is a singular tradition concern- 
 ing it in our family." Here the Marquis hesitated, 
 and a cloud seemed to gather about his bushy eye- 
 brows. ' ' There is a tradition— that a strange occur- 
 rence took place that night — A strange, mysterious, 
 inexplicable occurrence—" Here he checked him- 
 self, and paused. 
 
 " Did it relate to that lady?" inquired my uncle 
 eagerly. 
 
 "It was past the hour of midniglit," resumed the 
 
 Marquis, — "when the whole chateau " Here 
 
 he paused again. My uncle made a movement of 
 anxious curiosity. 
 
 " Excuse me," said the Marquis, a slight blush 
 streaking his sallow visage. " There are some cir- 
 cumstances connected with our family history which 
 I do not like to relate. That was a rude period. A 
 time of great crimes among great men : for you know 
 high blood, when it runs wrong, will not run tamely 
 like blood of the canaille— poor lady !— But I have a 
 little family pride, that — excuse me— we will change 
 the subject, If you please — " 
 
 My uncle's curiosity was piqued. The pompons 
 and magnificent introduction had led him to expect 
 something wonderful in the story to which it served 
 as a kind of avenue. He had no idea of being cheated 
 out of it by a sudden fit of unreasonable squeamish- 
 ness. Besides, being a traveller in quest of informa- 
 tion, he considered it his duty to inquire into every 
 thing. 
 
 The Marquis, however, evaded every question. — 
 "Well," said my uncle, a little petulantly, "what- 
 ever you may think of it, I saw that lady last night." 
 
 The Marquis stepped back and gazed at him with 
 surprise. 
 
 " She paid me a visit in my bed-chamber." 
 
 The Marquis pulled out his snuff-box with a shn 
 and a smile ; taking this no doubt for an awkwai 
 piece of English pleasantry, which politeness reqaired 
 him to be charmed with. 
 
 My uncle went on gravely, however, and relaia 
 the whole circumstance. The Marquis heard hhi 
 through with profound attention, holding his snail 
 box unopened in his hand. When the story vm 
 finished, he tapped on the lid of his box deliberatelrl 
 took a long, sonorous pinch of snuff 
 
 " B-\h ! " said the Marquis, and walked towards tl 
 othsi" end of the gallery. 
 
 Here the narrator paused. The company waite 
 for some time for him to resume his narration;! 
 he continued silent. 
 
 "Well," said the inquisitive gentleman— "i 
 whatdid your uncle say then ? " 
 
 " Nothing," replied the other. 
 
 " And what did the Marquis say further?" 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "And is that all?" 
 
 "Thatisall,"saidlhe narrator, filling aglassorvin 
 
 "I surmise," said the shrewd old gentleman vil 
 the wagg'«'A nose, " I surmise the ghost must haj 
 been the old housekeeper walking her rounds (os 
 that all was right." 
 
 "Bah!" said the narrator. "My uncle was ti 
 much accustomed to strange sights not to luiow| 
 ghost from a housekeeper ! " 
 
 There was a murmur round the table half of n 
 riment, half of disappointment. I was inclined I 
 think the old gentleman had really an afterpartoflj 
 story in reserve ; but he sipped his wine and saidg 
 thing more ; and there was an odd expression abi 
 his dilapidated countenance that left me in i 
 whether he were in drollery or earnest. 
 
 "Egad," said the knowing gentleman, wilhl 
 flexible nose, " this story of your uncle puis mel 
 mind of one that used to be told of an aunt of i 
 by the mother's side ; though I don't know thatilij 
 bear a comparison, as the good lady was not so [ 
 to meet with strange adventures. But at anyij 
 you shall have it." 
 
 THE ADVENTURE OF Ml AUNT. 
 
 Mt aunt was a lady of large frame, strong i 
 and great resolution : she was what might be I 
 a very manly woman. My uncle was a tiiin, f 
 little man, very meek and acquiescent, and not 
 for my aunt. It was observed that he dwindled! 
 dwindled gradually away, from the day of hislj 
 riage. His wife's powerful mind was too tm 
 him; it wore him out. My aunt, however,! 
 possible care of him ; had half the doctors in W 
 prescribe for him ; made him lake all their pR 
 tions, and dosed him with physic enough to i 
 
TALES OF A TllAVELLER. 
 
 485 
 
 lis snnff-box with a shrnj] 
 10 doubt for an awkwa 
 which politeness required 
 
 ly, however, and relala 
 The Marquis Iward hb 
 
 tention, hoUiing his snnlf 
 
 id. When the story wjj 
 lid of his box deUberatelyJ 
 
 ih of snuff 
 
 lis, and walked towards tl 
 
 ised. The company waite^ 
 I resume his narration; I 
 
 quisitive genUeman-"! 
 
 Llien?" 
 
 le other. 
 
 larquis say further?" 
 
 larrator, filling aglassofwm 
 e shrewd old gentlerean wi^ 
 surmise the ghost must I 
 [ler walking her rounds los 
 
 arrator. "My uncle to! 
 strange sights not to knowj 
 
 per!" 
 
 ir round the table half of I 
 
 wintment. I was inclined! 
 n had really an afterpartol 
 e sipped his wine and said 
 was an odd expression al 
 nance that left roe in 
 roUery or earnest, 
 knowing gentleman, wilh 
 tory of your uncle puis me 
 to be told of an aunt of " 
 hougli I don't know that il 
 the good lady was not 80- 
 adventures. But at any 
 
 rURE OF MY AUNT. 
 
 ly oflarge frame, strong 
 she was what might bet 
 1. My uncle was a thin, 
 and acquiescent, and no 
 observed that he dwindledl 
 Iway, from the day of his 
 Iwerful mind was too mi" 
 It. My aunt, however, 
 [had half the doctors in t( 
 liade him take all their pi 
 with physic enough to 
 
 vliole hospital. All was in vain. My uncle grew 
 vorse and worse the more dosing and nursing he 
 underwent, until in the end he added another to the 
 long list of matrimonial victims who have been killed 
 with kindness. 
 
 '<And was it his ghost that appeared to her?" 
 asked the inquisitive gentleman, who had questioned 
 the former story-teller. 
 "You shall hear," replied the narrator. — " My aunt 
 look on mightily for the death of her poor dear hus- 
 band. Perhaps she felt some compunction at having 
 given liim so much physic, and nursed him into his 
 grave. At any rate, she did all that a widow could 
 do to honour his memory. She spared no expense 
 in either the quantity or quality of her mourning 
 veeds; she wore a miniature of liim about her neck 
 as large as a little sun-dial ; and she had a full-length 
 portrait of him always hanging in her bed-chamber. 
 All the world extolled her conduct to the skies; and 
 it was determined that a woman who behaved so well 
 (0 the memory of one husband deserved soon to get 
 another. 
 It was not long after this that she went to take up 
 her residence in mi old o intry-seat in Derbyshire, 
 which had long been in the care of merely a steward 
 and housekeeper. She took most of her servants 
 with her, intending to make it her principal abode. 
 The house stood in a lonely, wild part of the country, 
 imong the grey Derbyshire hills, with a murderer 
 hanging in chains on a bleak heigiit in full view. 
 The servants from town were half frightened out of 
 their wits at the idea of living in such a dismal, pagan- 
 looking place; especially when they got together 
 lin the servants' hall in the evening, and compu ed 
 notes on all the hobgoblin stories they had picked 
 up in the course of the day. They were afraid to 
 entnre alone about the gloomy, black-looking cham- 
 rs. My lady's maid, who was troubled with nerves, 
 leclared she could never sleep alone in such a " gashly 
 immaging old building ; " and the footman, who was 
 kind-hearted young fellow, did all in his power to 
 r her up. 
 
 My aunt herself seemed to be struck with the lonely 
 
 arance of the house. Before she went to bed, 
 
 refore, she examined well the fastenings of the 
 
 irs and windows ; locked up the plate with her 
 
 iwn hands, and carried the keys, together with a 
 
 itlebox of money and jewels, to her own room; for 
 
 was a notable woman, and always saw to all 
 
 lings herself. Having put the keys under her pillow, 
 
 ind dismissed her maid, she sat by her toilet arrang- 
 
 her hair; for being, in spite of her grief for my 
 
 ie, rather a buxom widow, she was somewhat 
 
 irticnlai' about her person. She sat for a little while 
 
 iking at her face in the glass, ilrst on one side, then 
 
 Ihe other, as ladies are apt to du when they would 
 
 irtai.i whether they have been in good looks ; for 
 
 roystering country squire of the neighbourhood, 
 
 ilhwliom she bud flirted when a girl, had called 
 
 ildaj to welcome her to the country. 
 
 All of a sudden she thought she heard something 
 move behind her. She looked hastily round, but 
 there was nothing to be seen. Nothing but the 
 grimly painted portrait of her poor dear man, which 
 had been hung against t' «; wall. 
 
 She gave a heavy sigli to his memory, as she was 
 accustomed to do whenever she spoke of him in com- 
 pany, and then went on adjusting her night-dress, 
 and thinking of the squire. Her sigh was re-echoed, 
 or answered by a long-drawn breath. She looked 
 round again, but no one was to be seen. She ascribed 
 these sounds to the wind oozing through the rat-holes 
 of the old mansion, and proceeded leisurely to put her 
 hair in papers, when all at once, she thought she per- 
 ceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. 
 
 " The back of her head being toward it ! " said the 
 story-teller with the ruined head, " good ! " 
 
 " Yes, sir! " replied drily the narrator; " her back 
 being toward the portrait, but her eyes fixed on its 
 reflection in the glass. " Well, as I was saying, she 
 perceived one of the eyes of the portrait move. So 
 strange a circumstance, as you may well suppose, 
 gave her a sudden shock. To assure herself of the 
 fact, she put one hand to her forehead as if rubbing 
 it, peeped through her fingers, and moved the candle 
 with the other hand. The light of the taper gleamed 
 on the eye, and was reflected from it. She was sure 
 it moved. Nay more, it seemed to give her a wink, 
 as she had sometimes known her husband to do when 
 living ! It struck a momentary chill to her heart; for 
 she was a lone woman, and felt herself fearfully si- 
 tuated. 
 
 The chill was but transient. My aunt, who was 
 almost as resolute a personage as your uncle, sir 
 [turning to the old story-teller], became instantly 
 calm and collected. She went on adjusting her dress. 
 She even hummed an air, and did not make a single 
 false note. She casually overturned a dressing-box ; 
 took a candle and picked up the articles one by one 
 from the floor ; pursued a rolling pincushion that was 
 making the best of its way under the bed ; then opened 
 the door ; looked for an instant into the corridor, as if 
 in doubt whether to go ; and then walked quietly out. 
 She hastened down stairs, ordered the servants to 
 arm themselves with the weapons that first came to 
 hand, placed herself at their head, and returned al- 
 most immediately. 
 
 Her hastily-levied army presented a formidable 
 force. The steward had a rusty blunderbuss, the 
 coachman a loaded whip, the footman a pair of horse- 
 pistols, the cook a huge chopping -knife, and the 
 butler a bottle m each hand. My aunt led the van 
 with a red-hot poker, and in my opinion, she was the 
 most formidable of the party. The waiting-maid, 
 who dreaded to stay alone in the servants' hall, 
 brought up the rear, smelling to a broken bottle of vo- 
 latile salts, and expressing her terror of the ghosteses. 
 " Ghosts ! " said my aunt resolutely. " Til singe 
 their whiskers for them ! " 
 1'liey entered the chamber. All was still and un- 
 
4ij6 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 disturbed as when she had left it. They approached 
 the portrait of my uncle. 
 
 " Pull me down that picture !" cried my aunt. A 
 lieavy groan, and a sound like the chattering of teeth, 
 issued from the portrait. The servants shrunk back ; 
 the maid uttered a faint shriek, and clung to the foot- 
 man for support. 
 
 " Instantly ! " added my aunt, with a stamp of the 
 foot. 
 
 The picture was pulled down, and from a recess 
 behind it, in which iiad formerly stood a clock, they 
 hauled forth a round-shouldered, black-bearded var- 
 let, with a knife as long as my arm, but trembling all 
 over like an aspen-leaf. 
 
 " Well, and who was he ? No ghost, I suppose, " 
 said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 "A Knight of the Post, " replied the narrator, 
 " who had been smitten with theworthof the wealthy 
 widow ; or rather a marauding Tarquin, who had 
 stolen into her chamber to violate her purse, and rifle 
 her strong-box, when all the house should be asleep. 
 In plain terms, " continued he, " the vagabond was a 
 loose idle fellow of the neighbourhood, who had once 
 beau a servant in the house, and had been employed 
 to assist in arranging it for the reception of its mis- 
 tress. He confessed that he had contrived this hid- 
 ing-place for his nefarious purposes, and had borrowed 
 an eje from llie portrait by way of a reconnoitring- 
 hole. " 
 
 " And what did they do with him ?— did they hang 
 him ? " resumed the questioner. 
 
 " Hang him !— how could they ? " exclaimed a 
 beetle-browed barrister, with a hawk's nose. " The 
 offence was not capital. No robbery, no assault had 
 been committed. No forcible entry or breaking into 
 the premises. — " 
 
 " My aunt, " said the narrator, " was a woman 
 of spirit, and apt to take the law in her own hands. 
 She had her own notions of cleanliness also. She 
 ordered the fellow to be drawn through the horse- 
 pond, to cleanse away all offences, and then to be 
 well rubbed down with an oaken towel. " 
 
 " And what became of him afterwards ? " said the 
 inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 " I do not exactly know. I believe he was sent 
 on a voyage of improvement to Botany Bay. " 
 
 " And your aunt, " said the inquisitive gentleman ; 
 " I'll warrant she took care to make her maid sleep 
 in the room with her after that. " 
 
 "No, sir, she did better ; she go fe her hand shortly 
 after to the roystering squire ; for she used to observe, 
 that it was a dismal thing for a \ oman to sleep alone 
 in the country. " 
 
 " She was right, " observed the ii.quisitive gentle- 
 man, nodding sagaciously ; " but I am sorry they did 
 not hang that fellow. " 
 
 It was agreed on all hands that the last narrator 
 had brought his tale to the most satisfactory conclu- 
 sion, though a country clergyman present regretted 
 (hat llie uncle and aunt, who figured in the different 
 
 stories, had not been married together : they certain- 
 ly would have been well matched. 
 
 " But I don't see, after all, " said the inquisitive 
 gentleman," tliat there was any gh»sl in this Usi 
 story. " 
 
 " Oh ! if it's ghosts you want, honey, " cried the 
 Irish Captain of Dragoons, " if it's ghosts you want, 
 you shall have a whole regiment of tliem. And 
 since these gentlemen have given the adventures of 
 their uncles and aunts, faith and I'll even give youi 
 cliapter out of my own family history. " . 
 
 THE BOLD DRAGOON; 
 
 OH . TOE 
 
 ADVENTURE OF MY GRANDFATHER. 
 
 Mt grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it's a pro. 
 fession, d'ye see, that has run in the family. All my 
 forefathers have been dragoons, and died on the I 
 of honour, except myself, and I hope my (Mulerity I 
 may be able to say the same ; however, I don't meiig I 
 to be vainglorious.— Well, my grandfather, as I said, I 
 was a bold dragoon, and had served in the Low! 
 Countries. In fact, he was one of that very army, I 
 which, according to my uncle Toby, swore so terribly I 
 in Flanders. He could swear a good stick bimscir;! 
 and moreover was the very man that introduced tiie| 
 doctrine Corporal Trim mentions of radical heat aodi 
 radical moisture; or, in other words, the mode oil 
 keeping out the damps of ditch-water by bnrntl 
 brandy. Be that as it may, it's nothing to the par-f 
 port of my story. I only tell it to show you thatoiyl 
 grandfather was a man not easily to be hunibuggdl 
 He had seen service, or, according to his own phrase,! 
 he had seen the devil — and thul's saying every III 
 
 Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his i 
 to England, for which he intended to embark frt 
 Ostend— bad luck to (he place ! for one where I wa 
 kept by storms and head- winds for three long day! 
 and the devil of a jolly companion or pretty faced 
 comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandratii 
 was on his way to England, or rather to Oslend-M 
 liiaiier which, it's all the same. So one evenini 
 towards nightfall, he rode jollily into Bruges— Veij 
 like you all know Bruges, gentlemen ; a queer oidj 
 fashioned Flemish town, once, they say, a great pla( 
 for trade and money-making in old times, wheni 
 Mynheers were in their glory ; but almost as lar; 
 and as empty as an Irishman's pocket at the pre 
 day. — Well, gentlemen, it was at the time of the aoj 
 nual fair. All Bruges was crowded ; and the cani 
 swarmed with Dutch boats, and the streets swanm 
 with Dutch merchants; and there was hardly i 
 getting along for goods, wares, and merchaiidis 
 and peasants in big breeches, and women in iMilj 
 score of petticoats. 
 
 My grandfather rode jollily along, in his easy sla 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 487 
 
 together: they certain- 
 
 hed. 
 " said the inquisit'm 
 any gh>sl in this latl 
 
 ant, honey, "cried the 
 if it's ghosts you want, 
 ^iment of them. And 
 »iven the adventures of 
 jnd I'll even give you » 
 
 y history." 
 
 DRAGOON; 
 
 ruE 
 
 r GRANDFATHER. 
 
 >ld dragoon, for it's a pro- 
 run in tlie family. Allmj 
 oons, and died on Ihe field 
 and I hope my iiosleriljl 
 le; however, I don't mean I 
 my grandfather, as I said, 
 i had served in tl>e Low 
 m one of that very army, 
 icle Toby, swore so terriWj 
 wear a good slick YAmsAl; 
 ry man that introduced tbel 
 (lenlions of radical heal and 
 oilier words, the modeol] 
 of ditch-water by buinl] 
 ay, it's nothing to the pur-| 
 J tell it to show you ihalmyj 
 )t easily to he humbuggei 
 iccordingtohisownphrase,| 
 nd that's saying every thing, 
 grandfather was on his % 
 'e inlended to embark fri 
 place! for one where I w 
 -winds for three long day 
 [companion or prelly face 
 was saying, my grandfall 
 ,d, or ralher to Ostend-i 
 ,ie same. So one evenir 
 ,ejoUily into BrHges-V( 
 s, gentlemen; aqueeroli 
 once, they say, a great plr 
 ing in old times, when 
 glory ; but almost as lai 
 uman's pocket at the pn 
 it was at the time of the a 
 as crowded; and the car 
 ,at8, and the streets swam 
 and there was hardly 
 wares, and merchandi 
 eches, and women in h 
 
 LllUy along, in his easy! 
 
 ing way, for he was a saucy sun-shiny fellow— staring 
 about him at Ihe motley crowd, and the old houses 
 n'ith gable-ends to the street, and storks' nests on the 
 chimneys ; winking at the yafrows who showed their 
 bws at the windows, and joking the women right 
 and left in the street; all of whom laughed, and took 
 it in amazing good part; for though he did not know 
 a word of Ihe language, yet he had always a knack 
 of making himself understood among the women. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, it being the time of Ihe annual 
 fair, all the town was crowded, every inn and tavern 
 full, and my grandfather applied in vain from one to 
 the other fur admittance. At length he rode up to 
 an old rackety inn that looked ready to fall to pieces, 
 and which all the rats would have run away from if 
 they could have found room in any other house to 
 pat their heads. It was just such a queer building 
 as you see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that 
 reached up into the clouds, and as many garrets, one 
 over (he other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet. 
 Kotliing had saved it from tumbling down but a stork's 
 nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck 
 to a house in the Low Countries ; and at the very 
 time of my grandfather's arrival there were two of 
 these long-legged birds of grace standing like ghosts 
 lOB the chimney-lop. Faith, but they 'vekept the house 
 on its legs to this very day, for you may see it any 
 llime you pass through Bruges, as it stands there yet; 
 y it is turned into a brewery of strong Flemish 
 r,— at least it was so when I came that way after 
 battle of Waterloo. 
 
 My grandfather eyed the house curiously as he ap- 
 
 iched. It might not have altogether struck bis 
 
 , had he not seen in large letters over the door, 
 
 HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DBAXK. 
 
 |ly grandfather had learnt enough of the language 
 gknow (hat the sign promised good liquor. "This 
 ^the house for me," said he, stopping short before 
 
 edoor. 
 I The sudden appearance of a dashing dragoon was 
 
 ment in an old imi, frequented only by the peace- 
 hl sons of trallic. A rich burgher of Antwerp, a 
 jitdy ample man in a broad Flemish hat, and who 
 |»(he great man, and great patron of the establish- 
 
 nt, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of 
 
 e door; a fat little distiller of geneva, from Schie- 
 a, sat smoking on the other ; and the bottle-nosed 
 
 Mslood in the door; and the comely hostess, in 
 
 iiiped cap, beside him : and the hostess's daughter, 
 
 fliimp Flanders lass, with long gold pendants in her 
 fs, was at a side window. 
 
 ["Humph!" said the rich burgher of Antwerp, 
 
 llh a sulky glance at the stranger. 
 
 |"Die duyvel ! " said the fat little distiller of Schie- 
 
 the landlord saw, with the quick glance of & pub- 
 kn, that the new guest was not at all at all to the 
 |le of the old ones; and, to tell the truth, he did 
 1 himself like my grandfather's saucy eye. He 
 
 shook his head. <<Not a garret in the house but 
 was full." 
 
 " Not a garret ! " echoed the landlady. 
 
 "Not a garret!" echoeil the daughter. 
 
 The burgher of Antwerp, and the little distiller of 
 Schiedam, continued to smoke their pipes sullenly, 
 eying the enemy askance from under their broad hats, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 My grandfather was not a man to be brow-beaten. 
 He threw the reins on his horse's neck, cocked his 
 head on one iide, stuck one arm a-kimbo, "Faith 
 and troth!" said he, "but I'll sleep in this house 
 this very night." — As he said this he gave a slap on 
 his thigh, by way of emphasis — the slap went to the 
 landlady's heart. 
 
 He followed up the vow by jumping off his horse, 
 and making his way past the staring Mynheers into 
 the public room.— Maybe you've been in the bar- 
 room of an old Flemish inn — faith, but a handsome 
 chamber it was as you'd wish to see ; with a brick 
 floor, and a great fire-place, with the whole Bible 
 history in glazed tiles; and then (he mantel-piece, 
 pitching itself head foremost out of the wall, with a 
 whole regiment of cracked teapots and earthen jugs 
 paraded on it; not to mention half a dozen great 
 Delft platters, hung about the room by way of pic- 
 tures; and the little bar in one corner, and the bounc- 
 ing bar-maid inside of it, with a red calico cap and 
 yellow ear-drops. 
 
 My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, 
 as he cast an eye round ihe room — " Faith this is the 
 very house I've been looking after," said he. 
 
 There was some further show of resistance on the 
 part of the garrison; but my grandfather was an old 
 soldier, and an Irishman to boot, and not easily re- 
 pulsed, especially after he had got into the fortress. 
 So he blarneyed the landlord, kissed the landlord's 
 wife, tickled the landlord's daughter, chucked the 
 bar-maid under the chin ; and it was agreed on all 
 hands that it would be a thousand pities, and a burn- 
 ing shame into the bargain, to turn such a bold dra- 
 goon into the streets. So they laid their heads 
 together, that is to say, my grandltither and the 
 landlady, and it was at length agreed to accommodate 
 him with an old chamber that had been for some time 
 shut up. 
 
 " Some say it's haunted," whispered the landlord's 
 daughter; " but you are a bold dragoon, and I dare 
 say don't fear ghosts." 
 
 " The divil a bit !" said my grandfather, pinching 
 her plump cheek. " But if I should be troubled by 
 ghosts, I've been to the Red Sea in my lime, and 
 have a pleasant way of laying them, my darling." 
 
 And then he whispered something to the girl which 
 made her laugh, and give him a good-humoured box 
 on the ear. In short, there was nobody knew better 
 how to make his way among the petticoats than my 
 grandfather. 
 
 In a little while, as was his usual way, he took 
 complete possession of the house, swaggering all over 
 
488 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 r i 
 
 it; into the stable to look after his horse, into the 
 kitchen to look after his supper. He had something 
 to say or do with every one; smoked with the Dutch- 
 men, drank with the Germans, slapped the land- 
 lord on the shoulder, romped with his daughter and 
 the bar-maid : — never , since thedays of Alley Croaker, 
 Iiad such a rattling blade lieen seen. The land- 
 lord stared at him with astonishment ; the landlord's 
 daughter bung her head and giggled whenever he 
 came near; and as he swaggered along the corridor, 
 with his sword trailing by his side, tlie maids looked 
 after him, and whispered to one another, "Wliat a 
 proper man ! " 
 
 At supper, my grandfather took command of the 
 table-d'hdte as though he bad been at home; helped 
 every body, not forgetting himself; talked with every 
 one, wbetlier he understood their language or not; 
 and made his way into the intimacy of the rich 
 burgher of Antwerp, who had never been known to 
 be sociable with any one during his life. In fact, 
 he revolutionized the whole establishment, and gave it 
 such a rouse that the very house reeled with it. He 
 outsat every one at table excepting the little fat dis- 
 tiller of Schiedam, who sat soaking a long lime be- 
 fore he broke forth ; but when he did, he was a very 
 devil incarnate. He took a violent affection for my 
 grandfather; so they sat drinking and smoking, and 
 telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, 
 without understanding a word each other said, until 
 the little Hollander was fairly swamped with his own 
 gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and 
 liiccuping, and trolling the burthen of a Low Dutch 
 love-song. 
 
 Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to 
 his quarters up a large staircase, composed of loads 
 of hewn timber; and through lung rigmarole passages, 
 hung with blackened paintings of lish, and fruit, and 
 game, and country frolics, and huge kitchens, and 
 portly burgomasters, such asyou seeabout old-fashion- 
 ed Flemish inns, till at length he arrived at his room. 
 
 An old-times chamber it was, sure enough, and 
 crowded with all kinds of trumpery. It looked like 
 an infirmary for decayed and superannuated furni- 
 ture, where every thing diseased or disabled was 
 sent to nurse or to be forgotten. Or rather it might 
 be taken for a general congress of old legitimate 
 moveables, where every kind and country had a re- 
 presentative. No two chairs were alike. Such high 
 backs and low backs, and leather bottoms, and worst- 
 ed Iwttoms, and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and 
 cracked marble tables with curiously-carved legs, 
 holding balls in their claws, as though they were 
 going to play at nine-pins. 
 
 My grandfather made a bow to the motley assem- 
 blage as he entered, and, having undressed himself, 
 placed his light in the fireplace, asking pardon of the 
 tongs, which seemed to be making love to the shovel 
 in the chimney-corner, and whispering soft nonsense 
 in its ear. 
 
 The rest of the guests were by this time sound a- 
 
 sleep, for your Mynheers are huge sleepers. The 
 housemaids, one by one, crept up yawning to their I 
 attics, and not a female head in the inn was laid on a j 
 pillow that night witliout dreaming of the bold dra- 1 
 goon. 
 
 My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and I 
 drew over him one of those great bags of down, under 
 which they smother a man in the Low Couniries- 
 and there lie lay, melting between two feather-I 
 like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast I 
 and butter, lie was a warm-complexioned nun I 
 and this smothering played the very deuce with hiin. 
 So, sure enough, in a little time it seemed as ifal^| 
 gion of imps were twitching at him, and all the blood I 
 in his veins was in a fever heat. 
 
 He lay still, however, until all the house was quiet I 
 excepting the snoring of the Mynheers from the dif-f 
 ferent chambers ; who answereil one another In aij| 
 kinds of tones and cadences, like so many bujl-frogsl 
 in a swamp. The quieter the house became, the morel 
 unquiet became my grandfather. He waxed wamierl 
 and warmer, until at length the bed became tool] 
 to hold him. 
 
 "Maybe the maid had warmed it too inuch?'j 
 said the curious gentleman, inquiringly. 
 
 " I rather think the contrary," replied the Iri 
 man.—" But, be that as it may, it grew too Iwt I 
 my grandfather." 
 
 " Faith, there's no standing this any longer," s 
 he. So he jumped out of bed, and went stroiJii 
 about the house. 
 
 "What for?" said the inquisitive gentlenuBJ 
 
 "Why to cool himself, to be sure — or perhaps 11 
 find a more comfortable bed— or perhaps— But i 
 matter what he went for— he never mentiuned-aoi 
 there's no use in taking up our time in conjecturing.] 
 
 Well, my grandfather bad been for some timealj 
 sent from his room, and was returning, perfectlyc 
 when just as he reached the door he li«.ard a strai 
 noise within . He paused and listened . It seemed i 
 if some one were trying to bum a tune in defiance j 
 the asthma. He recollected the report of the i 
 being haunted; but he was no believer in ghosts,^ 
 he pushed the door gently open and peeped in, 
 
 Egad, gentlemen, there was a gamlwl carryingtj 
 within enough to have astonished St Anthony hinis 
 By the light of the flre he saw a pale weazen-fac 
 fellow in a long flannel gown and a tall white nij;l 
 cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire with a b 
 lows under his arm by way of bagpipe, (torn nil 
 he forced the asthmatical music that had bothered!^ 
 grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitd 
 about with a thousand queer contortions, nodding | 
 head, and bobbing about his tasseled night-cap. 
 
 My grandfather thought this very odd and i 
 presumptuous, and was about to demand whatt 
 ness he had to play his wind-instrument in am 
 gentleman's quarters, when a new cause of asb 
 ment met his eye. From the opposite side ofj 
 room a long-backed, liandy-legged chair covered i 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 4«9 
 
 e huge sleepers. Thr ■ ^(^t, and studded aU over in a coxcombical fashion 
 pt up yawning to their l^tliUtUe brass nails, got suddenly into motion, thrust 
 in the inn was laid on a B^l first a claw foot, then a crooked arm, and at 
 laming of the bold dra- ligigth, making a leg, slided gracefully up to an easy 
 ■cliair of tarnished brocade, with a hole in its bottom, 
 [tart, got into bed, and ■g„iied it gallantly out in a ghostly nunuet about the 
 reat bags of down, under p 
 in the Low Coumries;! 
 'tween two feather-beds, I 
 jlween two slices of toast I 
 arm-complexioned man,! 
 the very deuce with him. I 
 time it seemed as if a It I 
 r at him, and all the bloodl 
 
 leat. I 
 
 ltd all the house was quiet,! 
 le Mynheers from thedif-l 
 swered one anot»»er inalll 
 like so many bull-fropl 
 
 ;s, 
 
 he house became, the t 
 father. He waxed waraia 
 'ih the bed became too I 
 
 I warmed it loo much? 
 n, inquiringly. 
 )ntrary," replied the Iris! 
 it may, it grew loo Iwl I 
 
 nding this any longer," SJT 
 of bed, and went slroUii 
 
 the inquisitive genllemai 
 f, to be sure— or perhaps 
 [ bed— or perhaps-But 
 r_-be never mentioned-ai 
 up our time in conjecturinj. 
 lad been for some time-' 
 was returning, perfectly 
 thedoorhehvardastri 
 and listened. It seemed 
 to hum a tune in defiance 
 ected the report of the 
 was no believer in ghosts, 
 tiy open and peeped in. 
 re was a gambol carrying 
 tonished St Anthony hinif 
 
 he saw a pale weazen-(i 
 gown and a tall while ni 
 who sat by the fire with a 
 
 way of bagpipe, hom«i 
 al music that had bothered j 
 
 .layed, too, he kept twiiit 
 '[ueer contortions, nodduig 
 t his tasseled night-cap. 
 
 Ight this very 
 
 odd and 
 
 'about to demand what 
 wind-instrument in an( 
 -vhenanewcauseofasio 
 
 Irom the opposite side rf 
 Indy-lcgged chair covered 
 
 The musician now played fiercer and fiercer, and 
 0xd his head and his nightcap about like mad. By 
 degrees the dancing mania seemed to seize upon all 
 other pieces of furniture. The antique, long-bo- 
 chairs paired off in couples and led down a coun- 
 dance; a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe, 
 logh horribly puzzled by its supernumerary limb ; 
 le the amorous tongs seized the shovel round the 
 it, and whirled it about the room in a German 
 ;altz. In short, all the moveables got in motion : 
 letting, hands across, right and left, like so many 
 ils; all except a great clothes-press, which kept 
 irtseying and courtseying, in a corner, like a dow- 
 ;r, in exquisite time to the music ; being rather too 
 . julent to dance, or, perhaps, at a loss for a partner. 
 My grandfather concluded*th« latter to be the 
 in; so being, lik? a true Irishman, devoted to the 
 II, and at all times ready for a frolic, he Iwunced into 
 room, called to the nmsician to strike up Paddy 
 Rafferly, capered up to the clothes-press, and seiz- 
 
 upon two handles to lead her out : when — 
 
 ihirrl the whole revel was at an end. The chairs, 
 
 les, tongs, and shovel, slunk in an instant as quietly 
 
 ito their places as if nothing had happened, and the 
 
 ician vanished up the chimney, leaving the bel- 
 
 behind him in his hurry. My grandfather found 
 
 ilf seated in the middle of the floor with the clo- 
 
 'press sprawling before him, and the two liandles 
 
 :ed off, and in his hands. 
 
 "Then, after all, this was a mere dream!" said 
 inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 "Thedivilabitof adream!" replied the Irishman. 
 There never was a truer fact in this world. Faith, 
 luld have liked to see any man tell my grandfa- 
 it was a dream." 
 Well, gentlemen, as the clothes-press was a mighty 
 K^body, and my grandfather likewise, particularly 
 rear, you may easily suppose that two such heavy 
 lies coming to the ground would make a bit of a 
 Faith, the old mansion shook as though it had 
 ken it for an earthquake. Tho whole garrison 
 alarmed. The landlord, who slept below, hur- 
 up with a candle tc inquire the carise, but with 
 Ills haste his daughter had arrived at the scene of 
 r before .him. The landlord was followed by 
 landlady, who was followed by the bouncing bar- 
 who was followed by the simpering chamber- 
 , all holding together, as well as they could, 
 garments as they had first laid hands on; but all 
 terrible hurry to see what the deuce was to pay 
 le chamber of the bold dragoon. 
 ly grandfather related the marvellous scene he had 
 lessed, and the broken handles of the prostrate 
 
 clothes-press bore testimony to the fact. Thei-e was 
 no contesting such evidence; particularly with a lad 
 of my grandfather's complexion, who seemed able to 
 make good every word either with sword or shillelah. 
 So the landlord scratched his head and looked silly, 
 as he was apt to do when puzzled. The landlady 
 scratched— no, she did not scratch her head, but she 
 knit her brow, and did not seem half pleased with the 
 explanation. But the landlady's daughter corrobo- 
 rated it by recollecting that the last person who had 
 dwelt in that chamber was a famous juggler who had 
 died of St Yitus's dance, and had no doubt Infected 
 all the furniture. 
 
 This set all things to rights, particularly when the 
 chambermaids declared that they had all witnessed 
 strange carryings on in that room; and as they de- 
 clared this " upon their honours," there could not re- 
 main a doubt upon the subject. 
 
 " And did your grandfather go to bed again in that 
 room?" said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 " That's more than I can tell. Where he passeil 
 the rest of the night was a secret he never disclosed. 
 In fact, though he had seen much service, he was 
 but indifferently acquainted with geography, and apt 
 to make blunders in his travels about inns at night 
 which it would have puzzled him sadly to account for 
 in the morning." 
 
 " Was he ever apt to walk in his sleep?" said the 
 knowing old gentleman. 
 " Never that I heard of." 
 
 There was a little pause after this rigmarole Irish 
 romance, when the old gentleman with the haunted 
 head observed, that the stories hitherto related had 
 rather a burlesque tendency. " I recollect an adven- 
 ture, however," added he, " which I heard of during 
 a residence at Paris, for the truth of which I can un- 
 dertake to vouch, and which is of a very grave and 
 singular nature." ^ 
 
 m 
 
 TBB ADVENTURE OV 
 
 THE GERMAN STUDENT. 
 
 On a stormy night, in the tempestuous times of the 
 French revolution, a young German was returning 
 to his lodgings, at a late hour, across the old part of 
 Paris. The lightning gleamed, and the loud claps 
 of thunder rallied through thelofly narrow streets— 
 but I should first tell you something about this young 
 German. 
 
 Gottfried Wolfgang was a young man of good fa- 
 mily. He had studied for some time at Gottingen, 
 but being of a visionary and enthusiastic character, 
 he had wandered into those wild and speculative 
 doctrines which have so often bewildered German 
 students. His secluded life, his intense application, 
 and the singular nature of his studies, had an effect 
 on both mind and body. His health was impaired ; 
 his imagination diseased. He had been indulging in 
 
 02 ; 
 
490 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 fanciful speculations on spiritual essences, until, like 
 Swedenborg, he had an ideal world of his own around 
 him. He took up a notion, I do not know from what 
 cause, that there was an evil influence hanging over 
 him ; an evil genius or spirit seeking to ensnare him 
 and ensure his perdition. Such an idea working on 
 his melancholy temperament, produced the most 
 gloomy effects. He became haggard and des[>ond- 
 ing. His friends discovered the mental malady that 
 was pf eying upon him, and determined that the best 
 cure vas a change of scene; he was sent, therefore, 
 to finish his studies amidst the splendours and gaieties 
 of Paris. 
 
 Wolfgang arrived at Paris at the breaking out of 
 the revolution. The popular delirium at first caught 
 bis enthusiastic mind, and he was captivated by the 
 political and philosophical theories of the day : but 
 the scenes of blood which followed shocked his sen- 
 sitive nature, disgusted him with society and the 
 world, and made him more than ever a recluse. He 
 shut himself up in a solitary apartment in the Pays 
 iMtin, the quarter of students. There, in a gloomy 
 street not far from the monastic walls of the Sor- 
 bonne, he pursued his favourite speculations. Som'v 
 times he spent hours together in the great libraries 
 of Paris, those catacombs of departed authors, rum- 
 maging among their hoards of dusty and obsolete 
 works in quest of food for his unhealthy appetite. 
 He was, in a manner, a literary goul, feeding in the 
 charnel-house of decayed literature. 
 
 Wolfgang, tliough solitary and recluse, was of an 
 ardent temperament, but for a time it operated mere- 
 ly upon his imagination. He was too shy and igno- 
 rant of the world to make any advances to the fair, 
 but he was a passionate admirer of female beauty, 
 and in his lonely chamber would often lose himself 
 in reveries on forms and faces which he had seen, 
 and his fancy would deck out images of loveliness 
 far surpassing the reality. 
 
 While liis mind was in this excited and sublimated 
 state, he had a dream which produced an extraordi- 
 nary effect upon him. It was of a female face of 
 transcendent beauty. So strong was the impression 
 it made, that he dreamt of it again and again. It 
 haunted his thoughts by day, his slumbers by night ; 
 in fine, he became passionately enamoured of this 
 shadow of a dream. This lasted so long that it be- 
 came one of those fixed ideas which haunt the minds 
 of melancholy men, and are at times mistaken for 
 madness. 
 
 Such was Gottfried Wolfgang, and such his situa- 
 tion at the time I mentioned. He was returning 
 home late one stormy night, through some of the 
 old and gloomy streets of the Marais, the ancient 
 part of Paris. The loud claps of thunder rattled 
 among the high houses of the narrow streets. He 
 came to the place de Greve, the square where public 
 executions are performed. The lightning quivered 
 about the pinnacles of the ancient Hdtel de Ville, 
 and shed flickering gleams over the open space in 
 
 front. As Wolfgang was crossuig the square, bel 
 shrunk back with horror at finding himself close by I 
 the guillotine. It was the height of the reign of tcrJ 
 ror, when this dreadful instrument of death stoodl 
 ever ready, and its scaffold was continually runnintr 
 with the blood of the virtuous and the brave, ij 
 had that very day been actively employed in th 
 work of carnage, and there it stood in grim an 
 amidst a silent and sleeping city, waiting for I 
 victims. 
 
 Wolfgang's heart sickened within him, and hevai 
 turning shuddering from the horrible engine, wb 
 he beheld a shadowy form, cowering as it werej 
 the foot of the steps which led up to the scaflbld. 
 succession of vivid flashes of lightning revealed it n 
 distinctly. It was a female figure, dressed in bla 
 She was seated on one of the lower steps of the! 
 fold, leaning forward, her face hid in her lap, j 
 her long dishevelled tresses hanging to the groan 
 streaming with the rain which fell in torrents. Wol|| 
 gang paused. There was something awful in I 
 solitary monument of woe. The female had thei 
 pearance of being alwve the common order. 
 knew the times to be full of vicissitude, and tb 
 many a fair head, which had once been pillowed o 
 down, now wandered houseless. Perhaps this ' 
 some imor mourner whom the dreadful axe hadr 
 dered desolate, and who sat here heart-broken on il 
 strand of existence, from which all that was dear j 
 lier had been launched into eternity. 
 
 He approaclied, and addressed her in the i 
 of sympathy. She raised her head and gazed viU 
 at him. What was his astonishment at beMdi 
 by the bright glare of the lightning, the veryi 
 which had haunted him in his dreams! It wasii 
 and disconsolate, but ravishingly beautiful. 
 
 Trembling with violent and conflicting en 
 Wolfgang again accosted her. He spoke somethif 
 of her being exposed at such an hour of the ni;;! 
 and to the fui^ of such a storm, and offered to ( 
 duct her to her friends. She pointed to the i 
 tine with a gesture of dreadful signification. 
 
 " I have no friend on earth ! " said she. 
 
 "But you have a home," said Wolfgang. 
 
 " Yes — in the grave ! " 
 
 The heart of the student melted at the words. | 
 
 " If a stranger dare make an offer," said he, "' 
 out danger of being misunderstood, I would offer j 
 humble dwelling as a shelter; myself as a denf 
 friend. I am friendless myself in Paris, and a sir 
 ger in the land; but if my life could be of seni« 
 is at your disposal, and should be sacrificed 
 harm or indignity should come to you." 
 
 There was an honest eartnestness in the yol 
 man's manner ;hat had its effect. His foreign | 
 cent, too, was in his favour; it showed him not* 
 a hackneyed inhabitant of Paris. Indeed there il 
 eloquence in true enthusiasm (hat is not to bedoi 
 The homeless stranger confided herself impliciil| 
 the protection of the student. 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 491 
 
 crossing the square, hel 
 finding himself close b;l 
 height of the reign of terf 
 istiument of death sUiodI 
 was continually run 
 tuous and the brave. It| 
 actively employed in tb 
 re it stood in grim an 
 city, waiting for I 
 
 ini 
 
 [S 
 
 led within him, and hew 
 Lhe horrible engine, vfl 
 m, cowering as it were 
 t» led up to the scaffold, 
 af lightning revealed it m( 
 de figure, dressed in blai 
 [the lower steps of the 
 er face hid in her lap, 
 ses hanging to the groi 
 vhich fell in torrenU. Wi 
 as something awful in 
 oe. The female had lhe 
 re the common order, 
 fall of vicissitude, andtl 
 1 had once been pillowed 
 touseless. Perhaps this 
 cm the dreadful axe had 
 sat here heart-broken on 
 ,m which all that was dear 
 
 into eternity, 
 addressed her in the 
 cd her head and gazed 
 
 astonishment at beholi 
 
 the lightning, the very 
 ,1 in his dreams! It was 
 avishingly beautiful, 
 ent and conflicting ei 
 ,ed her. He spoke somell 
 I such an hour of the n^ 
 
 a storm, and offered to 
 She pointed to the 
 
 readful signification, 
 earth!" said she. 
 
 me," said Wolfgang. 
 
 1" 
 
 dent melted at the words, 
 
 ake an offer," said he," 
 sunderslood, I would offer 
 
 shelter; myself as a dev( 
 88 myself in Paris, and a St 
 
 my life could be of serr 
 A should be sacrificed 
 luld come to you." 
 est eartnestness in the yi 
 
 lad its effect. His forei?" 
 ivour; it showed Wm not K 
 
 ,t of Paris. Indeed there" 
 lusiasmlhatisnottobedwf 
 r confided herself impW 
 
 Uulent. 
 
 He supported her faltering steps across the Pont 
 i^eaf, and by the place where the statue of Henry the 
 ourtli had been overthrown by the iiopulace. The 
 had abated, and the tliunder rumbled at a di- 
 ice. All Paru was quiet; that great volcano of 
 lan passion slumbered for a while, to gather fresh 
 igth for the next day's eruption. The student 
 ucted his charge through the ancient streets of 
 Pays Latin, and by the dusky walls of the Sor- 
 le, to the great dingy hotel which he inhabited. 
 Ik old portress who admitted them stared with sur- 
 al th j unusual sight of the melancholy Wolf- 
 with a female companion. 
 On entering his apartment, the student, for the first 
 I, Mushed at the scantiness and indifference of his 
 If eUing. He bad but one chamber— an old-fashion- 
 galoou— heavily carved, and fantastically furnished 
 lib the remains of former magnificence, for it was 
 of those hotels in the quarter of the Luxembourg 
 which had once belonged to nobility. It was 
 ibered with books and papers, and all the usual 
 atus of a student, and bis bed stood in a recess 
 one end. 
 
 When lights were brought, and Wolfgang had a 
 
 Iter opportunity of contemplating the stranger, he 
 
 more than ever intoxicated by her beauty. Her 
 
 was pale, but of a dazzling fairness, set off by a 
 
 ion of raven liair that hung clustering about it. 
 
 eyes were large and brilliant, with a singular 
 
 ession that approached almost to wilibiess. As 
 
 a her black dress permitted her shape to be seen, 
 
 lias of perfect symmetry. Her whole appearance 
 
 highly striking, though she was dressed in the 
 
 tyle. The only thing approaching to an 
 
 lent which she wore, was a broad black band 
 
 her neck, clasped by diamonds. 
 
 he perplexity now commenced with the student 
 
 to dispose of the helpless being thus thrown upon 
 
 protection. He thought of abandoning his cham- 
 
 to her, and seeking shelter for himself elsewhere. 
 
 be was so fascinated by her charms, there seem- 
 
 |tobe such a spell upon his thoughts and senses, 
 
 he could not tear himself from her presence. 
 
 manner, too, was singular and unaccountable. 
 
 spoke no more of the guillotine. Her grief had 
 
 The attentions of the student had first won 
 
 oonHdence, and then, apparently, her heart. She 
 
 evidently an enthusiast like himself, and enthu- 
 
 soon understand each other. 
 
 diemfatuation of the moment, Wolfgang avow- 
 
 passion for her. He told her the story of his 
 
 rious dream, and how she had possessed his 
 
 before he had even seen her. She was strangely 
 
 by his recital, and acknowledged to have felt 
 
 palse toward him equally unaccountable. It 
 
 lhe time for wild theory and wild actions. Old 
 
 iices and superstitions were dune away ; every 
 
 was under the sway of the " Goddess of Rea- 
 
 Among otiier rubbish of the old times, the 
 
 and ceremonies of marriage began to be con- 
 
 sidered superfluous bonds for honourable minds. So- 
 cial compacts were the vogue. Wolfgang was loo 
 much of a theorist not to be tainted by the liberal 
 doctrines of the day. 
 
 " Why should we separate?" said he : ''our hearts 
 are united ; in the eye of reason and honour we are 
 as one. What need is there of sordid forms to bind 
 high souls together?" 
 
 The stranger listened with emotion : she had evi- 
 dently received illumination at the same school. 
 
 "You have no home nor family," continued he; 
 "let me be every thing to you, or rather let us be 
 every thing to one another. If form is necessary, 
 form shall be observed— there is my band. I pledge 
 myself to you for ever." 
 
 " For ever?" said the stranger, solemnly. 
 
 *' For ever ! " repeated Wolfgang. 
 
 The stranger clasped the hand extended to her : 
 "Then I am yours," murmured she, and sunk upon 
 his bosom. 
 
 The next morning the student left his bride sleep- 
 ing, and sallied forth at an early hour to seek more 
 spacious apartments, suitable to the change in his si- 
 tuation. When he returned, he found the stranger 
 lying with ^er head hanging over the bed, and one 
 arm thrown over it. He spoke to her, but received 
 no reply. He advanced to awaken her from her 
 uneasy posture. On taking her hand, it was cold — 
 there was no pulsation— her face was pallid and 
 ghastly. — In a word— she was a corpse. 
 
 Horrified and frantic, he alarmed the house. A 
 scene of confusion ensued. The police was sum- 
 moned. As tlie officer of police entered the room, 
 he started back on beholding the corpse. 
 
 " Great heaven ! " cried he, " liow did this wo- 
 man come here?" 
 
 " Do you know any thing about her?" said Wolf- 
 gang, eagerly. 
 
 " Do I ? " exclaimed the police officer : " she was 
 guillotined yesterday ! " 
 
 He stepped forward ; undid the black collar round 
 the neck of the corpse, and the head rolled on the 
 floor! 
 
 The student burst into a frenzy. " The fiend ! 
 the fiend has gained possession of me ! " shrieked 
 he : "I am lost for ever." 
 
 They tried to soothe him, but in vain. He was 
 possessed with the frightful belief that an evil spirit 
 had reanimated the dead body to ensnare him. He 
 went distracted, and died in a mad-house. 
 
 Here the old gentleman with the haunted head 
 finislied his narrative. 
 
 "And is this really a fact?" said the inquisitive 
 gentleman. 
 
 " A fact not to be doubted," replied the other. 
 "I had it from the best authority. The student told 
 it me Mmself. I saw him in a mad-house at Paris." 
 
402 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 THR IDVKKTVRK UP 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS PICTORE. 
 
 As one story of the kind produces another, and as 
 all the company seemed fully engrossed by the sub- 
 ject, and disposed to bring their relatives and ances- 
 tors upon the scene, there is no knowing how many 
 more strange adventures we might have heard, had 
 not a corpulent old fox-hunter, who'liad slept soundly 
 through the whole, now suddenly awakened, with a 
 loud and long-drawn yawn. The sound broke the 
 charm : the ghosts took to flight, as though it had been 
 cock-crowing, and there was a universal move f Jr 
 bed. 
 
 " A nd now for the haunted chamber," said the Irish 
 Captain, taking his candle. 
 
 "Ay, who's to be the hero of the night ? " said the 
 gentleman with the ruined head. 
 
 "That we shall sec in the morning," said the old 
 gentleman with the nose : " whoever looks pale and 
 grizzly will have seen the ghost." 
 
 "Well, gentlemen," said the Baronet, "there's 
 many a true thing said in jest — In fact one of you will 
 sleep in the room to-night " 
 
 " What— a haunted room?— a haunted room? — 
 I claim the adventure— and I— and I — and I," said a 
 dozen guests talking and laughing at the same time. 
 
 " No, no," said mine host, " there is a secret about 
 one of my rooms on which I feel disposed to try an 
 experiment : so, gentlemen, none of you shall know 
 who has the haunted chamber until circumstances 
 reveal it. I will not even know it myself, but will 
 leave it to chance and the allotment of the house- 
 keeper. At the same time, if it will be any satisfac- 
 tion to you, I will observe, for the honour of my 
 paternal mansion, that there's scarcely a chamber in 
 it but is well worthy of being haunted." 
 
 We now separated for the night, and each went to 
 his allotted room. Mine was in one wing of the 
 building, and I could not but smile at the resemblance 
 in style to those eventfhl apartments described in the 
 tales of the supper- table. It was spacious and gloomy, 
 decorated with lamp-black portraits; a bed of ancient 
 damask, with a tester sufficiently lofty to grace a 
 couch of slate, and a number of massive pieces of old- 
 fashioned furniture. I drew a great claw-footed arm- 
 chair before the wide fire-place; stirred up the fire; 
 sat looking into it, and musing upon the odd stories I 
 had heard, until, partly overcome by the fatigue of 
 the day's hunting, andLpartly by the wine and wassail 
 of mine host, I fell asleep in my chair. 
 
 The uneasiness of my position made my slumber 
 troubled, and laid me at the mercy of all kinds of wild 
 and fearful dreams. Now it was that my perfidious 
 dinner and supper rose in rebellion against my peace. 
 I was hag-ridden by a fat saddle of nuitlon ; a plum- 
 pudding weighed like lead upon my conscience ; the 
 merry-thought of a capon filled me with horrible sug- 
 gestions; and a devilled-leg of a turkey stalked in all 
 
 kinds of diabolical shapes through my imagination. 
 In short, I had a violent fit of the night-mare. Some 
 strange indefinite evil seemed hanging over nie that 
 I could not avert; something terrible and loalh$oni«j 
 oppressed me that I could not shake off. I was con- 
 scious of being asleep, and strove to rouse myself bu 
 every effort redoubled the evil; until gasping, slrug 
 gling, almost strangling, I suddenly sprang bolt 
 right in my chair, and awoke. 
 
 The light on the mantel-piece had burnt low, ai 
 the wick was divided; there was a great wiading 
 sheet made by the dripping wax on the side towai 
 me. The disordered taper emitted a broad flarii 
 flame, and threw a strong light on a painting on 
 the fire place which I had not hitherto obseived. 
 consisted merely of a head, or rather a face, that ai 
 peared to be staring full upon me, and with an expi 
 sion that was startling. It was without a frame, 
 at the first glance I could hardly persuade myself i| 
 it was not a real face thrusting itself out of the 
 oaken pannel. I sat in my chair gazing at it, and il 
 more I gazed, the more it disquieted me. I liadneT( 
 before been affected in the same way by any paini 
 The emotions it caused were strange and indefii 
 They were something like what I have heard asci 
 ed to the eyes of the basilisk, or like that mystei 
 influence in reptiles termed fascination. I 
 hand over my eyes several times, as if seeking 
 stinctively to brush away the illusion — in vain. Tl 
 instantly veverted to the picture, and its ehillii 
 creeping influence over my flesh and blood was 
 doubled. I looked round the room on other pictui 
 either to divert my attention or to see whether 
 same effect would be produced by them. Soniel 
 them were grim enough to produce the effect, ifi 
 mere grimness of the painting produced it.— No 
 thing— my eye passed over them all with perfect 
 difference, but the moment it reverted to this 
 over the fire-place, it was as if an electric shod; 
 ed through me. The other pictures were dim 
 faded, but this one protruded froma plain back 
 in the strongest relief, and with wonderful triil 
 colouring. The expression was that of agonv' 
 agony of intense bodily pain ; but a menace sw 
 upon the brow, and a few sprinklings of blood ai 
 to its ghastliness. Yet it was not all these ciian 
 istics; it was some horror of the mind, some 
 scrutable antipathy awakened by this picture, vl 
 harrowed up my feelings. 
 
 I tried to persuade myself that this waschimeril 
 that my brain was confused by the fumes of mine 
 good cheer,and in some measurebytheodd stories; 
 paintings which had been toldatsupper. I detei 
 to shake off these vapours of the mind ; rose fiw 
 chair ; walked about the room ; snapped my fingers;] 
 liedmyself ; laughed aloud. — It was a forced laujh, 
 the echo of it in the old chamber jarred upon af 
 —I walked to the window, and tried to discei 
 landscape through the glass. It was pitch 
 and howling storm without ; and as I heard the 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELIJIR. 
 
 hrough my imagination, 
 of the niglit-mare. Some 
 ned lianging over me thai 
 ng terrible and loallisome] 
 not sJialie off. I was con- 
 strove to rouse myself, bm| 
 evil; until gasping, slrug- 
 [ suddenly sprang bolt u| 
 
 oke. 
 
 l-piece had burnt low, ai 
 lere was a great winding- 
 (ig wax on the side towai 
 ,er emitted a broad flarii 
 ng light on a painting ovi 
 i not hitherto obsened. 
 1(1 or rather a face, that a| 
 p<Jnme,andwilhaiiexi)i 
 It was without a frame, ai 
 I hardly persuade myself 
 irusting itself out of the 
 my chair gazing at it, and tl 
 it disquieted me. Ihadnw 
 he same way by any paint 
 were strange and indefinU 
 ike what I have heard asci 
 asilisk, or like that mystei 
 med fascination. I pi 
 !veral limes, as if seeking k 
 ay the illusion— in vain. Tl 
 the picture, and its chilli 
 er my flesh and blood yfasi 
 and the room on other picU 
 lenlion or to seewhelhet 
 produced by them. Some] 
 gh to produce the effect, id 
 minting produced it.— iSo s 
 over them all with perfect! 
 
 ment it reverted to this \i 
 ft as as if an electric shock 
 
 other pictures were dim 
 truded froma plain back-gi 
 •, and with wonderful init 
 'ession was that of agony- 
 ypain; but a menace sco« 
 
 few sprinklings of blood al 
 ititwas not all these charaC 
 
 lorror of the mind, souwj 
 akened by this picture, w« 
 
 w. 
 
 ngs 
 
 jyself that this was chimen 
 
 usedbylhe fumes of mineb 
 
 measurebytheoddsloriesi 
 
 leentoldatsupper. Ideler 
 
 ^urs of the mind; rose fioB 
 
 ieroom;snappedmyfmgersj 
 
 lloud.-It was a forced laugli,! 
 
 ,ld chamber jarred upon mjj 
 
 indow, and tried tod -■ 
 
 e glass. It was pitch datB 
 
 ,lhout;andasIheardthe< 
 
 moan among the trees, I caught a reflection of this 
 accursed visage in the pane of glass, as though it were 
 staring through the window at me. Even the reflec- 
 tion of it was thrilling. 
 
 How was this vile nervous fit, for such I now per- 
 suaded myself it was, to be conquered ? I determin- 
 ed to force myself not to look at the painting, but to 
 nndress quickly and get into bed.— I began to undress, 
 iHit in spite of every elTort I could not keep myself 
 {rem stealing a glance every now and then at the 
 picture ; and a glance was now sufiicient to distress 
 Bie. Even when my back was turned to it, the idea 
 of Ibis strange face behind me, peeping over my 
 shoulder, was insupportable. I tlirew off my clothes 
 iod hurried into bed, but still this visage gazed upon 
 me. I had a full view of it from my bed, and for 
 some time could not take my eyes from it. I had 
 pown nervous to a dismal degree. I put out the light, 
 [and tried to force myself to sleep— all in vain. The 
 ire gleaming up a little threw an uncertain light 
 atwut the room, leaving however the region of the 
 picture in deep shadow. What, thought I, if this be 
 I the chamber about which mine host spoke as having a 
 mystery reigning over it? I had taken his words 
 merely as spoken in jest ; might they have a real im- 
 port? Hooked around. — The faintly-lighted apart- 
 ment had all the qualifications requisite for a haunted 
 (hamber. It began in my infected imagination to 
 lassume strange appearances — the old portraits turn- 
 led paler and paler, and blacker and blacker; the 
 Istieaks of light and shadow thrown among the 
 Qaint articles of furniture gave them more singular 
 ipes and characters. — There was a huge dark 
 lodies-press of antique form, gorgeous in brass and 
 {lustrous with wax, that began to grow oppressive 
 
 I me. 
 "Am I, then, " thought I, " indeed the hero of 
 
 haunted room ? Is there really a spell laid upon 
 ne, or is this all some contrivance of mine host to 
 [lisea laugh at my expense ? " The idea of being 
 Hg-rldden by my own fancy all night, and then ban- 
 |ered on my liaggard looks the next day, was into- 
 
 ible; but the very idea was sufficient to produce 
 
 ! effect, and to render me still more nervous.— 
 fPish!" said I, '' it can be no such thing. How 
 
 old my worthy host imagine that I, or any man, 
 I be so worried by a mere picture ? It is my 
 
 nn diseased imagination that torments me. " 
 
 I I turned in bed, and shifted from side to side to try 
 ^ fall asleep; but all in vain ; when one cannot get 
 
 «p by lying quiet, it is seldom that tossing about 
 |ill effect the purpose. The fire gradually went out, 
 
 I left the room in darkness. Still I had the idea of 
 
 pt inexplicable countenance gazing and keeping 
 
 ptch upon me through the gloom — nay, what was 
 
 JBrse, the very darkness seemed to magnify its ler- 
 
 It was like having an unseen enemy hanging 
 
 Hit one in the night. Instead of having one picture 
 
 r to worry me, I had a hundred. I fancied it in 
 rdirection— ** And there it is, " thought I, " and 
 
 there! and there! with its horrible and mysterious 
 expression still gazing and gazing on me ! No— if I 
 must suffer the strange and dismal influence, it were 
 better face a single foe than thus be haunted by a 
 thousand images of it. " 
 
 Whoever has been in a stale of nervous agitation, 
 must know that the longer it continues the more un- 
 controllable it grows. The very air of the chamber 
 seemed at length infected by the baleful presence of 
 this picture. I fancied it hovering over me. I almost 
 felt the fearful visage from the wall approaching my 
 face— it seemed breathing upon me. " This is not to 
 be borne, " said I at length, springing out of bed. " I 
 can stand this no longer — I shall only tumble and toss 
 about here all night ; make a very spectre of myself, 
 and become the hero of the haunted chamber in good 
 earnest. — Whatever be the ill consequence, I'll quit 
 this cursed room and seek a night's rest elsewhere — 
 they can but laugh at me, at all events, and they'll 
 be sure to have the laugh upon me if I pass a sleepless 
 night, and show them a haggard and wo-begone vi- 
 sage in the morning. " 
 
 All this was half muttered to myself as I hastily 
 slipped on my clothes, which having done, I groped 
 my way out of the room, and down stairs to the draw- 
 ing-room. Here, after tumbling over two or three 
 pieces of furniture, I made out to reach a sofa, and 
 stretching myself upon it, determined to bivouac there 
 for the night. The moment 1 found myself out of 
 the neighbourhood of that strange picture, it seemed 
 as if the charm were broken. All its influence was 
 at an end. I felt assured that it was confined to its 
 own dreary chamber, for I had, with a sort of ins- 
 tinctive caution, turned the key when I closed the 
 door. I soon calmed down, therefore, into a state of 
 tranquillity ; from that into a drowsiness, and, finally, 
 into a deep sleep ; out of which I did not awake until 
 the housemaid, with her besom and her matin song, 
 came to put the room in order. She stared at finding 
 me stretched upon the sofa, but I presume circum- 
 stances of the kind were not uncommon afler hunt- 
 ing-<linners in her master's bachelor establishment, 
 for she went on with her song and her work, and took 
 no further heed of me. 
 
 I had an unconquerable repugnance to return to 
 my chamber; so I found my way to the butler's 
 quarters, made my toilet in the best way circumstances 
 would permit, and was among the first to appear at 
 the breakfast-table. Our breakfast was a substantial 
 fox-hunter's repast, and the company generally as- 
 sembled at it. When ample justice had been done to 
 the lea, coffee, cold meats, and humming ale, for all 
 these were furnished in abundance, according to the 
 tastes of the different guests, the conversation began 
 to break out with all the liveliness and freshness of 
 morning mirth. 
 
 " But who is the hero of the haunted chamber, who 
 has seen the ghost last night?" said the inquisitive 
 gentleman, rolling his lobster eyes about the table. 
 
 The question set every tongue in motion ; a vast 
 
4<>l 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 deal of iMintering, criticising of countenances, of mu- 
 tual accusation and retort, took place. Some had 
 drank deep, and some were unshaven ; so ttiat there 
 were suspicious faces enough in tlie assembly. I alone 
 could not enter with ease and vivacity into the joke — 
 I felt tongue-tied, embarrassed. A recollection of 
 what I had seen and felt the preceding night still 
 haunted my mind. It seemed as if the mysterious 
 picture still held a thrall upon me. I thought also 
 that our host's eye was turned on me with an air of 
 curiosity. In short, I was conscious that I was the 
 hero of the night, and felt as if every one might read 
 it in my looks. The joke, however, passed over, and 
 no suspicion seemed to attach tu me. I was just con- 
 gratulating myself on my escape, when a servant 
 came in saying, that the gentleman who had slept on 
 the sofa in the drawing-room had left his watch under 
 one of the pillows. My repeater was in his hand. 
 
 " What ! " said the inquisitive gentleman, "did any 
 gentleman sleep on the sofa?" 
 
 "Soho! Soho! a hare — a hare!" cried the old 
 gentleman with the flexible nose. 
 
 I could not avoid acknowledging the watch, and 
 was rising in great confusion, when a boisterous old 
 squire who sat beside me exclaimed, slapping me on 
 the shoulder, " 'Sblood, lad, thou art the man as has 
 seen the ghost ! " 
 
 The attention of the company was immediately 
 turned to me : if my face had been pale the moment 
 before, it now glowed almost to burning. I tried to 
 laugh, but could only make a grimace, and found the 
 muscles of my face twitching at sixes and sevens, and 
 totally out of all control. 
 
 It takes but little to raise a laugh among a set of 
 fox-hunters; lliere was a world of merriment and 
 joking on the subject, and as I never relished a joke 
 overmuch when it was at my own expense, I began 
 to feel a little nettled. I tried to look cool and calm, 
 and to restrain my pique; but the coolness and calm- 
 ness of a man in a passion are confounded treacher- 
 ous. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said I, with a slight cocking of the 
 chin, and a bad attempt at a smile, " this is all very 
 pleasant — ha! ha! — very pleasant— but I'd have you 
 know, I am as little superstitious as any of you — ha ! 
 ha! — and as to any thing like timidity — you may 
 smile, gentlemen, but I trust there's no one here 
 means to insinuate, that — as to a room's being haunt- 
 ed — I repeat, gentlemen (growing a little warm as 
 seeing a cursed grin breaking out round me), as to a 
 room's being haunted, I have as little faith in such 
 silly stories as any one. But, since you put the mat- 
 ter home to me, I will say that I have met with some- 
 Uiing in my room strange and inexplicable to me. 
 (A shout of laughter.) Gentlemen, I am serious; I 
 know well what I am saying; I am calm, gentlemen 
 (striking my fist upon the table) ; by Heaven, I am 
 calm. lam neither trifling, nor do I wish to be trifled 
 with. (The laughter of the company suppressed, 
 and with ludicrous attempts at gravity.) There is a 
 
 picture in the room in which I was put last night, 
 that has had an effect upon me the most singular and 
 incomprehensible." 
 
 "A picture ? " said the old gentleman with thehaiuii- 
 ed head. " A picture ! " crieti the narrator with the 
 nose. "A picture ! a picture!" echoed several voi- 
 ces. Here there was an ungovernable peal of laughter. 
 I could not contain myself. I started up from my 
 seat; looked round on the company with flery indi- 
 gnation; thrust both my hands into my pockets, and I 
 strode up to one of the windows as though I would 
 have walked through it. I stopped short, looked out 
 upon the landscape without distinguishing a feature 
 of it, and felt my gorge rising almost to suffocation. 
 
 Mine host saw it was time to interfere. He M 
 maintained an air of gravity through the whole of the 
 scene; and now stepped forth, as if to shelter mej 
 from the overwhelming merriment of my compa- 
 nions. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said he, "IdisUketo spoilsport,! 
 but you have had your laugh, and the joke of ihel 
 haunted chamber has been enjoyed. I must now I 
 take the part of my guest. I must not only vindicjttj 
 him from your pleasantries, but I must reconcile biml 
 to himself, for I suspect he is a little out of humoul 
 with his own feelings; and, above all, I must crarel 
 his pardon for having made him the subject of a kindl 
 of experiment. Yes, gentlemen, there is sometkinjl 
 strange and peculiar in the chamber to which ourl 
 friend was shown last night; there is a picture inni;| 
 house, which possesses a singular and mysterious 'vt 
 fluence, and with which there is connected a vei 
 curious story. It is a picture to wliich I attach) 
 value from a variety of circumstances; and though^ 
 have often been tempted to destroy it, from the ( 
 and uncomfortable sensations which it produces i 
 every one that beholds it, yet I have never been i 
 to prevail upon myself to make the sacrifice. It is^ 
 picture I never like to look upon myself, and wh 
 is held in awe by all my servants. I have therefor 
 banished it to a room but rarely used, and shoi 
 have had it covered last night, had not the nature o 
 our conversation , and the whimsical talk about a hau 
 ed chamber, tempted me to let it remain, by wayt 
 experiment, to see whether a stranger, totally w 
 quainted with its story, would be affected by it," 
 
 The words of the Baronet had turned every thougl 
 into a different channel. All were anxious to I 
 the story of the mysterious picture ; and, for mysi 
 so strangely were my feelings interested, that I forg 
 to feel piqued at the experiment which my host I 
 made upon my nerves, and jouied eagerly in thegf 
 neral entreaty. As the morning was stonny, i 
 denied all egress, my host was glad of any means j 
 entertaining his company; so, drawing his arm-< 
 towards the fire, he began.— 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLEn. 
 
 40S 
 
 1 1 was put iMl nighl, 
 le the most lingular and 
 
 enlleman with thehannt- 
 eil the narrator wUU Ihe 
 •e!" echoed several voi- 
 fernable peal of laughter. 
 I started up from my 
 ompany with fiery indi- 
 nds into my pockets, and I 
 lows as though I would 
 stopped short, looked out 
 ,t distinguishing a feature | 
 jing almost to suffocation, 
 ue to interfere. He M I 
 f through the whole of the I 
 forth, as if to shelter mel 
 nerriment of my compa- 
 
 , « I dislike to spoilsport, 
 ugh, and the joke of the 
 jn enjoyed. I must now 
 I must not only vindiiau 
 s, but I must reconcile him 
 ,e' is a little out of humoui 
 ^d, above all, I must crave 
 de him the subject of a iiindl 
 lUemen, there is somelhin? 
 the chamber to which our 
 ght; there is a picture in my 
 singular and mysterious i" 
 I there is connected a v( 
 rtcture to which I aUach 
 •ircumslances; and though 
 to destroy it, from the 
 .lions which it produces i 
 yet I have never been " 
 ' make the sacrifice. It is 
 ,k upon myself, and whi 
 servants. I have thereft 
 ,ut rarely used, and sb 
 night, had not the nalurti 
 whimsical Ulk about ahaui 
 
 to let it remain, by vfay 
 her a stranger, toullynni 
 would be affected by it." 
 met had turned every thougl 
 
 All were anxious to 
 us picture; and, for my 
 ilings interested, that I fotji 
 jeriment which my host 1« 
 [and jomed eagerly in the ?i 
 
 morning was stormy - 
 ost was glad of any means 
 y; so, drawing his arm- 
 
 an.— 
 
 THI ADTINTVII OK 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER. 
 
 Many years since, when I was a young man, and 
 had just left Oxford, I was sent on the grand tour to 
 finish my education. I lielieve my parents had tried 
 iovain to inoculate me with wisdom ; so they sent me 
 10 mingle with society, in hopes I might take it the 
 Djlura! way. Such, at least, ap|tcars the reason for 
 which nine-tenths of our youngsters are sent abroad. 
 in tlie course of my tour I remaineil some time at 
 Venice. The romantic character of that place de- 
 listed me; I yras very much amused by the air of 
 id<-<;nture and intrigue that prevaile<l in this region 
 of masks and gondolas; and I was exceedingly smitten 
 by a pair of languishing black eyes, that played upon 
 iieart from under an Italian mantle; so I persuad- 
 ed myself that I was lingering at Venice to study men 
 nd manners; at least I |)ersuaded my friends so, and 
 Itbat answered all my pur|H>se8. 
 I was a little prone to be struck by peculiarities in 
 iracter and conduct, and my imagination was so 
 of romantic associations with Italy, that I was al- 
 lys on the look out for adventure. Every tiling 
 led in with such a humour in this old mermaid 
 a city. My suite of apartments were in a proud, 
 lancholy palace on the grand canal, formerly the 
 idence of a magnifico, and sumptuous with the 
 of decayed grandeur. My gondolier was one 
 the shrewdest of his class, active, men'y, intelli- 
 it, and, like his brethren, secret as the grave ; that 
 lo say, secret to all the world except his master. I 
 not had him a week before he put me behind all 
 curtains in Venice. I liked the silence and mys- 
 of the place, and when I sometimes saw from my 
 low a black gondola gliding my^iteriously along 
 Ihe dusk of the evening, with nothing visible but 
 little glimmering lantern, I would jump kito my 
 zendeletia, and give a signal for pursuit—" But 
 running away from my subject with the recol- 
 iion of youthful follies," said the Baronet, checking 
 
 ilf. " Let us come lo the point." 
 
 Among my familiar resorts was a cassino under the 
 
 '8 on one side of the grand square of St Mark. 
 
 1 used frequently to lounge and take my ice, on 
 
 warm summer nights, when in Italy every body 
 
 abroad until morning. I was sealed here one 
 
 log, when a group of Ilalians took their seat at a 
 
 leon tiie opposite side of the saloon. Their con- 
 
 ition was gay and animated, and carried on with 
 
 lian vivacity and gesticulation . I remarked among 
 
 one young man, however, who appeared to 
 
 le no share, and find no enjoyment in the conver- 
 
 in, though he seemed to force himself to attend 
 
 lit. He was tall and slender, and of extremely 
 
 sing appearance. His features were fine, 
 
 igh emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy 
 
 , that curled lightly about his head, and contrast- 
 
 vith the extreme paleness of his countenance. 
 
 His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed (o have 
 been ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for 
 he was evidently in the prime of youth. His eye was 
 full of expression and fire, but wild and unsteady. 
 He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy or 
 apprehension. In spite of every effort lo fix his at- 
 tention on the conversation of his companions, I no- 
 ticed that every now and then lie would turn his head 
 slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and 
 then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something 
 painful had met his eye. This was repeated at inter- 
 vals of about a minute, and he appeared hardly to 
 have recovered from one shock, before I saw Um 
 slowly preparing to encounter another. 
 
 After silling some lime in the cassino, Ihe party 
 paid for the refreshment they had taken, and depart- 
 ed. The young man was the last to leave the saloon, 
 and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same 
 way, just as he passed out of the door. I could not 
 resist the impulse to rise and follow him ; for I was 
 at an age when a romantic feeling of curiosity is easily 
 awakened. The parly walked slowly down the ar- 
 cades, talking and laughing as they went. Tbey 
 crossed the Piazzella, but paused in the middle of it 
 to enjoy tlie scene. It was one of those moonlight 
 nights, so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere 
 of Italy. The moonbeams streamed on the tall lower 
 of St Mark, and lighted up the magnificent front and 
 swelling domes of the cathedral. The party express- 
 ed their delight in animated term^ I kept my eye 
 upon the young man. He alone seei.ied abstracted 
 and self-occupied. I noticed the same singular and, 
 as it were, furtive glance over the shoukler, which 
 had attracted my attention in tlie cassino. The party 
 moved on, <ind I followed; they passed along the 
 walk called the Broglio, turned the corner of tlie Du- 
 cal Palace, and getting into a gondola, glided swiftly 
 away. 
 
 The countenance and conduct of Ibis young man 
 dwelt upon my mind. There was sometJiing in his 
 appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met 
 him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He 
 was evidently a connoisseur, for he always singled 
 out the most masterly productions, and the few re- 
 marks drawn from him by his companions showed an 
 intimate acquaintance with the art. His own taste, 
 however, ran on singular extremes. On Salvator 
 Rosa, in his most savage and solitary scenes : on Ra- 
 phael, Titian, and Corrcggio, in Iheir softest delinea- 
 tions of female beauty : on these he would occasion- 
 ally gaze with transient enthusiasm. But this seemed 
 only a momentary forgelfulness. Still would recur 
 that cautious glance beliiud, and always quickly with- 
 drawn, as though something ten-ible had met his 
 view. 
 
 I encountered him frequently afterwards at the 
 theatre, at balls, at concerts ; at the promenades in the 
 gardens of San Georgia ; at the grotesque exhibitions 
 in the square of St Mark; among the throng of mer- 
 chants on the exchange by the Riallo. He seemed, 
 
496 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 in fact, to seek crowds ; to hunt after bu:;;'ile and amo- 
 sement : yet never to take any interest in either the 
 business or the gaiety of the scene. Ever an air of 
 painful thought, of wretched abstraction ; and ever 
 that strange and recurring movement of glancing 
 fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know at first 
 but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest ; 
 or, perhaps, from dread of assassination. But if so, 
 why should he go thus contmually abroad ; why ex- 
 pose himself at all times and in all places? 
 
 I liecame anxious to know this stranger. I was 
 drawn to him by that romantic sympathy which 
 sometimes draws young men towards each other. 
 His melancholy threw a charm about him in my 
 eyes, which was no doubt heightened by the touching 
 expression of his countenance, and the manly graces 
 of his person ; for manly beauty has its effect even 
 upon men. I had an Englishman's habitual difli- 
 dence and awkwardness of address to contend with ; 
 but I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him 
 in the cassino, gradually edged myself into his ac- 
 quaintance. I had no reserve on his part to contend 
 with. He seemed, on the contrary, to court society ; 
 and, in fact, to seek any thing rather than be alone. 
 
 When he found that I really took an interest in 
 him, he threw himself entirely on my friendship. 
 He clung to me like a drowning man. He would 
 walk with me for hours up and down the place of 
 St Mark — or he would sit, until night was far ad- 
 vanced, in my apartments. He took rooms under 
 the same roof with me ; and his constant request was 
 that I would permit him, when it did not incommode 
 me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he 
 seemed to take a particular delight in my conversa- 
 tion, but rather that he craved the vicinity of a hu- 
 man being; and, above all, of a being that sympa- 
 thized with him. "I have often heard," said he, 
 " of the sincerity of Englishmen— thank God I have 
 one at length for a friend ! " 
 
 Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of 
 my sympathy other than by mere companionship. 
 He never sought to unl)o$om himself to me : there 
 appeared to be a settled corroding anguish in his bo- 
 som that neither could be soothed " by silence nor by 
 speaking." 
 
 A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and 
 seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. 
 It was not a soft melancholy, the disease of the affec- 
 tions, but a parching, withering agony. I could see 
 at times that his mouth was dry and feverish; he 
 panted rather than breathed; his eyes were blood- 
 shot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then 
 faint streaks of red athwart (hem, baleful gleams of 
 the fire that was consuming his heart. As my arm 
 was within his, I felt him press it at times with a 
 convulsive motion to his side; his hands would clench 
 themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would 
 run through his frame. 
 
 I reasoned with him about his melancholy, and 
 sought to draw from him the cause; he shrunk from 
 
 all confiding : '' Do not seek to know it," said he, 
 " you could not relieve it if you knew it ; you would | 
 not even seek to relieve it. On the contrary, I shoald j 
 lose your sympathy, and that," said he, pressing mr 
 hand convulsively, " that I feel has become too dear I 
 to me to risk." 
 
 I endeavoured to awaken hope within him. He vas 
 young ; life had a thousand pleasures in store for him- 
 there is a healthy reaction in the youthful heart ; it 
 medicines all its own wounds — '' Come, come," said 
 I, " there is no grief so great that youth cannot out- 
 grow it."—" No! no! " said he, clenching his teeth, 
 and striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair 
 on his bosom— " it is here ! here ! deep-routed ; drain- 
 ing my heart's blood. It grows and grows, wliije 
 my heart withers and withers. I have a dreadful 
 monitor that gives me no repose — that follows me 
 step by step— and will follow me step by step, untiij 
 it pushes me into my grave ! " 
 
 As he said this, he involuntarily gave one of tin 
 fearful glances over his shoulder, and shrunk 
 with more than usual horror. I could not resist 
 temptation to allude to this movement, which I sij| 
 IMsed to be some mere malady of the nerves. Tl 
 moment I mentioned it, his face became crimsoi 
 and convulsed ; he grasped me by both hands— 
 
 " For God's sake," exclaimed he, with a piercii 
 voice, " never allude to that again. — Let us avoid 
 subject, my friend ; you cannot relieve me, ini 
 you cannot relieve me, birt you may add to the li 
 ments I suffer. — At some future day you shall kooi 
 all." 
 
 I never resumed the subject; for howeverini 
 my curiosity might be roused, I felt too true a 
 passion for his sufferings to increase them by my 
 trusion. I sought various ways to divert his mi 
 and to arouse him from the constant meditations 
 which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, and 
 conded them as far as in his power, for there 
 nothing moody nor wayward in his nature. On 
 contrary, there was something frank, generous, 
 assuming in his whole deportment. All the 
 ments that he uttered were noble and lofty. 
 claimed no indulgence, he asked no toleration, 
 seemed content to carry his load of misery in silei 
 and only sought to carry it by my side. There 
 a mute beseeching manner about him, as if he cni 
 companionship as a charitable boon ; and a tacit liii 
 fulness in his looks, as if he felt grateful to me for 
 repulsing him. 
 
 I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It 
 over my spirits ; interfered with all my gay piirsi 
 and gradually saddened my life; yet I could not 
 vail upon myself to shake off a being who seem 
 hang upon me for support. In truth, the gei 
 traits of character that beamed through all tliisj,'! 
 had penetrated to my heart. His bounty was 
 and open-handed : his charity melting and 
 taneous ; not confined to mere donations, whidij 
 miliate as much as they relieve. The lone ofj 
 
 before 
 
 alonem 
 
 lie,( 
 
 m thai 
 
 e parted 
 
 mine, an 
 
 fellasle 
 
 hng mi 
 
 H 
 
 lu'shand 
 
 'feweli, 
 
 ' on a 
 
 roil these 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLEIl. 
 
 4<)7 
 
 to know it," said he, 
 ,u knew it; you would 1 
 1 the contrary,! should I 
 ;' said lie, pressing my 
 lel Vias become too dear | 
 
 opewitiiinhim. He was 
 easuies in store for him; 
 I tlie youthful iieart; it 
 s__" Come, come," said 
 t that youth cannot out- 
 l he, clencliing liis leelh, 
 h the energy of despair, 
 lere! deep-rooted; drain-! 
 arows and grows, wliile 
 hers. I i»ave a dreadful! 
 repose— tliat follows ii«| 
 ,w me step by step, -'' 
 
 untEl 
 
 luntarily gave one of to 
 iljoulder, and shrunk 1 
 lor. I could not resist I 
 is movement, wliich I suI^ 
 lalady of tl»e nerves, 
 his face became crimson« 
 ■d me by both hands- 
 claimed he, with a pien 
 halagain.-Letusavo.d« 
 
 , cannot relieve me, m* 
 ,itt you may add to the 101 
 ,e future day you shaUkno^ 
 
 subject; for liowever mi 
 oused.Uelttootruea 
 
 to increase them by my 
 ms ways to divert his mil 
 the constant meditations 
 He saw my efforts, and 
 in liis power, for there 
 
 mard in liis nature. On 
 nething frank, generous 
 
 deportment. All the 
 were noble and loay. 
 he asked no toleration. 
 IV his load of misery in silti 
 '^yitbymyside. Ttoe 
 ,„erabo«thun,asihecr 
 ritableboon;andalaciil.a 
 if he felt grateful to me for 
 
 It 
 
 j)ly to be infectious. 
 feredwithallmygayP««' 
 Id my life; yet I could not 
 ake off a being who scent 
 
 port. In truth, the ge« 
 beamed through alUlnsfe 
 iheart. His bounty ^as ! 
 lis charity melting and 
 
 to mere donations, *hi» 
 hey relieve. The tone (J 
 
 Toice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift, and 
 surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and 
 litreetest of charities, the charity not merely of the 
 Ihand but of the heart. Indeed his liberality seemed 
 Ijohave something in it of self-abasement and expia- 
 llion. He, in a manner, humbled himself before the 
 iicant. "What right have I to ease and af- 
 ence" — would he murmur to himself—" when in- 
 mce wanders in misery and rags?" 
 The caniival time arrived. I hoped that the gay 
 which then presented themselves might have 
 cheering effect. I mingled with him in the 
 y throng that crowded the Place of St Mark, 
 e frequented operas, masquerades, balls— all in 
 The evil kept growing on him. He became 
 and more haggard and agitated. Often, after 
 [ehave returned from one of these scenes of revelry, 
 iiave entered his room and found him lying on his 
 on the sofa; his hands clenched in his fine hair, 
 his whole countenance bearing traces of the con- 
 ions of his mind. 
 
 The carnival passed away; the time of Lent suc- 
 ; passion- week arrived ; we attended one even- 
 a solemn service in one of the churches, in the 
 irse of which a grand piece of vocal and instru- 
 ilal music was performed, relating to the death 
 Mir Saviour, 
 d remarked that he was always powerfully af- 
 hy music; on this occasion he was so in an ex- 
 irdiiiary degree. As the pealing notes swelled 
 lagh the lofty aisles, he seemed to kindle with 
 lOur; his eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but 
 vhites were visible; his hands were clasped lo- 
 ir, until the fingers were deeply imprinted in the 
 When the music expressed the dying agony, 
 bee gradually sunk upon his knees ; and at the 
 ibiug words resounding through the church, 
 u mori," sobs burst from him uncontrolled— I 
 never seen him weep before. His had always 
 agony rather than sorrow. I augured well from 
 circumstance, and let him weep on uninterrupted, 
 llie service was ended, we left the churrli. 
 inng on my arm as we walked homewards with 
 filing of a softer and more subdued manner, in- 
 ofthat nervous agitation I had been accustomed 
 ilness. He alluded to the service we had heard. 
 lie," said he, "is indeed the voice of Heaven; 
 before have I fell more impressed by the story 
 atonement of our Saviour— Yes, my friend," 
 he, clasping his hands with a kind of transport, 
 :now that my Redeemer liveth ! " 
 e parted for the night. His room was not far 
 mine, and I heard him fur some time busied in 
 asleep, but was awakened before daylight. 
 |joung man stood by my bedside, dressed for 
 . He held a sealed packet and a large par- 
 hand, which he laid on the table, 
 arewell, my friend," said he, " I am about to 
 hen a long journey; but, Iwfore I go, I leave 
 jjoii these remembrances. In this packet you 
 
 will find the particulars of my story.— When you 
 read them I shall be far away; do not remember me 
 with aversion — You have been indeed a friend tome. 
 — You have poured oil into a broken heart, but you 
 could not heal it. — Farewell ! let me kiss your hand — 
 I am unworthy to embrace you." He sunk on his 
 knees — seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the 
 contrary, and covered it with kisses. I was so sur- 
 prised by all tlie scene, that I had not been able to 
 say a word.—" But we shall meet agaui," said I 
 hastily, as I saw him hurrying towards the door. 
 " Never, never in this world ! " said he solemnly. — 
 —He sprang once more to my bedside — seized my 
 hand, pressed it to his heart and to his lips, and rush- 
 ed out of ihe room. 
 
 Here the Baronet paused.' He seemed lost in 
 thought, and sat looking upon the floor, and drum- 
 ming with his fingers on the arm of his chair. 
 
 "And did this mysterious personage return?" 
 said the inquisitive gentleman. 
 
 "Never!" replied the Baronet, with a pensive 
 shake of Ihe head — "I never saw him again." 
 
 " And pray what has all this to do with the pic- 
 ture?" inquired the old gentleman with the nose. 
 
 "True," said the questioner— " Is it the portrait 
 of that crack-brained Italian ? " 
 
 "No," said the Baronet, drily, not half liking the 
 appellation given to his hero — " but this picture was 
 enclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed 
 packetcontaineditsexplanation. There was a request 
 on the outside that I would not open it until six 
 months had elapsed. I kept my promise, in spite of 
 my curiosity. I have a translation of it by me, and 
 had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the 
 mystery of the chamber; but I fear I have already 
 detained the company too long." 
 
 Here there was a general wish expressed to have 
 the manuscript read, particularly on Ihe part of the 
 inquisitive gentleman ; so the worthy Baronet drew 
 out a fairly-written manuscript, and, wiping his 
 spectacles, read aloud the following story.— 
 
 THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN, 
 
 I WAS born at Naples. My parents, though of noble 
 rank, were limited in fortune, or rather, my father 
 was ostentatious beyond his means, and expended so 
 much on his palace, his equipage, and his retinue, 
 that he was continually straitened in his pecuniary 
 circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked 
 upon with indifference by my father, who, from a 
 principle of family pride, wished to leave all his pro- 
 perty to my elder brother. I showed, when quite a 
 chiUi, an extreme sensibility. Every thing affected 
 me violently. While yet an infant in my mother's 
 arms, and before I had learnt to talk, I could be 
 wrought upon to a wonderful degree of angaish or 
 
^IW 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 delight by the power of music. As I grew older, my 
 feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily 
 transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It 
 was the amusement of my relations and of the domes- 
 tics to play upon this irritable temperament. I was 
 moved to tears, tickled to laughter, provoked to fury, 
 for the entertainment of company, who were amused 
 by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame 
 —they little thought, or perhaps lillle heeded, the 
 dangerous sensibilities they were fostering. I thus 
 became a little creature of passion before reason was 
 developed. In a short time I grew too old to be a 
 plaything, and then I became a torment. The tricks 
 and passions I had been teased into became irksome, 
 and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons 
 they had taught me.* My mother died; and my 
 power as a spoiled child was at an end. There was 
 no longer any necessity to humour or tolerate me, 
 for there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no 
 favourite of my father. I therefore experienced the 
 fate of a spoiled child in such a situation, and was 
 neglected, or noticed only to be crossed and contra- 
 dicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, 
 which, if I can judge of it at all, was naturally dispos- 
 ed to the extremes of tenderness and affection. 
 
 My father, as I have already said, never liked me — 
 in fact, he never understood me; he looked upon me 
 as wilful and wayward, as deflcient in natural affec- 
 tion. — It was the stateliness of his own manner, the 
 loftiness and grandeur of his own look, that had re- 
 pelled me from his arms. I always pictured him to 
 myself as I bad seen him, clad in his senatorial robes, 
 rustling with pomp and pride. The magnificence of 
 his person had daunted my young imagination. I 
 could never approach him witli the confiding affection 
 of a child. 
 
 My father's feelings were wrapped up in my elder 
 brother. He was to be the inheritor of the family 
 title and the family dignity, and every tiling was sa- 
 crificed to him — I, as well as every thing else. It 
 was determined to devote me to the church, that so 
 my humours and myself might be removed out of the 
 way, either of tasking my father's lime and trouble, 
 or interfering with the interests of my brother. At 
 an early age, therefore, before my mind had dawned 
 upon the world and its delights, or known any thing 
 of it beyond the precincts of my father's palace, I was 
 sent to a convent, the superior of which was my un- 
 cle, and was confided entirely to his care. 
 
 My uncle was a man totally estranged from the 
 world : he had never relished, for he had never tast- 
 ed, its pleasures; and he regarded rigid self-denial as 
 the great basis of Christian virtue. He consider'ed 
 every one's temperament like his own; or at least he 
 made them conform to it. His character and habits 
 had an influence over the fraternity of which he was 
 superior — a more gloomy, saturnine set of beings 
 were never assembled together. The convent, too, 
 was calculated to awaken sad and solitary thoughts. 
 It was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains 
 
 away south of Vesavitis. All distant views were shoti 
 out by sterile volcanic heights. A monntain-streuij 
 raved beneath its walls, and eagles screamed 
 its turrets. 
 
 I had been sent to this place at so tender an age 
 soon to lose all distinct recollection of the scenes I 
 left behind. As my mind expanded, therefore, i 
 formed its idea of the world from the convent and ii 
 vicinity, and a dreary world it appeared to me. Ai 
 early tinge of melancholy was thus infused into 
 character; and the dismal stories of the monks, 
 devils and evil spirits, with which they affrighted 
 young imagination, gave me a tendency tosuj 
 tion which I could never effectually shake off. Tl 
 took the same delight to work upon my ardent 
 ings, that had been so mischievously executed by 
 father's household. I can recollect the horrors wi 
 which they fed my heated fancy during an em{ 
 of Vesuvius. We were distant from that vol 
 with mountains between us; but its convulsive 
 shook the solid foundations of nature. Eartbqi 
 threatened to topple down our convent towers. 
 lurid, baleful light hung in the heavens at night, 
 showers of ashes, borne by the wind, fell in oar 
 row valley. The monks talked of the earth 
 combed beneath us; of streams of molten lava 
 through its veins; of caverns of sulphurong flji 
 roaring in the centre, the abodes of demons and 
 damned; of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath 
 feet. All these tales were told to the doleful ai 
 paniment of the mountain's thunders, whose lev 
 lowing made the walls of our convent vihrate. 
 
 One of the monks had been a painter, bat 
 retired from the world, and embraced this 
 life in expiation of some crime. He was a 
 choly man, who pursued his art in the solitude o(| 
 cell, but made it a source of penance to him. 
 employment was to portray, either on canvass 
 waxen models, the human face and human foi 
 the agonies of death, and in all the stages ofdi 
 tion and decay. The fearful mysteries of thedui 
 house were unfolded in his labours. The loall 
 banquet of the beetle and the worm. I turn 
 shuddering even from the recollection of his wi 
 yet, at the lime, my strong but ill-directed inu{ 
 tion seized with ardour upon his instructions iii{ 
 art. Any thing was a variety from the dry 
 and monotonous duties of the cloister. In a 
 while I became expert with my pencil, andj 
 gloomy productions were thought worthy of 
 ing some of the altars of the chapel. 
 
 In this dismal way was a creature of feeii 
 fancy brought up. Every thing genial and 
 in my nature was repressed, and nothing 
 out but what was unprofitable and iingraci( 
 was ardent in my temperament; quick, 
 impetuous : formed to be a creature all love ai 
 ration ; but a leaden hand was laid on all mj 
 qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and 
 I hated my uncle. I hated the monks. I lul 
 
 (MV 
 
 Iforii 
 
 Iposec 
 
 WI 
 
 Jirass 
 
 joNIDtl 
 
 Jinwhi 
 lifter a 
 
 tl 
 
 liefore t 
 they I 
 
 ilies wo 
 
 k 
 loredir 
 calling 
 iy,toat 
 •nyofdi 
 was not 
 mytl 
 ilyaro 
 I watcl 
 and ma 
 its gay 
 lyandsi 
 lliesplen 
 lioD of 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 499 
 
 II distant views ^creihat| 
 hts. A mountaiin 
 nd eagles screamed i 
 
 ace at so tender an age 
 illeclion of the scenes 1 
 d expanded, therefore, 
 d from the convent and 
 ■Id it appeared to me. Ai 
 was thus infused into 
 stories of the monks, al 
 th which they affrighted 
 me a tendency tosu] 
 effectually shake off. Tl 
 work upon my ardent 
 ischievously executed by 
 Ml recollect the horron 
 ,ed fancy during an eni| 
 5 distant from that \ol 
 •I us; but its convulsive thi 
 ons of nature. Earthqml 
 jwn our convent towers, 
 gin the heavens at night, 
 shy the wind, fell in our 
 
 ks talked of the earth h" 
 [ streams of molten lava 
 caverns of sulphurous fli 
 the abodes of demons and 
 (s ready to yawn beneath 
 were told to the doleful 
 tain's thunders, whose low 
 s of our convent vibrate, 
 had been a painter, bnt 
 Id, and embraced this " 
 ome crime. He was a 
 ,uedhisartinthesolitudeol| 
 jurce of penance to him. 
 K>rtray, either on canvass 
 uman face and human for 
 and in all the stages of di 
 fearful mysteries of the clai 
 in his labours. TheW 
 e and the worm. I turn 
 the recollection of his w 
 strong but ill-directed im»| 
 ,ur upon bis instructions ml 
 a variety from the di-y rt 
 ties of the cloister. In » 
 rt with my pencil, m 
 ere thought worthy of 
 
 of the chapel. 
 
 of feel! 
 
 ly was a creature 
 kvery thing genial and ai 
 repressed, and nothing » 
 Lprontable and ungracii 
 
 Itemperamenl; qH«ck» "'*' 
 llo be a creature all love a 
 
 I hand was laid on all mj 
 Lght nothing but fear and 
 
 U hated the monks, iw 
 
 eoovent in which I was immured. I hated the 
 f orid ; and I almost hated myself for being, as I sup- 
 poted, so bating and hateful an animal. 
 When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I 
 ftt suffered, on one occasion, to accompany one of 
 (^ brethren on a mission to a distant part of the 
 toontry. We soon left behind us the gloomy valley 
 {in which I had been pent up for so many years, and 
 ler a short journey among the mountains, emerged 
 the voluptuous landscape that spreads itself about 
 Bay of Naples. Heavens ! how transported was 
 when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of de- 
 lus sunny country, gay with groves and vine- 
 with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to 
 right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with 
 enchanting coast, studded with shining towns and 
 uous villas; and Naples, my native Naples, 
 ling far, far in the distance. 
 Good God ! was this the lovely world from which 
 liad been excluded ? I had reached that age when 
 sensibilities are in all their bloom and freshness, 
 had been checked and chilled. They now burst 
 with the suddenness of a retarded spring. My 
 , hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into 
 riot of vague hut delicious emotions. The beauty 
 Dtture intoxicated— bewildered me. The song of 
 their cheerful looks; their happy avo- 
 ; the picturesque gaiety of their dresses; their 
 music; their dances; all broke upon me like 
 -aft. My soul responded to the music, my 
 danced in my bosom. All the men appeared 
 liable, all the women lovely. 
 |l returned to the convent, that is to say, my body 
 led, but my heart and soul never entered there 
 I could not forget this glimpse of a beautiful 
 I happy world — a world so suited to my natural 
 :ter. I had felt so happy while in it; so diffe- 
 a being from what I felt myself when in the 
 ent— that tomb of the living. I contrasted the 
 itenances of the beings I had seen, full of fire 
 freshness, and enjoyment, with the pallid, lea- 
 lack-lustre visages of the monks; the music of 
 dance with the droning cliaunt of the chapel. I 
 before found the exercises of the cloister weari- 
 I, they now became intolerable. The dull round 
 ilies wore away my spirit ; my nerves became ir- 
 by the fretful tinkling of the convent-bell, 
 lore dinging among the mountain echoes, ever- 
 calling me from my repose at night, my pencil 
 ly, to attend to some tedious and mechanical ce- 
 y of devotion. 
 
 vas not of a nature to meditate long without 
 
 my thoughts into action. My spirit had been 
 
 ly aroused, and was now all awake within 
 
 I watched an opportunity, fled from the con- 
 
 and made my way on foot to Naples. As I en- 
 
 ils gay and crowded streets, and beheld the 
 
 and stir of life around me, the luxury of pala- 
 
 ihe splendour of equipages, and the pantomimic 
 
 lion of the motley populace, I seemed as if 
 
 awakened to a world of enchantment, and solemnly 
 vowed that nothing should force me back to the mo- 
 notony of the cloister. 
 
 I had to inquire my way to my father's palace, for 
 I had been so young on leaving it that I knew not its 
 situation. I found some difliculty in getting admitted 
 to my father's presence ; for the domestics scarcely 
 knew that there was such a being as myself in exist- 
 ence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my 
 favour. Even my father entertained no recollection 
 of my person. I told him my name, threw myself at 
 his feet, implored his forgiveness, and entreated that 
 I might not be sent back to the convent. 
 
 He received me with the condescension of a patron, 
 ratlier than the fondness of a parent; listened patient- 
 ly, but coldly, to my tale of monastic grievances and 
 disgusts, and promised to think what else could be 
 done for me. This coldness blighted and drove back 
 all the frank affection of my nature, that was ready 
 to spring forth at the least warmth of parental kind- 
 ness. All my early feelings towards my father reviv- 
 ed. I again looked up to him as the stately magnifi- 
 cent being that had daunted my childish imagination, 
 and felt as if I had no pretensions to his sympathies. 
 My brother engrossed all his care and love ; he inhe- 
 rited his nature, and carried himself towards me 
 with a protecting rather than a fraternal air. It 
 wounded my pride, which was great. I could brook 
 condescension from my father, for I looked up to him 
 with awe, as a superior being ; but I could not brook 
 patronage from a brother, who I felt was intellec- 
 tually my infecior. The servants perceived that I 
 was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal mansion, 
 and, menial-like, they treated me with neglect. Thus 
 bafHed at every point, my affections outraged wher- 
 ever they would attach themselves, I became sullen, 
 silent, and desponding. My feelings, driven back 
 upon myself, entered and preyed upon my own heart. 
 I remained for some days an unwelcome guest rather 
 than a restored son in my father's house. I was 
 doomed never to be properly known there. I was 
 made, by wrong treatment, strange even to myself, 
 and they judged of me from my strangeness. 
 
 I was startled one day at the sight of one of the 
 monks of my convent gliding out of my father's room. 
 He saw me, but pretended not to notice me, and this 
 very hypocrisy made me suspect something. I had 
 become sore and susceptible in my feelings, every 
 thing inflicted a wound on them. In this state of 
 mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a pam- 
 pered minion, the favourite servant of my father. 
 All the pride and passion of my nature rose in an 
 instant, and I struck him to the earth. My father 
 was passing by ; he stopped not to inipiire the reason, 
 nor indeed could he read the long course of mental 
 sufferings which were the real cause. He rebuked 
 me with anger and scorn ; he summoned all the 
 haughtiness of his nature and grandeur of his look to 
 give weight to the contumely with which he treated 
 me. I felt that I had not deserved it. I felt that I 
 
im 
 
 TAIJIS OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 i 
 
 was not appreciated. I felt that I had that within me 
 which merited better treatment. My heart swelled 
 against a father's injustice. I broke through my ha- 
 bitual awe of him — I replied to him with impatience. 
 My hot spirit Hushed in my cheek and kindled in my 
 eye; but my sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and 
 before I had half vented my passion, I felt it suffocat- 
 ed and quenched in my tears. ?.:y father was asto- 
 nished and incensed at this turning of the worm, and 
 ordered me to my chamber. I retired in silence, 
 choking with contending emotions. 
 
 I had not been long there when I overheard voices 
 in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation 
 between my father and the monk, about the means 
 of getting me back quietly to the convent. My reso- 
 lution was taken. I had no longer a home nor a 
 father. That very niglit I left the paternal roof. I 
 got on board a vessel about making sail from the har- 
 bour, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No 
 matter to what port she steered ; any part of so beau- 
 tiful a world was better than my convent. No matter 
 where I was cast by fortune ; any place would be 
 more a home to me than the home I had left behind. 
 The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived there 
 after a voyage of a few days. 
 
 As i entered the harbour between the moles which 
 embrace it, and l)eheld the amphitheatre of palaces, 
 and churches, and splendid gardens, rising one above 
 another, I felt at once its title to the appellation of 
 (jcnoa the Superb. I landed on the mole an utter 
 stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to 
 direct my steps. No matter : I was released from 
 the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of 
 home. When I traversed the Strada Balbi and the 
 Slrada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and gazed at 
 the wonders of architecture around me; when I wan- 
 dered at close of day amid a gay throng of the brilliant 
 and the beautiful, through the green alleys of the 
 Acqua Yerde, or among the colonnades and terraces 
 of the magnificent Doria gardens ; I thought it im- 
 possible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa. 
 
 A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My 
 scanty purse was exhausted, and for the first time in 
 my life I experienced the sordid distresses of penury. 
 I bad never known the want of money, and had never 
 adverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was 
 ignorant of the world and all its ways ; and when 
 tirst the idea of destitution came over my mind, its 
 effect was withering. I was wandering penniless 
 through the streets which no longer deliglited my 
 eyes, when chance led my steps into the magnificent 
 church of the Annunciata. 
 
 A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment 
 superintending the placing of one of his pictures over 
 an altar. The proficiency which I had acquired in his 
 art during my residence in the convent had made me 
 an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first 
 glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Ma- 
 donna. So innocent, so lovely, such a divine expres- 
 sion v' anternal tenderness ! I lost, for the moment, 
 
 all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art, 
 I clasped my hands together, and uttered an ejacnla-l 
 tion of delight. The painter perceived my emotjooj 
 He was flattered and gratified by it. My air am 
 manner pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt 
 much the want of friendship to repel the advances 
 a stranger; and there was something in this one 
 benevolent and winning, that in a moment he gaim 
 my confidence. 
 
 I told him my story and my situation, conceali 
 only my name and rank. He appeared strongly jnJ 
 terested by my recital, invited me to his house, ji 
 from that time I became his favourite pupil. |j| 
 thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents h 
 the art, and his encomiums awakened all my anloi 
 What a blissful period of my existence was it that 
 passed beneath his roof! Another being seei 
 created within me; or rather, all that was amial 
 and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse 
 ever I had been at the convent, but how diffei 
 was my seclusion ! My time was spent in storing 
 mind with lofty and poetical ideas ; in meditatini; 
 all that was striking and noble in history and .Ictii 
 in studying and tracing all that was sublime and 
 tiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imagii 
 tive being, but now my reveries and imaginings 
 elevated me to rapture. I looked up to my m; 
 as to a benevolent genius that had opened to me a 
 gion of enchantment. He was not a native of Gei 
 but had been drawn thither by the solicitations of i 
 veral of the nobility, and had resided there butafq 
 years, for the completion of certain works he had 
 (lertaken. His health was delicate, and he liadj 
 confide much of the filling up of his designs lo 
 pencils of his scholars. He considered me as 
 cularly happy in delineating the human coiinlenai 
 in seizing upon diaracleristic, though fleeting 
 pressions, and fixing them powerfully upon my 
 vass. I was employed continually, therefore, inslu 
 ing faces, and often, when some particular gracej 
 beauty of expression was wanted in a countenam 
 was intrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was 
 of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, Ihi 
 my actual skill, and partly through his partial pi 
 I began to be noted for the expressions of my 
 tenaiices. 
 
 Among the various works which he had ui 
 taken, was an historical piece for one of the 
 of Genoa, in which were to be introduced the 
 nesses of several of the family. Among these 
 one intrusted to my pencil. It was that of a yi 
 girl, who as yet was in a convent for her ediical 
 She came out for the purpose of sitting for tliepii 
 I first saw her in an apartment of one of the 
 tuous palaces of Genoa . She stood before a ca< 
 that looked out upon the bay; n stream of vernalj 
 shine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory 
 her, as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. SI 
 but sixteen years of age— and oh, how lovely 
 scene broke upon me like a mere vision of sprii 
 
 yoni 
 
 won 
 
 ofpt 
 
 beau 
 
 desci 
 
 her ( 
 
 protr 
 
 Igaz^ 
 
 vrass 
 
 tion. 
 
 andii 
 
 term 
 
 art hi 
 
 liiink 
 
 that in 
 
 villi \ 
 
 jlurrasi 
 
 me nil 
 
 ediier 
 
 (lalted 
 
 (iiarms 
 
 (eted oi 
 
 Dade If 
 
 lendern 
 
 liure til 
 
 bin don 
 
 llnniin 
 
 y, hav 
 
 ihern 
 
 Afett' 
 
 . con\ 
 
 t 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ''WMk- 
 
 the enthusiarm of my an.| 
 ir and uttered an ejacula-l 
 ;er perceived my emolionl 
 lified by it- My air andf 
 tie accosted me. I felli 
 lip to repel the advances o 
 5 sonietliingin this ones 
 hat in a moment he gaiou 
 
 id my situation, concealii 
 He appeared strongly ii 
 ivited me to his house, 
 le liis favourite pupil. Hi 
 me extraordinary talents (( 
 ms awakened all my awloi 
 f my existence was it Ihal 
 if! Another being seer 
 rather, all that was amial 
 n out. I was as recluse 
 ! convent, but how diftei 
 r time was spent in storing 
 etical ideas; in meditalins 
 i noble in history and ficl 
 all that was sublime and 
 always a visionary, imagii 
 y reveries and imaginings 
 ;, I looked up to my masi 
 lus that had opened to me a 
 He was not a native of Gei 
 iiilherby thesolicitalionsot 
 nd had resided there but a f( 
 ion of certain works lie had 
 I was delicate, and he Wj 
 lining up of his designs to 
 He considered me as 
 eating the human counleiiai 
 acleristic, though fleeling 
 hem powerfully upon mj 
 ontinually, therefore, inslieli 
 hen some particular gracel 
 .vaswantedinacountenai 
 encil. My benefactor was 
 d; and partly, perhaps, ihi 
 arlly through his partial pi 
 Ifor the expressions ot my 
 
 IS works which he had ui 
 Lai piece for one of llie 
 (were to be introduced tlie 
 Ithe family. Among these 
 Ipencil. It was that of ay 
 in a convent for her educal 
 Ipurpose of sitting for thepi 
 I apartment of one of the! 
 ba. She stood before a cas 
 [the bay; n stream of vernali 
 and shed a kind of glory 
 [ich crimson chamber. SI 
 Bge-and oh, how lovely 
 like a mere vision of 8|iri 
 
 yoath and beauty. I could have fallen down and 
 worshipped her. She was like one of those ticlions 
 of poets and painters, when they would express the 
 iew idial that haunts their minds with shapes of in- 
 describable perfection. I was permiUed to sketch 
 ber countenance in various positions, and I fondly 
 ptracted the study that was undoing me. The more 
 1 gazed on her, the more I became enamoured ; (here 
 vras something almost painful in my intense admira- 
 tion. I was but nineteen years of age, shy, diflident, 
 and inexperienced. I was treated with attention by 
 ber mother ; for my youth and my enthusiasm in my 
 art bad won favour for me; and I am inclined to 
 think that there was something in my air and manner 
 that inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness 
 «ith which I was treated could not dispel the em- 
 hirrassment into which my own imagination threw 
 pie when in presence of this lovely being. It eleval- 
 (dlier into something almost more than mortal. She 
 teemed too exquisite for earthly use ; too delicate and 
 exalted for human attainment. As I sat tracing her 
 charms on my canvass, with my eyes occasionally ri- 
 jTeled on her features, I drank in delicious poison that 
 Inade me giddy. My heart alternalely gushed with 
 jteoderness, and ached with despair. Mow I became 
 more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had 
 lain dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are 
 jbom in a mare temperate climate, and under a cooler 
 ;y, have little idea of the violence of passion in our 
 ithern bosoms. 
 
 A few days finished my task. Bianca returned to 
 
 .. convent, but her image remained indelibly im- 
 
 :d upon my heart. It dwelt in ray imagination; 
 
 became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an 
 
 feet even upon my pencil. I became noted for my 
 
 ilicily in depicting female loveliness : it was but be- 
 
 iiise I multiplied the image of Bianca. I soothed and 
 
 [e( fed my fancy by introducing her in all the pro- 
 
 JQCIions of my master. I have stood, with delight, in 
 
 of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the 
 
 iwd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint which I 
 
 painted. I have seen them bow down in adora- 
 
 m before the painting; they were bowing before 
 
 loveliness of Oianca. 
 
 I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say 
 
 lirium, for upwards of a year. Such is the tena- 
 
 of my imagination, that the hnage which was 
 
 in it continued in all its power and freshness. 
 
 leed, I was t solitary, meditative being, much given 
 
 reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once 
 
 len strong possession uf me. I was roused from 
 
 fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death 
 
 [my worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs 
 
 death occasioned me. It left me alone, and al- 
 
 ilbroken-hearled. He bequeathed to me his little 
 
 )periy, which, from the liberality of his disposition, 
 
 bis expensive style of living, was indeed but small: 
 
 he most particularly recommended me, in <lying, 
 
 |liie protection of u nobleman who had been his 
 
 II. 
 
 The latter was a man who passed for munificent. 
 He was a lover and an encourager of the arts, and 
 evidently wished to be (bought so. He fancied he 
 saw in me indications of future excellence; my pencil 
 had already attracted at(en(ion ; he took me at once 
 under his protection. Seeing (hat I was overwhelm- 
 ed with grief, and incapable of exerting myself in the 
 mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to so- 
 journ for a time at a villa which he possessed on the 
 border of the sea, in the picturesque neigl >ourhood 
 of Sestri di Ponente. 
 
 I found at the villa the count's only son, Filippo. 
 He was nearly of my age ; prepossessing in his ap- 
 pearance, and fascinating in his manners; he attached 
 himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. 
 I thought there was something of profession in his 
 kindness, and of caprice in his disposition ; but I had 
 nothing else near me to attach myself to, and my 
 heart felt (he need of some(hing (o repose upon. His 
 educadon had been neglected ; he looked upon me as 
 his superior in mental powers and acquirements, and 
 tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt that I 
 was his equal in birth, and that gave independence 
 (0 my manners, which had its effect. The caprice 
 and tyranny I saw sometimes exercised on others, 
 over whom he had [tower, were never manifested 
 towards me. We became indmate friends and fre- 
 quent companions. Still I loved (o be alone, and to 
 indulge in (he reveries of my own imagination among 
 the scenery by which I was surrounded. 
 
 The villa commanded a wide view of (he Mediter- 
 ranean, and of the picturesque Ligurian coast. It 
 stood alone in the midst of ornamented gi ounds, fine- 
 ly decorated with statues and founlains, and laid out 
 into groves and alleys, and shady lawns. Every 
 (hiiig was assembled here (hat could gratify the (aste, 
 or agreeably occupy (he mind. Soodied by (he (ran- 
 (luillity of this elegant retreat, (he (urbulence of my 
 feelings gradually subsided, and blending with the 
 romantic spell which s(ill reigned over my imagina- 
 tion, produced a soft, voluptuous melancholy. 
 
 I had not been long under the roof of the count, 
 when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabit- 
 ant. It was the daughter of a relative of the count, 
 who had lately died in reduced circumstances, be- 
 queathing this only child (o his protection. I had 
 heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy 
 had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty, as 
 not to admit of any other. V'e were in the central 
 saloon of the villa when she arrived. She was still 
 in mourning,, and approached, leaning on the count's 
 arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was 
 struck by (he elegance of her figure and movement, 
 by the grace with which the wie:5aro, the bewitching 
 veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender form. 
 'J'hey entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when 
 I beheld Bianca before me ! It was herself; pale with 
 grief, but still more matured in loveliness than wlien 
 I had last l)clield her. The (imc (hat had elapsed 
 had developcti the graces of her person, and the mw- 
 
son 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 row she had andergone had diffused over her coun- 
 tenance an irresistible tenderness. 
 v Slie blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears 
 rushed into her eyes, for she remembered in whose 
 company she had been accustomed to behold me. 
 For my part, I cannot express what were my emo- 
 tions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness 
 that had formerly paralysed me in her presence. We 
 were drawn together by sympathy of situation. We 
 had each lost our best friend in the world ; we were 
 each, in some measure, thrown upon the kindness of 
 others. When I came to know her intellectually, 
 all my ideal picturmgs of her were confirmed. Her 
 newness to the world, her delightful susceptibility to 
 every thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, re- 
 iT'rded me of my own emotions when first I escaped 
 from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted 
 my judgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped 
 itself round my heart; and then her young, and ten- 
 der, and budding loveliness, sent a delicious madness 
 to my brain. 
 
 I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as some- 
 thing more than mortal ; and I felt humiliated at the 
 idea of my comparative unworthiness. Yet she was 
 mortal; and one of mortality's most susceptible and 
 loving compounds;— for she loved me ! 
 
 How first I discovered the transporting truth I can- 
 not recollect. I believe it stole upon me by degrees 
 as a wonder past hope or belief. We were both at 
 such a tender and loving age; in constant intercoui'se 
 with each other; mingling in the same elegant pur- 
 suits; — for music, poetry, and painting, were our 
 mutual delights; and we were almost separated from 
 society among lovely and romantic scenery. Is it 
 strange that two young hearts, thus brought together, 
 should readily twine round each other? 
 
 Oh, gods, what a dream — a transient dream of un- 
 alloyed delight, then passed over my souL! Then it 
 was that the world around me was indeed a paradise ; 
 for I had woman — lovely, delicious woman, to share 
 it with me ! How often have I rambled along the 
 picturesque shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild moun- 
 tains, with the coast gemmed with villas, and the 
 blue sea far below me, and the slender Faro of Ge- 
 noa on its romantic promontory in the distance; and 
 as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have 
 thought there could no unhappiness enter into so 
 beautiful a world ! How often have we listened to- 
 gether ' . the nightingale, as it poured forth its rich 
 notes among the moonlight bowers of the garden, 
 and have wondered that poets could ever have fancied 
 any thing melancholy in its sqng ! Why, oh why is 
 this budding season of life and tenderness so transient ! 
 why is this rosy cloud of love, tliat sheds such a glow 
 over the morning of our days, so prone to brew up 
 into the whirlwind and the storm ! 
 
 I was the first to awaken from this blissful deliriam 
 of the affections. I had gained Rianca's heart, what 
 was I to do with it? I had no wealth nor prospect 
 to entitle me to her hand ; was I to take advantage 
 
 of her ignorance of the world, of her oonfldbg affec- 
 tion, and draw her down to my own poverty ? WaJ 
 this requiting the hospitality of the count? was tbii | 
 requiting the love of Bianca ? 
 
 Now first I began to feel that even successful lore I 
 may have its bitterness. A corroding care gathered 
 about my heart. I moved about the palace like 1 1 
 guilty being. I felt as if I had abused its hospitality, 
 as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no long.] 
 er look with unembarrassed mien in the countenance I 
 of the count. I accused myself of perfidy to him, I 
 and I thought he read it in my looks, and began to] 
 distrust and despise me. His manner liad always | 
 been ostentatious and condescending; it now ap.| 
 peared cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became n-l 
 served and distant; or at least I suspected him tobel 
 so. Heavens ! was this the mere coinage of my bnio?! 
 Was I to become suspicious of all the world? Al 
 poor, surmising wretch, watching looks andgesturaJ 
 and torturing myself with misconstructions ? Or, If] 
 true, was I to remain beneath a roof where I vai 
 merely tolerated, and linger there on soflieranGe?! 
 '' This is not to be endured ! " exclaimed I : " I mm 
 tear myself from this state of self-abasement— I vrilj 
 
 break through this fascination and fly Fiy!- 
 
 Whilher ? from the world ? for where is the world 
 
 when I leave Bianca behind me ? '' 
 
 My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within 
 me at the idea of bemg looked upon with contumeiyJ 
 Many times I w^as on the point of declaring my b\ 
 mily and rank, and asserting my equality in the pre 
 sence of Bianca, when I thought her relations < 
 sumed an air of superiority. But the feeling vai 
 transient. I considered myself discarded andc 
 temned by my family ; and had solemnly vowed i 
 ver to own relationship to them until they themselre^ 
 should claim it. 
 
 The struggle of my mind preyed upon my ha|^ 
 ness and my health. It seemed as if the uncertainll 
 of being loved would be less intolerable than thus t 
 be assured of it, and yet not dare to enjoy the i 
 viction. I was no longer the enraptured admirer ( 
 Bianca ; I no longer hung in ecstasy on the tones ( 
 her voice, nor drank in with insatiate gaze thebeaulj 
 of her countenance. Her very smiles ceased tod 
 light me, for I felt culpable in having won them. 
 
 She could not but be sensible of the change ini 
 and inquired the cause with her usual franicness aij 
 simplicity. I could not evade the inquiry, for i 
 heart was full to aching. I told her all the confi| 
 of my soul ; my devouring passion, my bitter i 
 upbraiding. "Yes," said I, "I am unworthy | 
 you. I am an offcast from my family— a wand 
 —a nameless, homeless wanderer— with nothingii 
 poverty for my portion; and yet I have dared tok 
 you — have dared to aspire to your love ! " 
 
 My agitation moved her to tears, but shesavi 
 thing in my situation so hopeless as I had de| 
 it. Brought np in a convent, she knew nothin|;| 
 the world— its wants— its cares : and indeed wImIi 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 80'» 
 
 gian is a worldly casnist in matters of ^le heart ? 
 ^tj more— she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm 
 when she spoke of my fortunes and myself. We 
 lad dwelt together on the works of the fiimons mas- 
 ters. I had related to her their histories ; the high 
 npatation, the influence, the magnificence, to which 
 (bey had attained. The companions of princes, tlie 
 bTOurites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. 
 All this she applied to me. Her love saw nothing 
 gall their great productions that I was not able to 
 ichieve; and when I beheld the lovely creature glow 
 with fervour, and her whole countenance radiant 
 filh visions of my glory, I was snatched up for the 
 igoinent into the heaven of her own imagination. 
 I ara dwelling too long upon this part of my story ; 
 east i suspected him to beHyet I cannot help lingering over a period of my life, 
 mere coinage of my l)rain?l|)B which, with all its cares and conflicts, I look back 
 
 with fondness, for as yet my soul was unstained by 
 
 I crime. I do not know what might have been the 
 
 jitiult of this struggle between pride, delicacy, and 
 
 ipKsion, had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an 
 
 account of the sudden death of my brother. It was 
 
 ipanied by an earnest inquiry for intelligence 
 
 icerning me, and a prayer, should this meet my 
 
 e, that I would hasten to Naples to comfort an in- 
 
 and afflicted father. 
 
 I was naturally of an affectionate disposition, but 
 
 ly brother had never been as a brother to me. I 
 
 long considered myself as disconnected from him, 
 
 his death caused me but little emotion. The 
 
 Ills of my father, inflrm and suffering, touched 
 
 however to the quick ; and when I thought of 
 
 that lofty magnificent being, now bowed down 
 
 desolate, and suing to me for comfort, all my 
 
 intment for past neglect was subdued, and a glow 
 
 filial affection was awakened withui me. 
 
 The predominant feeling, however, that over- 
 
 iwered all others, was transport at the sudden 
 
 inge in my whole fortunes. A home, a name, 
 
 , wealth, awaited me ; and love painted a still 
 
 rapturous prospect in the distance. I hastened 
 
 Bianca, and threw myself at her feet. "Oh, 
 
 nca!" exclaimed I, "at length I can claim you 
 
 my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, 
 
 neglected, rejected outcast. Look— read — behold 
 
 that restore me to my name and to my- 
 
 l,ofherconfldbgaffec. 
 my own poverty? Was I 
 of the count? was thi» | 
 
 ? , 
 
 that even successful love I 
 corroding care gathered j 
 about the palace like a 
 had abused its hospiUlily, | 
 ts walls. I could no long, 
 mien in the coontenaDcej 
 myself of perfidy to him, I 
 my looks, and began to I 
 His manner Itad always I 
 idescending ; it now ap-j 
 Filippo, too, became r^| 
 
 ious of all the world? Al 
 alching looks and gestures;! 
 1 misconstructions? Or,ilf 
 neath a roof where I wa 
 nger there on sufl'erance?! 
 ed!" exclaimed I: "I will 
 e of self-abasement-I will 
 
 ination and fly Fly! 
 
 ,orld? for where is theworW 
 
 indme?' 
 
 y proud, and swelled wilhiii 
 
 ooked upon with contumelyJ 
 
 5 point of declaring my b-l 
 
 rting my equality in the prf 
 
 I thought her relations , 
 
 iority. But the feeling wai 
 
 myself discarded andc 
 
 nd had solemnly vowed i 
 
 [to them until they ihemseWej 
 
 lind preyed upon my happJ 
 seemed as if the uncertainty 
 less intolerable than thus t 
 
 it not dare to enjoy the ( 
 
 jr the enraptured admirer < 
 _^in ecstasy on the tones* 
 
 [with insatiate gaze thebeaulj 
 [er very smiles ceased tod 
 jble in having won them, 
 sensible of the change in I 
 ath her usual frankness aij 
 ^t evade the inquiry, for i 
 I told her all the coniii] 
 Ering passion, my bitter ( 
 [said I, "lam unworthy | 
 Ifrom my family-a wan* 
 8 wanderer— with nothing II 
 [; and yet I have dared tok 
 
 Ipire to your love ! " 
 Iher to tears, but she saw 1 
 
 50 hopeless as I had d(^ 
 knvent, she knew nothinjj 
 [us cares -.and indeed wbttf 
 
 Id" 
 
 1 1 will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca 
 
 i in the reverse of my situation, because she 
 
 f it lightened my heart of a load of care ; for her 
 
 |rnpart, she had loved me for myself, and had ne- 
 
 r doubted that my own merits would command 
 
 I fame and fortune. 
 |lnow felt all my native pride buoyant within me. 
 ;er walked with my eyes bent to the dust; 
 
 ) elevated them to the skies — my soul was lit up 
 
 I fresh fires and beamed from my countenance. 
 
 I wished to impart the change in my circumstances 
 |thecoant; to let him know who and what I was — 
 
 I to make formal proposals for the hand of Bianca ; 
 
 but he was absent on a distant estate. I opened 
 my whole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him of 
 my passion, of the doubts and fears that had distract- 
 ed me, and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled 
 them. He overwhelmed me with congratulations, 
 and with the warmest expressions of sympathy, I 
 embraced him ui the fulness of my heart ;— I felt 
 compunctious for having suspected him of coldness, 
 and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted 
 his friendship. 
 
 Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sudden 
 expansion of the heart between young men. Filippo 
 entered into our concerns with the most eager inter- 
 est. He was our confident and counsellor. It was 
 determined that I should hasten at once to Naples, 
 to re-establish myself in my father's affections, and 
 my paternal home ; and the moment the reconcilia- 
 tion was effected, and my father's consent insured, I 
 should return and demand Bianca of the count. Fi- 
 lippo engaged to secure his father's acquiescence ; in- 
 deed he undertook to watch over our interests, and to 
 be the channel through which we might correspond. 
 My parting with Bianca was tender — delicious — 
 agonizing. It was in a little pavilion of the garden 
 which had been one of our favourite resorts. How 
 often and often did I return to have one more adieu ; 
 to have her look once more on me in speechless emo- 
 tion ; to enjoy once more the rapturous sight of those 
 tears streaming down her lovely cheeks ; to seize once 
 more on that delicate hand, the frankly accorded 
 pledge of love, and cover it with tears and kisses ! 
 Heavens ! there is a delight even in the parting agony 
 of two lovers, worth a thousand tame pleasures of 
 the world. I have her at this moment before my 
 eyes, at the window of the pavilion, putting aside 
 the vines that clustered about the casement, her light 
 form beaming forth in virgin light, her countenance 
 all tears and smiles, sending a thousand and a thou- 
 sand adieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium 
 of fondness and agitation, I faltered my way down 
 the avenue. 
 
 As the bark bore me out of the harbour of Genoa, 
 how eagerly my eye stretched along the coast of 
 Sestri till it discovered the villa gleaming from among 
 trees at the foot of the mountain ! As long as day 
 lasted, I gazed and gazed upon it till it lessened and 
 lessened to a mere white speck in the distance; and 
 still my intense and fixed gaze discerned it, when all 
 other objects of the coast had blended into indistinct 
 confusion, or were lost in the evening gloom. 
 
 On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal 
 home. My heart yearned for the long-withheld 
 blessing of a father's love. As I entered the prond 
 portal of the ancestral palace, roy emotions were so 
 great, that I could not speak. No one knew me ; the 
 servants gazed at me with curiosity and surprise. A 
 few years of intellectual elevation and developement 
 had made a prodigious change in the poor fugitive 
 stripling from the convent. Still that no one should 
 know me in my rightful home was overpowering. I 
 
tm 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 felt like the prodigal son returned. I was a stranger 
 in the house of my father. I burst into tears and 
 wept aloud. When I made myself known, however, 
 all was changed. I, who had once been almost re- 
 pulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile, 
 was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. 
 One of the servants hastened to prepare my father fur 
 my reception; my eagerness to receive the paternal 
 embrace was so great, that I could not await his re- 
 turn, but hurried after him. What a spectacle met 
 my eyes as I entered the chamber ! My father, whom 
 I had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble 
 and majestic bearing had so awed my young imagi- 
 nation, was bowed down and withered into decrepi- 
 tude. A paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and 
 left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his chair, 
 with pale relaxed visage, and glassy wandering eye. 
 His intellects had evidently shared in the ravage of 
 his frame. The servant was endeavouring to make 
 him comprehend that a visitor was at hand. I totter- 
 ed up to him and sunk at his feet. All his past cold- 
 ness and neglect were forgotten in his present suffer- 
 ings. I remembered only that he was my parent, 
 and that I had deserted him. I clasped his knees : 
 my voice was almost stifled with convulsive sobs. 
 "Pardon— pardon, oh! my father!" was all that I 
 could utter. His apprehension seemed slowly to re- 
 turn to him. He gazed at me for some momenls 
 with a vague, inquiring look ; a convulsive tremor 
 quivered about his lips; he feebly extended a shaking 
 hand, laid it upon my head, and burst into an infan- 
 tine flow of tears. 
 
 From that moment he would scarcely spare me 
 from his sight. I appeared the only object that his 
 heart responded to in the world; all else was as a 
 blank to him. He had almost lost the powers of 
 speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at an end. 
 He was mute and passive, excepting that fits of child- 
 like weeping would sometimes C9me over him with- 
 out any immediate cause. If I left the room at any 
 time, his eye was incessantly fixed on the door till 
 my return, and on my entrance there was another 
 gush of tears. 
 
 To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined 
 state of mind, would have been worse than useless; 
 le have left him forever so short a time, would have 
 been crupl, unnatural. Here then was a new trial 
 for my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of 
 my return, and of my actual situation, painting, in 
 colours vivid, for they were true, the torments I suf- 
 fered at our being thus separated ; for to the youthful 
 lover every day of absence is an age of love lost. I 
 enclosed the letter in one to FiKppo, who was the 
 channel of our correspondence. I received a reply 
 from him full of friendship and sympathy; from 
 Bianca, full of assurances of affection and constancy. 
 Week after week, month after month elapsed, with- 
 out making any change in my circumstances. The 
 vital flame which had seemed nearly extinct when 
 first I met my father, kept fluttering on without any 
 
 apparent diminution. I watched him constanijr, 
 faithfully, I had almost said patiently. I knew tiijt 
 his death alone would set me free — yet I never at any 
 moment wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make I 
 any atonement for past disobedience ; and, denied as 1 1 
 had been all endearments of relationship in my early I 
 days, my heart yearned towards a father, who in his I 
 age and helplessness had thrown himself entirely oo| 
 me for comfort. 
 
 My passion for Bianca gained daily more force from I 
 absence: by constant meditation it wore itself adeeperl 
 and deeper channel. I made no new friends nor ac-f 
 quaintances ; sought none of the pleasures of i\aple$,| 
 which my rank and fortune threw open to me. Mine! 
 was a heart that confined itself to few objects, ball 
 dwelt upon them with the intenser passion. Tosjtl 
 by my father, administer to his wants, and to medi-l 
 tate on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was mJ 
 constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself with myl 
 pencil, in portraying the image that was ever presentj 
 to my imagination. I transferred to canvass e\eryh 
 and smile of hers that dwelt in my heart. I sliovec 
 them to my father, in hopes of aw^ikening an interei 
 in his bosom for the mere shadow of my love; butt 
 was too far sunk in intellect to lake any more than i 
 child-like notice of them. When I received a letlei 
 from Bianca, it was a new source of solitary luxuryj 
 Her letters, it is true, were less and less frequent, kl 
 they were always full of assurances of unabated afTecJ 
 tion. They breathed not the frank and innoceol 
 warmth with which she expressed herself in comvrJ 
 sation, but I accounted for it from the embarrassmenl 
 which inexperienced minds have often io expn 
 themselves upon paper. Filippo assured me of i 
 unaltered constancy. They both lamented, in I 
 strongest terms, our continued separation, thoughthej 
 did justice to the filial piety that kept me by inyE 
 ther'sside. 
 
 Nearly two years elapsed in this protracted eKiiej 
 To me they were so many ages. Ardent and impi 
 tuous by nature, I scarcely know how I sliould hatj 
 supported so long an alisence, had I not felt assure 
 that the faith of Bianca was equal to my own. 
 length my father died. Life went from him almoj 
 imperceptibly. I hung over him in mute aftlictioi 
 and watched the expiring spasms of nature. His l< 
 faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessingij 
 me. — Alas ! how has it been fulfilled ! 
 
 When I had paid due honours to his remains, d 
 laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I arran» 
 briefly my affairs, put them in a posture to beeasj 
 at my command from a distance, and embarked o 
 more with a bounding heart for Genoa. 
 
 Our voyage was propitious, and oh ! what wasi^ 
 rapture, when first, in the dawn of morning, U 
 the shadowy summits of the Apennines rising aim 
 like clouds above the horizon ! The sweet brealii| 
 summer just moved us over the long wavering 1 
 that were rolling us on towards Genoa. By degi 
 the coast of Seslri rose like a creation of enchanlni 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ms 
 
 tched him consUnlly, 
 patiently. Iknewlhai 
 free— yet I never at any I 
 .rladlobe able to make I 
 aience;and,denieda8l 
 relationship in my early I 
 rds a father, wlioinliisi 
 own liimself entirely on 
 
 led daily more force from I 
 Lion it wore itself a deeper I 
 le no new friends nor ac- 
 Ihe pleasures of Naples, 
 threw open to me. Mine 
 itself to few objecU, but 
 intenser passion. To sill 
 , his wants, and to m«di-l 
 ;e of his chamber, was ray] 
 si amused myself with my 
 lage that was ever presenl 
 ferred to canvass evei7lool 
 elt in my heart. Isliow 
 ,68 of awakening an inlei 
 
 shadow of my love; but 
 ect to take any more llm 
 When 1 received a lelli 
 vv source of solitary luxury, 
 re less and less frequent, 
 assurances of unabated allec 
 lot the frank and innocenl 
 expressed herself in com«. 
 jritfromtheembarrassDir 
 
 inds have often to expi 
 FiUppo assured me of li 
 riiey both lamented 
 inued separation, thoughlhi 
 iety that kept me by my' 
 
 tjsed in this protracted exil( 
 Lages. Ardent and. mr 
 telyknowhowlsliouldha^ 
 Uencchadlnotfeltassur 
 
 was e(iual to my own, 
 Life went from him ata 
 over him in mute affliciK 
 
 le spasms of nature. His 
 [ered repeatedly a blessmg 
 
 Ibeenfulfdled! 
 , honours to his remains, a 
 
 I of our ancestors, I arranr 
 
 Itheminaposluretobeeai 
 
 [distance, and embarked" 
 
 leart for Genoa. 
 »itious,andoh!whatvf« 
 [the dawn of morning,! 
 If the Apennines rising 
 iorizon! The sweet breathl 
 over the long wavering 
 
 [towards Genoa. By "« 
 like a creation of cnchanli 
 
 from the silver bosom of the deep. I beheld the line 
 of villages and palaces studding its borders. My eye 
 reverted to a well-known fioint, and at length, from 
 ilie confusion of distant objects, it singled out the 
 liUa which contained Bianca. It was a mere speck 
 jiu the landscape, but glimmering from afar, the polar 
 of my heart. 
 
 Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's day, but 
 I liow different the emotions between depart ure and 
 ilurn ! It now kept growing and growing, instead of 
 ningand lesseningon my sight. My heart seemed 
 dilate with it. I looked at it through a telescope, 
 gradually defined one feature after another. The 
 Iconies of the central saloon where first I met Bianca 
 Death its roof; the terrace where we so often had 
 the delightful summer evenings ; the awning 
 It shaded her chamber window; I almost fancied I 
 iV her form beneath it. Could she but know her 
 iver was in the bark whose white sail now gleamed 
 the sunny bosom of the sea! My fond Impatience 
 ased as we neared the coast; the ship seemed to 
 lazily over the billows; I could almost have sprung 
 the sea, and swum to the desired shore. 
 The shadows of evening gradually shrouded the 
 le; but the moon arose in all her fulness and 
 luty, and shed the tender light, so dear to lovers, 
 the romantic coast of Sestri. My soul was 
 in unutterable tenderness. I anticipated the 
 ivenly evenings I should pass in once more wan- 
 ing with Bianca hy the light of that blessed moon. 
 It was late at night before we entered the harbour. 
 early next morning as I could get released from 
 formalities of landing, I threw myself on horse- 
 :, and hastened to the villa. As I galloped round 
 rocky promontory on which stands the Faro, and 
 the coast of Sestri opening up<m me, a thousand 
 ities and doubts suddenly sprang up in my bo- 
 There is something fearful in returning to 
 we love, while yet uncertain what ills or chan- 
 ibsence may have effected. The turbulence of 
 agitation shook my very frame. I spurred my 
 to redoubled speed; he was covered with foam 
 we both arrived panting at the gateway that 
 tu the grounds around the villa. I left my 
 ' ata colla<: J, and walked through the grounds, 
 I might regain tranquillity for the approaching 
 lew. I chid myself for having suffered mere 
 and surmises thus suddenly to overcome me ; 
 I vas always prone to be carried away by gusts 
 efeelitigs. 
 
 entering the garden, every thing bore the same 
 
 as when I had left it; and this unchanged aspect 
 
 igs reassured me. There were the alleys in 
 
 I had so often walked with Bianca, as we 
 
 to the song of the nigiitingale; the same 
 
 under which we had so often sat during the 
 
 lebeat. There were the same flowers of which 
 
 w fond, and which appeared still to be under 
 
 istry of her hand. Every thing looked and 
 
 of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my bo- 
 
 som at every step. I passed a little arbour, in which 
 we had often sat and read together — a book and a 
 glove lay on the bench— It was Bianca's glove; it 
 was a volume of the Metastasio I had given her. 
 The glove lay in my favourite passage. I clasped 
 them to my heart with rapture. " All is safe ! " ex- 
 claimed I; '' she loves me, she is still my own ! " 
 
 I bounded lightly along the avenue, down which I 
 had faltered so slowly at my departure. I beheld her 
 favourite pavilion, which ha'' witnessed our parting 
 scene. The window was open, with the same vine 
 clambering about it, precisely as when she waved and 
 wept me an adieu. O how transporting was the con- 
 trast in my situation ! As I passed near the pavilion, 
 I heard the tones of a female voice : they thrilled 
 through me with an appeal to my heart not to be mis- 
 taken. Before I could think, I felt t hey were Bianca's. 
 For an instant I paused, overpowered with agitation. 
 I feared to break so suddenly upon her. I softly as- 
 cended the steps of the pavilion. The door was open. 
 I saw Bianca seated at a table ; her back was towards 
 me ; she was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was 
 occupied in drawing. A glance sufficed to show me 
 that she was copying one of my own paintings. I 
 gazed on her for a moment in a delicious tumult of 
 emotions. She paused in her singing : a heavy sigh, 
 almost a sob followed. I could no longer contain 
 myself. " Bianca ! " exclaimed I, in a half-smothered 
 voice. She started at the sound, brushed back the 
 ringlets that hung clustering about her face, darted a 
 glance at me, uttered a piercing shriek, and would 
 have fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my 
 arms. 
 
 " Bianca ! my own Bianca ! " exclaimed I, folding 
 her to my bosom ; my voice stifled in sobs of convul- 
 sive joy. She lay in my arms without sense or mo- 
 tion. Alarmed at the effects of my precipitation, I 
 scarce knew what to do. I tried by a thousand 
 endearing words to call her back to consciousness. 
 She slowly recovered, and half-opening her eyes, 
 " Where am I ? " murmured she, faintly. " Here ! " 
 exclaimed I, pressing her to my bosom, " Here— close 
 to the heart that adores you— in the arms of your 
 faithful Ottavio ! " " Oh no ! no ! no ! " shrieked she, 
 starting into sudden life and terror — "away! away ! 
 leave me ! leave me ! " 
 
 She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a corner 
 of the saloon, and covered her face with her hands, 
 as if the very sight of me were baleful. I was thunder- 
 struck. I could not believe my senses. I followed 
 her, trembling, confounded. I endeavoured to take 
 her hand ; but she shrunk from my very touch with 
 horror. 
 
 "Good heavens, Bianca ! " exclaimed I, " what is 
 the meaning of this ? Is this my reception after so long 
 an absence ? Is this the love you professed for me ? " 
 At the mention of love, a shuddering ran through 
 her. She turned to me a face wild with anguish : 
 "No more of that— no more of that!" gasped she ; 
 "talk not to me of love— I— I— am married ! " 
 
;i06 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I reeled as if I bad received a mortal blow — a sick- 
 ness struck to my very heart. I caught at a window- 
 frame for support. For a moment or two every thing 
 was chaos around me. When I recovered, I beheld 
 Bianca lying on a sofa, her face buried in the pillow, 
 and sobbing convulsively. Indignation for her fickle- 
 ness for a moment overpowered every other feeling. 
 
 "Faithless — perjured!" cried I, striding across the 
 room. But another glance at that beautiful being in 
 distress checked all my wrath. Anger could not 
 dwell together with her idea in my soul. 
 
 " Oh ! Bianca," exclafmed I, in anguish, "could I 
 have dreamt of this? Could I have suspected you 
 would have been false to me?" 
 
 She raised her face all streaming with tears, all 
 disordered with emotion, and gave me one appealing 
 look. "False to you ! — They told me you weredead ! " 
 
 " What, " said I, " in spite of our constant corres- 
 pondence ?" 
 
 She gazed wildly at me : " Correspondence ! what 
 correspondence ? " 
 
 " Have you not repeatedly received and replied to 
 my letters ? " 
 
 She clasped her hands with solemnity and fervour. 
 " As I hope for mercy — never ! " 
 
 A horrible surmise shot through my brain. " Who 
 told you I was dead?" 
 
 " It was reported that the ship in which you em- 
 barked for Naples perished at sea. " 
 
 " But who told you the report? " . VV 
 
 She paused for an instant, and trembled : — " Fi- 
 lippo." 
 
 " May the God of heaven curse him !" cried I, 
 extending my clenched fists aloft. 
 
 " O do not curse him, do not curse him ! " exclaim- 
 ed she ; " he is — he is — my husband ! " 
 
 This was all that was wanting to unfold the perfidy 
 that had been practised upon me. My biood boiled 
 like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped with rage too 
 great for utterance— I remained for a time bewildered 
 by the whirl of horrible thoughts that rushed through 
 my mind. The poor victim of deception before me 
 thought it was with her I was incensed. She faintly 
 murmured forth her exculpation. I will not dwell 
 upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal. 
 I saw with a glance how both of us had been betrayed. 
 
 "'Tis well," muttered I to myself in smothered 
 accents of concentrated fury. " He shall render an 
 account of all this. " 
 
 Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in her 
 countenance. " For mercy's sake, do not meet him ! 
 — Say nothing of what has passed— for my sake say 
 nothing to him— I only shall be the sufferer ! " 
 
 A new suspicion darted across my mind — "What ! " 
 exclaimed I, " do you then fear him? is he unkind to 
 you? Tell me," reiterated I, grasping her hand, 
 and looking her eagerly in the face, "tell me— dares 
 he to use yon harshly ?" 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! " cried she faltering and embarrassed 
 —but the glance at her face had told me volumes. I 
 
 saw in her pallid and wasted features, in the | 
 terror and subdued agony of her eye, a whole liisi 
 of a mind broken down by tyranny. Great God] 
 and was this beauteous flower snatched from me ii 
 be thus trampled upon ? The idea roused me to n 
 ness. I clenched my teeth and my hands; I fa 
 at the mouth ; every passion seemed to have resoifi 
 itself into the fury that like a lava boiled v ilhin i 
 heart. Bianca shrunk from me in speechless airrigl 
 As I strode by the window, my eye darted down t 
 alley. Fatal moment! I beheld Filippo at a distan 
 my brain was in delirium— I sprang from the pavilioi 
 and was before him with the quickness of liglitniq 
 He saw me as I came rushing upon him— he ion 
 pale, looked wildly to right and left, as if he m 
 have fled, and trembling drew his sword. 
 
 " Wretch ! " cried I, " well may you draw yn 
 weapon ! " 
 I spake notanother word— I snatched forthastiiei 
 put by the sword which trembled in his hand, i 
 buried my poniard in his bosom. He fell wilh t 
 blow, but my rage was unsated. I sprung uponii 
 with the blood-thirsty feeling of a tiger ; redoul 
 my blows ; mangled him in my frenzy, grasped bij 
 by the throat, until, with reiterated wounds i 
 strangling convulsions, he expired in my grasp. 
 remained glaring on the countenance, horrible j 
 death, that seemed to stare back with its proln 
 eyes upon me. Piercing shrieks roused me fionn 
 delirium. I looked round, and beheld Bianca flyi 
 distractedly towards us. My brain whirled— I wij 
 ed not to meet her ; but fled from the scene of lion 
 I fled forth from the garden like another Cain,- 
 hell within my bosom, and a curse upon my liead.| 
 fled without knowing whither, almost without km 
 ing why. My only idea was to get farther audi 
 ther from the horrors I had left behind ; as ifl c 
 throw space between myself and my conscience, | 
 fled to the Apennines, and wandered for days) 
 days among their savage heights. How I exist«l| 
 cannot tell— what rocks and precipices I braved,! 
 how I braved them, I know not. I kept on and j 
 trying to out-travel the curse that clung to me. 
 the shrieks of Bianca rung for ever in my ears. 
 horrible countenance of my victim was for ever I 
 fore my eyes. The blood of Filippo cried toj 
 from the ground. Rocks, trees, and torrents, al| 
 sounded with my crime. Then it was I felt 1 
 much more insupportable is the anguish of rem 
 than every other mental pang. Oh! could 1 1 
 have cast off this crime that festered in my i 
 — could I but have regained the innocence thatn 
 ed in my breast as I entered the garden at 
 could I but have restored my victim to life, 1 1 
 ifl could look on with transport, even thought 
 were in his arms. 
 
 By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse i 
 into a permanent malady of the mirid— into ( 
 the most horrible that ever poor wretch was ( 
 with. Wherever I went, the countenance of i 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLEU. 
 
 SOT 
 
 rd— 1 snatched forlhasUl 
 I trembled in his hand, 
 his bosom. He fell with 
 ; unsated. I sprung uponhi 
 feeling of a tiger ; redoolil 
 m in my frenzy, graspedbi 
 with reiterated wounds f 
 he expired in my grasp. 
 the countenance, horrible 
 stare back with its prolnx 
 ng shrieks roused me from 
 mnd, and beheld Biancaflj 
 s. My brain whirled-Iw 
 ktfle<l from the scene oflion 
 garden like another Cain, 
 , and a curse upon my head, 
 whither, almost withoullinr 
 ea was to get farther and 
 I had left behind; as if 1 CI 
 myself and my conscience, 
 j, and wandered for days 
 ge heights. HowIexisM 
 is and precipices I braved, 
 know not. I kept on and 
 B curse that clung to me. 
 rang for ever in my ears. 
 of my victim was for ever 
 blood of Filippo cried to 
 ocks, trees, and torrents,* 
 
 ime. Then it was I felt' 
 table is the anguish of rei 
 entalpang. Oh! could 1 
 ime that festered m my 
 rained the innocence that 
 
 entered the garden at S 
 ored my victim to life, I 
 h transport, even though 
 
 ■nzied fever df remorses 
 ,ladyofthemlrld-into< 
 [t ever poor wretch was ( 
 vent, the countenance ofn 
 
 gUin appeared to follow me. Whenever I turn- 
 
 inf bead, I beheld it behind me, hideous with the 
 
 ilortions of (he dying moment. I have tried in 
 
 i(fy way to escape from this horrible phantom, but 
 
 Tain. I know not whether it be an illusion of the 
 
 , the consequence of my dismal education at the 
 
 ivent, or whether a phantom really sent by Heaven 
 
 punish me, but there it ever is — at all times— in 
 
 places. Nor has time nor habit had any effect in 
 
 iarizing me with iU terrors. I have travelled from 
 
 to place — plunged into amusements — tried dis- 
 
 itionand distraction ofevery kind — all — all in vain. 
 
 once had recourse to my pencil, as a desperate ex- 
 
 nt. I painted an exact resemblance of this 
 
 itom face. I placed it before me, in hopes that 
 
 constantly contemplating the copy, I might di- 
 
 inbhthe effect of the original. Hut I only doubled 
 
 lead of diminishing the misery. Such is the curse 
 
 it has clung to my footsteps— that has made my life 
 
 burthen, hut the thought of death terrible. God 
 
 iws what I have suffered— what days and days, 
 
 nights and nights of sleepless torment— what a 
 
 er-dying worm has preyetl upon my heart— what 
 
 anqnenchable fire has hurned within my brain ! 
 
 knows the wrongs that wrought upon my poor 
 
 tak nature ; that converted the tenderesl of af- 
 
 ions into the deadliest of fury. He knows best 
 
 :ether a frail erring creature has expiated by long- 
 
 nring torture and measureless remorse the crime 
 
 i moment of madness. Often, often havi I pros- 
 
 ited myself in the dust, and implored that he ^voul'i 
 
 leme a sign of his forgiveness, and let me die 
 
 llbus far had I written some time since. I had 
 
 ant to leave this record of misery and crime with 
 
 ^, to be read when I should be no more. 
 
 Hy prayer to Heaven has at length been heard. 
 
 I were witness to my emotions last evening at the 
 
 |irch, when the vaulted temple resounded with the 
 
 tls of atonement and redemption. I heard a voice 
 
 ]ikingtome from the midst of the music; I heard 
 
 [ising above the pealing of the organ and the voices 
 
 e choir— it spoke to me intones of celestial me- 
 
 |y-il promised mercy and forgiveness, but de- 
 
 ded from me full expiation. I go to make it. To- 
 
 ow I shall be on my way to Genoa, to surrender 
 
 ielf to justice. You who have pitied my sufferings, 
 
 I have poured the balm of sympathy into my 
 
 ds, do not shrink from my memory with ab- 
 
 Irenee now that you know my story. Recollect, 
 
 J when you read of my crime I shall have atoned 
 
 |il with my blood I 
 
 Vhen the Baronet had finished, there was a nni- 
 
 lal desire expressed to see the painting of this 
 
 jitliil visage. After much entreaty the Baronet 
 
 KDled, on condition that they should only visit it 
 
 |by one. He called his housekeeper, and gave her 
 
 8 to conduct the gentlemen, singly, to the cham- 
 
 They all returned varying in their stories. 
 
 Some affected in one way, some in another ; some 
 more, some less ; but all agreeing that there was a 
 certain something alwut the painting that had a very 
 odd effect upon the feelings. 
 
 I stood in a deep bow-window with the Baronet, 
 and could not help expressing my wonder. " Af- 
 ter all, " said I, " there are certain mysteries in our 
 nature, certain inscrutable impulses and influences, 
 which warrant one in being superstitious. Who can 
 account for so many persons of different characters 
 being thu<i strangely affected by a mere painting ? " 
 
 " And especially when not one of them has seen 
 it ! " said Ihe Baronet, with a smile. 
 
 " How ! " exclaimed I, " not seen it ?" 
 
 " Not one of them ! " replied he, laying his finger 
 on his lips, in sign of secrecy. " I saw that some of 
 them were in a bantering vein, and I did not chuse 
 that the memento of the poor Italian should be made 
 a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper a hint to show 
 them all to a different chamber ! " 
 
 Thus end the stories of the Nervous Gentleman. 
 # PART U. - ■ 
 
 BUCKTHORNE AND mS FRIENDS. 
 
 / 
 
 This \«orId is the best that we live in, ' 
 
 To lend, or to spend, or to fjive in ; 
 
 But to beg, or to borrow, or gut a man's own, 
 
 "ris the very worst world, sir, that ever was known. 
 
 lines from an lim H-'indovi. 
 
 LITERARY LIFE. 
 
 Among other subjects of a traveller's curiosity, I 
 had at one time a great craving after anecdotes of li- 
 terary life; and being at London, one of the most 
 noted places for the production of books, I was ex- 
 cessively anxious to know something of the animals 
 which produced them. Chance fortunately threw 
 me in the way of a literary man by the name of Buck- 
 thorne, an eccentric personage, who had lived much 
 in the metropolis, and could give me the natural his- 
 tory of every odd animal to be met with in that wil- 
 derness of men. He readily imparted to me some 
 useful hints upon the subject of my inquiry. 
 
 " The literary world," said he, " is made up of 
 little confederacies, each looking upon its own mem- 
 bers as the lights of the universe; and considering all 
 others as mere transient meteors, doomed soon to fall 
 and be forgotten, while its own luminaries are to shine 
 steadily on to immortality." 
 
 " And pray," said I, " how is a man to get a peep 
 into those confederacies you speak of? I presume an 
 intercourse with authors is a kind of intellectual ex- 
 
 »'*>.' 
 
^!k 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 change, where one must bring liis commodities to 
 barter, and always give a quid pro qtio." 
 ■ " Pooh, pooh ! how you mistake," said Bucl(thorne, 
 smiling; " you must never think to become popular 
 among wil» by shining. They go into society to 
 shine themselves, not to admire tlie brilliancy of 
 others. I once thought as you do, and never went 
 into literary society without studying my part before- 
 hand; the consequence was, that I soon got the name 
 of an intolerable proser, and sliould, in a little while, 
 have been completely excommunicated, had I not 
 changed my plan of operations. No, sir, there is no 
 character that succeeds so well among wits 8s that of 
 a good listener; or if ever you are eloquent, let it be 
 when t6te-d-t£te with an author, and then in praise 
 of his own works, or, what is nearly as acceptable, 
 in disparagement of the works of his contemporaries. 
 If ever he speaks favourably of the productions of a 
 particular friend, dissent boldly from him; pronounce 
 his friend to be a blockhead; never fear his being 
 vexed ; much as people speak of the irritability of au- 
 thors, I never found one to take offence at such con- 
 tradictions. No, no, sir, authors are particularly 
 candid in admitting the faults of their friends. 
 
 " Indeed, I would advise you to be extremely spar- 
 ing of remarks on all modern works, except to make 
 sarcastic observationson the mostdistinguished writers 
 of the day." 
 
 " Faith," said I, *' I'll praise none that have not 
 been dead for at least half a century." 
 
 " Even then," observed Mr Buckthorne, " I would 
 advise you to be rather cautious ; for you must know 
 that many old writers have been enlisted under the 
 banners of different sects, and their merits have be- 
 come as completely topics of party discussion as the 
 merits of living statesmen and politicians. Nay, there 
 have been whole periods of literature absolutely ta- 
 boo'd, to use a South Sea phrase. It is, for example, 
 as much as a man's critical reputation is worth in 
 some circles, to say a word in praise of any of the 
 writers of the reign of Charles the Second, or even 
 of Queen Anne, they being all declared Frenchmen 
 in disguise." 
 
 " And pray," said I, " when am I then to know 
 that I am on safe grounds, being totally unacquaint- 
 ed with the literary landmarks, and the boundary-line 
 of fashionable taste?" 
 
 " Oh ! " replied he, •' there is fortunately one tract 
 of literature which forms a kind of neutral ground, 
 on which all the literary meet amicably, and run riot 
 in the excess of their good humour; and this is in the 
 reigns of Elizabeth and James. Here you may praise 
 away at random. Here it is ' cut and come again ; ' 
 and the more obscure the author, and the more quaint 
 and crabbed his style, the more your admiration will 
 smack of the real relish of the connoisseur; whose 
 taste, like that of an epicure, is always for game that 
 has an antiquated flavour, 
 
 "But, continued he, "as you seem anxious to 
 know something of literary society, I will take an 
 
 opportunity to introduce you to some coterie, when 
 the talents of the day are assembled. I cannot i 
 mise you, however, that they will all be of the fin 
 order. Somehow or other, our great geniuses ; 
 not gregarious ; they do not go in flocks, hut fly sinj[| 
 ly in general society. They prefer mingling, in, 
 common men, with the multitude, and are apt i 
 carry nothing of the author about them but the i 
 putation. It is only the inferior orders that herd loj 
 gether, acquire strength and importance by ihri 
 confederacies, and bear all the distuictive character! 
 istics of their species." 
 
 A LITERARY DINNER. 
 
 A FEW days after this conversation with MrBuci 
 thorne, he called upon me, and took me with biml 
 a regular literary dinner. It was given by a i 
 bookseller, or rather a company of booksellers, wb 
 (irm surpassed in length that of Shadrach, Mesha 
 and Abednego. 
 
 I was surprised to find between twenty and tbiij 
 guests assembled, most of whom I had never s 
 before. Mr Buckthorne explained this to me, byi 
 forming me that this was a business dinner, or I 
 of field-day, which the house gave about twicel 
 year to its authors. It is true they did occasioi 
 give snug dinners to three or four literary men all 
 time ; hut then these were generally select aiilliof 
 favourites of the public, such as had arrived at i 
 sixth or seventh editions. " There are," said I 
 "certain geographical boundaries in the land of i 
 rature, and you may judge tolerably well of an i 
 thor's popularity by the wine his bookseller s\ 
 him. An author crosses the port line about the 111 
 edition, and gets into claret; and when he hasreaclj 
 the six or seventh, he may revel in champagne j[ 
 burgundy." 
 
 " And pray," said I, " how far may these j 
 tlemen have reached that I see around me; are^ 
 of these claret drinkers ? " 
 
 " Not exactly, not exactly. You find at llieseg,, 
 dinners the common steady run of authors, on 
 two edition men ; or if any others are invited, t 
 are aware that it is a kind of republican meetini 
 You understand me — a meeting of the repnbliij 
 letters; and that they must expect nothing but p 
 substantial fare." 
 
 These hints enabled me to comprehend more 1 
 the arrangement of the table. The two ends i 
 occupied by two partners of the house; and Ihej 
 seemed to have adopted Addison's idea as to thej 
 rary precedence of his guests. A popular pod j 
 the post of honour ; opposite to whom was a liot-pi 
 ed traveller in quarto with plates. A grave-l 
 antiquarian, who had produced several solid v(| 
 that were mnch quoted and little read, was tn 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 im 
 
 ou to some coterie, when 
 assembled. I cannot [ 
 they will all be of the fin 
 er, our great geniuses 
 lot go in flocks, but fly sin^ 
 rhey prefer mingling, litj 
 multitude, and are apt i 
 or about them but the reJ 
 inferior orders that herd id 
 I and importance by tbei 
 all the distinctive charactei^ 
 
 lry dinner. 
 
 s conversation with MrBoclj 
 me, and took me with him j 
 r. It was given by a i 
 ompany of booksellers, vh 
 h that of Shadrach, Mesb 
 
 id between twenty and thin 
 St of whom I had never! 
 le explained this to me, Lyi 
 iras a business dinner, or kii 
 lie house gave about twice! 
 t is true they did occasiot 
 hree or four literary men alj 
 ■ere generally select aiitlio 
 , such as had arrived at ili 
 lions. " There are," said 
 boundaries in the land of lij 
 ludge tolerably well of an 
 I the wine his bookseller ?ij 
 jcs the port line about the tlif 
 [laret; and when he hasreaclj 
 may revel in champagne. 
 
 I, " how far may these „ 
 that I see around me; are i 
 
 [s?" , 
 
 jxactly. You find at Ihesegi^ 
 steady run of authors, one 
 if any others are invited, '' 
 kind of republican meelir 
 -a meeting of the repnblii 
 must expect nothing but r 
 
 1 me to comprehend more 
 |he table. The two ends 
 
 ners of the house; and the 
 Jed Addison's idea as to Ihel 
 fs guests. A popular poel 
 Iposite to whomwas ahot-i 
 ■ with plates. A grave-lo 
 produced several solid w 
 
 led and little read, was tP 
 
 «ith great i-<>spect, and seated next to a neat dressy 
 gentleman in black, who had written a thin, genteel, 
 hot-pressed octavo on political economy, that was 
 getting into fashion. Several three volume duodecimo 
 inen, of fair currency, were placed about the centre 
 of the table; while the lower end was taken up with 
 (inall poets, translators, and authorit „ ! -) had not a» 
 yet risen into much notoriety. 
 
 The conversation during dinner was by fits and 
 itarts; breaking out here and there in various parts of 
 the table in small flashes, and ending in smoke. The 
 poet, who had the confidence of a man on good terms 
 vith the world, and independent of his bookseller, 
 vas very gay and brilliant, and said many clever 
 Ihin;^ which set the partner next him in a roar, and 
 delighted all the company. The other partner, liow- 
 ever, maintained his sedateness, and kept carving on, 
 villi the air of a thorough man of business, intent 
 upon the occupation of the moment. His gravity 
 was explained to me by my friend Buckthorne. He 
 informe<l me that the concerns of the house were ad- 
 mirably distributal among the partners. " Thus, 
 for instance," said he, "the grave gentleman is the 
 ar>ing partner, who attends to the joints; and the 
 other is the laughing partner, who attends to the 
 jjokes." 
 The general conversation was chiefly carried on at 
 Ihe upper end of the table, as the authors there seem- 
 ed to possess the greatest courage of the tongue. As 
 |lo the crew at the lower end, if they did not make 
 much figure in talking, they did in eating. Never 
 [vas there a more determined, inveterate, thoroughly- 
 iostained attack on the trencher than by this phalanx 
 of masticators. When the cloth was removed, and 
 the wine began to c'rcnlate, they grew very merry 
 and jocose among themselves. Their jokes, how- 
 ever, if by chance any of them reached the upper end 
 {of ihe table, seldom produced much effect. Even the 
 lughing partner did not seem to think it necessary 
 honour them with a smile; which my neighbour 
 ickthorne accounted for, by informing me that there 
 tas a certain degree of popularity to be obtained he- 
 re a bookseller could afford to laugh at an author's 
 in. 
 
 Among this crew of questionable gentlemen thus 
 
 fated below the salt, my eye singled out one in par- 
 
 jblar. He was rather shabbily dressed; though he 
 
 evidently made the most of a rusty black coat, 
 
 ^YO^e his shirt-frill plaited and puffed out volu- 
 
 lously at Ihe bosom. His face was dusky, but 
 
 irid, perhaps a little too florid, particularly about 
 
 le nose; though the rosy hue gave the greater lustre 
 
 a twinkling black eye. He had a little the look of 
 
 boon companion, with that dash of the poor devil 
 
 it which gives an inexpressibly mellow tone to a 
 
 I's humour. I had seldom seen a face of richer 
 
 lise; but never was promise so ill kept. He said 
 
 ling, ate and drank with the keen appetite of a 
 
 releer, and scarcely stopped to laugh, even at the 
 
 jokes from the upper end of the table. I in- 
 
 quired who he was. Buckthorne looked at him at- 
 tentively : " Gad," said he, " I have seen that face 
 before, but where I cannot recollect. He cannot ]w 
 an author of any note. I suppose some writer of ser- 
 mons, or grinder of foreign travels. " 
 
 After dinner we retired to another room to take 
 tea and coffee, where we were reinforced by a cloud 
 ofinferiorguesis,— authors of smafl volumes in boards, 
 and pamphlets stitched in blue paper. These had not 
 as yet arrived to he iin|)ortance of a dinner invitation, 
 but were invited occasionally to pass the evening " in 
 a friendly way." They were very respectfid to the 
 partners, and, indeed, seemed to stand a little in awe 
 of them ; but they paid devoted court to the lady of 
 the house, and were extravagantly fond of the chil- 
 dren. Some few, who did not feel confidence enough 
 to make such advances, stood shyly off in corners, 
 talking to one another; or turned over the portfolios 
 of prints which they had not seen above five thousand 
 times, or moused over the music on the forte-piano. 
 
 The poet and the thin octavo gentleman were the 
 persons most current and at their ease in the draw- 
 ing-room; being men evidently of circulation in the 
 west end. They got on each side of the lady of the 
 house, and paid her a thousand compliments and ci- 
 vilities, at some of which I thought she would have 
 expired with delight. Every thing they said and did 
 had the odour of fashionable life. I looked round in 
 vain for the poor-devil author in the rusty black coat; 
 he had disappeared immediately after leaving the 
 table, having a dread, no doubt, of the glaring light 
 of a drawing-room. Finding nothing further to inte- 
 rest my attention, I took my departure soon after 
 coffee had been served, leaving the poet, and the thin, 
 genteel, hot-pressed, octavo gentleman, masters of 
 the field. 
 
 THE CLUB OF QUEER FELLOWS. 
 
 I THINK it was the very next evening that, in com- 
 ing out of Covent Garden Theatre with my eccentric 
 friend Buckthorne, he proposed to give me another, 
 peep at life and character. Finding me willing for 
 any research of the kind, he took me through a va- 
 riety of the narrow courts and lanes about Covent 
 Garden, until we stopped before a tavern from which 
 we heard the bursts of merriment of a jovial party. 
 There would be a loud peal of laughter, then an in- 
 terval, then another peal, as if a prime wag were tell- 
 ing a story. After a little while there was a song, 
 and at the close of each stanza a hearty roar, and a, 
 vehement thumping on the table. 
 
 "This is the place," whispered Buckthorne; "it 
 is the club of queer fellows, a great resort of the 
 small wits, third-rate actors, and newspaper critics* 
 of the theatres. Any one can go in on paying a six- 
 pence at the bar for the use of the club." 
 
nio 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 We entered, therefore, without ceremony, and took 
 our seats at a lone, table inadusky cornerof the room. 
 The club was assembled round a table, on which stood 
 beverages of various kinds, according to the tastes of 
 the individuals. The members were a set of queer fel- 
 lows indeed ; but what was my surprise on recogniz- 
 ing in the prime wit of the meeting the poor-devil au- 
 thor whom I had remarked at the booksellers' dinner 
 for his promising face and his complete taciturnity ! 
 Matters, however, were entirely changed with him. 
 There he was a mere cipher; here he was lord of the 
 ascendant, the choice spirit, the dominant genius. 
 He sat at the head of the table with his hat on, and an 
 eye beaming even more luminously than his nose. 
 He had a quip and a fillip for every one, and a good 
 thing on every occasion. Nothing could be said or 
 done without eliciting a spark from him; and I so- 
 lemny declare I have heard much worse wit even 
 from noblemen. His jokes, it must be confessed, 
 were rathei- wet, but they suited the circle over which 
 he presided. The company were in that maudlin 
 nkood, when a little wit goes a great way. Every 
 time he opened his lips there was sure to be a roar ; 
 and even sometimes before he had time to speak. 
 
 We were fortunate enough to enter in time for a 
 glee composed by him expressly for the club, and 
 which he sang with two boon companions, who would 
 have been worthy subjects for Hogarth's pencil. As 
 they were each provided with a written copy, I was 
 enabled to procure the reading of it : 
 
 Merrily, merrily push round the glass, 
 
 And merrily troll the glee ; 
 For he who won't drinli till he wink is an ass : 
 
 So, neighbour, I drink (o thee. 
 
 Merrily, merrily fuddle thy nose. 
 
 Until it right rosy shall be ; 
 For a jolly red nose, I speak under the rose. 
 
 Is a sign of good company. 
 
 We waited until the party broke up, and no one 
 but the wit remained. He sat at the table with his 
 legs stretched under it, and wide apart; liis hands in 
 his breeciies pockets; his head drooped upon his 
 breast ; and gazing with lack-lustre countenance on 
 an empty tankard. His gaiety was gone, his fire 
 completely quenched. 
 
 My companion approached, and startled him from his 
 fit of brown study, introducing himself on the strength 
 of their having dined together at the booksellers'. 
 
 "By the way," said he, "it seems to me I have 
 seen you before; your face is surely that of an old ac- 
 quaintance, though, for the life of me, I cannot tell 
 where I have known you." 
 
 "Very likely," replied he with a smile : "many 
 of my old fi-iends have forgotten me. Though, to 
 tell the truth, my memory in this instance is as bad 
 as your own. If, however, it will assist your re- 
 collection in any way, my name is Thomas Dribble, 
 at your service." 
 
 " What ! Tom Dribble, who was at old nirchell's 
 school in Warwickshira?" 
 
 "The same," said the other cooUy. 
 
 "Why, then, we are old schoolmates, thoiighii's 
 no wonder you don't recollect me. I was your jiuiior 
 by several years; don't you recollect little Jack Buck- 
 thome?" 
 
 Here there ensued a scene of school-fellow reco- 
 gnition, and a world of talk about old school times 
 and school pranks. Mr Dribble ended by observing, 
 with a heavy sigh, " that times were sadly changed 
 since those days." 
 
 "Faith, Mr Dribble," said I, "you seem quite a 
 different man here from what you were at dinner. I 
 had no idea that you had so much stuff in yoa. 
 There you were all silence, but here you absolutely I 
 keep the table in a roar." 
 
 " Ah ! my dear sir," replied he, with a shake of Hie j 
 head, and a shrug of the shoulder, "I'm a mere glow- 
 worm. I never shine by daylight. Besides, it's a l 
 hard thing for a poor devil of an author to shine at the 
 table of a rich bookseller. Who do you think would I 
 laugh at any thing I could say, when I had some ofl 
 the current wits of the day about me? But liere,[ 
 though a poor devil, I am among still poorer devib] 
 than myself; men who look up to me as a man of let- 
 ters, and a hel-esprit, and all my jokes pass as sterling| 
 gold from the mint." 
 
 " You surely do yourself injustice, sir," said I; "l| 
 have certainly heard more good things from you iliul 
 evening, than from any of those beaux-esprits byf 
 whom you appear to have been so daunted." 
 
 " Ah, sir ! but they have luck on their side : tbeyl 
 are in the fashion — there's nothing like being in fa-f 
 shion. A man that has once got his character up foraf 
 wit is always sure of a laugh, say what he may. Ha 
 may utter as much nonsense as he pleases, and allvii 
 pass current. No one stops to question the coin of i( 
 rich man; but a poor devil cannot pass off eitlien 
 joke or a guinea, without its being examined on bolli 
 sides. Wit and coin are always doubted witli i 
 threadbare coat." 
 
 "For my part," continued he, givinghis hata twile 
 a little more on one side, "for my part, I hateyo 
 fine dinners ; there's nothing, sir, like the freedonj 
 of a chop-house. I'd rather, any time, have my stes 
 and tankard among my own set, than drink claret an 
 eat venison with your cursed civil, elegant compan]^ 
 who never laugh at a good joke from a poor devil I 
 fear of its being vulgar. A good joke grows in a ve| 
 soil; it flourishes in low places, but withers on yoi 
 d— d high, di-y grounds. I once kept high eomp]| 
 sir, imtil I nearly ruined myself; I grew so dull, aii[ 
 vapid, and genteel. Nothing saved me but being a 
 rested by my landlady, and thrown into prison ; whe^ 
 a course of catch clubs, eight-penny ale, and | 
 devil company, manured my mind, and brought | 
 back to itself again." 
 
 As it was now growing late, we parted for i 
 evening, though I felt anxious to know more of ll 
 practical philosopher. I was glad, therefore, win 
 Buckthorne proposed to have another meeting, 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 5il 
 
 GooUy. 
 
 choolmates, though il's 
 me. Iwasyouriunior 
 collect liUle Jack Buck- 
 
 of school-fellow reco- 
 about old school limes 
 ble ended by observing, 
 nes -were sadly changed 
 
 ill "you seem quite a 
 
 t you were at dinner, ll 
 
 so much stuff ill yon. 
 
 but here you absolutelj 
 
 ledhe.withashakeoflhe 
 ulder/'l'mamereglovf- 
 daylight. Besides, il's a 
 )f an author to shine atlhe 
 Who do you think would 
 say, when I had some ofl 
 lay about me? But here, 
 I among still poorer devib 
 ik up to me as a man ot let- 1 
 allmyjokespassassterl ~ 
 
 If injustice, sir," said I; "I 
 
 e good things fiom you thi! 
 
 of those beaux-espnts by 
 
 .been so daunted." 
 
 ,ve luck on their side : tbej 
 
 .'snolhing like being in fa 
 
 nee got his character upfot 
 
 ugh, say what he may. Hi 
 
 nse as he pleases, and alW 
 
 ops to question the com of 
 
 ivil cannot pass off either 
 
 its being examined on boi 
 
 ire always doubted wiUi 
 
 tiedl>e,gWinghishatalwi 
 E "for my part, I hate yw 
 thing, sir, like the freedoi 
 Iher, any lime, have my si6' 
 Iwn set, ihan drink claret ai 
 Irsed civil, elegant compan] 
 ])d joke from a poor deviH 
 A good joke grows in aw 
 Iplaces, but withers on y» 
 I once kept high compan 
 „ myself; I grew so dull,* 
 thing saved me but being 
 nd thrown into prison; wli 
 I eight-penny ale, and 
 td ray mind, and brougln 
 
 ling late, we parted tor 
 nxious to know more ot 
 II was glad, therefore, v( 
 have another meelui? 
 
 talk over old school-times, and inquired his school- 
 mate's address. The latter seemed at first a little 
 gby of naming his lodgings ; but suddenly, assuming 
 an air of hardihood—" Green-arbour court, sir," ex- 
 dainied he—" Number— in Green-arbour-court. 
 Vou must know the place. Classic ground, sir, clas- 
 sic ground ! It was there Goldsmith wrote his Yicar 
 of Wakefield— I always like to live in literary haunts." 
 I was amused with this whimsical apology for 
 shabby quarters. On our way homeward, Buck- 
 thorne assured me that this Dribble had been the 
 prime wit and great wag of the school in their boyish 
 oays, and one of those unlucky urchins denominated 
 bright geniuses. As he perceived me curious res- 
 pecting his old schoolmate, he promised to take me 
 mth him in his proposed visit to Green-arbour- 
 
 coiirt. 
 A few mornings afterward he called upon me, and 
 %i set forth on our expedition. He led me through 
 J variety of singular alleys, and courts, and blind 
 passages; for he appeared to be perfectly versed in 
 all the intricate geography of the metropolis. At 
 lengtii we came out upon Fleet-market, and travers- 
 r it, turned up a narrow street to the bottom of a 
 long steep flight of stone steps, called Break-neck- 
 Idairs. These, he told me, led up to Green-arbour- 
 icuurt, and that down them poor Goldsmith might 
 many a time have risked his neck. When we enter- 
 ed the court, I could not but smile to think in what 
 oal-of-the-waycorners genius produces her bantlings! 
 [And the Muses, those capricious dames, who, for- 
 )lh, so often refuse to visit palaces, and deny a 
 smile to votaries in splendid studies, and gilded 
 wing-rooms,— what holes and burrows will they 
 [uent, to lavish their favours on some ragged di- 
 iple! 
 
 This Green-arbour-court I found to be a small 
 ire, of tall and miserable houses, the very intes- 
 les of which seemed turned inside out, to judge 
 [he old garments and frippery that flutteretl 
 im every window. It appeared to be a region of 
 lasherwomen, and lines were stretched about the 
 lie square, on which clothes were dangling to dry. 
 Just as we entered the square, a scuffle took place 
 Iween two viragos about a disputed right to a wash- 
 I, and immediately the whole community was in a 
 ibbub. Heads in mob-caps popped out of every 
 idow, and such a clamour of tongues ensued, that 
 [was fain to stop my ears. Every amazon took part 
 [ith one or other of the disputants, and brandished 
 arms, dripping with soap-suds, and fired away 
 her window as from the embrazure of a fortress, 
 [bile the swarms of children nestled and cradled in 
 [ery procreant chamber of this hive, waking with 
 noise, set up their shrill pipes to swell the gene- 
 concert. 
 
 |Poor Goldsmith! what a time must he have had 
 it, with his quiet disposition and nervous habits, 
 lined up in this den of noise and vulgarity ! How 
 inge, that while every sight and sound was suffi- 
 
 cient to embitter the heart, and fill it with misan- 
 thropy, his pen should be dropping the honey of 
 Hybia ! Yet it is more than probable that he drew 
 many of his inimitable pictures of low life from the 
 scenes which surrounded him in this abode. The 
 circumstance of Mrs Tibbs being obliged to wash her 
 husband's two shirts in a neighbour's house, whore- 
 fused to lend her wash-tub, may have been no sport 
 of fancy, but a fact passing under his own eye. His 
 landlady may have sat for the picture, and Beau 
 Tibbs' scanty wardrobe have been a fac simile of his 
 own. 
 
 It was with some difficulty that we found our way 
 to Dribble's lodgings. They were up two pair of 
 stairs, in a room that looked upon the court, and 
 when we entered, he was seated on the edge of his 
 bed, writing at a broken table. He leceived us, 
 however, with a free, open, poor-devil air, that was 
 irresistible. It is true he did at first appear slightly 
 confused; buttoned up his waistcoat a little higher, 
 and tucked in a stray frill of linen. But he recollect- 
 ed himself in an instant ; gave a half swagger, half 
 leer, as he stepped forth to receive us ; drew a three- 
 legged stool for Mr Buckthorne ; pointed me to a lum- 
 bering old damask chair, that looked like a dethron- 
 ed monarch in exile; and bade us welcome to his 
 garret. 
 
 We soon got engaged in conversation . Buckthorne 
 and he had much to say almut early school scenes ; 
 and as nothing opens a man's heart more than recol- 
 lections of the kind, we soon drew from him a brief 
 outline of his literary career. 
 
 THE POOR-DEVIL AUTHOR. 
 
 I BEGAN life unluckily by being the wag and bright 
 fellow at school ; and I had the further misfortune of 
 becoming the great genius of my native village. My 
 father was a country attorney, and intended that I 
 should succeed him in business ; but I had too much 
 genius to study, and he was too fond of my genius to 
 force it into the traces : so I fell into bad company, 
 and took to bad habits. Do not mistake me. I mean 
 that I fell into Ihe company of village literati, and 
 village blues, ind took to writing village poetry. 
 
 It was quite the fashion in the village to be literary. 
 There was a little knot ofchoice spirits of us, who as- 
 sembled frequently together, formed ourselves into a 
 Literary, Scientific, and Philosophical Society, and 
 fancied ourselves the most learned Philos in existence. 
 Every one had a great character assigned him, sug- 
 gested by some casual habit or affectation. One 
 heavy fellow drank an enormous quantity of tea, roll- 
 ed in his arm-chair, talked sententiously, pronouncetl 
 dogmatically, and was considered a second Dr John- 
 son; another, who happened to be a curate, uttered 
 coarse jokes, wrote doggerel rhymes, and was the 
 
512 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Swift of our association. Thas we had also our 
 Popes, and Goldsmiths, and Addisons ; and a blue 
 slocking lady, whose drawing-room we frequented, 
 who corresponded about nothing with all the world, 
 and wrote lettei-s with the stiffness and formality of a 
 printed book, was cried up as another Mrs Montagu. 
 I was, by common consent, the juvenile prodigy, the 
 poetical youth, the great genius, the pride and hope 
 of the village, through whom it was to become one 
 day as celebrated as Stralford-on-Avon. 
 
 My father died, and left me his blessing and his 
 business. His blessing brought no money into my 
 pocket; and as to his business, it soon deserted me; 
 for I was busy writing poetry, and could not attend 
 to law, and my clients, though they had great res- 
 pect for my talents, had no faith in a poetical attorney. 
 
 I lost my business, therefore, spent my money, and 
 finished my poem. It was the Pleasures of Melan- 
 choly, and was cried up to the skies by the whole 
 circle. The Pleasures of Imagination, the Pleasures 
 of Hope, and the Pleasures of Memory, though each 
 had placed its author in the first rank of poets, were 
 blank prose in comparison. Our Mrs Montagu would 
 cry over it from beginning to end. It was pronounced 
 by all the members of the Literary, Scientific, and 
 Philosophical Society, the greatest poem of the age, 
 and all anticipated the noise it would make in the 
 great world. There was not a doubt but the London 
 booksellers would be mad after it, and the only fear 
 of my friends wos, that I would make a sacrifice by 
 selling it too cheap. Every time they talked the 
 matter over, they increased the price. They reckon- 
 ed up the great sums given for the poems of certain 
 popular writers, and determined that mine was worth 
 more than all put together, and ought to be paid for 
 accordingly. For my part, I was modest in my ex- 
 pectations, and determined that I would be satisfied 
 with a thousand guineas. So I put my poem in my 
 pocket, and set off for London. 
 
 My journey was joyous. My heart was light as my 
 purse, and my head full of anticipations of fame and 
 fortune. With what swelling pride did I cast my eyes 
 upon old London from the heights of Highgate ! I 
 was like a general, looking down upon a place he ex- 
 pects to conquer. The great metropolis lay stretched 
 before me, buried under a home-made cloud of murky 
 smoke, that wrapped it from the brightness of a sunny 
 day, and formed for it a kind ofarliiicial bad weather. 
 At the outskirts of the city, away to the west, the 
 smoke gradually decreased until all was clear and 
 sunny, and the view stretched uninterrupted to the 
 blue line of the Kentish hills. 
 
 My eye turned fondly to where the mighty cupola 
 of St Paul swelled dimly through (his misty chaos, 
 and I pictured to myself the solemn realm of learning 
 that lies about its base. How soon should the Plea- 
 sures of Melancholy throw this world of booksellers 
 and printers into a bustle of business and delight ! 
 How soon should I hear my name repeated by printers' 
 devils throughout Paternoster-row, and Angel-courl, 
 
 and Ave-Maria-lane, until Amen-corner should echo I 
 back the sound ! 
 
 Arrived in town, I repaired at once to the most I 
 fashionable publisher. Every new author patronizes I 
 him of course. In fact, it had been determinedin { 
 the village circle that he should be the fortunate man, 
 I cannot tell you how vaingloriously I walked the I 
 streets. My head was in the clouds. I felt the airs i 
 of heaven playing about it, and fancied it already en- 
 circled by a halo of literary glory. As I passed bv I 
 the windows of bookshops, I anticipated the timel 
 when my work would be shining among the hot- 
 pressed wonders of the day; and my face, scratched I 
 on copper, or cut on wood, iiguring in fellowshipl 
 witii those of Scott, and Byron, and Moore. 
 
 When I applied at the publisher's house, there wasl 
 something in the loftiness of my air, and the dinginessl 
 of my dress, that struck the clerks with reverenceJ 
 They doubtless took me for some person of conse-| 
 quence : probably a digger of Greek roots, ora pene. 
 trater of pyramids. A proud man in a dirty shirt ij 
 always an imposing character in the world of ietteni 
 one must feti intellectually secure before he can ven-f 
 ture to dress shabbily ; none but a great genius, or] 
 great scholar, dares to be dirty : so I was ushered a| 
 once to the sanctum sanctorum of this high priest o 
 Minerva. 
 
 The publishing of books is a very different alTaiJ 
 now-a-days from what it was in the time of Beniari 
 Lintot. I found the publisher a fashionably dress 
 man, in an elegant drawing-room, furnished viUJ 
 sofas and portraits of celebrated authors, and casesoj 
 splendidly bound books. He was writing letten 3 
 an elegant table. This was transacting business i 
 style. The place seemed suited to the magnilio 
 publications that issued from it. I rejoiced at I 
 choice I had made of a publisher, for I always like! 
 to encourage men of taste and spirit. 
 
 I stepped up to the table with the lofty poetical [ 
 that I had been accustomed to maintain in ourvillaj 
 circle; though I threw in it something of a patroni 
 ing air, such as one feels when about to make a maii| 
 fortune. The publisher paused with his pen in li 
 band, and seemed waiting in mute suspense toknoJ 
 what was to be announced by so singular an appaif 
 tion. 
 
 I put him at his ease in a moment, for I felt thatl 
 had but to come, see, and conquer. I made knoif 
 my name, and the name of my poem; produced o 
 precious roll of blotted manuscript ; laid it on tlieli 
 with an emphasis ; and told him at once, to savelin 
 and come directly to the point, the price was ( 
 thousand guineas. 
 
 I had given him no time to speak, nor did lies 
 so inclined. He continued looking at me k 
 ment with an air of whimsical perplexity; scanned^ 
 from head to foot; looked down at the manuscri|| 
 then up again at me, then pointed to a chair; a 
 whistling softly to himself, went on writing hisietli 
 
 I sat for some time waiting his reply, supposiii{il 
 
 I 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 5ir> 
 
 men-corner should echo ] 
 
 ed at once to the most 
 y new author patronizes 
 had been determined in 
 lid be the fortunate man. 
 igloriously I walked \k 
 le clouds. I felt the airs I 
 md fancied it already en- 
 ry glory. As I passed by' 
 J i anticipated the time| 
 'shining among the hot- 
 ,. and my face, scratched I 
 )d, figuring in fellowshipj 
 ,'ron, and Moore, 
 ublisher's house, there wasl 
 ofmyair,andthedingine8s 
 the clerks with reverence. 
 for some person of conse- 
 r of Greek roots, or a pene 
 roudmaninadirlyshirli 
 icter in the world of letters;! 
 ly secure before he can veiij 
 one but a great genius, or J 
 e dirty : so 1 was ushered aj 
 ictorum of this high priest! 
 
 3oks is a very different aM 
 itwasinthetimeofBernar 
 iblisher a fashionably dres 
 rawing-room, furnished wiJ 
 
 plebrated authors, and cases 
 s. He was writing letters 
 s was transacting business « 
 ,ied suited to the magnifi( 
 from it. 1 rejoiced at ll 
 publisher, for I always hk( 
 
 le and spirit. 
 
 We with the lofty poetical 
 
 med to maintain in our \illi 
 in it something of a pall 
 8 when about to make a mmj 
 
 r paused with his pen in^ 
 ing in mute suspense to linoi 
 iiced by so singular an appai 
 
 in a moment, for I felt ihaj 
 knd conquer. I made kn< 
 teofmy poem; produced" 
 lmnuscript;laiditonlhelal 
 
 told him at once, 10 save lim 
 the point, the price was ( 
 
 kme to speak, nor did he 
 
 Led looking at me for a 
 Vnsical perplexity; scanned 
 
 [keddown atthemanusci 
 then pointed to a chair 
 Lelf went on writing hw I 
 'ailing Ids reply, supposing 
 
 was making np his mind ; but he only paused occa- 
 sionally to take a fresh dip of ink, to stroke his chin, 
 or the tip of his nose, and then resumed his writing. 
 It was evident his mind was intently occupied upon 
 some other subject; but I had no idea that any other 
 sflbject should be attended to, and my poem lie un- 
 noticed on the table. I had supposed that every thing 
 fould make way for the Pleasures of Melancholy. 
 My gorge at length rose within me. I took up my 
 manuscript, thrust it into my jtockct, and walked out 
 of the room : making some noise as I went out, to let 
 my departure be heard. The publisher, however, 
 vastoo much buried in minor concerns to notice it. 
 I was suffered to walk down stairs without being 
 called back. I sallied forth into the street, but no 
 derk was sent after me; nor did the publisher call 
 alter me from the drawing-room window. I have 
 lieen told since, that he considered me either a mad- 
 man or a fool. I leave you to judge how much he 
 w in the wrong ui his opinion. 
 When I turned the corner my crest fell. I cooled 
 |dovn in my pride and my expectations, and reduced 
 |iiy terms with the next bookseller to whom I applied. 
 jihad no better success ; nor with a third, nor with a 
 [ixirth. I then desired the booksellers to make an 
 ler themselves ; but the deuce an offer would they 
 ike. They told me poetry was a mere drug ; every 
 ly wrote poetry; the market was overstocked with 
 And then they said, the title of my poem was not 
 ;ing;that pleasures of all kinds were worn thread- 
 ire, nothing but horrors did now-a-days, and even 
 were almost worn out. Tales of Pirates, Rob- 
 ,and Bloody Turks, might answer tolerably well; 
 itthen they must come from some established well- 
 vnname, or the public would not look at them. 
 At last I offered to leave my poem with a bookseller, 
 read it, and judge for himself. " Why, really, my 
 
 Mr a— a — I forget your name, " said he, 
 
 sting an eye at my rusty coat and shabby gaiters, 
 jteally, sir, we are so pressed with business j ust no w , 
 have so many manuscripts on hand to read, that 
 have not time to look at any new productions; but 
 I you can call again in a week or two, or say the 
 lie of next month, we may be able to look over 
 ir writings, and give you an answer. Don't forget, 
 month after next ; good morning, sir ; happy to 
 I you any time you are passing this way. " So say- 
 , he bowed me out in the civilest way imaginable. 
 |$iiort, sir, instead of an eager competition to seciuc 
 poem, I could not even get it read ! In the mean 
 I was harassed by letters from my friends, want- 
 to know when the work was to appear ; who was 
 my publisher ; but, above all things, warning 
 inot to let it go too cheap. 
 
 there was but one alternative left. I determined 
 
 iblish the poem myself; and to have my triumph 
 
 the booksellers, when it should become the 
 
 [ion of the day. I accordingly published the Plea- 
 
 oFMelancholy, and ruined myself. Excepting 
 
 jcopies sent to the reviews, and to my friends in 
 
 the country, not one, I believe, ever left the book- 
 seller's warehouse. The printer's bill drained my 
 purse, and the only notice that was taken of my work, 
 was conlainedinthe advertisements paid for by myself. 
 I coidd have borne all this, and have attributed it, 
 as usual, to the mismanagement of the publisher, or 
 the want of taste in the public, and could have made 
 the usual appeal to posterity ; but my village friends 
 would not let me rest in quiet. They were pictur- 
 ing me to themselves feasting with the great, com- 
 muning with the literary, and in the high career of 
 fortune and renown. Every little while, some one 
 would call on me with a letter of introduction from 
 the village circle, recommending him to my atten- 
 tions, and requesting that I would make him known 
 in society; with a hint, that an introduction to a 
 celebrated literary nobleman would be extremely 
 agreeable. I determined, therefore, to change my 
 lodgings, drop my correspondence, and disappear al- 
 together from the view of my village admirers. Be- 
 sides, I was anxious to make one more poetic attempt. 
 I was by no means disheartened by the failure of my 
 first. My poem was evidently too didactic. The 
 public was wise enough. It no longer read for in- 
 struction. " They want horrors, do they ? " said I : 
 " r faith ! then they shall have enough of them. " 
 So I looked out for some quiet, retired place, where 
 I might be out of reach of my friends, and have leisure 
 to cook up some delectable dish of poetical" hell- 
 broth." 
 
 I had some difiiculty in finding a place to my mind, 
 when chance threw me in the way of Canonbury 
 Castle. It is an ancient brick tower, hard by " merry 
 Islington;" the remains of a hunting-seat of Queen 
 Elizabeth, where she look the pleasure of the country 
 when the neighbourhood was all woodland. What 
 gave it particular interest in my eyes was the cir- 
 cumstance that it had been the residence of a poet. 
 It was here Goldsmith resided when he wrote his 
 Deserleil Village. I was shown the very apartment. 
 It was a relique of the original style of the castle, 
 wilh paneled wainscots and Gothic windows. I was 
 pleased with its air of antiquity, and with its having 
 been the residence of poor Goldy. 
 
 " Goldsmith was a pretty poet, " said I to myself, 
 '* a very pretty poet, though rather of the old school. 
 He did not think and feel so strongly as is the fashion 
 now-a-<lays; but had he lived in these limes of hot 
 hearts and hot heails, he would no doubt have written 
 quite differently. " 
 
 In a few days I was quietly established in my new 
 quarters ; my books all arranged ; my writing-desk 
 placed by a window looking out into the fields ; and 
 I felt as snug as Robinson Crusoe, when he had 
 finished his bower. For several days I enjoyed all 
 the novelty of change and the charms which grace 
 new lotlgings, before one has found out their defects. 
 I rambled about the fields where I fancied Guklsmith 
 had rambled. I explored merry Islington ; ale my 
 solitary dinner at the Black Bull, which, according to 
 
an 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tradition, was a conntry-seat of Sir Walter Raleigh ; 
 and would sit and sip my wine, and muse on old 
 times, in a quaint old room, where many a council 
 had been held. 
 
 All this did very well for a few days. I was sti- 
 mulated by novelty ; inspired by the associations 
 awakened in my mind by these curious haunts ; and 
 began to think I felt the spirit of composition stirring 
 within me. But Sunday came, and with it the whole 
 city world, swarming about Canonbury Castle. I 
 could not open my window but I was stunned with 
 shouts and noises from the cricket ground ; the late 
 quiet road beneath my window was alive with the 
 tread of feet and clack of tongues; and, to complete 
 my misery, I found that my quiet retreat was al)so- 
 lutely a " show house, " the tower and its contents 
 being shown to strangers at sixpence a-head. 
 
 There was a perpetual tramping up stairs of citizens 
 and their families, to look about the country from the 
 top of the tower, and to take a peep at the city through 
 the telescope, to try if they could discern their own 
 chimneys. And then , in the midst of a v ein of thought, 
 or a moment of inspiration, I was interrupted, and 
 all my ideas put to flight, by my intolerable landlady's 
 tapping at the door, and asking me if I would " just 
 please to let a lady and gentleman come in, to take a 
 look at Mr Goldsmith's room. " If you know any 
 thing of what an author's study is, and what an author 
 is himself, yon must knew that there was no stand- 
 ing this. I put a positive interdict on my room's 
 being exhibited; but then it was shcvn when I was 
 absent, and my papers put in confusion ; and, on re- 
 turning home one day, I absolutely found a cursed 
 tradesman and his daughters gaping over my manu- 
 scripts, and my landlady in a panic at my appearance. 
 I tried to make out a little longer, by taking (he key 
 in my pocket; but it would not do. I overheard 
 mine hostess one day telling some of her customers 
 on the stairs, (hat the room was occupied by an au- 
 thor, who was always in a tantrum if interrupted ; 
 and I immediately perceived, by a slight noise at the 
 door, that they were peeping at me through (he key- 
 hole. By the head of Apollo, but tliis was quite too 
 much ! With all my eagerness for fame, and my 
 ambition of the stare of the million, I had no idea of 
 being exhibited by retail, at sixpence a-head, and that 
 through a key-hole. So I l)ade adieu to Canonbury 
 Castle, merry Islington, and the haunts of poor Gold- 
 smith, without having advanced a single line in my 
 labours. 
 
 My next quarters were at a small, white- waslied 
 cottage, which stands not far from Ilampstead, just 
 on the brow of a hill ; looking over Chalk Farm and 
 Camden Town, remarkable for (he rival houses of 
 Mother Red Cap and Mother Blank Cap ; and so 
 across CrackscuU Common to the distant city 
 
 The cottage was in no wise remarkable in i(8elf ; 
 but 1 regarded it with reverence, for it had been the 
 asyh.niufa persecuted author. Hither poor Steele 
 had retreated, and lain perdu, when peiseciited by 
 
 creditors and bailiffs— those immemorial plagues of 
 authors and free-spirited gentlemen ; and here he 
 had written many numbers of the Spectator. It was 
 from hence, too, that he had dispatched those lidle 
 notes to his lady, so full of affection and whimsicali(y, 
 in which the fond husband, the careless gentleman, 
 and the shifting spendthrift, were so oddly blended. 
 I thought, as I lirsteyed the window of his apartmen(, 
 that I could sit within it and write volumes. 
 
 No such thing ! It was hay-making season, and, 
 as ill-luck would have it, immediately opposite the 
 cottage was a little alehouse, with the sign of (lie 
 Load of Hay. Whether it was there in Steele's 
 time, I cannot say ; but it set all attempts at con- 
 ception or inspiration at defiance. It was the resort 
 of all the Irish hay-makers who mow the broad fields 
 in the neighbourhood; and of drovers and teamsters 
 who travel that road. Here they would gather in 
 the endless summer twilight, or by the light of the 
 harvest moon, and sit round a table at the door; and 
 (ipple, and laugh, and quarrel, and fight, and sing 
 drowsy songs, and daudle away the hours, until the 
 deep solemn notes of St Paul's clock would warn tiie 
 varlets home. 
 
 In the day-time I was still less able to write. It 
 was broad summer. The hay-makers were at work 
 in the fields, and the perfume of the new-mown liay 
 brought with it the recollection of my native fields. 
 So, instead of remaining in my room to write, I went 
 wandering about Primrose Hill, and Hampsteaii 
 Heights, and Shepherd's Fields, and all those Arca- 
 dian scenes so celebrated by London bards. I can- 
 not tell you how many delicious hours I have passed,] 
 lying on the cocks of new-mown hay, on the pleasai 
 slopes of some of those hills, inhaling the fragrani 
 of the fields, while the sununer-Hy buzzed about me, 
 or the grasshopper leaped into my bosom; and how 
 have gazed witli half-shut eye upon the smoky mi 
 of London, and listened to the distant sound of il 
 population, and pitied the poor sons of earth, tolii 
 in its bowels, like Gnomes in the " dark gold niine.'j 
 
 People may say what they please about cocknej 
 pastorals, but, after all, tliere is a vast deal ofrui 
 beauty about the western vicinity of London; 
 any one that has looked down upon tlie valley 
 West End, with its soft bosom of green pastun 
 lying open to the south, and dotted with cattle; Il 
 steeple of Ilampstead rising among rich groves 
 the brow of the hill ; and the learned height of Hi 
 row in the distance ; will confess that never has 
 seen a more absolutely rural landscape in tlieviciiii| 
 of a great metropolis. 
 
 sun, however, I found myself not a whit the 
 ter off for my frequent change of lodgings ; and I 
 gan to discover, that in literature, as in trade, 
 old proverb holds good, " a rolling stone gatlien 
 moss." 
 
 The tranquil beauty of tht country played the 
 vengeance with nic. I could not moiuit my b 
 
 II 
 
 tl 
 
 91 
 U 
 
 m 
 in 
 
 afetrd 
 poem, ^ 
 andfclo 
 alioutt 
 at the 
 hag 
 
 I was 
 ihlic 1 
 m, wJ 
 id noti 
 
 insh 
 
 ied 
 iling 
 
 into the termagant veui. I could not conceive, ana 
 
 'llier, 
 lite tak 
 little of 
 either 
 As III 
 'ffy mai 
 versati 
 find, w 
 liad din( 
 inieso 
 liter, 
 I was to 
 suhjecl 
 wn, an( 
 iwacqiia 
 'i find to 
 'pett I 
 
TALES OF A TUAVELLER. 
 
 tm 
 
 mmemorial plagues ot 
 ilemen; and here he 
 the Spectator. It was 
 dispatched tliose Utile 
 .clion and whimsicality, 
 ihe careless gentleman, 
 were so oddly blended, 
 window of his apartment, 
 write volumes, 
 ay-making season, and, 
 lunediately opposite »he 
 ,e with the sign of the 
 I 'was there in Steele's 
 t set all attempts at con- 
 Ranee. It was the resort 
 who mow the broad fields 
 of drovers and teamsters 
 ere they would gather in I 
 Kht, or by the light of the 
 [datable at the door; and 
 arrel, and fight, and sin?] 
 away the hours, untd the I 
 aul's clock would warn Ik I 
 
 siiU less able to write. 11 
 e hay-makers were at work 
 fumeofthenew-mownliay 
 llection of my native fields I 
 in my room to wnte, I wen I 
 
 ,rose Hill, and HampsleadI 
 .Fields, and all those Ata- 
 
 i\ bv London bards. I can- 
 lelicious hours I have passed 
 v.,nownhay,onthepkasanJ 
 
 lulls, inhaling the fragrancd 
 ;ummer-ny buzzed aboulme 
 
 edintomy bosom; and howf 
 
 l,ut eye upon the smoky may 
 
 Id to the distant sound o ii 
 
 the poor sons of earth, todoi^ 
 
 nes in the "dark gold mine, 
 
 t they please about coc^J 
 Ihereisavastdeaottur' 
 
 tern vicinity of London; 
 ed down upon U.e valley 
 oft bosom of green pasiuti 
 , and dotted with cattle i 
 
 rising among rich grov. 
 Ind the learned bcghto 
 
 will confess that never ha^ 
 rural landscape in the vico^ 
 
 nd myself not a whit the 
 change of lmlgi»gs;a«d 
 i„ literature, asm tra^ 
 Id ''a rolling stone gathers 
 
 I of th-". country played tj' 
 I could not mount 'ny 
 
 In. 
 
 1 could not conceive, 
 
 the smiling landscape, a scene of blood and murder ; 
 and the smug citizens in breeches and gaiters put all 
 ideas of heroes and bandits out of my brain. I could 
 think of nothing but dulcet subjects, "^the Pleasures 
 ofSpring"—" the Pleasures of Solitude"— " the Plea- 
 sures of Tranquillity" — "the Pleasures of Sentiment" 
 -nothing but pleasures ; and I had the painful expe- 
 rience of " the Pleasures of Melancholy " 'joo strongly 
 in my recollection to be beguiled by them. 
 
 Chance at length befriended me. I had frequent- 
 ly, in my ramblings, loitered about Hampstead Hill, 
 which is a kind of Parnassus of the metropolis. At 
 soch times I occasionally took my dinner at Jack 
 Straw's Castle. It is a country inn so named : the 
 very spot where that notorious rebel and his followers 
 held their council of war. It is a favourite resort of 
 citizens when rur<iliy inclined, as it commands fine 
 fresh air, and a good view of the city. I sat one day 
 jntlie public room of this inn, ruminating over a beef- 
 steak and a pint of port, when niy imagination kin- 
 dled up with ancient and heroic images. I had long 
 wanted a theme and a hero; both suddenly broke 
 upon my mind : I determined to write a poem on Ihe 
 history of Jack Straw. I was so full oi my subject, 
 that I was fearful of being anticipated. I wondered 
 that none of the poets of the day, in their researches 
 liter ruflian heroes, had ever thought of Jack Straw. 
 I went to work pell-mell, blotted several sheets of 
 paper with choice floating thoughts, and battles, and 
 descriptions, to be ready at a moment's warning. In 
 a few days' time I sketched out the skeleton of my 
 poem, and nothing was wanting but to give it flesh 
 aiidklood. I used to take my manuscript, and stroll 
 ahout Caen- wood, and read aloud ; and would dine 
 lit the Castie, by way of keeping up tlie vein of 
 |thought. 
 I was there one day, at rather a late hour, in the 
 Mic room. There was no other comi>any but one 
 n, who sat enjoying his pint of port at a wimlow, 
 id noticing the passers by. He was dressed in a 
 in shooting-coat. His countenance was strongly 
 irked : he had a hooked nose ; a romantic eye, ex- 
 iting that it had something of a squint; and alto- 
 ilher, as I thought, a poetical style of head. I was 
 ite taken with the man, for you must know I am 
 little of a physiognomist ; I set him down at once 
 either a poet or a philosopher. 
 As I like to make new acquaintances, considering 
 try man a volume of human nature, I soon fell into 
 iversalion with the stranger, who, I was pleased 
 lind, was by no means difficult of access. After 
 had dined, I joined him at the window, and we 
 ime so sociable t'uat I proposed a Itottle of wine 
 itlier, to which he most cheerfully assented. 
 I was too full of my poem to keep lung quiet on 
 ject, and liegan to talk about the origin of the 
 em, and the history of Jack Straw. I found my 
 |w ac(|iiaintance to be perfectly at home on Ihe lo- 
 and to jump exactly with my humour in every 
 pi. I liecamc elevated by Ihe wine and llio 
 
 conversation. In the fulness of an author's feelings, 
 I told him of my projected poem, and repeated some 
 passages, and he was in raptures. He was evidently 
 of a strong poetical turn. 
 
 " Sir," said he, fliling my glass at Ihe same time, 
 "our poets don't look at home. I don't see why we 
 need go out of old England for robbers and rebels Ut 
 write about. I like your Jack Straw, sir,— he's a 
 hotre-made hero. I like him, sir — I like him ex- 
 ceedingly. He's English to the back-bone— damme 
 —Give me honest old England after all ! Them's 
 my sentiments, sir." 
 
 " I honour your sentiment," cried I, zealously; " it 
 is exactly my own. An English ruffian <s as good a 
 ruflian for poetry, as any in Italy, or Germany, or 
 the Archipelago; but it is hard to make our poels 
 think so." 
 
 " More shame for them ! " replied the man in green. 
 "What a plague would they have? What have we 
 to do with their Archipelagos of Italy and Germany ? 
 Haven't we heaths and commons and highways on 
 our own little island — ay, and stout fellows to pad the 
 hoof over them too ? Stick to home, I say — them's 
 my sentiments.— Gome, sir, my service to you— I 
 agree wilh you perfectly." 
 
 " Poets, in old times, had right notions on this sub- 
 ject," cmtinued I; " witness the fine old ballads 
 about Robin Hood, Allan a'Dale, and other stanch 
 blades of yore." 
 
 "Right, sir, right," interrupted he; "Robin Hood ! 
 he was the lad to cry stand ! to a man, and never to 
 flinch." 
 
 "Ah, sir," said I, "they had famous bands of 
 robbers in the good old times; those were glorious 
 poetical days. The merry crew of Sherwood Forest , 
 who led such a roving picturesque life ' under the 
 greenwood tree.' I have often wished to visit their 
 liaunts, and tread the scenes of the exploits of Friar 
 Tuck, and Clymn of the Clough, and Sir William of 
 Cloudeslie." 
 
 "Nay, sir," said the gentleman in green, "we 
 have had several very pr.,lly gangs since their day. 
 Those gallant dugs that kept about the great heaths 
 in the neighbourhood of London, about Bagshot, and 
 Hounslow and Blackheath, for instance. Gome, sir, 
 my service to you. You don't drink. 
 
 " I suppose," said I, emptying my glass, " I sup- 
 pose you have heard of the famous Turpin, who was 
 born in ^his very village of Hampstead, and who used 
 to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hun- 
 dred years since ? " 
 
 "Have I?" aied he, "to be sure I have! A 
 hearty old blade that. Sound as pitch. Old Tur- 
 pentine! as we used to call him. A famoua fine fel- 
 low, sir." 
 
 " Well, sir," continued I, " I have visited Wal- 
 Ihnm Abbey and Chingford Church merely from the 
 stories I heard when a lioy of his exphtils there, and 
 I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where, 
 he used to conceal himself. Yon must know," added 
 
;>i6 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 I, " that I am a sort of amateur of highwaymen. 
 They were dasliing, daring fellows : the best apo- 
 logies that we had for the knighls-errant of yore. 
 Ah, sir! the country has been sinking gradually into 
 lameness and common-place. We are losing the old 
 English spirit. The bold knights of the post have 
 .-ill dwindled down into lurking footpads and sneak- 
 ing pickpockets ; there 's no such thing as a dashing, 
 gentleman-like robbery committed now-a-days on the 
 King's highway : a man may roll from one end of 
 England to the other in a drowsy coach, or jingling 
 |)ost-chaise, without any other adventure than that 
 of being occasionally overturned, sleeping in damp 
 sheets, or having an ill-cooked dinner. We hear no 
 more of public coaches being stopped and robbed by 
 a well-mounted gang of resolute fellows, with pistols 
 in their hands, and crapes over their faces. What 
 a pretty poetical incident was it, for example, in do- 
 mestic life, for a family carriage, on its way to a 
 country-seat, to be attacked about dark; the old 
 gentleman eased of his purse and watch, the ladies 
 of their necklaces and ear-rings, by a politely-spoken 
 highwayman on a blood mare, who afterwards leaped 
 the hedge and galloped across the country ; to the 
 admiration of Miss Caroline, the daughter, who would 
 write a long and romantic account of the adventure 
 to her friend, Miss Juliana, in town. Ah, sir! we 
 meet with nothing of such incidents now-a-days." 
 
 " That, sir," said my companion, taking advantage 
 of a pause, when I stopped to recover breath, and to 
 take a glass of wine which he had just poured out, 
 " that, sir, craving your pardon, is not owing to any 
 want of old English pluck. It is the effect of this 
 cursed system of banking. People do not travel with 
 bags of gold as they did formerly. They have post- 
 notes, and drafts on bankers. To rob a coach is like 
 catching a crow, where you have nothing but carrion 
 ilesli and feathers for your pains. But a coach in old 
 times, sir, was as rich as a Spanish galloon. It turn- 
 ed out the yellow boys bravely. And a private car- 
 riage was a cool hundred or two at least." 
 
 I cannot express how much I was delighted with 
 the sallies of my new acquaintance. He told me that 
 he often frequented the Castle, and would be glad to 
 know more of me; and I promised myself many a 
 pleasant afternoon with him, when I should read him 
 my poem as it proceeded, and benefit by his remarks ; 
 tor it was evident he had the true poetical feeling. 
 
 " Come, sir," said he, pushing the bottle, " Damme, 
 I like you ! you're a man after my own heart. I'm 
 cursed slow in making new acquaintances. One 
 nmst be on the reserve, you know. But when I 
 meet with a man of your kidney, damme, my heart 
 jumps at once to him. Them's my sentiments, sir. 
 Come, sir, here's Jack Straw's health ! I presume 
 one can drink it now-a-days without treason! " 
 
 " With all my heart," said I, gaily, "and Dick 
 Turpin's into the bargain ! " 
 
 '' Ah, sir," said the man in green, " those are the 
 kind of men for poetry. The Newgate Calendar, 
 
 sir! the Wewgate Calendar is your only reading! 
 There's the place to look for bold deeds and dashing 
 fellows." 
 
 We were so much pleased with each other that we 
 sat until a late hour. I insisted on paying the bUj, 
 for both my purse and my heart were full, and I 
 agreed that he should pay the score at our next meet- 
 ing. As the coaches had all gone that run between 
 Hampstead and London, we had to return on foot. 
 He was so delighted with the idea of my poem, tliat 
 he could talk of nothing else. He made me repeat 
 such passages as I could remember ; and though] did 
 it in a very mangled manner, having a wretched ok- 
 mory, yet he was in raptures. 
 
 Every now and then he would break out with some 
 scrap which he would niistiuote most terribly, would 
 rub his hands and exclaim, " By Jupiter, that's line, 
 that's noble ! Damme, sir, if I can conceive liowyi 
 hit upon such ideas ! " 
 
 I must confess I did not always relish his misqni 
 tations, wiiich sometimes made absolute nonsense 
 the passages; but what author stands upon tri 
 when he is praised ? 
 
 Never had I spent a more delightful evening. 
 did not perceive how the lime flew. I could nol bei 
 to separate, but continued walking on, arm in ai 
 with him, past my lodgings, through Camden Tovnj 
 and across CrackskuU Common, talking the wb 
 way about my poem. 
 
 When we were half way across the common, 
 interrupted me in the midst of a quotation, by 
 me that this had been a famous place for footpads, ai 
 was still occasionally infested by them; and llial 
 man had recently been shot there in attempting 
 defend himself.—" The more fool he ! " cried I; " 
 man is an idiot to risk life, or even limb, to sare 
 paltry purse of money. It's quite a different case fi 
 that of a duel, where one's honour is concerned, fi 
 my part," added I, " I should never think of mal 
 resistance against one of those desperadoes." 
 
 " Say you so ? " cried my friend in green, tun 
 suddenly upon me, and putting a pistol to mybi 
 " why, then, have at you, my lad ! — come— disbui 
 empty! unsack!" 
 
 In a word, I found that the Muse had played 
 another of her tricks, and had betrayed m? into 
 hands of a footpad. There was no time to pai 
 he made me turn my pockets inside out; and, heai 
 the sound of distant footsteps, he made one (ti 
 upon purse, watch, and all ; gave me a thwuck ui 
 my unlucky pate that laid me sprawling on theg 
 and scampered away with his booty. 
 
 I saw no more of my friend in green until a 
 or two afterwards; when I caught a sif^lit of 
 poetical countenance among a ciew of scnipe-; 
 heavily ironed, who were on the way for lraiis| 
 lion. He recognised me at once, tipped me an 
 pudent wink, and asked me how I came on wilh 
 history of Jack Straw's Castle. 
 
 The catastrophe at CrackskuU Common put an 
 
 ilwou 
 lich a I 
 
 'sal 
 Ipercei< 
 
 live( 
 iideret 
 lered a'v 
 talking 
 other 
 r creed 
 dov 
 
 qiioiini 
 
 eTiol 
 
 talking 
 
 le public 
 
 pen of a 
 
 liad 1101 
 
 press; 
 
 tliey wi 
 
 Timson, 
 
 neglect 
 
 Wonder 
 
 y debts I 
 
 'n tlie .sii 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 517 
 
 is your only reading! 
 bold deeds and dashing 
 
 I with each other Uiat we 
 listed on paying the bill, 
 r heart were full, and I 
 lie score at our next meet- 1 
 U gone that run between 
 ve had to return on fool, j 
 iheidea of my poem, lliat j 
 Ise. He made me repeat 
 member ; and though 1 did 
 er, having a wretched me- 
 res. 
 
 would break out with somel 
 iquote most terribly, wouMj 
 1, " By Jupiter, that's line,! 
 r if I can conceive howyw 
 
 it always relish his misquo. 
 
 i made alisolute nonsense « 
 
 author sunds upon trifla 
 
 more delightful evening. 
 • time flew. I could noil 
 led walking on, arm in an 
 ngs, through Camden Towi 
 Common, talkmg the whol 
 
 way across the common, 
 iidstofaquotaaon,bytelli 
 [famous place for footpads, ai 
 nfested by them; and that 
 shot there in attempting 
 more fool he!" cried 1;" 
 ife, or even limb, to saw 
 t's quite a different case* 
 e's honour is concerned. F( 
 ihouldnever think of inal 
 those desperadoes." 
 my friend in green, tun 
 putting a pistol to my bi 
 )u,mylad!-come-disbui 
 
 that the Muse had played 
 and had betrayed av, into 
 here was no time to pai' 
 wckets inside out; and, heai 
 
 itsteps, he made one It. 
 id all ; gave me a thwuck 
 id me sprawling on the gi 
 
 vith his booty. 
 y friend in green until a 
 N\xea I caught a sight o( 
 imong a crew of scl•ap^gl 
 ,ere on the way for hansf 
 me at once, tipped me an 
 id me how I came on wi 
 
 s Castle. 
 rackskuU Common pui an 
 
 looiy summer's campaign. I was cured of my poe- 
 
 licat enthusiasm for rebels, robbers, and highwaymen. 
 
 1 vas put out of conceit of my subject, and, what was 
 
 rorse, I was lightened of my purse, in which was 
 
 jlwjsl every farthing I had in the world. So I altan- 
 
 jAned Sir Richard Steele's cottage in despair, and 
 
 joept into less celebrated, though no less poetical and 
 
 gry lodgings, in a garret in town. 
 
 i now determined to cultivate the society of the 
 
 itfrary, and to enrol myself in the fraternity of au- 
 
 ihip. It is by the constant collision of mind, 
 
 light I, that authors strike out the sparks of genius, 
 
 kindle up with glorious conceptions. Poetry is 
 
 KKJeiilly a contagious complaint. I will keep com- 
 
 ly with poets; who knows but I may catch it as 
 
 liersliave done? 
 
 I found no difficulty of making a circle of literary 
 [Raintances, not having the sin of success lying at 
 door : indeed the failure of my poem was a kind 
 recommendation to their favour. It is true my 
 V friends were not of the most brilliant names in 
 ralure ; but then if you would take their words for 
 they were like the prophets of old, men of whom 
 world was not worthy ; and who were to live in 
 itnre a^-es, when the ephemeral favourites of the 
 IT should be forgotten. 
 
 Isoon discovered, however, that the more I mingled 
 
 literary society, the less I felt capable of writing; 
 
 poetry was not so catching as I imagined ; and 
 
 it in familiar life there was often nothing less poet- 
 
 than a poet. Besides, I wanted the esprit de 
 
 ijtn turn these literary fellowships to any account. 
 
 Id not bring myself to enlist in any particular 
 
 I saw something to likt: in them all, but found 
 
 itvould never do, for that the tacit condition on 
 
 ich a man enters into one of these sects is, that he 
 
 s all the rest. 
 
 {perceived that there were little knots of authors 
 
 lived with, and for, and by one another. They 
 
 iidercd themselves the salt of the earth. They 
 
 lered and kept up a conventional vein of thinking 
 
 talking, and joking on all subjects ; and they cried 
 
 :h other up to the skies. Each sect had its parti- 
 
 ir creed; and set up certain authors as divinities, 
 
 fell down and worshipped them; and considered 
 
 one who did not worship them, or who wor- 
 
 any other, as a heretic and an inridel. 
 
 qujling the writers of the day, I generally fonnd 
 
 1 eTiolliii;,' names of which I had scarcely heard, 
 
 talking •■'iglitly of olhei-s who were the favourites 
 
 jhe public. If I mentioned any recent work from 
 
 pen of a first-rate author, they had not read it; 
 
 had not lime to read all that was spawned from 
 
 iress; he wrote too much to write well; — and 
 
 lliey would break out into raptures about some 
 
 Timson, or Tomson, or Jackson, whose works 
 
 neglected at the present day, but who wjs to be 
 
 wonder and delight of posterity. Alas ! what 
 
 y debts is this neglectful world daily acoumulat- 
 
 « the shoulders of poor posterity ! 
 
 But, above all, it was edifying to hear with what 
 contempt they would talk of the great. Ye gods! 
 how immeasurably the great are despised by tlie 
 small fry of literature ! It is true, an exception was 
 now and then made of some nobleman, with whom, 
 perhaps, they had casually shaken hands at an elec- 
 tion, or hobbed or nobbed at a public dinner, and 
 who was pronounced a "devilish good fellow," 
 and <'no humbug;" but, in general, it was enough 
 for a man to have a title, to be the object of their so- 
 vereign disdain : you have no idea how poetically and 
 philosophically th. ' would talk of nobility. 
 
 For my part this affected me but little; for though 
 I had no bitterness against the great, and did not think 
 the worse of a man for having innocently been born 
 to a title, yet I did not feel myself at present called 
 up(m to resent the indignities poured upon them by 
 the little. But the hostility to the great writers of 
 the day went sore against the grain with me. I could 
 not enter into such feuds, nor participate in such 
 animosities. I had not become author sufficiently to 
 hate other authors. I could still find pleasure in the 
 novelties of the press, and could find it in my heart to 
 praise a contemporary, even though he were success- 
 ful. Indeed I was miscellaneous in my taste, and 
 could not confine it to any age or growth of writers. 
 I could turn with delight from the glowing pages of 
 Byron to the cool and polished raillery of Pope; and, 
 after wandering among the sacred groves of Paradise 
 Lost, I could give myself up to voluiituous abandon- 
 ment in the enchanted bowers of Lalla Rookli. 
 
 " I would have my authors," said I, as various as 
 my wines, and, in relishing the strong and the racy, 
 would never decry the sparkling and exhilarating. 
 Port and sherry are excellent stand-by's, and so is 
 Madeira ; but claret and Burgiuidy may be drunk 
 now and then without disparagement to one's pa- 
 late; and Champagne is a beverage by no means to 
 be despised." 
 
 Such was the tirade I uttered one day, when a little 
 flushed with ale, at a literary club. I uttered it, too, 
 with something of a flourish, for I thought my simile 
 a clever one. Unluckily, my auditors were men who 
 drank beer and hated Pope; so my figure about wines 
 went for nothing, and my critical toleration was 
 looked upon as downright heterodoxy. In a word, 
 I soon became like a freethinker in religion, an out- 
 law from every sect, and fair game for all. Such are 
 the melancholy consequences of not hating in lite- 
 rature. 
 
 I see yon are growing weary, so I will be brief 
 with the residue of my literary career. I will not 
 detain you with a detail of my various attempts to 
 get astride of Pegasus; of the poems I have written 
 which were never printed, the plays I have presented 
 which were never performed, and the tracts I have 
 published which were never purchased. It seemed 
 as if booksellers, managers, and the very public, had 
 entered into a conspiracy to starve me. Still I could 
 not prevail upon myself to give up the trial, nor abaii- 
 
518 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 dun those dreams of renown in which I had indulged. 
 How should I lie able to look the literary circle of my 
 native village in the face, if I were so completely to 
 falsify their predictions? For some time longer, 
 therefore, I continued to write for fame, and was, of 
 course, the most miserable dog in existence, besides 
 being in continual risk of starvation. I accumulated 
 loads of literary treasure on my shelves— loads which 
 were to be treasures to posterity; but, alas ! they put 
 not a penny into my purse. What was all this 
 wealth to my present necessities? I could not patch 
 my elbows with an ode; nor satisfy my hunger with 
 blank verse. " Shall a man fill his belly with the 
 east wind?" says the proverb. He may as well do 
 so as Willi poetry. 
 
 I have many a time strolled sorrowfully along, 
 with a sad heart and an empty stomach, about five 
 o'cIocU, and looked wistfully down the areas in the 
 we'it end of the town, and seen through the kitchen 
 windows the fires gleaming, and the joints of meat 
 tUi'ning on the spits and dripping with gravy, and the 
 cook-maids beating up puddings, or trussing turkeys, 
 and Ml for the moment titat if I could but have the 
 run of one of those kitchens, Apollo and the Muses 
 might have the hungry heiglibi of Parnassus for me. 
 Oh, sir! talk of meditations among the tombs — they 
 are nothing so melancholy as the meditations of a 
 poor devil without penny in pouch, along a line of 
 kitchen-windows toward dinner-lime. 
 
 At length, when almost reduced to famine and des- 
 pair, the idea all at once entered my head, that per- 
 haps I was not so clever a fellow as the village and 
 myself had supposed. It was the salvation of me. 
 The moment the idea popped into my brain it brought 
 conviction and comfort with it. I awoke as from a 
 dream — I gave up immortal fame to those who could 
 live on air ; took to writing for mere bread ; and have 
 ever since had a very tolerable life of it. There is no 
 man of letters so much at his ease, sir, as he who has 
 no character to gain or lose. I had to train myself 
 to it a little, and to clip my wings short at first, or 
 they would have carried me up into poetry in spite of 
 myself. So I determined to liegin by the opposite 
 extreme, and abandoning the higher regions of the 
 craft, I came plump down to the lowest, and turned 
 creeper. 
 
 " Creeper! and pray what is that?" said I. 
 
 "Oh, sir, I see you are ignorant of the language 
 of the craft : a creeper is one who furnishes the news- 
 papers Willi paragt'i-iphs at so much a line ; one who 
 goes about in quest of misfortunes; attends the Bow- 
 street Ollice, the Courts of Justice, and every other 
 den of mischief and ini(iuity. We are paid at the 
 rate of a penny a line, and as we can sell the same 
 paragraph to almost every paper, we sometimes pick 
 up a very decent day's work. Now and then the 
 Muse is unkind, or the day uncommonly quiet, and 
 then we rather starve ; and sometimes the unconscion- 
 able editors will clip our paragraphs when they arc 
 a little too rhetorical, and snip off two-pence or three- 
 
 pence at a go. I have many a time had my pot i 
 porter snipped off of my dinner in this way, andhaij 
 had to dine with dry lips. However, I cannot < 
 plain. I rose gradually in the lower ranks of i|| 
 craft, and am now, I think, in the most comfortiU 
 region of literature." 
 
 "And pray," said I, "what may yon be at | 
 sent?" 
 
 "At present," said he, " I am a regular- job-wriit 
 and turn my hand to any thuig. I work up 
 writings of others at so much a sheet; turn ofTtniJ 
 lations; write second-rate articles to fill up revieJ 
 and magazines; compile travels and voyages, and fi 
 nish theatrical criticisms for the newspapers, 
 this authorship, you perceive, is anonymous; it gjJ 
 me no reputation except among the trade ; vhei 
 am considered an author of ail work, and am aln 
 sure of employ. That's the only reputation I va) 
 I sleep soundly, without dread of duns or critics, a 
 leave immortal fame to those that chuse to fret i 
 fight about it. Take my word for it, the onlyhaij 
 author in this world is he who is below the care 
 reputation." 
 
 NOTORIETY. 
 
 When we had emerged from the literary nestl 
 honest Dribble, and had passed safely through j 
 dangers of Break-neck-stairs, and the labyrinlli 
 Fleet-market, Bucktliorne indulged in manyi 
 ments upon the peep into literary life whicli he| 
 furnished me. 
 
 I expressed my surprise at finding it so diffen 
 world from what I had imagined. ' ' It isalways i 
 said he, " with strangers. The land of literalui 
 a fairy land to those who view it from a disH 
 but, like all other landscapes, the charm Fades i 
 nearer approach, and the thorns and briars 
 visible. The republic of letters is the must fa( 
 and discordant of all republics, ancient or mode 
 
 "Yet," said I, smiling, "you would nolliaTd 
 take honest Dribble's experience as a view of| 
 land. He is but a mousing owl ; a mere groun 
 We should ha\e quite a different strain fiomi 
 those fortunate authors whom we see sporting a 
 the empyreal heights of fashion, like swallo\Ysii| 
 blue sky of a summer's day." 
 
 "Perhaps we might," replied he, "butldoi 
 I doubt whether, if any one, even of the mostsotj^ 
 ful, were to tell his actual feelings, you wonUl 
 find the truth of friend Dribble's philosophy f 
 respect to reputation. One you would find can 
 a gay face to the world, while some vulture j 
 was prjying upon his very liver. Another, win 
 simple enough to mistake fashion for fame, yon^ 
 find watching countenances, and cullivalin^i 
 lions, more ambitious to figura in the Imn i 
 than the world of letters, an<l apt to be leo' 
 
 |o the sa 
 )r beau 
 
 fsics, wli 
 gallant 
 llie Of 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 519 
 
 nany a time had my pot| 
 iinner in this way, andha!| 
 I. However, I cannot ( 
 
 in Uie lower ranks of i|| 
 ink, in the most comfoi 
 
 "what may yott be at| 
 
 f , " 1 am a regular job-wriie 
 any thing. I work op 
 much a sheet; turn off Iranj 
 ate articles to fill up reviei 
 J travels and voyages, and f^ 
 ns for the newspapers, 
 trceive, is anonymous; it gi^ 
 pt among the trade; whei 
 orofall work, andamalvi 
 l's the only reputation I wai 
 ut dread ofduns or critics,; 
 those that chuse to fretj 
 my word for it, the only had 
 is he who is below the card 
 
 )T0R1ETY. 
 
 aerged from the literary w. 
 
 bad passed safely throush | 
 ck-stairs, and the labyrinlhi 
 
 ijorne indulged in many 
 into literary life which he I 
 
 rprise at finding it so differ 
 ad imagined. "Itisalwaysi 
 ngers. The landoflileraln^ 
 5 who view it from a 
 ndscapes, the charm fades i 
 d the thorns and briars b 
 lie of letters is the most fi 
 republics, ancient or modei 
 liling, " you would nolliavi 
 ■'s experience as a view ol| 
 iou8ingowl;amere|;roui 
 te a different strain from 
 orswiiomwe see sporting a 
 iioffasliion, like swallows ii| 
 
 jr'sday." 
 
 ht," replied he, "butld( 
 ny one, even of the most si 
 . actual feelings, you wouH] 
 riend Dribble's philosophy 
 One you would find cai 
 orld, while some vulture 
 s very liver. Another, «t 
 stake fashion for fame, yo»| 
 tenances, and cullivatinr 
 JUS to figure in the hean 
 [letters, and apt to be vei 
 
 icbed by the neglect of an illiterate peer, or a dis- 
 
 ited duchess. Those who were rising to fame, 
 
 would find tormented with anxiety to get higher; 
 
 Ibose who had gained the summit, in constant 
 
 •hension of a decline. 
 
 "Even those who are indifferent to the buzz of no- 
 
 >ty, and the farce of fashion, are not much better 
 
 being incessantly harassed by intrusions on their 
 
 , and interruptions of their pursuits ; for, wlial- 
 
 may be his feelings, when once an author is 
 
 led into notoriety, he must go the rounds until 
 
 idle curiosity of the day is satisfied, and he is 
 
 ivn aside to make way for some new caprice. 
 
 the whole, I do not know but he is most fortunate 
 
 engages in the whirl through ambition, however 
 
 ting; as it is doubly irksome to be obliged to 
 
 in the game without being interested in tlie 
 
 le. 
 
 i''There is a constant demand in the fashionable 
 Id for novelty ; every nine days must have its 
 ler, no matter of what kind. At one time it is 
 aulhor; at another a fire-eater; at another a com- 
 , an Indian juggler, or an Indian chief; a man 
 the North Pule or the Pyramids : each figures 
 igh his brief term of notoriety, and then makes 
 for the succeeding wonder. You must know 
 we liave oddity-fanciers among our ladies of 
 :, who collect about them all kinds of remarkable 
 ; tiddlers, statesmen, singers, warriors, artists, 
 iphers, actors, and poets; every kind of person- 
 in short, who is noted for something peculiar : 
 t their rouls are like fancy balls, where every 
 comes ' in character.' 
 
 I have had infinite amusement at these parties in 
 ig how industriously every one was playing a 
 and acting out of his natural line. There is not 
 e complete game at cross-pur[M)ses than the inter- 
 of the literary and the great. The fine gentle- 
 is always anxious to be thought a wit, and the 
 |a fine gentleman. 
 
 I have noticed a lord endeavouring to look wise 
 to talk learnedly with a man of letters, who was 
 gat a fashionable air, and the tone of a man 
 had lived about town. The peer quoted a score 
 oof learned authors, with whom he would fain 
 night intimate, while the author talked of Sir 
 this, and Sir Harry that, and extolled the Bur- 
 ly he had trunk at Lord Such-a-one's. Each 
 to forget that he could only be interesting to 
 .her in bis proper character. Had the peer been 
 !ly a man of erudition, the author would never 
 hstened to his prosing; and had the author 
 all the nobility in the Court Calendar, it 
 have given him no interest in the eyes of the 
 
 jnthe same way I have seen a fine lady, remark- 
 Ibr beauty, weary a philosopher with flimsy me- 
 
 Isics, while the philosopher put on an awkward 
 gallantry, played with her fan, and prattled 
 I (lie Opera. I have heard a sentimental poet 
 
 talk very stupidly with a statesman about tbe national 
 debt; and on joining a knot of scientific old gentle- 
 men conversing in a corner, expecting to hear the 
 discussion of some valuable discovery, I found they 
 were only amusing themselves with a fat story." 
 
 A PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 The anecdotes I had heard of Bnckthorne's early 
 schoolmate, together virilh a variety of |>eculiaritie8 
 which I had remarV.ed in himself, gave me a strong 
 curiosity to know something of his own history. I 
 am a traveller of Ih^^ good old school, and am fond of 
 the custom laid dowi! in books, according to which, 
 whenever travellers met, they sat down forthwith 
 and gave a history of themselves and their adventures. 
 This Ruckthorne, too, was a man much to my taste ; 
 he had seen the world, and mingled with society, yet 
 retained- the strong eccentricities of a man who had 
 lived much alone. There was a careless dash ofgood- 
 humour about him which pleased me exceedingly ; 
 and at times an odd tinge of melancholy mingled with 
 his humour, and gave it an additional zest. He was 
 apt to run into long speculations upon society and 
 manners, and to indulge in whimsical views of human 
 nature, yet there was nothing ill-tempered in his 
 satire. It ran more upon the follies than the vices of 
 mankind ; and even the follies of his fellow-man were 
 treated wilh the leniency of one who felt himself to 
 be but frail. He had evidently been a little chilled 
 and buffeted by fortune, witliout being soured there- 
 by : as some fruits become mellower and more gene- 
 rous in their flavour from having been bruised and 
 frost-bitten. 
 
 I have always had a great relish for the conversa- 
 tion of practical philosophers of this stamp, who have 
 profited by the " sweet uses" of adversity without 
 imbibing its bitterness; who have learnt to estimate 
 the world rightly, yet good-humouredly ; and who, 
 while they perceive the truth of the saying, that '* all 
 is vanity," are yet able to do so without vexation of 
 spirit. 
 
 Such a man was Buckthorne. 
 ing philosopher ; and if at any time a shade of sadness 
 stole across his brow, it was but transient; like a 
 summer cloud, which soon goes by, and freshens and 
 revives the fields over which it passes. 
 
 I was walking with him one day in Kensington 
 Gardens — for he was a knowing epicure in nil the 
 cheap pleasures and rural haunts within reach of the 
 metropolis. It was a delightful warm morning in 
 spring; and he was in the happy mood of a pastoral 
 citizen, when just turned loose into grass and sunshine. 
 He had been watching a lark wliich, rising from a 
 bed of daisic ind yellow-cups, had sung his way up 
 to a bright snowy cloud floating in the deep blue sky. 
 
 "Of all birds," said he, "I should liketobealark. 
 
 In general a laugh- 
 
im 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 k 
 
 He revels in the brightest lime of the day, in tlie 
 liappiest season -of the year, among fresh meadows 
 and opening flowers ; and when he lias sated himself 
 with the sweetness of earth, he wings his flight up to 
 Heaven as if he wonld drink in the melody of tiie 
 morning stars. Hark to that note ! How it comes 
 thrilling down upon the ear! What a stream of 
 music, note falling over note in delicious cadence ! 
 Who would trouble his head about operas and con- 
 certs when he could walk in the fields and hear such 
 music for nothing ? These are the enjoyments which 
 set riches at scorn, and make even a poor man uide- 
 pendent : 
 
 I care not, Forliine, what you do deny i— 
 You cannot rob me of free nature's grace : 
 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 
 Through which Aurora shows her bright'ning ficc; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 
 The woods and lawns by living streams at eve— 
 
 '* Sir, there are homilies in nature's works worth 
 all the wisdom of the schools, if we could but read 
 them rightly, and one of the pleasantest lessons I ever 
 received in a lime of trouble, was from hearing the 
 notes of a lark." 
 
 I proflted by this communicative vein to intimate 
 to Buckthornea wish to know something ot the events 
 uf his life, which I fancied must have been an eventful 
 one. 
 
 He smiled when I expressed my desire. '' I have 
 no great story," said he, " to relate. A mere tissue 
 of errors and follies. But, such as it is, you shall 
 have one epoch of it, by which you may judge of the 
 rest." And so, without any further prelude, he gave 
 me the following anecdotes of his early adventures. 
 
 ' BUCKTIIORNE; S 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE YOUNG MAN OF GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 I was born to very little property, but to great ex- 
 pectations—which is, perhaps, one of the most un- 
 lucky fortunes that a man can be born to. My fa- 
 ther was a country gentleman, the last of a very 
 ancient and honourable but decayed family, and re- 
 sided in an old hunting-lodge in Warwickshire. He 
 was a keen sportsman, and lived to the extent of his 
 moderate income, so that I had little to expect from 
 that quarter; but then I had a rich uncle by the mo- 
 ther's side, a penurious, accumulating curmudgeon, 
 who it was confidently expected would make me his 
 heir, because he was an old bachelor, l)ecause I was 
 named after him, and because he hated all the world 
 except myself. 
 
 He was, in fact, an inveterate hater, a miser even 
 in misanthropy, and hoarded up a grudge as he did a 
 guinea. Thus, though my mother was an only sister, 
 he had never forgiven her marriage with my father, 
 
 against whom he had a cold, still, immoveable piqnj 
 which had lain at the bottom of his heart, like a sion, 
 in a well, ever since they had been school-boys to 
 ther. My mother, however, considered me as tli 
 mtermediale being that was to bringevery thin;^ ai^aij 
 into harmony, for she looked on me as a pro(li|PY, 
 God bless her ! my heart overflows whenever I tmi 
 her tenderness. She was the most excellent, (Ik 
 most indulgent of mothers. I was her only child : 
 was a pity she had no more, for she had fondness g 
 heart enough to have spoiled a dozen ! 
 
 I was sent at an early age to a public school, sorelj 
 against my mother's wishes; but my father insistt 
 that it was the only way to make boys hardy. Tlij 
 school was kept by a conscientious prig of theanciei 
 system, who did his duty by the boys intrusted to li 
 care : that is to say, we were flogged soundly vh 
 we did not get our lessons. We were putinlorlas! 
 and thus flogged on in droves along the highways i 
 knowledge, in much the same maimer as cattle i\ 
 driven to market; where those that are heavy ingaj 
 or short in leg, have to suffer for the superior aleij 
 ness or longer limbs of their companions. 
 
 For my part, I confess it with shame, I was | 
 incorrigible laggard. I have always had the poeiie 
 feeling, that is to say, I have always been an { 
 fellow, and prone to play the vagalmnd. I 
 get away from my books and school wheneverlc 
 and ramble about the fields. I was surrounded | 
 seductions for such a temperament. The sch 
 house was an old-fashioned white-washed mansid 
 of wood and plaster, standing on the skirts of a li 
 tiful village : close by it was the veneral )e ehun 
 with a tall Gothic spire ; before it spread a h\{ 
 green valley, with a little stream glistening alo 
 through willow groves ; while a line of blue liillsti 
 bounded the landscape gave rise to many a sunin 
 day dream as to the fairy land that lay beyond. 
 
 In spite of all the scourgings I suffered attliatscbj 
 to make me love my book, I cannot but look I 
 on the place with fondness. Indeed, I considd 
 this frequent flagellation as the common lot or| 
 manity, and the regular mode in whiclt scholars i 
 made. 
 
 My kind mother used to lament over my ddj 
 of the sore trials I underwent in the cause of In 
 ing; but my father turned a deaf ear to her «f 
 tulations. He had been flogged through school t 
 self, and swore there was no other way of i 
 a man of parts; though, let me speak it williall| 
 reverence, my father was but an indifferent illi 
 tion of his theory, for he was considered a grie^ 
 blockhead. 
 
 My poetical temperament evinced itself at a j 
 early period . The village church was attended ei 
 Sunday by a neighbouring squire, the lord rfl 
 manor, whose park stretched quite to the vif 
 and whose spacious country-seat seemed to tab 
 church under its protection. Indeed, you woulilf 
 thought the church had been consecrated to I 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 521 
 
 ,8liH, immoveable pique 
 nofhis heart, like a 8101 
 ad been school-boys t( 
 er, consitlered me as il 
 ilobringeverythin|5as;aii 
 leil on me as a prodijjy 
 rerllows whenever I ttoI 
 I ihe most excellent, tl 
 1 was her only cliild 
 
 stead of to the Deity. The parish-clerk bowed low 
 liefore him, and the vergers liumbletl themselves unto 
 the dust in his presence. He always entered a little 
 late, and with some stir; striking his cane emphatic- 
 illy on the ground, swaying his hat in his hand, and 
 lookin;^ ' )ftily to the right and left as he walked slow- 
 ly up the aisle ; and the parson, who always ate his 
 Sanilay dinner with him, never commenced service 
 yniil lie appeared. He sat with his family in a large 
 ire, for she had fondness (■pj^, gorgeously lined, humbling himself devoutly on 
 ed a dozen ! Iwlvet cushions, and reading lessons of meekness and 
 
 Idvliness of spirit out of splendid gold and morocco 
 
 [prayer-books. Whenever the parson spoke of the 
 
 ^icully of a rich man's entering the kingdom of 
 
 Heaven, the eyes of the congregation would turn 
 
 lovartls the "grand pew," and I thoughl the squire 
 
 med pleased with the application. 
 
 The pomp of this pew, and the aristocraticd air of 
 
 family, struck my imagination wonderfully ; and 
 
 desperately in love with a little daughter of the 
 
 "e to a public school, snrtlj 
 hes; but my father insisu 
 to make boys hardy. Th| 
 icientiousprigoftlieanciei 
 r by the boys intrusted loh 
 were flogged soundly wb 
 s. Wewereputinloolass 
 Iroves along the highways J 
 e same manner as caUle A 
 B those that are heavy in gif 
 suffer for the superior aleij 
 their companions. 
 .gs it with shame, 1 wasi 
 [have always had the poelid 
 I have always been an 1^ 
 lay the vagalnmd. 1 
 sand school wheneverit 
 fields. I was surrounded | 
 I temperament. The set 
 lioned white-washed mansiJ 
 landing on the skirts of a heJ 
 it was the venerate tW 
 ire; before it spread a lin^ 
 little stream glistening ak 
 ;; while a line of blue bill 
 egaverisetomanyasumit 
 iry land that lay beyond, 
 urgings I suffered atthatscW 
 book, 1 cannot but look h 
 ,ndness. Indeed, 1 considfi 
 ion as the common lot ot^ 
 lar mode in which scliolarsi 
 
 ased to lament over my di 
 jjderwentinthecauseofli 
 lurnedadeafearlohere! 
 leen flogged through school 
 I was no other way of m 
 Lgh,leimespeakitwillnlli 
 'wasbutanindifferentdlw 
 ar he was considered a gti( 
 
 Lament evinced itself alj 
 [llage church was attended! 
 Kjuring squire, the lord ol| 
 
 J stretched quite to the m 
 country-seal seemed tol 
 ection. Indeed, you v|o«Wl 
 
 lad been consecrated 10 II 
 
 muire's, about twelve years of age. This freak of 
 icy made me more truant from my studies than 
 er. I used to stroll about the squire's park, and 
 oiild lurk near the house, to catch glimpses of this 
 le damsel at the windows, or playing about the 
 iwn, or walking out with her governess. 
 Iliad not enterprise nor impudence enough to ven- 
 from my concealment. Indeed I felt like an ar- 
 il poacher, until I read one or two of Ovid's Meta- 
 irphoses, when I pictured myself as some sylvan 
 itv, and she a coy wood-uymph of whom I was in 
 iuit. There is something extremely delicious in 
 ;se early awakenings of the tender passion. I can 
 even at this moment Ihe throbbing of my boyish 
 whenever by chance I caught a glimpse of 
 white frock fluttering among the shrubbery. I 
 ed about in my bisom a volume of Waller, which 
 id purloined from my mother's library ; and I ap- 
 lo my little fair one all the compliments lavished 
 inSacharissa. 
 
 |Al length I danced with her at a school-ball. I 
 
 awkward a booby, that I dared scarcely speak 
 
 her; I was filled with awe and embarrassment in 
 
 presence; hut I was so inspired, that my poetical 
 
 rament for the first time broke out in verse, 
 
 I fabricated some glowing lines, in which I be- 
 
 med the little lady under the favourite name of 
 
 arissa. I slipped the verses, trembling and blush- 
 
 inlQ her hand the next Sunday as she came out of 
 
 h. The little prude handed them to her mamma ; 
 
 mamnvi handed them to the squire ; the squire, 
 
 had no soul for poetry^ sent them in dudgeon to 
 
 |schoolmaster ; and the schoolmaster, with a bar- 
 
 IT worthy of the dark ages, gave me a sound and 
 
 iliarly humiliating flogging for thus trespassing 
 
 Parnassus. This was a sad outset for a votary 
 
 lemuse; il ought to have cured me of my passion 
 
 try; but it only confirmed it, for I felt the spirit 
 
 jDiartyr rising within me. What was as well, 
 
 I it cured me of my passion for the young 
 
 lady; for I felt so indignant at the ignominious hors- 
 ing I had incurred in celebrating h?r cliarms, that I 
 could not hold up my head in church. Fortunately 
 for my wounded sensibility, the Midsummer holidays 
 came on, and I returned liome. My mother, as 
 usual, inquired into all my school concerns, my little 
 pleasures, and cares, and sorrows; for boyhood has il.< 
 share of the one as well as of the other. I told her 
 all, and she was indignant at the treatment I had ex- 
 perienced. She fired up at the arrogance of the 
 squire, and the prudery of the daughter; and as to 
 the schoolmaster, she wondered where was the use 
 of having schoolmasters, and why Iwys could not re- 
 main at home, and be educated by tutors, under the 
 eye of their mothers. She asked to see the verses I 
 had written, and she was delighted with them ; for, 
 to confess the truth, she had a pretty taste in poetry. 
 She even showed them to the parson's wife, who pro- 
 tested they were charming; and the parson's three 
 daughters insisted on each having a copy of them. 
 
 All tliis was exceedingly balsamic, and I was still 
 more consoled and encouraged, when the young la- 
 dies, who were the blue-stockings of the neighbour- 
 hood, and had read Dr Johnson's Lives quite through, 
 assured my mother that great geniuses never studied, 
 but were always idle; upon which I began to sur- 
 mise that I was myself something out of the common 
 run. My father, however, was of a very different 
 opinion ; for when my mother, in the pride of her 
 heart, showed him my copy of verses, he threw them 
 out of the window, asking her "if she meant to make 
 a ballad-monger of the boy ? " But he was a careless, 
 . common-thinking man, and I cannot say that I ever 
 loved him much; my mother absorbed all my filial 
 affection. 
 
 I used occasionally, during holidays, to be sent on 
 short visits to the uncle, who was to make me his 
 heir; they thought it would keep me in his mind, 
 and render him fond of me. He was a withered, 
 anxious-looking old fellow, and lived in a desolate old 
 country-seat, which lie suffered to go to ruin from 
 absoluteniggardliness. He kept but one man-servant, 
 who had lived, or rather starved, with him for years. 
 No woman was allowed to sleep in the house. A 
 daughter of the old servant lived by the gale, in what 
 had been a porter's lodge, and was permitted to 
 come into the house about an hour each day, to make 
 the beds, and cook a morsel of provisions. The park 
 that surrounded the house was all run wild : the trees 
 were grown out of shape; the fish-ponds stagnant; 
 Ihe tuns and statues fallen from their pedestals, and 
 burit^d among the rank grass. The hares and phea- 
 sants were so little molested, except by poachers, 
 that they bred in great abundance, and sported about 
 the rough lawns and weedy avenues. To guard the 
 premises, and frighten off robbers, of whom he was 
 somewhat apprehensive, and visitors, of whom he 
 was in almost equal awe, my uncle kept two or three 
 bloodhounds, who were always prowling round the 
 house, and were the dread of the neighbouring pea- 
 
!m 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 santry. They were gaunt and half starved, seemed 
 ready to devour one from mere hnnger, and were an 
 efTectnal check on any stranger's approach to this wi- 
 zard castle. 
 
 Such was my uncle's house, which I used to visit 
 now and then during tlie holidays. I was, as I be- 
 fore said, the old man's favourite ; that is to say, he 
 did not hate me so much as lie did the rest of the 
 world. I had been apprised of his character, and 
 cautioned to cultivate his good will ; but I was too 
 young and careless to be a courtier, and, indeed, have 
 never been suflicienlly studious of my interests to let 
 them govern my feelings. However, we jogged on 
 very well together, and as my visits cost him almost 
 nothing, they did not seem to be very unwelcome. 
 I brought with me my fishing-rod, and half supplied 
 the table from the fish-ponds. 
 
 Our meals were solitary and unsocial. My uncle 
 rarely spoke ; he pointed to whatever he wanted, and 
 the servant perfectly understood him. Indeed, his 
 man John, or Iron John, as he was called in the neigh- 
 bourhood, was a counterpart of his master. He was 
 a tall, bony old fellow, with a dry wig, that seemed 
 made of cow's tail, and a face as tough as though it 
 had been made of cow's hide. He was generally clad 
 in a long, patche<l livery coat, taken out of the ward- 
 robe of tlie house, and which bagged loosely about 
 him, having evidently belonged to some corpulent 
 predecessor, in the more plenteous days of the man- 
 sion. From long habits of taciturnity the hinges of 
 his jaws seemed to have grown absolutely rusty, and 
 it cost him as much effort to set them ajar, and to let 
 out a tolerable sentence, as it would have done to set 
 open the iron gates of the park, and let out the old 
 family carriage, that was dropping to pieces in the 
 coach-house. 
 
 I cannot say, however, but that I was for some time 
 amused with my uncle's peculiarities. Even the very 
 desolateness of the establishment had something in it 
 that hit my fancy. When the weather was fine, I 
 used to amuse myself in a solitary way, by rambling 
 about the park, and coursing like a colt across its 
 lawns. The hares and pheasants seemed to stare 
 with surprise to see a human being walking these for- 
 bidden grounds by daylight. Sometimes I amused 
 myself by jerking stones, or shooting at birds with a 
 bow and arrows, for to have used a gun would have 
 been treason. Now and then my path was crosseil 
 by a little red-headed, ragged-tailed urchin, the son of 
 the woman at the lodge, who ran wild about the pre- 
 mises. I tried to draw him into familiarity, and to 
 make a companion of him ; but he seemed to have im- 
 bibed the strange unsocial character of every thing 
 around him, and always kept aloof; so I considered 
 him as another Orson, and amused myself with 
 shootingathim withmy bow and arrows, and he would 
 hold up his breeches with one hand, and scamper 
 away like a deer. 
 
 There was something in all this loneliness and 
 wildness strangely pleasing to me. The great stables, 
 
 empty and weather-broken, with the names of favoar- 
 ite horses over the vacant stalls; the windows brick- 
 ed and boarded up; the broken roofit, garrisoned hj 
 rooks and jackdaws, all had a singularly forlorn ap. 
 pearance. One would have concluded the house lo 
 be totally uninhabited, were it not for a little ihread 
 of blue smoke, which now and then curled up like] 
 cork-screw, from the centre of one of the widechim- 
 neys, where my uncle's starveling meal was cookiri;>. 
 
 My uncle's room was in a remote corner of the 
 building, strongly secured, and generally locked. I 
 was never admitted into this strong-hold, where the 
 old man would remain fur the greater part of tiiej 
 time, drawn up, like a veteran spider, in the citadel 
 of his web. The rest of the mansion, however, wi 
 open to me, and I wandered about it unconstrained, 
 The damp and rain which beat in through tliebroki 
 windows, crumbled the paper from the walls, moulder 
 ed the pictures, and gradually destroyed the fui 
 ture. I loved lo roam about the wide waste chai 
 hers in bad weather, and listen to the howling ofij 
 wind, and the banging about of the doors and \vindov< 
 shutters. I pleased myself with the idea how 
 pletely, when I came to the estate, I would renov; 
 all tinngs, and make the old building ring with 
 riment, till it was astonished at its own jocundity. 
 
 The chamber which I occupied on these visits, % 
 the same that had been my mother's when a gji 
 There was still the toilet-table of her own adorn 
 the landscapes of her own drawing. She had neti 
 seen it since her marriage, but would often ask 
 if every thing Wfis still the same. All was just 
 same, for I loved that chamber on her account, 
 had taken pains to put every thing in order, and 
 mend all the flaws in the windows with my oi 
 hands. I anticipated the time when I should oi 
 more welcome her to the house of her fathers, 
 restore her to this little nestling-place ofherchil 
 hood. 
 
 At length my evil genius, or what, perhaps, is 
 same thing, the Muse, inspired me with the notiooi 
 rhymingagain. My uncle, who never went to dim 
 used on Sundays to read chapters out of the Bil 
 and Iron John, the woman from the lodge, and 
 self, were his congregation. It seemed lo be all 
 to him what he read, so long as it was someil 
 from the Bible. Sometimes, therefore, it would 
 the Song of Solomon ; and tliis withered anal 
 would read about being " stayed with flaggons, 
 comforted withapples, for hewas sick of love." 
 times he would hobble, with spectacles on 
 through whole chaptei-s of hard Hebrew namnl 
 Deuteronomy, at which the poor woman would 
 and groan, as if wonderfully moved. His &v 
 book, however, was " The Pilgrim's Progress;" 
 when he came to that part which treats of Don 
 Castle and Giant Despair, I thought invariably ofi 
 and his desolate old county-seat. So mucii did] 
 idea amuse me, that I took-to scribbling about it d^ „;g^ j, 
 the trees in the park ; and in a few days had Vrented i 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 wiU» the names of favonr 
 jtalls; ihe windows brick 
 oken rooh, garrisoned by 
 d a singularly forlorn ap- 
 ve concluded Ihe house lo 
 re it nut for a little thread 
 andlhencurletlupliltej 
 re of one of the wide chim-l 
 irveling meal was cookinj 
 in a remote corner of Ihel 
 I, and generally locked. I 
 his strong-hold, where the 
 [or the greater part of ti)t{ 
 Bteran spider, in the ciladsl 
 the mansion, however, m 
 ■red about it unconslrained. 
 Ii beat in through the broke 
 apev from the walls, moulderj 
 adualiy destroyed the fun 
 about the wide waste chat 
 il listen to the howling of tl 
 H)ut of the doors and window] 
 fself with the idea how cc 
 I the estate, I would renova 
 B old building ring with 
 ished at its own jocundity. 
 I occupied on these visits, wi 
 ;n my mother's when a !?r 
 et-table of her own adorni 
 iwn drawing. She had ne« 
 iage, but would often ask 
 I the same. All was just tl 
 chamber on her account, 
 every thing in order, and 
 the windows with my oi 
 the lime when I should 
 the house of her fathers, 
 ,le nestling-place of her chil 
 
 'nius, or what, perhaps, IS 
 inspired me with the nolioni 
 jcle, who never wentlochuH 
 fead chapters out of the Bil 
 )man from the lodge, and 
 -ation. It seemed to be all 
 [l, so long as it was somell 
 Retimes, therefore, it would 
 and tins withered anaK 
 mg " stayed with flaggoiB, 
 forhewassickoflove." " 
 ible, with spectacles on 
 tevs of hard Hebrew naiml 
 lich the poor woman would 
 
 iderfully moved. His ia\ 
 The Pilgrim's Progress; 
 It part which treats of Doi 
 Bpair, I thought invariably oil 
 
 counlfy-seat. So much 
 took-to scribbling aboutit 
 • and in a few days had 
 
 loine progress in a poem, in which I had given a des- 
 cription of the place, under Ihe name of Doubting 
 Q^le, and personified my uncle as Giant Despair. 
 
 I lost my poem somewhere about the house, and I 
 joon suspected that my nncle had found it, as he 
 lurshly intimated to me that I could return home, and 
 dial I need not come and see him again till he should 
 send for me. 
 Just about this time my mother died. I cannot 
 dwell upon the circimistance. My heart, careless and 
 vayward as it is, gushes with the recollection. Her 
 death was an event that perhaps gave a turn to all my 
 after fortunes. With her died all that made home 
 attractive. I had no longer any body whom I was 
 mibitious to please, or fearful to offend. My father 
 lis a good kind of man in his way, but he liad had 
 Inaxims in education, and we differed in material 
 ts. It makes a vast difference in opinion about 
 utility of the rod, which end happens lo fall to 
 le's share. I never could be brought into my fa- 
 r's way of thinking on the subject. 
 I now, therefore, began to grow very impniient of 
 inaining at schoo!, to be flogged for things that I did 
 like. I longed for variety, especially now that I 
 not my uncle's house to resort to, by way of di- 
 jifying the dulness of school, with the dreariness 
 his country-seat. 
 
 I was now almost seventeen, tall for my age, and 
 
 of idle fancies. I had a roving, inextinguishable 
 
 lire to see different kinds of life, and different or- 
 
 of society ; and this vagrant humour had been fos- 
 
 in ine by Tom Dribble, the prime wag and great 
 
 lius of Ihe school, who had all the rambling pro- 
 
 iitiesofa poet. 
 
 I used to sit at my desk in the school, on a fine sum- 
 s day, and instead of studying the book which lay 
 n before me, my eye was ^'azing through the 
 low on the green fields and blue hills-. How I 
 iried the happy groups seated on the tops of stage- 
 lies, chatting, and joking, and laughing, as they 
 whirled by the school-house on their way to the 
 ropolis ! Even the waggoners, trudging along be- 
 their ponderous teams, and traversing the king- 
 from one end to the other, were objects of envy 
 me : I fancied lo myself what adventures they 
 It experience, and what odd scenes of life they 
 It witness. All this was, doubtless, the poetical 
 perament working within me, and templing me 
 into a world of its own creation, which I mistook 
 llie world of real life. 
 
 Iiile my mother lived, this strong propensity to 
 
 [e was counteracted by the stronger attractions of 
 
 le, and by the powerful ties of affection which 
 
 iwme lo her side; but now that she was gone, the 
 
 lions had ceased ; the ties were severed. I had 
 
 longer an anchorage-ground for my heart, but 
 
 at Ihe mercy of every vagrant impulse. No- 
 
 but the narrow allowance on which my father 
 
 me, and Ihe consequent penury of my purse, 
 
 ented me from mounting the top of a stage-coach, 
 
 and launching myself adrift on the great ocean of lifie. 
 
 Just about this lime the village was agitate<I for a 
 day or two, by the passing through of several cara- 
 vans, containing wild l)easls, and other spectacles, for 
 a great fair annually heUI at a neighbouring town. 
 
 I had never seen a fair of any con.se(|uence, and 
 my curiosity was powerfully awakened by this husllc 
 of preparation. I gazed with respect and wonder at 
 Ihe vagrant personages who accompanied these ca- 
 ravans. I loitered about the village inn, listening 
 with curiosity and delight to the slang talk and cant 
 jokes of Ihe showmen and their followers ; and I fell 
 an eager desire to witness this fair, which my fancy 
 decked out as something wonderfully line. 
 
 A holiday afternoon presented, when I could be 
 absent from noon until evening. A waggon was going 
 from the village lo the fair : I could not resist the 
 temptation, nor the elo(]uence of Tom Dribble, who 
 was a truant to Ihe very heart's core. We hired 
 seats, and set off full of boyish expectation. I pro- 
 mised myself that I would but lake a peep at the land 
 of promise, and hasten back again before my absence 
 should be noticed. 
 
 Heavens I how happy I was on arriving at the fair! 
 How I was enchanted with Ihe world of fim and pa- 
 geantry around me ! The humours of Punch, the 
 feats of the equestrians, the magical tricks of the con- 
 jurors! But what principally caught my attention 
 was an itinerant theatre, where a tragedy, panto- 
 mime, and farce, were all acted in the course of half 
 an hour ; and more of the dramatis personam murder- 
 ed, than at either Drury Lane or Covent Garden in 
 the course of a whole evening. I have since seen 
 many a play performed by the best actors in the 
 world, but never have I derived half the delight from 
 any that I did from this first representation. 
 
 There was a ferocious tyrant in a skull-cap like an 
 inverted porringer, and a dress of red baize, magni- 
 ficently embroidered with gill leather; with his face 
 so bewhiskered, and his eye-brows so knit and ex- 
 panded with bnrnl cork, thnl he made my heart quake 
 within me, as he stamped about the little stage. I 
 was enraptured too with the surpassing beauty of a 
 distressed damsel hi faded pink silk, and dirty white 
 muslin, 'lom he held in cruel captivity by way of 
 gaining her affections, and who wept, and wrung 
 her hands, and flourished a ragged white handker- 
 chief, from the top of an impregnable lowerof the size 
 of a bandbox. 
 
 Even after I had come out from the play, I could 
 not tear myself from the vicinity of Ihe theatre, but 
 lingered, gazing and wondering, and laughing at (he 
 dramatis persons as they performed their antics, or 
 danced upon a stage in front of the booth, to decoy a 
 new set of spectators. 
 
 I was so bewildered by the scene, and so lost in the 
 crowd of sensations thai kept swarming upon me, 
 that I was like one entranced. I lost my companion , 
 Tom Dribble, in a tumult and scnfHe that took place 
 near one of the shows; but I was too much occupied 
 
o24 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 in mind to think long about liim. I strolled about 
 until dark, when the fair was lighted np, and a new 
 scene of magic opened upon me. The illumination 
 of the tents and booths, the brilliant effect of the stages 
 decorated with lamps, with dramatic groups Haunting 
 about them in gaudy dresses, contrasted splendidly 
 with the surrounding darkness ; while the uproar 
 of drums, trumpets, fiddles, hautboys, and cymbals, 
 mingled with the harangues of the showmen, the 
 squeaking of Punch, and the shouts and laughter of 
 the crowd, all united to complete my giddy distrac- 
 tion. 
 
 Time flew without my perceiving it. When I 
 came to myself and thought of the school, I hastened 
 to return. I inquired for the waggon in which I had 
 come : it had been gone for hours ! I asked the time : 
 it was almost midnight ! A sudden quaking seized 
 me. How was I to get back to school ? I was too 
 weary to make the journey on foot, and I knew not 
 where to apply for a conveyance. Even if I should 
 find one, could I venture to disturb the school-house 
 long after midnight — to arouse that sleeping lion the 
 usher in the very midst of his night's rest ?— the idea 
 was too dreadful for a delinquent school-boy. All the 
 horrors of return rushed upon me. My absence must 
 long before this have been remarked ; — and absent for 
 a whole night ! — a deed of darkness not easily to be 
 expiated. The rod of the pedagogue budded forth 
 into tenfold terrors before my affrighted fancy. I 
 pictured to myself punishment and humiliation in 
 every variety of form, and my heart sickened at the 
 picture, Alas ! how often are the petty ills of boy- 
 hood as painful to our tender natures, as are the 
 sterner evils of manhood to our robuster minils ! 
 
 I wandered about among the booths, and I might 
 have derived a lesson from my actual feelings, how 
 much the charms of this world depend upon our- 
 selves ; for I no longer saw any thing gay or delight- 
 ful in the revelry around me. At length I lay down, 
 wearied and perplexed, behind one of the large tent* , 
 and, covering myself with the margin of the tent 
 cloth to keep off the night chill, I soon fell asleep. 
 
 I had not slept long, when I was awakened by the 
 noise of merriment within an adjoining booth. It 
 was the itinerant theatre, rudelyconslructed of boards 
 and canvass. I peeped through an aperture, and saw 
 the whole dramatis person.T, tragedy, comedy, and 
 pantomime, all refreshing themselves after the final 
 dismissal of their auditors. They were merry and 
 gamesome, and made the flimsy theatre ring with 
 their laughter. I was astonished to see the tragedy 
 tyrant in red baize and fierce whiskers, who had made 
 my heart quake as he strutted about the boards, now 
 transformed into a fat, good-humoured fellow; Ihe 
 beaming porringer laid aside from his brow, and his 
 jolly face washed ft '^m all the terrors of burnt cork. 
 I was delighted, too, to see the distressed damsel, in 
 faded silk and dirty muslin, who had trembled under 
 his tyranny, and aftlicted m^ so much by her sorrows, 
 now seated familiarly on his knee, and quafling from 
 
 the same tankard. Harlequin lay asleep on one orihel 
 benches ; and monks, satyrs, and vestal virgins, vetel 
 grouped together, laughing outrageously at a bro«j| 
 story told by an unhappy count, who had been bar-f 
 barously murdered in the tragedy. 
 
 This was, indeed, novelty to me. It was a petpi 
 into another planet. I gazed and listened witli in-l 
 tense curiosity and enjoyment. They had a thousand! 
 odd stories and jokes about the events of the day, andl 
 burlesque descriptions and mimickings of the sp«cla 
 tors who had been admiring them. Their convers 
 tion was full of allusions to their adventures atdilTer-l 
 ent places where they had exhibited ; the character! 
 they had met with in different villages; and theloJ 
 dicrous difficulties in which they had occasiunalljl 
 been involved. All past cares and troubles werenoif 
 turned, by these thoughtless beings, into inaltero 
 merriment, and made to contribute to the gaiety o 
 the moment. They had been moving from fairii| 
 fair about the kingdom, and were the next mornii^ 
 to set out on their way to London. My resolutid 
 was taken. J stole from my nest ; and crept tiiroul 
 a hedge into a neighbouring field, where I went l 
 work to make a tatterdemalion of myself. It 
 my clothes ; soiled them with dirt ; begrimed i 
 face and hands, and crawling near one of the boothi 
 purloined an old hat, and left my new one in ilj 
 place. It was an honest theft, and I hope niayii 
 hereafter rise up in judgment against me. 
 
 I now ventured to the scene of merry-making,; 
 presenting myself before the dramatic corps, olTerej 
 myself as a volunteer. I felt terribly agitated aJ 
 abashed, for never before ' ' stood I in such a presence,] 
 I had addressed myself to the manager of the i 
 pany. He was a fat man, dressed in dirty \rliilj 
 with a red sash fringed with tinsel swathed roiiJ 
 his body ; his face was smeared with paint, andl 
 majestic plume towered from an old spangled \m 
 bonnet. He was the Jupiter Tonans of this Olyij 
 pus, and was surrounded by the inferior gods i 
 goddesses of his court. He sat on the end of a beni 
 by a table, with one arm a-kimbo, and the otherfl 
 tended to the handle of a tankard, whicii he I 
 slowly set down from his lips, as he surveyed i 
 from bead to foot. It was a moment of awful scr 
 tiny ; and I fancied the groups around all watchi 
 as in silent suspense, and waiting for the inipi 
 nod. 
 
 He questioned me as to who I was ; what were^ 
 qualifications; and what terms I expected, Ipas^ 
 myself off for a discharged servant from a genlj 
 man's family; and as, happily, one does not leq 
 special recommendation to get admitted into IkkIo 
 pany, the questions on that head were easily satisS^ 
 As to my accomplishments I could spout a littlep 
 ry, and knew several scenes of plays, which 1 1 
 learnt at school exhibitions, I could dance- 
 That was enough, INo further questions were a 
 me as to accomplishments; it was the very liiin^lj 
 wanted; and as I asked no wages but merely i 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 S2S 
 
 luin lay asleep on one of the 
 rs, and vestal virgins, w J 
 ig outrageously at a brojil 
 count, who had been l»t.| 
 tragedy. 
 
 ilty to me. It was a peepi 
 azed and listened willi in. 
 iient. They had a llioiisaal 
 Lit the events of the day, anlj 
 d mimickings of the specl 
 ing them. Their convei 
 to their adventures aldifc 
 id exhibited ; the cliaraclei 
 Fferent villages; and the In. 
 ■hich they had oceasionallj 
 cares and troubles were noi 
 itless beings, into mailer 
 ) contribute to the gaiety 
 d been moving from fain 
 and were the next momi[ 
 
 to London. My resoiulii 
 1 my nest ; and crept throuj, 
 uring lield, where I went 
 •demalion of myself. IK 
 in with dirt ; begrimed mj 
 iwling near one of the booll 
 and left my new one in il 
 st theft, and I hope may 
 gment against me. 
 le scene of merry-making, 
 i-e the dramatic corps, offeti 
 
 I felt terribly agitated ai 
 •e ' ' stood I in such a presence. 
 ' to the manager of llie 
 man, dressed in dirty wliit 
 sd with tinsel swathed roui 
 IS smeared with paint, 
 d from an old spangled i 
 Jupiter Tonans of this Olyi 
 ided by the inferior gods 
 He sat on the end of a bei 
 rm a-Uimho, and the other 
 
 of a tankard, which he 
 I his lips, as he surveyed 
 
 was a moment of awfid » 
 e groups around all walct 
 
 and waiting for the im| 
 
 IS to who I was; what were 
 lat terms I expected. I pas 
 liarged servant from a genl 
 
 happily, one does nolnquii 
 m to get admitted into bade 
 I that head were easily satis 
 lenlslcould spoutaliulet 
 
 scenes of plays, which 1 
 hitions. I could dance- 
 Jo further questions were aS 
 
 ents; it wasthe very thing 
 ed no wages but merely ' 
 
 Lid drink, and safe conduct about the world, a bar- 
 Igain was struck in a moment. 
 
 Be>old me, therefore, transformed on a sudden 
 from a gentleman student to a dancing buffoon; for 
 sach, in fact, was the character in which I made my 
 debut. I was one of those who formed the groups in 
 ihedramas, and was principally employed on the stage 
 in front of the booth to attract company. I was 
 equipped as a satyr, in a dress of drab frieze that (it- 
 led to my shape, with a great laughing mask, orna- 
 gienled with huge ears and short horns. I was pleased 
 vilh the disguise, because it kept me from the dan- 
 ger of being discovered, whilst we were in that part 
 jofthe country; and as I had merely to dance and 
 make antics, the character was favourable to a debut- 
 jant— being almost on a par with Simon Snug's part 
 ifthe lion, which required nothing but roaring. 
 I cannot tell you how happy I was at this sudden 
 ;liange in my situation. I felt no degradation, for I 
 id seen too little of society to be thoughtful about 
 ilie difference of rank; and a boy of sixleen is seldom 
 rislocralical. I had given up no friend, for there 
 ined to be no one in the world that cared for me 
 Iff that my poor mother was dead ; I had given up 
 pleasure, for my pleasure was to ramble about and 
 lulge the now of a poetical imagination, and I now 
 injoyed it in perfection. 'J'here is no life so truly 
 lelieal as that of a dancing buffoon. 
 It may be said that all this argued groveling incli- 
 lalioiis. I do not think so. Not that I mean to vin- 
 licate myself in any great degree : I know too well 
 hat a whimsical compound I am. But in thisJn- 
 ance I was seduced by no love of low company, nor 
 lis[K)sition to indulge in low vices. I have always 
 lespised the brutally vulgar, and I have always had 
 disgust at vice, whether in high or low life. I was 
 verned merely by a sudden and thoughtless im- 
 iilse. I had no idea of resorting to this profession 
 IS a mode of life, or of attaching myself to these 
 !ople, as my future class of society. I thought 
 lerely of a temporary gratification to my curiosity, 
 d an indulgence of my humours. I had already a 
 Irong relish for the peculiarities of character and the 
 rielies of situation, and I have always been fond of 
 le comedy of life, and desirous of seeing it through 
 I its shifting scenes. 
 
 In mingling, therefore, among mountebanks and 
 
 ffoons, I was protected by the very vivacity of ima- 
 
 ination which liad led me among them ; I moved 
 
 ut, enveloped, as it were, in a protecliiig delusion, 
 
 hich my fancy spread arounil me. I assimilated to 
 
 ese people only as they struck me poetically; their 
 
 himsical ways and a certain piclurt'S(|ueness in Hieir 
 
 le of life entertained me ; but I was neither amus- 
 
 nor corrupted by their vices. In short, I mingled 
 
 iiong tliein, as Prince Hal did among his graceless 
 
 iales, merely to gratify my humour. 
 I did not investigate my motives in this manner at 
 time, for I was too careless and thoughtless to 
 on about the matter; but I do so now, when I 
 
 look back with trembling to think of the ordeal to 
 which I unthinkingly exposed myself, and the manner 
 in which I passed through it. Nothing, I am con- 
 vinced, but the poetical temperament, that hurried 
 me into the scrape, brought me out of it without my 
 becoming an arrant vagabond. 
 
 Full of the enjoyment of the moment, giddy with 
 the wildness of animal spirits, so rapturous in a boy, I 
 capered, I danced, I played a thousand fantastic 
 tricks about the stage, in the villages in which we 
 exhibited; and I was universally pronounced the most 
 agreeable monster that had ever been seen in those 
 parts. My disappearance from school had awakened 
 my father's anxiety; for I one day heard a description 
 of myself cried before the very booth in which I was 
 exhibiting, with the offer of a reward for any intelli- 
 gence of me. I had no great scruple about letting 
 my father suffer a little uneasiness on my account ; it 
 would punish him for past indifference, and would 
 make him value me the more when he found me 
 again. 
 
 I have wondered that some of my comrades did not 
 recognise me in the stray sheep that was cried ; but 
 they were all, no doubt, occupied by their own con- 
 cerns. They were all labouring seriously in their 
 antic vocation; for folly was a mere trade with most 
 of them, and they often grinned and capered with 
 heavy hearts. With me, on the contrary, it was all 
 real. I acted con amore, and rattled and laughed 
 from the irrepressible gaiety of my spirits. It is true 
 that, now and then, I started and looked grave on 
 receiving a sudden thwack from the wooden swonl 
 of Harlequin in (he course of my gambols, as il brought 
 to mind the birch of my schoolmaster. But I .soon 
 got accustomed to it, and bore all the cuffing, and 
 kicking, and tumbling about, which form the prac- 
 tical wit of your itinerant pantomime, with a good 
 humour that made nie a prodigious favourite. 
 
 The country campaign of the troop was soon at an 
 end, and we set off for the metropolis, to perform at 
 the fairs which are held in its vicinity. The grea(er 
 part of our theatrical property was sent on direct, to 
 be in a state of preparation for (he opening of (he 
 fairs ; while a detachment of the company travelled 
 slowly on, foraging among the villages. I was amused 
 with the desultory, haphazard kind of life we led; 
 here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Sometimes re- 
 veling in alehouses, sometimes feasting under hedges 
 ill the green fields. When audiences were crowded, 
 and business prolitable, we fared well ; and when 
 otherwise, we fared scantily, coii,soled ourselves,, 
 and made up with anticipations of the next day's 
 success. 
 
 At length the increasing frecjuency of coaches hur- 
 rying past us, covered with passengers ; the increas- 
 ing number of carriages, carts, waggons, gigs, ilroves 
 of cattle and Hocks of sheep, all thruiigiiig the road ; 
 the snug country boxes wUh trim flower-garden* 
 twelve feet .s(piarc, and their trees twelve feet high, 
 all powdered with dust; and the innumerable senii- 
 
 : .,;'i 
 
526 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 naries for young ladies and gentlemen situated along 
 the road for the benefit of country air and rural re- 
 tirement; all these insignia announced that the mighty 
 London was at hand. The hurry, and the crowd, 
 and the bustle, and the noise, and the dust, increased 
 as we proceeded, until I saw the great cloud of smoke 
 hanging in the air, like a canopy of stale, over this 
 queen of cities. 
 
 In this way, then, did I enter the metropolis, a 
 strolling vagabond, on the top of a caravan, with a 
 crew of vagabonds about me ; but I was as happy as 
 a prince ; for, like Prince Hal, I felt myself superior 
 to my situation, and knew that I could at any time 
 cast it off, and emerge into my proper sphere. 
 
 How my eyes sparkled as we passed Hyde Park 
 Corner, and I saw splendid equipages rolling by; 
 with powdered footmen behind, in rich liveries, with 
 fine nosegays, and gold-headed canes; and with love- 
 ly women within, so sumptuously dressed, and so 
 surpassingly fair ! I was always extremely sensible 
 to female beauty, and here I saw it in all its power 
 of fascination ; for whatever may be said of " beauty 
 unadorned," there is something almost awful in fe- 
 male loveliness decked out in jewelled state. The 
 swanlike neck encircled with diamonds ; the raven 
 locks clustered wilh pearls; the ruby glowing on (he 
 snowy bosom, are objects which I could never con- 
 template without emotion; and a dazzling white arm 
 claspetl with bracelets, and taper transparent ihigers, 
 laden with sparkling rings, are to me irresistible. 
 
 My very eyes ached as I gazed at the high and 
 courtly beauty that passed before me. It surpassed 
 all that rny.imaginalion had conceived of the sex. I 
 shrunk, for a moment, into shnnie at the company in 
 which I was placed, and repined at the vast distance 
 that seemed to intervene between me and these 
 magnificent beings. 
 
 I forbear to give a detail of the happy life I led 
 about the skirts of the metropolis, playing at the va- 
 rious fairs held there during the latter part of spring, 
 and the beginning of summer. This continued change 
 from place to place, and scene to scene, fed niy ima- 
 ginalijon with novelties, and kept my spirits in a per- 
 petual slate of excitement. As I was tail of my age, 
 I aspired, at one time, to play heroes in tragedy ; 
 but, after two or three trials, I was pronounced by 
 the manager totally lUifil for the line; und our first 
 tragic actress, who \mis a large woman, and held a 
 small hero in abhorrence, confirmed his decision. 
 
 The fact is, I had atlempled to give point to lan- 
 guage which had no point, and nature to scenes 
 Avhich had no natine. They said I did not fill out 
 my characters ; and lliey were right. The charac- 
 ters had all been prepared for a different sort of man. 
 Our tragedy hero was a round, robustious fellow, 
 with an amazing voice; who stamped and slapped 
 his breast until his wig shook again; and who roared 
 and bellowed out his bombast until every phrase 
 swelled upon the ear like the sound of a kettle drum. 
 I might as well have attempted to fill out his clothes 
 
 as his characters. When we had a dialogue together I 
 I was nothing before him, with my slender voial 
 and discriminating manner. I might as well harel 
 attempted to parry a cudgel with a small-sword, m 
 he found me in any way gaining ground upon him I 
 he would take refuge in his mighty voice, and tlirowl 
 his tones like peals of thunder at me, until they wn 
 drowned in the still louder thunders of applause fn 
 the audience. 
 
 To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shovJ 
 fair play, and that there was management at tlieboi^ 
 torn ; for, without vanity, I think I was a belter acloi 
 than he. As I had not embarked in the vagabon 
 line through ambition, I did not repine at lack orpre-l 
 ferment; but I was grieved to find that a vagrant lifef 
 was not without its cares and anxieties; and thatjeiJ 
 lousies, intrigues, and mad ambition, were to be foui 
 even among vagabonds. 
 
 Indeed, as I became more familiar with my siluaJ 
 lion, and the delusions of fancy gradually faded awayj 
 I began to find that my associates were not the 1 
 careless creatures I had at first imagined them. Tliejj 
 were jealous of each other's talents ; they quanella 
 about parts, the same as tiie actors on the granil 
 theatres ; they quarrelled about dresses; and llietfl 
 was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, anit 
 a head-dress of three rumpled ostrich feathers, wliid 
 were contiimally selling the ladies of the company bj 
 the ears. Even tliose who had attained the lii|;iii 
 honours were not more happy than the rest; I 
 Mr Flimsey lumself, our Inst tragedian, and appj 
 rei^ly a Jovial, good-humoured fellow, confessed! 
 nie one day, in the fulness of his heart, tliat liewaj 
 a miserable man. He had a brother-in-law, a itiw 
 five by marriage, though not by blood, who wa^ 
 manager of a theatre in a small country town. AnJ 
 this same brother ("a little more than kin, bull 
 than kind") looked down upon him, and treated li 
 with contumely, because, forsooth, he was l)iil 
 strolling player. I tried to console him willi I 
 thoughts of Ihe vast applause he daily received, 1 
 it was all in vain. He de('lared that it gave liiin i 
 delight, and that lie should never be a happy niai 
 until tlie name of Flinisoy rivaled the nanieof Crii 
 
 How little do those before the scenes knowof wlJ 
 passes behind ! how little can they judge, from llJ 
 countenances of actors, of what is passing in lliei 
 hearts! I have known two lovers quarrel like ca| 
 behind the scenes, who were, the moment aller,! 
 fly into each other's embraces. And I have di( aii 
 when our Belvidera was to lake her farewell ki>.sj 
 her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece oulofli 
 cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker off I 
 stage ; our prime clown the most peevish mortal I 
 insf. The lalter used to go about snapping and siii 
 ing, wilh a broad laugh painted on his countenaii(< 
 and I can assure you, that whatever may he saidj 
 the />,ravity of a monkey, or the melancholy of a m 
 cat, Ihere is not a more melancholy creature incsi^ 
 cnce Iban a mountebank off duty. 
 
 pi I was 
 Julii not s 
 ikl 1 1 
 And 
 |ii mere si 
 lis soon 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 S£7 
 
 e had a dialogue togelheri 
 , with my slender voi«| 
 •. I might as well haT(| 
 ;1 with a small-sword. ll 
 gaining ground upon hini,| 
 s mighty voice, and throw 
 deratme, until they *« 
 thunders of applause froi 
 
 )ect that I was not shown] 
 as management at thebotJ 
 I think I was a belter aclor] 
 mbarked in the vagabom 
 id not repine at lack of preJ 
 ;d to lind that a vagrant li(J 
 and anxieties; and tlialjiia-l 
 I ambition, were to be fott 
 
 ore familiar with my silua 
 fancy gradually faded away, 
 isociales were not thehappi 
 t first imagined them. Tliei 
 n's talents ; they quandli 
 IS tlie actors on the gram 
 .1 about dresses; and tliei 
 ;ilk, Dimmed wilh retl, ai 
 (ipled ostrich feathers, \vliii 
 the ladies of the company b] 
 ,'ho had attained the liighi 
 D happy than the rest; k 
 ir first tragedian, and appaj 
 boured fellow, confessed 
 lessof his heart, that he vr; 
 lad a brother-in-law, a reli) 
 gh not by blood, who « 
 a small country town. An 
 iltle more than kin, hiii 
 u upon him, and treale'l 
 se, forsooth, he was In 
 a to console him wilh ll 
 dause he daily received, 1 
 leclared that it gave liiin 
 lUl never be a happy m 
 y rivaled the name of Criiii 
 >fore the scenes know of wl 
 e can they judge, from H 
 of what is passing in ll" 
 two lovers (piarrel like ttl 
 were, the moment allei, 
 races. And I have die 
 to lake her farewell kiss 
 lould bile a piece oulol 
 was a rough joker oft 
 the most peevish mortal 
 |, no aluml snapping and sini 
 
 painted on his counlcnani 
 lal whatever may lie saiii 
 , or the melancholy of i'K* 
 
 melancholy creature in "I 
 
 k off duty. 
 
 The only thing in which ail parties agreed, was to 
 llnckbite the manager, and cabal against his regula- 
 ing. This, however, I have since discovered to be 
 common trait of human nature, and to take place in 
 communities. < It would seem to be the main busi- 
 ofman to repine at government. In all situa- 
 of life into which I have looked, I have found 
 ikind divided into two grand parties : those who 
 , and those who are ridden. The great struggle 
 seems to be which shall keep in the saddle. 
 lis, it appears to me, is the fundamental principle 
 politics, whether in great or little life. However, 
 Jo not mean to moralize — but one cannot always 
 
 the philosopher. 
 Well then, to return to myself, it was determined, 
 I said, that I was not fit for tragedy, and, unluckily, 
 my study was bad, having a very poor memory, I 
 las pronounced unfit for comedy also ; besides, the 
 of young gentlemen was alreadj' engrossed by an 
 ir wilh whom I could not pretend to enter into 
 
 >' 
 
 npelilion, he 
 
 having 
 
 filled it for almost half a 
 
 ilary. I came down agaui, therefore, to panlo- 
 le. In consequence, liowever, of the good offices 
 the manager's lady, who had taken a liking to me, 
 jwa.'i promoted from the part of the satyr to that of 
 lover; and with my face patched and painted, a 
 cravat of paper, a steeple-crowned hat, and 
 igiing long-skirted sky-blue coat, was metamor- 
 ied into the lover of Columbine. My part did not 
 for much of the tender and sentimental. T had 
 eiy to pursue the fugitive fair one; to have a door 
 iw and then slammed in my face ; to run my head 
 isionally against a post; to tumble and roll about 
 ih Pantaloon and the clown ; and to endure the 
 ly thwacks of Harlequin's wooden sword. 
 JAsiil luck would have it, my poetical temperament 
 111 to ferment within nie, and to work out new 
 The inQammatory air of a great metropolis, 
 li to the rural scenes in which the fairs were 
 , such as Greenwich Park, Epping Forest, and 
 lovely valley of West End, hu-1 a powerful effect 
 me. While in Greenwich Park I was witness 
 lie old holiday games of running down hill, and 
 ing in the ring; and then the firmament of bloom- 
 faces and blue eyes thai would be turned towards 
 as I was playing antics on the stage, all these set 
 young blood and my poetical vein in full How. 
 iliort, I played the cluiracter to ti<e life, and bc- 
 ' desperately enamoured of Coir.ml>i»<e. She v as 
 m, well-made, templing girl, with a v g lish 
 ilint: face, and fine chesnut hair cliislci. . all 
 It it. The moment I got fairly smitten there was 
 ind to all playinyr I was such a creature of fancy 
 feeling, that i could not put on a pretended, 
 11 1 was powerfully .iffecte(l by a real emotion. 
 Id not sport with a fiction that came so near to 
 fact. I became too natural in my acting to snc- 
 And then, what a situation fur a lover I I 
 'mere stripling, and she played with my passion; 
 ris soon grow more adroit and knowing in these 
 
 matters than your awkward youngsters. What ago- 
 nies had I to suffer ! Every time that she danced in 
 front of the booth, and made such liberal displays of 
 her charms, I was in torment. To complete my 
 misery, I had a real rival in Harlequin, an active, 
 vigorous, knowing varlet, of six-and-twenty. Wt at 
 had a raw, inexperienced youngster like me to hope 
 fi jm such a competition ? 
 
 I had still, however, some advantages in my favour. 
 In spite of my change of life, I retained thai indescrib- 
 able somelliing which always distinguishes the gentle- 
 man ; that something which dwells in a man's air and 
 deportment, and not in his clothes; and which it is 
 as difficult for a gentleman to put off, as for a vulgar 
 fellow to put on. The company generally felt it, and 
 used to call me Little Gentleman Jack. The girl felt 
 it too, and, in spite of her predilection for my power- 
 ful rival, she liked to flirt with me. This only ag- 
 gravated my troubles, by increasing my passion, and 
 awakening the jealousy of her party-coloured lover. 
 
 Alas ! think what I suffered at being obliged to keep 
 up an ineffectual chase after my Cohmibine through 
 whole pantomimes ; to see her carried off m the vi- 
 gorous arms of the happy Harlequin; and to he 
 obliged, instead of snatching her from him, to tumble 
 sprawling with Pantaloon and the clown, and bear 
 the infernal and degrading thwacks of my rival's 
 weapon of lath, which, may Heaven confoimd him ! 
 (excuse my passion) the villain laid on wilh a mali- 
 cious good-will : nay, I could absolutely hear him 
 chuckle and laugh beneath his accursed mask — I beg 
 pardon for growing a little warm in my narrative — I 
 wish to be cool, but these recollections will sometimes 
 agitate me. I have heard and read of many desperate 
 and deplorable situations of lovers, but none, I think, 
 in which true love was ever exposed to so severe and 
 peculiar a trial. 
 
 This could not last long; flesh and blood, at least 
 such flesh and Mood as mine, could not bear il. I 
 had repeated heart-burnings and quarrels with my 
 rival, in which he treated me with the mortifying 
 forbearance of a man towards a child. Had he 
 quarrelled (tulriglit with me, I could have stomached 
 il, at least I slioiild have known what part to lake; 
 but to be humoured and treated as a child in the pre- 
 sence of my mistress, when I felt all the bantam spirit 
 of a little man swelling within me — Gods ! it was 
 •nsufferable ! 
 
 At length, we were exhibiting one day at West 
 End fair, which was al that time a very fashionable 
 resort, and often beleaguered with gay equijmges 
 from Unvn. Among the spcclators that filled the front 
 row oi'our little canvass theatre one afternoon, when 
 I had to ligure in a pantomime, were a number of 
 young ladies from a Iwarding-school, with their go- 
 verness, (iuess my confusion, when, in the midst 
 of my antics, I beheld among Ihe number my quondam 
 flame ; her whom I had berhymed al school, her for 
 whose charms I liad smarted so. severely, the cruel 
 Sacharissa ! What was worse, I fancied she recol- 
 
528 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 lected me, and was repeating the story of my liumi- 
 lialing flagellation, for I saw her whispering to her 
 companions and her governess. I lost all conscious- 
 ness of the part I was acting, and of the ])Iace where 
 I was. I felt shrunk to nothing, and could have crept 
 into a rat-hole — imluckily, none was open to receive 
 me. Before I could recover froin my confusion, I 
 was tumbled over by Pantaloon and the clown, and 
 I felt the sword of Harlequin making vigorous assaults 
 in a manner most degrading to my dignity. 
 
 Heaven and earth ! was I again to suffer martyr- 
 dom in this ignominious maimer, in the knowledge 
 and even before the very eyes of this most beautiful, 
 but most disdainful of fair ones? All my long-smo- 
 thered wrath broke out at once ; the dormant feel- 
 ings cf the genlleman arose within me. Stung to the 
 quick by intolerable mortilicalion, I sprang on my 
 feet in an instant; leaped upon Harlequin like a young 
 tiger; tore off his mask; buffeted him in the face; 
 and soon shed more blood on the stage, than bad been 
 spilt upon it during a whole tragic campaign of 
 battle!, and murders. 
 
 As soon as Harlequin recovered from his surprise, 
 he returned my assault with interest. I was uolhing 
 ill his hands. I was game, to be sure, for I was a 
 gentleman; but be had the clownish advantage of 
 bone and muscle. I felt as if I could have fought even 
 unlo (he death; and I was likely to do so, for he was, 
 according to the boxing phrase, "putting my head 
 into cliancery," when the gentle Columbine Hew to 
 my assistance. God bless the women! they are al- 
 ways on the side of the weak and the oppressed ! 
 
 The bailie now became general; the dramatis per- 
 sona' ranged on either side. The manager interpos- 
 ed in vain; in vain were bis spangleil black bonnet 
 and towering while featiiers seen whisking about, 
 and nodding, and bobbing in the thickesl of the light. 
 Warriors, ladies, priests, satyrs, kings, queens, gods, 
 and goddesses, all joined pell-mell in Ihe fray : never, 
 since the conllicl under Ihe wails of I'roy, bad there 
 been such a chance-medley warfaie of combatants, 
 human and divine. The audience applauded, the 
 ladies shrieked, and fled from the theatre; and a 
 scene of discord ensued tlial bailies all ilcscriplion. 
 
 ISothing but the interference of the peace-officers 
 restored some degree of order. The havoc, however, 
 (hat had been n)ade among dresses and decorations, 
 put an end to all further acting for that day. The battle 
 over, the next (hing was to impure why it was begun; a 
 common question among politicians afler a bloody and 
 unprofitable war, and one not always easy to be an- 
 swered. It was soon traced to me, and my unac- 
 countable transport of [lassion, wliich they could only 
 attribute to my having run n murk. Ihe manager 
 was Judge and jury, and plaintiff into the bargain ; 
 and in such cases justice is always speedily adminis- 
 tered. He came out of the light as sublime a wreck 
 astheSantissimaTrinidade. Hisgallant plumes, which 
 once towered aloft, were drooping alM)nt his ears; his 
 robe of slate hung in ribands from his back, and but 
 
 ill concealed the ravages he had suffered in the rear] 
 He had received kicks and cuffs from all sides durin;| 
 the tumult; for every one took the opportunity o(| 
 slily gratifying some lurking grudge on liis fat carcass.l 
 He was a discreet man, and did not chuse to deciarel 
 war with all his company; so he swore all those kicki 
 and cuffs had been given by me, and I let him enjojj 
 the opinion. Some wounds he bore, however, whicJ 
 were the incontestable traces of a woman's warfare] 
 his sleek rosy cheek was scored by trickling fiirrowsj 
 which were ascribed to the nails of my intrepid ain 
 devoted Columbine. The ire of the monarch wai 
 not to be appeased ; he had suffered in his personl 
 and he had suffered in his purse; his dignity, too.hal 
 been insulted, and that went for something; fordJ 
 gnily is always more irascible the more petty jJ 
 potentate. He wreaked his wrath upon the beKinneJ 
 of the affray, and Columbine and myself were disj 
 charged, at once, from the company. 
 
 Figure me, then, to yourself, a striplinij ofliiiJ 
 more than sixteen, a gentleman by birlh, a va!;alx)ii[ 
 by trade, lurneil adril'i upon the world, niakin;'i 
 best of my way Ihroug'a the crowd of West End faiij 
 my mountebank dress flullerin?; in rags aboui nief 
 the weeping (lolunibine banging upon my arm,! 
 splendid but tattered finery ; ihe tears coursing' oi{ 
 by one down iier face, carrying off the red paint i| 
 torrents, and literally "preying upon her damaj 
 cheek." 
 
 The crowd made way for us as we passed, anj 
 hooted in our rear. I felt the ridicule of my silui 
 lion, but had loo much gallantry to desert liiis I 
 one, who had sacrificed every thing for me. liaviJ 
 wandered through the fair, we emerged, likeanolii^ 
 Adam and ]']ve, into unknown regions, and "1 
 world before us, where to chuse.'" Never was a nioi 
 disconsolate pair seen in the soft valley of West Era 
 The luckless Columbine cast back many a liiijorii 
 look at the fair, which seemed to i)ut on a more I 
 usual splendour : its tents, and booths, and pariy-j 
 loured groups, all brigiitening in Ihe sunsiiiiu', 
 glea'ning among the trees; and its gay Hags 3I 
 strea.uers fluttering in the light summer airs. \vf 
 a heavy sigh she would lean on my arm and procoi 
 I had no hope nor consolation to give her; hut si 
 linked herself to my fortunes, and she was looniuj 
 of a woman to desert me. 
 
 Pensive and silent, then, we traversed the bfi 
 liful fields which lie behind llampstead, and \\nni\ 
 ed on, until the fiddle, and the hautboy, ami 
 shout, and the laugh, were swallowed up in liui 
 sound of I he big bass drum, and even llml died iiii| 
 into a distart rumble. We j)assed along tlie j 
 sant, sequestered walkof Nightingale-lane. Im apj 
 oflovers, what scene could be more propitious' 
 such a pair of lovers! Not a nightingale saiiijtosi 
 us : (he very gipsies, who were encamped ikj 
 during the fair, made no offer to tell the lorluiia 
 such an ill-omened couple, whose fortunes, I siipM 
 they thought too legibly written to need an il 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tm 
 
 had suffered in the rear 
 uffs from all sides durinjj 
 took the opportunity of 
 ; grudge on his fat carcass. 
 1 did not chuse to declare] 
 so he swore all those kick 
 y me, and I let him enjoj 
 s he hore, however, which 
 ;es of a woman's warfare: 
 ored by trickling furrows] 
 e nails of my intrepid anij 
 B ire of the monarch r, 
 lad suffered in his person] 
 purse; his dignity, too, had 
 irent for something; fordij 
 iscible the more petty ;lij 
 lis wrath upon the hefjiimer 
 nhine and myself were (lis 
 le company, 
 yourself, a striplinii; of 1 
 illeman by birth, a \m\m 
 ipon the world, making ili 
 the crowd of West End fair 
 lullerin- iu rags about me 
 i hanging upon my ariiij 
 „ery ; the tears coursiiiL' on 
 carrying off tlie red paiiil 
 "preying upon her dama^ 
 
 •ay for us as we passed, an 
 iell the ridicule of my silni 
 h gallantry to desert this (i 
 
 I every thing for me. llavi 
 
 fair, we emerged, like anolli 
 
 known regions, ami "had 
 
 loclmse.'- IN ever was a nil 
 
 II the soft valley of West! 
 e cast hack many a lini-crii 
 
 ined to put on a more llil 
 |„ts, and booths, ami parly 
 blening in the sunsliiiif, ai 
 trees; and its gay Hags a 
 the light summer airs. \^ 
 Jean on my arm ami proc( 
 olalion to give her; but shell 
 irtunes, andshewastoomi 
 
 Ine. 
 
 then, we traversed the to 
 
 Ihiiul Uampstead, ami wam 
 
 and the hautboy, aiul 
 
 wereswallowedupinlhoJi 
 
 hum, and even that (lied a' 
 
 We passed along ilie 
 
 oflSigbliiiSalc-*""''' ^''"''' 
 ,uld be more propitious 
 otanigblingalesani:tos( 
 who were encainped II 
 m, offer to tell ihe Mm 
 rple, whose fortunes, 1 sii| 
 l,ly written to need an 
 
 preter; and the gipsy children crawled into their ca- 
 l)im, and peeped out fearfully at us as we went by. 
 for a moment I paused, and was almost tempted to 
 turn gipsy ; but the poetical feeling, for the present, 
 vas fully satisfied, and I passed on. Thus we tra- 
 velled and travelled, like a prince and princess in a 
 Nursery Tale, until we had traversed a part of Uamp- 
 stead Heath, and arrived in the vicinity of Jack 
 Straw's Castle. Here, wearied and dispirited, we 
 sezted ourselves on the margin of the hill, hard by 
 the very mile-stone where Whittington of yore heard 
 the Bow-bells ring out the presage of bis future great- 
 oe. .. Alas ! no bell runganinvilation to us, as we look- 
 ed disconsolately upon the distant city. Old London 
 seemed : > wrap itself unsociably in its mantle of brown 
 smoke, and to offer nu encouragement to such a couple 
 oflatterdemallions. 
 For once, at least, the usual course of the panto- 
 mime was reversed, Harlequin was jllleu, and the lover 
 had carried off Columbine in good earnest. But what 
 vas I to do with her ? I could not take her in my 
 band, return to my father, throw myself on my knees, 
 and crave bis forgiveness and his blessing, according 
 todramatic usage. The very dogs would have chased 
 tucha draggled-tailed beauty from the grounds, 
 la the midst of my doleful dumps, some one tapped 
 mennlhe shoulder, and, looking up, I saw a couple 
 of rough sturdy fellows standing behind me. Not 
 knowing what to expect, I jumped on my legs, and 
 vas preparing again to make battle; but I was tripped 
 up and secured in a twinkling. 
 "Come, come, young master," said one of the fel- 
 lows, in a gruff but good-humoured tone, "don't 
 let's have any of your tantrums ; one would have 
 Itbought you had had swing enough for this bout. 
 iCome; it's high time to leave off harlequinading, and 
 joliome to your father." 
 In fact, I had fallen into the hands of remorseless 
 The cruel Sacharissa had proclaimed who I 
 as, and that a reward had been offered throughout | 
 
 country for any tidings of me ; and they had seen 
 description of me which had been inserted in the 
 iblic papers. Those harpies, therefore, for the 
 re sake of filthy lucre, were resolved to deliver me 
 m into the bands of my father, and the clutches of 
 tj pedagogue. 
 
 It was in vain that I swore I would not leave my 
 
 and aftlicled Columbine. It was in vain that 
 
 tore myself from their grasp, and flew to her; and 
 
 owed to protect her; and wiped the tears from her 
 
 leek, and with them a whole blush that might have 
 
 led with the carnation for brilliancy. My perse- 
 
 ilorswere inflexible; they even seemed to exult in 
 
 ir distress; and to enjoy this theatrical display of 
 
 lirt, and finery, and tribulation. I was carried off 
 
 despair, leaving my Columbine destitute in the 
 
 ide world ; but many a look of agony did I cast back 
 
 her as she stood gazing piteously after me from 
 
 lebrh'.k of ilampslead Hill; so forlorn, so line, so 
 
 ;ed, so bedraggled, yet so beautiful. 
 
 Thus ended my first peep into the world. I re- 
 turned home, rich in good-for-nothing experience, 
 and dreading the reward I was to receive for my im- 
 provement. My reception, however, was quite dif- 
 ferent from what I had expected. My father had a 
 spice of the devil in him, and did not seem to like me 
 the worse for my freak, which he termed "sowing 
 my wild oats." He happened to have some of his 
 sporting friends to dine the very day of my return ; 
 they made me tell some of my adventures, and laughed 
 heartily at them. 
 
 One old fellow, with an outrageously red nose, 
 took to me hugely. I heard him whisper to my fa- 
 ther that I was a lad of mettle, and might make some- 
 thing clever; to which my father replied, that I had 
 good points, but was an ill-broken whelp, and re- 
 quired a great deal of the whip. Perhaps this very 
 conversation raised me a little in his esteem, for I 
 found the red-nosed old gentleman was a veteran 
 fox-hunter of the neighbourhood, for whose opinion 
 my father had vast deference. Indeed, I believe he 
 would have pardoned any thing in me more readily 
 than poetry, which he called a cursed, sneaking, 
 puling, housekeeping employment, the bane of all 
 fine manhoiid. He swore it was unworthy of a 
 youngster of my expectations, who was one day to 
 have so great an estate, and would be able to keep 
 horses and hounds, aud hure poets to write songs for 
 him into the bargain. 
 
 I had now satisfied, for a time, my roving propen- 
 sity. I had exhausted the poetical feeling. I had 
 been heartily buffeted out of my love for theatrical 
 display. I felt humiliated by my exposure, and was 
 willing to hide my head any where for a season, so 
 that I might be out of the way of the ridicule of the 
 world ; for I found folks not altogether so indulgent 
 abroad as they were at my father's table. I could 
 not stay at home; the house was intolerably doleful, 
 now that my mother was no longer there to cherish 
 me. Every thing around spoke mournfully of her. 
 The little flower-garden in which she delighted was 
 all in disorder and overrun w ith weeds. I attempted 
 for a day or two to arrange it, but my heart grew 
 heavier and heavier as I laboured. Every little 
 broken-down flower, that I had seen her rear so ten- 
 derly, seemed to plead in mule eloquence to my feel- 
 ings. Theia was a favourite honeysuckle which I 
 bad seen her often training with assiduity, and had 
 heard her say it would be the pride of lier garden. 
 I found it groveling along tlie ground, Umgled and 
 wild, and twining round eveiy worthless weed; and 
 it struck me as an emblem of myself, a mere scat- 
 terling, running to waste and uselessness. I could 
 work no longer in the garden. 
 
 My father sent me to pay a visit to my uncle, by 
 way of keeping the old gentleman in mind of me. I 
 was received, as usual, without any expression of dis- 
 content, w'.iich we always considered equivalent to a 
 hearty welcome. Whether he had ever heard of my 
 strolling freak or not I could not discover, he and his 
 
530 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 man were both so taciturn. I spent a day or two roam- 
 ing about the dreary mansion and neglected park, and 
 felt at one time, I believe, a touch of poetry, for I was 
 tempted to drown myself in a fish-pond ; I rebuked 
 I he evil spirit, however, and it left me. I found the 
 same red-headed boy running wild about the park, but 
 I felt in no humour to hunt him at present. On the 
 4H>ntrary, I tried to coax him to me, and to make 
 friends with him ; but the young savag'^ was untame- 
 able. 
 
 When I returned from my uncle's, I remained at 
 home for some time, for my father was disposed, he 
 said, to make a man of me. He took me out hunting 
 with him, and I became a great favourite of the red- 
 nosed squire, because I rode at every thing, never re- 
 fused the boldest leap, and was always sure to be in 
 at the death. I used often, however, to offend my 
 father at hunting dinners, by Uking the wrong side 
 in politics. My father was amazingly ignorant, so 
 ignorant, in fact, as not to know that he knew nothing. 
 He was stanch, however, to church and king, and 
 full of old-fashioued prejudices. Now I had picked 
 up a little knowledge in politics and religion, during 
 my rambles with the strollers, and found myself ca- 
 pable of setting him right as to many of his antiquat- 
 ed notions. I felt it my duly to do so ; we were apt, 
 therefore, to differ occasionally in the political discus- 
 sions which sometimes arose at those hunting din- 
 ners. 
 
 I was at that age wlien a man knows least, and is 
 most vain of his knowledge, and when he is extreme- 
 ly tenacious in defending his opinion upon subjects 
 about which he knows nothing. My father was a 
 hard man for any one to argue with, for he never 
 knew when he was refuted. I sometimes posed him 
 a little, but then he had one argument that always 
 settled the questions ; he would threaten to knock 
 rae down. I believe he at last grew tired of me, be- 
 cause I both outtalked and outrode him. The red- 
 nosed squire, too, got out of conceit of rae, because, 
 in the heat of the chase, I rode over him one day as 
 lie and his horse lay sprawling in the dirt : so I found 
 myself getting into disgrace with all the world, and 
 would have got heartily out of humour with myself, 
 had I not been kept in tolerable self-coneeit by tlie 
 parson's three daughters. 
 
 They were the same who had admired my poetry 
 on a former occasion, when it had brought me into 
 disgrace at school ; and I had ever since retained an 
 exalted idea of their judgment. Indeed, they were 
 yc ung ladies not merely of tasle, but science. Their 
 education had ^ jen superintended by their mother, 
 wlw was a blue stocking. They knew enough of 
 botany to tell the technical names of all the flowers 
 in the garden, and all tlieir secret concerns into tlie 
 bargain. They knew music too, not mere common- 
 place music, but Rossini and Mozart, and they sang 
 Moore's Irish Melodies to perfection. They had pretty 
 little work-tables, covered with all kind of objects of 
 taste ; specimeiw of lava, and painted epgs, and work- 
 
 boxes, painted and varnished by themselves. They 
 excelled in knotting and netting, and painted in water- j 
 colours; and made feather fans, and tire-screens, am] 
 worked in silks and worsteds ; and talked French and j 
 Italian, and knew Shakspeare by heart. They even 
 knew something of geology and mineralogy ; and j 
 went about the neighbourhood knocking stones to 
 pieces, to the great admiration and perplexity of the j 
 country folk. 
 
 I am a little too minute, perhaps, in detailing their I 
 accomplislunents, but I wish to let you see that tliese 
 were not common-place young ladies, but had preten- 
 sions quite above the ordinary run. It was some I 
 consolation to me, therefore, to find favour in such | 
 eyes. Indeed, they had always marked me out f 
 a genius, and considered my late vagrant freak as I 
 fresh proof of the fact. They observed that Shak- 1 
 speare himself had been a mere Pickle in his youth- 
 that he had stolen deer, as every one knew, and kept I 
 loose company, and consorted with actors : so I com- 
 forted myself marvellously with the idea of having so | 
 decided a Shakspearean trait in my character. 
 
 The youngest of the three, however, was my grand I 
 consolation. She was a pale, sentimental girl, vithj 
 long "hyacinthine" ringlets hanging about her face i 
 She wrote poetry herself, and we kept up a poetical | 
 correspondence. She had a taste for the drama too,[ 
 and I taught her how to act several of the scenes inl 
 Romeo and Juliet. I used to rehearse the gardenl 
 scene under her lattice, which looked out from amon;! 
 woodbine and honeysuckles into the churchyard. l| 
 began to think her amazingly pretty as well as cleverJ 
 and I believe I should have finished by falling in lnve| 
 with her, had not her father discovered our theatrici 
 studies. He was a studious, abstracted man, generallfj 
 too much absorbed in his learned and religious laboun 
 to notice the Utile foibles of his daughters, and, per-l 
 haps, blinded by a father's fondness ; but he unex-| 
 pectedly put his head out of his study-window on 
 day in the midst of a scene, and put a stop to ( 
 rehearsals. He had a vast deal of that prosaic ; 
 sense which I forever found a slumbling-block iiiinjl 
 poetical path. My rambling freak had not struck M 
 good man as poetically as it had his daughters. Hi 
 drew Iiis comparison from a different manual. H^ 
 looked upon me as a prodigal son, and doubted whellt 
 I should ever arrive at the happy catastrophe oft! 
 fatted calf. 
 
 I fancy some intimation was given to my faliiero 
 this new breaking out of my poetical temperamentJ 
 for he suddenly intim?!ed that it was high time [ 
 should prepare for the University. I dreaded a retnit 
 to the school from whence I had eloped : the ridicul 
 of my fellow-scholars, and the glances from Ihe squire'| 
 pew, would have been worse than death to me. 
 was fortunately spared the humiliation. My fallK| 
 sent me to board with a country clergyman, whola 
 three or four other Ijoys under his care. I wenllj 
 him joyfully, for I had often heard my mother m 
 tioi. tiiin wilii esteem. In fact, he had been an admire 
 
by themselves. They 
 g, and painted in water- 1 
 s, and fire-screens, ami 1 
 
 and tallied French and 
 B by heart. They even ! 
 
 and mineralogy ; and ! 
 )od knocking stones lo I 
 »nand perplexity of the 
 
 erhaps, in detailing their 
 I to let yon see that these 
 !"■ ladies, but had preten- 
 lary run. It was some 
 !, to find favour in such 
 ways marked me out for 
 (ly late vagrant freak as 
 hey observed that Shak- 
 nere Pickle in his youth; 
 }very one knew, and kepi 
 ed with actors : so I com- 
 wilh the idea of having so 
 it in my character, 
 e, however, was my grand 
 ale, sentimental girl, with 
 ts hanging about her fiice. 
 and we kept up a poetical 
 a taste for the drama too, 
 ict several of the scenesin 
 ed to rehearse the garden: 
 liich looked out from amonjj 
 es into the churchyard. I 
 gly pretty as well as clever, 
 e finished by falling in loTe] 
 ler discovered our lUealrica" 
 I, abstracted man, generall: 
 jarned and religious labour 
 of his daughters, and, per 
 ■'s fondness ; but he unex 
 of his study-window cm 
 ;cne, and put a stop to ou 
 ist deal of that prosaic goo 
 ,nd a stumbling-block in m 
 ing freak had not struck;'- 
 it had his daughters. H( 
 |m a diffterent manual. H( 
 jal son, and doubted whetl 
 le happy catastrophe of 
 
 In was given to my fallwro 
 y my poetical temperamenll 
 [d that it was high time P 
 liversily . I dreaded a relni^ 
 le I had eloped : the ridicnH^ 
 1 the glances from the squire'l 
 Lorse than death to me. ■ 
 llie humiliation. My fall" 
 [ountry clergyman, who in 
 I under his care. IwcnlJ 
 Iften heard my mother infl^ 
 lfacl,hehadl)cenanadmiitl 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Xil 
 
 of hers in his younger days, though too humble in 
 fortune and modest in pretensions to aspire to her 
 liand; hnt he had ever retained a tender regard for 
 her. He was a good man ; a worthy specimen of that 
 valuable body of our country clergy who silently and 
 unostentatiously do a vast deal of good ; who are, as 
 it were, woven into the whole system of rural life, 
 and operate upon it with the steady yet unobtrusive 
 influence of temperate piety and learned good sense. 
 He lived in a small village not far from Warwick, one 
 of those little communities where the scanty flock Is, 
 in a manner, folded into the bosom of the pastor. 
 The venerable church, in its grass-grown cemetery, 
 was one of those rural temples which are scattered 
 about our country as if to sanctify the land. 
 
 I have the worthy pastor before my mind's eye at 
 
 this moment, with his mild benevolent countenance, 
 
 rendered still more venerable by his silver hairs. I 
 
 have him before me, as I saw him on my arrival, 
 
 sealed in (he emliowered porch of his small parsonage, 
 
 with a flower-garden before it, and his pi>pils gathered 
 
 round him like his children. I shall never forget his 
 
 reception of me, for I believe he thought of my poor 
 
 molher at the time, and his heart yearned towards 
 
 her child. IIi» eye glistened when he received me at 
 
 thedoor, and he took me into his arms as the adopted 
 
 lefaiidof his affections. Never had I been so fortunately 
 
 placed. He was one of those excellent members of 
 
 our church, who help out (heir narrow salaries by in- 
 
 itmcting a few gentlemen's sons. I am convinced 
 
 those little seminaries are among the best nurseries 
 
 of talent and virtue in the land. Both heart and mind 
 
 are cultivated and improved. The preceptor is the 
 
 pipanion and the friend of his- pupils. His sacred 
 
 character gives him dignity in their eyes, and his so- 
 
 Ijemn functions produce that elevation of mind and 
 
 [iobriety of conduct necessary to those who are to teach 
 
 ith to think and act worthily. 
 
 I speak from my own random observation and ex- 
 
 rience, bnt I think I speak correctly. At any rate, 
 
 lean trace much of what is good in my own hetero- 
 
 )us compound to the short time I was under the 
 
 ruction of that good man. He entered into the 
 
 and occupations and amusements of his pupils ; 
 
 won his way into our confidence, and studied 
 
 hearts and minds more intently than we did our 
 
 lis. 
 
 , He soon wounded the depth of my character. I had 
 
 »me, as I have already hinted, a little liberal in my 
 
 Mions, and apt to philosophise on both politics and 
 
 (ligion; having seen something of men and things, 
 
 i learnt, from my fellow-philosophers, the strollers, 
 
 Ddespise all vulgar prejudices. He did not attempt 
 
 I cast down my vainglory, nor to question my riKlit 
 
 lew of things ; he merely instilled into my mind a 
 
 lllle information on these topics ; though in a quiet, 
 
 Voblrusive way, that never ruffled a feather of my 
 
 |lf-conceil. I was aslonishetl to find what a change 
 
 jlillle knowledge makes in one's nimle of viewing 
 
 ptters; and how very difftnenl a subject i.s wlitii 
 
 one thinks, or when one only talks abont it. I con- 
 ceived a vast deference for my teacher, and was am- 
 bitious of his good opinion. In my zeal to make a 
 favourable impression, I presented him with a whole 
 ream of my poetry. He read it attentively, smiled, 
 and pressed my hand when he returned it to me, 
 but said nothing. The next day he set me at mathe- 
 matics. 
 
 Somehow or other the process of teaching seemed 
 robbed by him of all its austerity. I was not conscious 
 that he thwarted an inclination or opposed a wish ; 
 but I felt that, for the time, my inclinations were en- 
 tirely changed. I became fond of study, and zealous 
 to improve myself. I made tolerable advances in 
 studies, which I had before considered as unattain- 
 able, and I wondered at my own proficiency. I 
 thought, too, I astonished my preceptor; fori often 
 caught his eyes fixed upon me with a peculiar ex- 
 pression. I suspect, since, that he was pensively trac- 
 ing in my countenance the early lineaments of my 
 molher. 
 
 Education was not apportioned by him into tasks, 
 and enjoined as a labour, to be abandoned with joy the 
 moment the hour of study was expired. We had, it 
 is true, our allotted hours of occupation, to give us 
 habits of method, and of the distribution of time; but 
 they were made pleasant to us, and our feelings were 
 enlisttid in the cause. When they were over, educa- 
 tion still went on. It pervaded all our relaxations and 
 amusements. There was a steady march of improve- 
 ment. Much of his instruction was given during 
 pleasant rambles, or wlien seated on the margin of 
 the Avon ; and information received in that way, often 
 makes a deeper impression tiian when ac(]uired by 
 poring over books. I liave many of the p«re and 
 eloquent precepts that flowed froifi his lips associated 
 in my mind wilii lovely scenes in nature, which make 
 the recollection of them indescribably delightful. 
 
 I do nol pretend to say that any miracle was ef- 
 fected with me. After all said and done, I was bnt 
 a weak disciple. My poetical temperament still 
 wrought within me and wrestled hard with wisdom, 
 and, I fear, maintained the mastery. I found nii i he- 
 matics an intolerable task in fine weather. I would 
 be prone to forget my problems, to watch the bii-ds 
 hopping about the windows, or the bees humming 
 about the honeysuckles ; and whenever I could steal 
 away, I would wander about the grassy borders of the 
 Avon, and excuse this truant proponsily to myself 
 with the idea that I was treading classic ground, over 
 which Sliakspearc had wandeied. What luxurious 
 idleness have I indulged, as I lay under the trees and 
 walf'ied the silver waves rippling through the arches 
 of the broken bridge, and laving the rocky bases of 
 old Warwick (laslle; and how often have I Ihought 
 of sweet 8iMkspeare, and in my boyish «-nthusiasm 
 liav»> kiss«d the waves which had washeil his native 
 viilatfc! 
 
 My go<Hl preceptor wouhl often aorompany nie in 
 liiese desultory rambles. He sought lo Ret hold ot 
 
 
iSSi 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 this vagrant mood ofmiiu] and turn it to some account. 
 He endeavoured to teach me to mingle thought with 
 mere sensation ; to moralize on the scenes around ; 
 and to make the beauties of nature administer to the 
 understanding and the heart. He endeavoured to 
 direct my imagination to high and noble objects, and 
 to fill it with lofty images. In a word, he did all he 
 could to make the best of a poetical temperament, 
 and to counteract the mischief which had been done 
 to me by my great expectations. 
 
 Had I been earlier put under the care of the good 
 pastor, or remained with him a longer time, I really 
 believe he would have made something of me. He 
 had already bronght a great deal of what had been 
 flogged into me into tolerable order, and had weeded 
 out much of the unprofitable wisdom which had sprung 
 up in my vagabondizing. I already began to find that 
 with all my genius a little study would be no disad- 
 vantage to me ; and, in spite of my vagrant freaks, I 
 began to doubt my being a second Shakspeare. 
 
 Just as I was making these precious discoveries, the 
 good parson died. It was a melancholy day through- 
 out the neighbourhood. He had his little flock of 
 scholars, his children, as he used to call us, gathered 
 around him in his dying moments ; and he gave us 
 the parting advice of a father, now that he had to 
 leave us, and we w^ere to be separated from each other, 
 and scattered about in the world. He took me by the 
 hand, and talked with me earnestly and affectionately, 
 and called to mind my mother, and used her name to 
 enforce his dying exhortations, for I rather think he 
 considered me the most erring and heedless of his 
 flock. He held my hand in his, long after he had 
 done speaking, and kept his eye fixed on me tenderly 
 and almost piteously : his lips moved as if he were 
 silently praying fdr me; and he died away, still hold- 
 ing me by the hand. 
 
 There was not a dry eye in the church when the 
 funeral service was read from the pulpit from which 
 he had so often preached. When the body was 
 committed to the earth, our little band gathered 
 round it, and watched the coffin as it v/r^ lowered 
 into the grave. The parishioners looked at us with 
 sympathy ; for we were mourners not merely in dress 
 but in heart. We lingered about the grave, and 
 clung to one another for a time weeping and speech- 
 less, and then parted, like a band of brothers parting 
 from the paternal hearth, never to assemble there 
 again. 
 
 How had the gentle spirit of that good man sweet- 
 ened our natures, and linked our young hearts to- 
 gether by the kindest lies! I have always had a 
 ilirob of pleasure at iiieeling with an old school- 
 mate, even though one of my truant associates; but 
 whenever, in the course of my life, I have encounter- 
 ed one of that little flock with which I was folded <<q 
 the banks of tise Avon, it has been with a gush v>f 
 affection, and a glow of virtue, that for the moment 
 have made me a letter man. 
 
 I was now seiii to Oxford, and was wondei fully 
 
 impressed on first entering it as a student. Learning I 
 here puts on all its majesty. It is lodged in palaces; I 
 it is sanctified by the sacred ceremonies of religion; 
 it has a pomp and circumstance which powerfully af- 1 
 feet the imagination. Such, at least, it had in my 
 eyes, thoughtless as I was. My previous studies 
 with the worthy pastor, had prepared me to regani 
 it with deference and awe. He had been educated | 
 here, and always spoke of the University with 
 fondness and classic veneration. When I beheld llie I 
 clustering spires and pinnacles of this most august or| 
 cities rising from the plain, I hailed them in my eo- 
 thusiasm as the points of a diadem, which tlie nation | 
 bad placed upon the brows of science. 
 
 For a time old Oxford was full of enjoyment Ibrj 
 me. There was a charm about ita monastic build-l 
 ings; its great Gothic quadrangles; its solemn hallsj 
 and shadowy cloisters. I delighted, in the eveningsj 
 to get in places surrounded by the colleges, where alll 
 modern buildings were screened from the sight; andl 
 to see the professors and students sweeping along iil 
 the dusk in their antiquated caps and gowns. I seem-l 
 ed for a time to be transported among the people andl 
 edifices of the old times. I was a frequent attendant! 
 also, of the evening service in the New College Hall;l 
 to hear the fine organ, and the choir swelling an a^ 
 them in that solemn building, where painting, m 
 sic, and architecture, are in such admirable unison. I 
 
 A favourite haunt, too, was the beautiful walkhor-j 
 dered by lofty elms along the river, behind the | 
 walls of Magdalen College, which goes by the nam 
 of Addison's Walk, from being his favourite res( 
 when an Oxford student. I became also a lounfg 
 in the Bodleian Library, and a great dipper into M 
 though I cannot say that I studied them ; in fad 
 being no longer under direction or control, I wasgn 
 dually relapsing into mere indulgence of the fancfj 
 Still this would have been pleasant and harmles 
 enough, and I might have awakened from mereli 
 terary dreaming to something better. The chan 
 were in my favour, for the riotous times of the Uiii| 
 versity were past. The days of hai'd drinking va 
 at an end. The old feuds of " Town and Gown,', 
 like the civil wars of the White and Red Rose, I 
 died away; and student and citizen slept in peace a 
 whole skins, without risk of being summoned in ll 
 night to bloody brawl. It had become the 
 to study at the University, and the odds werealwajj 
 in favour of my following the fashion. Unluckin 
 however, I fell in company with a special knot (I 
 young fellows, of lively parts and ready wit, whohJ 
 lived occasionally upon town, and become initial!^ 
 into the Fancy. They voted study to be the 
 dull minds, by which they slowly crept up tlie liij 
 while genius arrived at it at a bound. I fell a 
 to play the owl among such gay birds; so I liirewlj 
 my lM)oks, and became a man of spirit. 
 
 As my father made me a tolerable allowance, 
 withstanding the narrowness of his income, liatij 
 an eye always to my great expectations, I was enali 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 SSSi 
 
 it as a student. Learning I 
 . It is lodged in palaces; 
 ed ceremonies of religion; 
 lance which powerfully af- 
 ch, at least, it liad in my 
 as. My previous studies I 
 ad prepared me to regard 
 >. He liad been educated 
 r the University with filial 
 ation. W hen I beheld llie 
 acles of this most august of 
 I, I hailed them in my en- 
 diadem, which tlie nation | 
 18 of science, 
 was full of enjoyment twl 
 n about its monastic build-l 
 idrangles; its solemn halls,! 
 I delighted, in the evenings, 
 d by the colleges, where aill 
 creened from the sight; aiHll 
 students sweeping along iij 
 ed caps and gowns. I seem-l 
 orted among the people andl 
 I was a frequent attendant,! 
 ce in the New College Hall;| 
 nd the choir swelling an an 
 Iding, where painting, m 
 i in such admirable unison. I 
 1, was the beautiful walkhor-l 
 g the river, behind the 
 je, which goes by the nan 
 n being bis favourite re 
 t. I became also a loungi 
 and a great dipper into boo 
 at I studied them ; in fat 
 irection or control, I wasgn 
 ;re indulgence of the fancjj 
 been pleasant and harmie 
 ave awakened from mere iij 
 elhing better. The chaii 
 the riotous times of the Un 
 i days of hard drinking m 
 ids of " Town and Gowi, 
 e White and Red Rose, 
 andcitizen slept in peace. 
 3k of being summoned inl 
 It had become the fash 
 ty, and the odds werealwajj 
 ring the fashion. Unluckil]^ 
 ipany with a special knoK 
 parts and ready wit, Avhobij 
 I town, and become initiati 
 voted study to be the loi 
 hey slowly crept up the 
 it at a bound. I fell ashaia 
 ruchgaybirdsjsolthrewl 
 
 a man of spirit. 
 
 ne a tolerable allowance, 
 
 (wness of his income, ha' 
 cat expcclations, I was m^ 
 
 appear to advantage among my companions. I cul- 
 
 llifated all kinds of sport and exercises. I was one of 
 
 > most expert oarsmen that rowed on the Isis. I 
 
 loied, fenced, angled, sliot, and hunted ; and my 
 
 loms in college were always decorated with whips 
 
 tail kinds, spurs, fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, foils, 
 
 I boxing-gloves. A pair of leather breeches would 
 
 KOI to be throwing one leg out of the half-open 
 
 awers, and empty bottles lumbered the bottom of 
 
 [fery closet. 
 
 My father came to see me at college when I was in 
 
 t lieiglit of my career. He asked me how 1 came 
 
 ivilh my studies, and what kind of hunting there 
 
 ) in the neighbourhood. He examined my various 
 
 ling apparatus with a curious eye; wanted to 
 
 owifany of the professors were for.-hnnters, and 
 
 lihellier they were generally good shots, for he sus- 
 
 !Cled their studying so much must be hurtful to the 
 
 ijht. We had a day's shooting together . I delight- 
 
 jhim with my skill, and astonished him by my learn- 
 
 ddisquisilionson horse-flesh, and on Manlon's guns; 
 
 b, upon the whole, be departed highly satisfled with 
 
 Ly improvement at college. 
 
 I do not know how it is, but I cannot be idle long 
 rilhont getting in love. I had not been a very long 
 
 ea man of spirit, therefore, before I became deeply 
 lamoured of a shopkeeper's daughter in the High- 
 «t, who, in fact, was tlie admiration of many of the 
 deals. I wrote several sonnets in praise of her, and 
 lent half of my pocket-money at the shop, in buying 
 tides which I did not want, that I might have an 
 ortunity of speaking to her. Her father, a severe- 
 wking old gentleman, with bright silver buckles, 
 i a crisp-curled wig, kept a strict guard on her, as 
 |he fathers generally do upon their daughters in Ox- 
 d, and well they may. I tried to get into his good 
 es, and to be social with him, but all in vain. I 
 (several good things in his shop, but he never 
 ghed : he had no relish for wit and humour. He 
 s one of those dry old gentlemen who keep young- 
 i at bay. He had already brought up two or three 
 hnghters, and was experienced in the ways of stu- 
 lenls. He was as knowing and wary as a grey old 
 idger that has often been hunted. To see him on 
 iinday, so stiff and starched in his demeanour, so 
 «ise in his dress, with his daughter under his arm, 
 ^as enough to deter all graceless youngsters from ap- 
 aching. 
 
 I I managed, however, in spite of his vigilance, to 
 Hve several conversations with the daughter, as I 
 leapened articles in the shop. I made terrible long 
 irgains, and examined the articles over and over 
 pore I purchased. In the mean time, I would con- 
 ky a sonnet or an acrostic under cover of a piece o 
 kmbric, or slipped into a pair of stockings ; I would 
 Jliisper soft nonsense into her ear as I haggled about 
 
 ! price; and would squeeze her hand tenderly as I 
 med my half-pence of change in a bit of wliity- 
 "wn pai)er. Let this serve as a hint to all haber- 
 Kiiers who have pretty daughters tor shop-girls, and 
 
 young students for cnstomers. I do not know whe- 
 ther my words and looks were very eloquent, but 
 my poetry was irresistible; for, to tell the truth, the 
 girl had some literary taste, and was seldom without a 
 book from the circulating library. 
 
 By the divine power of poetry, therefore, which is 
 so potent with the lovely sex, did I subdue the heart 
 of this fair little haberdasher. We carried on a sen- 
 timental correspondence for a lime across the counter, 
 and I supplied her with rhyme by the stockuig-full. 
 At length I prevailed on her 'o grant an assignation. 
 But how was this to be effected? Her father kept 
 her always under his eye; she never walked out alone; 
 and the liouse was locked up the moment that the 
 shop was shut. All these difficulties served but to 
 give zest to the adventure. I proposed that the assi- 
 gnation should be in her own chamber, into which I 
 would climb at night. The plan was irresistible — A 
 cruel father, a secret lover, and a clandestine meet- 
 ing ! All the little girl's studies from the circulating 
 library seemed about to be realized. 
 
 But wha' 'lad I in view in making this assignation ? 
 Indeed, I know not. I had no evil intentions, nor 
 can I say that I had any good ones. I liked the girl, 
 and wanted to have an opportunity of seeing more of 
 her ; and the assignation was made, as I have done 
 many things else, heedlessly and without forethought. 
 I asked myself a few questions of the kind, after all 
 my arrangements were made, but the answers were 
 very unsatisfactory. " Ami toruin th's poor thought- 
 less girl ? " said I to myself. " No ! " was the prompt 
 and indignant answer. *' Am I to run away with 
 her? "— " Whither, and to what purpose?"— "Well, 
 then, am I to marry her?''— "Poh! a man of 
 my expectations marry a shopkeeper's daughter ! " 
 " What then am I to do with her? " " Hum— why 
 — let me get into the chamber first, and then con- 
 sider — " and so the self-examination ended. 
 
 Well, sir, " come what come might, " I stole under 
 cover of the darkness to the dwelling of my dulcinea. 
 All was quiet. At the concerted signal her window 
 was gently opened. It was just above the projecting 
 bow-window of her father's sliop, which assisted me 
 in mounting. The house was low, and I was enabled 
 to scale the fortress with tolerable ease. I clambered 
 with a beating heart; I reached the casement ; I hoist- 
 ed my body half into the chamber; and was welcom- 
 ed, not by the embraces of my expecting fair one, but 
 by the grasp of the crabbed-looking old father in the 
 crisp-curled wig. 
 
 I extricated myself from his clutches, and endea- 
 voured to make my retreat ; but I was confounded by 
 his cries of thieves ! and robbers ! I was bothered too 
 by his Sunday cane, which was amazingly busy about 
 my head as I descended, and against which my hat 
 was but a poor protection. Never before had I an 
 idea of the activity of an old man's arm, and the 
 hardness of the knob of an ivory-headed cane. In 
 my hurry and confusion I missed nn.y footing, and fell 
 sprawling on the paventcnl . I was immediately sur- 
 
53i 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rounded by myrmidons, who, I doubt not, were on 
 the watch for me. Indeed, I was in no situation to 
 escape, for I had sprained my ancle in the fall, and 
 could not stand. I was seized as a housebreaker ; and 
 to exonerate myself of a greater crime, I had to accuse 
 myself of a less. I made known who I was, and why 
 I came there. Alas ! the varlets knew it already, and 
 were only amusing themselves at my expense. My 
 perfidious muse had been playin<j: me one of her slip- 
 pery tricks. The old curmudgeon of a father liad 
 found my sonnets and acrostics hid away in holes and 
 corners of his shop : he had no tasle for poetry like his 
 daughter, and had instituted a rigorous though silent 
 observation. He had moused upon our letters, de- 
 tected our plans, and prepared every thing for my re- 
 ception. Thus was I ever doomed to be led into 
 scrapes by the muse. Let no man henceforth carry 
 on a secret amour in poetry ! 
 
 The old man's ire was in some measure appeased 
 by the pommeling of my head and the anguisli of my 
 sprain ; so he did not put me to death on the spot. He 
 was even humane enough to furnish a shutter, on 
 which I was carried back to college like a wounded 
 warrior. The porter was roused to admit me. The 
 college gate was thrown open for my entry. The 
 affair was blazed about the next morning, and be- 
 came the joke of the college from tJie buttery to the 
 ball. 
 
 I had leisure to repent during several weeks' con- 
 finement by my sprain, which I passed in translating 
 Boethius' Consolations of Philosophy. I received a 
 most tender and ill-spelled letter from my mistress, 
 who had been sent to a relation in Coventry. She 
 protested her innocence of my misfortunes, and vow- 
 ed to be true to me " till deth. " I took no notice of 
 the letter, for I was cured, for the present, both of love 
 and poetry. Women, however, are more constant in 
 their attaclunents than men, whatever philosophers 
 may say to the contrary. I am assured that she ac- 
 tually remained faithful to her vow for several months; 
 but she had to deal with a cruel father, whose heart 
 was as hard as the knob of Ids cane. Ue was not to 
 be touched by tears or poetry, but absolutely com- 
 pelled Iter to marry a reputable young tradesman, 
 who made her a happy woman in spite of herself, and 
 of all the rules of romance : and, what is more, the 
 mother of several children. They are at this very day 
 a thriving couple, and keep a snug corner shop, just 
 opposite the figure of Peeping Tom, at Coventry. 
 
 I will not fatigue you by any more details of my 
 studies at Oxford; though they were not always as 
 severe as these, nor did I always pay as dear for my 
 lessons. To be brief, then, I lived on in my usual 
 miscellaneous manner, gradually getting knowledge 
 of good and evil, until I had attained my twenty-first 
 year. I had scarcely come of age when I heard of 
 the sudden death of my father. The shock was se- 
 vere, for though he liad never treated me with much 
 kindness, still he was my father, and at his death I 
 felt alone in the world. 
 
 I returned home, and found myself the solitj 
 master of the paternal mansion. A crowd of gkwQ,! 
 feelings came thronging upon me. It was a pij, 
 that always sobered me, and brought me to leH 
 tion ; now especially, it looked so deserted and i 
 lancholy. I entered the little breakrusiiii^^-ruuni 
 There were my father's whip and spurs hangiip | 
 the fire-place; the Stud book. Sporting Magazin 
 and Racing Calendar, his only reading. His rj 
 vourite spaniel lay on the hearth-rug. The poor an! 
 mal, who had never before noticed me, now cani 
 fondling about me, licked my hand, then lookd 
 round the room, whined, wagged his tail slightij 
 and gazed wistfully in my face. I felt the full 
 of the appeal. *' Poor Dash," said " we are I 
 alone in the world, with nobody tu care for us, ai^ 
 w ill take care of one another." — The dog never (|uiii( 
 me afterwards. 
 
 I could not go into my mother's room— my hei 
 swelled when I passed within sight of the door. i|J 
 portrait hung in the parlour, just over the place wlio 
 she used to sit. As I cast my eyes on it, I tlioud 
 it looked at me with tenderness, and I burst into tearj 
 I was a careless dog, it is true, hardened a 
 perhaps, by living in public schools, and bulTetid 
 about among strangers, who cared nothing fur m 
 but the recollection of a mother's tenderness wasovti 
 coming. 
 
 I was not of an age or a teniperament to be I 
 depressed. There was a reaction in my system i 
 always brougiit me up again after every pressiin 
 and, indeed, my spirits were most buoyant after | 
 temporary prostration, i settled the concerns ofll 
 estate as soon as possible; realized my prop 
 which was not very considerable, but which appeal 
 a vast deal to me, having a jH>etical eye, that nia>i 
 fied every thing; and finding myself, at the endof| 
 few months, free of all further business or restrain 
 I determined to go to London and enjoy niysc 
 Why should not I ? — I was young, animated, joyn 
 had plenty of fun'Js for present pleasures, andi 
 uncle's estate in tLe perspective. Let those mopei 
 college, and pore ever books, thought I, \siio liai 
 their way to make in the world ; it would be rii( 
 culous drudgery in a youth of ray expectations! 
 
 Away to London, therefore, I rattled inataoA 
 determined to take the to wn gaily. I passed liin 
 several of the villages where I had played tbe J 
 Pudding a few years before; and I visited thes 
 of many of my adventures and follies, merely k 
 that feelin,' of melancholy pleasure which we bfl 
 in stepping again the footprints of foregone existei 
 even when they have passed among weeds and t 
 I made a circuit in the latter part of my journey, j 
 as to take in West End and Hampstcad, tbe sea 
 of my last dramatic exploit, and of the battle i 
 of the booth. As I drove along the ridge of Ha 
 stead Hill, by Jack Straw's Castle, I paused all 
 s|)Ot where Columbine and I had sat down so if 
 consolately in our ragged finery, and had looked* 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 bund myself tlic soliutj 
 gion. Acrowdofglooml 
 pun me. It was a pl^ 
 ind brouglit me to rtil« 
 oked so deserted and i 
 little breakfasting-rouiii 
 hip and spurs lianf5iii(; | 
 book, Sporting Magazin 
 is only reading. His fj 
 learth-rug. The poor ani 
 ■e noticed me, now cam 
 d my hand, then iookel 
 , wagged his tail slightlJ 
 r face. I felt the full fw 
 jsh," said " we are I 
 iiobotly to care for us, agj 
 ;r."— The dog never (luiiie 
 
 f mother's room— my h« 
 ithin sight of the door. Ij^ 
 ur, just over the place wlia 
 it my eyes on it, I lliou^ 
 irness, and I burst into lead 
 is true, hardened a 
 ublic schools, and buffclid 
 who cared nothing for mij 
 mother's tenderness was ova 
 
 • a tenkperament to be 
 a reaction in my system 
 again after every pressui 
 were most buoyant after 
 I settled the concerns of 
 ble; realized my pro| 
 iderable, but which appei 
 g a iMjetical eye, that niagi 
 iding myself, at the end ol 
 "urtlier business or restrai 
 London and enjoy rayi 
 vas young, animated, joyi 
 r present pleasures, and 
 spective. Let those moiic 
 loks, thought I, who liai 
 lie world; it would be 
 uth of my expectations 
 refore, Irattledinalai 
 wn gaily. I passed tin 
 here I had played theJi 
 jfore; and I visited the 
 res and follies, merely fi 
 ly pleasure which we bi 
 tprints of foregone exisit 
 sed among weeds and' 
 alter part of my journey, 
 and Hampstcad, Ihesci 
 loit, and of the bailie 
 ve along the ridge of Hi 
 w's Castle, I paused at 
 and I had sat down so 
 d lincry, and had looked' 
 
 ily on London. I almost expected to see her 
 in, standing: on the hill's brink, " like Niobe, all 
 
 ; " — mournful as Babylon in ruins ! 
 '» Poor Columbine ! " said I, with a heavy sigh, 
 tlum wert a gallant, generous girl — a true woman ; 
 iiliful to the distressed, and leady (o sacrifice thy- 
 If ill Uie cause of worthless man ! " 
 I tried to whistle off the recollection of her, for 
 was always something of self-reproach with it. 
 drove gaily along the rond, enjoying the stare of 
 lers and stable-boys, as I managed my horses 
 iwiugly down the steep street of Ilanipsteud; 
 >n, just at the skirts of the village, one of the 
 s uf my leader came loose. I pidled up, and 
 tlie animal was restive, and my servant a bungler, 
 Italled for assistance to the robustious master of a 
 I' alehouse, who stood at his door with a tankard 
 his hand. He came readily to assist me, followed 
 bis wife, with her bosom half open, a child in 
 amis, and two more at her heels. I stared for 
 Innment, us if doubting my eyes. I coult' not be 
 iken ; in the fat, lieer-hlown landlord of the ale- 
 I, I recognized my old rival Harlequin, and in 
 slattern spouse, the once trim and dimpling Co- 
 me. 
 
 he change of my looks from youth to manhood, 
 the change in my circumstances, prevented them 
 recognizing me. They could not suspect in 
 dashing young buck, fashionably dressed and 
 ig his own equipage, the painted beau, with old 
 ied hat, and long, flimsy, sky-blue coat. My 
 yearned with kindness towards Columbine, and 
 as glad to see her establishment a thriving one. 
 soon as the harness was adjusted, I tossed a small 
 of gold into her ample bosom; and then, pre- 
 tng to give my horses a hearty cut of the whip, 
 le the lash curl with a whistling about the sleek 
 of ancient Harlequin. The horses dashed off 
 lightning, and I was whirled out of sight before 
 T of the parties could gel over their surprise at 
 liberal donations. I have always considered this 
 leof the greatest proofs of my poetical genius; 
 as distributing poetical justice in perfection. 
 now entered London en cavalier, and became a 
 upon town. I took fashionable lodgings in the 
 end; employed the first tailor; frequented the 
 liar lounges; gambled a little; lost my money 
 humouredly, and gainrd a number of fashion- 
 good-for-nothing acquaintances. I gained some 
 lation also for r man of science, having become 
 irt boxer in tlie course of my studies at Ox- 
 I was distinguished, therefore, among the gen- 
 n of the Fancy; became hand and glove with 
 lin boxing noblemen, and was the admiration of 
 ives Court. A gentleman's science, however, 
 to get him into sad scrapes ; he is too prone to 
 |the knight-errant, and to pick up quarrels which 
 ienlKic gentlemen would quietly avoid. I iin- 
 k one day to punish the insolence of a porter. 
 as a Ikrcules of a fellow, but then I was so se- 
 
 cure in my science ! I gained the victory of course. 
 The porter pocketed his humiliation, bound up his 
 broken head, and went about liis business as uncon- 
 cernedly as though nothing had happened; while I 
 went to bed with my victory, and did not dare lu 
 show my battered face for a fortnight : by which I 
 discovered that a gentleman may liave the worst of 
 the battle even when victorious. 
 
 I am naturally a philosopher, and no one can mora- 
 lize better after a misfortune has taken place : so I lay 
 on my bed and moralized on this sorry ambition, 
 which levels the gentleman with the clown. I 
 know it is the opinion of many sages, who have 
 thought deeply on these matters, that the noble science 
 of boxing keeps up the bull-dog courage of the na- 
 tion ; and far be it from me to decry the advantage of 
 becoming a nation of bull-dugs; but I now saw clear- 
 ly that it was calculated lo keep up the breed of Eng- 
 lishruflians. "W hat is the Fives Court," said I lo my- 
 self, as I turned uncomfortably in bed, " but a college 
 of scoundrelism, where every bully rufTian in the land 
 may gain a fellowship? What is the slang language 
 of 'The Fancy' but a jargon by which fools and 
 knaves commune and understand each other, and en- 
 joy a kind of superiority over the uninitiated? What 
 is a boxing-match but an arena, where the noble and 
 the illustrious are jostled into familiarity with the in- 
 famous and the vulgar ? What, in fact, is the Fancy 
 itself, but a chain of easy communication, extending 
 from the peer down to the pickpocket, through the 
 medium of which a man of rank may find he has 
 shaken hands, at three removes, with the murderer 
 on the gibbet? — 
 
 "Enough!" ejaculated I, thoroughly convinced 
 through the force of my philosophy, and the pain of 
 my bruises — " I'll have nothing more to do with The 
 Fancy." So when I had recovered from my victory, 
 I turned my atlentiun to softer themes, and became a 
 devoted admirer of the ladies. Had I had more in- 
 dustry and ambition in my nature, I might have 
 worked my way to the very height of fashion, as I 
 saw many laborious gentlemen doing around me. 
 Dat it is a toilsome, an anxious, and an unhappy life : 
 there are few beings so sleepless and miserable as 
 youp cultivators of fashionable smiles. I was quite 
 content with that kind of society which forms the 
 frontiers of fashion, and may be easily taken posses- 
 sion of. I found it a light, easy, productive soil. I 
 had but to go about and sow visiting-cards, and I 
 reaped a whole harvest of invitations. Indeed, my 
 figure and address were by no means against me. II 
 was whispered, loo, among the young ladies, that I 
 was prodigiously clever, and wrote poetry ; and the 
 old ladies bad ascertained that I was a young gentle- 
 man of good family, handsome fortune, and " great 
 exptctalions." 
 
 I now was carried away by the hurry of gay life, 
 so intoxicating to a young man, and which a man of 
 poetical temperament enjoys so highly on his first 
 tasting of it : that rapid variety of sensations; thai 
 
 •■' I 
 
^^J'■ 
 

 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 1.1 
 
 Ui |2B 12.5 
 
 itt U£ 12.2 
 
 £f 134 
 
 ^ 1^ |2.0 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporalion 
 
 ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 4 
 
 N^ 
 
 ;\ 
 
 \ 
 
 
 23 WIST MAIN STRUT 
 
 WMSTM.N.Y. 14510 
 
 (716) •73-4503 
 
 
 
ass 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 whirl of brilliant objects ; that suoceasion of pungent 
 pleasures! I had.no time Tor thought. I only felt. 
 I never attempted to write poetry; my poetry seemed 
 all to go off by transpiration. I lived poetry ; it was 
 all a poetical dream to me. A mere sensualist knows 
 nothing of the delights of a splendid melropolu. He 
 lives in a round of animal gratiflcations and heartless 
 habits. But to a young man of poetical feelings, it is 
 an ideal world, a scene of enchantment and delusion; 
 his imagination is in perpetual excitement, and gives 
 a spiritual zest to every pleasure. 
 
 A season of town-life, however, somewhat sobered 
 me of my intoxication; or, rather, I was rendered 
 more serious by one of my old complaints— I fell in 
 love. It was with a very pretty, tltough a very 
 haughty fair one, who had come to London under the 
 care of an old maiden aunt to enjoy the pleasures of 
 a winter in town, and to get married. There was 
 not a doubt of lier commanding a choice of lovers; 
 for she had long been the belle of a little cathedral 
 city, and one of the poets of the place bad absolutely 
 celebrated her beauty in a copy of Latin verses. The 
 most extravagant anticipations were formed by her 
 friends of the sensation she would produce. It was 
 feared by some that she might be precipitate in her 
 choice, and take up with some inferior title. The 
 aunt was determined notliing should gain her under 
 a loi-d. 
 
 Alas! with all her charms, the young lady lacked 
 the one thing needful — she had no money. So she 
 waited in vain for duke, marquis, or earl, to throw 
 himself at her feet. As the season waned, so did the 
 lady's expectations; when, just towards the close, I 
 made my advances. 
 
 I was most bvourably received by both the young 
 lady and her aunt. It is true, I had no title ; but 
 then such great expectations ! A marked preference 
 was immediately shown me over two rivals, the 
 younger son of a needy baronet, and a captain of dra- 
 goons on half-pay. I did not absolutely take the field 
 in form, for I was determined not to be precipitate; 
 but I drove my equipage frequently tlirough the street 
 in which she lived, and was always sure to see her 
 at the window, generally with a book in her hand. 
 I resumed my knack at rhyming, and sent her a long 
 copy of verses; anonymously, to be sure, but she 
 knew my hand-writing. Both aunt and niece, how- 
 ever, displayed the most delightful ignorance on the 
 subject. The young lady showed them to me ; won- 
 dered whom they could be written by; and declared 
 there was nothing in this world she loved so mi^ch as 
 poetry; while the maiden aunt would put her punch- 
 ing spectacles on her nose, and read them, with blun- 
 ders in sense and sound, that were excruciating to an 
 author's ears ; protesting there was nothing equal to 
 them in the whole Elegant Extracts. 
 
 Tbefashionableseason closed without my adventur- 
 ing to make a declaration, though I ceriainly had en- 
 couragement. I was not perfectly sure that I had 
 effected a lodgment in the young lady's heart, and, 
 
 to tell the truth, the aunt overdid her part, and vin 
 little too extravagant in her liking of me. I ki 
 that maiden aunts were not apt to be captivated 
 the mere personal merits of their nieces' admi 
 and I wanted to ascertain how much of all this&Ti 
 I owed to driving an equipage, and having great 
 pectations. 
 
 I had received many hints how charming their 
 tive place was during the summer months; what 
 sant society they had; and what beautiful drr 
 about the neighbourhood. They had not, theitl 
 returned home long, before I made my ap| 
 in dashing style, driving down the principal 
 The very next morning I was seen at prayers, 
 in the same i>ew with the reigning belle. Qui 
 were whispered about the aisles, after service, " 
 is he?" and "What is he?" And the replies 
 asusual, " A yuung gentleman of good family and 
 tune, and great expectations." 
 
 I was much struck with the peculiarities of 
 reverend little place. A cathedral, with its di 
 encies and regulations, presents a picture of 
 times, and of a different order of tilings. It u i 
 relic of a more poetical age. There still linger 
 it the silence and solemnity of the cloister. In 
 present uistance especially, where the cathedral 
 large, and the town was small, its influence vai 
 more apparent. The solemn pomp of the 
 performed twice a day, with the grand intonals 
 the organ, and the voices of the choir swelling II 
 the magnificent pile, diffused, as it were, a pei 
 sabbath over the place. This routine of soiema 
 remony continually going on, independent, as it 
 of the world ; this daily offering of melody and 
 ascending like incense from the altar, bad a poi 
 effect upon my imagination. 
 
 The aunt introduced me to her coterie, fonneij 
 families connected with the cathedral, and ol 
 moderate fortune, but high respectability, vbo 
 nestled themselves under the wings of the cal 
 to enjoy good society at moderate expense. It 
 a highly aristocratical little circle; scrupulowi 
 intercourse with others, and jealously cautions 
 admitting any thing common or unclean. 
 
 It seemed as if the courtesies of the old scbooi 
 taken refuge here. There vere continual intei 
 of civilities, and of small presents of fruits and 
 cacies, and of complimentary crow-quill billels; 
 a quiet, well-bred community like this, living 
 at ease, little duties, and little amusements, ani 
 civilities, fill up the day. I have seen, in lb< 
 of a warm day, a corpulent, powdered footmaa, 
 ing from the iron gateway of a stately maiuioa,j 
 traversing the little place with an air of 
 port, bearing a small tart on a large silver sal' 
 
 Their evening amusements were sober and 
 tive. They assembled at a moderate hour; the; 
 ladies played music, and the old ladies whitt; 
 an early hour they dispersed. There was no 
 on these social occasions. Two or three old 
 
 ich| 
 my I 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 .■557 
 
 nt oyerdid her part, and^j 
 in her Hking of me. I knti 
 re not apt to be captWaledl 
 fits of their nieces* admirai 
 ain how much of all (hisbi* 
 juipage, and having great < 
 
 f hints how charming their 
 he summer months; what 
 I; and what beautiful 
 (od. They had not, thei 
 before I made my appeal 
 ing down the principal 
 g I was seen at prayers, 
 the reigning belle. Qu 
 t the aisles, after service, " 
 she?" And the repliea 
 mtlemanof good family and 
 jtations." 
 
 ik with the peculiarities d 
 A cathedral, with its de- 
 M, presents a picture of 
 enl order of things. Itisaiil 
 al age. There still linger 
 lemnity of the cloister. In 
 Bcially, where the cathedral 
 was small, its influence wn 
 lie solemn pomp of the 
 jy, with the grand intonalii 
 Bices of the choir swelling II 
 .diffused, as it were, a pel 
 ace. This routine of solemm 
 ^ingon, independent, as it 
 lily offering of melody andj 
 ise from the altar, had a po' 
 
 pnation. . 
 
 ced me to her coterie, fomei] 
 vith the cathedral, and otto 
 lut high respectability, who 
 under the wings of the caih 
 ly at moderate expense. It 
 ;al little circle; scrupulomij 
 lers, and jealously cautious 
 
 5 common or unclean, 
 lecourtesiesofthe old school 
 There vere continual interchr 
 small presents of Bruits and 
 limentary crow-quill billeisi 
 »mmunity like this, l'*'"?" 
 I, and little amusements, «» 
 day. Ihaveseen, in ibei 
 jrpulent, powdered foolMB, 
 ;ateway of a sUtely maxm 
 > place with an air of migT 
 
 -ill tart on a large silver sal' 
 musemeniB were sober aiid 
 
 _>led at a moderate hour ; the] 
 c, and the old ladies whl»»i 
 dispersed. There was no 
 osions. Two or three old 
 
 (hairs were in constant activity, though the greater 
 put made their exit in clogs and pattens, with a foot- 
 man or waiting-maid carrying a lantern in advance; 
 lod long before midnight the clank of pattens and 
 ! {^eam of lanterns about the quiet little place told that 
 I itie evening party had dissolved. 
 
 Still I did not feel myself altogether so much at my 
 lease as I had anticipated, considering the smallness 
 of (he place. I found it very different from other 
 toontry places, and that it was not so easy to make a 
 dash there. Sinner that I was ! the very dignity and 
 decorum of the little community was rebuking to me. 
 I feared my past idleness and folly would rise in. judg- 
 ment against me. I stood in awe of the dignitaries 
 of the cathedral, whom I saw mingling familiarly in 
 Hciety. I became nervous on this point. The creak 
 Maprebcndai^'s shoes, sounding from one end of a 
 qniet street to the other, was appalling to me; and the 
 liight of a shovel-hat was sufncient at any time to 
 Itkck me in the midst of my boldest poetical soarings. 
 And then the good aunt conid not be ([uiet, but 
 |ironld cry me up for a genius, and extol my poetry to 
 very one. So long as she conlined this to the ladies 
 ;did well enough, because they were able to feel 
 appreciate poetry of the new romantic school. 
 Nothing would content the good lady, however, but 
 I must read my verses to a prebendary, who had 
 ig been the undoubted critic of the place. He was 
 ithin, delicate old gentleman, of mild, {lolished man- 
 ), steeped to the lips in classic lore, and not easily 
 It in a heat by any hot-blooded poetry of the day. 
 le listened to my most fervid thoughts and fervid 
 rords without a glow ; shook his head with a smile, 
 (condemned them as not being according to Ho- 
 i, as not being legitimate poetry. 
 Several old ladies, who had lieretefore been my 
 lirers, shook their heads at hearing this; they 
 lid not think of praising any poetry that was not 
 )rding to Horace; and as to any thing illegitimate, 
 I was not to be countenanced in good society. Thanks 
 my stars, however, I had youth and novelty on my 
 |id(! : so the young ladies persisted in admiring my 
 (try in despite of Horace and illegitimacy. 
 I consoled myself with the good opinion of the 
 mg ladies, whom I had always found to be the best 
 of poetry. As to these old scholars, said I, 
 ey are apt to be chilled by being steeped in the cold 
 intains of the classics. Still I felt that I was losing 
 ind, and tliat it was necessary to bring matters to 
 |point. Just at this time there was a public lull, at- 
 led by the best society of the place, and by the 
 itry of the neiglibourhood : I took great pains with 
 |y toilet on the occasion, and I had never looked 
 it' I had determined that night to make my 
 assault on the heart of the young lady, to 
 Itlle it with all my forces, and the next morning to 
 ""ind a surrender in due form. 
 [I entered the ball-room amidst a buzz and flutter, 
 lich generally took place among the young ladies 
 my appearance. I was in flne spirits; for, to tell 
 
 the truth, I had exhilarated myself by a cheerful glass 
 of wine on the occasion. I talked, and rattled, and 
 said a thousand silly things, slap-<lash, with all the 
 confidence of a man sure of his auditors, — and every 
 thing had its effect. 
 
 In the midst of my triumph I observed a little knot 
 gathering together in the upper {)art of the room. 
 By degrees it increased. A tittering broke out there, 
 and glances were cast round at me, and then there 
 would be fresh tittering. Some of the yonng ladies 
 would hurry away to distant parts of the room, and 
 whisper to their friends. Wherever they went, there 
 was still this tittering and glancing at me. I did not 
 know what to make of all this. I looked at myself 
 from head to foot, and peeped at my back in a glass, 
 to see ii any thing was odd about my person ; any 
 awkward expos'.ire, any whimsical lag hanging out : 
 — no — every thing was right — I was a perfect picture. 
 I determined that it must he some choice saying of 
 mine that was bandied about in this knot of merry 
 beauties, and I determined to enjoy one of my goo<I 
 things in the rebound. I stepped gently, therefore, 
 up the room, smiling at every one as I passed, who, I 
 must say, all smiled and tittered in return. I ap- 
 proached the group, smirking and perking my chin, 
 like a man who is full of pleasant feeling, and sure of 
 being wcl I received. The cluster of little belles oi)en- 
 cd as I advanced. 
 
 Heavens and earth ! whom should I perceive in the 
 midst of them but my early and tormenting flame, 
 the everlasting Sacharissa ! She was grown, it is 
 true, into the full beauty of womanhood ; but showed, 
 by the provoking merriment of her countenance, (hat 
 she perfectly recollected me, and the ridiculous fla- 
 gellations of which she had twice been the cause. 
 
 I saw at once the exterminating cloud of ridicule 
 that was bnrsting over me. My crest fell. The flame 
 of love went suddenly out of my bosom, or was ex- 
 tinguished by overwhelming shame. How I got down 
 the room I know not : I fancied evei7 one tittering at 
 me. Just as I reached the door, I caught a glance 
 of my mistress and her aunt listening to the whispers 
 of Sacharissa, the old lady raising her hands and eyes, 
 and the face of the young one lighted up, as I ima- 
 gined, with scorn ineffable. I paused to see no more, 
 but made two steps from the top of the stairs to the 
 bottom. The next morning, before sunrise, I beat a 
 retreat, and did not feel the blushes cool from my 
 tingling cheeks, until I had lost sight of the old towers 
 of the cathedral. 
 
 I now returned to town thoughtful and crest-fallen. 
 My money was nearly spent, for I had lived freely and 
 without calculation. The dream of love was over, 
 and the reign of pleasure at an end. I determined to 
 retrench while I had yet a trifle left : so selling my 
 equipage and horses for half their value, I quietly pat 
 the money in my pocket, and turned pedestrian. I 
 had not a doubt that, with my great expectations, I 
 could at any time raise funds, either on usury or by 
 borrowing; but I was principled against both one and 
 
x» 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the other, and resolved, by strict economy, to make 
 my slender purse hold out until my uncle should give 
 op the ghost, or rather the estate. I staid at home, 
 therefore, and read, and would have written, but I 
 had already sufTered too much from my poetical pro- 
 ductions, which had generally involved me in some 
 ridiculous scrape. I gradually acquired a rusty look, 
 and had a straitened money - borrowing air, upon 
 wliich the world began to shy me. I have never felt 
 disposed to quarrel with the world for its conduct ; 
 it has always used me well. When I have been flush 
 and gay, and disposed for society, it has caressed me ; 
 and when I have lieen pinched and reduced, and 
 wished to be alone, why, it has left me alone ; and 
 what more could a man desire ? Take my word for 
 it, this world is a more obliging world than people 
 generally represent it. 
 
 Well, sir, in the midst of my retrenchment, my 
 retirement, and my studiousness, I received news that 
 my uncle was dangerously ill. I hastened on the 
 wings of an heir's ofTections to receive his dying breath 
 and his last testament. I found him attended by his 
 faithful valet, old Iron John ; by the woman who oc- 
 casionally worked about the house, and by the foxy- 
 headed tioy, young Orson, whom I had occasionally 
 hunted about the park. Iron John gasped a kind of 
 asthmatical salutation as I entered the room, and re- 
 ceived me with something almost like a smile of wel- 
 come. The woman sat blubbering at the foot of the 
 bed ; and the foxy-headed Orson, who had now grown 
 up to be a lubberly lout, stood gazing in stupid va- 
 cancy at a distance. 
 
 My uncle lay stretched upon his back. The cham- 
 ber was without fire, or any of the comforts of a sick 
 room. The cobwebs flaunted from the ceiling. The 
 tester was covered with dust, and the curtains were 
 tattered. From underneath the bed peeped out one 
 end of his strong-box. Against the wainscot were 
 suspended rusty blunderbusses, horse-pistols, and a 
 cut-and-thrust sword, with which he had fortified his 
 room to defend his life and treasure. He had em- 
 ployed no physician during his illness; and from the 
 scanty relics lying on the table, seemed almost to have 
 denied to himself the assistance of a cook. 
 
 When I entered the room, he was lying motion- 
 less ; his eyes fixed and his mouth open : at the first 
 look I thought him a corpse. The noise of my en- 
 trance made him turn his head. At the sight of me 
 a ghastly smile came over his face, and his glazing eye 
 gleamed with satisfaction. It was the only smile he 
 had ever given me, and it went to my heart. " Poor 
 old man ! " thought I, " why would you force me to 
 leave you thus desolate, when I see that my presence 
 has the power to cheer you ?" 
 
 " Nephew," said he, after several efforts, and in a 
 low gasping voice—" I am glad you are come. I 
 shall now die with satisfaction. Look," said he, rais- 
 ing his withered hand, and pointing—" Look in that 
 box on the table : you will find that I have not for- 
 gotten you." 
 
 I pressed his hand to my heart, and the tears Mood 
 in my eyes. I sat down by his bed-side and watched 
 him, but he never s|)oke again. My presence, how> 
 ever, gave him evident satisfaction ; for every now and 
 then, as he looked at me, a vague smile would come 
 over his visage, and he would feebly point to tiie 
 sealed box on the table. As the day wore away, hu 
 life appeared to wear away with it. Towards suntet 
 his hand sunk on the bed, and lay motionless, hu 
 eyes grew glazed, his mouth remained open, andthns 
 he gradually died. 
 
 I could not but feel shocked at this absolute ei- 
 tinction of my kindred. I dropped a tear of reil 
 sorrow over this strange old man, who had thus ^^ 
 served the smile of kindness to his death-bed ; like an 
 evening sun after a gloomy day, just shining out (o 
 set in darkness. Leaving the corpse in charge of the 
 domestics, I retired for the night. 
 
 It was a rough night. The winds seemed atitl 
 singing my uncle's requiem about the mansion, and 
 the blood-hounds howled without, as if they knewofj 
 the death of their old master. Iron John aimoitl 
 grudged me the tallow candle to burn in my apart- 
 ment, and light u(i its dreariness, so accustomed 
 he been to starveling economy. I could not sietpj 
 The recollection of my uncle's dying scene, and thej 
 dreary sounds about the house affected my mind. 
 These, however, were succeeded by plans forthefo-l 
 ture, and I lay awake the greater part of the nigbl,{ 
 indulging the poetical anticipation how soon I shoal 
 make these old walls ring with cheerful life, audre-| 
 store the liospitality of my mother's ancestors 
 
 My uncle's funeral was decent but private. I knti { 
 there was nobody that respectetl his memory, and 
 was determined that none should be summoned 
 sneer over his funeral, and make merry at his grart. 
 He was buried in tlie church of the neighbouring vi 
 lage, though it was not the burying-place of his rawj 
 but he had expressly enjoined that he should not 
 buried with his family : he had quarrelled with 
 of them when living, and he carried his resei 
 even into the grnve. 
 
 I defrayed the expenses of his funeral out of 
 own purse, that I might have done with the uni 
 takers at once, and clear the ill-omened birds 
 the premises. I invited the parson of the parish, 
 the lawyer from the village, to attend at the 
 the next morning, and hear the reading of the 
 I treated them to an excellent breakfast, a profi 
 that had not been seen at the house for many a yi 
 As soon as the breakfast things were removed, I 
 muned Iron John, the Woman, and the boy, fori 
 particular in having every one present and pi 
 regularly. The box was placed on the table— all 
 silence— I broke the seal — raised the lid, and 
 — not the will— ;but my accursed poem of 
 Castle and Giant Despair! 
 
 Gould any mortal have conceived that tbb 
 withered man, so tacittft-n and apparently so M 
 feeling, could have treasured up for years the tl 
 
 lollx 
 'hat 
 too 
 ippo 
 or a 
 
 ebi 
 Id. 
 
 lit I 
 me 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 S3i) 
 
 ly heart, 
 
 and the tears Mood 
 
 by his bed-side and watched 
 again. My presence, how- 
 lisfaction ; for every now and I 
 
 a vague smile would come I 
 'would feeWy point to lh«l 
 
 Astheday woreawayjhijl 
 ay with it. Towards sunset I 
 aed, and lay motionless, Iml 
 outh remained open, andthn] 
 
 shocked at this absolute ex- 
 I dropped a tear of real 
 e old man, who had thusre- 
 ness to his death-bed ; like « 
 Domy day, just shining out to 
 ng the corpse in charge otthe 
 the night. 
 
 ht. The winds seemed aiK 
 iiiem about the mansion, audi 
 ed without, as if they knew 0(1 
 a master. Iron John alnMMtl 
 r candle to burn in my apart- 
 dreariness, so accustomed y| 
 economy. I could not sleep. 
 f uncle's dying scene, andthel 
 the house affected my mind, 
 e succeeded by plans for thefo-l 
 ■ the greater part of the night,| 
 i anticipation how soon I sIiobI' 
 ring with cheerful life, andre-l 
 if my mother's ancestors, 
 was decent but private. Ikneil 
 it respected his memory, and 
 none should be summoned 
 l|, and make merry at his grave, 
 church of the neighbouring vi' 
 ot the burying-place of his race 
 enjMned that he should not" 
 y : he had quarrelled with" 
 and he carried his reser" 
 
 jnses of his funeral out of i 
 Ight have done with the nn' 
 (clear the ill-omened birds fto 
 Ved the parson of the parisl 
 village, to attend at the 
 hear the reading of the 
 excellent breakfast, a profu 
 len at the house for many a yd 
 
 ■fast things were removed, 1 r 
 ,e woman, and the boy, forlij 
 Bvery one present and pr 
 was placed on the table-aHi 
 seal-raised the lid, and f 
 
 I my accursed poem of DooW 
 
 spair! ..J 
 
 II have conceived that thbt 
 Icitaiti and apparently so loj] 
 
 jasured up for years the t 
 
 1^ pleasantry of a boy, to poniah him with such 
 (joel ingenuity ? I now could account for his dying 
 goile, the only one he liad ever given me. He had 
 lieen a gi-ave man all his life ; it was strange that he 
 ihould die in the enjoyment of a joke, and it was 
 liaid that that joke sluMild be at my expense. 
 
 The lawyer and the parson seemed at a loss to 
 wmprehend the matter. " Here must be some mis- 
 lake," said the lawyer; "there is no will here." 
 
 "Oh!" said Iron John, creaking forth his rusty 
 I jaws, " if it is a will you are looking for, I believe I 
 (an find one." 
 
 He retired with the same singular smile with which 
 
 Ike bad greeted me on my arrival, and which I now 
 
 Ljiprehended boded me no good. In a little while he 
 
 returned with a will perfect at all points, properly 
 
 Ljgned and sealed, and witnessed and worded with 
 
 liorrible correctness ; in which the deceased left large 
 
 legacies to Iron John and his daughter, and the re- 
 
 {(idueof his fortune to the foxy-headed boy; who, to 
 
 jny utter astonishment, was his son by this very wo- 
 
 |iin; he having married her privately, and, as I ve- 
 
 ly believe, for no other purpose than to have an 
 
 |hjr, and so balk my father and his issue of the in- 
 
 itance. There was one little proviso, in which 
 
 mentioned, that, having discovereil his nephew 
 
 have a pretty turn for poetry, he presumed he had 
 
 occasion for wealth; lie recommended him, how- 
 
 ver, to the patronage of bis heir, and requested that 
 
 might have a garret, rent-free, in Doubling Castle. 
 
 GRAVE REFLECTIONS 
 
 OF A DISAPPOINTED MAN. 
 
 I Ml BucRTHORNE had paused at the death of his 
 de, and the downfal of his great expectations, 
 
 tiieh formed, as he said, an epoch in his history; 
 I it was not until some little time afterwards, and 
 
 kaYcry sober mood, that he resumed his party-co- 
 
 lared narrative. 
 
 [After leaving the remains of my defunct uncle, 
 i he, when the gate closed between me and what 
 8 once to have been mine, I felt thrust out naked 
 
 lo the world, and completely abandoned to fortune. 
 
 Ihat was to become of me ? I had been brought 
 
 [to aotliing but expectations, and they had all been 
 Hppointed. I had no relations to look to for coun- 
 
 jor assistance. The world seemed all to have died 
 
 |ay from me. Wave after wave of relationship 
 I ebbed off, and I was left a mere hulk upon the 
 knd. I am not apt to be greatly cast down, but 
 kliis time I r^;*, sadly disheartened. I could not 
 Pize my situation, nor form a conjecture how 
 to get forward. I was now to endeavour 
 ake money. The idea was new and strange 
 It WM like being uked to diacover the phi- 
 
 losopher's stone. I had never thought about money 
 otherwise than to put my hand into my pocket and 
 find it; or if there were none there, to wait until a 
 new supply came from home. I had considered life 
 as a mere space of time to be filled up with enjoy- 
 ments : but to have it portioned out into long hours 
 and days of toil, merely that I might gain bread to 
 give me strength to toil on— to lalwur but for the 
 purpose of perpetuating a life of labour, was new 
 and appalling to me. This may appear a very simple 
 matter to some; but it will be understood by every 
 unlucky wight in my predicament, who has had the 
 misfortune of being born to great expectations. 
 
 I passed several days in rambling about the scenes 
 of my boyhood; partly because I absolutely did not 
 know what to do with myself, and partly because I 
 did not know that I should ever see them again. I 
 clung to them as one clings to a wreck, though he 
 knows he must eventually cast himself loose and 
 swim for his life. I sat down on a little hill within 
 sight of my paternal home, but I did not venture to 
 approach it, for I felt compunction at the thought- 
 lessness with which I had dissipated my imtrimony : 
 yet was I to blame, when I had the rich possessions 
 of my curmudgeon of an uncle in expectation ? 
 
 The new possessor of the place was making great 
 alterations. The house was almost rebuilt. The 
 trees which stood about it were cut down : my mo- 
 ther's flower-garden was thrown into a lawn — all 
 was undergoing a change. I turned my back upon 
 it with a sigh, and rambled to another part of the 
 country. 
 
 How thoughtful a little adversity makes one! As 
 I came within sight of the school-house where I had 
 so often been flogged in the cause of wisdom, you 
 would hardly have recognued the truant boy, who, 
 but a few years since, had eloped so heedlessly from 
 its walls. I leaned over tlie paling of the play-ground, 
 and watched the scholars at their games, and looked 
 to see if there might not be some urchin among 
 them like what I was once, full of gay dreams about, 
 life and the world. The play-ground seemed smaller 
 than when I used to sport about it. The house and 
 park, too, of the neighbouring squire, the father of 
 the cruel Sachhrissa, had shrunk in size and dimi- 
 nished in magnificence. The distant hills no longer 
 appeared so far off, and, alas ! no longer awakened 
 ideas of a fairy land beyond. 
 
 As I was rambling pensively through a neighbour- 
 ing meadow, in which I had many a time gathered 
 primroses, I met the very pedagogue who had been 
 the tyrant and dread of my boyhood. I had some- 
 times vowed to myself, when suffering under his 
 rod, that I would have my revenge if I ever met him 
 when I had grown to be a man. The time had 
 come; but I had no disposition to keep my vow. 
 The few years which had matured me into a vi- 
 gorous man had shrunk him into decrepitude. He 
 appeared to have had a paralytic stroke. I looked 
 at him, and wondered that this poor helpless mortal 
 
m 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 could have been an object of terror to me; that I 
 should have watcliefi! with anxiety the glance of that 
 failing eye, or dreaded the power of that trembling 
 band. He tottered feebly along the path, and had 
 some difliculty in getting over a stile. I ran and as- 
 sisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did 
 not recognize me, and made a low bow of humility 
 and thanks. I had no disposition to make myself 
 known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The 
 pains he had taken, and the pains he had inflicted, 
 had been equally useless. His repeated predictions 
 were fully verifled, and I felt that little Jack Buck- 
 thorne, the idle boy, had grown to be a veiy good- 
 for-nothing man. 
 
 This is all very comfortless detail ; but as I have 
 told yon of my follies, it is meet that I show you how 
 for once I was schooled for them. The most thought- 
 less of mortals will some time or other have his day 
 of gloom, when be will be compelled to reflect. 
 
 I felt on this occasion as if I had a kind of penance 
 to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in expiation of 
 my past levity. Having passed a night at Leaming- 
 ton, I set off by a private path, which leads up a hill 
 through a grove and across quiet fields, till I came to 
 the small village, or rather hamlet, of Lenington. I 
 sought the Village church. It is an uld low edifice 
 of grey stone, on the brow of a small hill, looking 
 over fertile fields, towards where the proud towers 
 of Warwick Gaslle lift themselves against the distant 
 horizon. 
 
 A part of the churchyard is shaded by large trees. 
 Under one of them my mother l&y buried . You have 
 no doubt thought me a light, heartless being. I 
 thought myself so; but there are moments of adver- 
 sity wiiich let us into some feelings of our nature 
 to which we might otherwise remain peri»etual 
 strangers. 
 
 I sought my mother's grave : the weeds were al- 
 ready matted over it, and the tombstone was half hid 
 among nettles. I cleared them away, and they 
 stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for 
 my heart ached too severely. I sat down on the 
 grave, and read over and over again the epitaph on 
 the stone. 
 
 It was simple, — but it was true. I bad written it 
 myself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but 
 in vain ; my feelings refused to utter themselves in 
 rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling during 
 my lonely wanderings ; it vv^s now charged to the 
 brim, and overflowed. I sunk upon the grave, and 
 buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like a child. 
 Yes, I wept in manhood upon thi?! grave, as I had in 
 infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas ! how 
 little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while 
 living ! how heedless are we in youth of all her anxie- 
 ties and kindness ! But when aihe is dead and gone ; 
 when the cares and coldness of the world come wither- 
 ing to our hearts ; when we find how hard it is to 
 find (rue sympathy ;— how few love us for ourselves; 
 how few will befriend us in our misfortunes— then it 
 
 is that we think of the mother we have lost, ft j, 
 true I had always loved my mother, even in my moM 
 heedless days; but I felt how inconsiderate and inef- 
 fectual had been my love. My heart melted as I it. 
 traced the days of infancy, when I was led by a 
 mother's hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother't 
 arms, and was without care or sorrow. "0 my 
 mother ! " exclaimed I, burying my face again in thtj 
 grass of the grave; "O that I were once more byi 
 your side ; sleeping, never to wake again on the Ci 
 and troubles of this world." 
 
 I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, 
 the violence of my emotion gradually exhausted it- 
 self. It was a hearty, honest, natural discharge 
 grief which had been slowly accumulating, and gan 
 me wonderful relief. I rose from (he grave as if 
 had been offering up a sacrifice, and I felt as if 
 sacrifice had been accepted. 
 
 I sat down again on the grass, and plucked, 
 by one, the weeds from her grave : the tears tricU 
 more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased to be M 
 ter. It was a comfort to think that she had died 
 fore sorrow and poverty came upon her child, 
 that all his great expectations were blasted. 
 
 I leaned my cheek upon my hand, and looked nj 
 the landscape. Its quiet beauty soothed me. Tl 
 whistle of a peasant from an adjoining field cai 
 cheerily to my ear. I seemed to respire hope ai 
 comfort with the free air that whispered through tl 
 leaves, and played lightly with my hair, and di 
 the tears upon my cheek. A lark, rising from 
 field before me, and leaving as it were a stream 
 song behind him as he rose, lifted my fancy witli 
 He hovered in the air just above the place where 
 towers of Warwick Castle marked the horizon, 
 seemed as if fluttering with delight at his own 
 dy. *' Surely, " thought I, " if there were sadi 
 thing as transmigration of souls, this might be ti 
 for some poet let loose from earth, but still rei 
 ing in song, and caroling about fair fields and 1 
 towers. " 
 
 At this moment the long-forgotten feeling of 
 rose within me. A thought sprung at once into 
 mind. — " I will become an autlior! " said I, 
 have hitherto indulged in iioetry as a pleasure, ai 
 has brought me nothing but pain ; let me try v\ 
 will do when I cultivate it with devotion as a 
 suit. " 
 
 The resolution thus suddenly aroused within 
 heaved a load from off my heart. I felt a confii 
 in it from the very place where it was formed, 
 seemed as though my mother's spirit whispered 
 me from her grave. "I will henceforth, " s 
 " endeavour to be all that she fondly imagined i 
 I will endeavour to act as if she were witness of| 
 actions ; I will endeavour to acquit myself in : 
 manner (hat, when I revisit her grave, tliere i 
 least be no compunctious bitterness in my tears," 
 
 I bowed down and kissed the turf in solemn a 
 tation of my vow. I plucked someprimrosaj 
 
 dat 
 
 loth 
 
 gat 
 
 inity 
 ildi 
 lorn 
 rer 
 liiim' 
 \\m 
 us, 
 an 
 sob 
 loft 
 Iroted 
 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 841 
 
 mother we have lost. IiUl 
 my mother, even in my mottl 
 t how inconsiderate and inef-l 
 re. My heart melted as I n- 1 
 ancy, wlien I was led by i| 
 )cked to sleep in a mother'il 
 n care or sorrow. " mjl 
 , burying my face again in thtl 
 ' O that I were once more byl 
 !ver to wake again on the carej 
 
 irld." . 
 
 )f a morbid temperament, 
 notion gradually exhausted itJ 
 , honest, natural discharge ol 
 slowly accumulating, and gavJ 
 I rose from the grave as if r 
 1 sacrifice, and I felt as iff 
 
 epted. 
 
 n the grass, and plucked, un 
 im her grave : the tears trickl« 
 y cheeks, and ceased tobeWtl 
 •I to think that she had died I 
 erty came upon her child, 
 jctations were blasted, 
 upon my hand, and lookednp 
 luiel beauty soothed me. Thl 
 t from an adjoining field 
 
 I seemed to respire hope aiil 
 e air that whispered throughtJ 
 lightly with my hair, and dri 
 cheek. A lark, rising from l 
 1 leaving as it were a stream | 
 le rose, lifted my fancy withl 
 ir just above the place where I 
 Caslle marked the horizon, 
 ng with delight at his own i 
 ought I, " if there were snchl 
 ion of souls, this might betaT 
 lose from earth, but still m 
 oling about fair fields andlw' 
 
 le long-forgotten feeling of [ 
 thought sprung at once intoi 
 come an author!" said I. * 
 i;ed in i»oetry as a pleasure, an 
 hingbutpainjletmetrywlM 
 tivate it with devotion as a [ 
 
 JUS suddenly aroused williinj 
 off my heart. I fell a confiJfl' 
 
 place where it was formed. 
 ny mother's spirit whispcrtdj 
 re. "I will henceforth, " s" 
 all that she fondly imagined! 
 
 act as if she were witness ofj 
 eavour to acquit myself in f 
 
 I I revisit her grave, there i 
 iclious bitterness in my tears.] 
 nd kissed the turf in solenuuj 
 
 1 plucked 8omeprimro8«j 
 
 Lrere growing there, and laid them next my heart. 
 
 Illeft the churchyard with my spirits once more lift- 
 
 ap, and set out a third time for London in the 
 
 Iduracter of an author. 
 
 Here my companion made a pause, and I waited 
 ^anxious suspense, hoping to have a whole volume 
 literary life unfolded to me. He seemed, however, 
 have sunk into a fit of pensive musing, and when, 
 ersome time, I gently roused him by a question or 
 (oasto his literary career, 
 
 "No, " said he, filing, " over that part of my 
 I wish to leave a cloud. Let the mysteries of 
 craft rest sacred for me. Let those who have 
 erer ventured into the republic of letters still look 
 it as a fairy land. Let them suppose the author 
 very being they picture him from his works — I 
 not the man to mar their illusion. I am not the 
 to hint, while one is admiring the silken web of 
 sia, that it has been spun from the entrails of a 
 irable worm. " 
 
 "Well," said I, " if you will tell me nothing of 
 ir literary history, let me know at least if you have 
 any further intelligence from Doubting Caslle. " 
 "Willingly, " replied he, " though I have but little 
 loonununicate. " 
 
 THE BOOBY SQUIRE. 
 
 I A LONG time elapsed, said Buckthome, without 
 f receiving any accounts of my cousin and his es- 
 ie. Indeed, I felt so much soreness on the subject, 
 Ht I wished if possible to shut it from my thoughts. 
 
 |tlength chance took me to that part of the country, 
 1 1 could not refrain from making some inquiries. 
 
 Illearnt that my cousin had grown up ignorant, 
 
 pf-willed, and clownish. His ignorance and clown- 
 had prevented his mingling with the neigh- 
 nring gentry : in spite of his great fortune, he had 
 Kn unsuccessful in an attempt to gain the hand of 
 (daughter of the parson, and had at length shrunk 
 
 |lo the limits of such society as a mere man of wealth 
 • gather in a country neighbourhood. 
 
 iBe kept horses and hounds, and a roaring table, at 
 
 ^h were collected the loose livers of the country 
 od, and the shabby gentlemen of a village in the 
 pnity. When he could gel no other company, he 
 uld smoke and drink with his own servants, who 
 
 |tDm fleeced and despised him. Still, with all his 
 larenl prodigality, he had a leaven of the old man 
 
 Ihim which showed that he was his true-born son. 
 
 [lived far within his income, was vulgar in his ex- 
 
 , and penurious in many points wherein a gen- 
 
 M would be extravagant. His house-servants 
 
 e obliged occasionally to work on his estate, and 
 
 t of the pleasure-grounds were ploughed up and 
 
 Ned to husbandry. 
 
 w table, though plentiful, wa.s coarse; his liquors 
 
 strong and bad ; and more ale and whisky were ex- 
 pended in his establishment than generous wine. He 
 was loud and arrogant at his own table, and exiicted 
 a rich man's homage from his vulgar and obsequious 
 guests. 
 
 As to Iron John, his old grandfather, he had grown 
 impatient of the tight hand his own grandson kept 
 over him, and quarrelled with him soon after became 
 to the estate. The old man had retired to the neigh- 
 bouring village, where he lived on the legacy of his 
 late master, in a small cottage, and was as seldom 
 seen out of it as a rat out of his hole in daylight. 
 
 The cub, like Caliban, seemed to have an instinct- 
 ive attachment to his mother. She resided with 
 him, but, from long habit, she acted more as a ser- 
 vant than as mistress of the mansion; for she toiled in 
 all the domestic drudgery, and was oftener in the 
 kitchen than the parlour. Such was the information 
 which I collected of my rival cousin, who had so un- 
 expectetlly elbowed me out of all my expectations. 
 
 I now felt an irresistible hankering to pay a visit to 
 this scene of my boyhood, and to get a peep at the odd 
 kind of life that was passing within the mansion of 
 my maternal ancestors. I determined to do so in dis- 
 guise. My booby cousin had never seen enough of 
 me to be veiy familiar with my countenance, and a 
 few years make great difference between youth and 
 manhood. I understood he was a breeder of cattle, 
 and proud of his stock ; I dressed myself therefor^as 
 a substantial farmer, and with the assistance of a red 
 scratch that came low down on my forehead, made 
 a complete change in my physiognomy. 
 
 It was past three o'clock when I arrived at the 
 gate of the park, and was admitted by an old woman, 
 who was washing in a dilapidated building which 
 had once been a porter's lodge. I advanced up the 
 remains of a noble avenue, many of the trees of which 
 had been cut down and sold for timber. The grounds 
 were in scarcely better keeping than during my un- 
 cle's lifetime. The grass was overgrown wilh weeds, 
 and the trees wanted pruning and clearing of dead 
 branches. Cattle were grazing about the lawns, and 
 ducks and geese swimming in the fish-ponds. The 
 road to the house bore very few traces of carnage 
 wheels, as my cousin received few visitors but such as 
 came on foot or horseback, and never used a carriage 
 himself. Once indeed, as I was told, he had the old 
 family carriage drawn out from among the dust and 
 cobwebs of the coach-house, and furbished up, and 
 had driven, wilh his mother, to the village church, to 
 take formal possession of the family pew ; but there 
 was such hooting and laughing after them, as they 
 passed through the village, and such giggling and 
 bantering about the church-door, that the pageant 
 had never made a re-appearance. 
 
 As I approached the house, a legion of whelps sal- 
 lied out, barking at me, accompanied by the low howl- 
 ing, rather than harking, of two old worn-out blood- 
 hounds, which I recognized for the ancient life-guards 
 of my uncle. The house had still a neglected random 
 
 ill 
 
bH 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 appearance, though much altered for the better •ince 
 my last visit. Several of the windows were broKeo 
 and patched up with boards, and others had been 
 bricked up to save taxes. I observed smoke, however, 
 rising from the chimneys, a phenomenon rarely wit- 
 nessed in the ancient establisliment. On passing that 
 part of the house where the dining-room was situated, 
 I heard the sound of boisterous merriment, where 
 three or four voices were talking at once, and oatlis 
 and laughter were horribly mingled. 
 
 The uproar of the dogs had brought a servant to 
 the door, a tall hard-flsted country clown, with a li- 
 very-coatput over the under garments of a ploughman. 
 I requested, to see the master of tlie house, but was 
 told he was at dinner with some " gemmen" of the 
 neighbourhood. I made known my business, and 
 sent in to know if I might talk with the master about 
 bis cattle, for I felt a great desire to have a peep at 
 him in his orgies. 
 
 Word was returned that he was engaged with com- 
 pany, and could not attend to business, hut that if I 
 would step in and take a drink of something, J was 
 heartily welcome. I accordingly entered the hall, 
 where whips and hats of ail kinds and shapes were 
 lying on an oaken table; two or three clownish ser- 
 vants were lounging about; every thing had a look of 
 confusion and carelessness. 
 
 The apartments Uirough which I passed Itad the 
 same air of departed gentility and sluttish housekeep- 
 ing. The once rich curtains were faded and dusty, 
 the fni-niture greased and tarnished. On entering 
 the dining-room I found a number of odd, vulgar- 
 looking, rustic gentlemen seated round a table, on 
 which were bottles, decanters, tankards, pipes, and 
 tobacco. Several d(tgs were lying about the room, or 
 sitting and watching their masters, and one was gnaw- 
 ing a bone under a side-table. The master of the 
 feast sat at the head of the hoard. He was greatly 
 altered. He had grown thickset and ratlter gummy, 
 with « flery foxy bead of hair. There was a singular 
 mixiure of foolishness, arrogance, and conceit, in his 
 countenance. He was dressed in a vulgarly fine style, 
 with leather breeches, a red waistcoat, and green 
 coat, and was evidently, like his guests, a little flushed 
 with drinking. The whole company stared at me 
 with a whimsical muzzy look, like men whose senses 
 were a little obfuscated by beer rather than wine. 
 
 My cousin (God forgive me ! the appellation sticks 
 in my throat), my cousin invited me with awkward 
 civility, or, as he intended it, condescension, to sit to 
 ihe table and drink. We talked, as usual, about the 
 weather, the crops, politics, and hard times. My 
 cousin was a loud politician, and evidently accustomed 
 to talk without contradiction at his own table. He 
 was amazingly loyal, and talked of standing by the 
 throne to the last guinea, " as every gentleman of for- 
 tune should do." Tlie village exciseman, who was 
 half asleep, could just ejaculate " very true" to every 
 thing he said. The conversation turaed upon cattle; 
 lie tMasted of bis breed, bis modie of crossing it, and 
 
 of the general management of hia estate. This uoj 
 luckily drew on a histr 7 of the place and of lb 
 family. He spoke of mj late uncle with the greate 
 irreverence, which I could easily forgive. Hei 
 tional my name, and my blood began to boil. |]J 
 described my frequent visits to my uncle, when | 
 was a lad; and I found the varlet, even at that tii 
 imp as he was, had known that he was to inherit lb 
 estate. He described the scene of my uncle's deatl 
 and the opening of the will, with a degree of ( 
 humour that I had not expected from him; and, vei 
 ed as I was, I could not help joining in the laugh, I 
 I have always relished a joke, even though niad« j 
 my own ex|iense. He went on to speak of my vari 
 pursuits, my strolling freak, and that somenh 
 nettled me; at length he talked of my parents. Her 
 diculed my father; I stomached even that, th 
 with great difficulty. He mentioned my mother wiihl 
 sneer, and in an instant he lay sprawling at my I 
 
 Here a tumult succeeded : the table was neaill 
 overturned; bottles, glasses, and tankards, rollq 
 crashing and clattering about the floor. Tlie 1 
 pany seized hold of both of us, to keep ns from doii( 
 any further mischief. I struggled to get loose, forj 
 was boiling with fury. My cousin defied me to sti 
 and fight him 011 the lawn. I agreed, for I feitt 
 strength of a giant in me, and I longed to 
 him soundly. 
 
 Away then we were borne. A ring was fon 
 I had a second assigned me in true boxing stvlj 
 My cousin, as he advanced to fight, said sometliii 
 about his generosity in showing me such fairpb 
 when I had made such an unprovoked attack upi 
 him at his own table. "Stop thei-e," cried I, iol 
 rage. "Unprovoked? know that I am John Bm 
 tliorne, and you liave insulted the memory of 1 
 mother." 
 
 The lout was suddenly struck by what I said : 
 drew back, and thought for a moment. 
 
 " Nay, damn it," said he, " that's too much- 
 clean another thing— I've a mother myself— and i 
 one shall speak ill of her, bad as she is." 
 
 He paused again; nature seemed to have a 1 
 struggle in his rude bosom. 
 
 "Damn it, cousin," cried he, "I'm sorryforwlij 
 I said. Thou'st served me right in knocking 1 
 down, and I like tliee the better for it. Here's 
 hand : come and live with me, and damn me butl^ 
 best room in the house, and the best horse in t 
 stable, shall be at thy service." 
 
 I declare to you I was strongly moved at tiiiti| 
 stance of nature breaking her way through i 
 lump of flesh. I forgave the fellow in a momeDtl| 
 two hemous crimes, of having been born in wedio 
 and inheriting my estate. I shook the hand bej 
 fercd me, to convince him that I bore him no ilU 
 and then making my way through tlie gaping en 
 of toad-eaters, bade adieu to my uncle's domaiosj 
 ever.— This is the last I have seen or heard of mjt 
 sin, or of the domestie oancerns of Poubtingi 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 m 
 
 ent of hto estate. This un-i 
 ■y of the place and of tb 
 , late uncle with the grealo 
 luW easily forgive. Hei 
 iy blood began to boil. iiJ 
 visits to my uncle, when ' 
 ihe varlet, even at that tin 
 iwn that he was to inherit tb 
 he scene of my uncle's deail 
 will, with a degree of ( 
 expected from him; and, vex| 
 I help joining in the laugh, f 
 a joke, even though made i 
 went on to speak of my van 
 freak, and that somewh 
 leUlked of my parents. Her 
 stomached even that, th 
 le mentioned my mother «itb| 
 (It he lay sprawling at my I 
 needed : the table was 
 glasses, and tankards, rollej 
 g about the floor. The t 
 Ith of us, to keep us from doi 
 I struggled to get loose, for J 
 My cousin defied me to str 
 I lawn. I agreed, for I fell I' 
 1 me, and I longed to 
 
 re borne. A ring was fon 
 gned me in true boxing stvlj 
 vanced to light, said soraelliin 
 I in showing me such fairplaj 
 jch an unprovoked attack up 
 "Stop there," cried l,iD| 
 J? know that I am John Bu 
 ve insulted the memory of i 
 
 lenly struck by what I said ; 
 
 ight for a moment. 
 
 tid he, " that's toomuch-Uv 
 
 -I've a mother myself-and 
 
 her, bad as she is." 
 
 nature seemed to have a 
 
 )som. 
 cried he, "I'm sorry foe 
 
 red me right in knocking 
 . the better for it. Here's 
 
 with me, and damn me ball 
 .use, and the best horse in 
 
 service." 
 
 was strongly moved at Uibi 
 .aking her way through 
 fgave the fellow in a moraeull 
 |of having been born in vfedloi 
 
 state. I shook the hand he 
 
 te him that I bore him no ill 
 
 way through the gaping cr 
 
 [adieu to my uncle's domaiwl 
 
 1st I have seen or heard of my r 
 
 lie concerns of Poubtin* 
 
 TH£ STROLLING MANAGER. 
 
 As I was walking one morning with Bnckthorne 
 
 one of Ihe principal theatres, he directed my 
 
 ntion to a group of those equivocal beings that 
 
 ly often be seen hovering about the stage-doors of 
 
 ilres. They were marvellously ill-favoured in 
 
 allire, their coats buttoned up to their chins ; 
 
 llhey wore Iheir hats smartly on one side, and had 
 
 [ceftain knowing, dirty-gentlemanlike air, which is 
 
 on (0 the subalterns of Ihe drama. Buckthorne 
 
 (w them well by early experience. 
 
 'These," said he, " are the ghosts of departed 
 
 and heroes; fellows who sway sceptres and 
 
 cheons; command kingdoms and armies; and 
 
 giving away realms and treasures over night, 
 
 ! scarce a shilling to pay for a breakfast in the 
 
 oing. Yet they have the true vagabond ahhor- 
 
 I of all useful and industrious employment; and 
 
 have their pleasurei< too; one of which is to 
 
 in this way in Ihe sunshine, at the stage-door, 
 
 rehearsals, and make hackneyed theatrical 
 
 ion all passers-by. Nothing is more traditional 
 
 I legitimate than the stage. Old scenery, old 
 
 $, old sentiments, old ranting, and old jokes, 
 
 ^handed down from generation to generation ; and 
 
 I probably continue to be so until lime shall be no 
 
 Every hanger-on of a theatre becomes a wag 
 
 liDheritance, and flourishes about at tap-rooms and 
 
 nny clubs with the property jokes of the green- 
 
 i" 
 
 H'hiie amusing ourselves with reconnoitring this 
 
 p, we noticed one in particular who appeared to 
 
 oracle. He was a weather-beaten veteran, 
 
 tie bronzed by time and beer, who had no doubt 
 
 in grey in the parts of robbers, cardinals, Roman 
 
 ITS, and walking noblemen. 
 
 [There is something in the set of that hat, and 
 
 llutn of that physiognomy, that is extremely fami- 
 
 |lo me," said Bucktiiome. He looked a little 
 
 "I cannot be mistaken," added he, "that 
 
 (be my old brother of the truncheon Flimsey, 
 
 ^c hero of the Strolling Company." 
 
 Iwas he in fact. The poor fellow showed evi- 
 
 jsigns that times went hard with him, he was so 
 
 f and shabbily dressed. His coat was somewhat 
 
 dbare, and of the Lord Townley cut ; single- 
 
 ^ed, and scarcely capable of meeting in front of 
 
 dy, which, from long intimacy, had acquired 
 
 netry and robustness of a beer barrel. He 
 
 a pair of dingy-white stockinet pantaloons, 
 
 iM much ado to reach his waistcoat; a great 
 
 |iityof dirty cravat; and a pair of old russel-co- 
 
 I tragedy boots. 
 
 his companions had dispersed, Buckthorne 
 
 I him aside, and made himself known to him. 
 
 3gic veteran could scarcely recognize him, or 
 
 that he was really his quondam associate, 
 
 ! gentleman Jack." Bnckthorne invited him 
 
 to a neighbouring cofTee-hoaw to talk over old times ; 
 and in the course of a little while we were pot in 
 possession of his history in brief. 
 
 He had continued to act the heroes in the strolling 
 company for some lime after Buckthorne had left it, 
 or rather had been driven from it so abruptly. At 
 length the manager died, and the troop was thrown 
 into confusion. Every one aspired lo the crown, 
 every one was for taking the lead ; and the manager's 
 wmIow, although a tragedy queen, and a brimstone 
 to boot, pronounced it utterly impossible for a woman 
 to keep any control over such a set of tempestuous 
 rascalions. 
 
 " Upon this hint, I spake," said Flimsey. I step- 
 ped forward, and offered my services in the most ef- 
 fectual way. They were accepted. In a week'g 
 lime I marrie<l the widow, and succeeded to tlie 
 throne. " The fimeral baked meals did coldly fur- 
 nish forth the marriage table," as Hamlet says. But 
 the ghost of my predecessor never haunted me; and 
 I inherited crowns, sceptres, bowls, daggers, and all 
 the stage-trappings and trumpery, not omitting the 
 widow, without the least molestation. 
 
 I now led a flourishing life of it; for our company 
 was prelly strong and attractive, and as my wife and 
 I took Ihe heavy parts of tragetly, it was a great sav- 
 ing to the treasury. We carried off the palm from 
 all the rival shows at country fairs; and I assure you 
 we have even drawn full houses, and been applaud- 
 ed by the critics at Bartlemy Fair itself, though we 
 had Aslley's troop, the Irish giant, and " the death 
 of Nelson " in wax-work, lo contend against. 
 
 I soon began to experience, however, the cares of 
 command. I discovered that there were cabals break- 
 ing out in the company, headed by the clown, who 
 you may recollect was a terribly peevish, fractious 
 fellow, and always in ill-humour. I hrtd a great 
 mind to turn him off at once, but I could not do with- 
 out him, for there was not a droller scoundrel on the 
 stage. H". ory shape was comic, for he had but to 
 turn his k. '. .pon the audience, and all the ladies 
 were ready . die with laughing. He felt his import- 
 ance, and tpok advantage of it. He would keep the 
 audience in a continual roar, and then come behind 
 the scenes, and fret and fume, and play the very devil. 
 I excused a great deal in him, however, knowing 
 that comic actors are a little prone to this infirmity of 
 temper. 
 
 _ I had another trouble of a nearer and dearer na- 
 ture to struggle with, which was the aflection of my 
 wife. As ill-luck would have it, slie look it into her 
 head to be very fond of me, and became intolerably 
 jealous. I could not keep a pretty girl in the com- 
 pany, and hardly dared embrace an ugly one, even 
 when my part required it. I have known her reduce 
 a fine lady to tatters, " to very rags," as Hamlet says, 
 in an instant, and destroy one of the very best dresses 
 in the wardrobe, merely because she saw me kiss her 
 at the side scenes; though I give yon my honour it 
 was done merely by way of rehearsal. 
 
rM 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 { ■ 
 
 i 
 
 Ik 
 m 
 
 This was doubly annoying, because I have a na- 
 tural lilting to pretty faces, and wish to liave them 
 about me; and because they are indispensable to the 
 success of a company at a fair, where one has to vie 
 with so many rival theatres. But when once a jea- 
 lous wife gets a freak in her head, there's no use in 
 talking of interest or any thing else. Egad, sir, I 
 have more than once trembled when, during a fit of 
 her tantrums, she was playing high tragedy, and 
 flourishing her tin dagger on the stage, lest she should 
 give way to her humour, and stab some fancied rival 
 in good earnest. 
 
 I went on better, however, than could be expected, 
 considering the weakness of my flesh, and the vio- 
 lence of my rib. I had not a much worse time of it 
 than old Jupiter, whose spouse was continually fer- 
 reting out some new intrigue, and making the hea- 
 vens almost too hot to hold him. 
 
 At length, as luck would have it, we were per- 
 forming at a country fair, when I understood the 
 theatre of a neighbouring town to be vacant. I had 
 always been desirous to be enrolled in a settled com- 
 pany, and the height of my desire was to get on a 
 par with a brother-in-law, who was manager of a 
 regular theatre, and who had looked down upon me. 
 Here was an opportunity not to be neglected. I con- 
 cluded an agreement with the proprietors, and in a 
 few days opened the theatre with great eclat. 
 
 Behold me now at the summit of my ambition, 
 " the high top-gallant of my joy," as Romeo says. 
 No longer a chieftain of a wandering tribe, but a mo- 
 narch of a legitimate throne, and entitled to call even 
 the great potentates of Covent Garden and Drnry 
 Lane cousins. You, no doubt, think my happiness 
 complete. Alas, sir ! I was one of the most uncom- 
 fortable dogs living. No one knows, who has not 
 tried, tlie miseries of a manager ; but above all of a 
 country manager. No one can conceive the conten- 
 tions and quarrels within doors, the oppressions and 
 vexations from without. I was pestered with the 
 bloods and loungers of a country town, who infested 
 my green-room, and played the mischief among my 
 actresses. But there was no shaking them off. It 
 would have been ruin to affront them ; for though 
 troublesome friends, they would have been danger- 
 ous enemies. I'hen there were the village critics 
 and village amateurs, who were continually torment- 
 ing me with advice, and getting into a passion if I 
 would not take it; especially the village doctor and 
 the village attorney, who had both l)een to London 
 occasionally, and knew what acting should be. 
 
 I had also to manage as arrant a crew of scape- 
 graces as ever were collected together within the 
 walls of a theatre. I had been obliged to combine 
 my original troop with some of the former troop of 
 the theatre, who were favourites of the public. Here 
 was a mixture that produced perpetual ferment. 
 They were all the time either fighting or frolicking 
 with each other, and I scarcely know which mood 
 was least troublesome. If they quarrelled, every 
 
 thing went wrong ; and if they were friends, tht] 
 were continually playing off some prank upon ea 
 other, or upon me; for I had unhappily acquin 
 among them the character of an easy, good-natui 
 fellow— the worst character tiiat a manager can 
 sess. 
 
 Their waggery at times drove me almost en 
 for there is nothing so vexatious as the hacknevi 
 tricks and hoaxes and pleasantries of a velerau 
 of theatrical vagaiwnds. I relished them well enoui 
 it is true, while I was merely one of the eoinpaui 
 but as manager I found them detestable. They vn 
 incessantly bringing some disgrace upon the (heal 
 by their tavern frolics, and their pranks about 
 country town. All my lectures about the ioii 
 ance of keeping up the dignity of the profession ai 
 the respectability of the company were in vain. T| 
 villains could not sympathize wiiii the delicate k 
 ings of a man in station. They even trifled with 
 seriousness of stage business. I have had the w 
 piece interrupted, and a crowded audience of at I 
 twenty-five pounds kept waiting, l)ecause the acli 
 had hid away the breeches of Rosalind; and 
 known Hamlet to stalk solemnly on to deliver his 
 liloquy, with a dishclout pinned to his skirts. Si 
 are the baleful consequences of a manager's getijl 
 a character for good-nature. 
 
 I was intolerably annoyed, too, by the great atli 
 who came down starring, as it is called, from 
 don. Of all baneful influences, keep me from 
 of a London star. A first-rate actress going 
 rounds of the country theatres is as bad as a bli 
 comet whisking about the heavens, and shaiiing 
 and plagues and discords from its tail. 
 
 The moment one of these " heavenly bodies" 
 peared in my horizon, I was sure to be in hot % 
 My theatre was overrun by provincial dandies, 
 per- washed counterfeits of Bond-street loungers, 
 are always proud to be in the train of an actress 
 town, and anxious to be thought on exceeding 
 terms with her. It was really a relief to me 
 some random young nobleman would come in 
 suit of the bait, and awe all this small fry at 
 stance. I have always felt myself more at ease 
 a nobleman than with the dandy of a country ti 
 
 And then the injuries I suffered in my pei 
 dignity and my managerial authority from tiie 
 of these great London actors ! 'Sblood, sir, I vi 
 longer master of myself on my throne. I v» 
 tored and lectured in my own green-room, 
 an absolute nincompoop on my own stage. 
 no tyrant so absolute and capricious as a Lomlonj 
 at a country theatre. I dreaded the sight of 
 them, and yet if I did not engage them, I was 
 of having the public clamorous against me. 
 drew full houses, and appeared to be making 
 tune; but they swallowed up all the profits bjf 
 insatiable demands. They were absolute tapM 
 to my little theatre , the more it took in the 
 grew. They were sure to leave me with 
 
 balls 
 
 Ibei 
 
 Ibei 
 
 i,w 
 
 Ibeir 
 
 cai 
 
 hat 
 
 ich^ 
 [•unpo 
 acqii 
 
 fOQ 
 
 m 
 
 myse 
 ,an 
 lepol 
 [Ibept 
 Faou 
 ates 
 
 at 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 am 
 
 if they were friends, th 
 5 off some prank upon eac| 
 r I had unhappily acquin 
 ler of an easy, good-nalun 
 cterUiata manager can | 
 
 nea drove me almost crazyl 
 vexatious as llie l>ackney([ 
 aleasantriesofaveleraul 
 I relished tliem well enougl 
 merely one of the compaii^ 
 them detestable. Theywa 
 me disgrace upon the Ihead 
 , and their pranks about tl| 
 l\ lectures about the imp 
 } dignity of the professioua 
 iec^mp-'ny were in vain. " 
 palhize wiili the delicate f« 
 on. They even trilled wilhll 
 iisiness. I have had the vib 
 J a crowded audience of at lei 
 ept waiting, liecause the acl^ 
 reeches of Rosalind; and 
 ,\k solemnly on to deliver his 
 lout pinned to his skirts. Si 
 ■quences of a manager's gell 
 
 -nature. 
 
 annoyed, too, by the great acli 
 
 rring, as it is called, from f 
 ,1 intluences, keep me from 
 
 A first-rate actress going 
 ,ry theatres is as bad as a bli 
 mt the heavens, and shaking 
 (Cords from its tail. 
 
 of these "heavenly bodies 
 on, I was sure to be in hot w 
 
 rrim by provincial dandies, 
 feits of Bond-street loungers, 
 be in the train of an actress 
 be thought on exceeding 
 t was really a relief to me 
 nobleman would come in 
 awe all this small fry at 
 vays fell myself more at ease 
 nth the dandy of a country 101 
 liuries 1 suffered in my per 
 inagerial authority from the 
 enactors! 'Sblood, sir.l^ 
 lyself on my throne. I '» 
 in my own green-room 
 ipooponmyownslage. n 
 Ue and capricious as a Lomii 
 
 e. 1 dreaded the sight of 
 did not engage them, I WM 
 
 ,lic clamorous agamst me. 
 *nd appeared to be makmg 
 allowed up all the prohU by 
 They were absolute tapfr' 
 the more it took in the- 
 
 sure to leave me 
 
 luasted pnblic, empty benches, and a score or two 
 o( affronts to settle among the town's folk, in con- 
 leqaence of misunderstandings alwut Uie taking of 
 plices. 
 
 But the worst thing I had to undergo in my ma- 
 nagerial career was patronage. Oh, sir ! of all things 
 deliver me from (he patronage of the great people of 
 i country town. It was my ruin. You must know 
 iliat this town, though small, was filled with feuds, 
 nd parties, and great folks ; being a busy little trad- 
 ing and manufacturing town. The mischief was that 
 Ibrir greatness was of a kind not to be settled by re- 
 itrence to the court calendar, or college of heraldry; 
 Ijl was therefore the most quarrelsome kind of great- 
 lies in existence. You smile, sir, but let me tell you 
 Ithere are no feuds more furious than the frontier feuds 
 h take place in these " debatable lands" of gen- 
 . The most violent dispute that I ever knew in 
 life was one which occurred at a country town, 
 a question of precedence between the ladies of a 
 iuCicturer of pins and a manufacturer of needles. 
 At the town where I was situated there were per- 
 altercations of the kind. The head manu- 
 irer's lady, for instance, was at daggers-drawings 
 the head shopkeeper's, and both were too rich 
 had too many friends to be treated lightly. The 
 tor's and lawyer's ladies held their heads still high- 
 ;bat they in their turn were kept in check by the 
 of a country banker, who kept her own carriage ; 
 le a masculine widow of cracked character and 
 hand fashion, who lived in a large house, and 
 led to be in some way related to nobility, looked 
 upon them all. To be sure, her manners were 
 over elegant, nor her fortune over large ; but then, 
 ',ber blood— oh, her blood carried it all hollow; 
 vas no withstanding a woman with such blood 
 ber veins. 
 
 After all, her claims to high connexion were ques- 
 
 and she had frequent battles for precedence 
 
 balls and assemblies with some of the sturdy dames 
 
 ibe neighbourhood, who stood upon their wealth 
 
 tbeir virtue ; but then she had two dashing daugh- 
 
 I, who dressed as fine as dragons, had as high blood 
 
 their mother, and seconded her in every thing : so 
 
 carried their point with high heads, and every 
 
 bated, abused, and stood in awe of the Fantad- 
 
 ach vas the state of the fashionable world in this 
 
 |[4mportant little town. Unluckily, I was not as 
 
 llacquainted with its politics as I should have been. 
 
 1 found myself a stranger and in great perplexities 
 
 ; my first season; I determined, therefore, to 
 
 I myself under the patronage of some powerful 
 
 e, and thus to take the field with the prejudices 
 
 i public in my favour. I cast round my thoughts 
 
 llbe purpose, and in an evil hour they fell upon 
 
 IFantadlin. No one seemed to me to have a more 
 
 ^Dte sway in the world of fashion. I had always 
 
 that her party slanuned the box-door the 
 
 t at the theatre ; that her daughter entered like 
 
 wihi 
 
 a tempest with a flutter of red shawls and feathers ; 
 had most beausatteiMlin;ron them ; talked and laughed 
 during the performance, and used quizzing-glasses 
 incessantly. The first evening of my theatre's re- 
 opening, therefore, was announced in staring capitals 
 on the play-hills, cs under (he patronage of " The 
 Honourable Mrs Fantadlin." 
 
 Sir, the whole community flew to arms .' Presume 
 to patronize the theatre! Insufferable! And (hen 
 for me to dare to term her ' The Honourable!' What 
 claim had she to the title, forsooth ! The fashionable 
 world had long groaned under (he tyranny of (he 
 Fan(adlins, and were glad (o make a common cause 
 agains( this new instance of as!«umption. All minor 
 feuds were forgotten. The doctor's lady and the 
 lawyer's lady met together, and the manufacturer's 
 lady and the shopkeeper's lady kissed each other ; and 
 all, headed by the banker's lady, voted (he (heatre a 
 bore, and determined to encourage nothing but the 
 Indian Jugglers and Mr Walker's Eidouranion. 
 
 Such was the rock on which I split. I never got 
 over the patronage of the Fantadlin family. My house 
 was deserted; my actors grew discontented because 
 they were ill paid; my door became a hammering 
 place for every bailiff in the country ; and my wife 
 became more and more shrewish and tormenting the 
 more I wanted comfort. 
 
 I tried for a time the usual consolation of a harassed 
 and henpecked man : I took to the botde, and tried 
 to tipple away my cares, but in vain. I don't mean 
 to decry the bottle; it is no doubt an excellent remedy 
 in many cases, but it did not answer in mine. It 
 cracked my voice, coppered my nose, hut neither 
 improved my wife nor my affairs. My establishment 
 became a scene of confusion and peculation. I was 
 considered a mined man, and of course fair game for 
 every one to pluck at, as every one plunders a sinking 
 ship. Day after day some of the troop deserted, nnd, 
 like deserting soldiers, carried off their arms and ac- 
 coutrements with them. In this manner my ward- 
 robe took legs and walked away, my finery strolled 
 all over the country, my swords and daggers glittered 
 in every barn, until, at last, my tailor made "one 
 fell swoop," and carried off three dress coats, half a 
 dozen doublets, and nineteen pair of flesh-coloured 
 pantaloons. This was the " be all and the end all" of 
 my fortune. I no longer hesitated what to do. Egad, 
 thought I, since stealing is the order of the day, I'll 
 steal too : so I secretly gathered together the jewels 
 of my wardrobe, packed up a hero's dress in a hand- 
 kerchief, slung it on the end of a tragedy sword, and 
 quietly stole off at dead of night, " tlie bell then beat- 
 ing one," leaving my queen and kingdom to the 
 mercy of my rebellious subjects, and my merciless 
 foes the bunibailiffs. 
 
 Such, sir, was the " end of all ray greatness." I 
 was heartily cured of all passion for governing, and 
 returned once more into the rank:.. I had for some 
 time the usual run of an actor's life : I played in va- 
 rious country theatres, at fairs, and in bams; some- 
 
 M 
 
916 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 times hard pushed, •ometimes flush, until, on one 
 occasion, I came within an ace of malcing my fortune, 
 and becoming one of the wonders of the age. 
 
 I was playing tlie iiart of Ricliard the Third in a 
 country Irarn, and in my best style ; for, to tell the 
 truth, I was a little in liquor, and the crilics of the 
 company always observed tliat I played with most 
 efTect when I had a glass lo«) much. There was a 
 thunder of applause when I came to that part where 
 Richard cries for "a horse ! a horse ! " My cracked 
 voice had always a wonderful effect here; it was like 
 two voices run into one ; you would have thought 
 two men had been calling for a horse, or (hat Richard 
 had called for two horses. And when I flung the 
 taunt at Richmond, "Richard is hoarse with calling 
 thee to arms," I thought the barn would have come 
 down about my ears with the raptures of the audience. 
 The very next mornuig a person wailed upon me 
 at my lodgings. I saw at once he was a gentleman 
 by his dress; for he had a large brooch in his bosom, 
 thick rings on his fingers, and used a tpiizzing-giass. 
 And a gentleman he proved to be; for I soon ascer- 
 tained that he was a kept author, or kind of literary 
 tailor to one of the great London theatres; one who 
 worked under the manager's directions, and cut up 
 and cut down plays, and patched and pieced, and 
 new-faced, and turned them inside out; in short, he 
 was one of the readiest and greatest writers of the day. 
 He was now on a foraging excursion in quest of 
 something that might be got up for a prodigy. The 
 theatre, it seems, was in desperate condition— no- 
 thing but a miracle could save it. lie had seen me act 
 Richard the night before, and had pitched upon me 
 for that miracle. I had a remarkable bluster in my 
 style and swagger in my gait. I certainly differed 
 from all other heroes of the barn : so the thought 
 struck the agent to bring me out as a theatrical won- 
 der, as the restorer of natural and legitimate acting, 
 as the only one who could understand and act Shak- 
 speare rightly. 
 
 When he opened his plan I shrunk from it with 
 becoming modesty, for, well as I thought of myself, I 
 doubted my competency to such an undertaking. 
 
 I hinted at my imperfect knowledge of Shakspeare, 
 having played bis cliaracters only after mutilated co- 
 pies, interlarded with a great deal of my own talk by 
 way of helping memory or heightening the effect. 
 
 "So much the better," cried Uie gentleman with 
 rings on his fingers; "so much the better. New 
 readings, sir !— new readingsl Don't study a line- 
 let us have Shakspeare after your own fashion." 
 
 "But then my voice was cracked; it could not fill 
 a London theatre." 
 
 "So much the better! so much the better! The 
 public is tired of intonation— the ore rotuttdo has had 
 its day. No, sir, your cracked voice is the very thing 
 —spit and splutter, and snap and snarl, and ' play the 
 very dog' about the stage, and you'll be the making 
 of us." 
 " But then,"— I could not help blushing to the end 
 
 of my very nose as I said it, but I was determined to 
 he candid ;—" hut then," added I, "there is onej 
 awkward circumstance; I have an unlucky hal)it-.| 
 my misfortunes, and the exposures to which one 
 subjected in country harns, have obliged me now ai 
 then to — to— take a drop of something comfortabli 
 and so — and so " 
 
 " What I you drink ? " cried the agent eagerly. 
 
 I bowed my head in blushing acknowledgment. 
 
 "So much the belter! so much the lietter! Tl 
 irregularities of genius ! A sober fellow is coranwo 
 place. The public like an actor that drinks. Gin 
 me your hand, sir. You're tiie very man to make 
 dash with." 
 
 I still hung back with lingering diffidence, di 
 ing myself unworthy of such praise. 
 
 " 'Sblood, man," cried he, " no praise at all. Y( 
 don't imagine I think you a wonder; I only want 
 public to think so. Nothing is so easy as to piH 
 public, if you only set up a prodigy. Common tali 
 any body can measure by common rule; hut a 
 digy sets all rule and measurement at defiance." 
 
 These words opened my eyes in an instant; 
 now came to a proper understanding; less flatti 
 it is true, to my vanity, but much more satisfadi 
 to my judgment. 
 
 It was agreed that I should make my appeani 
 before a London audience, as a dramatic sun 
 bursting from behind the clouds : one diat wasto 
 nish all the lesser lights and false fires of the stij 
 Every precaution was to be taken to possess llie pi 
 lie mind at every avenue. The pit was to be pad 
 with sturdy clappers; the newspapers secured 
 vehement puffers; every theatrical resort to 
 haunted by hireling talkers. In a word, even- 
 gine of theatrical humbug was to be put in adi 
 Wherever I differed from former actors, it was lo 
 maintained that I was right and they were wron°;. 
 I ranted, it was to be pure passion ; If I werevul 
 it was to be pronounced a familiar touch of nali 
 if I made any queer blunder, it was to be a new 
 ing. If my voice cracked, or I got out in my 
 was only to bounce, and grin, and snarl at tlie 
 dience, and make any horrible grimace that 
 into my head, snd my admirers were to call it 
 great point," and to fall back and shout and 
 with rapture. 
 
 " In short," said the gentleman with the qui) 
 glass, "strike out boldly and bravely: no 
 how or what you do, so that it be but odd andsli 
 If you do but escape pelting the first night, yoar 
 tune and the fortune of the theatre is made. 
 
 I set off for London, therefore, in company 
 the kept author, full of new plans and newliO| 
 was to be the restorer of Shakspeare and Nature,! 
 the legitimate drama; my very swag^r was 
 heroic, and my cracked voice the standard of 
 tion. Alas, sir, my usual luck attended me: 
 I arrived at the metropolis a rival wonder iudj 
 peared ; a woman who could dance the slack- 
 
 ID, I 
 
 
 ant 
 
 KlOi 
 
 an 
 
 m 
 
 and 
 
 and 
 
 forta 
 
 %b 
 
 cew 
 
 rietj 
 
 of 
 
 of 
 
 ipei 
 
 wi 
 
TALES OF A THAVELLER. 
 
 Mr 
 
 it bull was (lelerminedtol 
 •'added I, "tl»"e » om| 
 [ have an unlucky UaWl-| 
 
 exposures 
 
 to \v\iich one i 
 
 IS have obliged me now »i» 
 ofsomeUungcomforUWe 
 
 cried the agent eagerly, 
 pushing acknowledgment. 
 1 go much the l»etter! Tl 
 A sober fellow is commonj 
 an actor that drinks. GW 
 u're Ums very man 10 make 
 
 li lingering difndence,de 
 
 f such praise. 
 
 «d he, "no praise at all. 
 
 .ouawonder;Ionlywantti 
 
 othingissoeasyaslogulll 
 
 una prodigy. Common tala 
 .hy common rule; but a p 
 measurement at denance. 
 
 ed my eye» *"» *" '"***"*' 
 • imderstandingjlessflalle 
 
 y. but much more satisfad 
 
 tl should make royappeannj 
 idience, as a dramatic sun j 
 
 d the clouds 
 
 ,hls and false nres of the su 
 
 rs 
 
 as to be taken to possess 
 emie. The pit was to be pacl 
 • the newspapers secured 
 every theatrical resort to 
 talkers. In a word every 
 mmbugwastobepu mac 
 "lorn former actors, it was to 
 as right and they were wrong, 
 e pure passion; If I were>. 
 need a familiar touch of nati 
 blunder,itwastobeanev 
 .acked,orIgotout.nmyp 
 and grin, and snarl at the 
 anyborrible grimace thaic 
 1 admirers were to call. t 
 [to fall back and shout andj 
 
 , the gentleman with the qui: 
 
 boldly and bravely: no 
 ,^thatitbebutoddandst, 
 
 ^ pelting tbe first nigh^yout 
 Le of the theatre IS made. 
 Ln, therefore, in Compaq 
 P new plans and new. ^ 
 Lr of Shakspeare and Nature^ 
 
 'acked voice the standarf of 
 by usualluck attended rn • 
 Metropolis a rival wondeH 
 Lho could dance the sla* 
 
 Imdrun upa roni from the stage to the gallery with 
 lire-works all round her. She was seized on by the 
 Ininager with avidity. She was the saving of the 
 lireat national llieatre for the season. Nothing was 
 lulked of but Madame Soqui's fire-works and llesh- 
 Itokwred pantaloons; and Nature, Sliakspearc, the 
 lle^timate drama, and poor Pillgarlick were com- 
 Ifktelyleft in the lurch. 
 When Madame Saqui's performance grew stale, 
 wonders succeeded : horses, and harlequin- 
 », and mummery of all kinds ; until another dra- 
 iilic prodigy was brought forward to play the very 
 ! for which I had been intended. I called upon 
 (kept author for an explanation, but he was deeply 
 in writing a melo-drania or a pantomime, 
 was extremely testy on being interrupted in his 
 liei. However, as the theatre was in some mea- 
 pledged to provide for me, the manager acted, 
 ling tothe usual phrase, " likea man of honour," 
 1 received an appointment in the corps. It had 
 a turn of a die whether I should be Alexander 
 Great or Alexander the coppersmith— the latter 
 ied it. I could not be put at the head of the 
 , so I was put at the tail of it. In other words, 
 enrolled among the number of what are called 
 fill men: those who enact soldiers, senators, and 
 [uo's shadowy line. I was perfectly satisfied 
 my lot ; for I have always been a bit of a philo- 
 ir. If my situation was not splendid, it at least 
 lecure ; and in fact I have seen half a dozen pro- 
 appear, dazzle, burst like bubbles and pass 
 IT, and yet here I am, snug, unenvied and unmo- 
 1, at the fool of the profession. 
 10, no, you may smile; but let me tell you, we 
 men are the only comfortable actors on the 
 We are safe from hisses, and below the hope 
 use. We fear not the success of rivals, nor 
 the critic's pen. So long as we get the words 
 parts, and theyare not often many, it is all we 
 for. We have our own merriment, our own 
 , and our own admirers — for every actor has 
 friends and admirers, from the highest to the 
 The first-rate actor dines with the noble 
 ir, and entertains a fashionable tabic with 
 and songs, and theatrical slipslop. The second- 
 Ktors have their second-rate friends and ad- 
 i, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and 
 ilop— and so down even to us ; who have our 
 and admirers among spruce clerks and aspir- 
 entices— who treat us to a dinner now and 
 ami enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and 
 and slipslop that have been served up by our 
 fortunate brethren at the tables of the great. 
 w, for the first time in my theatrical life, ex- 
 what true pleasure is. I have known enough 
 riety to pity the poor devils who are called fa- 
 of the public. I would rather be a kitten in 
 of a spoiled child, to be one moment patted 
 ipered, and tlie next moment thumped over 
 with the spoon. I smile to see our leading 
 
 actors fretting themselves with envy and jealousy 
 about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality, 
 and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, tliough 
 of course in my sleeve, at the bustle and importance, 
 and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who is 
 harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to 
 please every body. 
 
 I have found among my fellow subalterns two or 
 three quondam managers, who like myself have wield- 
 ed the sceptres of country theatres, and we have many 
 a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and 
 the public. Sometimes too, we meet, like deposed 
 and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective 
 reigns, moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at 
 the humbug of the great and little world; which, I 
 take it, is the essence of practical philosophy. 
 
 Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his 
 friends. It grieves me much that I could not pro- 
 cure from him further particulars of his history, an<l 
 especially of that part of it which passed in town, 
 lie had evidently seen much of literary life ; and, as 
 he had never risen to eminence in letters, and yet 
 was free from the gall of disappointment, I had hoped 
 to gain some candid intelligence concerning his con- 
 temporaries. The testimony of such an honest chro- 
 nicler would have been particularly valuable at the 
 present time ; when, owing to the extreme fecundity 
 of the press, and the thousand anecdotes, criticisms, 
 and biographical sketches that are daily poured forth 
 concerning public characters, it is extremely difficult 
 to get at any truth concerning tbem. 
 
 He was always, however, excessively reserved and 
 fastidious on this point, at which I very much wonder- 
 ed, authors in general appearing to think each other 
 fair ganoe, and being ready to serve each other up for 
 the am isement of the public. 
 
 A few mornings after our hearing the history of the 
 ex-manager, I was surprised by a visit from Buck- 
 thorne before I was out of bed. He was dressed for 
 travelling^. 
 
 " Give me joy ! give me joy ! " said he, rubbing 
 his hands with the utmost glee, " my great expecta- 
 tions are realized ! " 
 
 I gazed at him with a look of wonder and in- 
 quiry. 
 
 " My booby cousin is dead ! " cried he ; " may he 
 rest in peace ! he nearly broke his neck in a fall from 
 his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck, he lived long 
 enough to make his will. He has made me his heir, 
 partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and 
 partly because, as he says, none of his own family or 
 friends know how to enjoy such an estate. I'm off 
 to the country to take possession. I've done with 
 authorship. That for the critics ! " said he, snap- 
 ping his fingers. '' Come down to Doubting Castle, 
 when I get settled, and, egad, I'll give yon a rouse. " 
 So saying, he shook me heartily by the hand, and 
 Iraunded off in high spirits. 
 
 .i 
 
548 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ■ J ■ 'iwii-l 
 
 A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. 
 Indeed, it was but lately tliat I received a letter, 
 written in the happiest of moods. He was getting 
 the estate into fine order ; every thing went to his 
 wishes, and, what was more, he was married to Sa- 
 charissa, who it seems had always entertained an ar- 
 dent though secret attachment for him, which he 
 fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate. 
 
 " I find, " said he, " you are a little given to the 
 sin of authorship, which I renounce: if the anecdotes 
 I have given you of my slory are of any interest, you 
 may make use of them; but come down to Doubling 
 Castle, and "^ee how we live, and I'll give you my 
 whole Lonoon life over a social glass ; and a rattling 
 iiistory it shall be about authors and reviewers. " 
 
 If ever I visit Doubting Castle and get the history 
 he promises, the public shall be sure to hear of it. 
 
 PART ID. 
 
 THE ITALIAN BANDITTL 
 
 THE INN AT TERRAQNA. 
 
 Cr\ck ! crack ! crack ! crack ! crack ! 
 
 " Here comes the estafette from Naples," said mine 
 host of the inn at Terracina ; " bring out the relay." 
 
 The estafette came galloping up the road according 
 to custom, brandishing over his head a short-handled 
 whip, with a long, knotted lash, every smack of which 
 made a report like a pistol. He was a tight, square- 
 set young fellow, in the usual uniform : a smart blue 
 coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so 
 short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, 
 and cocked up net unlike the tail of a wren; a cocked 
 hat, edged with gv«Id lace; a pair of stiff riding-boots ; 
 but, instead of the u.<ual leathern breeches, he had a 
 fragment of a pair of drawers, that scarcely furnished 
 an apology for Modesty to hide behind. 
 
 The estafette galloped up to the door, and jumped 
 from his horse. 
 
 "A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of 
 breeches," said he, " and quickly, per I'amor di Dio. 
 I am behind my time, and must be off! " 
 
 " San Gennaro!" replied tlie host; " why where 
 hast thou left thy garment? " 
 
 " Among the robbers between this and Fondi." 
 
 " What, rob an estafette! I never heard of such 
 folly. What could they hope to get from thee ? " 
 
 " My leather breeches!" replied the estafette. 
 " They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit 
 the fancy of the captain." 
 
 " Well, these fellows grow worse and woise. To 
 meddle with an estafette ! and that merely for the sake 
 of a pair of leather breeche»! " 
 
 The robbing of a government messenger seemed to I 
 strike the host with more astonishment than any other I 
 enormity that had taken place on the road ; and, in-f 
 deed, it was t^e first time so wanton an outrage hadl 
 been committed; the robbers generally taking earel 
 not to meddle with any thing belonging to govern-l 
 ment. 
 
 The estafette was by this time equipped, for he hadj 
 not lost an instant in making his preparations wliilJ 
 talking. The relay was ready ; the rosolio tossed off J 
 he g'. jsped the reins and the stirrup. 
 
 " Were there many robbers in the band?" salHi 
 handsome, dark young man, stepping forward I 
 the door of the inn. 
 
 '' As formidable a band as ever I saw," said thee 
 tafette, springing into the saddle. 
 
 "Are they cruel to travellers?" said a beantilii 
 young yene*'qn lady, who had been hanging oa i 
 gentleman't. ..m. 
 
 " Cruel, signora!" echoed the estafette, giving J 
 glance at tl't lady as he put spurs to his horse. " Coi| 
 di Bacco ! They stiletto all the men ; and, as to t 
 
 women " Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!-| 
 
 The last words were drowned in the smacking ofi 
 whip, and away galloped the estafette along the 
 to the Por •' iC marshes. 
 
 "Holy Mrgin!" ejaculated the fair Venetiaii| 
 " what will become of us ! " 
 
 The inn of which we are speaking stands jiist oai 
 side of the 'alls of Terracina, under a vast preciM 
 ous heigb' jf rocks, crowned with the ruins of 
 castle of .heodoric the Goth. The situation of Te 
 racina I emarkable. It is a little, ancient, lazy In 
 Han tOT , on the frontiers of the Roman territo 
 There jems to be an idle pause in every thing al 
 the iCe. The Mediterranean spreads before it] 
 tb sea without flu \\ or reflux. The port is wil 
 
 ail, excepting that once in a while a solitai? fell 
 
 •ay Lc s^en disgorging its holy cargo of baccala, 
 leagre provision for the quaresima, or Lent, 
 iiiiiabitanls are apparently a listless, heedless race,| 
 people of soil sunny climates are apt to be; biitur 
 this passive, indolent exterior, are said to lurkdai 
 ous qualities. They are supposed by many to be ^ 
 better than the banditti of the neighbouring 
 tains, and indeed to hold a secret correspondence' 
 them. The solitary watch-towers, erected herei 
 there along the coast, speak of pirates and 
 that hover about these shores; wliile the low hull 
 stations for soldiers, which dot the distant roa(1,( 
 winds up through an olive grove, intimate that iij 
 ascent there is danger for the traveller, and <» 
 for the bandit. Indeed, it is between this tomj 
 Fondi that the road to Naples is most infested bf I 
 dilti. It has several winding aad solitaq 
 where the robbers are enabled to see the tr» 
 from a distance, from the brows of hills or inii« 
 precipices, and to lie in wait for him at 
 diflicult passes. 
 
 The Italian robbers are a desperate dais nii 
 
 lowun 
 
 IThey 
 
 llliose 
 
 llliey 
 
 Iveo 
 
 llliei 
 
 IwlieF 
 
 pan 
 
 llbem 
 
 wed 
 
 iyth 
 
 rithi 
 
 w 
 
 (y 
 
 ;es, 
 
 limbs 
 
 hen 
 
 m\ 
 
 iO 
 
 ivell 
 At I 
 
 ai 
 leau 
 
 II 
 in,tr 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 S49 
 
 mment messenger seemed to 1 
 i astonishment than any other I 
 place on the road ; and, io-l 
 le so wanton an outrage hadl 
 Dbbers generally taking <are| 
 J thing belonging to govern-l 
 
 this time equipped, forhel 
 naking his preparations wliild 
 s ready ; the rosolio tossed off;j 
 d the stirrup, 
 robbers in the band?" salh 
 ; man, stepping forward I 
 
 md as ever I saw," said thee 
 the saddle. 
 
 , travellers?" said a beantilt 
 who liad been hanging on I 
 
 ' echoed the estafette. giving 
 ! put spurs to his horse. " Cor 
 etlo all the men ; and, as to 
 crack! crack! crack! crack! 
 drowned in the smacking of 
 »ped the estafette along the 
 
 es. 
 ejaculated the fair Veneti 
 
 if us!" 
 
 we are speaking stands just oai 
 rerracina, under a vast piecip 
 crowned with the ruins of 
 [he Goth. The situation of Ti 
 It is a little, ancient, lazy 
 ontiers of the Roman terriK 
 n idle pause in every thing al 
 edilerranean spreads before it- 
 er reQux. Theportiswith 
 t once in a while a solilaiy fel 
 ing its holy cargo of baccaia 
 )r the quaresima, or Lent, 
 irently a listless, heedless race, 
 climates are apt to be; biitur 
 t exterior, are said to lurkdaii 
 y are supposed by many to be li 
 ndilti of the neighbouring ir 
 hold a secret correspondence 
 ■y watch-towers, erected here 
 ast, speak of pirates and cor 
 lese shores ; while the low hoi 
 I, which dot the disUnt road, 
 m olive grove, intimate that aj 
 iger for the traveller, and W 
 deed, it is between this town 
 to Naples is most infested by 
 ral winding auil solitai? p 
 _j are enabled to see the W 
 )m the brows of hills or imiKi 
 lie in wait for him at lonelji 
 
 bers area desperate claa «! 
 
 Ibat have almo' t formed themselves into an order of 
 
 loeiety. They wear a kind of uniform, or rather 
 
 eoglume, which openly designates their profession. 
 
 This is probably done to diminisli its sculkuig, lawless 
 
 cbaracter, and to give it something of a military air in 
 
 the eyes of the common people; or, perhaps, to catch 
 
 |)y outward show and finery the fancies of the young 
 
 men of the villages, and thus to gain recruits. Their 
 
 presses are often very rich and picturesque. They 
 
 jfear jackets and breeches of bright colours, some- 
 
 tiines gaily embroidered; their breasts are covered 
 
 fith medals and relies; their hats are broad-brimmed, 
 
 rilh conical crowns, decorated with feathers, or va- 
 
 rioasly-colonred ribands ; their hair is sometimes ga- 
 
 ibered in silk nets; they wear a kind of sandal of 
 
 doth or leather, bound round the legs with thongs, 
 
 lod extremely flexible, to enable them to scramble 
 
 fith ease and celerity among the mountain precipices ; 
 
 jiliroad belt of cloth, or a sash of silk net, is stuck full 
 
 (f pistoki and stilettos ; a carbine is slung at the back ; 
 
 fhile about them is generally thrown, in a negligent 
 
 manner, a great dingy mantle, which serves as a pro- 
 
 teclion in storms, or a bed in their bivouacs among 
 
 Ithe mountains. 
 
 They range over a great extent of wild country, 
 jalong the chain of Apennines, bordering on different 
 ites; they know all the difTicult passes, the short 
 Icots for retreat, and the impracticable forests of the 
 moontain summits, where no force dare follow them. 
 They are secure of the good-will of the inhabitants of 
 llMse regions, a poor and semi-barbarous race, whom 
 Ihey never disturb and often enrich. Indeed they 
 ire considered as a sort of illegitimate heroes among 
 llie mountain villages, and in certain frontier towns, 
 where they dispose of their plunder. Thus coun- 
 {tenanced, and sheltered, and secure in the fastnesses 
 if their mountains, the robbers have set the weak 
 lice of the Italian states at deiiance. It is in vain 
 jthat their names and descriptions are posted on the 
 irs of country churches, and rewards offered for 
 |lhem alive or dead ; the villagers are either too much 
 iwed by the terrible instances of vengeance inflicted 
 ly the brigands, or have too good an understanding 
 fith them to be their betrayers. It is true they are 
 w and then hunted and shot down like beasts of 
 ly by the getis-d'armes, their heads put in iron 
 iges, and stuck upon pos s by the road-side, or their 
 limJMhung up to blacken in the trees near the places 
 'here they have committed their atrocities; but these 
 (hastly spectacles only serve to make some dreary 
 of the road still more dreary, and to dismay the 
 iveller, without deterring the bandit. 
 At the time that the estafette made his sudden ap- 
 iarance, almost in cuerpu, as has been mentioned, 
 le audacity of the robbers had risen to an unparal- 
 iled height. They had laid villas under contribu- 
 in, they had sent messages into country towns, to 
 idesmen and rich burghers, demanding supplies of 
 iney, of clothing, or even of luxuries, with menaces 
 |f vengeance in case of refusal . They had their spies 
 
 and emissaries in every town, village, and inn, along 
 the principal roads, to give them notice of the move- 
 ments and qu Jity of travellers. They bad plundered 
 carriages, carried people of rank and fortune into the 
 mountains, and obliged them to write for heavy ran- 
 soms, and had committed outrages on females who 
 had fallen into their hands. 
 
 Such was briefly the state of the robbers, or rather 
 such was the amount of the rumours prevalent con- 
 cerning them, when the scene took place at the inn 
 at Terracina. The dark handsome young man, and 
 the Venetian lady, incidentally mentioned, had arriv- 
 ed early that afternoon in a private carriage drawn 
 by mules, and attended by a single servant. They 
 had been recently married, were spending the honey- 
 moon in travelling through these delicious countries, 
 and were on the'x way to visit a rich aunt of the bride 
 at Naples. 
 
 The lady was young, and tender, and timid. The 
 stories she had heard along the road had filled her 
 with apprehension, not more for herself than for her 
 husband ; for though she had been married almost a 
 month, she still loved him almost to idolatry. When 
 she reached Terracina, the rumours of the road had 
 increased to an alarming magnitude ; and the sight of 
 two robbers' sculls, grinning in iron cages, on each 
 side of the old gateway of the town, brought her to 
 a pause. Her husband had tried in vain to reassure 
 her, they had lingered all the afternoon at the inn, 
 until it was too late to think of starting that evening, 
 and the parting words of the estafette completed her 
 affright. 
 
 "Let us return to Rome," said she, putting her 
 arm within her husband's, and drawing towards 
 him as if for protection,— "Let us return to Rome, 
 and give up this visit to Naples. " 
 
 "And give up the visit to your aunt, too?" said 
 the husband. 
 
 " Nay,— what is my aunt in comparison with your 
 safety ? " said she, looking up tenderly iu his face. 
 
 There was something in her tone and manner that 
 showed she really was thinking more of her hus- 
 band's safety at that moment than of her own ; and 
 being so recently married, and a match of pure affec- 
 tion too, it is very possible that she was : al least her 
 husband thought so. Indeed any one who has heard 
 the sweet musical tone of a Venetian voice, and the 
 melting tenderness of a Venetian phrase, and felt the 
 soft witchery of a Venetian eye, would not wonder 
 at the husband's believing whatever they professed. 
 He clasped the while hand that had been laid within 
 his, put his arm around her slender waist, and drawing 
 her fondly to his bosom, " This night, at least," said 
 he, " we will pass at Terracina." 
 
 Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack! Another 
 apparition of the road attracted the attention of mine 
 host and his guests. From the direction of the Pon- 
 tine marshes a carriage, drawn by half-a-dozen 
 1101*868, came driving at a furious rate ; the postillions 
 smacking their whips like mad, as is the case when 
 
530 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 R- . I 
 
 oonscioos of the greatness or of the munincence of 
 their fare. It was a landaalet, with a servant mounted 
 on the dickey. The compact, highly-fmished, yet 
 proudly simple construction of the carriage; the 
 quantity of neat, well-arranged trunks and conve- 
 nien es ; the loads of box-coats on the dickey ; the 
 fresh, burly, bluff-looking face of the master at 
 the window; and the ruddy, round-headed servant, 
 in close-cropped hair, short coat, drab breeches, and 
 long gaiters, all proclaimed at once that this was the 
 equipage of an Englishman. 
 
 " Horses to Fondi," said the Englishman, as the 
 landlord came bowing to the carriage-door. 
 
 " Would not his Eccellenza alight and take some 
 refreshment ? " 
 
 " No— he did not mean to eat until he got to 
 Fondi." 
 
 " But the horses will be some time in getting 
 ready." 
 
 "Ah! that's always the way; nothing but delay 
 in this cursed country." 
 
 "If his Eccellenza would only walk into the 
 house " 
 
 "No, no, no! — I tell you no!— I want nothing 
 but horses, and as quick as possible. John, see that 
 the horses are got ready, and don't let us be kept here 
 an hour or two. Tell him if we're delayed over the 
 time, I'll lodge a complaint with the postmaster." 
 
 John touched his hat, and set off to obey his mas- 
 ter's orders with the taciturn obedience of an Eng- 
 lish servant. 
 
 In the mean time, the Englishman got out of the 
 carriage, and walked up and down before the inn 
 with his hands in his pockets, taking no notice of the 
 crowd of idlers who were gazing at him and his equi- 
 page. He was tall, stout, and well made ; dressed 
 with neatness and precision ; wore a travelling cap 
 of the colour of gingerbread; and bad rather an un- 
 happy expression about the corners of his mouth ; 
 partly from not having yet made his dinner, and 
 partly from not having been able to get on at a greater 
 rate than seven miles an hour. Not that he had any 
 other cause for haste than an Englishman's usual 
 hurry to get to the end of a journey; or, to use the 
 regular phrase, " to get on." Perhaps too he was a 
 little sore from having been fleeced at every stage. 
 
 After some time, the servant returned from the 
 stable with a look of some perplexity. 
 
 " Are the horses ready, John?" 
 
 " No, sir— I never saw such a place. There's no 
 getting any thing done. I think your honour had 
 l)etter step into the house and get something to eat; 
 it will be a long while before we get to Fundy." 
 
 " D— n the house— it's a mere trick— I'll not eat 
 any thing, just to spite them," said the Englishman, 
 still more crusty at the prospect of being so long with- 
 out his dinner. 
 
 " They say your honour's very wrong," said John, 
 " to set off at this late hour. The road's full of 
 highwaymen." 
 
 " Mere tales to get custom." 
 
 " The estafette which passed us was stopped by A 
 whole gang," said John, increasing his emphasis | 
 with each additional piece of information. 
 
 " I don't believe a word of it." 
 
 " They robbed him of his breeches," said John,! 
 giving, at the same time, a hitch to his own wak-| 
 band. 
 
 "All humbug!" 
 
 Here the dark handsome young man stepped for-l 
 ward, and addressing the Englishman very poliieiyl 
 in broken English, invited bun to-partake of a repast! 
 he was about to make. 
 
 "Thank'ee," said the Englishman, thrusting hbj 
 hands deeper into his pockets, and casting a slig 
 side glance of suspicion at the young man, as if he| 
 thought, from his civility, he must have a design up 
 his purse. 
 
 " We shall be most happy, if you will do ug thai 
 favour," said the lady in her soft Venetian diaiectj 
 There was a sweetness in her accents that was i 
 persuasive. The Englishman cast a look upon ha 
 countenance; her beauty was still more eloquenlj 
 His features instantly relaxed. He made a po|{ 
 bow. " With great pleasure, Signora," said he. 
 
 In short, the eagerness to " get on" wassuddenlJ 
 slackened; the determination to famish himself as bj 
 as Fondi, by way of punishing the landlord, wasabao' 
 doned ; John chose an apartment in the inn for hi^ 
 master's reception; and preparations were made I 
 remain there until morning. 
 
 The carriage was unpacked of such of its contenl^ 
 as were indispensable for the night. There was ibi 
 Msual parade of trunks and writing-desks, and | 
 foiios, and dressing-boxes, and those other oppressiv^ 
 conveniences which burthen a comfortable man. Thi 
 observant loiterers about the inn-door, wrapped i 
 in great dirt-coloured cloaks, with only a hawk's e;| 
 uncovered, made many remarks to each other on t 
 quantity of luggage, that seemed enough for an annjj 
 The domestics of the inn talked with wonder of till 
 splendid dressing-case, with its gold and silver fiir| 
 niture, that was spread out on the toilet-table, i 
 the bag of gold that chinked as it was taken out gj 
 the trunk. The strange milor's wealth, and Ibj 
 treasures he carried about him, Avere the talk, ibi 
 evening, over all Terracina. 
 
 The Englishman took some time to make his : 
 tions and arrange his dress for table; and, after c 
 siderable labour and effort in putting himself at I 
 ease, made his appearance, with slirf white crarij 
 his clothes free from the least speck of dust, and i 
 justed with precision. He made a civil bow on ( 
 tering, in the unprofessing English way, whicli I 
 fair Venetian, accustomed to the complimentary i 
 lutations of the continent, considered extremely c 
 
 The supper, as it was termed by the Italian, 
 dinner, as the Englishman called it, was now serve! 
 heaven and earth, and the waters under llie eatll 
 had been moved to furnish it; for there were I 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 m." , 
 
 assed us was stopped by a I 
 increasing his einplia8u| 
 of informalion. 
 
 dofit." 
 
 his breeches," said John,! 
 
 . a hitch to Wsownwaktr 
 
 me young man stepped for- 
 ,e Englishman very politely,! 
 "d him toTiarlake of a r€pa8l| 
 
 e Englishman, thrusting his 
 )ocket8, and casting a 8li| 
 at the young man, asiflid 
 ^, he must have a design uj 
 
 lappy, if you will do us thai 
 in her soft Venetian dialect, 
 in her accents that was mi 
 Ushman casta look upon h( 
 uty -was still more eloquent, 
 relaxed. He made a polil 
 leasure,Signora,"saidhe, 
 less to " get on" was suddenly 
 lination to famish himself as fai 
 nishing the landlord, wasatai 
 1 apartment in the inn for hi 
 id preparations were made ' 
 
 jrning. 
 inpackedofsuchofitscontenl 
 
 for the night. There xsas it 
 5 and writing-desks, and poi 
 jxes, and those other oppres8iv( 
 urthen a comfortable man. Th 
 out the inn-door, wrapped 
 cloaks, with only a hawk'sejj 
 w remarks to each other on' 
 lat seemed enough for an arm] 
 inn talked with wonder of 
 „, with its gold and silver toj 
 ad out on the toilet-table, aH 
 chinked as it was taken out 
 |angc milor's wealth, and 
 ibout him, were the talk, H 
 
 iracina. . ,. u, 
 
 jk some time to make his aWi 
 
 dress for table; and, after 
 ffort in putting himself at 
 ,rance, with stiff white cm 
 llhe least speck of dust, and' 
 
 He made a civil bow on 
 •essing English way, which 
 )med to the complimentary 
 ent, considered extremely- 
 
 was termed by the Italian, 
 Ihman called it, was now serv 
 
 id the waters under the eai 
 irnishit; for there were " 
 
 of the air, and beasts of the field, and fish of the sea. 
 The Englishman's servant, loo, had turned the kit- 
 clien topsy-turvy In his zeal to cook his master a 
 lieeCsteak; and made his appearance, loaded with 
 ketchup, and soy, and Cayenne pepper, and Harvey 
 yace, and a bottle of port wine, from that ware- 
 liouse the carriage, in which his master seemed de- 
 jirous of carrying England about the world with 
 Ijin. Indeed the repast was one of those Italian far- 
 [ngoes which require a little qualifying. The tureen 
 soup was a black sea, with livers, and limbs, and 
 lents of all kinds of birds and beasts floating like 
 cks about it. A meagre winged animal, which 
 IT host called a delicate chicken, had evidently died 
 a consumption. The macaroni was smoked. The 
 fsteak was tough buffalo's flesh. There was 
 lat appeared to be a dish of stewed eels, of which 
 Englishman ate with great relish ; but had nearly 
 nded them when told that they were vipers, 
 ;ht among the rocks of Terracina, and esteemed 
 |reat delicacy. 
 
 There is nothing, however, that conquers a tra- 
 
 's spleen sooner than eating, whatever may be 
 
 cookery; and nothing brings him into good hu- 
 
 T with his company sooner than eating together: 
 
 Englishman, therefore, had not half fmished his 
 
 land his bottle, before he began to think the 
 
 [uelian a very tolerable fellow for a foreigner, and 
 
 wife almost handsome enough to be an English- 
 
 n. 
 h the course of the repast, the usual topics of tra- 
 lers were discussed, and among others, the re- 
 of robbers, which harassed the mind of the fair 
 letian. The landlord and waiter dipped into the 
 iversation with that familiarity permitted on the 
 lent, and served up so many bloody tales as 
 served up the dishes, that they almost fright- 
 away the poor lady's appetite. 
 le Englishman, who had a national antipathy to 
 thing that is technically called '' humbug," lis- 
 to them all with a certain screw of the mouth, 
 iive of incredulity. There was the well-known 
 of the school of Terracina, captured by the rob- 
 and one of the students coolly massacred, in 
 to bring the parents to terms for the ransom 
 rest. And another, of a gentleman of Rome, 
 teceived his son's ear in a letter, with informa- 
 that his son would be remitted to him in this 
 !,by mstalments, until he paid the required ran- 
 
 i fair Venetian shuddered as she heard these 
 |; and the landlord, like a true narrator of the 
 pie, doubled the dose when he saw how it ope- 
 He was just proceeding to relate the misfor- 
 I of a great English lord and his family, when 
 Englishman, tired of his volubility, interrupted 
 jand pronounced these accounts to be mere tra- 
 
 18' tales, or the exaggerations of ignorant pea- 
 |and designing inn-keepers. The landlord was 
 
 pant at the doubt levelled at his stories, and the 
 
 innuendo levelled at his clolh ; he cited, in corrobo- 
 ration, half a dozen tales still more terrible. 
 
 " I don't believe a word of them," said the Eng- 
 lishman. 
 
 " But the robbers have been tried and executed." 
 
 "All a farce!" 
 
 "But their heads are stuck up along the road !" 
 
 " Old sculls, accumulated during a century." 
 
 The landlord muttered to himself as he went out 
 at the door, "San Gennaro! quanto sono singolari 
 quesli Inglesi ! " 
 
 A fresh hubbub outside of the inn announced the 
 arrival of more travellers; and, from the variety of 
 voices, or rather of clamours, the clattering of hoofs, 
 the rattling of wheels, and the general uproar both 
 within and without, the arrival seemed to be nu- 
 merous. 
 
 It was, in fact, the procaccio and its convoy ; a 
 kind of caravan which sets out on certain days for the 
 transportation of merchandise, with an escort of sol- 
 diery to protect it from the robbers. Travellers avail 
 themselves of its protection, and a long file of car- 
 riages generally accompany it. 
 
 A considerable time elapsed before either landlord 
 or waiter returned; being hurried hither and thither 
 by that tempest of noise and bustle, which takes place 
 in an Italian inn on the arrival of any considerable 
 accession of custom. When mine host re-appeared, 
 there was a smile of triumph on his countenance. 
 
 " Perhaps, " said he, as he cleared the table, 
 " perhaps the signor has not heard of what has hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " What? " said the Englislunan, drily. 
 
 " Why, the procaccio has brought accounts of fresh 
 exploits of the robbers. " 
 
 " Pish ! " 
 
 " There's more news of the English Milor and his 
 family, " said the host exultingly. ' ' ' 
 
 " An English lord ? What English lord ? " 
 
 " Milor Popkin." 
 
 " Lord Popkins ? I never heard of such a title ! " 
 
 " O sicuro! a great nobleman, who passed through 
 here lately with mi ladi and her daughters. A ma- 
 gnifico, one of the grand counsellors of London, an 
 almanno ! " 
 
 " Almanno— almanno ?— tut — he means alder- 
 man. " 
 
 " Sicuro — Aldermanno Popkin, and the Princi- 
 pessa Popkin, and the Signorine Popkin ! " said mine 
 liost, triumphantly. 
 
 He now put himself into an attitude, and would 
 have launched into a full detail, had he not been 
 thwarted by the Englishman, who seemed determin- 
 ed neither to credit nor indulge him in his stories, but 
 drily motioned for him to clear away the table. 
 
 An Italian tongue, however, is not easily checked : 
 that of mine host continued to wag with increasing 
 volubility, as he conveyed the relics of the repast out 
 of the room; and the last that could be dictinguished 
 of his voice, as it died away along the corridor, was 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 the iteration of the favonrite word, Popkin— Popkin 
 — Popkin— pop— pbi>— pop. 
 
 The arrival of the procaccio had, indeed, filled the 
 house with stories, as it had with guests. The Eng- 
 lishman and his companions walked after supper up 
 and down tlie large hall, or common room of the inn, 
 which ran through the centre of the building. It was 
 spacious and somewhat dirty, with tables placed in 
 various parts, at which groups of travellers were seat- 
 ed ; while others strolled about, waiting, in famished 
 impatience, for their evening's meal. 
 
 It was a heterogeneous assemblage of people of all 
 ranks and countries, who had arrived in all kind of 
 vehicles. Though distinct knots of travellers, yet the 
 travelling together, under one common escort, had 
 jumbled them into a certain degree of companionship 
 on the road : besides, on the continent travellers are 
 always familiar, and nothing is more motley than the 
 groups which gather casually together in sociable 
 conversation in the public rooms of inns. 
 
 The formidable number, and formidable guard of 
 the procaceio, had prevented any molt 'ation from 
 banditti ; but every party of travellers ha its tale of 
 wonder, and one carriage vied with anu.aer in its 
 budget of assertions and surmises. Fierce, whisker- 
 ed faces had been seen peering over the rocks; car- 
 bines and stilettos gleaming from among the bushes ; 
 suspicious-looking fellows, with flapped hats and 
 scowling eyes, had occasionally reconnoitred a strag- 
 gling carriage, but had disappeared on seeing tlte 
 guard. 
 
 The fair Venetian listened to all these stories with 
 that avidity with which we always pamper any feel- 
 ing of alarm; even the Englishman began to feel in- 
 terested in the common topic, and desirous of getting 
 more correct information than mere flying reports. 
 Conquering, therefore, that shyness which is prone 
 to keep an Englishman solitary in crowds, he ap- 
 proached one of the talking groups, the oracle of which 
 was a tall, thin Italian, with long aquiline nose, a 
 high forehead, and lively prominent eye, beaming 
 from under a green velvet travelling-cap, with gold 
 tassel. He was of Rome, a surgeon by profession, a 
 poet by choice, and something of an improvisatore. 
 
 In the present instance, however, he was talking in 
 plain prose, but lioltling forth with llie fluency of one 
 who talks well, and likes to exert his talent. A ques- 
 tion or two from the Englishman drew copious replies; 
 for an Englishman sociable among strangers is regard- 
 ed as a phenomenon on tlie continent, and always 
 treated with attention for the rarity's sake. The im- 
 provisatore gave much the same account of tlie ban- 
 ditti that I have already furnished. 
 
 " But why does not the police exert itself, and root 
 them out? " demandet! the Englishman. 
 
 " Because the police is too weak, and the banditti 
 are too strong, " replied the other. " To root them 
 out would be a more difficult task than you imagine. 
 They are connected and almost identified with the 
 mountain peasantry and the people of the villages. 
 
 The numerous bands have an understanding viiij 
 each other, and with the country round. A gen] 
 darme cannot stir without their being aware of i 
 They have their scouts every where, who lurk ab 
 towns, villages, and inns, mingle in every crowd, an 
 pervade every place of resort. I should not be saj 
 prised if some one should be supervising us at i 
 moment. " 
 
 The fair Venetian looked round fearfully, j 
 
 turned pale. 
 
 Here the improvisatore was interrupted by a livelj 
 Neapolitan lawyer. 
 
 " By the way, " said he, " I recollect a little i 
 venture of a learned doctor, a friend of mine, \rhiij 
 happened in this very neighbourhood ; not far fro 
 the ruins of Theodoric's Castle, which are on the I 
 of those great rocky heights above the town. " 
 
 A wish was, of course, expressed to hear the i 
 venture of the doctor by all excepting the improvi 
 tore, who, being fond of talking and of hearing hiij 
 self talk, and accustomed, moreover, to haratij 
 without interruption, looked rather annoyed at I 
 checked when in full career. The Neapolitan, hoij 
 ever, took no notice of his chagrin, but related thet 
 lowing anecdote. 
 
 TBB ADVENTURE OF 
 
 THE LITTLE ANTIQUARY. 
 
 My friend, the Doctor, was a thorough antlq 
 a little rusty, musty old fellow, always groping an 
 ruins. He relished a building as you Englisiu 
 relish a cheese,— the more mouldy and crumbliq 
 was, the more it suited his taste. A shell ofaoj 
 nameless temple, or the cracked walls ofabn 
 down amphitheatre, would throw him into raptui 
 and he took more delight in these crusts and chei 
 parings of antiquity, tlian in the best-conditioned^ 
 dern palaces. 
 
 He was a curious coUector of coins also, andj 
 just gained an accession of wealth that almost t 
 his brain. He had picked up, for instance, seij 
 Roman Consulars, half a Roman As, two '. 
 which had doubtless belonged to the soldiers of fl 
 nibal, having been found on the very spot where j 
 had encamped among the Apennines. He had, i 
 over, one Samnite, struck after the Social \Var,| 
 a Philistis, a queen that never existed; butabon 
 he valued himself upon a coin, indescribable lt| 
 but the initiated in these matters, bearing a ^ 
 on one side, and a Pegasus on the other, and \ 
 by some antiquarian logic, the little man addn 
 an historical document, illustrating the pr 
 Christianity. 
 
 All these precious corns he carried about bill 
 leathern purse, buried deep in a pocket of liii| 
 black breeches. 
 
 Hvea 
 laffiiiiK 
 
 IcifilUi 
 alion 
 
 |lolhe. 
 mor 
 
 I poetic 
 
 jdisper 
 
 cul 
 
 00 th 
 
 ills 
 
 by 
 
 [undisc 
 
 liuriai 
 
 every 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 KKX 
 
 ave an underslanding wiiJ 
 ke country round. A genJ 
 jut their being aware of it] 
 ■very where, who lurk ab 
 1, mingle in every crowd, an 
 resort. I should not be snr| 
 old be supervising us at I 
 
 n looted round fearfully, an 
 
 ,re was interrupted by aUvelj 
 
 1 he, " I recollect a little 
 actor, a friend of mine, wl 
 
 neighbourhood; not farfr 
 's Castle, which are on the 
 •ights above the town. ' 
 rse, expressed to hear the a 
 by all excepting the improvis 
 
 of talking and of hearing lii 
 omed, moreover, to harat 
 looked rather annoyed at 
 career. The Neapolitan, hoi 
 >fhischagrin,but related thel 
 
 IB ADVENTBHE OP 
 
 TLE ANTIQUARY. 
 
 octor, was a thorough antiq 
 old fellow, always groping am 
 J a buUding as you Englisbi^ 
 ,e more mouldy andcrumbi 
 lited his taste. A shell of an | 
 ,r the cracked walls of a 1 
 , would throw him into raptu 
 'elight in these crusts and ch« 
 than in the best-conditioned^ 
 
 IS collector of coins also, and| 
 
 Ission of wealth that almosUi 
 
 picked up, for instance, 
 
 half a Roman As, two 
 
 iss belonged to the soldiers ofi 
 
 found onthe very spot where! 
 
 Ing the Apennines. He had, a/ 
 [struck after the Social War, 
 that never existed; hut aboTi 
 upon a coin, indescribable l.| 
 n these matters, bearing a i 
 Pegasus on the other, and 
 lan logic, the little man addu 
 
 iment, illustrating the pr" 
 
 lus coins he carried about H 
 lurieddeepinapocketofM 
 
 I1ie last maggot he bad taken into bis brain, was 
 
 I to hunt after the ancient cities of the Pelasgi, which 
 
 are said to exist to this day among the mountains of 
 
 I the Abruzzi; but about which a singular degree of 
 
 1 obscurity prevails.' He had made many discoveries 
 
 concerning them, and had recorded a great many 
 
 I valuable notes and memorandums on the subject, in 
 
 I a voluminous book, which he always carried about 
 
 vith him ; either for the purpose of frequent refer- 
 
 Iflioe, or through fear lest the precious document 
 
 1 should fall into the hands of brother antiquaries. He 
 
 I bad, therefore, a large pocket in the skirt of his coat. 
 
 If here he bore about this inestimable tome, banging 
 
 ja^inst his rear as be walked. 
 
 Thus heavily laden with the spoils of antiquity, 
 jlhe good little man, during a sojourn at Terracina, 
 Imoanted one day the rocky ciifTs which overhang the 
 Lwn, to visit the castle of Theodoric. He was grop- 
 |ii^ about the ruins towards the hour of sunset, 
 lluried in his reflections, his wits no doubt wool-ga- 
 llbering among the Goths and Romans, when he 
 
 sard footsteps behind him. 
 
 He turned, and beheld Ave or six young fellows, 
 
 ifrough, saucy demeanour, clad in a singular man- 
 |ger, half peasant, half huntsman, with carbines in 
 
 leir hands. Their whole appearance and carriage 
 
 left him no doubt into what company he had fallen. 
 
 The Doctor was a feeble little man, poor in look, 
 1 poorer in purse. He had but little gold or silver 
 
 ' Among the many fond speculations of antiquaries is that of 
 
 tetistence of traces of llie ancient Pelasgian cities in tlie Apen- 
 
 s; anil many a wistfiil eye is cast by the traveller, versed in 
 
 jiliquarian lore, at the richly-wooded mountains of the Abruzzi, 
 
 II forbidden fairy land of research. These spots, so Iteautiful 
 
 ISO inaccessible, from the rudeness of their inhabitants and the 
 
 i of banditti which infest them, are a region of fable to the 
 
 kned. Sometimes a wealthy virtuoso, whose purse and whose 
 
 qutnee could command a military escort, has penetrated to 
 
 • individual point among the mountains ; and soi^etimes a 
 
 idertng artist or student, under protection of poverty or insig- 
 
 nce, has brought away some vague account, only calculated 
 
 kvealieeneredgc to curiosity and conjecture. 
 
 m tliosc who maintain the existence of the Pelasgian cities, it 
 
 liffinned, that the formation of the different kingdoms in the 
 
 onnesus gradually caused the expulsion of the Pelasgi from 
 
 !; but that their great migration may be dated from the 
 
 liittg the wall round Acropolw. and that at this period they 
 
 into Italy. To these, in the spirit of theory, they would 
 
 ; the introduction of the elegant arts into the country. It is 
 
 lent, however, that, as barbarians flying before the first dawn 
 
 Iciilliiation, they could bring little with them superior to the 
 
 Initions of the aborigines, and nothing that would have surviv- 
 
 |lothe antiquarian through such a lapse of ages. It would ap- 
 
 ' more probable, that these cities, improperly termed Pelas- 
 
 wcre coeval with many that have been discovered,— the 
 
 nlic Aricia, built by Mippolytus before the siege of Troy, and 
 
 Ipoelic Tibur, /Ksculale and Procnes, built by Telegonus after 
 
 Idispersion of the Greeks. These, lying contiguous to inhabit- 
 
 1 cultivated spots, have been discovered. There are others, 
 
 I on the ruins of which the later and more civilized Grecian 
 
 nisli have engrafted themselves, and which have become 
 
 ro by thoir merits or their medals. But that there are many 
 
 lundlscovered, imbedded in the Abnizzi, it is the delight of the 
 
 Aquarians to fancy. Strange that such avirginsoil for research, 
 
 k an unknown realm ofknowledge, should at this day remain 
 
 t «cry centre of hackneyed Italy ! 
 
 to be robbed of; but then he had his curious ancient 
 coin in his breeches pocket. He had, moreover, cer- 
 tain other valuables, such as an old silver watch, 
 thick as a turnip, with figures on it large enough for 
 a clock ; and a set of seals at the end of a steel chain, 
 that dangled half way down to his knees. All these 
 were of precious esteem, being family relics. He 
 had also a seal-ring, a veritable antique intaglio, that 
 covered half his knuckles. It was a Venus, which 
 the old man almost worshipped with the zeal of a vo- 
 luptuary. But what he most valued was his inesti- 
 mable collection of hints relative to the Pelasgian ci- 
 ties, which he would gladly have given all the money 
 in his pocket to have had safe at the bottom of his 
 trunk in Terracina. 
 
 However, he plucked up a stout heart, at least as 
 stout a heart as he could, seeing that he was but a 
 puny little man at the best of times. So he wished 
 the hunters a '' buon giorno." They returned his 
 salutation, giving the old gentleman a sociable slap 
 on the back that made his heart leap into his throat. 
 
 They fell into conversation, and walked for some 
 time together among the heights, the Doctor wish- 
 ing them all the while at the bottom of the crater of 
 Vesuvius. At length they came to a small osteriaon 
 the mountain, where they proposed to enter and have 
 a cup of wine together : the Doctor consented, though 
 he would as soon have been invited to drink hem- 
 lock. 
 
 One of the gang remained sentinel at the door : the 
 others swaggered into the house, stood their guns in 
 the corner of the room, and each drawing a pistol or 
 stiletto out of his belt, laid it upon the table. They 
 now drew benches round the board, called lustily for 
 wine, and, hailing the Doctor as though he had been 
 a boon companion of long standing, insisted upon his 
 sitting down and making merry. 
 
 The worthy man complied with forced grimace, 
 but with fear and trembling ; sitting uneasily on the 
 edge of his chair ; eyeing ruefully the black-muzzled 
 pistols, and cold, naked stilettos; and supping down 
 heartburn with every drop of liquor. His new com- 
 rades, however, pushed the bottle bravely, and plied 
 him vigorously. They sang, they laughed ; told ex- 
 cellent stories of their robberies and combats, mingled 
 with many ruffian jokes ; and the little Doctor was 
 fain to laugh at all their cut- throat pleasantries, though 
 his heart was dying away at the very bottom of his 
 bosom. 
 
 By their own account, they were young men from 
 the villages, who had recently taken up this line of 
 life out of (he wild caprice of youth. They talked of 
 their murderous exploits as a sportsman talks of his 
 amusements : to shoot down a traveller seemed of little 
 more consequence to them than to shoot a hare. They 
 spoke with rapture of the glorious roving life they led, 
 free as birds ; here to-day, gone to-morrow; ranging 
 the forests, climbing the rocks, scouring the valleys; 
 the world their own wherever they could lay hold of 
 it ; full purses— merry companions— pretty women* 
 
 7« 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The little antiqaary got fuddled ^rilh their talk and 
 their wine, for they did not spare hampers. He half 
 forgot his fears, his seal-ring, and his family-watch ; 
 even the treatise on the Pelasgian cities, which was 
 wanning nnder him, for a time faded from his me- 
 mory in the glowing picture that they drew. He 
 declares that he no longer wonders at the prevalence 
 of this robber mania among the mountains; for he 
 felt at the time, that, had he been a young man, and 
 a strong man, and had there been no danger of the 
 galleys in the back-ground, he should have been half 
 tempted himself to turn bandit. 
 
 At length the hour of separating arrived. The 
 Doctor was suddenly called to himself and his fears 
 by seeing the robbers resume their weapons. He 
 now quaked for his valuables, and, above all, for his 
 antiquarian treatise. He endeavoured, however, to 
 look cool and unconcerned ; and drew from out his 
 deep pocket a long, lank, leathern purse, far gone in 
 consumption, at the bottom of which a few coin 
 chinked with the trembling of his hand. 
 
 The chief of the party observed his movement, and 
 laying his hand upon the antiquary's shoulder, 
 " Harkee! Signer Dottore!" said he, " we have 
 drunk together as friends and comrades; let us part 
 as such. We understand you. We know who and 
 what you are, for we know who every body is that 
 sleeps at Terracina, or that puts foot upon the road. 
 You are a rich man, but you carry all your wealth 
 in your head : we camiot get at it, and we should not 
 know what to do with it if we could. I see you are 
 uneasy about your ring; but don't worry yourself, it 
 is not worth taking; you think it an antique, but it's 
 a counterfeit — a mere sham." 
 
 Here the ire of the antiquary arose : the Doctor 
 forgot himself in his zeal for the character of his ring. 
 Heaven and earth ! his Venus a sham ! Had they 
 pronounced the wife of his bosom " no better than she 
 should be," he could not have been more indignant. 
 He fired up in vindication of his intaglio. 
 
 " Nay, nay," continued the robber, " we have no 
 time to dispute about it ; value it as you please. Come, 
 you're a brave little old signor— one more cup of 
 wine, and we'll pay the reckoning. No compliments 
 —You shall not pay a grain— You are our guest— I 
 insist upon it. So— now make the best of your way 
 back to Terracina; it's growing late. Buonviaggio! 
 And harkee ! take care how you wander among these 
 mountains,— you may not always fall into such good 
 company." 
 
 They shouldered their guns ; sprang gaily up the 
 rocks ; and the little Doctor hobbled back to Terracina, 
 rejoicing that the robbers had left his watch, his 
 coins, and his treatise, unmolested ; but still indignant 
 that they should have pronounced his Venus an im- 
 postor. 
 
 The improvisatore had shown many symptoms of 
 impatience during this recital. He saw his theme in 
 
 danger of being taken out of his hands, which, to ml 
 able talker, is always a grievance, but to an impn.] 
 visatore is an absolute calamity : and then for it toliel 
 taken away by a Neapolitan, was still more vexalioos-l 
 the inhabitants of the different Italian states liaviagl 
 an implacable jealousy of each other in all things,! 
 great and small. He look advantage of the fin 
 pause of the Neapolitan to catch hold again of i 
 thread of the conversation. 
 
 " As I observed before," said he, '' the prowlio 
 of the banditti are so extensive, they are so much i 
 league with one another, and so interwoven will 
 various ranks of society — " 
 
 " For that matter," said the Neapolitan, "I bjvJ 
 heard that your government has had some under] 
 standing with those gentry; or, at least, has winka 
 at their misdeeds." 
 " My government ! " said the Roman, impatienlljj 
 " Ay, they say that Cardinal Gonsalvi— " 
 " Hush ! " said the Roman, holding up his fin 
 and rolling his large eyes about the room. 
 
 " Nay, I only repeat what I heard commonly 
 moured in i\ome," replied the Neaimlitan, sturdilJ 
 " It was openly said, that the cardinal had been m 
 the mountains, and had an interview with muti 
 the chiefs. And I have been told, moreover, ihi 
 while honest people have been kicking their heels ^ 
 the cardinal's antechamber, waiting by the hour I 
 admittance, one of those stiletto-looking fellows I 
 ellwwed his way through the crowd, and entet( 
 without ceremony into the cardinal's presence." 
 
 " I know," observed the improvisatore, "ihj 
 there have been such reports, and it is not imp 
 that government may have made use of these men | 
 particular periods; such as at the time of your I 
 abortive revolution, when your carbonari were] 
 busy with their machinations all over the counir 
 The information which such men could collect, \ 
 were familiar, not merely with the recesses ands 
 places of the mountains, but also with the darki 
 dangerous recesses of society ; who knew every i 
 picious character, and all his movements and all | 
 lurkings; in a word, who knew all that was| 
 in tlie world of mischief; — the utility of suchmeBl 
 instruments in the hands of government was tooj^ 
 vious to be overlooked ; and Cardinal Gonsalvi, ) 
 politic statesman, may, perhaps, have made usel 
 them. Besides, he knew that, with all their atrodll 
 the robbers were always respectful towards] 
 church, and devout in their religion." 
 "Religion! religion!" echoed the English 
 " Yes, religion," repeated the Roman, 
 have each their patron saint. They will cross th 
 selves and say theirprayers, whenever, in their i 
 tain haunts, they hear the matin or the ave^ 
 bells sounding from the valleys; and will oRenj 
 scend from their retreats, and run eminent i 
 visit some favourite shrine. I recollect an in 
 in point. 
 " I was one evening in the village of Fn 
 
 Vi> 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 SB& 
 
 I of his hands, which, to an I 
 grievance, but to an impro-l 
 lamity : and then for it tobel 
 an, was still more vexalioosj 
 lifferent Italian states havingl 
 of each other in all thjnp,| 
 look advantage of the Qn 
 1 to catch hold again of 
 
 an. 
 
 re," 8aidhe,"theprowl« 
 
 densive, they are so much iij 
 
 er, and so interwoven will 
 
 said the Neapolitan, "I hatJ 
 rnmenl has had some underj 
 lntry;or, atleast, haswinka 
 
 ' said the Roman, impalienll; 
 Cardinal Gonsalvi— " 
 Roman, holding up his fingti 
 yes about the room. 
 it what I heard commonly 
 eplied the Neaiwlitan, stunffl] 
 that the cardinal had been up 
 lad an interview with some 
 lave been told, moreover, t' 
 iiave been kicking their beds 
 amber, wailing by the hour 
 liose stiletto-looking fellows 1) 
 irough the crowd, and enlei 
 ilo the cardinal's presence " 
 rved the improvisaloie, 
 reports, and it is not im] 
 y have made use of these men 
 uch as at the time of your li 
 when your carbonari were 
 ichinations all over the counl 
 lich such men could collect, 
 erely with the recesses and 
 ains, but also with the dark 
 jfsociety; who knew every 
 nd all his movements and all 
 whoknew all thai was ploll 
 •hief;— the utility of such mesj 
 [hands of government was too 
 ed- and Cardinal Gonsahi 
 ,ay, perhaps, have made use] 
 new that, with all their alrocil 
 always respectful towards 
 in their religion." 
 ion!" echoed the Enghsl 
 
 repeated the Roman 
 Ton saint. They will cross « 
 prayers, whenever, i» their 
 
 near the matin or the ave 
 thevalleys; and will often 
 
 treats, and run eminent 
 shrine. I recollect an II 
 
 lening in the village of Fi 
 
 irbich stands on the beautiful brow of a hill rising 
 fiam the Campagna, just below the Abruzzi moun- 
 tains. The people, as is usual in flne evenings in our 
 Italian towns and villages, were recreating tliem- 
 lelves in the open air, and chatting in groups in the 
 public square. While I was conversing with a knot 
 offriends, I noticed a tall fellow, wrapped in a great 
 Dinlle, passing across the square, but scuiking along 
 io the dusk, as if anxious to avoid observation. The 
 people drew back as he passed. It was whispered to 
 Be that he was a notorious bandit." 
 "But why was he not immediately seized?" said 
 the Englishman. 
 
 " Because it was nobody's business ; because no- 
 
 lody wished to incur the vengeance of his comrades; 
 
 ikecause there were not sufiicient gendarmes near to 
 
 iBSure security against the number of desperadoes he 
 
 Light have at hand ; because the gendarmes might 
 
 have received particular instructions with respect 
 
 him, and might not feel disposed to engage in a 
 
 irdous conflict without compulsion. In short, I 
 
 [ill give you a thousand reasons rising out of the 
 
 ite of our government and manners, not one of 
 
 :h after all might appear satisfactory." 
 The Englishman shrugged his shoulders witli an 
 of contempt. 
 
 "I have been told," added the Roman, rather 
 
 ikiy, " that even in your metropolis of London, 
 
 iorious thieves, well known to the police as such, 
 
 the streets at noon-day in search of tlieir prey, 
 
 are not molested, unless caught in the very act 
 
 robbery." 
 
 The Englishman gave another shrug, but with a 
 ferent expression. 
 
 " Well, sir, I fixed my eye on this daring wolf, 
 prowling through the fold, and saw him enter 
 church. I was curious to witness his devotion, 
 know our spacious magnificent churches. The 
 in which he entered was vast, and shrouded in 
 dusk of evening. At the extremity of the long 
 a couple of tapers feebly glimmered on the 
 id altar. In one of the side chapels was a votive 
 le placed berore the image of a saint. Before this 
 the robber had prostrated himself. His mantle 
 ily falling off from his shoulders as he knelt, 
 ealed a form of Herculean strength; a stiletto and 
 lol glittered in his belt ; and the ligiit falling on 
 countenance, showed features not unhandsome, 
 trongly and fiercely characterised. As he 
 lyed, he became vehemently agitated; his lips 
 livered ; sighs and murmurs, almost groans, burst 
 him; he beat his breast with violence; then 
 his hands and wrung them convulsively, as 
 extended them towards the image. Never had I 
 such a terrific picture of remorse. I felt fear- 
 ofbeing discovered watching him, and withdrew. 
 iy afterwards I saw him issue from the church 
 ftppedin his mantle. He re-crossed the square, and 
 doubt returned to llie mountains with a disburthen- 
 conscience, ready to incur a fresh arrear of crime." 
 
 Here the Neapolitan was about to get hokl of the 
 conversation, and had just preluded with the omin- 
 ous remark, " That puts me in mind of a circum- 
 stance," when the improvisatore, too adroit to suffer 
 himself to be again superseded, went on, pretending 
 not to hear the interruption. 
 
 " Among the many circumstances connected with 
 the banditti, which serve to render the traveller un- 
 easy and insecure, is the understanding which they 
 sometimes have with inn-keepers. Many an isolated 
 inn among the lonely parts of the Roman territories, 
 and especially about the mountains, are of a danger-^ 
 ous and perfidious character. They are places where 
 the banditti gather information, and where the un- 
 wary traveller, remote from hearing or assistance, is 
 betrayed to the midnight dagger. The robberies 
 committed at such inns are often accompanied by 
 the most atrocious murders; for it is only by the 
 complete extermination of their victims that the 
 assassins can escape detection. I recollect an adven- 
 ture," added he, " which occurred at one of these 
 solitary mountain inns, which, as you all seem in a 
 mood for robber anecdotes, may not be uninteresting." 
 
 Having secured the attention and awakened the 
 curiosity of the by-standers, he paused for a moment, 
 rolled up his large eyes as improvisatori are apt to 
 do when they would recollect an impromptu, and 
 then related with great dramatic effect the follow- 
 ing story, which had, doubtless, been well prepared 
 and digested beforehand. 
 
 TflE BELATED TRAVELLERS. 
 
 It was late one evening that a carriage, drawn by 
 mules, slowly toiled its way up one of the passes of 
 the Apennines. It was through one of the wildest 
 defiles, where a hamlet occurred only at distant in- 
 tervals, perched on the summit of some rocky height, 
 or the while towers of a convent peeped out from 
 among the thick mountain foliage. The carriage was 
 of ancient and ponderous construction. Its faded 
 embellishments spoke of former splendour, but its 
 crazy springs and axletrees creaked out the tale of 
 present decline. Within was sealed a tall, thin old 
 gentleman, in a kind of military travelling dress, and 
 a foraging cap trimmed with fur, though the grey 
 locks which stole from under it hinted that his fight- 
 ing days were over. Beside him was a pale beautiful 
 girl of eighteen, dressed in something of a northern 
 or Polish costume. One servant was seated in front, 
 a rusty, crusty-looking fellow, with a scar across his 
 face, an orange-tawny schnur-hart, or pair of musta- 
 chios, bristling from under his nose, and altogether 
 the air of an old soldier. 
 
 It was, in fact, the equipage of a Polish nobleman ; 
 a wreck of one of those princely families which had 
 lived with almost oriental magnificence, but had been 
 
 ■ii'^ 
 
S36 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 broken down and impoverished by the disasters of 
 Poland. The Count, like many other generous spi- 
 rits, had been found guilty of the crime of patriotism, 
 and was, in a manner, an exile from his country. 
 He had resided for some time in the first cities of Italy, 
 for the education of his daughter, in whom all his 
 cares and pleasures were now centred. He had taken 
 her into society, where her beauty and iier accom- 
 plishments had gained her many admirers; and had 
 she not been the daughter of a poor broken-down 
 Polish nobleman, it is more than probable that many 
 'would have contended for her hand. Suddenly, 
 however, her health had become delicate and droop- 
 ing; her gaiety Hed with the roses of her cheek, and 
 she sunk into silence and debility. The old Count 
 saw the change with the solicitude of a parent. " We 
 must try a change of air and scene," said he; and in 
 a few days the old family carriage was rumbling 
 among the Apennines. 
 
 Their only attendant was the veteran Caspar, who 
 had been bom in the family, and grown rusty in its 
 service. He bad followed his master in all his for- 
 tunes ; had fought by his side ; had stood over him 
 when fallen in battle ; and had received, in his de- 
 fence, the sabre-cut which added such grimness to 
 his countenance. He was now his valet, his steward, 
 his butler, his factotum. The only being that rivalled 
 his master in his affections was his youthful mistress. 
 She had grown up under Iiis eye, he had led her by 
 the hand when she was a child, and he now looked 
 upon her with the fondness of a parent. Nay, he 
 even took the freedom of a parent in giving his blunt 
 opinion on all matters which he thought were for her 
 good ; and felt a parent's vanity in seeing her gazed 
 at and admired. 
 
 The evening was thickening; they had been for 
 some time passing through narrow gorges of the 
 mountains, along the edge of a tumbling stream. 
 The scenery was lonely and savage. The rocks often 
 beetled over the road, with flocks of white goals 
 browsing on their brinks, and gazing down upon the 
 travellers. They had between two and three leagues 
 yet to go before they could reach any village ; yet the 
 muleteer, Pietro, a tippling old fellow, who had re- 
 freshed himself at the last halting-place with a more 
 than ordinary quantity of wine, sat singing and talk- 
 ing alternately to his mules, and suffering them to 
 lag on at a snail's pace, in spite of the frequent en- 
 treaties of the Count, and maledictions of Caspar. 
 
 The clouds began to roll in heavy masses among the 
 mountains, shrouding their summits from the view. 
 The air of these heights, too, was damp and chilly. 
 The Count's solicitude on his daughter's account over- 
 came his usual patience. He leaned from the car- 
 riage, and called to old Pielro in an angry tone. 
 
 "Forward!" said he. 
 fore we arrive at our inn." 
 
 "Yonder it is, Signor," said the muleteer. 
 
 "Where?" demanded the Count. 
 
 " Yonder/' said Pietro, pointing to a desolate 
 
 "It will be midnight be- 
 
 pile of building about a quarter of a league distant. I 
 
 " That the place?— why, it looks more like a roinl 
 than an inn. I thought we were to put up for the | 
 night at a comfortable village." 
 
 Here Pietro uttered a string of piteous exclamations! 
 and ejaculations, such as are ever at the tip of ihtj 
 tongue of a delinquent muleteer. " Such roads! and! 
 such mountains ! and then his poor animals were way-l 
 worn, and leg-weary; they would fall lame; tbeyl 
 would never be able to reach the village. And tbei 
 what could his Eccellenza wish for better than t 
 inn ; a perfect castello— a palazzo — and such people !- 
 and such a larder ! — and such beds !— His Eccellen 
 might fare as sumptuously, and sleep as soundly tl,e 
 as a prince ! " 
 
 The Count was easily persuaded, for he was 
 anxious to get his daughter out of the night air; s 
 in a little while the old carriage rattled and jingle 
 into the great gateway of the inn. 
 
 The building did certainly in some measure ansm 
 to the muleteer's description. It was large enougfl 
 for either castle or palace; built in a strong, 
 simple and almost rude style; with a great quanlitj 
 of waste room. It had, in fact, been, in fon 
 times, a bunting-seat of one of the Italian princi 
 There was space enough within its walls and ia il| 
 out-buildings to have accommodated a little army, 
 scanty household seemed now to people this dreai 
 mansion. The faces that presented themselves on t 
 arrival of the travellers were begrimed with dirt, i 
 scowling in their expression. They all knev ol| 
 Pietro, however, and gave him a welcome as 1 
 entered, singing and talking, and almost whoopin! 
 into the gateway. 
 
 The hostess of the inn waited herself on the Coin 
 and his daughter, to show them the apartmeolj 
 They were conducted through a long gloomy ( 
 ridor, and then through a suite of chambers openiij 
 into each other, with lofty ceilings, and great Ixai 
 extending across them. Every thing, however, I 
 a wretchetl squalid look. The walls were damp a 
 bare, excepting tliat here and there hung some^ 
 painting, large enough for a chapel, and blacken 
 out of all distinctness. 
 
 They chose two bed-rooms, one within anotlH 
 the inner one for the daughter. The bedsteads \ 
 massive and misshapen ; but on examining the I 
 so vaunted by old Pietro, they found them stufl 
 with fibres of hemp knotted in great lumps. 
 Countshrugged his shoulders, but there was no cIk 
 left. 
 
 The chilliness of the apartments crept to Ibl 
 bones; and they were glad to return to a coir 
 chamber, or kind of hall, where there was a lire bin 
 ing in a huge cavern, miscalled a chimney. A qo 
 tity of green wood had just been thrown on, wbj 
 puffed out volumes of smoke. The room correspi 
 ed to the rest of the mansion. The floor was[ 
 and dirty. A great oaken table stood in the ceolBMay • 
 immovable from its size and weight. 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 6S7 
 
 [uarter of a league dIsUni. I 
 y, it looks more like a roinl 
 Bve were to put up for the| 
 
 lage." 
 
 tring of piteous exclamaUoral 
 i are ever at the tip of thel 
 uleteer. ' ' Such roads ! and| 
 n his poor animals were way- 
 Ihey would fall lame; Iheyl 
 reach the village. And then 
 nza wish for better than I 
 palazzo— and such people !- 
 1 such beds !— HisEccellen 
 ily, and sleep as soundly tl,( 
 
 isily persuaded, for he m 
 ighter out of the night air; 
 d carriage rattled and jingli 
 of the inn. 
 tainly in some measure ans\r( 
 ription. It was large enougl 
 alace; built in a strong, 
 le style; with a great quanlit 
 ,ad, in fact, been, in for 
 of one of the Italian priw 
 ugh within its walls and in it 
 iccommodated a little army, 
 mednow to people this dra 
 hat presented themselves on 
 rs were begrimed with dirt, 
 pression. They all knew 
 d gave him a welcome as 
 talking, and almost whooiii 
 
 inn waited herself on the Coi 
 .0 show them the aparlmen^ 
 d through a long gloomy ( 
 gh a suite of chambers openiJ 
 
 lofty ceilings, and great beaH 
 Everything, however,! 
 
 ,k. The walls were damp a 
 here and Ihere hung somegn 
 
 h for a chapel, and blacken 
 
 bed-rooms, one within anolh 
 [daughter. The bedsteads \ 
 |)en;but on examining the 1 
 »ietro, they found ihem stu^ 
 knotted in great lumps. 
 Ihoulders, but there was no cm 
 
 the apartments crept to itii 
 tre glad to return to a coma 
 )iall, where there was a fire bo 
 
 miscalled a chimney. AqM 
 [had just been thrown on, v^ 
 V smoke. The room correspi 
 
 mansion. The floor was ( 
 
 oaken table stood in the ( 
 Isize and weight. 
 
 The only thing that contradicted this prevalent air 
 U indigence was the dress of the hostess. She was 
 jiilaltcrn of course; yet her garments, though dirty 
 negligent, were of costly materials. She wore 
 reral rings of great value on her fingers, and jewels 
 iber ears, and round her neck was a string of large 
 ris, to which was attached a sparkling crucifix, 
 had the remains of beauty; yet there was some- 
 in the expression of her countenance that in- 
 red the young lady with singular aversion. She 
 oflicious and obsequious in her attentions ; and 
 the Count and his daughter felt relieved, when 
 (consigned them to thecare of a dark, sullen-looking 
 rant -maid, and went off to superintend the supper. 
 Caspar was indignant at the muleteer for having, 
 tT through negligence or design, subjected his 
 ter and mistress to such quarters; and vowed by 
 mustachios to have revenge on the old variet the 
 >nt they were safe out from among the moun- 
 Hekept up a continual quarrel with the sulky 
 Tant-maid, which only served to increase the si- 
 (er expression with which she regarded the tra- 
 eiS) from under her strong dark eye-brows. 
 As to the Count, he was a good-humoured passive 
 reller. Perhaps real misfortunes had subdued his 
 it, and rendered him tolerant of many of those 
 ilty evils which make prosperous men miserable. 
 tiirew a large, broken arm-chair to the fire-side for 
 I daughter, and another for himself, and seizing an 
 lous pair of tongs, endeavoured to re-arrange 
 ivood so as to produce a blaze. His efforts, how- 
 tr, were only repaid by thicker puffs of smoke, 
 almost overcame the good gentleman's pa- 
 . He would draw back, cast a look upon his 
 ate daughter, then upon the cheerless, squalid 
 ^rtment, and shrugging his shoulders, would give a 
 
 1 stir to the fire. 
 
 |OFall the miseries of a comfortless inn, however, 
 
 [is none greater than sulky attendance : the good 
 
 uiit for suuie time bore the smoke in silence, rather 
 
 address himself to the scowling servant-maid. 
 
 [length he was compelled to beg for drier firewood. 
 
 e woman retired muttering. On re-entering the 
 
 hastily, with an armful of faggots, her foot 
 
 she fell, and striking her head against the 
 
 ler of a chair, cut her temple severely. The blow 
 
 ^ned her for a time, and the wound bled profusely. 
 
 len she recovered, she found the Count's daughter 
 
 iiinistering to her wound, and binding it up with 
 
 f own handkerchief. It was such an attention as 
 
 [woman of ordinary feeling would have yielded; 
 
 [perhaps there was something in the appearance 
 
 pe lovely being who bent over her, or in the tones 
 
 ler voice, that touched the heart of the woman, 
 
 I to be ministered to by such hands. Certain it 
 
 ihe was strongly affected. She caught the delicate 
 
 1 of the Polonaise, and pressed it fervently to her 
 
 [May San Francesco watch over you, Signora!" 
 ned she. 
 
 A new arrival broke the stillness of the inn. It 
 was a Spanish princess with a numerous retinue. 
 The court- yard was in an uproar; the house in a 
 bustle. The landlady hurried to attend such distin- 
 guished guests; and the poor Count and his daughter, 
 and their supper, were for the moment forgotten. 
 The veteran Caspar muttered Polish maledictions 
 enough to agonize an Italian ear ; but it was impos- 
 sible to convince the hostess of the superiority of his 
 old master and young mistress to the whole nobility 
 of Spain. 
 
 The noise of the arrival had attracted the daughter 
 to the window just as the new-comers had alighted. 
 A young cavalier sprang out of thecarriage, and hand- 
 ed out the princess. The latter was a little shrivelled 
 old lady, with a face of parchment, and a sparkling 
 black eye ; she was richly and gaily dressed, and walk- 
 ed with the assistance of a gold-headed cane as high as 
 herself. The young man was tall and elegantly form- 
 ed. The count's daughter shrunk back at sight of 
 him, though the deep frame of the window screened 
 her from observation. She gave a heavy sigh as she 
 closed the casement. What that sigh meant I cannot 
 say. Perhaps it was at the contrast between the 
 splendid equipage of the princess, and the crazy, 
 rheumatic-looking old vehicle of her father, which 
 stood hard by. Whatever might be the reason, the 
 young lady closed the casement with a sigh. She 
 returned to her chair, — a slight shivering passed over 
 her delicate frame : she leaned her elbow on the arm 
 of the chair, rested her pale cheek in the palm of her 
 hand, and looked mournfully into the fire. 
 
 The Count thought she appeared paler than usual. — 
 
 "Does any thing ail thee, my child?" said he. 
 
 " Nothing, dear father ! " replied she, laying her 
 hand within his, and looking up smiling in his face ; 
 but as she said so, a treacherous tear rose suddenly 
 to her eye, and she turned away her head. 
 
 " The air of the window has chilled thee," said 
 the Count, fondly, " but a good night's rest will make 
 all well again." 
 
 The supper-table was at length laid, and the supper 
 about to be served, when the hostess appeared, with 
 her usual obsequiousness, apologizing for showing in 
 the new-comers ; but the night air was cold, and 
 there was no other chamber in the inn with a fire in it. 
 She had scarcely made the apology when the Princess 
 entered, leaning on the arm of the elegant young 
 man. 
 
 The Count immediately recognized her for a lady 
 whom he had met frequently in society both at Rome 
 and Naples ; and at whose conversaziones, in fact, he 
 had constantly been invited. The cavalier, too, was 
 her nephew and heir, who had been greatly admired 
 in the gay circles both for his merits and prospects, 
 and who had once been on a visit at the same time 
 with his daughter and himself at the villa of a noble- 
 man near Naples. Report had recently affianced him 
 to a rich Spanish heiress. 
 
 The meeting was agreeable to both the Count and 
 
 I' 
 
 m^ 
 
SS6 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the Princess. The former was a gentleman of the old 
 school, courteous in the extreme ; tite PrinceM had 
 been a belle in her youth, and a woman of fashion all 
 her life, and liked to be attended to. 
 
 The yoimg man approached the daughter, and be- 
 gan something of a complimentary observation; but 
 his manner was embarrassed, and his compliment 
 ended in an indistinct murmur ; while the daughter 
 bowed without looking up, moved her lips without 
 articulating a word, and sunk again into her chair, 
 where she sat gazing into the fire, with a thousand 
 varying expressions passing over her countenance. 
 
 This singular greeting of the young people was not 
 perceived by the old ones, who were occupied at the 
 time witli thdir own courteous salutations. It was 
 arranged (hat they should sup together ; and as the 
 Princess travelled with her own cook, a very tolerable 
 supper soon smoked upon the board. This, too, was 
 assisted by choice wines, and liqueurs, and delicate 
 confitures brought from one of her carriages; for she 
 was a veteran epicure, and curious in her relish for 
 the good things of this world. She was, in fact, a 
 vivacious little old lady, who mingled the woman of 
 dissipation with the devotee. She was actually on 
 her way to Loretto to expiate a long life of gallantries 
 and peccadilloes by a rich offering at the holy shrine. 
 She was, to be sure, rather a luxurious penitent, and 
 a contrast to the primitive pilgrims, with scrip and 
 staff, and cockle-shell ; but then it would be unreason- 
 able to expect such self-denial from people of fashion ; 
 and there was not a doubt of the ample efTicacy of the 
 rich crucifixes, and golden vessels, and jeweled orna- 
 ments, which she was bearing to the treasury of the 
 blessed Virgin. 
 
 The Princess and the Count chatted much during 
 supper about the scenes and society in which they had 
 mingled, and did not notice that they had all the con- 
 versation to themselves : the young people were silent 
 and constrained. The daughter ate nothing in spile 
 of the politeness of the Princess, who continually 
 pressed her to taste of one or other of the delicacies. 
 The Count shook his head. 
 
 " She is not well this evening, " said he. " I 
 thought she would have fainted just now as she was 
 looking out of the window at your carriage on its ar- 
 rival. " 
 
 A crimson glow flushed to the verj' temples of the 
 daughter, but she leaned over her plate, and her 
 presses cast a shade over her countenance. 
 
 When supper was over, they drew their chairs 
 ^bont the great fire-place. The flame and smoke had 
 subsided, and a heap of glowing embers diffused a 
 grateful warmth. A guitar, which had been brought 
 from the Count's carriage, leaned against the wall ; 
 the Princess perceived it : " Can we not have a little 
 music before parting for the night ? " demanded she. 
 
 The Count was proud of his daughter's accom- 
 plishment, and joined in the request. The young 
 man made an effort of politeness, and taking up the 
 guitar, presented it, though in an embarrassed man- 
 
 ner, to the fair musician. She would have declin 
 it, but was too much confused to do so ; indeed i 
 was so nervous and agitated, that she dared not I 
 her voice to make an excuse. She touched the in 
 strument with a faltering hand, and, after preludioi 
 a little, accompanied herself in several Polish ain 
 Her father's eyes glistened as he sat gazing on htrl 
 Even the crusty Caspar lingered in the room, partij 
 through a fondness fur the music of his native < 
 try, but chiefly through his pride in the musiciai 
 Indeed, the melody of the voice, and the delicacy ( 
 the touch, were enough to have charmed more 
 tidious ears. The little Princess nodded her head a 
 tapped her hand to the music, though exceedir 
 out of time; while the nephew sat buried in prorouu 
 contemplation of a black picture on the opposite wal 
 
 " And now," said the Count, patting herd 
 fondly, " one more favour. Let the Princess lie 
 that little Spanish air you were so fond of. You caa'| 
 think," added he, " what a proficiency she has i 
 in your language; though she has been a sad; 
 and neglectetl it of late." 
 
 The colour flushed the pale cheek of the daughia 
 She hesitated, murmured something ; but with sw 
 den effort collected herself, struck the guitar boldljj 
 and began. It was a Spanish romance, with son 
 thing of love and melancholy in it. She gave I 
 first stanza with great expression, for the tremnlooi 
 melting tones of her voice went to the heart ; buth 
 articulation failed, her lip quivered, the song i 
 away, and she burst into tears. 
 
 The Count folded her tenderiy in his arms, 
 art not well, my child," said he, " and I am taskiij 
 thee cruelly. Retire to thy chamber, and Godli 
 thee !" She bowed to the company without i 
 her eyes, and glided out of the room. 
 
 The Count shook his head as the door cin 
 " Something is the matter with that child," saidb 
 " which I cannot divine. She has lost all health a 
 spirits lately. She was always a tender flower, i 
 I had much pains to rear her. Excuse a falb 
 foolishness," continued he, '' but I have seen i 
 trouble in my family ; and this poor girl is all thal| 
 now left to me ; and she used to be so lively-" 
 
 " Maybe she's in love !" said the little Pri 
 with a shrewd nod of the head. 
 
 " Impossible ! " replied the good Count artla 
 " She has never mentioned a word of such a tbiifl 
 me." 
 
 How little did the worthy gentleman dream of j 
 thousand cares, and griefs, and mighty love con 
 which agitate a virgin heart, and which a timid | 
 scarcely breathes unto herself ! 
 
 The nephew of the Princess rose abruptly i 
 walked aliout the room. 
 
 When she found herself alone in her chamber, j 
 feelings of the young lady, so long restrained, 
 forth with violence. She opened the casement,! 
 the cool air might blow upon her throbbing t 
 Perhaps there was some little pride or pique i 
 
 -.^^ I 
 
TALES Of a traveller. 
 
 sso 
 
 I. She would have declin 
 (nfused lo do » ; indeed tit 
 aled, that she dared not 
 acase. She touched the 
 g hand, and, after preludi 
 lerseir in several Polish aii 
 netl as he sat gazing on herj 
 r lingered in the room, parti 
 
 the music of his native 
 jh his pride in the musici 
 the voice, and the delicacy 
 ;li to have charmed more 
 s Princess nodded her head 
 he music, though exceed! 
 nephew sat buried in profoi 
 ck picture on the opposite r, 
 
 the Count, patting her cIk 
 avour. Let the Princess hi 
 you were so fond of. You can' 
 what a proilciency she has 
 hough she has been a sad gi 
 
 te." 
 
 the pale cheek of the daughl 
 Hired something ; but with 
 lerself, struck the guitar boldl] 
 a Spanish romance, with sor 
 elanclioly in it. She gave tl 
 at expression, for the tremiiloi 
 voice went to the heart ; bull 
 ler lip quivered, the song 
 
 t into tears. 
 
 I her tenderly in his arms 
 
 Id," said he, "and lam Uski 
 to thy chamber, and Godli 
 to the company without ■"■ 
 out of the room, 
 his head as the door cl( 
 
 matter with that child," said 
 
 ine. She has lost all heallb 
 
 was always a tender flower, 
 
 to rear her. Excuse a fall 
 
 |ued he, " but I have seen 
 y; and this poor girl is all IW 
 d she used to be so lively-" 
 
 In love !" said the little Prr 
 of the head. 
 
 replied the good Count arj( 
 ntioned a word of such a thiiij| 
 
 e worthy gentleman dream ot 
 a griefs, and mighty love concr 
 gin heart, and which a tumd 
 
 nto herself, 
 the Princess rose abnipU! 
 
 'oom. y^ 
 
 I herself alone in her chamW, 
 
 " lady, 80 long restrained, 
 ° She opened the casement, 
 blow upon her throbbing '"" 
 some Utile pride or pique 
 
 ffUh her emotions; though her gentle nature did 
 liot seem calculated to harbour any such angry in- 
 iMte. 
 '<He saw me weep!" said she, with a sudden 
 intling of the cheek, and a swelling of the throat, 
 ."but no matter !— no matter ! " 
 And so saying, she threw her white arms across 
 window-frame, buried her face in them, and 
 indoned herself to an agony of tears. She re- 
 lined lost in a reverie, until the sound of her Ta- 
 r's and Caspar's voices in the adjoining room gave 
 len that the party had retired for the night. The 
 lis gleaming from window to window, showed 
 it they were conducting the Princess to her apart- 
 its, which were in the opposite wing of the inn ; 
 she distinctly saw the figure of the nephew as 
 passed one of the casements. 
 She heaved a deep heart-drawn sigh, and was 
 it to close the lattice, when her attention was 
 ight by words spoken below her window by two 
 ins who had just turned an angle of the building. 
 "But what will become of the poor young lady?" 
 a voice which she recognized for that of the ser- 
 il-woman. 
 "Poo! she must take her chance," was the reply 
 
 old Pietro. 
 "But cannot she be spared ? " asked the other en- 
 lingly; "she's so kind-hearted ! " 
 Cospetto ! what has got into thee ? " replied the 
 petulantly : " would you mar the whole busi- 
 for tlte sake of a silly girl ?" By this time they 
 got so far from the window that the Polonaise 
 Id hear nothing further. 
 
 There was something in this fragment of conver- 
 that was calculated to alarm. Did it relate to 
 :ir?— and if so, what was this impending danger 
 which it was entreated that she might be spar- 
 ? She was several times on the point of tapping 
 her father's door, to tell him what she had heard ; 
 she might have been mistaken ; she might have 
 indistinctly; the conversation might have al- 
 to some one else ; at any rale, it was loo inde- 
 |ile to lead to any conclusion. While in this state 
 irresolution, she was startled by a low knocking 
 I the wainscot in a remote part of her gloomy 
 iber. On holding up the light, she beheld a 
 ill door there, which she had not before remarked. 
 as bolted on the inside. She advanced, and de- 
 ided who knocked, and was answered in the voice 
 ilie female domestic. On opening the door, the 
 in stood before it pale and agitated. She en- 
 sofUy, laying her finger on her lips in sign of 
 ion and secrecy. 
 
 Fly!" said she : "leave this house instantly, or 
 are lost!" 
 
 >e young lady, trembling with alarm, demanded 
 ixplanalion. 
 
 I have no time," replied the woman, "I dare 
 I shall be missed if I linger here— but fly in- 
 ly, or you are lost." 
 
 "And leave my fkiher ? " 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 " In the adjoining chamber." 
 
 " Call him, then, but lose no time." 
 
 The young lady knocked at her father's door. He 
 was not yet retired to bed. She hurried into his 
 room, and told him of the fearful warning she had 
 received. The Count returned with her into her 
 chamber, followed by Caspar. His questions soon 
 drew the truth out of the embarrassed answers of the 
 woman. The inn was beset by robbers. They were 
 to he introduced after midnight, when the attendants 
 of tlie Princess and the rest of the travellers were 
 sleeping, and would be an easy prey. 
 
 "But we can barricado the inn, we can defend 
 ourselves," said the Count. 
 
 " What! when the people of the inn are in league 
 with the banditti?" 
 
 "How then are we to escape? Can we not order 
 out the carriage audi depart? " 
 
 "San Francesco! for what? To give the alarm 
 that the plot is discovered ? That would make the 
 robbers desperate, and bring them on you at once. 
 They have had notice of the rich booty in the inn, 
 and will not easily let it escape them." 
 
 " But how else are we to get off?" 
 
 " There is a horse behind the inn," said the wo- 
 man, " from which the man has just dismounted who 
 has been to summon the aid of part of the band who 
 were at a distance." 
 
 " One horse ; and there are three of us ! " said the 
 Count. 
 
 "And the Spanish Princess!" cried the daughtei 
 anxiously — "How can she be extricated from the 
 danger ? " 
 
 " Diavolo! what is she to me?" said the woman 
 in sudden passion. " It is you I come lo save, and 
 you will betray me, and we shall all be lost ! Hark ! " 
 continued she, "I am called — I shall be discovered 
 —one word more. This door leads by a staircase lo 
 the court-yard. Under the shed in the rear of the 
 yard, is a small door leading out to the fields. You 
 will find a horse there; mount it; make a circuit un- 
 der the shadow of a ridge of rooks that you will see; 
 proceed cautiously and quietly until you cross a brook, 
 and find yourself on the road just where there are 
 three white crosses nailed against a tree; then put 
 your horse to his speed, and make the best of your 
 way lo the village — but recollect, my life is in your 
 hands — say nothing of what you have heard or seen, 
 whatever may happen at this inn." 
 
 The woman hurried away. A short and agitated 
 consultation look place between the Count, his daugh- 
 ter, and the veteran Caspar. The young lady seem- 
 ed to have lost all apprehension for herself in her so- 
 licitude for the safely of the Princess. "To fly in 
 selfish silence, and leave her to be massacred ! " — A 
 shuddering seized her at the very thought. The gal- 
 lantry of the Count, too, revolted at the idea. He 
 could not consent to tnm his back upon a parly of 
 
TALES OF A TOAVELITJl. 
 
 i 
 
 
 helpless travellers, and leave them In ignorance of the 
 danger which hung over them. 
 
 " But what is to liecoine of the young lady," said 
 Caspar, " if the alarm is given, and the inn thrown 
 in a tumult ? VVlut may happen to her in a cliance- 
 medley affray?" 
 
 Here the feelings of the father were roused : he 
 looked upon his lovely, helpless child, and trembled 
 at the chance of her falling into the hands of ruflians. 
 
 The daughter, however, thought nothing of her- 
 self. "The I'rincess! the Princess!— only let the 
 Princess know her danger."— She was willing to 
 share it with her. 
 
 At length Caspar interfered with the zeal of a faith- 
 ful old servant. No time was to be lost— the first 
 thing was to gel the young lady outof danger. "Mount 
 the horse," said he to (he Count, " take her behind 
 you, and fly! Make fur (he village, rouse the inha- 
 bi(an(s, and send assistance. Leave me here to give 
 the alarm to (he Princess and her people. I am an 
 old soldier, and I (hink we shall be able to stand siege 
 until you send us aid." 
 
 The daughter would again have insisted on staying 
 with the Princess — 
 
 " For what? " said old Caspar bluntly, " You could 
 do no good — You would be in the way — We should 
 have to take care of you instead of ourselves." 
 
 There was no answering these objections : (he 
 Count seized his pistols, and taking his daughter un- 
 der his arm, moved towards the staircase. The young 
 lady paused, stepped back, and said, faltering with 
 agitation — " There is a young cavalier with the Prin- 
 cess — her nephew— perhaps he may — " 
 
 " I understand you. Mademoiselle," replied old 
 Caspar with a signiflcant nod; "not a hair of his 
 head shall suffer harm if I can help it ! " 
 
 The young lady blushed deeper than ever : she 
 had not anticipated being so thoroughly understood 
 by the blunt old servant. 
 
 "That is not what I mean," said she, hesitating. 
 She would have added something, or made some 
 explanation ; but the moments were precious, and her 
 father hurried her away. 
 
 They found their way through the court-yard to 
 the small postern-gate, where (he horse stood, fasten- 
 ed to a ring in the wall. The Count mounted, took 
 his daughter behind him, and they proceeded as 
 quietly as i)Ossible in the direction which the woman 
 had pointed out. Many a fearful and anxious look 
 did the daughter cast back upon the gloomy pile of 
 building : the lights which had feebly twinkled through 
 the dusty casements were one by one disappearing, a 
 sign that the house was gradually sinking to repose; 
 and she trembled with impatience, lest succour should 
 not arrive until that repose had been fatally inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 They passed silently and safely along the skirts of 
 the rocks, protected from observation by their over- 
 hanging shadows. They crossed the brook, and 
 reached the place where three white crosses nailed 
 
 against a tree told of some mnrder that had been 
 mitted there. Just as they had reached this ill-oi 
 ed spot they behelil several men in the gloom cumii 
 down a craggy delile among (he rocks. 
 
 " VVhogoes there !" exclaimed a voice, 'llie Q 
 put spurs to his horse, but one of the men sprang K 
 ward and seized the bridle. The horse beci 
 restive, started back, and reared, and had not i 
 young lady clung to her father, she would lu< 
 l)een thrown off. The Count leaned forward, put 
 pistol to the very head of the rufiian, and flred 
 latter fell dead. The horse sprang forwanl. T< 
 or three shots were flred which whistled by theft 
 gitives, nut only served to augment their speed, 
 reached the v.:.age in safety. 
 
 The whole place was soon aroused ; but such wi 
 the awe in which (he banditti were held, that the 
 habitants shrunk at the idea of encountering ilii 
 A desperate band had for some time infested that 
 through the mountains, and (he inn had lung 
 suspec(eil of l)eing one of those horrible places whi 
 the unsuspicious wayfarer is entrapped and silenl 
 disposed of. The rich ornaments worn by the slalli 
 hostess of the inn had excited heavy suspicu 
 Several instances had occurred of small parties 
 travellers disappearing niysteriously on that 
 who, it was sup|M)sc<l at lirst, had been carried olT 
 (he robbers for the sake of ransom, but who liadnei 
 been heard of more. Such were the tales buzzed 
 the ears of the Count by the villagers as he endeavi 
 ed to rouse them to the rescue of the Princess and 
 train from their perilous si(uatiun. The dau; 
 seconded the exertions of her father wiUi all (he 
 quence of prayers, and tears, and beauty. En 
 moment that elapsed increased her anxiety uiitUJ 
 became agonizing. Fortunately, there was a 
 of gendarmes resting at the village. A number of 
 young villagers volunteered to accompany tiiem, 
 the liKle army was put in motion. The Count 
 ing deposited his daughter in a place of safety, 
 too much of the old soldier not to hasten to the 
 of danger. It would be difficult to paint the aii 
 agitation of the young lady while awaiting the 
 suit. 
 
 The party arrived at the inn just in time, 
 robbers, finding their plans discovered, and the 
 vellers prepared for their reception, had become 
 and furious in their attack. The Princess's 
 had barricadoed themselves in one suite of 
 ments, and repulsed the robbers from the doors 
 windows. Caspar had shown the generalship 
 veteran, and the nephew of the Princess tlied 
 valour of a young soldier. Their ammunition, 
 ever, was nearly exhausted, and they would 
 found it diflicult to hold out much longer, whenaj 
 charge from the musketry of the gendarmes 
 them the joyful tidings of succour. 
 
 A fierce fight ensued, for part of the robbers 
 surprised in the inn, and had to stand siege in 
 turn; while their comrades made desperate atie 
 
 Iter 
 
 bb 
 
 le. 
 Imomi 
 
 in 
 
 it, 
 
 Wi 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLEH. 
 
 ;iiil 
 
 cmunlerihal had been 
 ley had reacheil UiIb ill-oi 
 eraJ men in tlie gloom comii 
 nong lUe rocks, 
 exclaiineil a voice. Tlie 
 i)ul one of U»e men sprang ft 
 biitUe. Tlie horse Vwi 
 mid reared, and had noi i 
 her father, she would lu 
 B Count leaned forward, put 
 of tlie rufllan, and fired, 
 liorse sprang forward. T 
 lied which wliistled by tlwd 
 I to augment their speed. 
 
 safety. 
 
 as soon aroused; butsucliii 
 banditti were held, that the 
 Ihe idea of encountering llui 
 1 for 8ou>e time infested that 
 ins, and the inn had long 
 le of those horrible plam wh( 
 yfarer is entrapped and silenl 
 h ornaments worn by the slaiti 
 bad excited heavy suspici 
 ad occurred of small partiw 
 iiig mysteriously on that 
 il at first, had been carried off 
 lake of ransom, but who had ne' 
 
 Such were the tales Imzzwi 
 I'tby the villagers as he endeav 
 , the rescue of the Princess and 
 
 eiilous situation. The daugl 
 ons of her father with all Ihe 
 and tears, and beauty. Et( 
 ed increased her anxiety unlil] 
 
 Fortunately, there was a' 
 gat the village. A number oti 
 mteered to accompany them 
 put in motion. The Counl 
 laughter in a place of safely, 
 .soldier not to hasten to the 
 id be difficult to paint the an 
 
 ung lady while awaiting the 
 
 led at the inn just in time. 
 
 leir plans discoveretl, and the! 
 
 their reception, had becomeo- 
 
 Bir attack. The Princess's 
 
 lemselves in one suite of ap 
 
 td the robbers from the dooB 
 
 had shown the generalshipj 
 
 ephew of the Princess the (la 
 
 koldier. Their ammunition, 
 Exhausted, and they would 
 I hold out much longer, when Jl 
 
 iiisketry of the gendarmes r 
 lings of succour. 
 Ued, for part of the robbers 
 kn, and had to sund siege wl 
 
 'omrades made desperate all 
 
 10 relieve Ihetn from under cover of the neighbouring 
 rocki and thicket*. 
 
 I cannot pretend to give a minute account of tlie 
 fight, at I have heard it related in a variety of ways. 
 SuOice it to say, the robbers were defeated; several 
 of them killed, and several taken prisoners; which 
 iHt, together with the people of Ihe inn, were either 
 Qccuted or sent to the galleys. 
 
 I picked up these particulars in the course of a 
 joomey which I made some time alter the event had 
 tiken place. I passed by the very inn. It was then 
 inuintled, excepting one wing, in which a body of 
 jtndarmes was stationed. They pointed out to me 
 the shot-holes in the window-frames, the walls, and 
 the pannels of the doors. There were a number of 
 withered limbs dangling from the branches of a neigh- 
 bouring tree, and blackening in the air, which I was 
 told were the limbs of the robbers who had been 
 iliin, and the culprits who had been executed. The 
 whole place had a dismal, wild, forlorn look. 
 "Were any of the Princess's party killed?" in- 
 fired Ihe Englishman. 
 
 "As far as I can reoollect, there were two or 
 three." 
 
 "Not the nephew, I trust ? " said the fair Venetian. 
 "Oh no : he hastened with the Count to relieve 
 anxiety of the daughter by the assurances of vic- 
 The young lady had been sustained through- 
 it the interval of suspense by the very intensity of 
 feelings. The moment she saw her father re- 
 ling in safety, accompanied by the nephew of the 
 iDcess, she uttered a cry of rapture and fainted, 
 ippily, however, she soon recovered, and what is 
 , was married shortly after to the young cava- 
 ; and the whole party accompanied the old Prin- 
 iii her pilgrimage to Loretto, where her votive 
 !rings may still be seen in the treasury of the Santa 
 
 It would be tedious to follow the devious course of 
 e conversation as it wound through a maze of sto- 
 ! of the kind, until it was taken up by two other 
 iiTellers who had come under convoy of the Pro- 
 m : Mr Ilobbs and Mr Dobbs, a linen-draper and 
 |i;reen-grocer, just returning from a hasty tour in 
 I and the Holy Land. They were full of the 
 
 f of Alderman Popkins. They were astonished 
 at the robbers should dare to molest a man of his 
 
 ortance on 'Change, he being an eminent dry- 
 Uter of Throgmorton-street, and a magistrate to 
 
 TUB 
 
 I In fiict, the story of the Popkins family was but too 
 It was attested by too many present to be for 
 Inoment doubted; and from the contradictory and 
 ordant testimony of half a score, all eager to re- 
 eit, and all talking at the same time, the English- 
 I was enabled to gather the followbg particulars. 
 
 '■» "^ . 
 
 .':.7i 
 
 ADVENTURE OF THE POPKINS FAMILY. 
 
 It was but a few days before, that the carriage of 
 Alderman Popkins liad driven up to the inn of Ter- 
 racina. Those who have seen an English family 
 carriage on the continent must luve remarked tlio 
 sensation it produces. It is an epitome of England ; 
 a little morsel of the old island rolling about the 
 world. Every thing about it compact, snug, Hnished, 
 and fitting. The wheels turning on patent axles 
 without ratlling; the body, hanging so well on its 
 springs, yielding to every motion, yet protecting 
 from every shock; the ruddy faces gaping from the 
 windows— sometimes of a portly old citizen, sometimes 
 of a voluminous dowager, and sometimes of a fine 
 fresh hoyden just from boarding-school. And then 
 the dickeys loaded with well-dressed servants, beef- 
 fed and bluff; looking down from their heights with 
 contempt on all the world around; profoundly igno- 
 rant of the country and the people, and devoutly cer- 
 tain that every thing not English must be wrong. 
 
 Such was the carriage of Alderman Popkins as it 
 made its appearance at Terracina. The courier who 
 had preceded it to order horses, and who was a 
 Neapolitan, had given a magnificent account of the 
 riches and greatness of his master; blundering with 
 an Italian's splendour of imagination about the alder- 
 man's titles and dignities. The host had added his 
 usual share of exaggeration ; so that by the time the 
 alderman drove up to the door, he was a Milor— 
 Magnifico — Principe— the Lord knows what ! 
 
 The alderman was advised to take an escort to 
 Fondi and Itri, but he refused. It was as much as 
 a man's life was worth, he said, to stop him on the 
 king's highway : he would complain of it to the am- 
 bassador at Naples; he would make a national affair 
 of it. The Principessa Popkins, a fresh, motherly 
 dame, seemed perfectly secure in the protection of 
 her husliand, so onmipotent a man in the City. The 
 Signorine Popkins, two flne bouncing girls, looked to 
 their brother Tom, who had taken lessons in boxing; 
 and as to the dandy himself, he swore no scaramouch 
 of an Italian robber would dare to meddle with an 
 Englishman. The landlord shrugged his shoulders, 
 and turned out the palms of his hands with a true 
 Italian grimace, and the carriage of Milor Popkins 
 rolled on. 
 
 They passed through several very suspicions places 
 without any molestation. The Miss Popkins, who 
 were very romantic, and had learnt to draw in water- 
 colours, were enchanted with the savage scenery 
 around ; it was so like what they had read in Mrs Rad- 
 cliffe's romances; they should like of all things to 
 make sketches. At length the carriage arrived at n 
 place where the road wound up a lon^ hill. Mrs 
 Popkins liad sunk into a sleep; the young ladies were 
 lost in the "Loves of Ihe Angels;" and the dandy 
 
 ■^K 
 
.W2 
 
 TALES OF A TBAVELLER. 
 
 •v»n hectoring the postillions from tlie coach-box. 
 The alderman got ont, as he said, to stretch his legs 
 up the hill. It was a long, winding ascent, and 
 obliged him every now and then to slop and blow and 
 wipe his forehead, with many a pish! and phew! 
 being rather pursy and short of wind. As the car- 
 riage, however, was far behind him, and moved 
 slowly imder the weight of so many well-stufTed 
 trunks and well-stuffed travellers, he had plenty of 
 time to walk at leisure. 
 
 On ajutting point of rock that overhung the road, 
 nearly at the summit of the hill, just where the route 
 began again to descend, he saw a solitary man seated, 
 who appeared to be tending goats. Alderman Pop- 
 kins was one of your shrewd travellers who always 
 like to be picking up small information along the road ; 
 so he thought he'd just scramble up to the honest 
 man, and have a litUe talk with him by way of learn- 
 ing the news and getting a lesson in Italian. As he 
 drew near to the peasant, he did not half like his looks. 
 He was partly reclining on the rocks, wrapped in the 
 usual long mantle, which, with his slouched hat, only 
 left a part of a swarthy visage, with a keen black eye, 
 a beetle brow> and a fierce moustache to be seen. He 
 had whistled several times to his dog, which was rov- 
 ing about the side of the hill. As the alderman ap- 
 proached, he rose and greeted him. When standing 
 erect, he seemed almost gigantic, at least in the eyes 
 of Alderman Popkins, who, however, being a short 
 man, might be deceived. 
 
 I'he latter would gladly now have been back in the 
 carriage, or even on 'Change in London ; for he was 
 by no means well-pleased with his company. How- 
 ever, he determined to put the best face on matters, 
 and was beginning a conversation about the state of 
 the weather, the baddishness of the crops, and the 
 price of goats in that part of the country, when he 
 heard a violent screaming. He ran to the edge of the 
 rock, and looking over, beheld his carriage surrounded 
 by robbers. One held down the fat footman, another 
 had the dandy by his starched cravat, with a pistol to 
 his head ; one was rummaging a portmanteau, ano- 
 ther rummaging the Principessa's pockets; while the 
 two Miss Popkins were screaming from each window 
 of the carriage, and their waiting-maid squalling from 
 the dickey. 
 
 Alderman Popkins felt all the ire of the parent and 
 the magistrate roused within him. He grasped his 
 cane, and was on the point of scrambling down the 
 rocks, either to assault the robbers, or to read the 
 riot act, when he was suddenly seized by the arm. It 
 was by his friend the goatherd, whose cloak, falling 
 open, discovered a belt stuck full of pistols and sti- 
 lettos. In short, he found himself in the clutches of 
 the captain of the band, who had stationed himself on 
 the rock to look out for travellers, and to give notice 
 to his men. 
 
 A sad ransacking look place. Trunks were turned 
 inside out, and all the flnery^nd frippery of the Pop- 
 kins family scattered about (he road. Such a chaos 
 
 of Venice beads and Roman mosaics, and Paris bon- 
 nets of the young ladies, mingled with the alder- 
 man's night caps and lambs' wool stockings, and the 
 dandy's hair-brushes, stays, and starched cravats. 
 
 The genllemen were eased of their purses and 
 their watches, the ladies of their jewels; and the 
 whole party were on the point of being carried np 
 into the mountain, when, fortunately, the appear- 
 ance of soldiery at a distance obliged the robbers to 
 make off with the spoils they had secured, and leare 
 the Popkins family to gather together the remnants of 
 their effects, and make thebestcf their way toFondi. 
 
 When safe arrivc'd, the alderman made a terrible 
 blustering at tl.e inn; threatened to complain to the 
 ambassador at iNaples, and was ready to shake hir 
 cane at the whole country. The dandy had roanjj 
 stories to tell of his scuffles with the brigands, wiioj 
 overpowered him merely by numbers. As to tliel 
 Miss Popkins, they were quite delighted with thi 
 adventure, and were occupied the whole evening jnl 
 writing it in their journals. They declared theq 
 tain of the band to be a most romantic-looking manJ 
 they dared to say some unfortunate lover, or exiii 
 nobleman ; and several of the band to be very hand' 
 some young men—" quite picturesque ! " 
 
 "In verily," said mine host of Terracina, "t!ie| 
 say the captain of the band is un galantuomo." 
 
 " A gallant man !" said the Englishman indig' 
 nanlly: "I'd have your gallant man hanged like 
 dog ! " 
 
 "To dare to meddle with Englishmen!" sai 
 Mr Hobbs. 
 
 " And such a family as the Popkinses!" said) 
 Dobbs. 
 
 " They ought to come upon the county for 
 mages ! " said Mr Hobbs. 
 
 " Our ambassador should make a complaint to (I 
 government of Naples," said Mr Dobbs. 
 
 " They should be obliged to drive these rasci 
 out of the country," said Hobbs. 
 
 *' If they did not, we should declare war agaii 
 them," said Dobbs. 
 
 " Pish !— humbug!" muttered the Englishman 
 himself, and walked away. 
 
 the 
 
 in. 
 
 ihe 
 
 m\ 
 
 nlow 
 
 The Englishman had been a little wearied by II 
 story, and by the ultra zeal of his countrymen, d 
 was glad when a summons to their supper reliev^ 
 him from the crowd of travellers. He walked i 
 with his Venetian friends and a young Frenciinuii| 
 an interesting demeanour, who had become sociil 
 with them in the course of the conversation, 
 directed their steps toward the sea, which was III j 
 by the rising moon. 
 
 As they strolled along the beach, they camtj 
 where a party of soldiers were stationed in a ( 
 Thejr were guarding a number of galley-slaves,' 
 were permitted to refresh themselves in the ev« 
 breeze, and sport and roll upon the sand. 
 
 1 1 IN 
 
 rson 
 'la, a 
 ;mo 
 Mlie 
 
 ui!'^- ' 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 anxi 
 
 an mosaics, and Paris bon- 
 mingled with the alder- 
 bs' wool Blockings, and the 
 IS, and starched cravats, 
 eased of their purses and 
 8 of their jewels; and the 
 5 point of being carried op 
 ti, fortunately, the appear- 
 tance obliged the robbers to 
 Ihey had secured, and leave 
 her together the remnants ol! 
 le best cf their way toFondi. 
 he alderman made a terriWej 
 hreatened to complain to the 
 and was ready to shake hi- 
 intry. The dandy had many 
 affleswith the brigands, who 
 ely by numbers. As to the| 
 ere quite delighted with the 
 iccupied the whole evening inl 
 nals. They declared the capj 
 a most romantic-looking man, 
 e unfortunate lover, or exil(' 
 ,1 of the band to be very ■ 
 
 a uile picturesque!" 
 ninehostofTerracina, "ihei 
 bandisungalaHtMOino. 
 " said the Englishman indigj 
 our gallant man hanged like 
 
 jddle with Englishmen!" sail 
 
 y as the Popkinses 
 
 come upon the county for di 
 
 )bs. 
 
 should make a complaint toll 
 
 ,"saidMrDobbs. 
 obliged to drive these rase 
 said Hobbs. 
 we should declare war agaii 
 
 ; ! " muttered the Englishman 
 away. 
 
 it" 
 
 ul 
 
 ;s 
 
 The Frenchman paused, and pointed to the group 
 of wretches at their sports. "It is difTicult," said 
 he, " toconceive a more friglitful mass of crime than 
 is here collected. Many of these have probably been 
 robbers, such as you have heard described. Such is, 
 loo often, the career of crime in this country. The 
 parricide, llie fratricide, the infanticide, the mis- 
 creant of every kind, first flies from justice and turns 
 mountain bandit; and then, when wearied of a 
 life of danger, becomes traitor to his brother desper- 
 adoes; belfa^ii them to punishment, and thus buys a 
 commutation of his own sentence from death to the 
 galleys ; happy in the privilege of wallowing on the 
 sliore an hour a day, in this mere state of animal 
 enjoyment." 
 The fair Venetian shuddered as she cast a look at 
 the horde of wretches at their evening amusement. 
 "They seemed," she said, "like so many serpents 
 vrithing together." And yet the idea that some of 
 ihem had been robbers, those formidable beings that 
 haunted her imagination, made her still cast another 
 fearful glance, as we contemplate some terrible beast 
 of prey, with a degree of awe and horror, even though 
 tiged and chained. 
 
 The conversation reverted to the tales of banditti 
 
 ihich they had heard at the inn. The Englishman 
 
 Icondemned some of them as fabrications, others as 
 
 iiaggerations. As to the story of the improvisatore, 
 
 pronounced it a mere piece of romance, originating 
 
 the heated brain of the narrator. 
 
 " And yet," said the Frenchman, " there is so much 
 
 lance about the real life of those beings, and about 
 
 singular country they infest, that it is hard to tell 
 
 hat to reject on the ground of improbability. I have 
 
 an adventure happen to myself which gave me 
 
 opportunity of getting some insight into their man- 
 
 n and habits, which I found altogether out of the 
 
 ion run of existence." 
 There was an air of mingled frankness and modesty 
 lut the Frenchman which had gaineil the good will 
 the whole party, not even excepting the English- 
 n. They all eagerly inquired after the particulars 
 the circumstance he alluded to, and as they strolled 
 wly up and down the sea-shore, he related the 
 lowing adventure. 
 
 rd 
 
 had been a little wearied by II 
 tra zeal of his countrymen, ai 
 mmons to their supper reh«^ 
 d of travellers. He walked* 
 lends and a young Frenchmanj 
 ianour, who had become soojr 
 
 ,urse of the conversation, in 
 toward the sea, which was lil| 
 
 along the beach, they caraej 
 lldiers were stationed mac 
 Iff a number of galley-slaves,' 
 Irefresh themselves in the ev« 
 Ind roll upon the sand. 
 
 THE PAINTER S ADVENTURE. 
 
 |1 \H an historical painter by profession, and resided 
 rsome time in the family of a foreign prince at his 
 
 |lla, about fifteen miles from Rome, among some of 
 6 most interesting scenery of Italy. It is situated 
 ^ the heights of ancient Tusculum. In its ncighbour- 
 I are the ruins of the villas of Cicero, Sylla, Ln- 
 
 llliis, Rullnus, and other illustrious Romans, who 
 pi refuge here occasionally from their toils, in the 
 m of a soft and liixiuioiis rP|Hise. From the midst 
 
 of delightful bowers, refreshed by the pure mountain- 
 breeze, the eye looks over a romantic landscape full 
 of poetical and historical associations. The Albanian 
 mountains; Tivoli, once the favourite residence of 
 Horace and Meco^nas ; the vast, deserted, melancholy 
 Campagna, with the Tiber winding through it, and 
 St Peter's dome swelling in the midst, the monument, 
 as it were, over the grave of ancient Rome. 
 
 I assisted the prince in researches which he was 
 making among the classic ruins of his vicinity : his 
 exertions were highly successful. Many wrecks of 
 admirable statue.* and fragments of exquisite sculpture 
 were dug up; monuments of the taste and magnili- 
 cence that reigned in the ancient Tusculan abodes. 
 He had studded bis villa and its grounds with statues, 
 relievos, vases, and sarcophagi, thus retrieved from 
 the bosom of the earth. 
 
 Tlie mode of life pursued at the villa was delight- 
 fully serene, diversified by interesting occupations 
 and elegant leisure. Every one passed the day ac- 
 cording to his pleasure or pursuits ; and we all as- 
 sembled in a cheerful dinner-party at sunset. 
 
 It was on the fourthof November, a beautiful serene 
 day, that we hnd assembled in the saloon at the sound 
 of the first dinner-bell. The family were surprised 
 at the absence of the prince's confessor. They waited 
 for him in vain, and at length placed themselves at 
 table. They at first attributed his absence to his 
 having prolonged his customary walk ; and the early 
 part of the dinner passed without any uneasiness. 
 When the dessert was served, however, without his 
 making his appeal ance, they began to feel anxious. 
 They feared he might have been taken ill in some 
 alley of the woods, or that he might have fallen into 
 the hands of robbers. Not far from the villa, with 
 the interval of a small valley, rose the mountains of 
 the Abruzzi, the strong-hold of banditti. Indeed, the 
 neighbourhood had fur some lime |>ast been infested 
 1 , them; and Barbone, a notorious bandit chief, had 
 oii3n been met prowling about the solitudes of Tus- 
 culum . The daring enterprises of these ruffians were 
 well known : the objects of their cupidity or ven- 
 geance were insecure even in i)alaces. As yet they 
 had respected the possessions of the prince ; but the 
 idea of such dangerous spirits hovering about thv 
 neighbourhood was sufticient to occasion alarm. 
 
 The fears of the company increasud as evening 
 closed in. The prince ordered out forest guards and 
 domestics with flambeaux to search for the confessor. 
 They had not departed long when a slight noise was 
 heard in the corridor of the ground-floor. The fa- 
 mily were dining on the fust floor, and the rcinainin;; 
 domestics were occupied in attendance. There was 
 no one on the ground-floor at this moment but the 
 housekeeper, the laundress, and three field-labourers 
 who were resting themselves, and conversing with 
 the women. 
 
 i heard the noise from below, and presuming it to 
 he occasioned by the return of the absentee, I left the 
 table and hastened down stairs, eager to K«in inlclli- 
 
 .r m 
 
.•i04 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 gence tiiat might relieve Uie anxiety of the prince and 
 tirincess.. I had scarcely reached the last step, when 
 I beheld before me a man dressed as a bandit; a 
 <»rbine in his hand, and a stiletto and pistols in his 
 belt. His countenance had a mingled expression of 
 ferocity and trepidation : he sprang upon me, and ex- 
 claimed exnltingly, " Ecco il principe ! " 
 
 I saw at once into what hands I had fallen, but 
 endeavoured to summon up coolness and presence of 
 mind. A glance towards the lower end of the cor- 
 ridor showed me several ruflians, clothed and armed 
 in the same manner with the one who had seized 
 me. They were guarding the two females, and the 
 iield-labourers. The robber, who held me firmly by 
 the collar, demanded repeatedly whether or not I 
 were the prince : his object evidently was to carry 
 off the prince, and extort an immense ransom. He 
 was enraged at receiving none but vague replies, for 
 I felt the importance of misleading him. 
 
 A sudden thought struck me how I might extricate 
 myself from his clutches. I was unarmed, it is true, 
 but I was vigorous. His companions were at a di- 
 stance. By a sudden exertion I might wrest myself 
 from him, and spring up the staircase, whither he 
 would not dare to follow me singly. The idea was 
 put in practice as soon as conceived. The ruffian's 
 throat was bare; with my right hand I seized him by 
 it, with my left hand I grasped the arm which held 
 the carbine. The suddenness of my attack took him 
 completely unawares, and the strangling nature of 
 my grasp paralyzed him. He choked and faltered. I 
 felt his hand relaxing its hold, and was on the point 
 of jerking myself away, and darting up the staircase, 
 liefore he could recover himself, when I was suddenly 
 seized by some one from behind. 
 
 I had to let go my grasp. The bandit, once re- 
 leased, fell upon me with fury, and gave me several 
 blows with the butt end of his carbine, one of which 
 wounded me severely in the forehead and covered me 
 with blood. He took advantage of my being stunned 
 to rifle me of my watch, and whatever valuables I 
 had about my person. 
 
 When I recovered from the effect of the blow, I 
 heard the voice of the chief of the banditti, who ex- 
 claimed — ** Quelio e il principe; siamo contenti; an- 
 diamo!" (It is Uie prince; enough; let us be off.) 
 The band immediately closed round me and dragged 
 nie out of the palace, bearing off the three labourers 
 likewise. 
 
 I had no hat on, and the blood flowed from my 
 wound ; I managed to stanch it, however, with my 
 pocket-handkerchief, which I bound round my fore- 
 Jiead. The captain of the band conducted me in 
 triumph, supposing me to be the prince. We had 
 t^one some distance before he learnt his mistake from 
 one of the labourers. His rage was terrible. It was 
 too late to return to the villa and endeavour to re- 
 trieve his error, for by this lime the alarm must have 
 liccn given, and every one in arms. He darted at me 
 a ferocious look— swore I had deceived him, and 
 
 caused him to miss his fortune — and told me to pre- i 
 pare for death. The rest of the robbers were equally 
 furious. I saw their hands upon then- poniards, and 
 I knew that death was seldom an empty threat witli 
 these ruflians. The labourers saw the peril into 
 which their information had betrayed me, and eagerly I 
 assured the captain that I was a man for whom tlie 
 prince would pay a great ransom. This produced 1 1 
 pause. For my part, I cannot say that I had been I 
 nmch dismayed by tlieir menaces. I mean not to I 
 make any boast of courage ; but I have been so school. I 
 ed to hardship during the late revolutions, and have I 
 l)eheld death around me in so many perilous and di-l 
 sastrous scenes, that I have become m some measure] 
 callous to its terrors. The frequent hazard of lifel 
 makes a man at length as reckless of it as a gamblerl 
 of his money. To their threat of death, I replied,! 
 " that the sooner it was executed the belter." Tbisl 
 reply seemed to astonish the captain ; and the prospectl 
 of ransom held out by the labourers had, no doubt, al 
 still greater effect on him. He considered for a mo-l 
 ment, assumed a calmer manner, and made a sign t 
 his companions, who had remained wailing for Dijfj 
 death-warrant, "Forward!" said he, "wewi 
 see about this matter by and by ! " 
 
 We descended rapidly towards the road of La Mo 
 lara, which leads to Bocca Priori. In the midst 
 this road is a solitary inn. The captain ordered tl 
 troop to lialt at the distance of a pistol-shot from it] 
 and enjoined profound silence. He approached 
 threshold alone, with noiseless steps. He examiiM 
 the outside of the door very narrowly, and then 
 turning precipitately, made a sign for the troop to 
 tinue its march in silence. It has since been 
 tained, that this was one of those infamous inns whic 
 are the secret resorts of banditti. The innkeeper I 
 an understanding with the captain, as he mosl pt 
 bably had with the chiefs of the different bai 
 When any of the patroles and gendarmes were qua 
 tered at his house, the brigands were warned of it I 
 a preconcerted signal on the door; when there vi 
 no such signal, they might enter with safety, and 
 sure of welcome. 
 
 After pursuing our road s little further we st 
 off towards the woody mountains which envelop Ro 
 ca Priori. Our march was long and painful; vii 
 many circuits and windings : at length we clamber 
 a steep ascent, covered with a thick forest ; and wt 
 we had reached the centre, I was told to seat mys 
 on the ground. No sooner had I done so than, at{ 
 sign from their chief, the robbers surrounded 
 and spreading their great cloaks from one to 
 other, formed a kind of pavilion of mantles, to vt 
 their bodies might be said to serve as columns, 
 captain then struck a light, and a flambeau wasj 
 immediately. The mantles were extended to | 
 vent the light of the flambeau from being seentlin 
 the forest. Anxious as was my situation, I couMj 
 look round upon this screen of dusky drapery,! 
 lievcd by the bright colours of the robbers' garim 
 
 ptaii 
 peatc 
 
 eme. 
 
 proat 
 
 borrc 
 
 able 
 
 lay at 
 
 ilier 
 
 loris 
 
 iiglii 
 
 80 
 
 lliesi 
 I made 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tVj^ 
 
 rlune— and told me to pre- 
 of the robbers were equally 
 ds upon their poniards, and 
 >ldom an empty threat witli 
 aourers saw the peril intu 
 ad betrayed me, and eagerly 
 I was a man for whom Uw 
 itraiusom. This produced a 
 cannot say that 1 had been 
 r menaces. I mean not to 
 re ; but I have been so school- 
 »e late revolutions, and havel 
 . in so many perilous and di- 
 ave become in some measure! 
 The frequent hazard of lifcl 
 as reckless of it as a gambler 
 ir threat of death, I replied, 
 (executed the belter." ThisI 
 I the captain; and the prosi 
 he labourers had, no doubt, al 
 im. He considered for a mo-| 
 ■r manner, and made a sign 
 had remained wailing for m] 
 rward!" said he, "we\»i 
 lyandby!" 
 lly towards the road of La M( 
 Rocca Priori. In the midst 
 inn. The captain ordered ti 
 istance of a pistol-shot from itj 
 ,d silence. He approached " 
 noiseless steps. He exami 
 or very narrowly, and then 
 made a sign for the troop to 
 ence. It has since been asm] 
 )ne of those mfamousinwsvrhie 
 of banditti. The innkeeper hi 
 Lh the captain, as he most pi 
 chiefs of the different bai 
 roles and gendarmes werequj 
 brigands were warned of It 
 on the door; when there w 
 ht enter with safely, and' 
 
 (ni; 
 
 road a little further we 
 /mountains which envelope 
 •ch was long and painful;* 
 ndings: at length we clamlKi 
 •d with a thick forest; and wi 
 centre, I was told 10 seat my 
 sooner had I done so than, al 
 if, the robbers surrounded " 
 great cloaks from one to 
 of pavilion of mantles, tow 
 said to serve as columns. 
 . light, and a flambeau was 
 .mantles were extended to" 
 Iflambeaufrombeingseentlir 
 as was my situation, I couWi 
 
 is screen of dusky drapery 
 colours of llw robbers' garir 
 
 gleaming of their weapons, and the variety of 
 ig-marked countenances, lit up by the flambeau, 
 lilbout admiring the picturesque effect of the scene. 
 fas quite theatrical. 
 
 The captain now held an inkhom, and giving me 
 and paper, ordered me to write what he should 
 ite. I obeyed. It was a demand, couched in 
 lyle of robber eloquence, " that the prince should 
 three thousand dollars for my ransom ; or that 
 death should be the consequence of a refusal." 
 Iknew enough of the desperate character of these 
 igg to feel assured this was not an idle menace, 
 ir only mode of insuring attention to llieir de- 
 is to make the infliction of the penally in- 
 iiable. I saw at once, however, that the demand 
 ns preposterous, and made in improper language. 
 Hold the captain so, and assured him that so ex- 
 iTagant a sum would never be granted. — "That I 
 neither a friend nor relative of the prince, but 
 jiere artist, employed to execute certain paintings. 
 1 1 had nothing to offer as a ransom but the price 
 uiy labours : if this were not suflicient, my life 
 at their disposal ; it was a thing on which I set 
 little value." 
 
 Iwas ths more hardy in my reply, because I saw 
 it coolness and hardihood had au eflect upon the 
 n. It is true, as I flnished speaking, the cap- 
 laid his hand upon his stiletto; but he restrained 
 If, and snatching the letter, folded it, and or- 
 me in a peremptory tone to address it to the 
 . He then dispatched one of the labourers 
 it to Tusculum, who promised to return with 
 possible speed. 
 
 iTbe robbers now prepared themselves for sleep, 
 I was told that I might do the same. They 
 id their great cloaks on the ground, and lay down 
 me. One was stationed at a little distance 
 keep watch, and was relieved every two hours, 
 strangeness and wildness of this mountain bi- 
 among lawless beings, whose hands seemed 
 ready to grasp the stiletto, and with whom life 
 so trivial and insecure, was enough to banish 
 The coldness of the earth and of the dew, 
 ever, had a still greater effect than mental causes 
 Idislurbing my rest. The airs wafted to these 
 plains from the distant Mediterranean, diffused 
 real chilliness as the night advanced. An expe- 
 {nt suggested itself. I called one of my fellow- 
 ners, the labourers, and made him lie clown be- 
 (me. Whenever one of my limbs became chilled, 
 iproached it to the robust limb of my neighbour, 
 I borrowed some of his warmth. In this way I 
 iable to obtain a little sleep. 
 [lay at length dawned, and I was roused from my 
 )ii)er by the voice of the chieftain. He desired 
 |to rise and follow him. I obeyed. On consi- 
 liis pliysio;^nomy attentively, it appeared a 
 I softened. lie even assisted me in scrambling 
 i steep forest, among rocks and brambles. Habit 
 [made him a viu;urous mountaineer; but I foimd 
 
 it excessively toilsome to climb these nigged height«. 
 We arrived at length at the summit of tlie mountain. 
 
 Here it was that I felt all the enthusiasm of my 
 art suddenly awakened ; and I forgot in an instant 
 all my perils and fatigues at this magnificent view 
 of the sunrise in the midst of the mountains of 
 Abruzzi . It was on these heights that Hannibal first 
 pitched his camp, and pointed out Rome to his fol- 
 lowers. Th«- eye embraces a vast extent of country. 
 The miner height of Tusculum, with its villas anJ 
 its sacred ruins, lie below ; the Sabine hills and the 
 Albanian mountains stretch on either hand; and 
 beyond Tusculum and Frascati spreads out the im- 
 mense Campagna, with its lines of tombs, and here 
 and there a broken aqueduct stretching across it, 
 and the towers and domes of tlie eternal city in the 
 midst. 
 
 Fancy this scene lit up by the glories of a rising 
 sun, and bursting upon my sight as I looked forth from 
 among the majestic forests of the Abruzzi. Fancy, 
 too, the savage foreground, made still more savage by 
 groupsof banditti, armed and dressed in their wild 
 picturesque manner, and you will not wonder that 
 the enthusiasm of a painter for a moment overpowered 
 all his other feelings. 
 
 The banditti were astonished at my admiration of a 
 scene which familiarity had made so common in their 
 eyes. I took advantage of their halting at tliis !:pot, 
 drew forth a quire of drawing-paper, and began to 
 sketch the features of the landscape. The height on 
 which I was seated was wild and solitary, separated 
 from the ridge ofTuscuhim by a valley nearly three 
 miles wide, though the distance appeared less from 
 the purity of the atmosphere. This height was one 
 of the favourite retreats of the banditti , commanding a 
 look-out over the country; while at the same time it 
 was covered with forests, and distant from the po- 
 pulous haunts of men. 
 
 While I was sketching, my attention was called off 
 fi)r a moment by the cries of birds, and the »»lealings 
 of sheep. I looked around, but could see nothing of 
 the animals which uttered them. They were re- 
 peated, and appeared to come from the summits of the 
 trees. On looking more narrowly, I perceived six of 
 the robbei-s perched in the lops of oaks, which grew 
 on the breezy crest of the mountain, and conunanded 
 an uninterrupted prospect. From hence they were 
 keeping a look-out, like so many vultures; casting 
 Iheir eyes into the depths of the valley below us ; 
 communicating with each other by signs, or holding 
 discourse in soimds which might be mistaken by the 
 wayfarer for the cries of hawks and crows, or the 
 bleating of the mcmtain flocks. After they had re- 
 connoitred the neighbouriioml, and finished their sin- 
 gular discourse, they descended from their airy perch, 
 and returned to their prisoners. The captain posted 
 three of them at three naked sides of the mountain, 
 while he remained to guard us with what appeared 
 his most trusty companion. 
 
 I had my book of sketches in my hand ; he re«iurst- 
 
 h^ 
 
 f'! 
 
 ^i;i 
 
 411'! 
 
 m 
 
 A 
 ■ I 
 
 i' «f 4 
 
 il: 
 
 >»!«". 
 
im 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 etl (0 see it, and after having ran his eye over It, ex- 
 pressed hiniselfcoovinced of the truth of iny assertion 
 that I was a painter. I tliought I saw a gleam of 
 good feeling dawning in him, and determined to avail 
 myself of it. I knew that the worst of men have 
 their good points and their accessible sides, if one 
 would but study them carefully. Indeed there is a 
 singular mixture in the character of the Italian robber. 
 With reckless ferocity he often mingles traits of kind- 
 ness and good-humour. He is not always radically 
 bad ; but driven to his course of life by some unpre- 
 meditated crime, the effect of those sudden bursts of 
 passion to which the Italian temperament is prone. 
 This has compelled him to take to the mountains, or, 
 as it is technically termed among them, " andare in 
 campagna." He has become a robber by profession ; 
 but like a soldier, when not in action, he can lay aside 
 his weapon and bis flerceness, and become like other 
 men. 
 
 I took occasion, from the observations of the captain 
 on my sketchings, to fall into conversation with him. 
 I found him sociable and communicative. By degrees 
 I became completely at my ease with him. I had 
 fancied I perceived about him a degree of self-love, 
 which I determined to make use of. I assumed an air 
 of careless frankness, and told him, that, as an artist, I 
 pretended to the power of judging of the physiognomy; 
 that I thought I perceived something in his features 
 and demeanour which announced him worthy of 
 higher fortunes; that he was not formed to exercise 
 tlie profession to which he had abandoned himself; 
 that he had talents and qualities fitted for a nobler 
 sphere of action ; that he had but to change his course 
 of life, and, in a legitimate career, the same courage 
 and endowments which now made him an object of 
 terror, would assure him the applause and admiration 
 of society. 
 
 I had not mistaken my man; my discourse both 
 touched and excited him. He seized my hand, press- 
 ed it, and replied with strong emotion—" You have 
 guessed the truth; you have judged of me rightly." 
 He remained for a moment silent; then with a kind 
 of effort, he resumed — " I will tell you some par- 
 ticulars of my life, and you will perceive that it was 
 the oppression of others, rather than my own crimes, 
 which drove me to the mountains. I sought to serve 
 my fellow-men, and they have persecuted me from 
 among them." We seated ourselves on the grass, 
 and the robber gave me the following anecdotes of 
 his history. 
 
 THE 
 
 STORY OF TEIE BANDIT CHIEFTAIN. 
 
 I AN a native of the village of Prossedi. My father 
 was easy enough in circumstances, and we lived 
 peaceably and inde|>endently, cullivalitig our fields. 
 
 pspai 
 
 bre. 
 
 All went on well with m until a new chief of i| 
 Sbirri was sent to our village to take command oftl 
 police. He was an arbitrary fellow, prying into evei '^ 
 thing, and practising all sorts of vexations and oppre '. 
 sions in the discharge of his oflice. I was at ih 
 time eighteen years of age, and had a natural love 
 justice and good neighbourhood. I had also a tin 
 education, and knew something of history, so as to 
 able to judge a little of men and their actions, i 
 this inspired me with hatred for this paltry deiip 
 My own family, also, became the object of his $u! 
 cion or dislike, and felt more than once the arbitn 
 abuse of his power. These things worked toget 
 in my mind, and I gasped after vengeance. My cl 
 racter was always ardent and energetic, and, ai 
 upon by the love of justice, determined me, b; 
 blow, to rid the country of the tyrant. 
 
 Full of my project, I rose one morning before 
 of day, and concealing a stiletto under my wai$i 
 - -here you see it ! — (and he drew forth a long ki 
 poniard) I lay in wait for him in the outskirts of 
 village. I knew all his haunts, and his habit of mi 
 ing his rounds and prowling about like a wolf ui 
 grey of the morning. At length I met him, 
 attacked him with fury. He was armed, butlti 
 him unawares, and was full of youth and vigour, 
 gave him repeated blows to make sure work, and 
 him lifeless at my feet. 
 
 When I was satisfied that I had done for him, I 
 turned with all haste to the village, but ha>l tliel 
 luck to meet two of the Sbirri as I entered it. TU 
 accosted me, and asked if I had seen their chief, | 
 assumed an air of tranquillity, and told liiemlb 
 not. They continued on their way, and within a ll 
 hours brought back the dead body to Prossedi. Tb 
 suspicions of me being already awakened, I was] 
 rested and thrown into prison. Here I lay sevel 
 weeks, when the Prince, who was Seigneur! 
 Prossedi, directed judicial proceedings against i 
 I was brought to trial, and a witness was prodit 
 who pretended to have seen me flying with precipi 
 tion not far from the bleeding body; and sol^ 
 condemned to the galleys for thirty years. 
 
 "Curse on such laws!" vociferated thel 
 foaming with rage : " Curse on such a governu 
 and ten thousand curses on the Prince who cauj 
 me to be adjudged so rigorously, while so many* 
 Roman princes harbour and protect assassins all 
 sand times more culpable! What had J done | 
 what was inspired by a love of justice and myc 
 try? Why was my act more culpable thaBJ 
 of Brutus, when he sacrificed Cicsar to the cam 
 liberty and justice?" 
 
 There was something at once both lofty and Ij 
 crous in the rhapsody of this robber chief, tluisi 
 dating himself with one of the great names otij 
 quity. It showed, however, that he had at I 
 merit of knowing the remarkable facts in the I 
 
 of bis country, 
 his narrative. 
 
 He became more calm, and re 
 
 ^jiaL. 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 m 
 
 US until a new chief of Hi 
 ilage to take command of 
 raryfeilow, prying into ev( 
 sorts of vexations and oppri 
 )f his office. I was at il 
 ge, and had a natural love 
 lourhood. I had also a liii 
 methingofhistory,8oa8lo 
 men and their actions, 
 lalred for this paltry des] 
 lecarne the object of his m 
 more than once the arbilnj 
 hese things worked togell 
 )ed after vengeance. Mycl 
 lent and energetic, and, a( 
 astice, determined me, by 
 •y of the tyrant. 
 I rose one morning before 
 ig a stiletto under my waist 
 and he drew forth a long kf 
 t for him in the outskirts of 
 IS haunts, and his habit o[ 
 fowling about like a wolf in 
 g. At length I met him, 
 °ry. He was armed, but lie 
 vas full of youth and vigour, 
 lows to make sure work, andl 
 
 ied that I had done for him, I 
 e to the village, but ha^ ««! 
 the Sbirri as I entered it. Tl 
 iked if I had seen their chief. 
 ranquillity, and told theml 
 dontheirway,andwUluna 
 the dead body to ProssedLTI 
 lUg already awakened, I was 
 into prison. Herellaysev 
 Prince, who was Seigneur! 
 judicial proceedings againsl 
 ial, and a witness was prodi 
 ive seen me flying with precii 
 he bleeding body ; and sol 
 alleys for thirty years, 
 laws!" vociferated the 
 " Curse on such a governi 
 :urses on the Prince who cai 
 o rigorously, while so many 
 iir and protect assassins a 
 ulpable! What had I done 
 ,y a love of justice and my 
 y act more culpable than 
 esacrillcedQesartolheai" 
 
 king at once both lofty andt 
 |dy ofthis robber chief, lluisJ 
 V one of the great names otj 
 
 however, that he had at leaj 
 Ihe remarkable facts in the hii 
 
 became more calm, ami re 
 
 I was conducted to Givita Yeochia in fetters. My 
 
 was burning with rage. I had been married 
 
 six months to a woman whom I passionately 
 
 fed, and who was pregnant. My family was in 
 
 ir. For a long time I made unsuccessful efforts 
 
 break my chain. At length I found a morsel of 
 
 1, which I hid carefully, and endeavoured, with 
 
 pointed flint, to fashion it into a kind of file. I 
 
 ipied myself in this work during the night-time, 
 
 when it was finished, I made ont, after a long 
 
 , to sever one of the rings of my chain. My flight 
 
 successful. 
 
 I wandered for several weeks in the mountains 
 
 surround Prossedi, and found means to inform 
 
 wife of the place where I was concealed. She 
 
 often to see me. I had determined to put niy- 
 
 at the head of an armed band . She endeavoured , 
 
 a long time, to dissuade me, but finding my reso- 
 
 fixed, she at length united in my project of 
 
 ;eance, and brought me, herself, my poniard. 
 
 her means I communicated with several brave 
 
 iws of the neighbouring villages, whom I knew 
 
 be ready to take to the mountains, and only pant- 
 
 for an opportunity to exercise their daring spirits. 
 
 !SOon formed a combination, procured arms, and 
 
 liave had ample opportunities of revenging our- 
 
 fes for the wrongs and injuries which most of us 
 
 suffered. Every thing has succeeded with us 
 
 now ; and had it not been for our blunder in 
 
 iking you for the Prince, our fortunes would 
 
 been made. 
 
 ire the robber concluded his story. He had 
 himself into complete companionship, and 
 
 lired me he no longer bore me any grudge for the 
 r of which I had been the innocent cause. He 
 D professed a kindness for me, and wished me to 
 iiin some time with them. He promised to give 
 
 la sight of certain groitos which Ihey occupied 
 nd Villetri, and whither they resorted during the 
 t\ais of their expeditions. He assured me that 
 Tied a jovial life there; had plenty of good cheer; 
 on beds of moss ; and were waited upon by 
 ngand beautiful females, whom I might take for 
 
 jconfessed I felt my curiosity roused by his de- 
 
 of the groitos and their inhabitants : they 
 
 ized those scenes in robber story which I had al- 
 
 s looked upon as mere creations of the fancy. I 
 
 |ild gladly have accepted his invitation, and paid 
 
 t to these caverns, could I have felt more secure 
 
 r company. 
 
 {began to find my situation less puinfiil. I had 
 nUy propitiated the good-will of the chieftain, 
 I hoped that he might release me for a moderate 
 A new alarm, however, awaited me. While 
 aptain was looking out with impatience for the 
 I of the messenger who had been sent to the 
 «, the sentinel who had been posted on the side 
 
 of the mountain facing the plain of La Molara came 
 running towards us with precipitation. "We are 
 betrayed ! " exclaimed he. " The police of Frascati 
 are after as. A party of carabineers have just stopped 
 at the inn below the mountain." Then, laying his 
 hand on his stiletto, he swore, with a terrible oath, 
 that if they made the least movement towards the 
 mountain, my life and the lives of my fellow-pri- 
 soners should answer for it. 
 
 The chieftain resumed all his ferocity of demean- 
 our, and approved of what his companion said ; but 
 when the latter had returned to his post, he turned 
 to me with a softened air : " I must act as chief," 
 said he, " and humour my dangerous subalterns. It 
 is a law with us to kill our prisoners, rather than 
 suffer them to be rescued ; but do not be alarmed. 
 In case we are surprised, keep by me. Fly with 
 us, and I will consider myself responsible for your 
 fife." 
 
 There was nothing very consolatory in this arrange- 
 ment, which would have placed me between two dan- 
 gers. I scarcely knew, in case of flight, from whidi 
 I should have most tu apprehend, the carbines of the 
 pursuers, or the stilettos of the pursued. I remained 
 silent, however, and endeavoured to maintain a look 
 of tranquillity. 
 
 For an hour was I kept in this state of peril and 
 anxiety. The robbers, crouching among their leafy 
 coverts, kept an eagle watch upon the carabineers 
 below, as they loitered about the inn ; sometimes 
 lolling about the portal ; sometimes disappearing fur 
 several minutes ; then sallying out, examining their 
 weapons, pointing in different directions, and appa- 
 rently asking questions about the neighbourhood. 
 Not a movement, a gesture, was lost upon the keen 
 eyes of the brigands. The carabineers having finished 
 their refreshment, seized their arms, continued along 
 the valley toward the great road, and gradually left 
 the mountain behind them. '' I felt almost certain," 
 said the chief, " that they could not be sent after us. 
 They know too well how prisoners have fared in our 
 hands on similar occasions. Our laws in this respect 
 are inflexible, and are necessary for our safety. If 
 we once flinched from them, there would no longer 
 be such thing as a ransom to be procured." 
 
 There were no signs yet of the messenger's return. 
 I was preparing to resume my sketching, when the 
 captain drew a quire of paper from his knapsack. 
 
 ' Come," said he, laughing, " you are a painter, — 
 take my likeness. The leaves of your portfolio are 
 small,— draw it on this." I gladly consented, for it 
 was a study that seldom presents itself to a painter. 
 I recollected that Salvator Rosa in his youth had vol- 
 untarily sojourned for a time among the banditti of 
 Calabria, and had tilled his mind with the savage 
 scenery aud savage associates by which he was sur- 
 rounded. I seized my pencil with enthusiasm at the 
 thought. I found the captain the most docile of sub- 
 jects, and, after various shiftings of position, I placed 
 him in an attitude to my mind. 
 
 ! 
 
 in 
 
 
 m 
 
 ^rM 
 
 ■■51;' 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 Picture to yourself a stem muscular figure, in fan- 
 ciful bandit costume ; witli pistols and poniards in 
 belt; his brawny neck bare ; a handkerchief loosely 
 thrown round it, and the two ends in front strung 
 with rings of all kinds, the spoils of travellers; relics 
 and medals hanging on his breast ; his hat decorated 
 with various coloured ribands; his vest and short 
 breeches of bright colours and finely embroidered ; 
 his legs in buskins or leggings. Fancy him on a 
 mountain height, among wild rocks and rugged oaks, 
 leaning on his carbine, as if meditating some exploit ; 
 while far below are beheld villages and villas, the 
 scenes of his maraudings, with the wide Campagna 
 dimly extending in the distance. 
 
 The robber was pleased with the sketch, and seem- 
 ed to admire himself upon paper. I had scarcely 
 finished, when the labourer arrived who had been sent 
 for my ransom. He had reached Tusculum two hours 
 after midnight. He brought me a letter from the 
 Prince, who was in bed at the time of his arrival. As 
 I luid predicted, he treated the demand as extravagant, 
 but offered five hundred dollars for my ransom. Hav- 
 ing no money by him at the moment, he had sent a 
 note for the amount, payable to whomsoever should 
 conduct me safe and sound to Rome. I presented the 
 note of hand to the chieftain : he received it with a 
 shrug, " Of what use are notes of hand to us ?" 
 said he. '' Who can we send with you to Rome to 
 receive it ? We are all marked men ; known and de- 
 scribed at every gate and military post, and village 
 church-door. No ; we must have gold and silver ; 
 let the sum be paid in cash, and you shall be restored 
 to liberty." 
 
 The captain again placed a sheet of paper before 
 me, to communicate his determination to the Prince. 
 When I had finished the letter, and took the sheet 
 from the quire, I found on tlie opposite side of it the 
 portrait which I bad just been tracing. I was about 
 to tear it off, and give it to the chief. 
 
 " Hold !" said lie, " let it go to Rome : let them 
 see what kind of looking fellow I am. Perhaps the 
 Prince and his friends may form as good an opinion 
 of me from my face as you have done." 
 
 This was said sportively, yet it was evident there 
 was vanity iurking at the bottom. Even this wary, 
 distrustful chief of banditti forgot for a moment his 
 usual foresight and precaution, in the common wish 
 to be admired. He never reflected what use might 
 be made of tliis portrait in his pursuit and conviction. 
 The letter was folded and directed, and the mes- 
 senger departed again for Tusculum. It was now 
 eleven o'clock in the morning, and as yet we had eaten 
 nothing. In spite of all my anxiety, I began to feel 
 a craving appetite. I was glad therefore to hear the 
 captiin talk something about eating. He observed 
 that for three days and nights they had been lurkuig 
 about .among rocks and woods, meditating their ex- 
 pedition to Tusculum, during which time all their 
 provisions had been exhausted. He should now take 
 measures to procure a supply. I^eaving me therefore 
 
 in charge of his comrade, in whom he appeared i 
 have implicit confidence, he departed, assuring i 
 that in less than two hours we should make a 
 dinner. Where it was to come from was an enig 
 to me, though it was evident these beings had i 
 secret friends and agents throughout the country. 
 
 Indeed, the inhabitants of these mountains, aodj 
 the valleys which they embosom, are a rude, haifcij 
 ilized set. The towns and villages among the fore 
 of the Abruzzi, shut up from the rest of the vn 
 are almost like savage dens. It is wonderful i 
 such rude abodes, so little known and visited, gb 
 be embosomed in the midst of one of the most i 
 veiled and civilized countries of Europe. Amongij 
 regions the robber prowls unmolested ; not a i 
 taineer hesitates to give him a secret harboor j 
 assistance. The shepherds, however, who tendt 
 flocks among the mountains, are the favourite en 
 saries of the robbers, when they would send i 
 sages down to the valleys either for ransom or supplJ 
 The shepherds of the Abruzzi are as wild as t 
 scenes they frequent. They are clad in a rudegarbl 
 black or brown sheep-skin ; they have high coni 
 hats, and coarse sandals of cloth bound round th 
 legs with thongs similar to those worn by therobb 
 They carry long staves, on which as they lean, 
 form picturesque objects in the lonely landscape, a 
 they are followed by their ever-constant compan 
 the dog. They are a curious questioning set, gladl 
 any time to relieve the monotony of their solitadef 
 the conversation of the passers-by ; and the i 
 lend an attentive ear, and put on as sagacious i 
 inquisitive a look as his master. 
 
 But I am wandering from my story. I wasn 
 left alone with one of the robbers, the conlidenj 
 companion of the chief. He was the youngest and n 
 vigorous of the band; and though his counten 
 had something of that dissolute fierceness wM 
 seems natural to this desperate, lawless mode ori| 
 yet there were traces of manly beauty about it. 
 an artist I could not but admire it. I had remarl 
 ia him an air of abstraction and reverie, and at tiij 
 a movement of inward suffering and impatience, 
 now sat on the ground, his elbows on his knees, | 
 head resting between his clenched fists, and bis (i 
 fixed on the earth with an expression of sad aodj 
 ter rumination. I had grown familiar with him 6 
 repeated conversations, and had found him sap 
 in mind to the rest of the band. I was an 
 to seize any opportunity of soun>^ing the fee 
 of these singular beings. I fancier' I read ioj 
 counten'>ncc of this one traces of self-condemni 
 and .■■:■' <wr 66 ; and the ease with which I hadd 
 fortVi the confidence of the chieftain encourage(l| 
 to hope the same with his fo' lower. 
 
 After a little preliminary conversation, I venl 
 to ask him if he did not feel regret at having t 
 ed his family, and taken to this dangerous pr 
 "I feel," replied he, "but one regret, and ttiil| 
 end only with my life." As he said this, he | 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELIJiR. 
 
 m) 
 
 ide, in whom he appeared 
 e, he departed, assuring 
 9ur8 we should make a 
 I to come from was an eni| 
 evident these beings had 
 Its throughout the country 
 ints of tliese mountains, and 
 embosom,are a rude, half di 
 I and villages among the foi 
 ID from the rest of the w( 
 e dens. It is wonderful 
 ittle known and visited, si 
 midst of one of the mosl 
 intries of Europe. Among 
 owls unmolested; not a 
 five him a secret harbour 
 herds, however, who tend 
 mtains, are the favourite 
 , when they would send 
 eys either for ransom or 
 the Abruzzi are as wild as 
 
 They are clad in a rude garb| 
 ip-skin; they have high 
 aals of cloth bound round t! 
 ilar to those worn by the rol 
 fes, on which as they lean, 
 jects in the lonely landscape, a 
 f their ever-constant comf 
 a curious questioning set 
 ihe monotony of their solitude 
 the passers-by ; and the d(^ 
 ar, and put on as sagacious 
 his master, 
 ing from my story. I was 
 
 of the robbers, the confideni 
 lef. Hewastheyoungcstandi 
 
 liis clenched fists upon his bosom, drew his breath 
 lihrough his set teeth, and added, with a deep emo- 
 |lioa, "I have something within here that stifles me; 
 |it is like a burning iron consuming my very heart. I 
 [toaid tell you a miserable story— but not now — an- 
 Idber time." 
 
 He relapsed into his former position, and sat with 
 jlusbead between his hands, muttering to himself in 
 en ejaculations, and what appeared at times to 
 curses and maledictions. I saw he was nut in a 
 to be disturbed, so I left him to himself. In a 
 llle while the exhaustion of his feelings, and pro- 
 ibly the fatigues he had undergone in this expedi- 
 I, began to produce drowsiness. He struggled 
 ilh it for a time, but the warmth and stillness of 
 l^lay made it irresistible, and he at length stretch- 
 hunself upon the herbage and fell asleep. 
 I now beheld a chance of escape within my reach. 
 ly guard lay before me at my mercy. His vigorous 
 lbs relaxed by sleep— his bosom open for the blow 
 carbine slipped from his nerveless grasp, and 
 [ing by his side— his stiletto half out of the pocket 
 which it was usually carried. Two only of his 
 irades were in sight, and those at a considerable 
 ice on the edge of the mountain, their backs 
 led to us, and their attention occupied in keeping 
 look-out upon the plain. Through a strip of in- 
 ening forest, and at the foot of a sleep descent, I 
 leld the village of Rocca Priori. To have secured 
 carbine of the sleeping brigand; to have seized 
 his poniard, and have plunged it in his heart, 
 ould have been the work of an instant. Should he 
 without noise, I might dart through the forest, 
 down to Rocca Priori before my flight might be 
 vered. In case of alarm, I should still have a 
 start of the robbers, and a chance of getting 
 ivond the reach of their shot. 
 Here then was an opportunity fur both escape and 
 lance ; perilous indeed, but powerfully tempting, 
 my situation been more critical I could not have 
 iled it. I reflected, however, for a moment, 
 alteuipt, if successful, would be followed by the 
 iliceof my two fellow-prisoners, who were sleep- 
 profoundly, and could not be awakened in time 
 escape. The labourer who had gone after the 
 im might also fall a victim to the rage of the rob- 
 , without the money which he brought being 
 led. Besides, the conduct of the chief towards me 
 le me feel confident of speedy deliverance. These 
 lions overcame the first powerful impulse, and I 
 the turbulent agitation which it had awakened, 
 again took out my materials for drawing, and 
 myself with sketching the magnificent pro- 
 It was now about noon, and every thing had 
 into repose, like the bandit that lay sleeping he- 
 me. The noontide stillness that reigned over 
 mountains, the vast landscape below, gleaming 
 distant towns, and dotted with various habita- 
 andsigns of life, yet all sosilenl, had a powerful 
 upon my mind. The intermediate valleys, too, 
 
 which lie among the mountains, have a peculiar air 
 of solitude. Few sounds are heard at mid-day to 
 break the quiet of the scene. Sometimes the whistle 
 of a solitary muleteer, lagging with Iiis lazy animal 
 along the road, which winds through the centre of the 
 valley; sometimes the faint piping of a shepherd's 
 reed from the side of the mountain, or sometimes the 
 bell of an ass slowly pacing along, followed by a 
 monk with bare feet, and bare, shining head, and 
 carrying provisions to his convent. i > 
 
 I had continued to sketch for some time among my 
 sleeping companions, when at length I saw tlie captain 
 of the band approaching, followed by a peasant lead- 
 ing a mule, on which was a well-filled sack. I at 
 first apprehended that this was some new prey fallen 
 into the hands of the robbers ; but the contented look 
 of the peasant soon relieved me, and I was rejoiced to 
 hear that it was our promised repast. The brigands 
 now came running from the three sides of the moun- 
 tain, having the quick scent of vultures. Every one 
 busied himself in unloading the mule, and relieving 
 the sack of its contents. 
 
 The first thing that made its appearance was an 
 enormous ham, of a colour and plumpness that would 
 have inspired tlie pencil of Teniers ; it was followed 
 by a large cheese, a bag of boiled chesnuts, a little 
 barrel of wine, and a quantity of good household bread . 
 Every thing was arranged on the grass with a degree 
 of symmetry; and the captain, presenting me his 
 knife, requested me to help myself. We all seated 
 ourselves round the viands, and nothing was heard 
 fur a time but the sound of vigorous mastication, or 
 the gurgling of the barrel of wine as it revolved brisk- 
 ly about the circle. My long fasting, and the moun- 
 tain air and exercise, had given me a keen appetite ; 
 and never did repast appear to me more excellent or 
 picturesque. 
 
 From time to time one of the band was dispatched 
 to keep a look-out upon the plain. No enemy was at 
 hand, and the dinner was undisturbed. The peasant 
 received nearly three times the value of his provisions, 
 and set off down the mountain highly satisfied with 
 his bargain. I felt uivigorated by the hearty meal I 
 had made, and notwithstanding the wound I had re- 
 ceived the evening before was painful, yet I could 
 not but feel extremely interested and gratified by the 
 singular scenes continually presented to me. Every 
 thing was picturesque about these wild beings and 
 their haunts. Their bivouacs ; their groups on guard ; 
 their indolent noontide repose on Ihe mountain-brow; 
 their rude repast on the herbage among rocks and 
 trees; every thing presented a study for a painter: 
 but it was towards the approach of evening that I felt 
 the highest enthusiasm awakened. 
 
 The setting sun, declining beyond the vast Cam- 
 pagna, shed its rich yellow beams on Ihe woody 
 sununit of the Abruzzi. Several mountains crowned 
 with snow shone brilliantly in the distance, contrast- 
 ing their brightness with others, which, thrown into 
 shade, assumed deep tints of purple and violet. As 
 
 72 
 
 \H 
 
 'i-. *'li 
 
 ■,5* 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 the evening advanced, the landscape darkened into a 
 sterner character. The immense solitude aronnd ; 
 the wild mountains broken into rocks and precipices, 
 intermingled with vast oaks, corks, and chesnul^; 
 and the groups of banditti in the fore-ground, re- 
 minded me of the savage scenes of Salvator Rosa. 
 
 To beguile the time, the captain proposed to his 
 comrades to spread before me their jewels and cameos, 
 as I must doubtless be a judge of such articles, and 
 able to form an estimate of their value. He set the 
 example, the others followed it ; and in a few mo- 
 ments I saw the grass before me sparkling with jewels 
 and gems that would have delighted the eyes of an 
 antiquary or a fine lady. 
 
 Among them were several precious jewels, and 
 antique intaglios and cameos of great value; the spoils, 
 doubtless, of travellers of distinction. I found that 
 they were in the habit of selling their booty in the 
 frontier towns ; but as these in general were thinly 
 and poorly peopled, and little frequented by travellers, 
 they could offer no market for such valuable articles 
 of taste and luxury. I suggested to them the certainty 
 of their readily obtaining great prices for these gems 
 among the rich strangers with whom Rome was 
 thronged. 
 
 The impression made upon their greedy minds was 
 immediately apparent. One of the band, a young 
 man, and the least known, requested permission of 
 the captain to depart the following day, in disguise, 
 for Rome, for the purpose of traffic ; promising, on 
 the faith of a bandit (a sacred pledge among them), 
 to return in two days to any place he might appoint. 
 The captain consented, and a curious scene took place : 
 the robbers crowded round him eagerly, confiding to 
 him such of their jewels as they wished to dispose of, 
 and giving him instructions what to demand. There 
 was much bargaining and exchanging and selling of 
 trinkets among them ; and I beheld my watch, which 
 had a chain and valuable seals, purchased by the 
 young robber-merchant of the ruffian who had plun- 
 dered me, for sixty dollars. I now conceived a faint 
 hope, that if it went to Rome, I might somehow or 
 other regain possession of it. ' 
 
 In the mean time day declined, and no messenger 
 returned from Tusculum. The idea of passing an- 
 other night in the woods was extremely dishearten- 
 ing, for I began to be satisfied with what I had seen of 
 robber-life. The chieftain now ordered his men to 
 follow him, that he might station them at their posts ; 
 adding, that if the messenger did not return before 
 night, they must shift their quarters to some other 
 place. 
 
 I was again left alone with the young bandit who 
 had before guarded me : he had the same gloomy air 
 and haggard eye, with now and then a bitter sardonic 
 
 • The hopes of the artist were not disappointed— the robber was 
 stopped at one of the gatas of Home. Something in his loolcs or 
 deportment bad excited suspicion. lie was searched, and the 
 valuable trinkets found on him sufficienUy evinced his character. 
 On applying to the police, the artist's watch was returned to him. 
 
 smile. I was determined to probe this ulcerated heari.l 
 and reminded him of a kind of promise he had giveif 
 me to tell me the cause of his suffering. It seen 
 to me as if these troubled spirits were glad of any ( 
 portunity to disburthen themselves, and of liaviiij 
 some fresh, undiseased mind, with which they couU 
 communicate. I had hardly made the request, whei 
 he seated himself by my side, and gave me his stun 
 in, as nearly as I can recollect, the following words] 
 
 STORY OF THE YOUNG RORBER. 
 
 I WAS born in the Utile town of Frosinone, wliic 
 lies at the skirts of the Abruzzi. My father had i 
 a little property in trade, and gave me some educ 
 tion, as he intended me for the church ; bat II 
 kept gay company too much to relish the cowl, so| 
 grew up a loiterer about the place. I was a heedlej 
 fellow, a little quarrelsome on occasion, but gm 
 humoured in the main ; so I made my way vei7 vi 
 for a time, until I fell in love. There lived in t 
 town a surveyor or landbailiff of the prince, who t 
 a young daughter, a beautiful girl of sixteen :$||| 
 was looked upon as something belter than the comit 
 run of our townsfolk, and was kept almost entirely j 
 home. I saw her occasionally, and became mai 
 love with her— she looked so fresh and tender, and] 
 different from the sun-burnt females to whom 1 1 
 been accustomed. 
 
 As my father kept me in money, I always dn 
 well, and took all opportunities of showing myself^ 
 to advantage in the eyes of the little beauty. I g 
 to see her at church; and as I could play a lillle up 
 the guitar, I gave a tune sometimes under her windi 
 of an evening ; and I tried to have interviews i 
 her in her father's vineyard, not far from the tot 
 where she sometimes walked. She was evida 
 pleased with me, but she was young and shy ; ; 
 iter father kept a strict eye upon her, and took : 
 at my attentions, for he bad a bad opinion of me, ij 
 looked for a better match for his daughter. 1 1 
 furious at the difficulties thrown in my way, hati 
 l)een accustomed always to ea»y success amon; j 
 women, being considered one of the smarlest ;« 
 fellows of the place. 
 
 Her father brought home a suitor for her, a i| 
 
 farmer, from a neighbouring town. The we 
 day was appointed, and preparations were nialii 
 I got sight of her at her window, and I tiioughtj 
 looked sadly at me. I determined the match sN 
 not take place, cost what it might. I met her inli 
 ed bridegroom in the market-place, and could oiil| 
 strain the expression of my rage. A few lioti 
 passed between us, when I drew my stilettoand^ 
 bed him to the heart. I fled to a neighbouring c 
 for refuge, and with a little money I obtained i 
 iution, but I did not dare to venture from inyasi 
 
 He 
 
 |tere( 
 Itm; 
 IsiJei 
 •ered 
 llier 
 lelyt 
 
TALES OF A TKAVELLER. 
 
 571 
 
 lo probe this ulcerated heari.l At that time our captain was forming his troop, 
 kind of promise he had givtnlHe bad known me from boyiiood ; and, hearing of my 
 
 of liis suffering. It seemedlsitualion, came to me in secret, and made sucli offers, 
 d spirits were glad of any oJlbat I agreed to enrol myself among his followers. 
 I themselves, and of havJlodeed, I had more than once thought of taking to 
 mind with which they couMtbis mode of life, having known several brave fellows 
 ■ of the mountains, who used to spend their money 
 
 lardly made the request, whi 
 ly side, and gave me his stui 
 ecollect, the following words, 
 
 IE YOUNG ROBBER. 
 
 little town of Frosinone, wlii 
 Abrufzi. My father had ma 
 ade, and gave me some educ 
 me for the church; bulT 
 ) much to relish the cowl, so| 
 .out the place. I was a lieedle 
 elsome on occasion, but 
 in J so I made my way very we 
 ell in love. There lived in i 
 sndbailiffoftheprince,whol 
 a beautiful girl of sixteen 
 omething belter than the comi 
 I, and was kept almost entirely | 
 c'casionally, and became madlyj 
 looked so fresh and tender, andj 
 jun-burnt females to whom II 
 
 ,t me in money, I always dre 
 )portunities of showing myselli 
 eyes of the little beauty. I us 
 I ; and as I could play a little n| 
 
 tune sometimes under her wini 
 I tried to have interviews 
 
 vineyard, not far from the lo' 
 
 nes walked. She was evidr 
 lUt she was young and sliy 
 
 ..let eye upon her, and took all 
 ,r he bad a bad opinion of me, 
 natch for his daughter. I" 
 ullies thrown in my way, h* 
 ilways to easy success among 
 idered one of the smartest yi" 
 
 Jght home a suitor for her, a 
 ighbouring town. The wed^ 
 
 ["and preparations were mall 
 
 t't her window, and Ilhought' 
 
 I determined the malcli sir 
 
 ^ what it might. Imei»«^,V''li 
 [he market-place, and could nfl] 
 
 Ion of my rage. A few Uol^ 
 1 whenldrewmystiletioand 
 Irt Ifledtoaneighbouriiigcl 
 lith a little money I obtained 
 V dare to venture from my as? 
 
 G^ely among us youngsters of the town. I accordingly 
 
 left my asylum late one night, repaired to theappoint- 
 
 jol place of meeting, took the oaths prescribed, and 
 
 became one of the troop. We were for some time in 
 
 ia distant part of the mountains, and our wild adven- 
 
 llarous kind of life hit my fancy wonderfully, and 
 
 diverted my thoughts. At length they returned with 
 
 II their violence to the recollection of Uoselta : the 
 
 Ulitnde in which I often found myself gave me time 
 
 |lo brood over her image; and, as I have kept watch 
 
 It night over our sleeping camp in the mountains, my 
 
 lings have been roused almost to a fever. 
 
 At length we shifted our groimd, and determined 
 
 make a descent upon the road between Terracina 
 
 Naples. In the course of our expedition we 
 
 d a day or two in the woocly mountains which 
 
 atiove Frosinone. I cannot tell you how I felt 
 
 hen I looked down upon the place, and distinguish- 
 
 llie residence of Rosetta. I determined to have 
 
 interview with her;— but to what purpose? I 
 
 ild'liot expect that she would quit her home, and 
 
 impany me in my hazardous life among the moun- 
 
 ns. She had been brought up too tenderly for that; 
 
 when I looked upon the women who were as- 
 
 iated with some of our troop, I could not have 
 
 le the thoughts of her being their companion. All 
 
 urn to my former life was likewise hopeless, for a 
 
 was set upon my head. Still I determined to 
 
 her ; the very hazard and fruitlessness of the thing 
 
 ide me furious to accomplish it. 
 
 About three weeks since, I persuaded our captain 
 
 drawdown to the vicinity of Frosinone, suggesting 
 
 chance of entrapping some of its principal inha- 
 
 lints, and compelling them to a ransom. We were 
 
 ing in ambush towards evening, not far from the 
 
 leyanl of Rosetta's father. I stole quietly from my 
 
 ipanions, and drew near to reconnoitre the place 
 
 her frequent walks. How my heart beat when 
 
 the vuies I beheld the gleaming of a white 
 
 I knew it must be Rosetta's ; it being rare 
 
 any female of the place to dress in white. I ad- 
 
 iced secretly and without noise, until, pulling 
 
 le the vines, I stood suddenly before her. She 
 
 lered a piercing shriek, but I seized her in my arms. 
 
 It my hand upon her mouth, and conjured her to 
 
 s'dent. I poured out all Ihe frenzy of my passion; 
 
 red to renounce my mode of life ; to put my fate 
 
 jher hands; lo tly with her where we might live in 
 
 ty together. All that I could say or do would 
 
 pacify her. Instead of love, horror and affright 
 
 to have taken possession of her breast. She 
 
 iggled partly fr m my grasp, and filled the air 
 
 !i her cries. 
 
 In an instant the captain and the rest of my com- 
 panions were around us. I would have given any 
 thing at that moment had she been safe out of our 
 hands, and in her father's house. It was too late. 
 The captain pronounced her a prize, and ordered that 
 she should be borne to the mountains. I represented 
 to him that she was my prize ; that I had a previous 
 claim to her; and I mentioned my former attach- 
 ment. He sneered bitterly in reply ; observed tliat 
 brigands had no business with village intrigues, and 
 that, according to the laws of the troop, all spoils of 
 the kind were determined by lot. Love and jealousy 
 were raging in my heart, but I had to chuse between 
 obedience and death. I surrendered her to the cap- 
 tain, and we made for the mountains. 
 
 She was overcome by affright, and her steps were 
 so feeble and faltering that it was necessary to sup- 
 port her. I could not endure the idea that my com- 
 rades should touch her, and assuming a forced tran- 
 quillity, begged that she might be conHded to me, as 
 one to whom she was more accustomed. The cap- 
 tain regarded me, for a moment, with a searching 
 look, but I bore it without flinching, and he con- 
 sented. I took her in my arms; she was almost 
 senseless. Her head rested on my shoulder ; I felt 
 her breath on my face, and it seemed lo fan the flame 
 which devoured me. Oh God ! to have this glowing 
 treasure in my arms, and yet to think it was not 
 mine! 
 
 We arrived at the foot of the mountain. I ascended 
 il with difflculty, particularly where the woods were 
 thick, but I would not relinquish my delicious bur- 
 then. I reflected with rage, however, that I must soon 
 do so. The thoughts that so delicate a creature must 
 be abandoned to my rude companions maddened me. 
 I felt tempted, the stiletto in my hand, to cut my way 
 through tiiem all, and bear her off in triumph. I 
 scarcely conceived the idea before I saw its rashness; 
 but my brain was fevered with the thought that any 
 but myself should enjoy her charms. I endeavoured 
 to outstrip my companions by the quickness of my 
 movements, and to get a little distance a-head, in 
 case any favourable opportunity of escape should pre- 
 sent. Vain effort! The voice of the captain sud- 
 denly ordered a halt. I trembled, but had to obey. 
 The poor girl partly opened a languid eye, but vas 
 without strength or motion. I laid her upon the 
 grass. The captain darted on me a terrible look of 
 suspicion, and ordered me to scour the woods with 
 my companions in search of some shepherd, who 
 might be sent to her father's to demand a ransom. 
 
 I saw at once the peril. To resist with violence 
 was certain death — but to leave her alone, in the 
 power of the captain !— I spoke out then with a fer- 
 vour, inspired by my passion and my despair. I re- 
 minded the captain that I was the first lo seize her ; 
 that she was my prize; and that my previous attach- 
 ment lo her ought to make her sacred among my com- 
 panions. I insisted, therefore, that he should pledge 
 A\f. his word to respect her, otherwise I should refuse 
 
 "I 
 
 
 *f 
 
37ii 
 
 TALES OK A TRAVELLEK. 
 
 m 
 
 ubedience to liis orders. His only reply was to cock 
 his carbine, and at the signal my comrades did the 
 same. They laughed with cruelty at my impotent 
 rage. What could I do ? I felt the madness of re- 
 sistance. I was menaced on all hands, and my com- 
 panions obliged me to follow them. She remained 
 alone with the chief— yes, alone — and almost life- 
 less! — 
 
 Here the robber paused in his recital, overpowered 
 by his emotions. Great drops of sweat stood on his 
 forehead; he panted rather than breathed; his brawny 
 bosom rose and fell like the waves of a troubled sea. 
 When he had become a little calm, he continued his 
 recital. 
 
 I was not long in finding a shepherd, said he. I 
 ran witli the rapidity of a deer, eager, if possible, to 
 get back before what I dreaded might take place. I 
 had left my companions far behind, and I rejoined 
 them before they had reached one half the distance 
 I had made. I hurried them back to the place where 
 we had left the captain. As we approached, I beheld 
 him seated by the side of Rosetla. H's triumphant 
 look, and the desolate condition of the unfortunate 
 girl, left me no doubt of her fate. I know not how 
 I restrained my fury. 
 
 It was with extreme difficulty, and by guiding her 
 band, that she was made to trace a few characters, 
 requesting her father to send three hundred dollars 
 as her ransom. The letter was dispatched by the 
 shepherd. When he was gone, the chief turned 
 sternly to me. " You have set an example," said 
 he, "of mutiny and self-will, which, if indulged, 
 would be ruinous to the troop. Had I treated you 
 as our laws require, this bullet would have been 
 driven through your brain. But you are »i\ oid 
 friend; I have borne patiently with your fury and 
 your folly. I have even protected you firom a foolish 
 passion that would have unmanned you. As to this 
 girl, the laws of our association must have their 
 course." So saying, he gave his commands: lots 
 were drawn, and the helpless girl was abandoned to 
 the troop. 
 
 Here the robber paused again, panting with fhry, 
 and it was some moments before he could resume his 
 story. 
 
 Hell, said he, was raging in my heail. I beheld 
 the impossibility of avenging myself; and I felt that, 
 according to the articles in which we stood bound to 
 one another, the captain was in the right. I rushed 
 with frenzy from the place; I threw myself upon the 
 earth; tore up the grass with my hands; and beat 
 my head and gnashed my teeth in agony and rage. 
 When at length I returned, I beheld the wretched 
 victim, pale, dishevelled, her dress torn and disor- 
 dered. An emotion of pity, for a moment, subdued 
 my fiercer feelings. I bore her to the foot of a tree, 
 and leaned her gently against it. I took my gourd, 
 which was filled with wine, and applying it to her 
 lips, endeavoured to make her swallow a little. To 
 what a condition was she reduced ! she, whom I had 
 
 once seen the pride of Frosinone ; who but a sbortj 
 time before I had beheld sporting in her fatber'ij 
 vineyard, so fresh, and beautiful, and happy! Her 
 teeth were clenched ; her eyes fixed on the ground; 
 her form without motion, and in a state of absolai 
 insensibility. I hung over her in an agony of n 
 lection at all that she had been, and of anguish ai 
 what I now beheld her. I darted round a look 
 horror at my companions, who seemed like so man< 
 fiends exnlting in the downfal of an angel ; and I fe| 
 a horror at myself for being their accomplice. 
 
 The captain, always suspicious, saw, with 
 usual penetration, what was passing within me, ai 
 ordered me to go upon the ridge of the woods, 
 keep a look-out over the neigld)ourhood, and avail 
 the return of the shepherd. I obeyed, of course] 
 stilling the fury that raged within me, though I fell 
 for the moment, that he was my most deadly foe. 
 
 On my way, however, a ray of reflection 
 across my mind. I perceived that the captain w, 
 but following, with strictness, the terrible lavs 
 which we had sworn fidelity. That the passion b] 
 which I had been blinded might, with justice, ha' 
 been fatal to me, but for his forbearance; that he 
 penetrated m'^ soul, and had taken precautions, 
 sending n-, out of the way, to prevent my comniil] 
 ting any ex:ess in my anger. From that imiant 
 felt that I \>S9 capable of pardoning him. 
 
 Occupied with these thoughts, I arrived at the To 
 of the mountain. The country was solitary and 
 cure, and in a short time I beheld the shepiierd at 
 distance crossing the plain. I hastened to meet hi 
 He had obtained nothing. He had found the k\ 
 plunged in the deepest distress. He had read II 
 letter with violent emotion, and >hen, calming 
 self with a sudden exertion, he had replied coldly 
 " My daughter Itas been dishonoured by 
 wretches ; let her be returned without ransom,' 
 let her die ! " 
 
 I shuddered at this reply. I knew that, accordii 
 to the laws of our troop, her death was inevil 
 Our oaths required it. I felt, nevertheless, that 
 having been able to have her to myself, I could 
 come her executioner ! 
 
 The robber again paused with agitation. I 
 musing upon his Lst frightful words which proTi 
 to what excess the passions may be carried, 
 escaped from all moral restraint. There was a h( 
 rible verity in this story that reminded me of some 
 the tragic fictions of Dante. 
 
 We now come to a fatal moment, resumed 
 bandit. After the report of the shepherd, I reti 
 ed with him, and the chieftaui received from his 
 the refusal of the father. At a signal which we 
 understood, we followed him to some distance 
 the victim. He there pronounced her sentence 
 death. Every one stood ready to execute iiis oi 
 but I interfered. I observed that there was 
 thing due to pity as well as to justice. That I will 
 ready as any one to approve the implacable Iflater 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 573 
 
 Frosinone; who but a short 
 held sporting in her father*! 
 1 beautiful, and happy! Her 
 lereyes fixed on the ground; 
 ion, and in a state of absolol< 
 over her in an agony of rec 
 had been, and of anguish «| 
 er. I darted round a look 
 ons, who seemed like so tnani 
 downfal of an angel ; and I fell 
 being their accomplice. 
 ys suspicious, saw, with 
 at was passing within me, 
 )on the ridge of the woods, 
 the neighbourhood, and awi 
 lepherd. I obeyed, of course] 
 raged within me, though I fell 
 he was my most deadly foe, 
 ever, a ray of reflection c 
 perceived that the captain v, 
 strictness, the terrible laws 
 n fidelity. That the passion 
 inded might, with justice, ha\ 
 for his forbearance; that hel 
 , and had taken precautions, 
 le way, to prevent my commilj 
 ly anger. From that iiulant 
 le of pardoning him. 
 se thoughts, I arrived at thefo 
 :he country was solitary and s 
 time I beheld the shepherd at 
 > plain. I hastened to meet hii 
 hing. He had found the fill 
 )est distress. He had read 
 motion, and ihen, calming 
 exertion, he had replied coidlyj 
 IS been dishonoured by tf 
 e returned without ransom, 
 
 is reply. I knew that, accorij 
 
 troop, her death was inevilj 
 
 it. I felt, nevertheless, than 
 
 have her to myself, I could 1 
 
 er! 
 
 n paused with agitation. li 
 St frightful words which proj 
 passions may be carried,*" 
 ral restraint. There was a 1 
 lory that reminded me of soniej 
 
 f Dante. 
 
 to a fatal moment, resumed I 
 report of the shepherd, I retui 
 je chieftain received frorabisl^ 
 jther. Ata signal which wej 
 owed him to some distance iril 
 ere pronounced her senteBttI 
 stood ready to execute his on)* 
 I observed that there was sn 
 well as to justice. Thatlj»| 
 to approve the imp' 
 
 which was to serve as a warning to all those who 
 hesitated to pay the ransoms demanded for our pri- 
 jooers; but that though the sacrifice was proper, it 
 ooght to be made without cruelty. " The night is ap- 
 proaching," continued I; "she will soon be wrapped 
 iosleep; let her then bedispatched. All I now claim 
 on the score of former fondness for her is, let me 
 strike the blow. I will do it as surely, but more ten- 
 Iderly than another. " Several raised their voices 
 ligainst my proposition, but the captain imposed si- 
 llence on them. He told me I might conduct her 
 Ijnto a thicket at some distance, and he relied upon 
 Idj promise. 
 
 I hastened to seize upon my prey. There was a 
 Ibrlorn kind of triumph at having at length become 
 Ibtr exclusive possessor. I bore her off into the 
 Ithickness of the forest. She remained in the same 
 litate of insensibility or stupor. I was thankful that 
 Ifhe did not recollect me, for had she once murmured 
 liny name, I should have been overcome. She slept 
 jitlen^'th in the arms of him who was to poniard her. 
 
 lany were the conflicts I underwent before I could 
 
 ring myself to strike the blow. But my heart had 
 
 le sore by the recent conflicts it had undergone, 
 
 1 1 dreaded lest, by procrastination, some other 
 
 raid become her executioner. When her repose 
 continued for some time, I separated myself 
 
 tntly from her, that I might not disturb her sleep, 
 1 seizing suddenly my poniard, plunged it into her 
 m. A painful and concentrated murmur, but 
 
 ritbout any convulsive movement, accompanied her 
 
 St sigh.— So perished this unfortunate ! 
 
 He ceased to speak. I sat, horror-stnick, cover- 
 ing my face with my hands, seeking, as it were, to 
 de from myself the frightful images he had present- 
 ito my mind. I was roused from this silence by 
 le voice of the captain : " You sleep," said he, " and 
 |t is lime to be off. Come, we must abandon this 
 ght, as night is setting in, and the messenger is 
 lotreturned. I will post some one on the mountain- 
 Ige to conduct him to the place where we shall pass 
 le night." 
 
 I This was no agreeable news to me. I was sick at 
 
 art with the dismal story I had heard. I was ha- 
 
 I and fatigued, and the sight of the banditti be- 
 
 1 to grow insupportable to me. 
 
 I The captain assembled his comrades. We rapidly 
 
 tended the forest, which we had mounted with so 
 
 nch difficulty in the morning, and soon arrived in 
 
 [hat appeared to be a frequented road. The robbers 
 
 needed with great caution, carrying their guns 
 
 ked, and looking on every side with wary and 
 
 upicious eyes. They were apprehensive of encoun- 
 
 ^ing the civic patrole. We left Rocca Priori behind 
 
 There was a fountain near by, and as I was ex- 
 
 isively thirsty, I begged permission to stop and 
 
 link. The captain himself went and brought me 
 
 pter in his hat. We pursued our route, when, at 
 
 the extremity of an alley which crossed Uie road, I 
 perceived a female on horseback, dressed in white. 
 She was alone. I recollected the fate of the poor 
 girl in the story, and trembled for her safety. 
 
 One of the brigands saw her at the same instant, 
 and plunging into the bushes, he ran precipitately in 
 the direction towards her. Stopping on the border 
 of the alley, he put one knee to the ground, presented 
 his carbine ready to menace her, or to shoot her horse 
 if she attempted to fly, and in this way awaited her 
 approach. I kept my eyes fixed on ly;r with intense 
 anxiety. I felt tempted to shout and warn her of her 
 danger, though my own destruction would have been 
 the consequence. It was awful to see this tiger 
 crouching ready for a bound, and the poor innocent 
 victim wandering unconsciously near him. Nothing 
 but a mere chance could save her. To my joy the 
 chance turned in her favour. She seemed almost ac- 
 cidentally to take an opposite path, which led outside 
 of the wood, where the robber dared not venture. 
 To this casual deviation she owed her safety. 
 
 I could not imagine why the captain of the band 
 had ventured to such a distance from the height on 
 which he had placed the sentinel to watch the return 
 of the messenger. He seemed himself anxious at the 
 risk to which he exposed himself. His movements 
 were rapid and uneasy ; I could scarce keep pace with 
 him. At length, after three hours of what might be 
 termed a forced march, we mounted the extremity of 
 the same woods, the summit of which we had occu- 
 pied during the day; and I learnt with satisfaction 
 that we had reached our quarters for the night. 
 " You must be fatigued, " said the chieftain; but it 
 was necessary to survey the environs, so as not to be 
 surprised during the night. Had we met with the 
 famous civic guard of Rocca Priori, you would have 
 seen fine sport. " Such was the indefatigable precau- 
 tion and forethought of this robber chief, who really 
 gave continual evidence of military talent. 
 
 The night was magnificent. The moon, rising 
 above the horizon in a cloudless sky, faintly lit up the 
 grand features of the mountain ; while lights twink- 
 ling here and there, like terrestrial stars, in the wide 
 dusky expanse of the landscape, betrayed the lonely 
 cabins of the shepherds. Exhausted by fatigue, and 
 by the many agitations I had experienced, I prepared 
 to sleep, soothed by the hope of approaching deli- 
 verance. The captain ordered his companions to col- 
 lect some dry moss ; he arranged with his own hands 
 a kind of mattress and pillow of it, and gave me his 
 ample mantle as a covering. I could not but feel both 
 surprised and gratified by such unexpected attentions 
 on the part of this benevolent cut-throat ; for there is 
 nothing more striking than to find the ordinary cha- 
 rities, which are matters of course in common life, 
 flourishing by the side of such stern and sterile crime. 
 It is like finding the tender flowers and fresh herbage 
 of the valley growing among the rocks and cinders of 
 the volcano. 
 
 Before I fell asleep I had some further discourse 
 
 ' iC. 
 
 J fi;;- 
 
 
37i 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLEH. 
 
 with the captain, who Memed to feel great confldenoe 
 in me. He referred to our previous conversation of 
 the morning ; told me he was weary of liis liazardous 
 profession ; tliat he liad acquired suflicienl property, 
 and was anxious to return to tite world, and lead a 
 peaceful life in the bosom of his family. He wished to 
 know whether it was not in my power to procure for 
 him a iiassport to the United Stales of America. I 
 applauded liis good intentions, and promised to do 
 every thing in my power to promote its success. We 
 then parted for the night. I stretched myself upon 
 my couch of moss, which, after my fatigues, felt like 
 a bed of down; and, sheltered by the roblier-mantle 
 from all humidity, I slept soundly, without waking, 
 until the signal to arise. 
 
 It was nearly ^ix o'clock, and the day was just dawn- 
 ing. As the place where we had passed the night 
 was too much exposed, we moved up into the thick- 
 ness of the woods. A (ire was kindled. While there 
 was any flame, the mnntles were again extended 
 round it ; but when nothing remained but glowing 
 cinders, they were lowered, and the robbers seated 
 themselves in a circle. 
 
 The scene before me reminded me of some of those 
 described by Homer. There wanted only the victim 
 on the coals, and the sacred knife to cut off the 
 succulent parts, and distribute them around. My 
 companions might have rivalled the grim warriors 
 of Greece. In place of the noble repasts, however, 
 of Achilles and Agamenmon, I beheld displayed on 
 the grass the remains of the ham which had sustain- 
 ed so vigorous an attack on the preceding evening, 
 accompanied by the relics of the bread, cheese, and 
 wine. We had scarcely commenced our frugal break- 
 fast, when I heard again an imitation of the bleating 
 of sheep, similar to what I had heard the day before. 
 The captain answered it in the same tone. Two 
 men were soon after seen descending fmm the wooily 
 height, where we had passed the preceding evening. 
 On nearer approach, they proved to be the sentinel 
 and the messenger. The captain rose, and went to 
 meet them. He made a signal for his comrades to 
 join him. They had a short conference, and then 
 returning to me with eagerness, " Your ransom is 
 paid, " said he ; " you are free ! " 
 
 Though I had anticipated deliverance, I cannot tell 
 you what a rush of delight these tidings gave me. I 
 cared not to finish my repast, but prepared to depart. 
 The captain took me by the hand, requested per- 
 mission to write to me, and begged me not to forget 
 the passport. I replied, that I hoped to be of effect- 
 ual service to him, and that I relied on his honour to 
 return the prince's note for five hundred dollars, now 
 that the cash was paid. He regarded me for a mo- 
 ment with surprise, then seeming to recollect himself, 
 E (jiusio, " said he, " eccolo—'addio ! " ' He deliver- 
 ed me the note, pressed my hand once more, and we 
 separated. The labourers were permitted to follow 
 
 ■-•' f • 11 is just— there it is— adieu ! 
 
 me, and ye resumed with joy our road toward Tiu- 
 culuni. 
 
 The Frenchman ceased to speak. The party cor 
 tinned, for a few moments, to pace the shore in li-i 
 lence. The story had made a deep impression, parJ 
 ticularly on the Venetian lady. At that part whicU 
 related to the young girl of Frosinone, she was violeiuj 
 ly affectetl. Sobs broke from her ; she clung closers 
 her husband, and as she looked up to him as fur pr» 
 tection, the moonbeams shining on her bcautirull]j 
 fair countenance, showed it paler tlian usual, wiiili 
 tears glittered in her fine dark eyes. 
 
 " Coraggio, mia vita ?" said he, as he gently an 
 fondly tapped the white hand that lay upon his arm. 
 
 The party now returned to the inn, and separah 
 for the night. The fair Venetian, though of 
 sweetest temperament, was half out of humour witt 
 the Englishman, for a certain slowness of failli whid 
 he had evinced throughout the whole evening, sin 
 could not understand this dislike to " humbug," 
 he termed it, which held a kind of sway over iijoi 
 and seemed to control his opinions and his vcrj 
 actions. 
 
 " I'll warrant," said she to her husband, as I 
 retired for the night, " I'll warrant, with all his a^ 
 fected indifference, this Englishman's heart woi 
 quake at the very sight of a bandit." 
 
 Her husband gently , and good-humouredly, checked 
 her. 
 
 " I have no patience with these Englishmen," saij 
 she, as she got into bed — " they are so cold andinf 
 sensible ! " 
 
 THE 
 
 ADVENTURE OF THE ENGLISHMAN. 
 
 In the morning all was bustle in the inn atTerracin 
 The procaccio had departed at day-break on its roalj 
 towards Rome, but the Englishman was yet to slai 
 and the departure of an English equipage is aiwajj 
 enough to keep an inn in a bustle. On this occasiof 
 there was more than usual stir, for the Englislimaij 
 having much property about him, and having I 
 convinced of the real danger of the road, had nppiiei 
 to the police, and obtained, by dint of liberal pay.i 
 escort of eight dragoons and tw^elve feot-sokliers,) 
 far as Fondi. Perhaps, too, there might have I 
 a little ostentation at bottom, though, to say the trullj 
 he had nothing of it in his manner. He moved ab 
 taciturn and reserved as usual, among the gapi 
 crowd ; gave laconic orders to John, as he pact^ 
 away the thousand and one indispensable convei 
 ences of the night; double-loaded' his pistols 
 great sang froid, and deposited them in the poch 
 of the carriage, taking no notice of a pair of keen e 
 gazing on him from among the herd of loitei 
 idlers. 
 
TALI':S OK A TRAVELLER. 
 
 K75 
 
 illi joy our road toward Tih-| 
 
 ed 10 speak. The party cor 
 inU, to pace the shore in li^ 
 made a <leep impression, parJ 
 an lady. At that part whick 
 I of Frosinone, she was vi( 
 e from lier ; she clung closer i 
 e looked up to him as for pro 
 ns shining on her bcaulifullj 
 tved it paler than usual, wliail 
 ne dark eyes. 
 
 la!" said he, as he gently ai 
 e hand that lay upon his a 
 rned to the inn, and separal 
 fair Venetian, though of 
 I, was half out of humour \ 
 certain slowness of faith wliic 
 jhout the whole evening. Sk 
 ihis dislike to " humhug," 
 held a kind of sway over liii 
 rul his opinions and his V( 
 
 id she to her husband, as tlwl 
 " I'll warrant, with all his ; 
 this Englishman's heart wo 
 ht of a bandit." 
 ,and good-humouredly,check« 
 
 :e with these Englishmen," saij 
 bed—" they are so cold and id 
 
 THE 
 
 3F THE ENGLlSllMAJi. 
 
 m bustle in the inn atTerracii 
 parted at day-break on its 
 le Englishman was yet to slai 
 
 an English equipage is alwa] 
 m in a bustle. On this occask 
 usual stir, for the Englishmi 
 ty about him, and having be 
 
 langer of the road, had appli 
 ained, by dint of liberal pay, 
 ons and twelve feot-soldiers, 
 
 )8, too, there might have ' 
 bottom, though, to say the I 
 in his manner. He moved a 
 as usual, among the g 
 
 orders to John, as he pact 
 
 md one indispensable com 
 
 double-loaded his pistols ■ 
 d deposited them in the pocki 
 
 g no notice of a pair of keen e] 
 among the herd of loitf^ 
 
 The fair Venetian now came up with a request, 
 
 Igiade in her dulcet tones, that he would permit their 
 
 Icarriage to proceed under protection uf his escort. 
 
 ^The Englishman, who was busy loading another pair 
 
 ' pistols for Ills servant, and held the ramroc' he- 
 
 |l«een his teeth, noddetl assent, as a matter of course, 
 
 Ihil without lifting up his eyes. The fair Venetian 
 
 hu a little piqued at what she supposed indifference : 
 
 L<'0 Diu!" ejaculated she softly as she retired, 
 
 I'Quanlo sono insensibili quest! Inglesi !" 
 
 At length, off they set in gallant style. The eight 
 
 jragoons prancing in front, the twelve foot-soldiers 
 
 Igarcliing in rear, and the carriage moving slowly in 
 
 (Centre, to enable the infantry to keep pace with 
 
 litem. They had proceeded but a few hundred 
 
 8, when it was discovered that sonic indispensa- 
 
 I article had been left behind. In fact, the Eng- 
 
 nan's purse was missing, and John was dispatched 
 
 tllie inn to search for it. This occasioned a little 
 
 ay, and the carriage of the Venetians drove slowly 
 
 John came back out of breath and out of hu- 
 
 iDur. The purse was not to he found. His master 
 
 i irritated ; he recollected the very place where it 
 
 by; he had not a doubt that the Italian servant had 
 
 icketed it. John was again sent back. He re- 
 
 ned once more without the purse, but <vi(l> the 
 
 liord and the whole household at his heels. A 
 
 lousand ejaculations and protestations, accompanied 
 
 fall sorts of grimaces and contortions — " No purse 
 
 I been seen — his Eccellenza must be mistaken." 
 
 'No— his Eccellenza was not mistaken— the purse 
 
 r on the marble table, under the mirror, a green 
 
 nree, half full of gold and silver." Again a thou- 
 
 grimaces and contortions, and vows by San 
 
 nnaro, that no purse of the kind had been seen. 
 
 Englishman became furious. "The waiter 
 
 1 pocketed it — the landlord was a knave — the inn 
 
 I of thieves— it was a vile country— he had been 
 
 lealed and plundered from one end of it to the 
 
 ler— but he'd have satisfaction— he'd drive right 
 
 I the police." 
 
 I He was on the point of ordering the postillions to 
 
 I back, when, on rising, he displaced the cushion 
 
 icarriage, and the purse of money fell chinking 
 
 gtlie floor. 
 
 I the blood in his body seemed to rush into his 
 
 -" Curse the purse," said he, as he snatched it 
 
 He dashed a liandful of money on the ground 
 
 the pale cringing waiter-" There— be off !" 
 
 1 lie, " John, order the postillions to drive on." 
 
 I Above half an hour had been exhausted in this al- 
 
 ation. The Venetian carriage had loitered along; 
 
 < passengers looking out from time to time, and 
 
 [jpecling the escort every moment to follow. They 
 
 1 gradually turned an angle of the road that shut 
 
 lein out of sight. The little army was again in 
 
 ntion, and made a very picturesque appearance as 
 
 I vound along at the bottom of the rocks ; the morn- 
 
 ; sunshine beaming upon the weapons of the 
 
 Wdiery. 
 
 The Englishman lolled back in bis carriage, vexed 
 with himself at what had passed, and consequently 
 out uf humour with all the world. As tins, liuw- 
 ever, is no uncommon case with gentlemen who tra- 
 vel fur their pleasure, it is hardly worthy of remark. 
 They liad wound up from the coast among the hills, 
 and came to a part of the road that admitted oi loine 
 prospect a-head. 
 
 " I see nothing of the lady's carriage, sir," utid 
 John, leaning down from the coach-box. 
 
 "PLsh!" said the Englishman, testily— " don't 
 plague me about the lady's carriage ; must I be con- 
 tinually pestered with the concerns o' strangers? " 
 John said not another word, for he understood his 
 master's moud. 
 
 The road grew more wild and lonely; they were 
 slowly proceeding on a foot-pace up a hill; the 
 dragoons were some distance a-head, and had just 
 reached the summit of the hill, when they uttered 
 an exclamation, or rather shout, and galloped for- 
 ward. The Englishman was roused from his sulky 
 reverie. He stretched his head from the carriage, 
 ^vhich had attaineil the brow of the hill. Before him 
 extended a long hollow defde, commanded on one 
 side by rugged precipitous heights, covered with 
 bushes and scanty forest. At some distance he be- 
 held the carriage of the Venetians overturned. A 
 numerous gang of desperadoes were rilling it; the 
 young man and his servant were overpowered, and 
 partly stripped; and the lady was in the hands of 
 two of the ruftians. The Englishman seized his pis- 
 tols, sprang from the carriage, and called upon John 
 to follow him. 
 
 In the mean time, as the dragoons came forward, 
 the robbers, who were busy with the carriage, quit- 
 ted their spoil, formed themselves in the middle of the 
 road, and taking a deliberate aim, fired. One of 
 the dragoons fell, another was wounded, and the 
 whole were for a moment checked and thrown into 
 confusion. The robbers loaded again in an instant. 
 The dragoons discharged their carbines, but without 
 apparent effect. They received another volley, which 
 though none fell, threw them again into confusion. 
 The robbers were loading a second time, when they 
 saw the foot soldiers at hand. '^Scampa via!" was 
 the word : they al)andoned their prey, and retreated 
 up the rocks, the soldiers after them. They fought 
 from cliff to cliff, and bush to bush, the robbers turn- 
 ing every now and then to fire upon their pursuers; 
 the soldiers scrambling after them, and discharging 
 their muskets whenever they could get a chance. 
 Sometimes a soldier or a robber was shot down, and 
 came tumbling among the cliffs. The dragoons kept 
 firing from below, whenever a robber came in sight. 
 
 The Englishman had hastened to the scene of ac- 
 tion, and the balls discharged at the dragoons had 
 whistled past him as he advanced. One object, how- 
 ever, engrossed his attention. It was the beautiful 
 Venetian lady in the hands of two of the robbers, 
 who, during the confusion of the fight, carried her 
 
 ■tJh 
 
 ■y-f 
 It 
 
 'i 1 
 
576 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 shrieking up the mountain . He saw her dress gleam- 
 ing among the bushes, and he sprang up the rocks to 
 intercept the robbers, as they bore off their prey. 
 The ruggedness of the steep, and the entanglements 
 of the bushes, delayed and impeded him. He lost 
 sight of the lady, but was still guided by her cries, 
 which grew fainter and fainter. They were off to 
 the left, while the reports of muskets showed that the 
 battle was raging to the right. At length he came 
 upon what appeared to be a rugged footpath, faintly 
 worn in a gully of the rocks, and beheld the ruHians 
 at some distance hurrying the lady up the defile. 
 One of them hearing his approach, let go his prey, 
 advanced towards him, and levelling the carbine 
 which had been slung on his back, fired. The ball 
 whizzed through the Englishman's hat, and carried 
 with it some of his hair. He returned the fire with 
 one of his pistols, and tite ro*^her fell. The other bri- 
 gand now dropped the lady, and drawing a long pistol 
 from his belt, fired on his adversary with deliberate 
 aim. The ball passed between his left arm and his 
 side, slightly wounding the arm. The Englishman 
 advanced, and discharged his remaining pistol, which 
 wounded the robber, but not severely. 
 
 The brigand drew a stiletto and rushed upon his 
 adversary, who eluded the blow, receiving merely a 
 slight wound, and defended himself with his pistol, 
 which had a spring-bayonet. They closed with one 
 another, and a desperate struggle ensued. The robber 
 was a square-built, thick-set man, powerful, muscular, 
 and active. The Englishman, though of larger frame 
 and greater strength, was less active and less accus- 
 tomed to athletic exercises and feats of hardihood, but 
 he showed himself practised and skilled in the art of 
 defence. They were on a craggy height, and the 
 Englishman perceived that his antagonist was striving 
 to press him to the edge. A side-glance showed him 
 also the robber whom he had first wounded, scramb- 
 ling up to the assistance of his comrade, stiletto in 
 hand. He had in fact attained the summit of the cliff, 
 he was within a few steps, and the Englishman felt 
 that his case was desperate, when he heard suddenly 
 the report of a pistol, and the ruffian fell. The shot 
 came from John, who had arrived just in time to save 
 his master. 
 
 The remaining robber, exhausted by loss of blood 
 and the violence of the contest, showed signs of falter- 
 ing. The Englishman pursued his advantage, press- 
 ed on him, and as his strength relaxed, dashed him 
 headlong from the precipice. He looked after him, 
 and saw him lying motionless among the rocks below. 
 
 The Englishman now sought the fair Venetian. 
 He found her senseless on the ground. With his ser- 
 vant's assistance he bore her down to the road, where 
 her husband was raving like one distracted. He had 
 sought her in vain, and had given her over for lost; 
 and when he beheld her thus brought back in safety, 
 his joy was equally wild and ungovernable. He 
 would have caught her insensible form to his bosom 
 had not the Englishman restrained him. The latter 
 
 now really aroused, displayed a true tenderness aa 
 manly gallantry, which one would not have expecte 
 ftom his habitual phlegm. His kindness, howevei 
 was practical, not wasted in words. He dispalchi 
 John to the carriage for restoratives of all kinds, and 
 totally thoughtless of himself, was anxious only abog 
 his lovely charge. The occasional discharge of fire 
 arms along the height, showed that a retreating iigli 
 was still kept up by the robbers. The lady gave $i|;i 
 of reviving animation. The Englishman, eager 
 get her from this place of danger, conveyed her to 
 own carriage, and, committing her to the care of 
 husband, ordered the dragoons to escort them 
 Fondi. The Venetian would have insisted on t! 
 Englishman's getting into the carriage ; but the latl 
 refused. He poured forth a torrent of thanks and 
 nedictions; but the Englishman beckoned to the 
 tillions to drive on. 
 
 John now dressed his master's wounds, vhii 
 were found not to be serious, though he was faii 
 with loss of blood. The Venetian carriage had 
 righted, and the baggage replaced; and, getting ii 
 ii , they set out on their way towards Fondi, lea< 
 the foot-soldiers still engaged in ferreting out the 
 ditli. 
 
 Before arriving at Fondi, the fair Venetian 
 completely recovered from her swoon . She made 
 usual question — 
 
 " Where was she ? " 
 
 " In the Englishman's carriage." 
 
 '* How had she escaped from the robbers ? " 
 
 " The Englishman had rescued her." 
 
 Her transports were unbounded ; and mingled 
 them were enthusiastic ejaculations of gratitude 
 her deliverer. A thousand times did she repi 
 herself for having accused him of coldness and ini 
 sibility. The moment she saw him she rushed ii 
 his arms with the vivacity of her nation, and lii 
 about his neck in a speechless transport of gratilui 
 Never was man more embarrassed by the embr< 
 of a fine woman. 
 
 " Tut !— tut !" said the Englishman. 
 
 " You are wounded !" shrieked the fair Veneli 
 as she saw blood upon his clothes. 
 
 " Pooh ! nothing at all !" 
 
 "My deliverer ! — my angel!" exclaimed 
 clasping him again round the neck, and sobbing 
 his bosom. 
 
 " Pish !" said the Englishman with a good 
 moured tone, but looking somewhat foolish, " thb| 
 all humbug." 
 
 The fair Venetian, however, has never since 
 cused the English of insensibility. 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 layed a true tenderness an 
 )ne would not have expects 
 m. His kindness, ho\vever| 
 id in words. He dispatchd 
 restoratives of all kinds, andj 
 nself, was anxious only ab 
 I occasional discharge of fin 
 showed that a retreatini; figtij 
 robbers. The lady gave s 
 
 The Englishman, eager i 
 of danger, conveyed her tol 
 imiltinghertothecareotl 
 
 dragoons to escort themi 
 I would have insisted on thi 
 [ito the carriage ; but the latte 
 )rlh a torrent of thanks andli 
 iglishman beckoned to the i 
 
 his master's wounds, wh 
 • serious, though he was faiij 
 'he Venetian carriage hadl 
 age replaced; and, getting iirtj 
 eir way towards Fondi, lea^i 
 ingaged in ferreting out the I 
 
 Fondi, the fair Venetian 1 
 from her swoon. She made U 
 
 '! 
 
 ?" 
 
 lan's carriage." 
 Baped from the robbers ? " 
 n had rescued her." 
 re unbounded ; and mingled 
 Stic ejaculations of gratitude 
 lousand times did she repi 
 cused him of coldness and m 
 nt she saw him she rushed 
 vacity of her nation, and hi 
 eechless transport of gralilui 
 e embarrassed by the embn 
 
 tiid the Englishman. 
 Jed!" shrieked the fair Veneli 
 In his clothes. 
 lat all !" 
 
 ■ my angel!" exclaimed 
 l-ound the neck, and sobbing (j 
 
 Englishman with a goodli 
 [king somewhat foolish, " tbis| 
 
 1, however, has never since i 
 I insensibility. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 THE MONEY-DIGGERS. 
 
 nd umong the Paper* of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker. 
 
 Now I remember those old women's words 
 Who in my youth would tell me winter's laics : 
 And speak of sprites and ghosts that glide by night 
 About the place where treasure hath been hid. 
 
 Hablow's Jew of Malta. 
 
 IIELL^ATE. 
 
 I ABOUTsix miles from the renowned city of the Man- 
 
 Uo«s, in that sound or arm of the sea which passes 
 
 itveen the main land and Nassau, or Long Island, 
 
 iisa narrow strait, where the current is violently 
 
 npressed between shouldering promontories, and 
 
 biy perplexed by rocks and shoals. Being, 
 
 [the best of times, a very violent, impetuous cur- 
 
 )it,it takes these impediments in mighty dudgeon; 
 
 iling in whirlpools; brawling and fretting in rip- 
 
 i; raging and roaring in rapids and breakers ; and, 
 
 [short, indulging in all kinds of wrong-headed 
 
 Qxysms. At such times, woe to any unlucky vessel 
 
 iitventures within its clutches ! 
 
 JTbis termagant humour, however, prevails only at 
 
 aln times of tide. At low water, for instance, it 
 
 Ik pacific a stream as you would wish to see ; but 
 
 llhe tide rises, it begins to fret ; at half tide it roars 
 
 Rh might and main, like a bully bellowing for more 
 
 but when the tide is full, it relapses into 
 
 It, and, for a time, sleeps as soundly as an alder- 
 
 I after dinner. In fact, it may he compared to a 
 
 elsome toper, who is a peaceable fellow enough 
 
 len he has no liquor at all, or when he has a skin- 
 
 , but who, when half-seas-over, plays the very 
 
 il. 
 
 This mighty, blustering, bullying, hard-drinking 
 
 lie strait, was a place of great danger and perplex- 
 
 |to the Dutch navigators of ancient days ; hectoring 
 
 r lulv-built barks in the most unruly style ; whirl- 
 
 |them about in a manner to make any but a Dutch- 
 
 I giddy, and not unfrequently stranding them 
 
 irocks and reefs, as it did the famous squadron of 
 
 ffe the Dreamer, when seeking a place to found 
 
 I city of the Manhaltoes. Whereupon, out of 
 
 r spleen they denominated it Helle-gat, and so- 
 
 nlygave it over to the devil. This appellation 
 
 [since been aptly rendered into English by the 
 
 e of Hell-gate, and into nonsense by the name of 
 
 ^'-gate, according to certain foreign intruders, 
 
 I neither understood Dutch nor English— may St 
 
 [bolas confound them ! 
 
 bis strait of Hell-gate was a place of great awe 
 I perilous enterprise to me in my boyhood ; hav- 
 
 ing been much of a navigator on those small seas, 
 and having more than once run the risk of shipwreck 
 and drowning in the course of certain holiday-voya- 
 ges, to which, in common with other Dutch urchins, 
 I was rather prone. Indeed, partly from the name, 
 and partly from various strange circumstances con- 
 nected with it, this place had far more ten-ors in the 
 eyes of my truant companions and myself, than had 
 Scylla and Charybdis for the navigators of yore. 
 
 In the midst of this strait, and hard by a group of 
 rocks called the Hen and Chickens, there lay the 
 wreck of a vessel which had been entangled in the 
 whirlpools, and stranded during a storm. There was 
 a wild story told to us of this being the wreck of a 
 pirate, and some tale of bloody murder which I can- 
 not now recollect, but which made us regard it with 
 great awe, and keep far from it in our cruisings. In- 
 deed, the desolate look of the forlorn hulk, and the 
 fearful place where it lay rotting, were enough to 
 awaken strange notions. A row of timber-heads, 
 blackened by time, just peered above the surface at 
 high water ; but at low tide a considerable part of 
 the hull was bare, and its great ribs, or timbers, part- 
 ly stripped of their planks, and dripping with sea- 
 weeds, looked like the huge skeleton of some sea- 
 monster. There was also the stump of a mast, with 
 a few ropes and blocks swinging about, and whistling 
 in the wind, while the sea-gull wheeled and screamed 
 around the melancholy carcass. I have a faint recol- 
 lection of some hobgoblin tale of sailors' ghosts being 
 seen about this wreck at night, with bare sculls, ami 
 blue lights in their sockets instead of eyes, but I have 
 forgotten all the particulars. 
 
 In fact, the whole of this neighbourhood was, like 
 the Straits of Pelorus of yore, a region of fable and 
 romance to me. From the strait to the Manhaltoes 
 the borders of the Sound are greatly diversified, being 
 broken and indented by rocky nooks overhung witli 
 trees, which give them a wild and romantic look. In 
 the time of my boyhood, they abounded with tradi- 
 tions about pirates, ghosts, smugglers, and buried 
 money ; which had a wonderful effect upon the young 
 minds of my companions and myself. 
 
 As I grew to more mature years, I made diligent 
 research after the truth of these strange trtditions ; 
 for I have always been a curious investigator of the 
 valuable but obscure branches of the history of my 
 native province. I found infinite diWculty, however, 
 in arriving at any precise information. In seeking lo 
 dig up one fact, it is incredible the number of fables 
 that I unearthed. I will say nothing of the Devil's 
 Stepping-stones, by which the ardi-iiend made his 
 retreat from Connecticut to Long Island, across the 
 Sound ; seeing the subject is likely to be learnedly 
 treated by a worthy friend and contemporary histo- 
 rian, whom I have furnished with particulars thereof.' 
 
 • For a very interesting and authentic account of the devil and 
 his stcpplng-stoncs, sec the valuable Memoir read before the New 
 York Historical Society, since the death of Mi\ Knickerhockfr. I»y 
 hlsO:icnd, an eminent Jurist pfthe place. 
 
 TS 
 
 t - .: 
 
 I 
 
 :|1 
 
o7« 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 Neither will I say any thing of the black man in a 
 three-cornered hat,-8eated in the stern of a jolly-boat, 
 who used to be seen about Hell-gate in stormy weather, 
 and who went by the name of the pirate's spuke (i. e. 
 pirate's ghost), and whom, it is said, old Governor 
 Stuyvesant once shot with a silver bullet; l)ecausel 
 never could meet with any person of staunch credi- 
 bility who professed to have seen this spectrum, unless 
 it were the widow of ManusConklen, the blacksmith, 
 of Frogsneck ; but then, poor woman, she was a Utile 
 purblind, and might have iieen mistaken ; though ihey 
 say she saw farther than oLi • v folks in the dark. 
 
 All this, however, was but little satisfactory in 
 regard to the tales of pirates and their buried money, 
 about which I was most curious ; and the following is 
 all that I could for a long time collect that had any 
 thing like an air of authenticity. 
 
 KIDD THE PIRATE. 
 
 In old times, just after the territory of the New 
 Netherlands had been wrested (n. ., the hands of their 
 High Mightinesses, the Lords States-General of Hol- 
 land, by King Charles the Second, and while it was 
 as yet in an unquiet state, the province was a great 
 resort of random adventurers, loose livers, and all 
 that class of haphazard fellows who live by their wits, 
 and dislike the old-fashioned restraint of law and 
 Gospel. Among these, the foremost were the buc- 
 caneers. These were rovers of the deep, who, per- 
 haps, in time of war had been educated in those 
 schools of piracy, the privateers; but having once 
 tasted the sweets of plunder, had ever retained a 
 hankering after it. There is but a slight step from 
 the privateersman to the pirate : both fight for the 
 love of plunder; only that the latter is the bravest, as 
 he dares both the enemy and the gallows. 
 
 But in whatever school they had been taught, the 
 buccaneers who kept aliout the English colonies were 
 daring fellows, and made sad work in times of peace 
 among the Spanish settlements and Spanish merchant- 
 men. The easy access to the harbour of the Man- 
 hattoes, the number of hiding-places about its waters, 
 and the laxity of its scarcely organized government, 
 made it a great rendezvous of the pirates; where they 
 might dispose of their booty, and concert new depre- 
 dations. As Ihey brought home with them wealthy 
 lading of all kinds, the luxuries of the tropics, and the 
 sumptuous spoils of the Spanish provinces, and dis- 
 posed of them with the proverbial carelessness of 
 freebooters, they were welcome visitors to the thrifty 
 traders of the Manhattoes. Crews of these despera- 
 does, therefore, the runagates of every rnnntry and 
 every clime, might b^ seen swaggering in open day 
 about the streets of the little bin-gli, cll><)wing its 
 quiet mynheers; trafficking away their rich outlandish 
 plunder at half or quarter price to the wary mercltant ; 
 
 and then squandering their prize-money in lavem,'!,[ 
 drinking, gambling, singing, swearing, shouting, andl 
 astounding the neighbourhood with midnight lijravij 
 and ruffian revelry. 
 
 At length these excesses rose >o such a height as 
 become a scandal to the provinces, and to call loudl< 
 for the interposition of government. Measures wei 
 accordingly taken toputastoptothewidely-extendi 
 evil, and to ferret thisvermin broodoutof the colonies. 
 
 Among the agents employed to execute this por. 
 pose was the notorious Captain Kidd. He had loi 
 been an equivocal character; one of those nondescrij 
 animals of the ocean that are neither fish, flesh, a 
 fowl. He was somewhat of a trader, something moi 
 of a smuggler, with a considerable dash of thepii 
 roon. He had traded for many years among t|| 
 pirates, in a little rakish, musquitto-built vessel, tii 
 could run into all kinds of waters. He knew all tl 
 haunts and lurking-places ; was always hookinga!« 
 on mysterious voyages , and as busy as a Mother G 
 chicken in a storm 
 
 This nondescript personage was pitched upoo 
 government as the vei7 man to hunt the pirates 
 sea, upon the gomi old maxim of " setting a rogue 
 catch a rogue ; " or as otters are sometimes used 
 catch their cousins-gennan, the fish. 
 
 Kidd accordingly sailed for New York, in 469S, 
 a gallant vessel called the Adventure Galley, «i 
 armed and duly commissioned. On arriving at 
 old haunts, however, he shipped his crew on 
 terms ; enUsted a number of his old comrades, 
 of the knife and the pistol ; and then set sail for 
 East. Instead of cruising against pirates, he tui 
 pirate himself; steered to the Madeiras, to Bonai 
 and Madagascar, and cruised about the entranct 
 the Red Sea. Here, among other maritime 
 beries, he captured a rich Quedah merchai 
 manned by Moors, though commanded by an 
 lishman. Kidd would fain have passed this olf 
 worthy exploit, as being a kind of crusade a; 
 the infidels; but government had long since lostalii 
 lish for such Christian triumphs. 
 
 After roaming the seas, trafficking his prizes, 
 changing from ship to ship, Kidd had the hari 
 to return to Boston, laden with booty, with a 
 of swaggering companions at his heels. 
 
 Times, however, were changed. The buccal 
 
 could ao longer show a whisker in the colonies 
 
 impunity. The new governor, Lord Bellamonl, 
 
 signalized himself by his zeal in extirpating 
 
 offenders; and was doubly exasperated against 
 
 having been instrumental in appointing him i« 
 
 trust which he had betrayed. No sooner, thei 
 
 did he show himself in Boston, than the alarini 
 
 given of his re-appearance, and measures were 
 
 to arrest this cut-purse of the ocean. The 
 
 character which Kidd had acquired, however, 
 
 the desperate fellows who followed like bull' 
 
 his heels, caused a little delay in his arrest. II 
 
 advantage of this, it is said, to bury the greali 
 
 ^"reil 
 
 lol 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 S7{) 
 
 leiv prize-money in taverns,! 
 ing, swearing, shouling, ami 
 jrhood with midnighl bfavf 
 
 of bis treasures, and tlien carried a high head about 
 ibe streets of Boston. He even attempted to defend 
 himself when arrested, but was secured and thrown 
 into prison, with his followers. Such was tlie for- 
 midable character of this pirate and his crew, that 
 it was thought advisable to dispatch a frigate to bring 
 ihem to England. Great exertions were ma..>: to 
 
 . r r h 1 ° ^'/^'^ '"*" ^'^"^ justice, but in vain; he and bis 
 
 rmin brood out of the coloniesB^gjgg ^^^.^ ^^..^j^ condemned, and lianged at 
 
 ployed to execute ll«8 P^fceculion Dock in London. Kidd died hard, for the 
 
 Kida. e . ""^tope with which he was first tied up broke with bis 
 
 weight, and he tumbled to the ground. He was tied 
 
 iesroseiosuchaheiglitast 
 provinces, and to call loiidljl 
 rovernment. Measures wer^ 
 tasloptolhewidely-extende 
 
 mp 
 
 Captain 
 
 icter ; one of those nondescnp 
 hat are neither fish, flesh, noi 
 hatofatrader, something motj 
 considerable dash of lhepi(d 
 d for many years among tiJ 
 sb musquitto-built vessel, l^ 
 9 of waters. He knew all ik- 
 aces; was always hookingab 
 i, and as busy as a Mother Cai 
 
 ,ersonage was pitched upon; 
 erv man to bunt the piratol 
 Id maxim of "setting a roguej 
 IS oilers are somelimes 
 
 ■erman, the fish. 
 
 sailed for New York, in 4695,1 
 
 led the Adventure (jalley, %i 
 nmissioned. On arriving aH 
 T, be shipped his crew on I 
 uimber of bis old comrades 
 ■ pistol; and then set sail fori 
 iruising 
 
 'against pirates, be tun 
 
 red to the Madeiras, to Bonai 
 nd cruised about the entran« 
 re, among other maritime - 
 d a rich Quedah merchai 
 though commanded by an 
 ,uld fain have passed Ibis off 
 , being a kind of crusade aj 
 vernment bad long since loslalli 
 
 lian triumphs. 
 
 ,e seas, trafficking bis prizM, 
 to ship, Kiddhad the hard, 
 , laden with booty, with a 
 
 ipanions at bis heels. 
 %ere changed. Thebuc( 
 ,iow a whisker in the colonies 
 w governor. Lord Bellamoni, 
 
 bv his zeal in exlirpaling^ 
 
 8 doubly exasperated againslH 
 
 umenlal in appointing l«m» 
 
 d betrayed. No sooner, ther* 
 
 'elf in Boston, than the aW 
 
 'aiance, and measures were 
 
 .nurse of the ocean. iMi 
 
 iiadd had acquired, howev«j 
 
 loNvs who followed like bull-* 
 
 alitiledelayinhisarresl. I 
 
 i, i8 8aid,loburythcgveaiei| 
 
 a second time, and more effectually ; from hence 
 
 ime, doubtless, the story of Kidd's having a charmed 
 
 !, and that he bad to be twice hanged. 
 
 Such is the main outline of kidd's history; but it 
 
 given birth to an innumerable progeny of tradi- 
 
 Tbe report of his having buried great Irea- 
 
 of gold and jewels before his arrest, set the 
 
 ins of all the good people along the coast in a fer- 
 
 it. There were rumours on rumours of great 
 
 of money found here and there, sometimes in 
 
 part of the country, sometimes in. another ; of 
 
 with Moorish inscriptions, doubtless the spoils 
 
 Ills eastern prizes, but which the common people 
 
 iked upon with superstitious awe, regarding the 
 
 irish letters as diabolical or magical characters. 
 
 Some reported the treasure to have been buried in 
 
 lilary, unsettled places about Plymouth and Cape 
 
 ; but by degrees various other parts, not only on 
 
 eastern coast, but along the shores of the Sound, 
 
 even of Manhatta and Long Island, were gilded 
 
 these rumours. In fact, the rigorous measures 
 
 Lord Bellamont had spread sudden consternation 
 
 ig the buccau ^rs in every part of the provinces : 
 
 had secreted thei'- Tuoney and jewels in lonely 
 
 1-of-lhe-way places, al)out the wild shores of the 
 
 rs and sea-coast, and dispersed themselves over 
 
 face of the country. The hand of justice pre- 
 
 ited many of them from ever returning to regain 
 
 buried treasures, which remained, and remain 
 
 to tliis day, objects of enterprise fur the 
 
 ley-digger. 
 
 his is the cause of those frequent reports of trees 
 
 rocks bearing mysterious marks, supposed to in- 
 
 ite the spots where treasure lay hidden ; and 
 
 ly have been the ransackings after the pirates' 
 
 iy. In all the stories which once abounded of 
 
 enterprises, the devil played a conspicuous part. 
 
 ler he was conciliated by ceremonies and invoca- 
 
 or some solctnn compact was made with him. 
 
 he was ever prone to play the money-diggers 
 
 slippery trick. Some would dig so far as to 
 
 to an iron chest, when some baffling circum- 
 
 was sure to take place. Either the earth 
 
 Id fall in and fill up the pit, or some direful noise 
 
 iparilion would frighten the party from the place: 
 
 limes the devil himself would appear, and bear 
 
 jM-i/e when within their very grasp; and if 
 I revisited the place the next day, not n trace 
 
 would be foundof their labours of the preceding night. 
 
 All these rumours, however, were extremely 
 vague, and for a long lime tantalized without gratify- 
 ing my curiosity. There is nothing in this world so 
 hard to get at as truth, and there is nothing in this 
 world but truth that I care for. I sought among all 
 my favourite sources of authentic information, the 
 oldest inhabitants, and particularly the old Dutch 
 wives of the province; but though I flatter myself 
 that I am better versed than most men in the curious 
 history of my native province, yet for a long time my 
 inquiries were unattended with any substantial result. 
 
 At length it happened that, one calm day in the 
 latter part of summer, I was relaxing myself from 
 the toils of severe study, by a day's amusement in 
 fishing in those waters which had been the favourite 
 resort of my boyhood. I was in company with se- 
 veral worthy iMi'-gbers of my native city, among 
 whom were more than one illustrious member of the 
 corporation, whose names, did I dare to mention 
 them, would do honour to my humble page. Our 
 sport was indifferent. The fish did not bite freely, 
 and we frequently changed ov.r iishing-ground with- 
 out bettering our luck. We were at length anchored 
 close under a ledge of rocky coast, on the eastern 
 side of the island of Manbalta. It was a still warm 
 day. The stream whirled and dimpled by us with- 
 out a wave or even a ripple; and every tiling was so 
 calm and quiet, that it was almost startling when the 
 kingfisher would pitch himself from the branch of 
 some dry tree, and after suspending himself for a mo- 
 ment in the air to take his aim, would souse into the 
 smooth water after bis prey. While we were lolling 
 in our boat, half drowsy with the warm stillness of 
 the day, and the dulness of our sport, one of our 
 party, a worthy alderman, was overtaken by a slum- 
 ber, and, as he dozed, suffered the sinker of his drop- 
 line to lie upon the bottom of the river. On awaking, 
 he found he had caught something of importance 
 from the weight. On drawing it to the surface, we 
 were much surprised to find it a long pistol of very 
 curious and outlandish fashion, which from its rusted 
 condition, and its stock being worm-eaten and covered 
 with barnacles, appeared to have lain a long time 
 under water. The unexpected appearance of this do- 
 cument of warfare, occasioned much speculation 
 among my pacific companions. One supposed it to 
 have fallen there during the revolutionary war; an- 
 other, from the peculiarity of its fashion, attributed 
 it to the voyagers in the earliest days of the settle- 
 ment; perchance to the renowned Adrian Block, who 
 explored the Sound, and discovered Block Island, 
 since so noted for its cheese. But a third, »rier re- 
 garding it for some time, pronounced it to be of ve- 
 ritable Spanish workmanship. 
 
 "I'll warrant," said be, "if this pistol could talk, 
 it would tell strange stories of hard fights among the 
 Spanisli Dons. I've no doubts but it is a relic of the 
 buccaneers of old limes— who knows but it belonged 
 to Kidd himself?" - . - - . 
 
 ■,\-, 
 
 1 
 
 ft 
 
 ill 
 
:m 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 "Ah ! thai Kidd was a resolute fellow," cried an 
 old iron-faced C»pe-God whaler.—" There's a fine 
 old song about him, all to the tune' of— 
 
 My name is Captain Kidd, 
 As I sailed, as 1 sailed— 
 
 And then it tells all about how he gained the devil's 
 Kood graces by burying the Bible : 
 
 I had the Bible in my hand, 
 
 As I sailed, as I sailed. 
 And I buried it in the sand 
 
 As I sailed.— 
 
 Odsfish, if I thought this pistol had belonged to 
 Kidd, I should set great store by it, for curiosity's 
 sake. By the way, I recollect a story about a fellow 
 who once dug up Kidd's buried money, which was 
 written by a neighbour of mine, and which I learnt 
 hy heart. As the fish don't bite just now, I'll tell it 
 to you by way of passing away the lime." — And so 
 .siiying, he gave us the following narration. 
 
 TIIE DEVIL AND TOM WALKER. 
 
 A FEW miles from Boston in Massachusets, there is 
 a deep inlet, winding several miles into the interior 
 of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating 
 in a thickly wooded swamp or morass. On one side 
 of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove ; on the op|(osite 
 side the land rises abruptly from the water's edge 
 into a high ridge, on which grow a few scattered 
 oaks of great age and immense size. Under one of 
 ihese gigantic trees, according to old stories, there 
 was a great amount of treasure buried by Kidd the 
 pirate. The inlet allowed a facility to bring the 
 money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot 
 of the hill ; the elevation of the place permitted a 
 good look-out to be kept that no one was at hand ; 
 while the remarkable trees formed good land-marks 
 by which the place might easily be found again. The 
 old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at 
 the hiding of the money, and took it under his guard- 
 ianship ; but this it is well known he always does 
 with buried treasure, particularly when it has been 
 ill-gotten. Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to 
 recover bis wealth; being shortly after seized at 
 Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a 
 i>irate. 
 
 About th»year 1737, just at the time that earth- 
 quakes were prevalent in New England, and shook 
 many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived 
 .'ear this place a meagre, miserly fellow, of the name 
 «»r Tom Walker. He had a wife as miserly as him- 
 self: they were so miserly that they even conspired 
 to cheat each other. Whatever the woman could lay 
 hands on, she hid away; a hen could not cackle but 
 li he was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg. Her 
 
 husband was continually prying about to detect hcrl 
 secret hoards, and many and fierce were the confliciil 
 that took place about what ought to have been coq-I 
 mon property. They lived in a forlorn-looking housel 
 that stood alone, and had an air of starvation. Afe«| 
 straggling savin-trees, emblems of sterility, grewl 
 near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; ngf 
 traveller stopped at its door. A miserable liorsej 
 whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a | 
 iron, stalked about a field, where a thin carpet i 
 moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of puddlngJ 
 stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and som 
 times he would lean his head over the fence, 
 piteouslyat the passer-by, and seem to petition (l^ 
 liverance from this land of famine. 
 
 The house and its inmates had altogether a 
 name. Tom's wife was a tall termagant, fierce i 
 temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm. Hd 
 voice was often heard in wordy warfare with I 
 husband; and his face sometimes showed signs i 
 their conflicts were not confined to words. Noo 
 ventured, however, to interfere betwee:i them. Th 
 lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the lion 
 clamour and clapper-clawing ; eyed the den of ( 
 cord askance; and hurried on his way rejoicing, if j 
 bachelor, in his celibacy. 
 
 One day tliat Tom Walker had been to a dis 
 part of the neighbourhood, he took what he 
 sidered a short cut homeward, through the swamJ 
 Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chasen route. Tb[ 
 swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy | 
 and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high, wbi 
 made it dark at noon-day, and a retreat for all I 
 owls of the neighbourhood. It was full of pits a 
 quagmires, partly covered with weeds and ma 
 where the green surface often betrayed the travel!^ 
 into a gulf of black, smothering mud; there vej 
 also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the I 
 pole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake; wlie 
 the trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half-drown 
 half rotting, looking like alligators sleeping iii I 
 mire. 
 
 Tom had long been picking his way cantioa 
 through this treacherous forest ; stepping from l< 
 to tuft of rushes and roots, which afforded precari 
 foot-holds among deep sloughs ; or pacing carefiiil 
 like a cat, along the prostrate trunks of trees ; stai 
 now and then by the sudden screaming of tlieb 
 tern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on ll 
 wing from some solitary pool. At length hearriij 
 at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a [ 
 sula into the deep bosom of the swamp. It hadb 
 one of the strongholds of the Indians during I 
 wars with the first colonists. Here they had tli 
 up a kind of fort, which they had looked up 
 almost impregnable, and had used as a place ofl 
 fuge for their squaws and children. ]Noiliiii;| 
 niuiiied of the old Indian fort but a few enih 
 menis, gradually sinking to the level of liiej 
 rounding earth, and already overgrown in ivirl| 
 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 i»l 
 
 oaks and other forest trees, tWe foliage of which 
 formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of 
 the swamp. 
 
 It was late in the dusk of evening when Tom 
 Walker reached the old fort, and he paused therefore 
 affhile to rest himself. Any one but he would have 
 fell unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy 
 place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it, 
 from the stories handed down from the time of the 
 Indian wars ; when it was asserted that the savages 
 held incantations here, rtnd made sacriflces to the 
 evil spirit. 
 
 Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be trou- 
 bled with any fears of the kind. lie reposed himself 
 fdrsome time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listen- 
 ing to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving 
 Willi Ills walking-staff iato a mound of black mould at 
 lib feet. As he turned up the soil unconsciously, liis 
 Starr struck against something hard. He raked it out 
 of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven scull, with 
 an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before 
 him. The rust on the weapon showed the time that 
 
 ink within himself at the honiflliad elapsed since this death-blow had been given. 
 
 -clawing ; eyed the den of db Uwas a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that 
 
 had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian 
 
 ily prying about to detect her 
 ly and fierce were the conflict! 
 what ought lo have been con- 
 lived in a forlorn-looking house 
 liad an air of starvation. A few 
 , emblems of sterility, grew 
 T curled from its chimney; no 
 U door. A miserable horse, 
 rticulate as the bars of a grid 
 I field, where a thin carpet o 
 ,g the ragged beds of pudding 
 balked his hunger; and sowfr 
 
 his head over the fence, loot 
 ;r-by, and seem to petition de 
 nd of famine. 
 
 inmates had altogether a 
 was a tall termagant, fierce o 
 gue, and strong of arm. He 
 rd in wordy warfare with he 
 ce sometimes showed signs tha 
 not confined to words. Nooa 
 Lo interfere between them. Th 
 
 lurried on his way rejoicing, if 
 
 «ey. 
 
 n Walker had been to a disU 
 mrhood, he took what he 
 homeward, through the swamij 
 s, itwasanill-chasen route. Thf 
 grown with great gloomy j 
 [ of them nmety feet high, wh 
 n-day, and a retreat for all i 
 (urhood. It was full of pils a 
 overed with weeds and m« 
 rface often betrayed the trawllj 
 , smothering mud; there wej 
 ant pools, the abodes of the I 
 and the water-snake; wl« 
 and hemlocks lay half-drown 
 g like alligators sleeping iii I 
 
 been picking his way canlioi 
 erous forest ; stepping from 
 roots, which afforded precai 
 eep sloughs; or pacing carefi 
 prostrate trunks of trees ; sli 
 he sudden screaming of the 
 ng of a wild duck, rising on 
 liurypool. At length he ai 
 round, which ran out like a 
 losoni of the swamp. It had 
 Ids of the Indians during II 
 colonists. Here they had thi 
 which they had looked u] 
 , and had used as a place 0(1 
 laws and children. Nolhin? 
 Indian fort but a few enil 
 inking to the level of the 
 
 01 
 
 varriors. 
 
 " Humph ! " said Tom Walker, as he gave it a 
 kick to shake the dirt from it. 
 
 " Let that scull alone ! " said a gruff voice. Tom 
 lifted up his eyes, and beheld a great black man seat- 
 ed directly opposite him, on the stump of a tree. He 
 was exceedingly surprised, having neither heard nor 
 seen any one approach ; and he was still more per- 
 plexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom 
 would permit, that the stranger was neither negro 
 nor Indian. It is true he was dressed in a rude half 
 Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round 
 his body; but his face was neither black nor copper- 
 colour, but swarthy and dingy, and begrimed with 
 wot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires 
 and forges. He had a shock of coarse black hair, 
 that stood out from his head in all directions, and 
 bore an axe on his shoulder. 
 
 He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of 
 peat red eyes. 
 
 " What are you doing on my grounds ? " said the 
 Uack man, with a hoarse growling voice. 
 
 " Your grounds ! " said Tom with a sneer. " No 
 more your ^'rounds than mine ; they belong to Deacon 
 Peabody. " 
 
 " Deacon Peabody be d d, " said the stranger, 
 
 " as I flalter myself he will be, if he does not look 
 more to his own sins and less to those of his neigh- 
 Iwnrs. Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody 
 is faring. " 
 
 Tom looked in the direction that the stranger point- 
 
 , and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flour- 
 iiiliing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that 
 t iiad been neariy hewn through, so that the first 
 
 id already overgrown in patiBiigh wind was likely to blow it down. On the bark 
 
 of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody, 
 — an eminent man, who had waxed wealthy by driv* 
 ing shrewd bargains with the Indians. He now look- 
 ed round, and found most of the tall trees marked 
 with the name of some great man of the colony, and 
 all more or less scored by the axe. The one on which 
 he had been seated, and which had evidently just 
 been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield ; 
 and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name^ 
 who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it wa» 
 whispered he had acquired by buccaneering. 
 
 "lie's just ready for burning !" said the black 
 man, with a growl of triumph. " You see I am like- 
 ly to have a good stock of firewood for winter. ' ' 
 
 " But what right have you, " said Tom, " to cut 
 down Deacon Peabody's timber ? " 
 
 " The right of a prior claim, " said the other. 
 '^ This woodland belonged lo me long before one of 
 your white-faced race |Hit foot upon the soil. " 
 
 " And pray who are you, if I may be so bold ? " 
 said Tom. 
 
 " Oh, I go by various names. I am the wild 
 huntsman in some countries; the black miner in 
 others. In this neighbourhood I am known by the 
 name of the black woodman. J am he to whom the 
 red men consecrated this spot, and in honour of whom 
 they now and then roasted a white man, by way of 
 sweet-smelling sacrifice. Since the red men have 
 been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse 
 myself by presiding at the persecutions of quakers 
 and anabaptists : I am the great patron and prompter 
 of slave-dealers and the grand master of the Salem 
 witches. " 
 
 " The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake 
 not, " said Tom, sturdily, *' you are he commonly 
 called Old Scratch." 
 
 " The same, at your service ! " replied the black 
 man, with a half civil nod. 
 
 Such was the opening of this interview, according 
 to the old story ; though it has almost too familiar an 
 air to be credited. One would think that to meet 
 with such a singular personage, in this wild, lonely 
 place, would have shaken any man's nerves; but 
 Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, 
 and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that 
 he did not even fear the devil. 
 
 It is said that after this commencement they had a 
 long and earnest convcisation together, as Tom re- 
 turned homeward. The black man told him of great 
 sums of money which had been buried by Kidd the 
 pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge, not far 
 from the morass. All these were under his com- 
 mand, and protected by his power, so that none could 
 find them but sudi as propitiated his favour. These 
 he offered to place within Tom Walker's reach, hav- 
 ing conceived an especial kindness for him ; but they 
 were to be had only on certain conditions. What 
 these conditions were may easily be surmised, though 
 Tom never disclosed them publicly. They must have 
 been very hard, for he required time lo think of 
 
 ili} 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
 11 
 
 i\ 
 
im 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where 
 money was in view. When they had reached the 
 edge of tlie swamp, tlie sti anger paused — " What 
 proof have I that all you Lave been telling me is 
 true ? " said Tom. ''There is my signature," said 
 the black man, pressing his iin;7er on Tom's forehead. 
 So saying, he turned off among the thickets of the 
 swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, 
 down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and 
 slioulders could be seen, and so on, until he totally 
 disappeared. 
 
 When Tom reached home, lie found the black 
 print of a finger, burnt, as it were, into his forehead, 
 which nothing could (»bliterate. 
 
 The flrst news his wife had to tell him was the 
 sudden death of Absidom Crowninshield, the rich 
 buccaneer. It was announced in tht^ papers with the 
 usual flourish, that '' A great mai.\ had fallen in 
 Israel." 
 
 Tom recollected the tree which his black friend 
 had just hewn down, and which was ready for burn- 
 ing. " Let (he freel)ooter roast, " said lom, " who 
 cares ! " He now felt convinced that all he had heard 
 and seen was no illusion. 
 
 He was not prone to let his wife into his confldence, 
 but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared 
 it with her. All her avarice was awakened at the 
 mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband 
 to comply with the black man's terms, and secure 
 what would make them wealthy for life. However 
 Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the 
 Devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his 
 wife; so he flatly refused, out of the mere spirit of 
 contradiction. Many and bitter were the quarrels 
 they had on the subject, but the more she talked, 
 the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to 
 please her. 
 
 At length she determined to drive the bargain on 
 her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all 
 the gain to herself. Being of the same fearless tem- 
 per as her husband, she set off for the old Indian fort 
 towards the close of a summer's day. She was many 
 hours absent. When she came back, she was re- 
 served and sullen in her replies. She spoke some- 
 thing of a black man, whom she had met about twi- 
 light, hewing at the root of :. tall tree. He was sulky, 
 however, and would not come to terms : she was to 
 go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was 
 she forbore to say. 
 
 The next evening she set off again for the swamp, 
 with her apron heavily laden. Tom waited and 
 waited for her, but in vain; midnight came, but she 
 did not make her appearance : morning, noon, night 
 returned, but still she did not come. Tom now grew 
 uneasy for her safety, especially as he found she had 
 carried off in her apron the silver teapot and spoons, 
 and every portable article of value. Another night 
 elapsed, another morning came; but no wife. In a 
 woni, she was never heard of more. 
 
 What was her real fate nobody knows, .in conse- 
 
 quence of so many pretending to know. It is one of 
 those facts which have become confounded by a va- 
 riety of historians. Some asserted that she lost her 
 way among the tangled mazes of the swiimp, and 
 sunk into some pit or slough; others, more unclia- 
 ritable, hinted that she had eloped with the household 
 booty, and made off to some other province ; while 
 others surmised that the tempter had decoyed hn 
 into a dismal quagmire, on the top of which her Itat 
 was found lying. In confirmation of this, it was said 
 a great black man, with an axe on his shoulder, was 
 seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, 
 carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air 
 of surly triumph. 
 
 The most current and probable story, however, 
 observes, that Tom Walker grew so anxious about 
 the fate of his wife and his property, that he set out 
 at length to seek them both at the Indian fort. Dur- 
 ing a long summer's afternoon he searched about the 
 gloomy plact, but no wife was to be seen. He called 
 her name repeatedly, but she was nowhere to be 
 heard. The bittern alone responded to his voice, as 
 he flew screaming by ; or the bull-frog croaked dole- 
 fully from a neighbouring pool. At length, it is said, 
 just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls 
 began to hoot, and the bats to flit about, his attention 
 was attracted by the clamour of carrion-crows tiiat 
 were hovering about a cypress-tree. He looked up 
 and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron, and hang- 
 ing in the branches of the tree, with a great vulture 
 perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it. He 
 leaped with joy; for he recognized his wife's apron, 
 and supposed it to contain the household valunbies. 
 
 '' Let us get hold of the property," said he consol- 
 ingly to himself, "and we will endeavour to do with- 
 out the woman." 
 
 As he scrambled up the tree, the vulture spread 
 its wide wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep 
 shadows of the forest. Tom seized the check apron, 
 but woful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver 
 tied up in it! 
 
 Such, according to the most authentic old story, 
 was all that was to be found of Tom's wife. She 
 had probably attempted to deal with the black man 
 as she had been accustomed to deal with her hus- 
 band ; but though a female scold is generally consi- 
 dered a match for the devil, yet in this instance sIk 
 appears to have had the worst of it. She must have 
 died gam^- , however ; for it is said Tom noticed many 
 prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, 
 and found haiulsful of hair, that looked as if they had 
 been plucked from the coarse black shock of the 
 woodman. Tom knew his wife's prowess by exm 
 rience. He shrugged his shoulders, as he looked nj 
 the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing. " Egad," sai 
 he to himself, " Old Scratch must have had a lou| 
 lime of it ! " 
 
 Tom consoled himself for the loss of his prop«t!| 
 with the loss of bis wife, for he was a man of forti' 
 lude. He even felt something like gratitude lowai 
 
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 bisi 
 
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 lliei 
 
 whit 
 
 obslj 
 
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 prop 
 
 liie: 
 
 not 
 
 refiu 
 
 lhe( 
 
 dealc 
 
 Fi 
 
 insisi 
 
 mm 
 
 Ihei. 
 
 cnliai 
 
 To 
 
 'cm 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rid- 
 
 ding to know. It is one of | 
 come confounded by a va- 
 e asserled that she lost her I 
 mazes of the swsiinp, and | 
 ►ugh; others, more unclia- 
 id eloped with the household I 
 iome other province ; while 
 e tempter had decoyed her 
 on the top of which her liat 
 iflrmation of this, it was said 
 an axe on his slioulder, was 
 ng coming out of the swamp, 
 1 a clieck apron, willi an air | 
 
 id probable story, however, 
 ilker grew so anxious about 
 his properly, that he set om 
 )oth at the Indian fort. Dur- 
 ernoon he searched about ihe 
 ife was to be seen. He called 
 but slie was nowliere lo be 
 )ne responded to his voice, as 
 or the bull-frog croaked doi^ 
 ngpool. At length, ills said, 
 ir of twilight, when the owls 
 bats to flit about, his attention 
 ilamour of carrion-crows that 
 
 cypress-tree. He looked up 
 ed in a check apron, and liang- 
 ihe tree, with a great vulture 
 • keeping watch upon it. He 
 B recognized his wife's apron, 
 lain the houseliold valuables, 
 the property," said he consol- 
 
 we will endeavour to do with- 
 
 the tree, the vulture spread 
 
 liled off screaming into the deep 
 
 Tom seized the check apron, 
 
 nothing but a heart and liver 
 
 the most aulhenlic old story, 
 1)6 found of Tom's wife. She 
 10 deal wiih the black manl 
 ttomed to deal with her hus] 
 [male scold is generally consi- 
 ] devil, yet in this instance slie 
 lie worst of it. She must have 
 Ifor it is said Tom noticed many 
 Wply stamped about the tret, 
 J hair, that looked as if they li»l 
 Ihe coarse black shock of the! 
 |w his wife's prowess by expfrj 
 his shoulders, as he looked al| 
 apper-clawing. "Egad," sal' 
 Icralch must have had a tou| 
 
 Ulf for the loss of his property 
 [ife, for he was a man of forii 
 Imcthinglikegraliludelowai' 
 
 the black woodman, who, he considered, had done 
 lijm a kindness. He sought, therefore, to cultivate 
 a further acquaintance with him, but for some lime 
 without success ; the old black legs played shy, for 
 whatever people may think, he is not a'ways to be 
 bad for calling for : he knows how to play his cards 
 when pretty sure of his game. 
 
 At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's 
 tagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to 
 any thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, 
 he met the black man one evening in his usual wood- 
 man's dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering 
 alon;; the edge of the swamp, and humming a tune. 
 He affected to receive Tom's advances with great in- 
 difference, made brief replies, and went on humming 
 his tune. 
 
 By degrees, liowever, Tom brought him to busi- 
 I ness, and they began to haggle about the terms on 
 which the former was to have the pirate's treasure. 
 There was one condition which need nut be men- 
 tioned, being generally understood in all cases where 
 the devil grants favours; but there were others about 
 which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly 
 obstinate. He insisted that the money found through 
 his means should be employed in his service. He 
 proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in 
 the black traffic ; that is to say, that he should fit 
 out a slave-ship. This, however, Tom resolutely 
 refuted : he was bad enough in all conscience ; but 
 the devil himself could not tempt him lo turn slave- 
 Idealer. 
 
 Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not 
 
 linsist upon it, but proposed, instead, that he should 
 
 Itnra usurer ; the devil being extremely anxious for 
 
 18 increase of usurers, looking upon them as his pe- 
 
 liar people. 
 
 To this no objections were made, for it was just to 
 om's taste. 
 
 "You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next 
 Imonth," said the black man. 
 "I'll do it to-morrow, if you wish," said Tom 
 alker. 
 
 " You shall lend money at two per cent, a month." 
 "Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom Walker. 
 " You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive 
 ihe merchant to bankruptcy — " 
 "I'll drive him to the d— I," cried Tom Walker. 
 "You are the usurer for my money!" said the 
 lack legs with delight. " When will you want Ihe 
 lino?" 
 
 "This very night." ^ '- « ' : " 
 "Done!" said the devil. 
 
 " Done ! " said Tom Walker.— So they shook hands, 
 |nd struck a bargain. 
 
 A few days' lime saw Tom Walker seated behind 
 lis desk in a counting-house in Boston. His reputa- 
 n for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend mo- 
 y out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad. 
 ivery liody remembers the time of Governor Bel- 
 [>er, when money was particularly scarce. It was 
 
 a lime of paper credit. The country had been de- 
 luged with government bills; Ihe famous Land Bank 
 had been established; there had been a rage for spe- 
 culating; the people had run mad with schemes for 
 new setllemenis; for building cities in the wilderness ; 
 land-jobbers went about with maf)s of grants, and 
 lownshi|>s, and El Dorados, lying nobody knew where, 
 but which every body w^as ready to purchase. In a 
 woi-d, the great speculating fever which breaks out 
 every now and then in the country had raged to «n 
 alarming degree, and every body was dreaming of 
 making sudden fortunes from nothing. As usual, the 
 fever had subsided ; the dream had gone off, and the 
 imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in 
 doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with 
 the consequent cry of "hard limes." 
 
 At this propitious lime of public distress did Tom 
 Walker set up as a usurer in Boston. His door waH 
 soon thronged by customers. The needy and the ad- 
 venturous; the gambling speculator ; the dreamini; 
 land-jobber; the thriftless tradesman; Ihe merchant 
 with cracked credit; in short, every one driven l*> 
 raise money by desperate means and desperate sacri- 
 fices, hurried lo Tom Walker. 
 
 Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy ; 
 and he acted like a " friend in need; " thai is to say, 
 he always exaclc:! good pay and good security. In 
 proportion lo the distress of the applicant was Ihe 
 hardness of his terms. He accumulated bonds and 
 mortgages; gradually squeezed his customers closer 
 and closer; and sent Ihem at length dry as a sponge 
 from his door. 
 
 In this way he made money hand over liand ; be- 
 came a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked 
 hat upon 'Change. He built himself, as usual, a vast 
 house out of ostentation, but left the greater part of it 
 unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony. He 
 even set up a carriage in Ihe fulness of his vainglory, 
 though he nearly starved the horses which drew it ; 
 and as the ungrensed wheels groaned and screeched 
 on the axle-trees, you would have thought you heard 
 the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing. 
 
 As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful. 
 Having secured the good things of this world, he be- 
 gan to feel anxious about those of the next. He 
 thought with regret on the bargain he had made with 
 his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheut 
 him out of the conditions. He became, therefore, 
 all of a sudden a violent church-goer. He prayed 
 loudly and strenuously, as if heaven were to be taken 
 by force of lungs. Indeed, one might always tell 
 when he had sinned most during the week by the cla- 
 mour of his Sunday devotion. The quiet Christians 
 who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling 
 ZkDnward, were struck with self-reproach at seeing 
 themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by 
 this new-made convert. Tom was as rigid in reli- 
 gious as in money mallei's; he was a stern super\'isor 
 and censurer of his neighbours, and seemed lo think 
 every sin entered up lo their account became a credit 
 
 m 
 
 ,l!it. 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 ■I 
 
.■(Si 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 on liis own side of the page. He 'iven talked of the 
 expediency of reviving the persecution of quakers and 
 anabaptists. In a word, Tom's zeal became as noto- 
 rious as his riches. 
 
 Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, 
 Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, 
 would have his due. That he might not be taken 
 unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a 
 small BiUe in hiscoat-pocket. He had also a great folio 
 Bible on his counting-house desk, and would fre- 
 quently be found reading it when people called on 
 business. On such occasions he would lay his green 
 spectacles in the book to mark the place, while he 
 turned round to drive some usurious bargain. 
 
 Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in 
 his old days, and that fancying his end approaching, 
 he had his horse new-shod, saddled and bridled, and 
 buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed 
 that, at the last day, the world would be turneid up- 
 side down, in which case he would find his horse 
 standing ready for mounting, and he was determined, 
 at the worst, to give his old friend a run for it. This, 
 however, is probably a mere old wives' fable. 
 
 If he really did take such a precaution, it was to- 
 tally superfluous ; at least so says the authentic old 
 legend, which closes his story in the following man- 
 ner. 
 
 On one hot afternoon in the dog-days, just as a 
 terrible black thunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat 
 in his counting-house, in his white linen cap, and 
 India silk morning-gown. He was on the point of 
 foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete 
 the ruin of an unlucky land speculator, for whom he 
 had professed the greatest friendship. 
 
 The poor land-jobber begged him to grant a few 
 months' indulgence. Tom had grown testy and ir- 
 ritated, and refused another day. 
 
 " My family will be ruined, and brought upon the 
 parish," said the land-jobber. 
 
 "Charity begins at home," replied Tom. ''I 
 must take care of myself ui these liard tunes." 
 
 *' You have made so much money out of me," said 
 the speculator. 
 
 Tom lost his patience and his piety. 
 
 " The d— 1 take me," said he, " if I Iiave made 
 a farthing." 
 
 Just then there were three loud knocks at the street- 
 door. He stepped out to see who was there. A 
 black man was holding a black horse, which neighed 
 and stamped with impatience. 
 
 " Tom, you're come for !" said the black fellow, 
 gruffly. Tom shrank back, but too late. He had 
 left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat-pocket, 
 and his big Bible on the desk, buried under the mort- 
 gage he was about to foreclose : never was sinner 
 taken more unawares ; the black man whisked him 
 like a child into the saddle, gave the horse a lash, and 
 away he galloped, witi) Tom on his back, in the 
 midst of the thunder-storm. The clerks stuck their 
 [tens Itehind their ears, and stared after him from the 
 
 windows. Away went Tom Walker, dashing down 
 the streets, his white cap bobbing up and down, his 
 morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed 
 striking fire out of the pavement at every bound. 
 When the clerks turned to look for the black man, 
 he had disappeared. 
 
 Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mort- 
 gage. A countryman, who lived on the border of I 
 the swamp, reported, that in the height of the thun- 1 
 der-gust he had heart! a great clatteringof hoofs, and a 
 howling along the road, and that when he ran to the 
 window, he just caught sight of a figure such as I 
 have described, on a horse that galloped like road 
 across the fields, over the hills, and down into the 
 black hemlock swamp, towards the old Indian fort; 
 and that shortly after, a thunder-bolt fell in that 
 direction, which seemed to set the whole forest in a 
 blaze. 
 
 The good people of Boston shook their heads and 
 shrugged their shoulders ; but had been so much ac- 
 customed to witches and goblins, and tricks of the 
 devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settleoieol 
 of the colony, that they were not so much homr-j 
 struck as might have been expected. Trustees w 
 appointed to take charge of Tom's effects. Therel 
 was nothing, however, to administer upon. Od| 
 searching his coffers, all his bonds and mortgages wei 
 found reduced to cinders. In place of gold and sO 
 ver, his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings 
 two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half- 
 starved horses ; and the very next day his greatj 
 house took fire, and was burnt to the ground. 
 
 Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotti 
 wealth. Let all griping money-brokers lay this sti 
 to heart. The truth of it is not to be doubted. Tiwl 
 very hole under the oak-trees, from whence he di 
 Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day ; and tlHj 
 neighbouring swamp and old Indian fort are oft 
 haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horsebackj 
 in morning-gown and white cap, which is, doublle 
 the troubled spirit of the usurer. In fact, the slor] 
 had resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin o 
 that popular saying, so prevalent throughout Nei^ 
 England, of " The Devil and Tom Walker." 
 
 Such, as nearly as I can recollect, was the purpoij 
 of the tale told by the Cape-Cod whaler, im 
 were divers trivial particulars which I have omitK 
 and which whiled away the morning very pleasaniljj 
 until, the time of tide favourable to fishing being f 
 ed, it was proposed that we should go to land i 
 refresh ourselves under the trees, till the noon-l 
 heat should have abated. 
 
 We accordingly landed on a delectable part ofllj 
 island of Manhatta, in that shady and emboweti 
 tract formerly under the dominion of the ancient f 
 mily of the Hardenbrooks. It was a spot well ko 
 to me in the course of the aquatic expeditions ofi 
 boyhood. Not far from where we landed there i 
 
 Ij 
 
 M- 
 
 lan 
 pam 
 
 ku 
 
 Qd 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 58^> 
 
 rom Walker, dashing down 
 p bobbing up and down, his 
 <■ in tl»e wind, and his sleetl 
 pavement at every bound, 
 to look for the black man, 
 
 turned to foreclose the raort- 
 who lived on the border of 
 [jat in the height of the Ihun- 
 jreat clatteringof hoofs, anda I 
 , and that when he ran to tlie 
 It sight of a figure such as 1 1 
 lorse that galloped like road I 
 the hills, and down into the 
 towards the old Indian fori; 
 , a thunder-bolt fell in tlwil 
 id to set the whole forest in a| 
 
 Boston shook their heads and 
 irs; but had been so much ac- 1 
 ami goblins, and tricks of thej 
 apes from the first setllemenll 
 ey were not so much horror-l 
 Been expected. Trustees werel 
 arge of Tom's effects. Therej 
 er, to administer upon. Onl 
 ill his bonds and mortgageswt 
 lers. In place of gold and sd- 
 s filled with chips and shavings: 
 
 his sUble instead of Ws haiW 
 1 the very next day his greal| 
 was burnt to the ground, 
 f Tom Walker and his ill-gottei 
 ing money-brokers lay this 8t( 
 of it is not to be doubted. Tlie] 
 >ak-trees, from whence he di 
 
 be seen to this day ; and Hi 
 » and old Indian fort are oft( 
 
 ghts by a figure on horseback] 
 a white cap, which is, doubtlesr 
 f the usurer. In fact, the stoi 
 [to a proverb, and is the origin 
 so prevalent throughout Nei 
 
 (evil and Tom Walker." 
 
 an old Dutch family vault, constrncted on the side of 
 a bank, which had been an object of great awe and 
 fable among my school-boy associates. We had 
 peeped into it during one of our coasting voyages, 
 and had been startled by the sight of mouldering cof- 
 fins, and musty bones within ; but Avliat had given it 
 (be most fearful interest in our eyes, was its being in 
 some way connected with the pirate wreck which lay 
 rotting among the rocks of Hell-gate. There were 
 stories, also, of smuggling connected with it ; parti- 
 cularly relating to a time when this retired spot was 
 owned by a noted burgher, called Ready-money Pro- 
 vost, a man of whom it was whispered, that he had 
 many and mysterious dealings with parts beyond seas. 
 All these things, however, had been jumbled together 
 in our minds,in that vague way in which such themes 
 are mingled up in the tales of boyhood. 
 
 While I was pondering upon these matters, my 
 companions had spread a repast from the contents of 
 oar well-stored pannier, under a broad chesnut on 
 the green sward, which swept down to the water's 
 (dge. — Here we solaced ourselves on the cool grassy 
 carpet during the warm sunny hours of mid-day. 
 While lolling on the grass, indulging in that kind of 
 inosing reverie of which I am fond, I summoned up 
 the dusky recollections of my boyhood respecting 
 this place, and repeated them, like the imperfectly- 
 remembered traces of a dream, for the amusement 
 of my companions. When I had finished, a worthy 
 old burgher, John Josse Yandermoere, the same 
 vho once related to me the adventures of Dolph 
 Heyliger, broke silence, and observed, that he recol- 
 lected a story of money-digging, which occurred in 
 this very neighbourhood, and might account for some 
 I of the traditions which I had heard in my boyhood. 
 j As we knew him to be one of the most authentic nar- 
 rators in the province, we begged him to let us have 
 the particulars, and accordingly, while we solaced 
 ourselves with a clean long pipe of Blase Moore's best 
 tobacco, the authentic John Josse Yandermoere re- 
 lated the following tale. 
 
 1 1 can recollect, was the pnrpoj 
 
 the Cape-Cod whaler, m 
 
 articulars which I have omitu 
 
 ,*ay the morning very pleasanlM 
 
 le favourable to fishing beingr 
 
 Ithat we should go to land 
 
 nder the trees, tUl the noon-i 
 
 sndedonadelectablepartoffl 
 
 in that shady and embowen 
 -the dominion of the ancients 
 [rooks. It was a spot well knoj 
 1 of the aquatic expeditions oil- 
 from where we landed there * 
 
 WOLFERT WEBBER; 
 
 oa. 
 GOLDEN DREAMS. 
 
 In the year of grace, one thousand seven hundred 
 land— blank — for I do not remember the precise date; 
 ftwever, .it was somewhere in the early part of the 
 last century, there lived in the ancient city of the 
 tanhaltoes a worthy burgher, Wolfert Webber by 
 pame. He was descended from old Cobus Webber 
 p the Brille in Holland, one of the original settlers, 
 imous for introducing the cultivation of cabbages, 
 nd who came over to .he province during the pro- 
 
 tectorship of Oloffe Yan Kortlandt, otherwise called 
 the Dreamer. 
 
 The field in which Cobus Webber first planted 
 himself and his cabbages had remained ever since in 
 the family, who continued in the same line of hus- 
 bandry, with that praiseworthy perseverance for 
 which our Dutch burghers are noted. The whole 
 family-genius, during several generations, was de- 
 voted to the study and development of (his once noble 
 vegetable, and to this concentration of intellect may, 
 doubtless, be ascribed the prodigious size and renown 
 to which the Webber cabbages attained. 
 
 The Webber dynasty continued in uninterrupted 
 succession ; and never did a line give more unques- 
 tionable proofs of legitimacy. The eldest son suc- 
 ceeded to the looks as well as (he territory of his 
 sire; and had the portraKs of (his line of'lranquil 
 polenta(es been (aken, they would have presented a 
 row of heads marvellously resembling, in shape and 
 magnitude, the vegetables over which they reigned. 
 
 The seat of government continued unchanged in 
 the family mansion, a Dutch-built house, with a front, 
 or rather gable-end, of yellow brick, tapering to a 
 point, with the customary iron weathercock at the 
 top. Every thing about the building bore the air of 
 long-settled ease and security. Flights of martins 
 peopled the little coops nailed against its walls, and 
 swallows built their nests under the eaves : and every 
 one knows that these house-loving birds bring good- 
 luck to the dwelling where they take up their abode. 
 In a bright sunny morning, in early summer, it was 
 delectable to hear their cheerful notes as (hey spor(ed 
 about in the pure sweet air, chirping forth, as it 
 were, the greatness and prosperity of the Webbers. 
 
 Thus quietly and comfortably did this excellent 
 family vegetate under the shade of a mighty button- 
 wood tree, which, by little and little, grew so great, 
 as entirely to overshadow their palace. The city 
 gradually spread its suburbs round their domaui. 
 Houses sprang up to interrupt their prospects ; the 
 rural lanes in the vicinity began to grow into (he 
 bustle and populousness of streets; in short, with all 
 the habits of rustic life, they began to find themselves 
 the inhabitants of a city. Still, however, they main- 
 tained their hereditary character and hereditary pos- 
 sessions, with all the tenacity of petty German princes 
 in the midst of the empire. Wolfert was the last of 
 the line, and succeeded to the patriarchal bench at 
 the door, under the family-tree, and swayed the 
 sceptre of his fathers, a kind of rural potentate in the 
 midst of a metropolis. 
 
 To share the cares and sweets of sovereignty, he 
 had taken unto himself a helpmate, one of that ex- 
 cellent kind called stirring women; that is to say, 
 she was one of those notable little housewives who 
 are always busy when there is nothing to do. Her 
 activity, however, took one particular direction; her 
 whole life seemed devoted to intense knitting : 
 whether at home or abroad, walking or sitting, her 
 needles were continually in motion ; and it is even 
 
 ll 
 
 t 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 
tm 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 afHrmed that, by her unwearied industry, she very 
 nearly supplied her household with stockings through- 
 out the year. This worthy couple were blessed with 
 one daughter, who was brought up with great ten- 
 derness and care ; uncommon pains had been taken 
 with her education, so that she could stitch in every 
 variety of way, make all kinds of pickles and pre- 
 serves, and mark her own name on a sampler. The 
 influence of her taste was seen, also, in the family- 
 garden, where the ornamental began to mingle with 
 the useful ; whole rows of flery marigolds and splen- 
 did hollyhocks bordered the cabbage-beds, and gi- 
 gantic sun-flowers lolled their broad jolly faces over 
 the fences, seeming to ogle most affectionately the 
 passers-by. 
 
 Thus reigned and ve^tated Wolfert Webber over 
 his paternal acres, peaceful and contentedly. Not 
 but that, like all other sovereigns, he had his occasional 
 cares and vexations. The growth of his native city 
 sometimes caused him annoyance. His little territory 
 gradually became hemmed in by streets and houses, 
 which intercepted air and sunshine. He was now 
 and then subjected to the irruptions of the border 
 population that infest the skirts of a metropolis ; who 
 would sometimes make midnight forays into his do- 
 minions, and carry off captive whole platoons of his 
 noblest subjects. Vagrant swine would make a des- 
 cent, too, now and then, when the gate was left open, 
 and lay all waste before them; and mischievous ur- 
 chins would often decapitate the illustrious sun-flow- 
 ers, the glory of the garden, as they lolled their heads 
 so fondly over the walls. Still all these were petty 
 grievances, which might now and then ruffle the sur- 
 face of his mind, as a summer breeze will ruffle the 
 surface of a mill-pond, but they could not disturb the 
 deep-seated quiet of his soul. He would but seize a 
 trusty staff that stood behind the door, issue suddenly 
 out, and anoint the back of the aggressor, whether 
 pig or urchin, and then return within doors, marvel- 
 lously refreshed and tranquillized. 
 
 The chief cause of anxiety to honest Wolfert, how- 
 ever, was the growing prosperity of the city. The 
 expenses of living doubled and trebled ; but he could 
 not double and treble the magnitude of his cabbages ; 
 and the number of competitors prevented the increase 
 of price. Thus, therefore, while every one around 
 him grew richer, Wolfert grew poorer ; and he could 
 not, for the life of him, perceive how the evil was to 
 be remedied. 
 
 This growing care, which increased from day to 
 day, had its gradual effect upon our worthy burgher; 
 insomuch, tliat it at length implanted two or three 
 wrinkles in his brow, things unknown before in the 
 family of the Webbers ; and it seemed to pinch up the 
 corners of his cocked hat into an expression of anxiety 
 totally opposite to the tranquil, broad-brimmed, low- 
 crowned beavers of his illustrious progenitors. 
 
 Perhaps even this would not have materially dis- 
 turbed the serenity of his mind, had he had only him- 
 self and his wife to care for ; but there was his daughter 
 
 gradually growing to maturity; and all the world 
 knows that when daughters liegin to ripen, no fniit 
 nor flower requires so much looking after. I have no 
 talent at describing female charms, else fain would I 
 depict the progress of this little Dutch beauty. How 
 her blue eyes grew deeper and deeper, and her cherry 
 lips redder and redder; and how she ripenetl and ri- 
 pened, and rounded and rounded, in the opening 
 breath of sixteen summers ; until in her seventeenth 
 spring she seemed ready to burst out of her bodice 
 like a half-blown rose-bud. 
 
 Ah, well-a-day ! could I but show her as she was 
 then, tricked out on a Sunday morning in the here- 
 ditary tineryoftheold Dutch clothes-press, of wliicli 
 her mother had confided to her the key. The wed- 
 ding-dress of her grandmother modernized for use, 
 with sundry ornaments, handed down as heir-loomg 
 in the family; her pale brown hair, smoothed wiili 
 buttermilk in flat waving lines, on each side of her 
 fair forehead ; the chain of yellow virgin gold that en- 
 circled her neck; the little cross that just rested ii 
 the entrance of a soft valley of happiness, as if it 
 would sanctify the place ; the — but, pooh — it is not 
 for an old man like me to be prosing about female 
 beauty. Suffice it to say. Amy had attained he^s^ 
 venteenth year. Long since had her san^pler exliibii- 
 ed hearts in couples, desperately transfixed \iith 
 arrows, and true-lover' s-knots, worked in deep blue 
 silk ; and it was evident she began to languish for 
 some more interesting occupation than the rearing of 
 sunflowers, or pickling of cucumbers. 
 
 At this critical period of female existence, when the 
 heart within a damsel's bosom, like its emblem, the 
 miniature which hangs without, is apt to be engrossed 
 by a single image, a new visitor began to make his 
 appearance under the roof of Wolfert Webber. This 
 was Dirk Waldron, the only son of a poor widow; 
 but who could boast of more fathers than any lad ii 
 the province ; for his mother had had four husbands, 
 and this only child ; so that, though born in her last 
 wedlock, he might fairly claim to be the tardy fruit 
 of a long course of cultivation. This son of four fa-j 
 thers united the merits and the vigour of all his siresl 
 If he had not had a great family before him, he seem-l 
 ed likely to have a great one after him ; for yon liadl 
 only to look at the fresh bucksome youth, to see that| 
 he was formed to be the founder of a mighty race. 
 
 This youngster gradually became an intimate visilorl 
 of the family. He talked little, but he sat long. H(f 
 filled the father's pipe when it was empty; gathen 
 up the mother's knitting-needle or ball of worstedj 
 when it fell to the ground; stroked the sleek coatc 
 the tortoise-shell cat ; and replenished the teapot fiii| 
 the daughter, from the bright copper kettle thatsabj 
 before the fire. All these quiet little offices may sei 
 of trifling import ; but when true love is translate^ 
 into Low Dutch, it is in this way that it eloquently e 
 presses itself. They were not lost upon the Webh 
 family. The winning ydungster found marvello 
 favour in the eyes of the mother ; the tortoise-shell t 
 
 pew 
 
 nn, 
 
 in 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 rj87 
 
 laturity; and all the world 
 lent liegin to ripen, no frail 
 ich looking after. I have no 
 lie charms, else fain would I 
 s lillle Dutch beauty. How 
 »r and deeper, and her cherry 
 and how she ripened and ri 
 id rounded, in the opening 
 ers ; until in her seventeenth 
 ly to burst out of her bodice 
 
 lud. 
 
 Id I but show her as she was 
 Sunday morning in the herb 
 Dutch clothes-press, of which 
 A to her the key. The 'ved- 
 dmolher modernized for m, 
 I, handed down as heir-loomg 
 e brown hair, smoothed willi 
 ing lines, on each side of her 
 n of yellow virgin gold that en- 
 little cross that just rested at 
 L valley of happiness, as if it 
 ice; the— but, pooh— it is not 
 ne to be prosing about female 
 say. Amy had attained her se- 
 ; since had her san.pler exiiibil- 
 desperately transfixed with 
 r's-knots, worked in deep blue 
 lent she began to languish for 
 r occupation than the rearing ol 
 ig of cucumbers, 
 kd of female existence, when the 
 \'s bosom, like its emblem, the 
 ;s without, is apt to be engrossed 
 new visitor began to make his 
 roof of Wolfert Webber. This 
 he only son of a poor widow; 
 of more fathers than any lad in 
 mother had had four husbands, 
 io that, though born in her last 
 airiy claim to be the tardy fruitj 
 iltivation. This son of four fa- 
 ts and the vigour of all his sires. 
 ,eat family before him, he seem- 
 ■eat one after him; for yon had 
 esh bucksome youth, to seellial 
 the founder of a mighty race. 
 lually became an intimate visitor 
 Ikedlillle, buthesatlong. Hr 
 e when it was empty; gatliei* 
 ling-needle or ball of worsted 
 ound; stroked the sleek coal 
 ; and replenished the teapot 
 I'e bright copper kettle that sal 
 hese quiet little offices may see 
 It when true love is Iranslati 
 in this way that it eloquently 
 were not lost upon the Webl 
 ig youngster found marvdl 
 be mother; the tortoise-shell 
 
 albeit the most staid and demure of her kind, gave 
 indubitable signs of approbation of his visits; the lea- 
 kettle seemed to sing out a cheery note of welcome at 
 bis approach; and if the shy glances of the daughter 
 might be rightly read, as she sat bridling, and dimp- 
 linir, and sewing by her mother's side, she was not a 
 wbil behind Dame Webber, or grimalkin, or the tea- 
 kettle in good-will. 
 
 Wolfert alone saw nothing of what was going on; 
 profoundly wrapped up in meditation on the growth 
 of the city, and his cabbages, he sal looking in the fire 
 and puffing his pipe in silence. One night, liowever, 
 as the gentle Amy, according to custom, lighted her 
 lover to Ihe outer door, and he, according to custom, 
 took his parting salute, the smack resounded so vigor- 
 ously through the long, silent entry, as to startle even 
 the dull ear of Wolfert. He was slowly roused to a 
 new source of anxiety. It had never entered into his 
 head, that this mere child, who, as it seemed, but the 
 other day, had been climbing about his knees, and 
 playing with dolls and baby-houses, could, all at once, 
 be thinking of lovers and matrimony. He rubbed his 
 eyes; examined into the fuct; and really found, that 
 while he had been dreaming of other malters, she had 
 actually grown to be a woman, and what was worse, 
 had fallen in love. Here arose new cares for poor 
 Wolfert. He was a kind father; but he was a pru- 
 dent man. The young man was a lively, stirring 
 lad; but then he had neither money nor land. Wol- 
 fert's ideas all ran in one channel ; and he saw no al- 
 ternative, in case of a marriage, but to portion off the 
 young couple with a corner of his cabbage-garden, 
 the whole of which was barely suflicient for the sup- 
 port of his family. 
 
 Like a prudent father, therefore, he determined to 
 nip fills passion in the bud, and forbade the young- 
 [ster the house ; though sorely did it go against his 
 btherly heart, and many a silent tear did it cause in 
 the bright eye of his daughter. She showed herself, 
 |however, a pattern of filial piety and obedience. She 
 lever pouted and sulked ; she never Hew in the face 
 f parental authority; she never fefi into a passion, or 
 H into hysterics, as many romantic novel-read young 
 idies would do. Not she, indeed ! She was none 
 ich heroical rebellious trumpery, I'll warrant you. 
 In the contrary, she acquiesced like an obedient 
 iugiiter ; shut the street door in her lover's face ; 
 id if ever she did grant him an interview, it was 
 itheroutof the kitchen-window, or over the garden 
 nee. 
 
 Wolferl was deeply cogitating these matters in his 
 lind, and his brow wrinkled with unusual care, as 
 e wended his way one Saturday afternoon to a rural 
 n, about two miles from the city. It was a favour- 
 resort of the Dutch part of the community, from 
 ing always held by a Dutch line of landlords, and 
 Gaining an air and relish of the good old times. It 
 as a Dutch-built house, that had probably been a 
 ntry-seat of some opulent burgher in the early 
 me of the settlement. It stood near a point of land 
 
 called Corlear's Hook, which stretches out into the 
 Sound, and against which the tide, at its llux and re- 
 flux, sets with extraordinary rapidity. The venerable 
 and somewhat crazy mansion was distinguished from 
 afar by a grove of elms and sycamores, that seemed 
 to wave a hospitable invitation, while a few weeping 
 willows, with their dank, drooping foliage, resem- 
 bling falling waters, gave an idea of coolness that ren- 
 dered it an atUactive spot during the heats of summer. 
 Here therefore, as I said, resorted many of the old 
 inhabitants of the Manhattan, where, while some 
 played at shuffle-lmard, and quoits, and nine-pins, 
 oUiers smoked a deliberate pipe, and talked over pub- 
 lic affairs. 
 
 It was on a blustering autumnal afternoon that 
 Wolfert made his visit to the inn. The grove of elms 
 and willows was stripped of its leaves, which whirl- 
 ed in rustling eddies about the fields. The nine-pin 
 alley was deserted, for the premature chilliness of the 
 day had driven the company within doors. As it was 
 Saturday afternoon, the habitual club was in session, 
 composed, principally, of regular Dutch burghers, 
 though mingled occasionally with persons of various 
 character and country, as is natural in a place of such 
 motley population. 
 
 Beside the fire-place, in a huge leather-bottomed 
 arm-chair, sat the dictator of this little world, the ve- 
 nerable Remm, or, as it was pronounced, Ramni 
 Rapelye. He was a man of Walloon race, and il- 
 lustrious for the antiquity of his line, his great grand- 
 mother having been the first white child born in the 
 province. But he was still more illustrious for his 
 wealth and dignity : he had long filled the noble of- 
 fice of alderman, and was a man to whom the Go- 
 vernor himself took off his hat. He had maintained 
 possession of the leather-bottomed chair from time 
 immemorial ; and had gradually waxed m bulk as he 
 sat in this seat of government ; until, in the course of 
 years, he filled its whole magnitude. His word was 
 decisive with his subjects ; for he was so rich a man 
 that he was never expected to support any opinion by 
 argument. The landlord waited on him with pecu- 
 liar ofliciousness ; not that he paid better than bis 
 neighbours, but then the coin of a rich man seems 
 always to be so much more acceptable. The land- 
 lord had ever a pleasant word and a joke to insinuate 
 in the ear of the august Ramm. It is true, Ramm 
 never laughed ; and, indeed, ever maintained a mas- 
 tiff-like gravity and even surliness of aspect ; yet he 
 now and then rewarded mine host with a token of 
 approbation ; which, though nothing more nor less 
 than a kind of grunt, still delighted the landlord more 
 than a broad laugh from a poorer man. 
 
 " This will be a rough night for the money-dig- 
 gers, " said mine host, as a gust of wind howled 
 round the house and rattled at the windows. 
 
 " What! are they at their work again?" said an 
 English half-pay captain with one eye, who was a very 
 frequent attendant at the inn. 
 
 " Ay, are they, " said the landlord, " and well 
 
 «:, 
 
j»8 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLEK. 
 
 may they be. They've h 1 luck of late. They say 
 a great pot of money has been dug up in the Held 
 just behind Stuyvesant's Orchard. Folks think it 
 must have been buried there in old times, by Peter 
 Stuyvesant, the Dutch governor. " 
 
 " Fudge ! " said the one-eyed man-of-war, as he 
 added a small portion of water to a liottom of brandy. 
 
 " Well, you may believe or not, as you please, " 
 said mine host, somewhat nettled ; " but every body 
 knows that the old governor buried a great deal of 
 his money at the lime of the Dutch troubles, when 
 the English red-coats seized on the province. They 
 say too, the old gentleman walks ; ay, and in the 
 very same dress that he wears in the picture that 
 hangs up in the family-house. " 
 
 " Fudge ! " said the half-pay officer. 
 
 " Fudge, if you please ! But didn't Corny Van 
 Zandt see him at midnight, stalking about in the 
 meadow with his wooden leg, and a drawn sword in 
 his hand, that flashed like fire? And what can he 
 be walking for, but because people have been troub- 
 ling the place where he buried his money in old 
 times ? " 
 
 Here the landlord was interrupted by several gut- 
 tural sounds from Ramm Rapelye, betokening that 
 he was labouring with the unusual production of an 
 idea. As he was 'oo great a man to be slighted by a 
 prudent publican, mine host respectfully paused until 
 he should deliver himself. The corpulent frame of 
 this mighty burgher now gave all the symptoms of a 
 volcanic mountain on the point of an eruption. First 
 there was a certain heaving of theabdomen, nol unlike 
 an earthquake; then was emitted a cloud of tobacco- 
 smoke from that crater, his mouth ; then there was a 
 kind of rattle in the throat, as if the idea were work- 
 ing its way up through a region of phlegm; then 
 there were several disjointed members of a sentence 
 thrown out, ending in a cough : at length his voice 
 forced its way in the slow lut absolute tone of a man 
 who feels the weight of his purse, if not of his ideas; 
 every portion of his speech being marked by a testy 
 puff of tobacco-smoke. 
 
 " Who talks of old Peter Stuyvesant's walking?" 
 — Puff— "Have people no respect for persons?" — 
 Puff— puff— "Peter Stuyvesant knew better what to 
 do with his money than to bury it." — Puff— "I 
 know the Stuyvesant family."— Puff— "Every one 
 of them."— Puff- "Not a more respectable family in 
 the province." —Puff— "Old standers. " — Puff— 
 "Warm house-holders." — Puff— "None of your up- 
 starts."— Puff— puff— puff— " Don't talk to me of 
 Peter Stuyvesant's walking."— Puff— puff— puff- 
 puff. 
 
 Here the redoubtable Ramm contracted his brow, 
 clasped up his mouth till it wrinkled at each corner, 
 and redoubled his smoking with such vehemence, 
 that the cloudy volumes soon wreathed round his 
 head as the smoke envelops the awflil summit of 
 Mount Etna. 
 A general silence followed the sudden rebuke of 
 
 this very rich man. The subject, however, was ti 
 interesting to be readily abandoned. The converse 
 tion soon broke forth again from the lips of Peech; 
 Prauw Van Hook, the chronicler of the club, one o 
 those prosy, narrative old men who seem to be trouble< 
 with an incontinence of words as they grow old. 
 
 Peechy could at any lime tell as many stories in ai 
 evening as his hearers could digesit in a month. Hi 
 now resumed the conversation by aflirming, that ti 
 his knowledge money had at different times been dn{ 
 up in various parts of the island. The lucky person 
 who had discovered them had always dreamt of then 
 three limes beforehand; and, what was worthy 
 remark, those treasures had never been found but b 
 some descendant of the good old Dutch families 
 which clearly proved that they bad been buried 
 Dutchmen in the olden time. 
 
 "Fiddlestick with your Dutchmen!" cried the hall 
 pay officer. "The Dutch had nothing to do wi 
 them. They were all buried by Kidd the pirad 
 and his crew." 
 
 Here a key-note was touched which roused tl 
 whole company. The name of Captain Kidd vi 
 like a talisman in those times, and was associai 
 with a thousand marvellous stories. The half-pay 
 licer took the lead, and in his narrations fathei 
 upon Kidd all the plunderings and exploits of Mor 
 Black-beard, and the whole list of bloody buccane 
 
 The officer was a man of great weight among 
 peaceable members of the club, by reason of his m 
 like character and gunpowder tales. All his goli 
 stories of Kidd, however, and of the booty he 
 buried, were obstinately rivalled by the tales of P( 
 chy Prauw ; who rather than suffer his Dutch 
 genitors to be eclipsed by a foreign freebooter, 
 riched every field and shore in the neighbourbi 
 with the hidden wealtlt of Peter Stuyvesant and 
 contemporaries. 
 
 Not a word of this conversation was lost upon W'l 
 fert Webber. He returned pensively home, 
 magnificent ideas. The soil of his native isli 
 seemed to be turned into gold-dust, and every fii 
 to teem with treasure. His head almost reeled at 
 thought, how often he must have heedlessly rami 
 over places where countless sums lay scarcely covei 
 by the turf beneath his feet. His mind was in 
 uproar with this whirl of new ideas. As he came 
 sight of the venerable mansion of his forefathei's, 
 the little realm where the Webbers had so long 
 so contentedly flourished, his gorge rose at the 
 rowness of his destiny. 
 
 " Unl ucky Wol fert ! ' ' exclaimed he. " Others 
 go to bed and dream themselves into whole mil 
 of wealth; they have but to seize a spade in the moi 
 ing, and turn up doubloons like potatoes ; but Ihi 
 must dream of hardship and rise to poverty— m 
 dig thy fields from year's end to year's end, and 
 raise nothing but cabbages ! " 
 
 Wolfert Webber went to bed with a heavy hei 
 and it was long before the golden visions that 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 tm 
 
 The subject, however, was toe »«d W» l*"'" permltled liim to sink into repose, 
 ily abandoned. The conversa ■ «"ne visions, however, extended into his sleep- 
 again from the lips of Peechj H'oughls, and assumed a more definite form, 
 e chronicler of the club, one dreamt that lie had discovered an immense trea- 
 old men wlio seem to be trouble* ' «" the centre of his garden. At every strolce 
 of words as they grow old. *>« sHe he laid bare a golden ingot; diamond 
 ly lime tell as many stories in ai «"* sparkled out of the dust; bags of money 
 8 could digest in a month. 11 '«• "P "'«'«■ •^'•'e*' corpulent with pieces-of-eighl, 
 iversalion by afllrming, that I enerable doubloons; and chests, wedged close 
 /had at different times been dii| i moidores, ducats, and pislareens, yawned be- 
 r the island. The lucky person •"» ravished eyes, and vomited forth their glit- 
 Ihem had always dreamt of thei '» contenu. 
 
 ind- and what was worthy « Nfert awoke a poorer man than ever. He had 
 res had never been found but b 'earttogo about his daily concerns, which ap- 
 the good old Dutch familiej wl so paltry and profilless, bat sat all day long in 
 I that they had been buried b chimney-corner, picturing to himself ingoU and 
 en time. 
 
 H of gold in the fire. 
 
 your Dutchmen ! " cried Uie hall ''e "«*» "'8''^ his dream was repeated. He was 
 
 Dutch had nothing to do wil 
 all buried by Kidd the pirali 
 
 was touched which roused thi 
 riie name of CapUin Kidd wij 
 those times, and was associaU 
 rvellous stories. The half-pay ( 
 , and in his narrations fathen 
 underings and exploits of Mor^ 
 e whole list of bloody buccane 
 I man of great weight among 
 of the club, by reason of his w» 
 junpowder tales. All his gold 
 fvever, and of the booty he 
 ately rivalled by the tales of Pet 
 alher than suffer his Dutch 
 sed by a foreign freebooter, 
 md shore in the neighbourh 
 allh of Peter Sluyvesant andli 
 
 conversation was lost upon Wd 
 returned pensively home, full ( 
 
 The soil of his native isli 
 
 :d into gold-dust, and every 1 
 
 re. His head almost reeled at I 
 
 le must have heedlessly ramb 
 
 unlless sums lay scarcely coven 
 
 his feet. His mind was in 
 
 irl of new ideas. As he camei 
 
 lie mansion of his forefalhei-s, 
 
 re the Webbers had so long < 
 
 [ished, his gorge rose at the i 
 
 y- 
 
 1 1 " exclaimed he. " Others c 
 themselves into whole rnift 
 but to seize a spade in the mon 
 ubloons like potatoes ; but ihoi 
 Iship and rise to poverty-mii! 
 ear's end to year's end, andj^ 
 bages ! " 
 
 went to bed with a heavy he 
 fore the golden visions that 
 
 in his garden, digging, and laying open stores 
 idden wealth. There was something very sin- 
 ir in this repetition. He passed another day of 
 
 lie; and though it was cleaning day, and the 
 , as usual in Dutch households, completely 
 turvy, yet he sat unmoved amidst the general 
 r. 
 
 |he third night he went to bed with a palpitating 
 
 ■I. He put on his red night-cap, wrong side out- 
 , fur good luck. It was deep midnight before 
 
 nxious mind could settle itself into sleep. Again 
 Idcn dream was repeated, and again he saw his 
 
 len teeming with ingots and money-bags. 
 
 f'olfert rose the next morning in complete be- 
 
 lerinent. A dream, three times repeated, was 
 
 T known to lie, and if so, his fortune was made. 
 
 is agitation, he put on his waistcoat with the bind 
 before, and this was a corroboration of good 
 
 . He no longer doubled that a huge store of 
 
 ey lay buried somewhere in his cabbage field, 
 
 y waiting to be sought for; and he repined at 
 ig so long been scratching about the surface of 
 il instead of digging to the centre. He took his 
 
 at lite breakfast-table, full of these speculations ; 
 his daughter to put a lump of gold into his tea; 
 
 Ion handing his wife a plate of slai^jacks, begged 
 
 to help herself to a doubloon, 
 grand care now was, how to secure this im- 
 Ireasure without its being known. Instead of 
 
 Iking regularly in his grounds in the day-time, 
 
 low stole from his bed at night, and with spade 
 pickaxe, went to work to rip up and dig about 
 
 paternal acres from one end to the other. In a 
 lime, the whole garden, which had presented 
 a goodly and regular appearance, with its pha- 
 of cabbages, like a vegetable army in battle ar- 
 was reduced to a scene of devastation ; while 
 elentless Wolfert, with nighl-cap on head, and 
 rn and spade in lu .id, stalked through theslaugh- 
 lanks, ihe destroying angel of his own vegeta- 
 orld. 
 
 [very morning bore testimony to the ravages of 
 
 the preceding night, in cabbages of all ages and con- 
 ditions, from the tender sprout to the full-grown 
 head, piteously rooted from their quiet beds, like 
 wortldess weeds, and left to wither in the sunshine. 
 It was in vain Wolfert's wife remonstrated; it was 
 in vain his darling daughter wept over the destruc- 
 tion of some favourite marigold. " Thou shalt have 
 gold of another guess sort," he would cry, chucking 
 her under the chin. " Thou shalt have a siring of 
 crooked ducats for thy wedding necklace, my child ! " 
 
 His family began really to fear that the poor man's 
 wits were diseased. He muttered in his sleep at night 
 about mines of wealth ; about pearls, and diamonds, 
 and bars of gold. In the day-time he was moody 
 and abstracted, and walked about as if in a trance. 
 Dame Webber held frequent councils with all the 
 old women of the neighbourhood. Scarce an hour 
 in the day but a knot of them might be seen, wag- 
 ging their white caps together round her door, while 
 the poor woman made some piteous recital. The 
 daughter, too, was fain to seek for more frequent 
 consolation from the stolen interviews of her favoured 
 swain. Dirk Waldron. The delectable little Dutch 
 songs with which stie used to dulcify the house grew 
 less and less frequent; and she would forget her sew- 
 ing, and look wistfully in her father's face, as he 
 sat pondering by the lire-side. Wolfert caught her 
 eye one day fixed on him thus anxiously, and for a mo- 
 ment was roused from his golden reveries. " Cheer 
 up, my girl," said he, exullingly; " why dost thou 
 droop ? Thou shalt hold up thy head one day with, 
 the BrinckerhofTs and the Schermerhorns, the Van 
 Homes, and the Van Dams— By St Nicholas, but 
 the Palroon himself shall be glad to get thee for his 
 son! ' 
 
 Amy shook her head at this vainglorious boast, 
 and was more than ever in doubt of Ihe soundness of 
 the good man's intellect. 
 
 In the mean time, Wolfert went on digging and 
 digging; but the field was extensive, and as his dream 
 had indicated no precise spot, he had to dig at ran- 
 dom. The winter set in before one tenth of the 
 scene of promise had been explored. The ground 
 became frozen bard, and the nights too cold for the 
 labours of the spade. No sooner, however, did the 
 returning warmth of spring loosen the soil, and the 
 small frogs begin to pipe in the meadows, but Wol- 
 fert resumed his labours'with renovated zeal. Still, 
 however, Ihe hours of industry were reversed. In- 
 stead of working cheerily all day, planting and setting 
 out his vegetables, he remained thoughlfully idle, 
 until the shades of night summoned him to his secret 
 labours. In this way he continued to dig, from night 
 to night, and week to week, and month to month, 
 but not a sliver did he find. On the contrary, the 
 more he digged, the poorer he grew. The rich soil 
 of his garden was digged away, and the sand and 
 gravel from beneath were thrown to the surface, un- 
 til the whole field presented an aspect of sandy bar- 
 renness. 
 
390 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 la the mean time the seasons gradually rolled on. 
 The little frogs which had piped in the meadows in 
 early spring, croaked as bull-frogs daring the sum- 
 mer heats, and then sunk into silence. The peach- 
 tree budded, blossomed, and bore its fruit. The 
 swallows and martins came, twittered about the roof, 
 built their nest, reared their young, held their con- 
 gress along the eaves, and then winged their flight in 
 search of another spring. The caterpillar spun its 
 winding-sheet, dangled in it from the great button- 
 wood tree before the house, turned into a moth, flut- 
 tered with the last sunshine of summer, and disap- 
 peared; and, finally, the leaves of the button-wood 
 tree turned yellow, then brown, then rustled one by 
 one to the ground, and, whirling about in little eddies 
 of wind and dust, whispered that winter was at 
 hand. 
 
 Wolfert gradually woke from his drea.n of wealth 
 as the year declined. lie had reared no crop for the 
 supply of his household during the sterility of winter. 
 The season was long and severe, and, for the first 
 time, the family was really straitened in its comforts. 
 By degrees a revulsion of thought took place in Wol- 
 fert's mind, common to those whose golden dreams 
 have been disturbed by pinching realities. The idea 
 gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. 
 He already considered himself one of the most unfor- 
 tunate men in the province, having lo^it such an in- 
 calculable amount of undiscovered treasure ; and now, 
 when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to 
 be perplexed for shillings and pence was cruel in the 
 extreme. 
 
 Haggard care gathered about his brow ; he went 
 about with a money-seeking air ; his eyes bent down- 
 wards into the dust, and carrying his hands in his 
 pockets, as men are apt to do when they have no- 
 thing else to put into them. He could not even pass 
 the city alms-house without giving it a rueful glance, 
 as if destined to be his future abode. The strange- 
 ness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much 
 speculation and remark. For a long time he was sus- 
 pected of being crazy, and then every body pitied him; 
 at length it began to be suspected that he was poor, 
 and then every body avoided him. 
 
 The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him 
 outside of the door when he called ; entertained him 
 hospitably on the threshold ; pressed him warmly ty 
 the hand al parting; shook their heads as he walked 
 away, with the kind-hearted expression of "Poor 
 Wolfert!" and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance 
 they saw him approaching as lliey walked the streets. 
 Even the barber and cobbler of the neighbourhood, 
 and a tattered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the 
 poorest and merriest rogues in the world, eyed him 
 with that abundant sympathy which usually attends 
 a lack of means ; and theje is not a doubt but their 
 pockets would have been at his command, only that 
 they happened to be empty. 
 
 Thus every body deserted the Webber mansion, 
 ns if poverty were contagious, like the plague; every 
 
 mi 
 
 body but honest Dirk Waldron, who still kept ap| 
 stolen visits to the daughter, and, indeed, seemed 
 wax more affectionate as the fortunes of his mistn 
 were in the wane. 
 
 Many months had elapsed since Wolfert had fj 
 quented his old resort, the rural inn. He was taki 
 a long lonely walk one Saturday afternoon, musi 
 over his wants and disappointments, when his k ^^^ 
 took, instinctively, their wonted direction, and 
 awaking out of a reverie, he found himself before I 
 door of the inn. For some moments he hesilal 
 whether to enter, but his heart yearned for com) 
 nionship; and where can a ruined man find belt *' 
 companionship than at a tavern, where there isn 
 ther sober example nor sober advice to put him out 
 countenance? 
 
 Wolfert found several of the old frequenters off 
 inn at their usual post, and seated in their \tn 
 places ; but one was missing, the great Ramm I 
 pelye, who for many years had filled the lealb 
 bottomed chair of state. His place was supplied! 
 a stranger, who seemed, however, completely j 
 home in the chair and the tavern. He was raft 
 under size, but deep-chested, square, and mused 
 His broad shoulders, double joints, and bow-kn 
 gave tokens of prodigious strength. His face i 
 dark and weather-beaten ; a deep scar, as if fromlj 
 slash of a cutlass, had almost divided his nose, 
 made a gash in his upper lip, through which his let 
 shone like a bulldog's. A mop of iron-grey hair| 
 a grizzly finish to his hard-favoured visage, 
 dress was of an amphibious character. He worel 
 old hat edged with tarnished lace, and cocked inn 
 tial style on one side of his head ; a rusty blue n 
 tary coat with brass buttons, and a wide pair olslil 
 petticoat trowsers, or rather breeches, for they i 
 gathered up at the knees. He ordered every I 
 about him with an authoritative air; talked in a I 
 tling voice, that sounded like the crackling of llm 
 
 under a pot; d d the landlord and servants i 
 
 perfect impunity; and was wailed upon with gn 
 obsequiousness than had ever been shown to I 
 mighty Ramm himself. 
 
 Wolfert's curiosity was awakened to know \ 
 and what was (his »:ranger, who had thus usuij 
 absolute sway in this ancient domain. Peecliy Pn 
 took him aside into a remote corner of the I 
 and there, in an under voice, and with great caulij 
 imparted to him all that he knew on the siibjd 
 The inn had been aroused, several moiilhs belii 
 on a dark stormy night, by repeated long sh« 
 that seemed like the bowlings of a wolf. Tliey c 
 from the water-side ; and at length were distingiiisk 
 to be hailing the house in the sea-faring manna 
 House-a-hoy ! The landlord turned out willi I 
 head-waiter, tapster, ostler, and errand-boy, thi 
 to say, with his old negro. Cuff. On approaching 
 place from whence the voice proceeded, they fnf 
 this amphibious-looking personage atthe water'se 
 quite alone, and seated on a great oaken sea-< 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 mi 
 
 Waldron, who still kept apll 
 jghter, and, indeed, seemedj 
 I as ihe fortunes of his mistn" 
 
 elapsed since Wolfert had 
 , the rural inn. He was taki 
 ilie Saturday afternoon, mui 
 disappointments, when his 
 heir wonted direction, and 
 ■rie, he found himself before 
 [)r some moments he hesilal 
 lU his heart yearned for coi 
 e can a ruined man iind bel 
 at a tavern, where there is 
 
 }W he came there, whether he had been set on 
 ore from some boat, or had floated to land on his 
 ^est, nobody could tell, for he did not seem dis- 
 , to answer questions ; and there was something 
 I his looks and manners that put a stop to all ques- 
 
 ling. Suffice it to say, he took possession of a 
 rner room of the inn, to which his chest was re- 
 nved with great difficulty. Here he had remained 
 
 er since, keeping about the inn and its vicinity ; 
 
 elimes, it is true, he disappeared for one, two, or 
 
 jree days at a time, going and returning without 
 
 ^ing any notice or account of his movements. He 
 
 ays appeared to have plenty of money, though 
 
 ja of very strange outlandish coinage ; and he re- 
 lor sober advice to put him oulBj^jiy pgjj i,jg jjjn every evening before turning in. 
 
 eral of the old frequenters of j 
 post, and seated in their us^ 
 s missing, the great Ramm 1 
 ,y years had tilled the lealh 
 late. His place was suppliedl 
 eemed, however, completely! 
 and the tavern. He was raftf 
 p-chested, square, and muscnl 
 R, double joints, and bow-kw 
 digious strength. His face 
 )eaten ; a deep scar, as if froralj 
 lad almost dividetl his nose, 
 upper lip, through which his 18 
 5's. A mop of iron-grey haii - 
 I his hard-favouretl visage, 
 inhibious character. He \\m\ 
 tarnished lace, and cocked inii 
 
 of his head; a rusty bluet 
 
 buttons, and a wide pairofs! 
 or rather breeches, for tliey\ 
 
 knees. He ordered every 1 
 authoritative air ; talked in a I 
 
 nded like the crackling of lli 
 
 the landlord and servants 
 
 md was waited upon with gi 
 
 n had ever been shown to 
 
 iself. 
 
 ily was awakened to know 
 ;ranger, who had thus usui 
 is ancient domain. Peechyi'i 
 to a remote corner of the li 
 der voice, and with great cauti 
 all that he knew on the siibj 
 aroused, several months bel 
 night, by repeated long slii 
 -bowlings of a wolf. Tliey( 
 ; and at length were distingiii! 
 house in the sea-faring maniii 
 he landlord turned out wilh 
 er, ostler, and errand-boy ' 
 negro, Cuff. On approachmi 
 ! the voice proceeded, ihey f« 
 king personage at the water'"" 
 seated on a great oaken sea-ti 
 
 had fitted up his room to his own fancy, having 
 log a hammock from the ceiling instead of a bed, 
 il decorated the walls wilh rusty pistols and cut- 
 's of foreign workmanship. A great part of his 
 le was passed in this room, seated by the window, 
 h commanded a wide view of the Sound, a short 
 fashioned pipe in his mouth, a glass of rum toddy 
 his elbow, and a pocket- telescope in bis hand, 
 ih which he reconnoitred every boat that moved 
 the water. Large square-rigged vessels seemed 
 excite but little attention; but the moment he 
 Tied any thing with a $!iould«r-of-mutton sail, or 
 |t a barge, yawl, or jolly-boat hove in sight, up 
 it the telescope, and he examined it with the 
 it scrupulous attention. 
 
 II this might have passed without much notice, 
 in tiiose times the province was so much the re- 
 ef adventurers of all characters and climes, tliat 
 oddity in dress or behaviour attracted but small 
 ntion. In a little while, however, this strange 
 lonster, thus strangely cast upon dry laud, began 
 ncroach upon the long-established customs and 
 iomers of the place, and to interfere, in a dicta- 
 I manner, in the affairs of the nine-pin alley and 
 bar-room, until in the end he usurped an abso- 
 command over the whole inn. It was all in 
 to attempt to withstand his authority. He was 
 exactly quarrelsome, but boisterous and peremp- 
 iike one accustomed to tyrannize on a quarter- 
 ; and there was a dare-devil air about every 
 i^he said and did, that inspired a wariness in all 
 landers. Even the half-pay officer, so long the 
 of the club, was soon silenced by him ; and the 
 t burghers stared with wonder at seeing their 
 mmable nian-of war so readily and quietly ex- 
 lished. And then the tales that he would tell 
 enough to make a peaceable man's hair stand 
 !nd. There was not a sea-fight, or marauding 
 eebooting adventure that had happened within 
 last twenty years, but he seemed perfectly versed 
 He delighted to talk of the exploits of the buc- 
 ers in the West Indies and on the Spanish Main. 
 bis eyes would glisten as he described the way- 
 g of treasure-ships, the desperate fights, yard- 
 and yard-arm, broadside and broadside ; the 
 
 boarding and capturing of huge Spanish galleons! 
 With what chuckUng relish would he describe the 
 descent upon some rich Spanish colony ; the rifling 
 of a church ; the sacking of a convent ! You would 
 have thought you heard some gormandizer dilating 
 upon the roasting of a savoury goose at Michaelmas, 
 as he described the roasting of some Spanish Don to 
 make him discover his treasure — a detail given with 
 a minuteness that made every rich old burgher pre- 
 sent turn uncomfortably in his chair. All this would 
 be told with infinite glee, as if he considered it an 
 excellent juke; and then he would give such a tyran- 
 nical leer in the face of his next neighbour, that 
 the poor man would be fain to laugh out of sheer 
 faint-heartedness. If any one, however, pretended 
 to contradict him in any of his stories, he was on fire 
 in an instant. His very cocked hat assumed a mo- 
 mentary fierceness, and seemed to resent Ihe contra- 
 diction. " How the devil should you know as well 
 as I ? — I tell you it was as I say ;" and he would at 
 the same time let slip a broadside of thundering oaths 
 and tremendous sea-phrases, such as had never been 
 heard before within these peaceful walls. 
 
 Indeed, the worthy burghers began to surmise 
 that he knew more of these stories than mere hear- 
 say. Day after day their conjectures concerning him 
 grew more and more wild and fearful. The strange- 
 ness of his arrival, the strangeness of his manners, 
 the mystery that surrounded him, all made him 
 something incomprehensible in their eyes. He was 
 a kmd of monster of the deep to them — he was a 
 merman — he was Behemoth — he was Leviathan — 
 in short, Uiey knew not what he was. 
 
 The domineering spirit of this boisterous sea-urchin 
 at length grew quite intolerable. He was no respect- 
 er of persons ; he contradicted the richest burghers 
 without hesitation ; he took possession of the sacred 
 elbow-chair, which, time out of mind, had been Ihe 
 seat of sovereignly of the illustrious Ramm R.ipelye, 
 — nay, he even went so far in one of his rough jocu- 
 lar moods, as to slap thai mighty burgher on the back, 
 drink his toddy, and wink in his face. — a thing scarce- 
 ly to be believed. From this time Ramm Rapelye 
 appeared no more at the inn ; and his example was 
 followed by several of the most eminent customers, 
 who were too rich to tolerate being bullied out of 
 their opinions, or being obliged to laugh at another 
 man's jokes. The landlord was almost in despair ; 
 but he knew not how to get rid of the sea-mon- 
 ster and his sea-chest, who seemed both to have 
 grown like fixtures or excrescences on his establish- 
 ment. 
 
 Such was the account whispered cautiously in 
 Wolfert's ear by the narrator, Peechy Prauw, as he 
 held him by the button in a corner of the hall ; cast- 
 ing a wary glance now and then towards the door of 
 the bar-room, lest he should be overheard by the ter- 
 rible hero of his tale. 
 
 Wolfert took his scat in a remote part of the room 
 in silence, impresseil with profound uwe of this un- 
 
 it Is 
 
 i!fi 
 
 ' il 
 
 w 
 
592 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 known, so versed in freebooting hislory. It was to 
 him a wonderful instance of the revolutions of mighty 
 empires, to find the venerable Ram Rapelye thus 
 ousted from the throne, and a rugged tarpawling dic- 
 tating from his elbow-chair, hectoring the patriarchs, 
 and filling this tranquil little realm with brawl and 
 bravado. 
 
 The stranger was, on this evening, in a more than 
 usually communicative mood, and was narrating a 
 number of astounding stories of plunderings and 
 burnings on the high seas. He dwelt upon them 
 with peculiar relish ; heightening the frightful par- 
 ticulars in proportion to their effect on his peaceful 
 auditors. He gave a long swaggering detail of the 
 capture of a Spanish merchantman. She was lying 
 becalmed during a long summer's day, just off from 
 an island which was one of the lurking places of the 
 pirates. They had reconnoitred her with their spy- 
 glasses from the shore, and ascertained her character 
 and force. At night a picked crew of daring fellows 
 set off for her in a whale-boat. They approached 
 with muffled oars, as she lay rocking idly with the 
 undulations of the sea, and her sails flapping against 
 the masts. They were close under her stern before 
 the guard on deck was aware of their approach. 
 The alarm was given ; the pirates threw hand-gre- 
 nades on deck, and sprang up the main-chain sword 
 in hand. The crew flew to arms, but in great confu- 
 sion; some were shot down, others took refuge in the 
 tops, others were driven overboard and drowned, 
 while others fought hand to hand from the main- 
 deck to the quarter-deck, disputing gallantly every 
 inch of ground. There were three Spanish gentle- 
 men on board with their ladies, who made the most 
 desperate resistance. They defended the companion- 
 way, cut down several of their assailants, and fought 
 like very devils, for they were maddened by the 
 shrieks of the ladies from the cabin. One of the 
 Dons was old, and soon dispatched. The other two 
 kept their ground vigorously, even though the cap- 
 tain of the pirates was among the assailants. Just 
 then there was a shout of victory from the main- 
 deck—" The ship is ours !" cried the pirates. One 
 of the Dons immediately dropped his sword and sur- 
 rendered ; the other, who was a hot-headed young- 
 ster, and just married, gave the captain a slash in 
 the face that laid all open. 
 
 The captain just made out to articulate the words 
 " no quarter !" 
 
 " And what did they do with the prisoners ?" said 
 Peechy Prauw, eagerly. 
 
 " Threw them all overboard !" was the answer. 
 
 A dead pause followed this reply. 
 
 Peechy Prauw shrunk quietly back, like a man 
 who had unwarily stolen upon the lair of a sleeping 
 lion. The honest burghers cast fearful glances at the 
 deep scar slashed across the visage of the stranger, 
 and moved their chairs a little farther off. The sea- 
 man, however, smoked on, without moving a mus- 
 cle, as though he either did not perceive, or did not 
 
 regard, the unfavourable effect he had produced 
 his hearers. 
 
 The half-pay officer was the first to break 
 silence, for he was continually tempted to make in 
 fectual head against this tyrant of the seas, and 
 regain his lost consequence in the eyes of his i 
 cient companions. He now tried to match | 
 gunpowder tales of the stranger, by others eqw 
 tremendous. Kidd, as usual, was his hero, conco ■ ' 
 ing whom he seemed to have picked up many ofi 
 floating traditions of the province. The seaman I iil< 
 always evinced a settled pique against the one-t] ^ 
 warrior. On this occasion he listened with pecu 
 impatience. He sat with one arm akimbo, the 04 
 elbow on a table, the hand holding on to the sg 
 pipe he was pettishly puffing; his legs crosse 
 drumming with one foot on the ground, and casl 
 every now and then the side glance of a basilisk at 
 prosing captain. At length the latter spoke of Kid 
 having ascended the Hudson with some of his ( 
 to land his plunder in secrecy. " Kidd up the I 
 son !" burst forth the seaman with a tremen 
 oath — " Kidd never was up the Hudson !" 
 
 " I tell you he was," said the other. " Ay,i 
 they say he buried a quantity of treasure on theGl 
 flat that runs out into the river, called the 
 Dans Kammer." 
 
 " The Devil's Dans Kammer in your teeth !"c 
 the seaman. " I tell you Kidd never was 1 
 Hudson. What a plague do you know of Kidd^ 
 his haunts ?" 
 
 " What do I know ?" echoed the half-pay olE 
 " Why, I was in London at the time of his trial ; \ 
 and I had the pleasure of seeing him hanged at I 
 cution Dock." 
 
 Then Sir, let me tell you that yon saw as pn 
 fellow hanged as ever trod shoe-leather. Ay," | 
 ting his face nearer to that of the officer, " andll 
 was many a land-lubber looked on that might i 
 better have swung in his stead." 
 
 The half-pay officer was silenced : but the i 
 nation thus pent up in his bosom glowed with inte 
 vehemence in his single eye, which kindled like ao 
 
 Peechy Prauw, who never could remain silent,] 
 served that the gentleman certainly was in ther 
 Kidd never did bury money up the Hudson, norl 
 deed in any of those parts, though many anit-niedi| 
 to be the fact. It was Bradish and others of tlieli| 
 cancers who had buried money ; some said in Ti^ 
 Bay ; others on Long Island ; others in the neighl 
 hood of Hell-gate. Indeed, added he, I recollecl| 
 adventure of Sam, the negro fisherman, noany] 
 ago, which some think had something to do witbl 
 buccaneers. As we are all friends here, and as itf 
 go no farther, I'll tell it to you. '* Upon a darkn 
 many years ago, as Black Sam was returning f 
 fishing in Hellgate " 
 
 Here the story was nipped in the bud by a i 
 movement from the unknown, who, laying liisj 
 fist on the table, knuckles downward, with a 4 
 
TALES OF A TRAVEIXEK. 
 
 .'sur> 
 
 able effect he had produced 
 
 icer was the first to break t| 
 ontinually templed to make ii 
 
 this tyrant of the seas, and 
 [Sequence in the eyes of his 
 
 He now tried to match 
 '. the stranger, by others equi 
 , as usual, was his hero, coua 
 id to have picked up many of I 
 r the province. The seaman 
 Uled pique against the one- 
 jccasion he listened with peci 
 I wilh one arm akimbo, the 
 the hand holding on to the 
 shiy puffing; his legs en 
 le foot on the ground, and casli| 
 1 the side glance of a basilisk all 
 t length the latter spoke of M 
 le Hudson with some of his 
 •in secrecy. "Kiddupthe 
 . the seaman wilh a tremei 
 r was up the Hudson !" 
 jvas," said the other. "Ay, 
 1 a quantity of treasure on ihel 
 into the river, called the '^ 
 
 tans Rammer in your teeth !" 
 tell you Kidd never was 
 i plague do you know of Kiddi 
 
 low ?" echoed the half-pay of 
 :.ondon at the time of his trial ; 
 sure of seeing him hanged at 
 
 le tell you that you saw as prei 
 iver trod shoe-lealher. Ay," 
 r to that of the officer, " and 
 lubber looked on that might 
 ' in his stead." 
 ficer was silenced : but the ii 
 p in his bosom glowed withini 
 lingle eye, which kindled like a 
 who never could remain silent, 
 ntleman certainly was in llie 
 ry money up Ihe Hudson, not 
 c parts, though many afliiinedr 
 was Bradish and others of the 
 uried money ; some said in Ti 
 ng Island ; others in the neigl 
 
 Indeed, added he, I recolM 
 , the negro fisherman, many 
 hink had something to do willii 
 e are all friends here, and as il 
 teUittoyou. 'Upon a dark 
 as Rlack Sam was returning 
 
 force that indented the very boards, and looking grimly 
 
 jover his shoulder, with the grin of an angry bear— 
 
 "Hark'ee, neighbour!" said he, with significant 
 
 jnodding of the head, ' ' you'd belter let the buccaneers 
 
 ind their money alone — they're not for old men and 
 
 kl women to meddle with. They fought hard for 
 
 ir money; they gave body and soul for it; and 
 
 herever it lies buried, depend upon it he must have 
 
 tug with the devil who gets it ! " 
 
 This sudden explosion was succeeded by a blank 
 
 lence throughout the room; Peechy Prauw shrunk 
 
 itliin himself, and even the one-eyed officer turned 
 
 lie. Wolfert, who from a dark corner in the room 
 
 listened wilh intense eagerness to all this talk 
 
 lut buried treasure, looked wilh mingledawe and 
 
 iverence at this bold buccaneer, for such he really 
 
 peeled him to be. There was a chinking of gold 
 
 a sparkling of jewels in all his stories about the 
 
 nish Main that gave a value to every period; and 
 
 olfert would have given any thing for the rumma- 
 
 ing of the ponderous sea-chest, which his imagination 
 
 mmed full of golden chalices, crucifixes, and jolly 
 
 ind bags of doubloons. 
 
 The dead stillness that had fallen upon the company 
 
 as at length interrupted by the stranger, who pulled 
 
 t a pi-odigious watch, of curious and ancient work- 
 
 lanship, and which in Wolfert's eyes, had a decidedly 
 
 nish look. On touching a spring, it struck ten 
 
 ['clock; upon which the sailor called for his reckon- 
 
 , and having paid il out of a handful of outlandish 
 
 (D, he drank off the remainder of his beverage, and, 
 
 ilhout taking leave of any one, rolled out of the room, 
 
 luttering to himself, as he slumped up stairs to his 
 
 lamber. 
 
 It was some time before the company could recover 
 
 im the silence into which they had been thrown. 
 
 he very footsteps of the stranger, which were heard 
 
 iw and then as he traversed his chamlier, inspired 
 
 e. Still the conversation in which they had been 
 
 ;aged was too interesting not to be resumed. A 
 
 ivy thunder-gust had gathered up unnoticed while 
 
 ly were lost in talk, and the torrents of rain 
 
 lat fell forbade all thoughts of selling off for home 
 
 ilil the storm should subside. They drew nearer 
 
 Iher, therefore, and entreated the worthy Peechy 
 
 iuw to continue the tale which had been so 
 
 urteously interrupted. He readily complied, 
 
 lispering, however, in a lone scarcely above his 
 
 ith, and drowned occasionally by the rolling of the 
 
 ider; and he would pause every now and then, 
 
 listen with evident awe, as he heard the heavy 
 
 ilBteps of the stranger pacing overhead. The fbl- 
 
 ing is the purport of his story. 
 
 ..vas nipped in the bud by a sol 
 |he unknown, who, laying M 
 1 knuckles downward, with if 
 
 TBI ADVIIITIIBB Of 
 
 THE BLACK FISHERMAN. 
 
 EvEBT body knows Black Sam, the old negro fish- 
 erman, or, as he is commonly called. Mud Sam, who 
 has fished about the Sound for the last half century. 
 It is now many many years since Sam, who was then 
 as active a young negro as any in the province, and 
 worked on the farm of Killian Suydam, on Long Is- 
 land, having finished his day's work at an early hour, 
 was fishing, one still summer evening, just about the 
 neighbourhood of Hell-gate. 
 
 He was in a light skiff, and being well acquainted 
 with the currents and eddies, he had shifted his station 
 according to the shifting of the tide, firom the Hen 
 and Chickens to the Hog's Back, firom the Hog's Back 
 to the Pot, and from the Pot to tUe Frying-pan; but 
 in the eagerness of his sport he did not see that the 
 tide was rapidly ebbing, until the roaring of the whirl- 
 pools and eddies warned him of his danger; and he 
 had some difficulty in shooting his skiff from among 
 the rocks and breakers, and gelling to the point of 
 Blackwell's Island. Here he cast anchor for some 
 time, waiting the turn of the tide to enable him to 
 return homewards. As the night set in, it grew 
 blustering and gusty. Dark clouds came bundling up 
 in the west, and now and then a growl of thunder, 
 or a flash of lightning, told that a summer storm was 
 at hand. Sam pulled over, therefore, uuder the lee 
 of Manhattan Island, and, coasting along, came to a 
 snug nook, just under a steep beetling rock, where he 
 fastened his skiff to the root of a tree that shot out 
 from a cleft in the rock, and spread its broad branch- 
 es, like a canopy, over the water. The gust came 
 scouring along ; the wind threw up the river in while 
 surges; the rain rattled among the leaves ; ihe thunder 
 bellowed worse than that which is now bellowing ; 
 the lightning seemed to lick up the surges of the 
 stream : but Sam, snugly sheltered under rock and 
 tree, lay crouched in his skiff, rocking upon the bil- 
 lows until he fell asleep. 
 
 When he awoke, all was quiet. The gust had 
 passed away, and only now and then a faint gleam 
 of lightning in the east showed Which way it had 
 gone. The night was dark and moonless ; and from 
 the state of the tide Sam concluded it was near mid- 
 night. He was on the point of making loose his skiff 
 to return homewards, when he saw a light gleaming 
 along the water from a distance, which seemed ra- 
 pidly approaching. As it drew near, he perceived it 
 came from a lantern in the bow of a boat, which was 
 gliding along under shadow of the land. It pulled 
 up in a small cove, close to where he was. A man 
 jumped on shore, and searching about with the lan- 
 tern, exclaimed, " This is the place— here'^ Ihe Iron 
 ring. " The boat was then made fast, and the man 
 returning on board, assisted his comrades in convey- 
 ing something heavy on shore. As the light gleamed 
 
 7;i 
 
 M 
 
mi 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 among Ihem, Sam uw that they were five stout des- 
 perate-looking fellows, in red woollen caps, with a 
 leader in a three-cornered hat, and that some of them 
 were armed with dirks, or long knives, and pistols. 
 They talked low to one another, and occasionally in 
 some outlandish tongue which he could not under- 
 stand. 
 
 On landing, they made their way among the bushes, 
 taking turns to relieve each other in lugging their 
 Iiurthen up the rocky bank. Sam's curiosity was now 
 fully aroused ; so, leaving his skiff, he clambered si- 
 lently np a ridge that overlooked their path. They 
 had stopped to rest for a moment ; and the leader was 
 looking about among the bushes with his lantern. 
 "Haveyou broughtthe spades?" saidone. "Theyare 
 here," replied another, wiio had them on hisshoulder. 
 " We must dig deep, where there will be no risk 
 of discovery, " said a third. 
 
 A cold chill ran through Sam's veins. He fancied 
 he saw before him a gang of murderers about to bury 
 their victim. His knees smote together. In his agi- 
 tation he shook the branch of a tree with which he 
 was supporting himself, as he looked over the edge 
 of the cliff. 
 
 " What's that ? " cried one of the gang. " Some 
 one stirs among the bushes ! " 
 
 The lantern was held ap in the direction of the 
 noise. One of the red-caps cocked a pistol, and point- 
 ed it towards the very place where Sam was stand- 
 ing. He stood motionless— breathless—expecting the 
 next moment to be his iast. Fortunately, his dingy 
 complexion was in Jiis favour, and made no glare 
 among the leaves. 
 
 " 'Tis no one, " said the man with the lantern. 
 " What a plague ! you would not fire off your pistol 
 and alarm the country? " 
 
 The pistol was uncocked, the burthen was resum- 
 ed, and the party slowly toiled along the bank. Sam 
 watched them as they went, the light sending back 
 fitful gleams through the dripping bushes; and it was 
 not till they were fairly out of sight that he ventured 
 to draw breath freel-y. He now thought of getting 
 back to his boat, and making his escape out of the 
 reach of such dangerous neighbours ; but curiosity 
 was all powerful. He hesitated, and lingered and 
 listened. By and by he heard the strokes of spades. 
 " They are digging the grave! " said he to himself, 
 and the cold sweat started upon his forehead. Every 
 stroke of a spade, as it sounded through the silent 
 groves, went to his heart. It was evident there was 
 as little noise made as possible ; every thing had an 
 air of terrible mystery and secrecy. Sam had a great 
 relish for the horrible— a tale of murder was a treat 
 for him, and he was a constant attendant at execu- 
 tions. He could not resist an impulse, in spite of 
 every danger, to steal nearer to Uie scene of mystery, 
 and overlook the midnight fellows at their work. He 
 crawled along cautiously, therefore, inch by inch, 
 stepping with the utmost care among the dry leaves lest 
 their rustling should betray him. He came at length 
 
 to where a steep rock intervened between him aixll 
 the gang; for he saw the light of their lantern shin- 
 ing up c^?ainst the branches of the trees on the other 
 side. Sam slowly and silently clamlwred up the sur 
 face of the rock, and raising his head above its naked 
 edge, beheld the villains inunediately below him, 
 and so near, that though he dreaded uiscovery, h ox 
 dared not withdraw, lest the least movement shoub *" 
 be heard. In this way he remained, with his roun 
 black face peering above the edfr of the rock, liki 
 the sun just emerging above the edge of the horizon, 
 or the round-cheeked moon on the dial of a clock. 
 
 The red-caps had nearly finished their work ; aj/fiit 
 grave was filled up and they were carefully repla 
 cing the turf. This done, they scattered dry leavt^ 
 over the place;" And now," said the leader,"! 
 defy the devil himself to find it out ! " 
 
 " The murderers ! " exclaimed Sam, involuntarflJ 
 The whole gang started, and looking up, beheld I 
 round black head of Sam just above them; his whii 
 eyes strained half out of their orbits, his wlute tei 
 chattering, and his whole visage shining with 
 perspiration. 
 " We're discovered ! " cried one. 
 " Down with him, " cried another. 
 Sam heard the cocking of a pistol, but did not | 
 for the report. He scrambled over rock and su 
 through bush and briar; rolled down banks lilie^ 
 hedgehog; scrambled up others like a catamount, 
 every direction he heard seme one or other of t 
 gang hemming him in. At length he reached 
 rocky .ridge along the river : one of the red-caps i 
 hard behind him. A steep rock like a wall 
 directly in his way , it seemed to cut off all retreaJ 
 when, fortunately, he espied the strong cord-ij 
 branch of a grape-vine reaching half way down i 
 He sprang at it with the force of a desperate manl 
 seized it with both hands; and, being young andagiltj 
 succeeded in swinging himself to the summit of I 
 cliff. Here he stood in full relief against tlie i 
 when the red-cap cocked his pistol and fired. Tlij 
 ball whistled by Sam's head. With the lucky tbooj 
 of a man in an emergency, he uttered a yell, I 
 the ground, and detached at the same time a fragma 
 of ths rock, which tumbled with a loud splash inl 
 the river. 
 
 " I've done his business," said the red-cap too 
 or two of his comrades as they arrived panting : " bef 
 tell no tales, except to the fishes in the river. " 
 His pursuers now turned off to meet their 
 panions. Sam, sliding siler.lly down the surfaceij 
 the rock, let himself quietly into his skiff; cast! 
 the fastening, and abandoned himself to (he rajii 
 current, which in that place runs like a mill-sir 
 and soon swept him off from the ncighbourliood. 
 was not, however, until he had drifted a great dij 
 fance that he ventured to ply his oars ; when he mil 
 his skiff dart like on arrow through the strait of H(| 
 gate, never heeding the danger of Pot, Frying-[ 
 or Hog's Back itself; nor did he feel himself thoroud 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 mi 
 
 silenlly clamlwred up thesur 
 ising his head above iU nak( 
 lins inimedialely below hii 
 gh he dreaded aiscovery 
 !st the least movement shoul 
 r he remained, with his rout 
 >ve the edfr of the rock, liki 
 above t\\e edge of the horizoi 
 noon on the dial of a clock 
 
 intervened between him andlly *^'^ •"»»•• «»fe>y """«* in bed in the cockloft 
 »e light of their lantern shinJ"' »he ancient farm-house of the Suydams. 
 
 ches of the trees on the othttl 
 
 " Here the worthy Peechy Prauw paused to take 
 
 breath, and to take a sip of the gossip tankard that 
 |ttofld at his elbow. His auditors remained with open 
 imoullis and outstretched necks, gaping like a nest of 
 liwallows for an additional mouthful. 
 " And Ls that all ? " exclaimed the half-pay oflicer. 
 *' Thai's all timtJielongs to the story," said Peeehy 
 iPrauw. 
 " And did Sam never find out what was buried by 
 eOTl'rfinished theVwork;!^^ saidWolfert, eagerly, whose mind 
 
 id they were carefully repb w* haunted by nothing but ingots and doubloons, 
 lone they scattered dry leave " Not that I know of," said Peechy ; " he had no 
 d now " said the leader, " '"* **> "P**"® '™'" ^^'^ work, and, to tell the truth, 
 (ind'it out ! " '*^'*^ "**' ''''® *° ™" *''® '"'*'' ®^ another race among 
 
 'exclaimed Sam, involuntarflj ^ "^ks. Besides, how should he recollect tlie spot 
 Bd and looking up, beheld tli »here the grave had been digged, every thing would 
 lam iust above them; his wbil »* so different by day-light? And then, where 
 of their orbits, his wlute ted "»« 'h« "«« of looking for a dead body, when there 
 vhole visage shining with col »»s no chance of hanging the murderers ? " 
 
 " Ay, but are you sure it was a dead body they 
 i I " cried one. ; luried?" said Wolfert. 
 
 "To be sure," cried Peechy Prauw, exultingly. 
 
 " cried another, 
 ing of a pistol, but did not pai 
 scrambled over rock and s( 
 riar; rolled down banks like 
 1 up others like a catamount, 
 card seme one or other of 
 in. At length he reached 
 B river : one of the red-caps w 
 A steep rock like a wall 
 it seemed to cut off all relreal 
 le espied the strong cord-liki 
 reaching half way down ' 
 the force of a desperate man 
 nds; and, being young and agi 
 ig himself to the summit of 
 
 in full relief against the 8kj| 
 eked his pistol and fired. Tl 
 head. With the lucky thou| 
 gency, he uttered a yell, 
 
 ed at the same time a fiagini 
 umbled with a loud splash 
 
 :h 
 
 lisiness," said the red-cap to 
 8 as they arrived panting : " h< 
 the fishes in the river." 
 turned off to meet their conj 
 ing siler.lly down the surface 
 quietly into his skiff ; castlof 
 abandoned himself to Ihen] 
 .at place runs like a mill-slreii 
 off from the neighbourhood, 
 nlil he had drifted a great di 
 ed to ply his oars ; when he mi 
 arrow through the strait of Hi 
 ihe danger of Pot, Frying- 
 nor did he feel himself Ihorouj 
 
 ['Does it not haunt in the neighbourhood to this very 
 .y?" 
 " Haunts ! " exclaimed several of the party, open- 
 
 Iheireyes still wider, and edging their chairs still 
 loser. 
 
 "Ay, haunts," repeated Peechy : " have none of 
 
 \m heard of Father Red-cap, who haunts the old 
 
 irnt farm-house in the woods, on the border of the 
 
 id, near Hell-gate?" 
 "Ob! to be sure. I've heard tell of something of 
 be kind; but then I look it for some old wives' 
 lie." 
 
 " Old wives' fable or not," said Peechy Prauw, 
 
 ' that farm-house stands hard by the very spot. It's 
 
 en unoccupied time out of mind, and stands in a 
 
 lely part of the coast ; but those who fish in the 
 
 ;hbourhood have often heard strange noises there; 
 lights have been seen about the wood at night; 
 an old fellow in a red cap has been seen at the 
 rindows more than once, which people take to be 
 
 ghost of the body that was buried there. Once 
 
 in a time three soldiers took shelter in the build- 
 
 for the night, and r;:mmaged it from top to bot- 
 Dm, when they found old Father Red-cap astride 
 'a cider-barrel in the cellar, with a jug in one band 
 id a goblet in the other. He offered them a drink 
 It of his goblet ; but just as one of the soldiers was 
 iMing it to his mouth— whew !— a flash of fire 
 ^azed through the cellar, blinded every mother's son 
 
 tnem for several minutes, and when they recovered 
 leir eye-sight, jug, goblet, and Red-cap, had va- 
 
 >ed, and nothing but the empty cider-barrel re- 
 I!" 
 
 I Here the half-pay oflicer, who was growing very 
 kuizy and sleepy, and nodding over his liquor, witli 
 
 lialf-extinguished eye, suddenly gleamed up like an 
 expiring nuh-ligbt. — 
 
 "That's all fiidge!" said lie, as Peechy finished 
 his last story. 
 
 " Well, I don't vouch for the truth of it myself," 
 said Peechy Prauw, "' though all the world knows 
 that there's something strange about that house ami 
 ground ; but as to4he story of Mud Sam, I believe it 
 just as well as if it had happened to myself. " 
 
 The dbep interest taken in this conversation by the 
 company I td made them unconscious of the uprttar 
 that prevailed abroad among the elements, whoa 
 suddenly they were all electrified by a tremendous 
 clap of thunder ; a lumbering crash followed instan- 
 taneously, shaking the building to its very founda- 
 tion—all started from their seats, imagining it the 
 shock of an earthquake, or that old Father Red-cap 
 was coming among them in all bis terron. They 
 listened for a moment, but only heard the rain pelting 
 against the windows, and the wind howling among 
 the trees. The explosion was soon explained by Ihe 
 apparition of an old negro's bald head thrust in at 
 the door, bis white goggle-eyes contrasting with his 
 jetty poll, which was wet with rain, and shone like a 
 bottle. In a jargon but half intelligible, he announced 
 that the kitchen chimney had been struck with 
 lightning. 
 
 A sullen pause of the storm, which now rose and 
 sunk in gusts, produced a momentary stillness. In 
 this interval, the report of a musket was heard, and 
 a long shout, almost like a yell, resounded from the 
 shore. Everyone crowded to the window. Another 
 musket-shot was heard, and another long shoul, 
 that mingled wildly with a rising blast of wind. It 
 seemed as if the cry came up from the bosom of the 
 waters; for though incessant flashes of lightning 
 spread a light about Ihe shore, no one was to be 
 seen. 
 
 Suddenly the window of the room overhead was 
 opened, and a loud halloo uttered by the mysterious 
 stranger. Several bailings passed from one parly to 
 the other, but in a language which none of the com- 
 pany in the bar-room could understand; and pre- 
 sently they heard the window closed, and a great 
 noise overhead, as if all the furniture were pulled 
 and hauled^about the room. The negro servant was 
 summoned, and shortly after was seen assisting the 
 veteran to lug the ponderous sea-chest down stairs. 
 
 The landlord was in amazement — "What! — you 
 are not going on the water in such a storm ? " 
 
 " Storm ! " said the other scornfully ; " do you call 
 such a sputter of weather a storm ?" 
 
 " You'll get drenched to the skin — you'll catch your 
 death!" said Peechy Prauw, affectionately. 
 
 " Thunder and lightning ! " exclaimed the merman ; 
 * < don' I preach about weather to a man that has cruizetl 
 in whirlwinds and tornadoes ! " 
 
 The obsequious Peechy was ai;aiii struck dumb. 
 
 )^yi,,' 
 
ma 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 The voice from the water was heard once more, in a 
 tone of impatience. The by-standera stared with re- 
 doubled awe at this man of storms, who seemed to 
 have come up out of the deep, and to be summoned 
 bacic to it again. As, with the assistance of the negro, 
 he slowly bore his ponderous sea-chr:8t towards the 
 shore, they eyed it with a superstitious feeling, half 
 doubting whether he were not really about to embark 
 upon it, and launch forth upon the wild waves. They 
 followed him at a distance with a lantern. 
 
 '< Dowse the light ! " roared the hoarse voice from 
 the water — " no one wants lights here ! " 
 
 " Thunder and lightning ! " exclaimed the veteran, 
 taming short upon them; " back to the house with 
 you." 
 
 Wolfert and his companions shrunk back in dismay. 
 Still their curiosity would not allow them entirely to 
 withdraw. A long sheet of lightning now flickered 
 across the waves, and discovered a boat, filled with 
 men, just under a rocky point, rising and sinking with 
 the heaving surges, and swashing the water at every 
 heave. It was with difficulty held to the rocks by a 
 boat-hook, for the current rushed furiously round the 
 point. The veteran hoisted one end of the lumber- 
 ing sea-chest on the gunwale of the boat; he seized 
 the handle at the other end to lift it in, when the mo- 
 tion propelled the boat from the shore; the chest 
 slipped off from the gunwale, and sinking into the 
 waves, pulled the veteran headlong after it. A loud 
 shriek was uttered by all on shore, and a volley of 
 execrations by those on board— but boat and man 
 were hurried away by the rushingswiflnessof the tide. 
 A pitchy darkness succeeded; Wolfert Webber, in- 
 deed, fancied that he distinguished a cry for help, and 
 that he beheld the drowning man beckoning for as- 
 sistance; but when the lightning again gleamed along 
 the water, all was void; neither man nor boat were 
 to be seen; nothing but the dashing and weltering of 
 the waves as they hurried past. 
 
 The company returned to the tavern to await the 
 subsiding of the storm. They resumed their seats, 
 and gazed on each other with dismay. The whole 
 transaction had not occupied five minutes, and not a 
 dozen words had been spoken. When they looked at 
 the oaken chair, they could scarcely realize the fact, 
 that the strange being, who had so lately tenanted it, 
 full of life and Herculean vigour, should already be a 
 corpse. There was the very glass he had jnst drunk 
 from ; there lay the ashes from the pipe which he had 
 smoked, as it were, with his last breath. As the 
 worthy burghers pondered on these things, they felt 
 a terrible conviction of the uncertainty of existence, 
 and each folt as if the ground on which he stood was 
 rendered less stable by this awflil example. 
 
 As, however, the most of the company were pos- 
 sessed of that valuable philosophy which enables a 
 man to bear up with fortitude against the misfortunes 
 of his neighbours, they soon managed to console them- 
 selves for the tragic end of the veteran. The land- 
 lord was particularly happy that the poor dear man 
 
 had paid his reckoning before he went; and made i 
 kind of farewell speech on the occasion. " He came,' 
 said he, " in a storm, and he went in a storm— h 
 came in the night, and he went in the night— he cam 
 nobody knows from whence, and he has gone nobod 
 knows where. For aught I know, he has gone to se 
 once more on his chest, and may land to bothe 
 some people on the other side of the world ! Thougl 
 it's a thousand pities," added he, "if he has gone ( 
 Davy Jones's locker, that be had not left his owi 
 locker behind him." 
 
 " His locker! St Nicholas preserve us!" cried Pee 
 chy Prauw — "I'd not have had that sea-chest in th 
 house for any money; I'll warrant he'd come racket 
 ing after it at nights, and making a haunted house ( 
 the inn; and as to his going to sea in his chest, I n 
 collect what happened to Skipper Onderdonk's slii} 
 on his voyage from Amsterdam. The boatswai 
 died during a storm, so they wrapped him up in 
 sheet, and put him in his own sea-chest, and threi 
 him overboard; but they neglected, in their hun 
 scurry, to say prayers over him; and the storm ragi 
 and roared louder than ever, and they saw the dei 
 man seated in his chest, with his shroud for a sai 
 coming hard after the ship, and the sea breakii 
 before him in great sprays, like fire; and there thi 
 kept scudding day after day, and night after nigt 
 expecting every moment to go to wreck ; and eva 
 night they saw the dead boatswain, in his sea-cha 
 trying to get up with them, and they heard 
 whistle above the blasts of wind, and beseemed^ 
 send great seas, mountain high, after them, 
 would have swamped the ship if they Lad not put if 
 the dead-lights; and so it went on till they lost i 
 of him in the fogs of Newfoundland, and sup 
 he had veered sliip, and stood for Dead Man's I 
 So much for burying a man at sea, without saynj 
 prayers over him." 
 
 The thunder-gust which had hitherto detained t 
 company was at an end. The cuckoo-clock in t 
 hall told midnight; every one pressed to depart, I 
 seldom was such a late hour of the niglit tresp 
 on by these quiet burghers. As they sallied forth, t 
 found the heavens once more serene. The sta 
 which had lately obscured them had rolled awijl 
 and lay piled up in fleecy masses on the horizon, li^ 
 ed up by the bright crescent of the moon, which i 
 ed like a little silver lamp hung up in a palacej 
 clouds. 
 
 The dismal occurrence of the night, and the dia 
 narrations they had made, had left a superstity 
 foeling in every mind. They cast a fearful glance j 
 the spot where the buccaneer had disappeared, aim 
 expecting to see him sailing on his chest in theo 
 moonshine. The trembling rays glittered ahuigll 
 waters, but all was placid ; and the current diin| 
 over the spot where he had gone down. The |: 
 huddled together in a little crowd as they rep 
 homewards, particularly when they passed a I 
 field, where a man had been murdered; and evenf 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 m 
 
 ig before he went ; and made ; ezton, who had to complete his Journey alone, thr-jgh 
 ;h on the occasion. " He came,' iccnstomed, one would think, to ghosts and goblins, 
 , and he went in a storm— b et went a long way round, rather than pass by his 
 d he went in the night— he cam mn churchyard. 
 
 vhence, and he has gone nobod] Wolfert Webber had now carried home a fresh 
 aught I know, he has gone to w tock of stories and notions to ruminate upon. These 
 best, and may land to bothe iccounts of pots of money and Spanish treasures, 
 iher side of the world! Thougl nried here and there and every where about the 
 ," added he, "if he has gone) ocksand bays of these wild shores, made him al- 
 , that he had not left his owi nost dizzy. " Blessed St Nicholas! " ejaculated he, 
 
 lalf aloud, "is it not possible to come upon one of 
 icholas preserve us!" cried Pe« bese golden hoards, and to make one's self rich in 
 )t have had that sea-chest in tk i twinkling ? How hard that I must go on, delving 
 ' ; I'll warrant he'd come racket md delving, day in and day out, merely to make a 
 , and making a haunted house ( oorsel of bread, when one lucky stroke of a spade 
 is going to sea in his chest, I n night enable me to ride in my carriage for the rest 
 ed to Skipper Onderdonk's slii} |my life!" 
 
 1 Amsterdam. The boatswai As he turned over in his thoughts all that had been 
 I, so they wrapped him up in old ofihe singular adventure of the negro fisherman, 
 in his own sea-chest, and thrti lis imagination gave a totally different complexion to 
 t they neglected, in their hun lie tale. He saw in the gang of red-caps nothing 
 rs over him; and the storm ragi at a crew of pirates burying their spoils, and his cu- 
 lian ever, and they saw the da lidity was once more awakened by the possibility of 
 liest, with his shroud for a sa t length getting on the traces of some of this lurking 
 the ship, and the sea breakii realth. Indeed, his infected fancy tinged every thing 
 sprays, like fire ; and there tin rilh gold. He felt like the greedy inhabitant of Bag- 
 afler day, and night after nigk lad, when his eye had been greased with the magic 
 
 ment to go to wreck ; and eve: 
 dead boatswain, in his sea-cha 
 vilh them, and they heard 
 )lasts of wind, and he seemed I 
 lountain high, after them, 
 ed the ship if they Lad not put^ 
 so it went on till they lost i 
 of Newfoundland, and sup 
 and stood for Dead IVIan's I 
 ng a man at sea, without saf 
 
 which had hitherto detained i 
 end. The cuckoo-clock in II 
 every one pressed to depart, I 
 ate hour of the niglit tresp 
 ghers. As they sallied forth, t 
 once more serene. The sl« 
 )bscHred them had rolled an 
 eecy masses on the horizon, 11^ 
 crescent of the moon, whicliS 
 rer lamp hung up in a palace j 
 
 rence of the night, and the dia 
 d made, had left a superslitii 
 id. They cast a fearful glancej 
 Hiccaneer had disappeared, aim 
 m sailing on his chest in thee 
 rembling rays glittered along ll 
 placid ; and the current diiii|il 
 e he had gone down. The | 
 a little crowd as they rep 
 larly when they passed a 
 had been murdered; and eveni 
 
 nthient of the dervise, that gave him to see all the 
 easures of the earth. Caskets of buried jewels, 
 
 ^hesls of ingots, and barrels of outlandish coins, seem* 
 to court him from their concealments, and sup< 
 
 |)!icate him to relieve them from their untimely 
 aves. 
 
 On making private inquiries about the grounds said 
 ) be haunted by Father Red-cap, he was more and 
 ore conOrmed in his surmise. He learned that the 
 ^ace had several times been visited by experienced 
 noney-diggers, who had heard Black Sam's story, 
 ough none of them had met with success. On the 
 ontrary, they had always been dogged with ill luck 
 
 ^f some kind or other, in consequence, as Wolfert 
 oncluded, of not going to work at the proper time, 
 
 |ind with the proper ceremonials. The last attempt 
 ad been made by Cobus Quackenbos, who dug for 
 I whole night, and met with incredible difficulty ; 
 br, as fast as he threw one shovelftil of earth nut of 
 he hole, two were thrown in by invisible hands. 
 Be succeeded so far, however, as to uncover an iron 
 
 ^hest, when there was a terrible roaring, ramping 
 nd raging of uncouth figures about the hole, and at 
 ^ngth a shower of blows dealt by invisible cudgels, 
 hat fairly belaboured him off of the forbidden ground. 
 |rhis Cobus Quackenbos had declared on his death* 
 i, so that there could not be any doubt of it. He 
 Iras a man that had devoted many years of his life lo 
 noney-digging, and it was thought would have ulli- 
 ately succeeded, had he not died recently of a br»in- 
 fever in the almshouse. 
 
 I Wolfert Webber was now in a worry of trepida- 
 on and impatience, fearful lest some rival adventurer 
 
 should get a scent of the barled gold. He deter- 
 mined privately to seek out the black flsherman, and 
 get him to serve as guide to the place where he had 
 witnessed the mysterious scene of interment. Sam 
 was easily found, for he was one of those old habitual 
 beings that live about a neighbourhood until they 
 wear themselves a place in the public mind, and be- 
 come, in a manner, public characters. There was 
 not an unlucky urchin about town that did not know 
 Mud Sam, the fisherman, and think that he had a 
 right to play his tricks upon the old negro. Sam had 
 led an amphibious life, for more than half a century, 
 about the shores of the bay and the fishing-grounds 
 of the Sound. He passed the greater part of his time 
 on and in the water, particularly about Hell -gate; 
 and might have been taken, in bad weather, for one 
 of the hobgoblins that used to haunt that strait. 
 There would he be seen at all times, and in all wea- 
 thers; sometimes in his skiff anchored among tlie 
 eddies, or prowling like a shark about some wreck, 
 where the fish are supposed to be most abundant. 
 Sometimes seated on a rock, from hour to hour, look- 
 ing, in the mist and drizzle, like a solitary heron 
 watching for its prey. He was well acquainted with 
 every hole and corner of the Sound, from the Walla- 
 bnut to Hell-gate, and from Hell-gate even unto llie 
 Devil's Stepping-stones ; and it was even affirmed 
 that he knew all the fish in the river by their chris- 
 tian names. 
 
 Wolfert found him at his cabin, which was not 
 much larger than a tolerable dog-house. It was 
 rudely constructed of fragments of wrecks and drift- 
 wood, and built on the rocky shore, at the foot of 
 the old fort, just about what at present forms the 
 point of the Battery. A " most ancient and fish-like 
 smell" pervaded the place. Oars, paddles, and fish- 
 ing-rods were leaning against the wall of the fort ; a 
 net was spread on the sands to dry ; a skiff was drawn 
 up on the beach; and at the door of his cabin was 
 Mud Sam himself, indulging in the true negro luxury 
 of sleeping in the sunshine. 
 
 Many years had passed away since the time of Sam's 
 youthful adventure, and the snows of many a winter 
 had grizzled the knotty wool upon his head. He per- 
 fectly recollected the circumstances, however, for he 
 had often been called upon to relate them, though, in 
 his version of the story, he differed in many points 
 fromPeechy Prauw; as is not unfrequently the case 
 with authentic historians. As to the subsequent re- 
 searches of money-diggers, Sam knew nothing about 
 them, they were matters quite out of his line ; neither 
 did the cautious Wolfert care to disturb his thoughts 
 on that point. His only wish was to secure the old 
 fisherman as a pilot to the spot, and this was readily 
 effected. The long time that had intervened sincf; 
 his nocturnal adventure, had effaced all Sam's awe of 
 the place, and the promise of a trifling reward roused 
 him at once from his sleep and his sunshine. 
 
 The tide was adverse to making the expedition by 
 I water, and Wolfert was too impatient to get to the 
 
'I 
 
 3S» 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 ^ s 
 
 land of promise to wait fur its turning; they set off 
 llierefore by land. A walk of four nr five miles 
 brought them to the edge of a wood, which at that 
 time covered the greater part of the eastern side of 
 the island. It was just beyond the pleasant region 
 of Bloomen-dael. Here they struck into a long lane, 
 straggling among trees and bushes, very much over- 
 grown with weeds and mullein stalks, as if but sel- 
 4lom used, and so completely overshadowed, as to 
 enjoy but a kind of twilight. Wild vines entangled 
 the trees, and flaunted in their faces; brambles and 
 briers caught their clothes as they passed ; the gar- 
 ter-snake glided across their path; the spotted toad 
 hopped and waddled before them ; and the restless 
 «at-bird mewed at them from every thicket. Had 
 Wolfert Webber been deeply read in romantic le- 
 gend, he might have fancied himself entering upon 
 forbidden, enchanted ground; or that these were 
 some of the guardians set to keep a watch upon buried 
 treasure. As it was, the loneliness of the place, and 
 the wild stories connected with it, had their effect 
 upon his mind. 
 
 On reaching the lower end of the lane, they found 
 themselves near the shore of the Sound, in a kind of 
 ■amphitheatre surrounded by forest-trees. The area 
 had once been a grass-plot, but was now shagged 
 with briers and rank weeds. At one end, and just 
 on the river bank, was a ruined building, little bet- 
 ter than a heap of rubbish, with a slack of chimneys 
 rising, like a solitary tower, out of the centre ; the 
 current of the Sound rushed along just below it, witli 
 wildly grown trees drooping their branches into its 
 waves. 
 
 Wolfert had not a doubt that this was the haunted 
 house of Father Red-cap, and called to mind the story 
 of Peechy Prauw. The evening was approaching, 
 and the light, falling dubiously among these woody 
 places, gave a melancholy tone to the scene, well 
 calculated to foster any lurking feeling of awe or su- 
 perstition. The night-hawk, wheeling about in the 
 highest regions of the air, emitted his peevish, bo- 
 ding cry. The woodpecker gave a lonely lap now 
 and then on some hollow tree, and the fire-bird ■ 
 streamed by them with his deep red plumage. They 
 now came to an enclosure that had once been a gar- 
 den. It extended along the foot of a rocky ridge, 
 but was little belter than a wilderness of weeds^ with 
 here and there a matted rose-bush, or a peach or 
 plum-tree, grown wild and ragged, and covered with 
 moss. At the lower end of the garden they passed 
 a kind of vault in the side of a bank, facing the wa- 
 ter. It had the look of a root-house. The door, 
 though decayed, was still strong, and appeared to 
 have been recently patched up. Wolfert pushed it 
 open. It gave a harsh grating upon its hinges, and 
 striking against something like a box, a rattling sound 
 ensued, and a scull rolled on the floor. Wolfert 
 drew back shuddering, but was reassured, on being 
 
 *> • Orclwnl oreolc. ' iv'-' . 
 
 informed by the negro that this was a fomily-vauli 
 belonging to one of the old Dutch families that owned 
 this estate; an assertion which was corroborated lij 
 the sight of cofflns of various sizes piled within. 
 Sam had been familiar with all these scenes when i 
 boy, and now knew that he could not lie far from th« 
 place of which they were in quest. 
 
 They now made Iheir way to the water's edgt, 
 scrambling along ledges of rocks that overhung the 
 waves, and obliged often to hold by shrubs and] 
 grape-vines to avoid slipping into the deep and bur 
 ried stream. At length they came to a small cove,] 
 or rather indent of the shore. It was protected b; 
 steep rocks, and overshadowed by a thick copse ol 
 oaks and chestnuts, so as to be sheltered and almoitj 
 concealed. The beach shelved gradually within thej 
 cove, but the current swept, deep and black and rapid, 
 along its jutting points. 
 
 The negro paused; raised his remnant of a hat, and 
 scratched his grizzled poll for a moment, as he re- 
 garded this nook : then suddenly clapping his hands,] 
 he stepped exultingly forward, and pointed to a large 
 iron ring, stapled firmly in the rock, just where i| 
 broad shelf of stone furnished a commodious landing 
 place. It was the very spot where the red-caps liad 
 landed. Years had changed the more perishable] 
 features of the scene ; but rock and iron yield slowlf 
 to the influence of time. On looking more closely, 
 Wolfert remarked three crosses cut in the rock just 
 above the ring; which had no doubt some mysteriom 
 signification. 
 
 Old Sam now readily recognized the overhanging 
 rock under which his skiff had been sheltered duiiog 
 the thunder-gust. To follow up the course wliicb 
 the midnight gang had taken, however, was a hard- 
 er task. His mind had been so much taken up oo 
 that eventful occasion by the persons of the drama, 
 as to pay but little attention to the scenes ; and these 
 places look so different by night and day. After waO' 
 dering about for some time, however, they came to 
 an opening among the trees, which Sam thought 
 resembled the place. There was a ledge of rock o(] 
 moderate height, like a wall, on one side, which he 
 thought might be the very ridge from whence he had 
 overlooked the diggers. Wolfert examined it nar- 
 rowly, and at length discovered three crosses, simi- 
 lar to those above the iron ring, cut deeply into the 
 face of the rock, but nearly obliterated by the mosi 
 Ihat had grown over them. His heart leaped with 
 joy, for he doubted not they were the private marks 
 of the buccaneers. All now that remained was ta 
 ascertain the precise spot where the treasure lay 
 buried, for otherwise he might dig at random in tbt 
 neighbourhood of the crosses, without coming upon] 
 the spoils, and he had already had enough of sudti 
 profitless lalMur. Here, however, the old negro m 
 perfectly at a loss, and indeed perplexed by a variety 
 of opinions ; for his recollections were all confiised.! 
 Sometimes he declared it must have l)een at tli 
 foot of a tnulberry-tree hard by ; then it was ju 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 599 
 
 I that this was a family- vault 
 ! old Dutch families that owned 
 )n which was corroborated bj 
 »f various sizes piled within, 
 r with all these scenes when j 
 liat he could not be far from the 
 rere in quest, 
 leir way to the water's edRt, 
 ;es of rocks that overhung the 
 often to hold by shrubs and 
 clipping into the deep and bur 
 »th they came to a small cove, 
 le shore. It was protected bjj 
 ■shadowed by a thick copse ol 
 o as to be sheltered and almost 
 •h shelved gradually within the| 
 swept, deep and black and rapid, 
 s. 
 
 raised his remnant of a hat, and 
 il poll for a moment, as he r^ 
 en suddenly clapping his hands, 
 ' forward, and pointed to a large] 
 miy in the rock, just where j 
 urnished a commodious landing 
 sry spot where the red-caps liad 
 changed the more perishable 
 ; but rock and iron yield slowlf 
 me. On looking more closely, 
 iree crosses cut in the rock just 
 :h had no doubt some mysteriow 
 
 Jily recognized the overhanging 
 5 skiff had been sheltered duiin* 
 follow up the course wliidi 
 ad taken, however, was a hard- 
 had been so much taken up oo 
 n by the pei-sons of the dram, 
 ttention to the scenes ; and these 
 nt by night and day. After wan- 
 le time, however, they came to 
 the trees, which Sam thought 
 There was a ledge of rock ot 
 a wall, on one side, which he 
 very ridge from whence he had 
 lers. Wolfert examined it nar- 
 discovered three crosses, simi- 
 e iron ring, cut deeply into the 
 nearly obliterated by the nw» 
 them. His heart leaped with 
 not they were the private maris 
 All now that remained was l» 
 ie spot where the treasure lay 
 he might dig at random in the| 
 e crosses, without coming up« 
 ad already had enough of such 
 ere, however, the old negro wail 
 id indeed perplexed by a variety 
 recollections were all confused.] 
 ired it must have Iwenatth 
 ree hard by ; then it was jii 
 
 beside a great white stone; then it mus;. have been 
 under a small green knoll, a short distance from the 
 ledge of rock ; until at length Wolfert became as be- 
 wildered as himself. 
 
 The shadows of evening were now spreading 
 themselves over the woods, and rock and tree began 
 to mingle together. It was evidently too late to at- 
 tempt any thing further at present; and indeed Wol- 
 fert had come unprovided with implements to pro- 
 secute his researches. Satisiied, therefore, with 
 having ascertained the place, he took note of all its 
 landmarks, that he might recognize it again, and set 
 lut on his return homewards; resolved to prosecute 
 is golden enterprise without delay. 
 The leading anxiety, which had hitherto absorbed 
 every feeling, being now in some measure appeased, 
 fancy began to wander, and to conjure up a thou- 
 |jand shapes and chimeras as he returned through this 
 liaunted region. Pirates hanging in chains seemed 
 to swing from every tree, and he almost expected to 
 see some Spanish Don, with his throat cut from ear 
 to ear, rising slowly out of the ground, and shaking 
 jlhe ghost of a money-bag. 
 Their way back lay through the desolate garden, 
 ind Wolfert's nerves had arrived at so sensitive a 
 itate, that the flitting of a bird, the rustling of a leaf, 
 the falling of a nut, was enough to startle them. 
 ,s tliey entered tlie conlines of the garden, they 
 lUght sight of a figure at a distance, advancing slow- 
 ly up one of the walks, and bending under the weight 
 if a burthen. They paused, and regarded him at- 
 lentively. He wore what appeared to be a woollen 
 ip, and, still more alarming, of a most sanguinary 
 The figure moved slowly on, ascended the 
 ink, and stopped at the very door of the sepulchral 
 laull. Just before entering it, he looked around. 
 iVIiat was the affright of Wolfert, when he recogniz- 
 ihe grisly visage of the drowned buccaneer ! He 
 ittered an ejaculation of horror. The figure slowly 
 aised his iron fist, and shook it with a terrible me- 
 lace. 
 
 Wolfert did not pause to see any more, but hurried 
 iff as fast as his legs could carry liinj, nor was Sam 
 low in following at his heels, having all his ancient 
 irrors revived. Away then did they scramble, 
 Ihrough bush and brake, horribly frightened at every 
 mble that tugged at their skirts; nor did they 
 luse to breathe, until they had blundered their way 
 irough this perilous wood, and had fairly reached 
 high road to the city. 
 
 fieveral days elapsed before Wolfert could summon 
 lurage enough to prosecute the enterprise, so much 
 id he been dismayed by the apparition, whether 
 Iving or dead, of the grisly buccaneer. In tlie mean 
 ime what a conflict of mind did he suffer ! He neg- 
 ted all his concerns ; was moody and restless all 
 ly; lost his appetite; wandered in his thoughts and 
 ords, and committed a thousand blunders. His rest 
 as broken; and when he fell asleep, the night-mare, 
 shape of a huge money-bag, sat squatted upon his 
 
 breast. He babbled about incalculable sums ; lan'Med 
 himself engaged in money-digging ; threw the ! ed- 
 dothes right and left, in the idea that he was six I- 
 ing away the dirt ; groped under the bed in qui of 
 the treasure, and lugged forth, as he supposed, an 
 inestimable pot of gold. 
 
 Dame Webber and her daughter were in despair 
 at what they conceived a returning touch of insanity. 
 There are two family oracles, one or other of which 
 Dutch housewives consult in all cases of great doubt 
 and perplexity— the dominie and the doctor. In the 
 present instance, they repaired to the doctor. There 
 was at that time a little, dark, mouldy man of medi- 
 cine, famous among the old wives of the Manhaltoes 
 for his skill, not only in the healing art, but in all 
 matters of strange and mysterious nature. His name 
 was Dr Knipperhausen, but he was more commonly 
 known by the appellation of the High German doc- 
 tor. ■ To him did the poor women repair for counsel 
 and assistance touching the mental vagaries of Wol- 
 fert Webber. 
 
 They found the doctor seated in his little study, 
 clad in his dark camblet robe of knowledge, with his 
 black velvet cap, after the manner of Boerhaave, Van 
 Helmont, and other medical sages; a pair of green 
 spectacles set in black horn upon his clubbed nose ; 
 and poring over a German folio that reflected back 
 the darkness of his physiognomy. 
 
 The doctor listened to their statement of the symp- 
 tomsof Wolfert's malady with profound attention ; but 
 when they came to mention his raving about buried 
 money, the little man pricked up his ears. Alas, 
 poor women ! they little knew the aid they had 
 called in. 
 
 Dr Knipperhausen had been half his life engaged 
 in seeking the short cuts to fortune, in quest of which 
 so many a long life-time is wasted. He had pssed 
 some years of his youth among the Harz mountains 
 of Germany, and had derived much valuable instruc- 
 tion from the miners, touching the mode of seeking 
 treasure buried in the earth. He had prosecuted his 
 studies also under a travelling sage, who united the 
 mysteries of medicine with magic and legerdemain. 
 His mind, therefore, bad become stored with all kinds 
 of mystic lore ; he had dabbled a little in astrology, 
 alchymy, divination; knew how to detect stolen 
 money, and to tell where springs of water lay hidden; 
 in a word, by the dark nature of his knowledge he 
 had acquired the name of the High German doctor, 
 which is pretty nearly equivalent to that of necro- 
 mancer. 
 
 The doctor had often heard the rumours of treasure 
 being buried in various parts of the itiland, and had 
 long been anxious to get in the traces of it. No 
 sooner were Wolfert's waking and sleeping vagaries 
 confided to him, than he beheld in them the confirm- 
 ed symptoms of a case of money-digging, and lost no 
 time in probing it to the bottom. Wolfert had long 
 
 • The same, no doubt, of wlioin mention is made in llie history 
 otDolph llcytlger. 
 
(iUO 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 been sorely oppressed in mind by the golden secret, 
 and as a family physician is a kind of father confessor, 
 he was glad of an opportunity of unburthening him- 
 self. So far from curing, the doctor caught the ma- 
 lady from his patient. The circumstances unfolded to 
 him awakened all his cupidity ; he had not a doubt of 
 money being buried somewhere in the neighbourhood 
 of the mysterious crosses, aud offered to join Wolfert 
 in the search. He informed him that much secrecy and 
 caution must be observed in enterprises of the kind; 
 that money is only to be digged for at night, with cer- 
 tain forms and ceremonies, the burning of drugs, the 
 repealing of mystic words, and above all, that the 
 seekers must first be provided with a divining-rod, 
 whidi had the wonderful property of pointing to the 
 very spot on the surface of the earth under which trea- 
 sure lay hidden. As the doctor had given much of 
 his mind to these matters, he charged himself with all 
 the necessary preparations, and as the quarter of the 
 moon was propitious, he undertook to have the divin- 
 ing-rod ready by a certain night. ' 
 
 Wolfert's heart leaped with joy at having met with 
 so learned and able a coadjutor. Every thing went 
 on secretly but swimmingly. The doctor had many 
 consultations with his patient, and the good woman 
 of the household lauded the comforting effect of his 
 visits. In the mean time, the wonderful divining- 
 rod, that great key to nature's secrets, was duly pre- 
 pared. The doctor had thumbed over all his books 
 of knowledge for the occasion; and the black fisherman 
 was engaged to take him in his skiff to the scene of 
 enterprize; to work with spade and pickaxe in un- 
 earthing the treasure ; and to freight his bark with 
 the weighty spoils they were certain of finding. 
 
 At length the appointed night arrived for this pe- 
 rilous undertaking. Before Wolfert left his home, 
 he counselled his wife and daughter to go to bed, and 
 feel no alarm if he should not return during the night. 
 Like reasonable women, on being told not to feel 
 alarm, they fell immediately into a panic. They saw 
 at once by his manner that something unusual was 
 in agitation ; all their fears about the unsettled state 
 of his mind were revived with tenfold force ; they 
 hung about him, entreating him not to expose himself 
 to the night air, but all in vain. When once Wolfert 
 
 > The following note was found appended to tliis passage, in the 
 hand-writing of Mr Kniclierboclier : 
 
 There has been much written against the divining-rod by those 
 light minds who are ever ready to scoff at the mysteries of nature ; 
 but I fully join with Dr Knipperhausen in giving it my faith. I 
 shall not insist upon its efTicacy in discovering the concealment of 
 stolen goods, the boundary-stones of fields, the traces of robbers 
 and murderers, or even the existence of subterraneous springs 
 and streams of water; albeit I think these properties not to be 
 readily discredited ; but of its potency in discovering veins of pre- 
 cious metal, and hidden sums of money, and jewels, I have not 
 the least doubt. Some said that the rod turned only in the hands 
 of persons who had been born in particular months of the year; 
 hence astrologers had recourse to planetary influence when they 
 would procure a talisman. Others declared, that the properties 
 of the rod were either an effect of chance, or the fraud of the hold- 
 er, or the work of the devil. Thus saith the reverend father 
 Gospard Sehett in his treatise on magic : " Propter hxc et similia 
 
 was mounted on his hobby, it was no easy matter l 
 get him out of the saddle. It was a clear starligh 
 night, when he issued out of the portal of the Webbc 
 palace. He wore a large flapped hat, tied under th 
 chin with a handkerchief of his daughter's, tosecur 
 him firom the night damp; while Dame Webber tlirew 
 her long red cloak about his shoulders, and fastened 
 it round his neck. 
 
 The Doctor had been no less carefully armed and 
 accoutred by his housekeeper, the vigilant Frau Ilsy, 
 and sallied forth in his camblet robe by way of sur 
 coat ; his black velvet cap under his cocked hat; a thick 
 clasped book under his arm; a basket of drugs a» 
 dried herbs in one hand, and in the other the mi- 
 raculous rod ofdivination. 
 
 The great church clock struck ten as Wolfert am 
 the Doctor passed by the churchyard, and the watch- 
 man bawled, in a hoarse voice, a long and dolefa 
 " All's well ! " A deep sleep had already fallen upon 
 this primitive little burgh. Nothing disturbed thk 
 awfiil silence, excepting now and then the bark of 
 some profligate, night-walking dog, or the serenade 
 of some romantic cat. 
 
 It is true Wolfert fancied more than once that ht 
 heard the sound of a stealthy foot fall at a distance Ix- 
 hind them; but it might have been merely the sound 
 of their own steps echoing along the quiet streets. Ht 
 thought also, at one time, that he saw a lall figun 
 sculking after Ihem, slopping when they stopped, aoi 
 moving on as they proceedeti ; but the dim and un- 
 certain lamp-light threw such vague gleams and sha- 
 dows, that this might all have been mere fancy. 
 
 They found the old fisherman waiting for then,! 
 smoking his pipe in the stern of his skiff, which wa| 
 moored just in front of his little cabin. A pick-an 
 and spade were lying in the bottom of the boat, villi 
 a dark lantern, and a stone bottle of good Dutch con-j 
 rage, in which honest Sam, no doubt, put even morej 
 faith than Dr Knipperhausen in his drugs. 
 
 Thus, then, did these three worthies embark ioj 
 their cockle-shell of a skiff upon this nocturnal eu^i 
 dition, with a wisdom and valour equalled only bj 
 the three wise men of Gotham, who adventured losei 
 in a bowl. The tide was rising, and running rapidif 
 up the Sound. The current bore them along aioioftl 
 
 » 
 S 
 f( 
 w 
 it 
 It 
 
 ¥« 
 til 
 
 ih 
 th 
 tk 
 vij 
 th 
 
 W( 
 
 ac 
 sel 
 an 
 Al 
 da 
 
 W( 
 
 th( 
 
 do 
 th( 
 lea 
 shi 
 the 
 1 
 the 
 fioi 
 trei 
 lean 
 [fact 
 hn 
 
 argumenta audacter ego promisero vim conversivam virgulaelhl 
 furcatx nequaquam naturalem esse, sed vel casu vel frauile n\ 
 gulam tractaatis vet ope diaboli, etc." Georgius Agricolaalsonl 
 of opinion that it was a mere delusion of the devil to inveigle lk)l 
 avaricious and unwary into his clutches ; and in his treatise, "Dtl 
 Re HetaUica," lays particular stress on the mysterious wordipn-l 
 nounced by those persons who employed the divining-rod durintl 
 his time. But I make not a doubt that the divining-rod is oneotl 
 those secrets of natural magic, the mystery of which is tobea-r 
 plained by the sympathies existing between physical things openl-| 
 ed upon by the planets, and rendered efficacious by the sin 
 faith of the individual. Let the divining-rod be properly gathcRdl 
 at the proper time of the moon, cut into the proper fonn, iimI| 
 with the necessary ceremonies, and with a perfect failh in ibf 
 cacy, andl can confidently reconmiend it to myfellow-clti 
 as an infallible means of discovering the various places ont 
 island of the Manhattoes, where treasure hath been bnricd in H 
 olden lime. D. K. 
 
 ^low 
 m 
 
 HIS I] 
 
TALES OF A IHAVELLER. 
 
 601 
 
 >bby, it WM no easy mailer I 
 Idle. It was a clear starllr' 
 )ul of the portal of the Webb 
 rge napped hat, lied under th 
 lief of his daughter's, to secup 
 ip ; while Dame Webber U>re^ 
 111 his shoulders, and fastencdl 
 
 n no less carefully armed and 
 keeper, the vigilant Frau lUy, 
 s camblet robe by way of sur 
 ap under his cocked liat ; a thick 
 lis arm; a basket of drugs an 
 and, and in the other the mi 
 lion. 
 
 Jock struck ten as Wolferl and 
 the churchyard, and the watch- 
 »arse voice, a long and doleful 
 lep sleep had already fallen upon 
 )urgh. Nothing disturbed tlm 
 Ling now and then the bark ol 
 It-walking dog, or the serenade 
 
 fancied more than once tliatl 
 stealthy foot fall at a distance 
 Ight have been merely the soui 
 loing along the quiet streets, 
 time, that he saw a tall fig 
 stopping when they stopped, anij 
 »roceede<1 ; but the dim and 
 rew such vague gleams andsl*] 
 |t all have been mere fancy 
 Id fisherman wailing for thenl 
 the stern of his skiff, which wa 
 of his little cabin. A pick-a» 
 in the bottom of the boat, villi 
 I stone bottle of good Dutch coo- 
 it Sam, no doubt, put even morej 
 :rhausen in his drugs, 
 liese three worthies embark Jul 
 I skiff upon this nocturnal eiH 
 m and valour equalled only by 
 Gotham, who adventured toss 
 was rising, and running rapidlr 
 current bore them along alDioit| 
 
 Lromisero vim convewlvam virgutelt 
 }alem esse, sed vel casu vel frauile » 
 llaboli, etc." GeorglusAgricolaalsoM 
 iere delusion of the devil to inveigle Ih 
 loliis clutches sand in his treatise, "»1 
 
 iilar stress on the mysterious wordipn- 
 fwho employed the divining-rod doiim 
 It a doubt that the divining-rod is om(iI| 
 
 riagic. the mystery of which is tobe* 
 (exisllng between physical things openl- 
 
 ad rendered efficacious by the sliwj 
 
 hi the divining-rod be properly gathend] 
 Imoon. cut Into the proper form 
 
 mles, and with a perfect failh in lU 
 
 fy recommend It to my fellow-cif" 
 discovering the various places on 
 
 vhere treasure hath been hurled in 
 U.K. 
 
 wilitout the aid of an oar. The profile of the town 
 lay all in shadow. Here and there a light feebly 
 glimmered from some sick chamber, or from the ca- 
 bin-window ofsome vessel at anchor in the stream. 
 Not a cloud obscured the deep starry firmament, the 
 lights of which wavered on the surface of the placid 
 river, and a shooting meteor, streaking its pale course 
 in the very direction they were taking, was interpret- 
 ed by the Doctor Into a most propitious omen. 
 
 In a little while they glided by the point of Cor- 
 lear's Hook, with the rural mn, which had been the 
 scene of such night adventnres. The family had re- 
 ared to rest, and the house was dark and still. Wol- 
 fert felt a chill pass over him as they passed the point 
 where the buccaneer had disappeared. He pointed 
 it out to Dr Knipperhausen. While regarding it, 
 they thought they saw a boat actually lurking at the 
 very place; but the shore cast such a shadow over 
 the border of the water, that they could discern no- 
 thing distinctly. They had not proceeded far, when 
 they heard the low sound of distant oars, as if cau- 
 tiously pulled. Sam plied his oars with redoubled 
 vigour, and knowing all the eddies and currents of 
 the stream, soon left their followers, if such they 
 were, far astern. In a little while tliey stretched 
 across Turtle Bay and Kip's Bay, then shrouded them- 
 selves in the deep shadows of the Manhattan shore, 
 and glided swiftly along, secure from observation. 
 At length the negro shot his skiff into a little cove, 
 dark'y embowered by trees, and made it fast to the 
 well-l.nown iron ring. 
 
 They now landed, and, lighting the lantern, ga- 
 thered thelt various im^ilements, and proceeded 
 slowly through the bushes. Every sound startled 
 them, even that of their own footsteps among the dry 
 leaves; and the hooting of a screech owl from the 
 shattered chimney of the neighbouring ruin made 
 (heir blood run cold. 
 
 In spite of all Wolferl's caution in taking note of 
 the landmarks, it was some time before they could 
 fmd the open place among the trees, where the 
 treasure was supposed to be buried. At length they 
 came to the ledge of rock, and on examining i*s sur- 
 jfaceby the aid of the lantern, Wolferl recognized the 
 three mystic crosses. Their hearts beat quick, for the 
 mentous trial was at band that was to determine 
 leir hopes. 
 
 The lantern was now held by Wolferl Webber^ 
 
 hile the Doctor produced the divining-rod. It was 
 
 forked twig, one end of which was grasped firmly 
 
 each hand ; while the centre, forming the stem, 
 
 inted perpendicularly upwards. The Doctor moved 
 
 ibis wand about, within a certain distance of the 
 
 larth, from place lo place, but for some lime wilhcul 
 
 iny effect ; while Wolferl kept the light of tiie lan- 
 
 m turned full upoiv it, and watched it with the 
 
 i breathless interest. At length, the rod began 
 
 ilowly to turn. The doctor grasped it with greater 
 
 nestness, his hands trembling with the agitation of 
 
 lis mind. The wand continued to turn gradually, 
 
 until at length the stem liad reversed its position, and 
 pointed perpendicularly downward, and remained 
 pointing to one spot as fixedly as the needle lo the pol*>. 
 
 " This is the spot !" said the Doctor in an almo^tt 
 inaudible tone. 
 Wolferl's heart was in his throat. 
 
 " Shall I dig ?" said the negro, grasping the spade. 
 
 " Potstausends, no !" replied the lilUe Doctor has- 
 tily. He now ordered his companions to keep closo 
 by him, and lo maintain the most inflexible silence ; 
 that certain precautions must be taken, and ceremo- . 
 nies used, (o prevent the evil spirits which kept about 
 buried treasure from doing them any harm. 
 
 He then drew a circle about the place, enougli to 
 include the whole party. He next gathered dry twigs , 
 and leaves, and made a lire, upon which he threw 
 certain drugs and dried herbs, which he had brought 
 in his basket. A thick smoke arose, diffusing its 
 potent odour, savouring marvellously of brimstone 
 and assafoetida, which, however grateful it might be 
 to the olfactory nerves of spirits, nearly strangled 
 poor Wolfert, and produced a fit of coughing and 
 wheezing that made the whole grove resound. Dr 
 Knipperhausen then unclasped the volume which be 
 had brought under his arm, which was printed in 
 red and black diaracters in German text. While 
 Wolfert held the lantern, the Doctor, by the aid of 
 his spectacles, read off several forms of conjuration 
 in Latin and German. He then ordered Sam to 
 seize the pick-axe and proceed lo work. The close- 
 bound soil gave obstinate signs of not having been dis- 
 turbed for many a year. After having picked his 
 way through the surface, Sam came lo a bed of sand 
 and gravel, which he threw briskly lo right and 
 left with the spade. 
 
 " Hark !" said Wolfert, who fancied he heard a 
 trampling among the dry leaves, and a rustling 
 through the bushes. Sam paused for a moment, and 
 they listened— no footstep was near. The bat flilleil 
 by them in silence ; a bird, roused from its roost by 
 the light which glared up among the trees, flew 
 circling about the flame. In the profound stillness 
 of the woodland they could distinguish the current 
 rippling along the rocky shore, and the distant mur- 
 muring and roaring of Hell-gate. 
 
 The negro continued his labours, and had already 
 digged a considerable hole. The Doctor stood on 
 the edge, reading formulae, every now and then, fk'om 
 his black-letter volume, or throwing mure drugs and 
 herbs upon the fire, while Wolfeit bent anxiously 
 over the pit, watching every stroke of the spade. 
 Any one witnessing the scene, thus lighted up by 
 fire, lantern, and the reflection of Wolferl's red man- 
 tle, might have mistaken the Httle Doctor for some 
 foul magician, busied in his incantations, and the 
 grizzly-headed negro for some swarl goblin obedient 
 to his conunands. 
 
 At length the spade of the old fisherman struck 
 upon something that sounded hollow ; the sound vi- 
 brated to Wolferl's heart. He struck his spade again— 
 
 76 
 
mi 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 
 '< 'Ti« a chest," uid Sam. 
 
 " Fall of gold, I'll warrant it !" cried Wolfert, 
 clasping his hands with rapture. 
 
 Scarcely liad he uttered the words when a sound 
 from above caught his ear. He cast up his eyes, and 
 lo ! by the expiring light of the fire, lie beheld, just 
 over the disk of the rock, what appeared to be the 
 grim visage of the drowned buccaneer, grinning 
 hideously down upon him. 
 
 Wolfert gave a loud cry, and let fall the lantern. 
 His panic commnnioated itself to his companions, 
 'the negro leaped out of the hole ; the Doctor dropped 
 his book and basket, and began to pray in German. 
 All was horror and confusion. The fire was scat- 
 tered about, the lantern extingublied. In their hur- 
 ry-scurry, they ran against and confounded one ano- 
 ilier. They fancied a legion of holigoblins let loose 
 upon them, and that they saw, by the fitful gleams 
 uf the scattered embers, strange figures in red caps, 
 gibbering and ramping around them. The Doctor ran 
 one way, the negro another, and Wolfert made for 
 the water-side. As he plunged, struggling onwards 
 through bush and brake, he heard the tread of some 
 Hue in pursuit. He scrambled frantickly forward. 
 The footsteps gained upon him. He felt himself 
 grasped by iiis cloak, when suddenly his pursuer was 
 attacked in turn. A fierce fight and struggle en- 
 sued. A pistol was discharged that lit up rock and 
 bush for a second, and sliowed two figures grappling 
 It^etlier — all was then darker than ever. The con- 
 test continued ; the combatants clenched each other, 
 and panted and groaned, and rolled among the rocks. 
 There was snarling and growling as of a cur, mingled 
 with curses, in which Wolfert fancied he could re- 
 cognize the voice of the buccaneer. He would fain 
 have fled, but he was on the brink of a precipice, 
 and could go no farther. Again the parties were on 
 their feet ; again there was a tugging and straggling, 
 as if strei^th alone could decide the combat, until one 
 was precipitated from the brow of the cliff, and sent 
 headlong into the deep stream that whirled below. 
 Wolfert heard the plunge, and a kind of strangling, 
 bubbling murmur ; but the darkness of the ni^t hid 
 every thing from him, and the swiftness «f the cur- 
 rent swept every thing instantly out of hearing. 
 
 One of tlie combatants was disposed of, but whe- 
 ther friend or foe Wolfert could not tell, or whether 
 they might not both be foes. He beard tlie survivor 
 approach, and his terror revived. He saw, where 
 the profile of the rocks rose against the horizon, a hu- 
 man form advancing. He could not be mistaken — 
 it must be the buccaneer. Whither should lie fly ? 
 a precipice was on one side, a murderer on the other. 
 The enemy approached — he was close at hand. 
 Wolfert attempted to let himself down the face of the 
 cliff. His cloak caught in a thorn ttiat grew on the 
 edge : he was jerked from off his feet, and held 
 dangling in the air, half choked by the string with 
 which his careful wife had fastened the garment 
 I'ound his neck. Wolfert thought- his last moment 
 
 arrived ; already had ht committed his soul to 
 St Nicholas, when the string broke, and he tumbled 
 down the bank, bumping from itMsk to rock, and 
 bush to bush, and leaving the red cloak fluttering, 
 like a bloody banner, in the air. 
 
 It was a long while before Wolfert came to him- 
 self. When he opened his eyes, the ruddy streaks 
 of morning were already shooting up the sky. He 
 found himself lying in the bottom of a boat, griev* 
 ously battered. He attempted to sit up, but was too 
 sore and stiff to move. A voice requested him, in 
 friendly accents, to lie still. He turned his eyes to- 
 wards the speaker— it was Dirk Waldron. lie had 
 dogged the party at the earnest request of Dame 
 Webber and her daughter, who, with the laudable 
 curiosity of their sex, had piled into the secret con- 
 sultations of Wolfert and the Doctor. Dirk had been 
 completely distanced in following the light skiff of the 
 fisherman, and had just come in time to rescue the 
 pour money-digger from his pursuer. 
 
 Thus ended this perilous enterprise. The Doctor 
 and Black Sam severally found their way back to the 
 Manhattoes, each having some dreadful tale of peril 
 to relate. As to poor Wolfert, instead of returnioK 
 in triumph, laden with bags of gold, he was borw 
 home on a shutter, followed by a raUile rout of cu- 
 rious urchins. 
 
 His wife and daughter saw the dismal pageul 
 from a distance, and alarmed the neighbourhood 
 with tlieir cries ; they thought the poor man had sud- 
 denly settled the great debt of nature in one of hit 
 wayward hmmmIs. Finding him, however, still living, 
 they had him speedily to bed, and a jury of old ma- 
 trons of the neighbourhood assembled to determiae 
 how he should be doctored. 
 
 The whole town was in a buzz with the story of I 
 the money-diggers. Many repaired to the scene of 
 the previous night's adventures ; but though they 
 found the very place of the digging, they discovered 
 nothing that compensated them for their trouble. 
 Some say they found the fragments of an oaken chest, 
 and an iron potlid, which savoured strongly of hidden 
 money, and that in the old family-vault there were | 
 traces of bales and boxes , but this is all very da- 
 bious. 
 
 In fact, the secret of all this story has never totfait I 
 day been discovered. Whether any treasure wen 
 ever actually buried at that place ; whether, if so, it 
 were carried off at night by those who had buried it; 
 or whether it still remains there under the guardian- 
 ship of gnomes and spirits, until it shall be properl; | 
 sought for, is all matter of conjecture. For my pin, 
 I incline to the latter opinion, and make no doubt I 
 that great sums lie buried, both there and in many I 
 other parts of this island and its neighbourhood, ever I 
 since the times of the buccaneers and the Dutch en-l 
 lonists ; and I would earnestly recommend the searclij 
 after them to such of my fellow-citizens as are i 
 engaged in any other upeculalions. There werel 
 many conjectures formed, also, as to who and wha'l 
 
TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 005 
 
 d h» commllled his wul lo 
 ing broke, and he tumbled 
 ig from iwk to rock, «nd 
 g the red cloak fluttering, 
 
 he air. 
 
 fore Wolfert came to him- 
 liis eyes, the ruddy streaks 
 r shooting up the sky. He 
 Ihe bottom of a boat, grie^- 
 mpted to sit up, but was too 
 A voice requested him, in 
 ill. He turned his eyes to- 
 m Dirk Waldron. He had 
 le earnest request of Dame 
 ler, who, with the laudable 
 id piied into the secret con- 
 d the Doctor. Dirk had been 
 following the light skiff oflhe 
 I come in time to rescue the 
 n his pursuer. 
 
 lous enterprise. The Doctor 
 y found their way back to ihe 
 ig some dreadful Ule of peril 
 Wolfert, instead of returniuf 
 , bags of gold, he was borw 
 lowed by a raW)le rout of cu- 
 
 hter saw the dismal pageiat 
 [ alarmed the neighbourhood 
 thought the poor man had sud- 
 t debt of nature in one of hii 
 ling him, however, still living, 
 to bed, and a jury of oW ma- 
 rhood assembled to delermine 
 tored. 
 
 IS in a buzz with the story of 
 Many repaired to the scene (rf 
 adventures; but though they 
 )f the digging, they discovered 
 sated them for their troulik. 
 he fragments of an oaken cliest, 
 ich savoured strongly of hidden 
 le old family-vault there we« 
 xes, but this is all very da- 
 
 : all this story has never toti 
 Whelher any treasure wen 
 |t that place ; whether, if w, il 
 eht by those who had buried ft; 
 nains there under the guardian- 
 irits, until it shall be properlj 
 er of conjecture. For my part, 
 opinion, and make no doobl 
 jiried, both there and in many 
 fnd and its neighbourhood, evei 
 Ibuccanefrs and the Dutch en- 
 lameslly recommend the searclij 
 my fellow-citizens as are -"* 
 |,r Bpeculalions. Theie werel 
 Ud,also, astowhoandwhatl 
 
 was the strange nun of the seas who had domineered 
 over the little fraternity at Corlear's Hook for a time, 
 disappeared so strangely, and re-appeared so fear- 
 fully. 
 
 Some supposed him a smuggler, slat'aned at that 
 place to assist his comrades in landing their goods 
 aaiong the rocky coves of the island. Others, that 
 !"> was one of the ancient comrades, either of Kidd 
 ur Bradish, returned to convey away treasures for- 
 merly hidden in the vicinity. The only circumstance 
 ihat throws any thing like a vague 'ight on this mys- 
 terious matter, is a report which pre ailed of a strange 
 fbreign-built shallop, with much the look of a pic- 
 raroon, having been seen hovering about the Sound 
 for several days without landing or reporting herself, 
 though boats were seen going to and from her at 
 night ; and that she was seen standing out of the 
 inonth of the harbour, in the grey of the dawn, af- 
 ter tlie catastrophe of the money-diggers. 
 
 I must not omit lo mention another report, also, 
 which I confess is rather apocryphal, nf the buccaneer, 
 who was $u{)posed to have been drowned, being seen 
 before daybreak with a lantern in his hand, seated 
 astride his great sea-chest, and sailing through Hell- 
 gale, wliich just then began to roar and bellow with 
 redoubled ftiry. 
 
 While all the gossip world was thus filled with talk 
 and nimour, poor Wolfert lay sick and sorrowful in 
 hiii bed, bruised in body, and sorely beaten down in 
 mind. His wife and daughter did all they could to 
 bind np Iris wounds, both corporal and spiritual. The 
 jj'ood old dame never stirred fiom his bed-side, where 
 [she sat knitting from morning till night ; while his 
 daughter busied herself about him with the fondest 
 Icare. Nor did they lack assistance from abroad. 
 rVhatever may be said of the desertion of friends in 
 lislress, they had no complaint of the kind to make ; 
 |nol an old wife of the neighbourhood but abandoned 
 ler work to crowd to the mansion of Wolfert Webber, 
 itquire after his health, and the particulars of his 
 lory. Not one came, moreover, without her little 
 ipkin of penny-royal, sage balm, or other herb-tea, 
 elighled at an opportunity of signalizing her kind- 
 less and her dnctorship. 
 
 lat drenchings did not the poor Wolfert un- 
 
 lergo ! and all in vain. Il was a moving sight to 
 
 ihold him wasting away day by day ; growing 
 
 hiuner and thinner, and ghastlier and ghastlier; and 
 
 ring with rueful visage from under an old patch- 
 
 ork o^unterpane, upon the jury of matrons kindly 
 
 Lssembled to sigh and groan, and look unhappy 
 
 iroand him. 
 
 Dirk Waldron Avas the only being that seemed to 
 
 |hed a ray of sunshine into this house of mourning. 
 
 le came in with cheery look and manly spirit, and 
 
 ied to reanimate the expiring heart of the poor 
 
 loney-digger ; but it was all in vain. Wolfert was 
 
 inpletely done over. If any lliing was wanting (o 
 
 nplete his despair, it was a notice served upon him, 
 
 Ihe midst of his disdess, that the corporalion were 
 
 about to run a new street through the very centre of 
 his cabbage-garden. He now saw nothing befbre 
 him but poverty and ruin— his last reliance, the gar- 
 den of his forefathers, was to be laid watte— and 
 what then was to become of his poor wife and child ? 
 His eyes Hlled with tears as they followed the dutiful 
 Amy out of the room one morning. Dirk Waldron 
 was seated beside him ; Wolfert grasped his hand, 
 pointed after his daughter, and for the first time since 
 his illness, broke the silence he had maintained. 
 
 "I am going!" said he, shaking his bead feebly; 
 "and when I am gone— my poor daughter — " 
 
 '' Leave her to me, father! " said Dirk, manfully; 
 <' I'll take care of her!" 
 
 Wolfert looked up in the fare of the cheery, strap- 
 ping youngster, and saw there was none better able 
 to take care of a woman. 
 
 "Enough," said he, "she is yours! — and now 
 fetch me a lawyer— let me make my will and die! " 
 
 The lawyer was brought, a dapper, bustling, 
 round-headed little man— Roorbach (or Rollebuck, 
 as it was pronounced) by name. At the sight of him 
 the women broke into loud lamentations, for they 
 looked u[)on the signing of a will as the signing of a 
 death-warrant. Wolfert made a feeble motion for 
 them to be silent. Poor Amy buried her (ace and 
 her grief in the bed-curtain; Dame Webber resumeil 
 lier knitting to hide her distress, which betrayed it- 
 self, however, in a pellucid tear which trickled silently 
 down, and hung at the end of her peaked nose; 
 while the cat, the only unconcerned member of the 
 family, played with the good dame's ball of worsted, 
 as it rolled about the floor. 
 
 Wolfert 'ay on his back, his night-cap drawn over 
 his forehead, his eyes closed, his whole visage the 
 picture of death. He begged the lawyer to be brief, 
 for he fell his end approaching, and that he had no 
 time to lose. The lawyer nibbed his pen, spread out 
 his paper, and prepared to write. 
 
 " I give and bequeath," said Wolfert, faintly, " my 
 small farm — " 
 
 " What! all ?" exclaimed the lawyer. 
 
 Wolfert half opened his eyes, and looked upon the 
 lawyer. 
 
 "Yes— all," said he. 
 
 "What ! all that great patch of land with cabbages 
 and sunflowers, which the corporation is just going 
 to run a main street through? " 
 
 " The same," said Wolfert, with a heavy sigh, and 
 sinking back upon his pillow. 
 
 "I wish him joy that inherits it! " said the lillfe 
 lawyer, chuckling &nd rubbing his hands involuu- 
 tarily. 
 
 "What do you mean?" said Wolfert, again open- 
 ing his eyes. 
 
 " That he 'II be one of the richest men in Ihe place !" 
 cried little Rollebuck. 
 
 The expiring Wolfert seemed to step 'mhI; h.ih) 
 the threshold of existence; his eyes agair ."ghi'd •■{); 
 he raised himself in his bed, shoved hacK kh wonted 
 
im 
 
 TALES OF A TRAVELLER. 
 
 im-M 
 
 < ■ 
 
 red night -cap, and stared broadly at the lawyer. 
 
 " Yoa don't say so ! " exclaimed he. 
 
 <' Faith, but I doJ " rejoined the other. " Why, 
 when that great fleld, and that huge meadow, come 
 to be laid out in streets, and cut up into snug build- 
 ing lots— why, wlioever owns it need not pull ofThis 
 hat tothepaUoon!" 
 
 "Say you so?" cried Wolfert, half thrusting one 
 leg out of bed; "why, then, I tliink I'll not make 
 my will yet ! " 
 
 To the surprise of every body, the dying man ac- 
 tually recovered. The vital spark, which had glim- 
 mered faintly in the socket, received fresh fuel from 
 the oil of gladness which the little lawyer poured 
 into his soul. It once more burnt up into a flame. 
 Give physic to the heart, ye who would revive the 
 body of a spirit-broken man! In a few days Wol- 
 fert left his room; in a few days more his table was 
 covered with deeds, plans of streets, and building 
 lots. Little Rollebuck was constantly with him, his 
 right-hand man and adviser, and instead of making 
 his will, assisted in the more agreeable task of mak- 
 ing his fortune. 
 
 In fact, Wolfert Webber was one of those many 
 worthy Dutch burghers of the Manhattoes, whose 
 fortunes have been made in a manner in spite of them- 
 selves; who have tenaciously held on to their here- 
 ditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the 
 skirts of the city, hardly able to make both ends meet, 
 until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through 
 their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out 
 of their lethargy, and to their astonishment found 
 themselves rich men ! 
 
 Before many months had elapsed, a great bustling 
 street passed through the very centre of the Webber 
 garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a 
 
 treasure. His golden dream was accomplished. lie 
 did indeed find an unlooked-for source of wealth; for 
 when his paternal lands were distributed into build- 
 ing lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of 
 producing a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned 
 him an abundant crop of rents ; insomuch that on 
 quarter-day it was a goodly sight to see his tenants 
 knocking at his door from morning till night, each 
 with a little round-bellied bag of money, the golden 
 produce of the soil. 
 
 The ancient mansion of his forefathers was still kepi 
 up; but instead of being a little yellow-fronted Dutcb 
 house in a garden, it now stood boldly in the midst 
 of a street, the grand house of the neighbourhood; 
 for Wolfert enlarged it with a wing on each side, 
 and a cupola or tea-room on top, where he miglit 
 climb up and smoke his pipe in hot weather; and in 
 tlie course of time the whole mansion was overniu 
 by the chubby-faced progeny of Amy Webber and 
 Dirk Waldron. 
 
 As Wolfert waxed old, and rich, and corpulent, 
 he also set up a great gingerbread-coloured carriage, 
 drawn by a pair of black Flanders mares, with tails 
 that swept the ground; and to commemorate the ori- 
 gin of his greatness, lie had for his crest a full-blovD 
 cabbage painted on the pannels with the pithy motio 
 allts lto{if, that is to say, all head, meaning thereby, 
 that he had risen by sheer head-work. 
 
 To fill the measure of his greatness, in the fulness 
 of time the renowned Ramm Rapelye slept with liis 
 fathers, and Wolfert Webber succeeded to the lea- 
 ther-bottomed arm-chair, in the inn-parlour at Cor- 
 lear's Hook, where he long reignsd, greatly honoured 
 and respected, insomuch that he was never knoiro 
 to tell a story without its being believed, nor to utter 
 a joke without its being laughed at. 
 
 E>D OF THE TALES OF A TRAVELLElt. 
 
Iream was aocomplisbed. He 
 oked-for source of vrealth ; for 
 Is were distributed into build- 
 out to safe tenants, instead of 
 p of cabbages, they returned 
 » of rents ; insomuch that on 
 ;oodly sight to see his tenants 
 from morning till night, each 
 lied bag of money, the golden 
 
 n of his forefathers was still kepi 
 ng a little yellow-fronted Dutck 
 now stood boldly in the midst 
 house of the neighbourhood; 
 it with a wing on each ade 
 room on top, where he might 
 lis pipe in hot weatherj and in 
 e whole mansion was overm 
 progeny of Amy Webber and 
 
 1 old, and rich, and corpulent 
 ; gingerbread-coloured carriage, 
 lack Flanders mares, with (aili 
 d ; and to commemorate the or! 
 lie had for his crest a full-blom 
 he pannels with the pithy motlo 
 ly, ALL HEAD, meaning thereby 
 sheer head-work. 
 8 of his greatness, in the fulness 
 d Ramm Rapelye slept with hs 
 t Webber succeeded to the lei- 
 hair, in the inn-parlour at Cot- 
 e long reigned, greatly honoured 
 nuch that he was never known 
 It its being believed, nor to ultet 
 ing laughed at.