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The last recorded frame on each microfiche shall contain the symbol ^^> {meaning "CON- TINUED"), or the symbol V (meaning "END"), whichever applies. Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at different reduction ratios. Those too large to be entirely inc'uded in one exposure are filmed beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to right and top to bottom, as many frames as required. The following diagrams illustrate the method: Hamitton Public Library Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition at de la netteti de l'exemplaire filmd, et en conformity avec les conditions du contrat de filmage. Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en papier est microfiche, selon le cas: le symbole — ^ sigi. "ie "A SUIVRE ", le symbole V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent utre filmds d des taux de reduction diffdrents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre reproduit en un seul clich6, il est film6 d partii- de I'angle sup^rieur gauche, de gauche d droite, et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre d'images n6cessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mdthode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 IRVINGS SKETCH-BOOK WITH NOTKS i:v <•• A. (MASK. n.A. V \ i» AN FXTKODUGTION TO TAIJSMAN riY •■|(.\UI.(ITTK M. VONCIK. WITH NOTK8 AXJ) (;L0SSAF.'V nv DWTOHT irOLRROOK. ji-l i. VL'afle ^ Co/3 educational ^r lire. THE SKETCH BOOK BY WAsiiixcrj'oN niviNci WITH SMch of Ann,,,.-: Uf,, and V,„n,.omonal, Cntical and Kxplanntitry Notes HV ^>. A, CHASP; RA, ■Jnrvh Stn','t Vnlleuiute InHWut,; Toronto. HAMILTON PUBLIC LIBRARr W. .T. (JATxE & COMPANY, TOttONlHJ. Knteied accordlnK to th« Act of Parliament of Canada, in the yoar iw»i', in the office of the Minister of Agriculture, by VV. J. GAiiK. & Co., Toi-onu. DEC 27 m ttmilTQH PU3UG LlBRKrii ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. V 1H»J, \n th»' oroiu.t. TllK following ;vritiiiirs an' publishod on ox|)«Mimt»rjt ; Klumhl Wioy plt'iisc, they may l»(! f»>ll<»\v»'«| l»y others. Tho wiilor will liav(! t<) contt'ud with sotn<» »lisiul vantages. Ho is uiisuitlod in his alxxlc. subject to int«M'iMiptions. and has his share of cares an«l vicissil tides. He cannot, therefc re, pioniise a regular plan, nor regular peri<»ds of |>ul)lication. Should he be en couraj.s'e*! to pro- ceed, much timt." may elapse bid-ween the appearance of his num- bers ; and their si/e will ilepend on the materials he may have on hand. His writinns will partake of the Ihict nations of his own thouyhts and feelinu^s ; sometimes treat in«j: of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaj^inary, and sometimes wandering l)acU with his lecol lections to his native country. He will not !»• able to give them that tranquil attention necessary to llnished composition ; and as they must bo transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will have to tiust to t)lhers to correct the fr«!- (pient errors of thc! pr(!ss. Should his writings, however, with all their im|)eii<'itions be well received, he cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purf st gratilication ; for though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the rewards of loftier intellects, yet it is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cJKMMshed, though humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. London, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. The following desultory papers aro part of a series written in tliis country, but published in AmtM-ica.* The author is aware of the austerity with which the writings of his countrynien have liitherto been treated by British critics; he is conscious, too, that much of the contents of his jiapers can be interesting only in the • yes of American readers, ll was not his intention, therefore, to have them reprinted in this country. He has, however, observed several of them from time to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has understood that it was probable they would be re- published in a collective form. H«» has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them forward himself, that they may at least come correctly before the public. Should they be deemed of suf- licient importance to attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that courtesy and candor whicli a stranger has some right to claim who presents liimself at tlie threshold of a hospitable nation. February, 1880. CONTENTS. Thk Author's A<(nuNT of Himsklf, TlIK VoYAtJK RoscoK TlIK WiFK Uip Van Winklf., KNdMSH VVlUTKRS ON AMERICA. JURAL I. IFF, IN EN(U.ANI), . TlIK liRoKKN HkaRT, TlIK Art of Hook-Makino, A llOYALPOKT TlIK Country ('iiurch, . Thk Widow and Hkr Son, The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap, The Mutability of Literature, ItuRAL Funerals, The Inn Kitchen, . The Spectre Bridegroom, Westminster A.bbey, Christmas, .... The Staoe-Coach, . Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, The C'hristmas Dinner, . Little Britain, Stratford-on-Avon, Traits of Indian Character, Philip op Pokanoket, John Bull, .... The Pride of the Village, . The Angler, .... The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, L'Envoy, 5 9 15 ai 'J9 45 r)3 00 05 m 84 80 95 106 116 126 las 143 153 158 164 174 187 198' 213 230 240 256 266 275 283 814 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OK IIIMSKLP. >>AUK 5 9 15 'il ',•9 45 .->:{ 00 «5 09 84 89 95 . 106 . 116 . 126 . 138 . 143 . 153 . 156 . 164 . 174 . 187 . 198' . 213 . 230 . 240 . 256 . 266 . 275 . 283 . 814 < T fim nf thin mind witli Iloiiifr, that hh iIh* Aiiuil»* that rn>|it oMt nf h«>r Hh(>l waH t(irnor«'l)y wiui fnr('«'ii to iiiak<^ ii ntV* to Kit on; so thf travcllrr that HtraKl*>tii from his own*' count rv is in a slHtit tinif> trans formed into so nionstroiis a shaiM*, that li*' is faiiM* to a(ti>r his niansion witli hiH iiiaiHK'rs, and to hvt* wtn'rc lit' can, not wiion' liu would, l-iily's KnphufH. I WAS sihviiyrt fond of visitinj^ now sci'ucs, and ol)st'rvin;,' plnmpM'lijinuderti and nmnncrs. Even wliun a mvw^ cliild I Ix'^an my travels, and made many tours of distrovery into foreign }»arts and unknown regions of my native city, to tlie fre(|Uent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-(M'ier. As I grew into boyhood, I extendeil the range of my ohservations. My lioliday afternoons were spent in rambles al)out the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its i)laces famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. 1 visited the neigh- boring villages, and added greatly to my ; ock of knowl- edge, by noting tlieir liabits and (uistoms. and conversing with their sages and great men. I even j' iieycMl one long summer's day to the summit of the moot disUmt hill, from whence I stretched my eve ov(u* manv Ji mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe 1 inhabited. This rambling proi)ensity strengthened with my years. Hooks of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their (Contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the sclicol. How wistfully would 1 wander about the pier-heads in fine wt lier, and watch the i)arting ships, bound todista'it dim s — with vhat longii'g eyes would l gaze after theii Icssenin'^ sails, stud waft myself in imag- inations to th< ends of th • earth I Farther reading and thinking, th- ugh they brought thif: 6 THE AUTHORS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF, 1 1' vague inclination into niore reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country; and had I been merely influenced 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 prodigally hivished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints; h^^r valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving with, sponta- neous verdure; her broad deep rivers, roiling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegeta- tion puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine: no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical association. There were to be seen the master- pieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Iler very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander ov^-r the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of the earth. AYe have, it is true, our great men in America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the slrade of a great one, particularly the great man oi a city. But I was anx- ious to see the great men of Europe; for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among tiie number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must tlierefore 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- ; •X' I THE AUTHORS ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. y served 3 of my )y i\ lovo to seek Liive the d. Her (untains, ng with Bring ill 1. spoil tll- L solemn ! vegeta- kindling un shine : country ried and > master- l society, om. My rope was ery ruins (uldering le scenes in the castle — 3rt, from e myself bhe great men in uhem. I li almost for there If a great Iwas aiix- id in the lenerated )at man :ior to a Lighland 1, by ob- serving the comparative importance and swelling magni- tude of many Englisli travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in tlioir own country. I will visit this land of wonders, tliought I, and see the gigantic race from wliich I am degenerated. It has been either my good or evil lot to have my rov- ing passion gratified. I liave 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 ratlier with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of land- scape. 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 entertain- ment of my friends. AVhen, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the pur- pose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular traveller who would make a book. J. fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky land- scape-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 neglected to paint 8t. Peter's^ or the Coliseum; the Cascade of Terni, or the Hay of Naples; and had not a single gkcier or volcano in his whole collection. jji; lit I ■ lit M THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. THE VOYAGE. What you are protecting And projecting, '^' Hallo , n.yfa„c£,''^i;s:;/irs.r«:n%'i!sf- To an American visiting Eurnnr" thr. i has to make is an excellent prepa ntiv^ 'VU^ 7"^"^" '"' absence of worldly scenes „!,!) ' , ®' ^''" ti'mporary state of min,I Slkrlv fitti 1 ,^'"l''"J""«»t« l'>-"d"cos a impressions. 'IM.e vast sn ^- f ''"*"^ '"'"' '""' '''''' hemispheres is ke a blan? n! ""•'"'' '"" '*«l""-'"«« 'ho and population of on" cm nf i n i 1'"' "'« ^""''"cs biy with those of another ,V / "''""'' '''"Percopti- sightof the land vou hav; Icf ^im"' "'"'"«"' ^o" lo«» step on the onnosite Klml i ' , "* ™«"'<'y. "ntii vou tho^n.st,e aXpttTf r^^CiSr'-*^'' '" "'"=« ■"'" a coUe:i:dTuCiirof ';"" " " '""/^■'""''>- °f ---. --i o^ the sto., ^ Hf^nrer ^Cr':?^^;-^ 10 THE SKETCH-BOOK. separjition. We (Irau:, it \> triio, "a lengthening cliiiin " at wicli remove of our jyilgriniage; but the chain is unl)roken; we can traf^^ it ])a('k link bv link; and we feel that the last of them still grajjples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose frym the secure ancliorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our homes ' — a gulf, subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. 8ucli, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the ^ast biue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, It seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, be- fore I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing ('rom my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take phice in me, before I should visit it again I Wlio can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the nncertain currents of existence; or when he niay return; or whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? I said, that at sea all is vjicancy : I should correct the expression. To ono given to day dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation; but then they are the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I delighted to loli over the quarter-railing or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer sea; — to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon; fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols: shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface; or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that J THE VOYAaE. n had liearrl or read of the watory world beneath mc: of the finny herds tliat roam its fatliomless valleys; of the shape- less monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean; would be another theme of idle speculation, llow interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious monument of human invention; that has thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the ends of the world into com- munion; has established an interchange of blessings, ])our- ing into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding exparse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been comi)letely wrecked; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amid the roar of the tempest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship; what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mis- tress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How has expectation darkened into anxiety— anxiety into dread — and dread into despair! Alas! not one memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All that shall ever l)e known, is, that she sailed from her port "and was never heard of more ! " 1^ TIIJH SKETCH-BOOK, \:}. The siglit of this wreck, as usiisil, gave rise to many dis- mal anecdotes. Tliis was particularly the case in the even- ing, wlien the weatlier, which had hitherto been fair, be- gan to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of tliose sudden storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round I the dull light of a lamp, in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and dis- aster. I was jiarticularly 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 imi)ossible for us to see far ahead, even in the daytime; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which arc accustomed to lie at Jinchor 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 ahead!' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with a broadside towanl us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just a-mid-ships. The force, the size, tlie v/eight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches, rushing from her cabin : they just started from their beds to be swallowed shriekin by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears, swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned as nearly as we could <,'uess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in tiie dense fog. We iircd signal-guns, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but all was silent — we never saw or heard anything of them more." 1 ( onfess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The (I* in ♦ " ■ m w wujMjf -, THE VOYAUE. 13 it of was was |oul*l alloo leard Tlie sea was I'lshed into trt'ineiiduiis confusion. TIum-c was a fearful, sullen sound of rushiui^ waves and broken sur;^'t's. Deep called unto deep. At times tli«' hlack volume of elonds overiiead seemed rent asunder bv Hashes of liijht- ning that quivered along tlie foaming biUows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The tiiunders bellowed over tlie wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by tlie mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miracnlous tliat she regained her balance, or pre- served her buoyancy. Her yards wonld dip into the water; her bow was almost bnried beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- lowed m*3. The whistling of tlie wind through the rigging sonnded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts ; the straining and groaning of bulkheads, as tlie ship labored in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for liis prey: the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entiance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to fliglit. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she api'ears — how she seems to lord it over the deep! I might lill 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 cjin 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 vol- ume of associations with the very name. It is the land of l)romise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. 14 THE f^KKTdr-liOOK. S: I li ' ! From that time, initil tlio niomont of arrivjil, it was all ftfvori.sh cxcitcrnt'iit. 'IMu* shipH of war, tliat prowled like guardian giants along the coast; tlie iR-adlirnds of Ireland, strot(!liing out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds; all were ohjeets of intense in- terest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitre ' the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shruhheries and green grass- j)lots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteris- tic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thr(»nge(l with j)eople; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consign(;d. I knew him by his calcu- lating brow aTid restless air. His hands were thrust into his pockets, he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a snuill space having been accorded him by the crowd, in (^'ference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged be- tween the shore and the ship, as friends happened to rec- ognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was lean- ing forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint voice call her name. — It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife ])el*ore he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with ti countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, attered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. ilipi lUmcoK Vi All now was liurrv niul bustle. The meetings of ac- qnaintances — the gn'etiji<^s of friends — tlie consultations of men of busiiu'ss. I alone w;is solitary and idle. 1 had no friend to meet, no eheering to reeeive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but fidt that I was a stranger iu the land. UOSCOE. In thp service of nmiikiiid In Ixt AKuanlian y^tnl below ; Htill to employ The iniii(l\s brave ardor in heroie aims, Siu'h as may rals«Mis o'er the Ki'ovelliuj; herd, And make us shine forever— that is life.— Thomson. One of the first places to wl)ich a stranger is taken in Liverpool, is the AthenaMim. It is establislied on a liberal and judicious 2)lan; it contains a good library, and spa- cious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of tlii^ place. Go tliere at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply ab- sorbed in the study of newspapers. As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was attracted to a i)erson just entering the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. lie had a noble Roman style of countenance; a head that would have pleased a painter; and though some slight furrows on his brow showed tiiat wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Ros- OOE. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of venera- tion. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth; with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, to know European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of them, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the ciowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass Tllffi I 1<; T11K SKI'yp'U nanK. Iid'orc our inijiiiiiuilitms like superior hcinj^^^, nulijiut witli the eiuiiMiitious of their own «,a'iiiu.s, iiml surrounded by u halo of literary ^h>ry. To llnd, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling among the busy sons of traflie, iit first shocked my j)oeti(ral ideas; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has oeen placed, that Mr. l{os- coe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is inter- esting to notic? how sonie minds seem almost to create themselves; springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thou- sand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity; and to glory in the vigor and luxuri- ance of her (;haiu^e productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of €>arly adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, strug- gle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. Sucli has been the case with Mr. Koscoe. Born in a jdace apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the very market-place of trade; without fortune, family connections, or i)jitromige; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and liaving become one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his na- tive town. Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particularly to point him out to my countrymen. En.inent as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone lo steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; and to revel in scenes or mental, but exclusive enjoyment. k(HSCOJ^. 17 :le, Mr. lloscoo, oil tlio coiitnirv. lias (;laiin(Ml none of tlic ac(!()nkMl i;rivilo8 of talent. He Ims sliiit liinisflt up in no ijiinli'ii of tliout^lit, nor clvsinni of fancv; hut lias i^ojio forth into the lii^liwavH and thorou<»hfari's of lift', he iias ])lanti'(l howiTS l)v tlio vvavsiend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth; nor the (luickening rays of titled pa- tronage; but on hours and seasons snatched from the pur- suit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. He has shown how mucli may be done for a place in hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how comj)letely it can give its own imi)ress to surrounding objects. IJke liis own Lorenzo de Medici, on whom he seems to liave (ixed his eye, as on a pure model of antiquity, he luis in- terwoven the history of his life with the history of his na- tive town, and haf made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go, in Liver- l)ool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is ele- gant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the gardens of literature, hy his own example and constant exertions, he has effected that union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings ; ^ and has practically proved how beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The " ' - ■ .1-- . ■■ .1 ■ I — - --■ 11 -■ n ' Address on tueopeningcf the Liverpool luSiituUon. IS TiiK sh'irnn jtnnK. jiohlc iMHtitutioiiH for lilcnirv ainl Hriciitif'n' |nir)>osoa, wliich rcllcct such crtMlit oiia Livrrjiool, mid aire ^^'iviii^' such an iiiipulsc to the i>iil)li(' iiiiiid, iiave iiioHtly Ik'cm origintitol, and havi) all been ctrcirf ivrly promoted by Mr. Kiiscoe: and when we eimsider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commer- cial importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived thut in awakening an ambition of m(>ntal improvement among its inhabitants, he has etTected a great benefit to the cause (»f liritish literature. In Ameri(!a, we know Mr. Hoscoo only as the author — in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as 1 heard some rich men do. 1 considered him far above the reach of my pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, nniy bo csist down bv the frowns of adversity; but ii man like lloscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him iu upon the resources of his own mind; to the 8ui)erior soci- ety of his own thoughts; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world around him. lie lives with antiquity, and with posterity: with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement; and with jjosteritv in the generous jispirings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of high- est enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated medi- tations which are the ])roper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. While my feelings were yet alive on ♦he subject, it was my fortune to light on farther traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentlennin, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some ornamental grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Gre- cian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green meadow land; Hfusrnli!. 19 u I, wliili* tilt' Welsh mouiitjiiiis. M^'iidiiij; witli <'luu And tempers, as he niaj\ affliction's dart ; THE WIFE. 21 thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once betftiile My tedious hours, and lipjhten every toil, I now resign you ; nor witli faintiiiK' h»'art ; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. And happier seasons may thfir dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When freed from eartii. unlimited its powers. Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. THE WIFE. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. 1 scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth— The violet bed's not sweeter. — Middleton. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women susttiin the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters which hreali down tlie spirit of a man, and prostrate him in tlie (hist, seem to call fortJi all the energies of the softer sex, sind give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to be- hold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking lirmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- tered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hoars, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into thr rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, HAMILTON PUiiUC UBBABli ;((T' n THE SKETCH-BOOK. Is I " ■I i' "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessi- ties of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved bv domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhab- itant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Les- lie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was am- ple; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those deli- cate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — "Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairv tale." The very difference in their characters produced a har- monious combination; he was of a romantic, and some- what serious cast; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slen- der form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- ishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to havf H^MlLTO^; 1 PU3UQ LlBR^Rlr. , .-'■';■ ' r ' V -'-.tJl / ., ,, THE WIFE. ere ved tto essi- ipoii are L his ad is \ror\d jreas, it; to ,0 fall nhab- story, \, Les- l, who . She as am- ing her 5e deli- itchery a fairy fmibarkcd his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many nnmtlis, when, by a snecession of sudden disasters, it was swept from liim, and he found hi-nself reduced to almost penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupporta- ble was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could net bring himself to overwhelm lier 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 cheerful- ness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blan- dishments to win him back to happiness; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw (!ause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought lie, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow — and the happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I inquired, " Does youf wife know all this ? " At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God^s sake!" cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness ! " "And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later: you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelli- gence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, yoii are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep liearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly l)reying upon your mind; and true love will not brook re- serve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the vsovrows of those it loves tu'o concealed from it,'' rr ! 24 THE SKETCH-BOOK. (( m 1 I: t 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 beg- gar! — that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? She has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? She has been the idol of soci- ety. Oh, it will break 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 his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mourn- fully, but positively. " But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary — "' "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! — I could — I could — God bless her!— God bless her! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, " believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is THE WIFE. 25 *in d the .er!" •ness. and can •ce of Latent she 'here fil-e, •erity; dark if his she is ---until he has gone with lier througli tiie fiery trials of this world.'' Th ;e was something in tlie earnestness of my manner, and the figurative st}de of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. 1 knew tlie auditor 1 had to deal witli; and following up the impression I hadnuide, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburthen his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose whole life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark, downward path of low humility, suddenly pointed out be- fore her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. "And how did she bear it ? " " Like an ange^ ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, " she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the ab- stract : she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cjires, its piiltry wants, its petty humiliations — then will be the real trial." " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortifying; but then it is a single misery, and soon over; whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no 20 THE l^KETCH-noOK. 11:! false pride himsolf, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterward, he called upon me in the evening. lie had disposed of his dwelling-house, jmd taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had heen husied all day in sending out furniture. 1'he new establishment required few articles, and those of the sim- plest kind. All the splendid furniture of his lute residence had been sold, fexce2)ting his wife's harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it be- longed to the little story of their loves; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melt- ing tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this in- stance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feel- ings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to ac- comjiany him. • He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as we walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. "And what of her," asked I, " has anything happened to her ? " " What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ? " '* Has she then repined at the change ? " " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me all love, and tender- ness, and comfort ! " "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman." " Oh ! but my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real Qxj)erioncQ ; she \m heen intrQduced. THE WTFE. 27 into an humble dwelling — she has been emploj-od all day in arranging its miserable ef]uii»ments — she lias tor tlie first time known tlie fatigues of domestic empl(>yment she has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of everything elegant — almost of everything convenient; and may now be sitting down, exliausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It wns hum- ble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage: a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most touch- ing simplicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu- liarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step mnde a noise on the gravel- walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished — a light footstep w;is heiird — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. 8he wjis in a pretty rural dress of white; a few wild flowers wore twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — 1 had never seen her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come; I have been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I've been gathering some of the most delicious strawber- ries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and evervthinor is so sweet and still here. — Oh!" said she, ])utting ber arm within his, and looking Up brightly in hi&^ face, " Oh, we shall be so happy ! " 28 THE fiKETCJH-BOOK. I !' ;.!' 'iM Poor Leslie was overcome. — He ciright her to his bosom — lie folded his uniis round her — he kissed her jigain and ajj^ain — he could not speak, hut the tears ii^ushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me that thou<]:h the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has in- deed been a ha})py oi e, yet never has he experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity. [The following tale was found among th^ papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was very curious m the Dutch History of the province, and the manners of the deicendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; wh.ereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he hap])ened ujion a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamor-;^, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. The result of all these researches was a history of the province, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, indeed, was a little questioned, on its first appearance, but has since been completely established; and it is now admitted into all historical collections, as a book of unquestionable au- thority. The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, and now, that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his memory to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his own way ; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his nil' VAN WINKLE. d9 errors mid follies are ri'mi'iiihrrofl " more in sorrow thiin in anger," ^ and it begins to l»o suspected, that lie never in- tended to iniure or otTend. J^iit however hismemorv mav be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear anioiiiij many folk, whose good o])inion is well worth having; particu- larly by certain biscuit-bakers, who liave gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chiince for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] RIP VAN WINKLE. A POSTHUMOUS WRITIXG OF DIEDRICII KNICKERHOCKEK. By Woden. God of Saxons, From wheiicv comes VVensday, that is Wodensday, Truth is a tiling that ever I will keep Unto thyllce '• I ii: .i entirely of nose, and was Kurniounted by a white gugar- loaf hat, set ott' with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. lie was a stout old gentle- man, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a Heed doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses ill them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Schaiek, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. Wliat seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rum- bling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they sud- denly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such a fixed statue-like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack- lustre countenances, that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trembling; theyquafl:'ed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their game. By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste pro- voked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell into a deep sleej). On waking, he found himself on the green knoll from whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the puremoun- !!? RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 >y tain breeze, lie re all night, fell asleep, mountain ravine— woe-bejrone party " Surely," He rec.lled thought Kip, •' I have not slept the occurrences before he -the the wild retreat among the rocks — the at nine-pius — the flagon — ''Oh! that The stranire man with the keg of liouor wicked tlagon! " thought Jiip — " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire-lock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust, the lock falling olf, and the stock worm-eateii. He now suspected that the grave roysterers of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of hir gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and shouted his luime, but all in vain; tlie echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Kip, *'and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheuma- tism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down into the glen ; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a moun- tain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmr/s. He, J: -rover, made shift to scramble up its sides, working hi.^ ; isome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and Witch-hazel; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no trapes of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high im- penetrable wi?ll, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to tc stand. He again called 38 THB f^KETCH-lWOK. \\i.\%. '\'- ' and "whistled jiftor his dog; lie wjis only answered by the cjiwing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that ovcrhujig a sunny precipice; and who, se- cure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? The morning was passing away, and Kip i'elt famished for want of his breakfast. lie grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it Avould not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire-lock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his ste[»s homeward. As he approached tlie village, he met a number of jieople, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast eyes upon him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced liip, in- voluntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long! He had now eiitered the skirts of the village. A troo]) 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 acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered : it was Lirger and more po])ulous. There were rows of houst^s which he had never seen before, and those which hjid been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors— strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he a^ul the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his luitive village, which he had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale ])recisely as it had always been — Kip was sorely perplexed — "That fl.'igon last night," thought he, " has addled my i)oor 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 Win- kle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen HW VAN WINKLE. 39 111- Ince — llwtivs I to his acting Win- I fallen in, the windows shattered, and tlie doors off the hinges. A. half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur snarUul, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. — ** My very dog," siglied poor Kip, *' lias 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. lie 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 petti- coats, and over the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top tliat looked like a red night-cap, and from it was flut- tering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and strijies — all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, liowever, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buif, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head was deco- rated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters, General Washinciton. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas V^edder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, ;i lean bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets full of hand- bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens — election- members of Congress- liberty — Bunker's HiU W' 40 THE ^SKETCH-BOOK. ;t ■ ■■■! — heroes of seventy-six — and other words that were a per- fect liabylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rnsty 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. 'J'hey 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?'' Rip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the arm, and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or } democrat." Riji was equally at a loss to comprehend the question; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to tlie right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one pj'm a-kimbo, the other resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an austere tone, " what brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village ? " "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the king, God bless him ! " Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — "a tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with him !" It was Avith great difhculty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. " Well — who are they ? — name them." Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where's Nicholas Vedder ? " There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombs. jne in the church-vard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 " Where's Brom Butcher ? " " Oh, he went off to tlie army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point — others say lie was drowned in the squall, at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back again." 'MVhere's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" " He went off to the wars, too; was a great militia gen- eral, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand: war — Congress — Stony Point! — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Kip Van AVinkle ? " " Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. " Oh to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy and cer- tainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the midst of his be- wilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name ? " God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end ] " I'm not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's somebody else, got into my shoes — I was myself last night, but 1 i^^ll asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am!" The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their fore- heads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this crit- ical moment a fresh, comely woman passed through the throng to get a ^eep at the gray-bearded man. She had a cliubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, l)egan to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the I « 42 THE HKErcJI-BOOK. rm n^i: ^ cliild, ilie air of tlic niotlior, tlie tone of licr voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. '* What is your name, my good Avoman ? '' a.«ked he. ** Judith Gardenier." "And your father's name ? " "Ah, poor man, his name was Hip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away from liome with his gun, and never lias heen heard of sincp — his dog came home without him; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 1 was then but -i little girl." Kip had but one question more to ask; but he put it with a faltering voice: " Where's your mother?" Oh, she too had died but a short time since: she broke a blood-vessel in a lit of passion at a New Knghmd peddler. There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The honest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in his arms. "I am your father!" cried he — "Young Kip Van Winkle once — old Kip Van Winkle now I — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow% and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough! it is Kip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, old 'neighbor — Why, where have you been these twenty long years ? " Kip's story was soon told, for tlie whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon which there was a gen- eral shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of RTP VAN WTNKI.R. 4n the neighborlioorl. ITo ror()lloctecl Kip jxt onre, and cor- roborated liis story in the most satisfa('tory manner. Ho assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, tliat the Kaatskill Mountains iiad always been liaunted by strange l)eings. That it was affirmed that the great Ifendrick Hudson, tlie first discov- erer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of tlie Half-moon, being permitted in tliis way to revisit tlie scenes of his enter- prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river ami tiiegrejit city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nimvpins in a hollow of the mountain; and that he, himself, had heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like dis- tant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had a snug, well-furnished house, and a stout cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm, but evinced a hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but his business. Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation, with whom lie soon grew into' great favor. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he took his place once moie on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times " before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comi^rehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England — and that, instead of being a subject of his majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no poll- 44 THE ISKETCH-JioOK. ir|l 1 I tician; the changes of states and empires made but littl» impression on liim; but there was one species of despot- ism under whi(!h lie liad long groaned, and that was — pet- ticoat governmcMit. IIapj)ily, that was at an end; he had got his neck out of the yoke of nuitrimony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the I tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. AVlienever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoul- ders, and cast up his eyes; which miglit pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at liis deliver- ance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that ar- rived at Mr. Doolittlc's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so recently awakened. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Hip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitiuits, however, almost uni- versally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they t-ay llendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins: and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Ki}) Van AVinkle's flagon. :) 'I NoTK. — The foregoing tale, oiiH would suspect, had heen suggested to Mi. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition al»out the Emperor Frederick der Rothbart and the Kypphauser >lountain ; the subjoined note, however, which he had aijpended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual ndelity. " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but neverthe- less I give it my full belief, fori know the vicinity of our old i)utt;h settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. 1 have even talked with Kip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, was a very venerable okl man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that 1 think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond tne possibility of doubt," m ENOLTHir WHITE ns itN AMEHU'A. 46 ENGLISH WUITKPS ON AMKHKW. "Metliinks I see in my iiiiiid aiiol)lt> ))iiissHtit nation, rmisinfc hcrsi'lf lilie a stronjf niun after sleep, anil Hluiliinn lier invineihiH loelvs ; nietliinl{H I see lier as au ea^le. mewing lier niiK>ity yoiitli, ami l? il! .'1 a! it? lii 1 m small portion of the year to a linrry of gayety and dissipar tion, and having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to tlie apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish f )r the pleasures and employ- ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of citi&s, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occu- pation. 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 does in the conduct of his br siness, and the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers; every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feel- ing, in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too com- monly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meet- ings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 55 It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town, throws oil his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, either for stu- dious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting imple- ments of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon his guests or himself, but, in the true spirit of hospitality, provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his inclination. The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have studied Nature intently, and discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled rouiul the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and fur- tive graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend 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, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters: while some rustic temple, or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. These are but a few of the features of park scenery; but what most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of t^ste, becomes u little paradise* With a nicely discriminat- iH I' I :M1 "i i' ! 56 THE SKETCH-BOOK, mm I" f^ ing eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind tlie future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The clierisliing and training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers and })lants of tender and graceful 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 yet quiet assi- duity, like the magic touchings with which a painter fin- ishes up a favorite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower bed borderecl with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of flowers in the window; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside : — all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot- tage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English, has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit an union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea- tions of the country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa- tions of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never en- tirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more dis- w. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 57 )t- )St lie ISO ^a- Irs posed to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions between tliem do not appear to be so marked and impassable, as in the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into small estates and farms, has established a regular gradation from the noble- man, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprie- tors, and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasant- ry; and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be coni'essed, is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihi- lated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of exter- nal influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of com- mon life. Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I be- lieve this is one great reason why the nobility and genlry are more popular among the inferior orders in England, than they are in any other country; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribu- tion of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through Brit- ish literature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life; those incomparable descriptions of Nature, that abound in the British poets — that have continued down from " the Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and have bpought into. 1 ' \,'\ ■"(«?■ I ); 58 THE SKETCH-BOOK, lii p ■ our closets all tlie freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms; but the British poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beauti- ful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations, has been wonderful on the face of the coun- try. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks .ind gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a pic- ture; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivat- ing loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery, is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-estab- lished principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church, of remote architec- ture, with its low massive portal; its Gothic tower; its windows, rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupu- lous preservation — its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil — is tombstones recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants — the stile and toot^ath leading from the church -yard, across pleasant iii,i !1. RURAL LIFE IN ENULAND. 50 fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an ininiom- orablo right of way — the neighboring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green, slieltered l)y trees, nnder which the forefathers of the j)resent race have sported — the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protect- ing air on the surrounding scene — all these common fea- tures of English landscape evince a calm and settled secu- rity, a hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is senaing its sober melody across tlie cpiict fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and em- bellishments which their own hands have si)read around them. It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affec- tion in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity. Through each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the viiio crowned with shade, But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, sheltering middle life. Down to thecottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed, This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place ; Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard), Can centre in a little ((uiet nest All that desire would fly for through the earth ; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world enjoy'd ; that wants no witnesses But its own sharers, and approving Heaven ; That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft. Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.» » From a poem on the (ieathof tbe PriRQQS^ Cha.rIotte,b;jr the Revecend ^axm Keuoedy, A-W^ 60 THE SKETCH-BOOK, if, h il THE BROKEN HEART. I never heard Of any tnie afTnctlon, hut 'twan nipt With care, tlmt. Hite the caterpillar, eats The leaves of tlmHpriii>»'H sweetest book, the rose.— Middlbton. It is a common pmctice with those who have outlived the susceptibility of early fooling, or have been brought up in the gay hcartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictiohs of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have iiHluced me to think otherwise. Thev have convinced me, that however the surface of the char- acter may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the dep^hs of the cold- est bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in.their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it ? — I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying oi' disappointed love! I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex; but I firmly believe that ':) withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of inte. ,:;st and laibitio/). His na- ture leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world's thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world ; it is there her ambition strives for empire — it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless — for it is a bankruptcy of the heart. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangb, it wounds some feelings of tendernets — it blasts some pioipects of felicity; but he is an active being; ]iQ may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl of varied occu- II THli UHitKim IIKAHT 61 J)ation, or mav i)liin^^» into (lip liih' of plfiisiirc; or, if tho 800110 of (li8iin|)oiiitinoiit l)o too lull of Oiiinfiil associ- ations, lie osm shift Ins jiljode ut willjUiid takmj^sais it were, the wings of tho morning, cnn ** fly to tho uttorniost i)arts of tho oartli, and bo at rost." But woman's is C3om|)arativoly a fixed, a Recludod, and a meditativo life. Sho is moro tho companion of her own thoughts and feeliiigs; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where sliall she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed a. id won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and Backed, and abandoned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim — how many soft cheeks grow pale — how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their love- liness! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals — so is it the nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female 18 always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, sho buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her, the de- sire of her heart has failed — the great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden the spirit, quicken the pulse, and send tho tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external in- jury. Look for her, after a little while, and you find friend- ship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering thit one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " dtirk- ness and the worm.^' You will be told of some wintrv 4/ chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low — but no one knows the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove : graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly with- ering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant, W*^ ii, 62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. see it drooping its brandies to the ejirth, and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and perished away it falls even in tlie stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beau- tiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thun^ derbolt that could have smitten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost }(S if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their deaths through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of di^'ippointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in the coun- try wliere they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in wliich they were related. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot : it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so overy- thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble in- dignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent vindication of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation — all these entered deeply into every gen- erous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be im- j)ossible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman's first juid early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whole soul was occupied by his image ? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they 11 fPE BROKEN HEART. les Iby most loved on onrih — who have sut at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whent;e all that was most lovely and loving had departed. But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dishonored i There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that ende;ir the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. • To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attach- ment, and was an exilo from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends huve reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her, by fami- lies of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe and scorch the soul — that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness — and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there, as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and " heeded not the song of the charmer, charm lie never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen hev at a masquerade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-be- gone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on tlie steps of un orchestra, and looking about for some time with a va- HI '■', ik U M k m i^, Irlii 64 THB ISKMVH-JiOOK. cant air, that showed her insensibility to the garish scene, she began, with tlie capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching — it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness — that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove affectionate to the living. She de- clined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, how- ever, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own deej'tute and dependent situation, for she was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance, that her heart was un- alterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one; but nothing could cure the silent and de- vouring melancholy that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken heart. it was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composed the following lines : She is far from the land where lier young hero sleeps, A.nfl lovei*s around her are sighing, But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart iu his grave is lying. She sings the wild song of iier dear native plains, Every note which ne loved awaking— Ah ! little they think, who delight in her strains. How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! Ke had lived for his love — for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him— Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him ! Oh I make her a grave where the sunbeaus rest, When they promise a glorious morrow ; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own love4 isl^ind of sorrow I f THE ART OF BuuKMAKlIsU. 65 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. •' If that severe doom of Synesius be true—' it is a greater offence tc steal dead men's labors than their clothes,'— what shall become of most writers J "— Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how ic comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems to have inflicted the curse of barren- ness, yet teem with vohiminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause ior some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me some of tlie mysteries of the book -making craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was one summer's day loitering through the great sa- loons of the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases of minerals, .some- times studying the hieroglyphics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to com- prehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceilings. While I Wiis gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant floor, at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would stenl forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing an , of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions 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 myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of quaint black -looking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing, at which sat ^i:; 66 THE SKETCHBOOK. U ■"■■'. many pale, cadaverous personages, poring intently orei* (lusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. The most hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, ex- cepting that you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising from that hollowness and flatulency incipient to learned research. 1 «'\;' and then one of these personages would write some- thing 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 pon- derous tomes, upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, with tV.mished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher, who was shut up in an enclnmted library, in the bosom of a mountain, that opened only once a year; where he made the spirits of the l)lace obey his commands, and bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers of Nature. My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of the fair i liars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an in lerpr station of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose: — I found that these mysterious jiersonages, whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and were in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading- room of the great British Library, an immense collection of volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of which are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, therefore, do many modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, and watched the process of this book manufactory. THS ART OF BOOK-MAKING. et i noticed one lean, bilious-looking wiglit, who songlit none but the most worm-ejiten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table — but never read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large frag- ment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavoring to keej) otf that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by much pon- dering over dry works, I leave to harder students than my- self to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright colored clothes, witli a chirping gossipping expression of counte- nance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller. After considering him atten- tively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up uf miscel- laneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. lie made more stir and show of business than any of the others; dipping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, tiiking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, " line upon line, precept upon precept, liere a little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' cauldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of frog and blind worm's sting, with his own gossip poured in like "baboon's blood," to make the medley "'slab and good." After all, thought I, may not tliis pilfering disposition ]>e implanted in authors for wise purposes? may it not be the way in which Providence lias taken care that tlie seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of tlie works in which tliey were first 2)roduced ? A\'e see that Nature has wisely, tiiough whimsi(;ally provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little better than car- rion, iind apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to dis- perse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete writers ■i i Jill! i;f. m Mi fi mk 1 68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ill' i '1 li '<' ji ' are caught w]) by these flights of predatory authors, and cast forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a remote and dis- tant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. AVhat was formerly a ponderous history, revives in the shape of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands; where Ave burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place ; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of Nature, which declares that all sublunary siiapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Oeneration after generation, both in animal and vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having produced a numer- ous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers ; that is to say, with the authors who preceded them — and from whom they had stolen. While I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it wa« owing to the soporific emanations from these works; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was. that I fell into a doze. Still, I however, my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the cham- ber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but the number was increased. The long tables had dis- appeared, and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incon- gruities common to dreams, methought it turned into a f' THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 69 garmout of foreign or antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip tliernselves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to ch)tiie himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I ob- served ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of anothei', endeavored to look exceedingly wise; but the smirking commonplace of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly- looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court- dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated man- uscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled from "The Paradise of Dainty Devices," and having put Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted oil' with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of phi- losophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived tliat he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit; but 1 grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the patch-work manner I have me) tioned. I should not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pas- toral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his i: 70 THE SKETCH-BOOK. i W pi* iml' Wit head on one side, went about with a ^intastical, lack-a- daisical air, " babbling about green fields." But the per- sonage that most struck my attention, was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturdy self confidence, and luiving laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it up(.n his head, and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In the height of this literary nuisquerado, a cry suddenly resounded from every side, of " thieves ! thieves ! " I looked, and lo! the portraits about the walls l)ecame ani- mated! The old authors thrust out first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all descrip- tion. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to es- cape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old monks, stripping a modern professor; on an- other, there was sad devastation curried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in- as many patches and colors as Har- lequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, whom I had been accustomed to look upon with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was cauglit by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore afright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. They wero close upon his haunches; in a twinkling off went his wig; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled away; un- til in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, he shrank into a little pursy, " chopped bald shot,'' and made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back. There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned Tlieban, that I burst into an immoderate fit \\i\A .1 ROYAL POET. Tl of laughter, and which broke the whole illusion, ^rhe tu- mult and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber re- sumed its usual appearance. The old authors shrank back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my corner, with the whole assemblage of bookworms gaz- ing at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never befor(; heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify the fraternity. The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a kind of literary ** preserve," subject to game laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without special license ^ and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me. A ROYAL POET. Though your body be confined Ana soft love a prisoner bound, Yet the beauty of your mind Neither check nor chain hath found. Ijook out nobly, then, and dare Bh'en the fetters that you wear,- Fletcher. On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made an excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical associations. The very external as- pect of the proud old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and massive towers, like a mural crown around the brow of a lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down with a lordly air upon the surrounding world. On this morning, the weather was of this voluptuous vernal kind which calls forth all the latent romance of a man's temperament, filling his mind with music, and dis- posing him to quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wan- dering through the magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifference by whole ¥• THE I^KETL'Il IHKUC. rows of portraits of warriors and statosiuoii, ])ut lingered in tlie chamber where liang the likenesses of \\\v beauties that graced the gay court of ('harles the Second; and as 1 gazed upon them, depicted with amorous half-dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, whicn had thus enabled me t The intelligenoc of his ('j4)turo, mining in the train or many sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. "The news," we are told, "was brought to hiin wliilo at supper, and did so overwliclm him witli grief, that lie was almost ready to give up the gliost into tlie hands of tlie servants that attended him. Hut being carried to his bed- chamber, he abstained froMi all food, and in three days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay." ' Jjimes was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due to his rank. Care ^\as taken to in^ struct him in all the branches of useful knowledge culti- vated at that period, and to give him those mental iind personal accomplishments deemed proper for a ])rince. Perliaps in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan- tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclu' sively to his improveuient, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. The pic- ture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of romance, than of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we are told, "to fight with the sword, to joust, to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and liarp, and sundry other instruments of music, and was ex- pert in grammar, oratory, and poetry." ^ With this combination of manly and delicate accom- plishments, fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated to give him an intense relish for joy- (»us existence, it must have been a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring-time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. Some minds corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of personjd lil)erty : others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the poet to become ten- der and imaginative in the loneliness of conlinement. ITo I Buchanan. 8 Ballenden's translation of Hector Boyce. r 74 THE HKETcn-JiOOJC. biinquets upon tlio lionoy of his own thouglits, and, like tlie eiiptivo bird, pours fortii liis soul in melody. Ilavo you not 8*>en the nightitiKale, A pilKrlin co«ii)"(l into a cag(\ How (loth s]w clinnt herwontud tale, In that her lonely hermitage I Even there her charmiiipr melody doth prove That all her bonp^hn are trcef. her caRe a grove.* Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible, uiicouHnji))le; that when the real world is shut out, it can (U'eaten world for itself, nnd, with necromantic power, can conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Sucdi was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his been particularly interested by tiioso parts of the poem which breathe his immediate tlion;j;]it8 concernine Tower. They have thus a persoiuil and local charm and are given with such circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present witli the captive in his prison, and the com])anion of Iiis nuMlitations. Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and of the incident that first su^^gested the idea of writing the poem. It was the still mid-watc^h of a clear moonlight night; the stars, lie says, were twinkling as iiie fire in the high vault of heaven, and " Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius" — he lay in bed wakeful and rest- less, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he chose was Boetius' Consolations of Philosophy, a work popular among the writers of tliat day, and which had been translated by his great prototyjio Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite volumes while in prison; and in- deed, it is an admirable text-book for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirii, [)urified by sorrow and su 1ft ring, becpieathing to its suc- cessors in calamity the maxims ^' weet morality, and the trains of eloquent but sin-plo rcM-vning, by which it was enabled to bear up agam.^i ),he \- vi >us ills of life. It is a talisman which the imfo •tMiiute \ay treasure up in his bosom, or, like the gocl aii. , Ji; ..les, lay upon his nightly pillow. After closing the vohime, he turns its contents over in his mind, and gradually fulls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to matins, but its sound chiming in with his melancholy fancies, seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the spirit of poetic errantry, he determines to e«< flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bear- ing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is written in letters of gold, the following sentence .* Awake 1 awake ! I bring, lover, I bring The newis glad, that blissful is and sure. Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. .1 ( ^T] !! 1 I » Largesse^ bounty. ■■' Estate, dignity. 3 Cunning, discretion. ' 1 ii 80 THE SKhTCJiJJiif^K. He receives the brunch witli mingled hope and dread; reads it with rapture, and this lie says was the first token of his succeeding liappiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of hor favor in this romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by intimating that the prom.ise conveyed m the vision, and by the flower, is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adventures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, and how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruit- less to conjecture; do not, however, let us always consider whatever is romantic as incompatible with real life, but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely such parts of the poem as were immediately con- nected with the tower, and have passed over a large part which was in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language of course is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day; but it is impos- sible not to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the delightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail through- out it. The descriptions of Nature, too, with which it is embellished, are given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most cultivated period of the arts. As an amatory poem, it is edifying, in these days of coarser thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy which pervade it, banishing every gross thought, or immodest expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed in all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernat- ural purity and grace. James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters, and in some parts of his poem we find traces of similarity to their productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works of cotemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each othe^ as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their swectf^ m 6it(r ^WK f A ROYAL POET. yi •ser and heir ges find ally eral rary '■^ m the wide world; they inforporate with tlieir own coneep- tions the anecdotes and tliou^^hts which are current in so- ciety, and thus each generation has some features in com- mon, characteristic of the age in which it live?. James, in fact, belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our liter- ary history, and esta])lishes the claims of his countiy to a participation in its primitive honors. Wl ile a small clus- ter of English writers are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish comjieer is apt to be passed over in silence; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote, but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest lirma- ment 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 liinstory (though the manror in which it has of late been woven with captivating fiction has made it a universiil study), may be curious to learn something of the subse- quent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. Ilis passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the solace of his cap- tivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined by the Court, that a connection with the blood-royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previously es- poused the Lady Jane., who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long interregnum to strengthen them- selves in their possessions, and place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought to found the basis of his power in the affections of his people. He attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the tem- perate a.nd equable jxdministration of justice, the encour- agement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every- thing that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent euioyment, through the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among the common people in dis- guise; visited their firesides; entered into tlieir cares, their pursuits, and their amusements; informed himself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved; and was thus ar all-pervading spirit^ watch- ft2 THE ^KETCH-IWOH. iiig with a benevolent eye over tlie nieanestof liis snbje'^M. JJaving in this generous manner made himself strong n the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant offences; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, whoj being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson. Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less note, to com- mit the deed. They broke into his bed-chamber at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body be- tween him and the sword, was twice wounded in the in- effectual attempt to shield him from the assassin; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was accomplished. It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and of the golden little poem., which had its birth- place in this tower, that made me v-isit the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up hi the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and ro- mantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem; I leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade my- self it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision; I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joyous month : the birds were again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody: everything was bursting into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner me.norials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flour- ishes at the foot of the lower. It occupies what was once A ROYAL POSn s;{ the mojit of the keep, juid tliough soDie parts luive heeii sepiiniterl by (livi(lins2f wmIIs, yet others liave still tlieir arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James; and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. Tliere is a eliarm about the spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed betiuty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heic^htened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry, to hallow every place in which it moves; to breathe round nature an odor more exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morn- ing. Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior and a legislator; but I nave delighted to view him merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of com- mon life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since been so prolific of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit, lie carried with h:m into the sterner regions of the North, all the fertilizing arts of Southern refinement, lie did everything in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe a grace round the lofti- ness of a proud and warlike spirit. Tie wrote many poems, which, unfortuiuitely for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the world; one, which is still preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish peasantry; and with wiiat sim- ple and happy humor he could enter into their en joyments. lie contributed greatly to improve the national music; and traces of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. lie has thus connected his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the national character; he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name down to after-ages ii.' the rich stream of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling at my heart, as I paced the 84 THE l^KETCH-BOOK. silent scene of liis imprisonment. I huve visited Vauclus© with as mueh enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto; but I have never felt more poetical de- votion than when contemphiting the old tower and the lit- tle garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane, and the Koyal Poet of Scotland. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. i A gentleman t What, o' the woolpack ? or the sugar-chest ? Or lists of velvet t which is't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentry hy ?— Beggar's Busk. There are few places more favorable to the study of character than an English country church. I was once j)assing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the ai)pearance of which particularly struck mv fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which give such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a county ^lled with ancient families, ;i,nd contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble genera- tions. The interior walls were encrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through win- dows dimmed with armorial beariiiiis, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workman- ship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every side, the eye was struck with somo instance of aspiring mortal- ity; some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most liumble of all religions. The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew doors; of the vil- lagers and peasantry, who fllled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ : and of the poor of the parish, who were rangeii on benches in the aisles. The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a priv- THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 85 II ileged gnest at nil the tables of the noighborhood, and Jiad been the keenest fox-hunter in tlie country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw olT, and make one at the hunting dinner. Umler the ministry of si. eh a i)ast()r, I found it impos- sible to get into the train of thought suitable to the time and place; so having, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience, by Liying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I oi*- cupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, us usujil, that there was the least jiretension where there was the most acknowledged title to resi)ect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming tluin their api)ear- ance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot, 'i'iie young ladies would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the hum-, ble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beauti- fully fair, witli an expression of high rellnenient, but at tlie same time, a frank cheerfulness, and engaging affa- bility. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and projriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which liespeak free-born souls that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and com- munion with others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with the peasantry about those rural con- cerns and field sports, in which the gentlemen of this coun- try 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 respei^t of the peasaut^ I" 14 86 THE ^KET(',H-BOOK, i ii' In contraHt to tlieso, was the fjimily of a wealthy citizen, who had aniaHS(!cl a vast fortune, and, having purchased the estate and mansion of a. ruined n()l)lenian in tlie neigh- borhood, was endeavoring to assunu» all the style and dig- nity of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family alwavs came to church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a (carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glit- tered in silver radiance from every part of the harness where a (irest could jiossibly be placed. A fat coachman in a tliree-(!ornered lu'', richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round liis rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, with linge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behiml. The carriage rose and sank on its long springs with a peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more ])roudly 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 this sjden- did pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall — a great smacking of the whip; straining and scrambling of the horses; glistening of harness, and flash- ing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers saun- tering 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 produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. There was an extraordinary hurry of the footnit-n to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen first emerged his round red face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 'change, and shake the stock- nuirket with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comforta- ble dame^ followed him. There seemed, I must confess, I'ji :■:■ ' ' -f' THE VOUNTRY rJlUIiC/f. 87 but littlo pride in lior ci^rnposition. Slio wiia tlio piotnro of broad, lioiu'st, vulgar enjV>ymeut. '^Phe world went well with her; and she likei] Hie world. Slie had tine eloi..es, a fine house, fine earriage, fine children, everything vas lino about her: it was nothing hut driving about, and vis- iting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. Two dauglitera succeeded to this goodly couple. They /'ertaiidy were handsome; but had a 8ui)eroilious air that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be criti- cal. They were ultra fashionable in dress, and, though no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be questioned amid the simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the no- bleman'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. 1 must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of diess which marks the man of questiona- ble pretensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eying every one askance that came near them, as if meas- uring his claims to respectability; yet they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant ]ihrase. They even moved artificially, for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been discip- lined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done everything to accomplish them as men of fashion, but Nature had denied them the nameless grace. They were vulgarly sha})ed, like men formed for the common pur- ])oses of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be met with in this country — the un- pretending great, and the arrogant little, I have no re- l>ii \i lll^ IP <^, IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) /. ^/ r^ C^. ■6r L/. 4^ '^6 1.0 ill I.I 1^12^ 12.5 1^ 12.2 t US, IIL25 i 1.4 2.0 18 1.6 'W /a m ^>. Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 \ 4 :\ \ V>^ > 1 88 rirE sK Err n BOOK. sjpcct for iitli'd niiik, unless it Tio norompaiuod by tnio nobility (;1* soul; but 1 havo n'Miiirked, in all countries wiiere tbese artificial distinctions exist, that tlu; veryhi;,di- cst classes are always the most courteinis and unassulnin^^ Those who are well assured of their own standing are least a})t to trespass on that of otiiers: ■whereas, nothifig is so otTensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor. As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice tiieir Itehavior in church. That of the nobleman's family was (juiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devotion, but rather a re- spect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good-breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a ])er])etual flutter and whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural congregation. The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. He took thcAvhole burdeii of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the r(>- sponses with a loud voice that might be heard all over the cliurch. It was evident that he was one of those thorouirh church and king men, who connect the idea of devo- tion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of Mic government party, and religion "a very excel- lent sort of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way of exam^de to the lower orders, to show them, that though so great and wealthy, he was not above being re- ligious; as I have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow pul> licly a basin of charity soup, snuicking his lii)s at every mouthful, and i)ronouncing it "excellent food for the poor." When the service was at an (?nd, I was curious to wit- ness the several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed as they came, in grand parade. Again were the ecpiipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whijis, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses started 77//; wrnow axd her sox 80 (lit almost nt ii bound; tho villagers a;j:aiii hurried to right and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the as- piring family was rapt out of HJght in a whirlwind. THE WIDOW AND IIKK SON. Ii, Pittie olrleaKe, within whose silver hnires Honour aud reverence evermore liave niijjnM. Maklowes Tumburlaine. During my residence in the country, I used frequently to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments, Its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of dej)arted years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sundav, too, ich m the country, is so noiy in its repose — sucn a j>ensiv quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restles.. })as8ion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural reli- gion of the soul gently springing up within us. "Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the eartli and sky ! " I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of Nature, which I experience nowhere else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday, tlum on any other day of the seven. But in this clnirch I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of tlu^ poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decre})it old woman, bending under tho weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lin- gerings of decent })ride were visible in her appearance. Iler dress, though humble in the extreme, was 8cruj)uiously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, jill society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer; • I < : i: J ) [V. 00 TJI^ SKBTCH-JiOOK. liabitually conning lier prayer-book, which her jialsied hand ami fi.iling eyes conld not permit lier to read, bnt whicli slie evidently knew by heart; I felt persuaded tiiat the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the resjjonses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churf^hes; and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It st()(Ml on a knoll, round which a small stream nuide a beautiful bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, Avhich seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. 1 was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two laborers who v/ere digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, by tliC number of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-made srave was for the onlv son of a poor Avidow. 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 coflfin 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 liad seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup- ported by an humble friend, who was endeavoring to com- fort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, M'ith prayer-book in hand, and attended b}^ the clerk. 'Hie service, however, wss a mere a,ct of charity. The d,<^' rm^' i THE WIDOW AND 11 Ell SON. 91 ceased XvaA been destitute, and tlie survivor was jtcnniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, l)ut cnldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a lew steps from tho church door; his voice could scarcely bo heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of words. I approiiched the grave. The coffin was jdaced on the ground. On it were inscribed the nanu^ and age of the deceased — "George Somers, aged 'Z^') years." '{'lie poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at tiie head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but 1 could perceive, by a feeble rocking of tlu^ body, and a con- vulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on tlie last relics of her soii with the ye.irnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were nuide to de])osit the coffin in the earth. There was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection: directions given in the cold tones of business; the striking of spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked abet with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the cotffn 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, endeavored to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation — '* Nay, now — nay, tiow — don't take it so sorely to heart." She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the eartli, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of thi; coffin. all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the rea'-li of worldly suffering. I could see no more — my heart swelled into niy throat — my eyes filled with tears — T felt as if \ were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I r'^mained until the funeral train had dispersed. ■ 1* Pi? 02 THE SKETCFf-BOOK. "When T saw the mothor, bIowIj and painfully quitting ilu' ^M'avo, leaving hohincl hor the remains of all that was (Inir to her on eartli, and returning to silence jind destitu- tion, my heart aehed for her. What, tlio'iglit I, are the distresses of the rich? 'I'hey have friends to soothe — plciisurcs to heguile — Ji world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are thesorrowsof the young? 'IMieir grow- ing minds soon close ahove the wound — their elastic spirits soon rise heneath the pressure — their green and ductile alTeetions soon twine arouiul newohjeets. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no aftergrowth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an oidy son, the last solace of her years ; — these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of con- solation. It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way homeward, I met wi*li the woman who had acted as comforter: she was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the alTecting scene I had wit- nessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assist- ance of a small garden, had supported themselves credita- bly and comfortably, and led a hajipy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the statf and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely hid, 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, su])porting his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, foi a finer lad there was not in the country round." Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the ser- vice of one of the small crafts that plied on a neighboring river. He had iiot been long in this employ, when he wag^ 77/ /i' WIlHtW AND II KR SON. {iH eiitmpj)ed l)y a })n'ss-«jjjmi(, niid carried olT to sou. His pureuts reeoivod tidings of liissoiziuv, ))iit Ix'vuiid that they could learn nothing. It was tlio loss of tlu'ir main 2)rop. The father, who was already infirm, grew hearth'ss an|)ort herself, and came upon the j)arish. Still there was a kind of feeling toward her throughout the village, aiul a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in whicii she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants (>f na- ture were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seamed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. lie was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly i)ale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. lie saw her, and luistened toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering: he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye — "Oh my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son? your poor boy George?" It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sick- ness, and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, where sorrow and joy were so completely blended : still he was alive I — he was come home! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and if anything had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and Vi ^ il ii k- 'I a I ■«: til" m i !>4 77// sKKTi'ltnoOK, MssistiiiK.'o tlijit tlioir liiniiltlo iiicims utTonltMl. lie was tod W('5ik; Ijowovor, to talk — lie (M)u1(1 only look his thanksi J lis inothor was liis constant attendant; and he seemed unwilling to be helned hy any other hand. 'I'here is soniething in sickness that breaks down the ]>ride of nnmhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languislied, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who (hat has i)ined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneli- ness of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother *' that looked oh liis childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness? Oh! tliere is an enduring tenderness in the love (,f a mother to a son, that transcends all other aifections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlest-ness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sjicrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity — and, if misfor- tune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from mis- fortune; and if disgrace settle ui)on his name, she will still love and cherish him in si)ite of his disgrace; and if all the world besides cas<^ him oif, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had knoAvn what it was to be in sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. lie could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved awjiy, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he sle])t. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse, on heariiig this humble tale of aflflic- tion, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and adminis- ter pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do everything that the case ad- mitted; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, tc ^ TUK B()Ali\S HKA1) TAVKHN, IlASTrHKAP. Of. my surprise, I saw the poor old woiium tiiitcriny ilown tlic iiislc to her jU'customtMl seat on the st('[>s of tin* altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourn- ing for lier son; and nothing eould he more touching tliiin this struggle hetween ])ious alteetion and utter j)overty: m black rihhon or so — a faded hlack handkerehiei — and one or two more such hun\hle attempts to express hy outward signs that grief M'hich passes show. — When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned nuignill- cently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down hy age niid sorrow at the altar of her (}od, and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy memhers of the congregation, and they were moved hy it. They ex- erted themselves to render her situation more com fortahle, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, hut smooth- ing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and hefore I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where . orrow is never Known, and friends are never parted. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCIIEAP. A SHAKSPEARIAX RESEARCH. *' A tavern is the rendezvoiis, the exchange, the staple of ffood fellows. I have heard my great-grandfather tell, how hisgreat-great-graudfathfr should say, that it was an old proverb when his great -grandfather was a child, that ' it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.' '"—Mother Bombie. It is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor the memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the darkness of his little chapel ; an- other may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking rays athwart nis effigy; while the whole blaze of adoration is '* If u THE NKK'n/I It(ff'K. I n I ri'i InviRlu'd at tlif shrine of sonio licatint'J fatlicr of ronowth The wealthy (h'votrc l)iiiiy tiie oflieiousiiess of his followers. In like manner has it fared with the immortal Skak- s])eare. Every writer considers it his bounden duty, to light up some i)ortion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from ohlivion. The commentator, opu- lent in words, produces vast tomes of dissertations; the common herd of editors send u]> niis-ts of obscurity from their notes at tiie ])ottom of each ])M^e; and every casual scribbler brinc^s his farthing rush-light of eulogy or re- search, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but i)roper to contribute my mite of honnige to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely i)uzzled 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 ])raised by previous admirers: nay, so com- })letely had the bard, of late, been o 'rlarded with panegy- ric by a great German critic, that it was dif!icult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when J casually o})ened upon the comic sceiu's of llenry IV., and was, in a moment, completely lost in tlic madca]) revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with the facts and personages of real life. To few read?rs does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merrv rovsters ever en- livened the dull neighborliood of Eastcheaj). For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of Till': lioMis iiii|»e, aiul sawtrie." AIum! Iiow Hadly is the HceFii? chaii^^cd since the i'(»ariii;; (hiys of Falstatr and old Stow I Tlie inadi^ap royHter lias given phice to the phxhling tradesman; the chittering of pots and the sound of " liarpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the w candles; the two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and laid her being, for the better part of a century. To be versed iii the history of Eustcheap, great and lit- tle, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Vet, with all this, she possessed the sim- ])licityof true wisdom, and that liberal, communicative dis- position, which 1 have generally rennirked in intelligent old l.idies, knowing in the concerns of their neighborhood. Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Hoar's Head, from the time that l)ame Quickly es- ]»oused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It wr.s soon re- built, and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, and other iniquities which are inci- dent to the sinful race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with Heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St, 'nnc B(L\n's iih:Att tavhrx, EAsrciihiAir ww Micliiu'l'H Clnin h, CrooktMl I. ;mo. toward \\\v sn|>j>tirtinf;(»f a {•h'V|)liiiM. K »» soiiu' titiu' tlir vi'strv nitM'tiiiirs wcic i uliirly li»'l(l thvc; hut it was oltstTvi'd tliat llu* oM lioar never held up his ht'ad under church i^oveninient, lie pnuluully declined, and finally ^'ave his last i(asj) ahout thirty years since. The tavern was then turned intoshojts; hut she infornu'tl me that a jdctureof it was still preserved in St. ^^ichae^s C'huich. whi< h slnod just in tlie rear. To get a si<^ht of this picture was now my th'termination ; s(», having informe(| myself of the ah<»de , mv visit having- douhtless raised jj^natiy her oj'lniou of nor le<;en- re (crooked Laue, and divers little alleys, ami elhows, and tiark passai^es, with which this old city is perfonite(l, liKe an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At length 1 traced him to a, coriu'r of a small court, sur- rounded hv loftv houses, wheic the inhahitants en jov aoout as much of the face of heaven as a community (d* frogs at the hottom of a well, 'i'he sexton was a meek, ac(piies(ing little man, of a howing, lowly hahit; yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and if encouraged, would now and theji venture a small pleasantry; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make ii. the company of high ehnrch wardens, and other mig'^v men of the earth. I f"«at conflagration: Hereunder lyth a man of fame, W'illiam Walworth callyd by name ; Fishmonger he was in lyiTtime here, And twise Lord Muior, as in l)oolvs appeare ; j Who, with courage stout and manly myght, I Slew Jaclc Straw in Kyng Richard's sight, | For which act done, and trew entent, . The Kyng made him Knyglit incontinent ; ' And gave him his amies, as here you see. To declare his fact and chivaldrie : He left tliis lyff the year of our 0ml Thirteen hondred foui-:,core and three odd. An error in the foregoing inscription has l)fen corrected by the venerable Stow: "Whereas." saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the rebel smiften down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord Maior. was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this rash conceived doubt by such testimony as I find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains of the commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man ; the second was John, or Jack, Straw, etc., etc." — Stow's London. THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTrJIEAP. inl W tlu'ir graves, tlie gliost of lionest Pivsloii, wliicrh liappciuMl to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted by tiie well-lvHown call of ** waiter," from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden a})pearance in the midst of a roaring cluh, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mir- rie garland of Captain Death;" to the discomfiture of sun- dry train-band captains, a!ul the conversion of an intidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on ilu; spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterward, excej)t in tl le wi ly o f bu smess. 1 beg it may be remembered, that 1 do not pledge my- self for the authenticMty of this anecdote; thougli it is well known that the churchyards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with jierturbed si>irits; and every one must have heard of the ('ock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so manv bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a worthy successor to the niml)le-tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal; to have been equally prompt with his "anon, anon, sir," and to have transcended his predecessor in honesty; for Faly'taff, the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; when^as, honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his measure.^ The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not jippear much ca})tivated by the sober virtues of the tapster: the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man l)rought up among full hogsheads; Jind the little * As this inscription is rife witli ext'ellent morality, I transcribe it for tiie admonition of dtMmqncnt tapsters. It is, no doulit, "the production of some choice spirit who once frequented the Boar's Head: Bacchus, to pive the toping world snnirise, Prwiuced one sober son, and ii^re he lies. Though rear'd among full liogshead.s, he defied The cnarnis of wine, and every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou'rt Inclined. Keen honest Preston daily in thy mind. He (Irew good wine, took Care to fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance. ;H 1 1 »' 102 THE SKETCJI-Ii()(t/\. sexton corroborated liis opinion by u significant wink, and a dul)ious shake of the head. Tluis far my researclies, tlionitjli tliey tlirew much light on the history of tapsters, fisli mongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed me in tlie great object of my (piest, the picture of tlie Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. ** Marry and amen ! " said I, '* here endetli my researcli I " So I was giving tJK' matter up, with tiie air of a baffled antiquary, wlien my friend tlie sexton, perceiving me to be eiirious in everything rehitive to tlie old tavern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, Avhieli liad been handed down from remote times, when the parish meetings were lield at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in tlie par- ish clul)-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the neighbor- hood. A low steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12, Mile Lane, bearing the title of the Mason^s Arms, and is kept l)y Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rook" o^ the esta))lishnient. It is one of those little taverns, which abound in the heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighborhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these close lanes but few ravs 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 stanij), and divided their day equnUy, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end of the room was a clear coal tire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bi-ight brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an old- fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was some- thing 2:>rimitive in this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, but everything had that look of order and neatness which liespeaks the superintendences of a notable English, housewife. A group of amphibious- looking beings, wiio might be either fishermen or sailors, were reiJraliug themselves in one of the boxes. As I wjis %.»:i' THE BOARS MEAD TAVERN, EASTCHKAP. 103 a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a little misshapen ba^k room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted by a skylight, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented with the })ortrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman, in a red nose, and oil- cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and witli an air of profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses. Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with an opjiortunity to oblige; and hurrying up stairs to the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesy ing with them in her hands. The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco- box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemo- rial; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vul- gar hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with becoming reverence; but what was my delight, at be- holding on its cover the identical painting of which I was in quest! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the d )or was to be seen the whole convivial group, at table, in full revel, pictured with that wonderful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on to- bacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning limner had war- ily inscribed the names of Prince Ilal aiul Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly oblit- erated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was "repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relic, and I ques- tion whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long- sought sangreal with more exultation. • » h »■ r.!j ■f 104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. I' ' AVliile I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honey ball, who was highly gratified by the interest it ex- cited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which als.) belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's 'fead. It bore the inscription of having been t\\v. gift of Franr'is Wythers, Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very "an- tyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the :;habhy gentleman with the red nose, and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardoliih. He suddenly aroused from his medita- tion on the pot of porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay, the head don't ache now that mtide that there article." The great importance attached to this memento of an- cient revelry by modern churchwardens, at first puzzled me; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehensions so muoh as antiquarian research; for I immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical "parcel-gilt goblet " on which Falstaff made his loving, but faithless vow to Dame Quickly; and which would, of course, be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn contract.^ Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had been handed down from generation to genera- tion. She also entertained me with many particulars con- cerning the worthy vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of East- cheap, and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, lest mv readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, which they give as transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the I Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt gohlct.BiUm^ in my Dolphin- t'hainher, at the round tahle, by a sea coal fire, upon Wednesday in Whitsun- wvek, when the Prince broke thy head for likening his fattier to a sin^ing-nian of Windsor ; thou didst swear to me then, as I was w;ishing tiiy wound, to niari-y me, and make me my lady (liy wife. Canst tiiou deny it i— Henry /F., part 2. THE BOAR\S HEAD TAVERN, EA.STrHKAP. I(>:> 1 site of the old Roar's Head, has several dr}- jokes of Fat Jack's not Liiddown in the hooks, with wlii(!h he makes \u>. customers ready to die of laughter. I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some farther inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive medita- tion. His head had inclined a little on one side; a deej) sigh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, aiul, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door wliich stood, open, and found it fixed wistfully on I he savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness befor(» the tire. I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of my recon- dite investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and good-will, I departed with a hearty benediction on him. Dame Honey- ball, and the parish club of Crooked Lane — not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this in- teresting research; for which, if it 2)rove too short and un- satisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skilful illustrator of the im- mortal bard would have ywelled the materials I have touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk, comprisin,^ the biog- raphies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. MichaeFs; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; pri- vate anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daugh- ter, whom I have not even mentioned: to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle;) the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of London. All this I leave as a rich mine, to be worked by future commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the subject of future engravings, and almost as fruit- ful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield, of Achilles, or the far-famed Portland vase. * < t ,t i '> ''■ ii lOG THE SKETCH-BOOK. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. .1 I ! A COI.LOQUY IX WESTMIXSTER ABBEY. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what by inortalis in this world is brought. In time's great pericMls shall return to nought ; I know that all the miistjs" heavenly layes. With toil of sprite whicii are so dearly bought. As idle sounds, of few or none are sought. That there Is nothing lighter than mere praise. — DbI'MMOND of llAWTHORyDEW. There are C3ertaiii half-dreaming moods of mind, in whicli we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet haunt, whero we may indulge our reveries, and l)uild our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood, I was loitering about the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with tlie name of reflection; when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from V/estminster school, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. 1 sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitude of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me through a j^ortal, rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the Chapter-house, aiul the chamber in which Dooms- day Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a s' lall door on the left. To this tlie verger applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if sel- dom 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 supported by massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a considerable height from tlie floor, and which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dig- nitary of the church in his robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, ar- ranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally ^ 'n t1 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. lo: of old polemical writers, and were much more worn h\ time than use. In tJie centre of the lihrary was a solitary table, with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched !>y long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and j)rofound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a beil tolling for prayers, that echoed soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell (teased 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 tsible in a venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, hew- ever, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and life- less 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 the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty oblivion. How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching head — how many weary days! how many sleepless nights I How have their authors buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature; and de- VotoJ themselves to painful research and intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the titles of their works read now and then in a fu- ture age, by some drowsy churchman, or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be lost even to remem- brance. Such is the amount of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment — lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away, like a thing that was not! While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating these un- if, •! '1' d i ««- r ■ p- 108 THE t^KETdl-JiooK. I ) proritii])lo spoouljitions, witli my liond resting on my hand, I wjis tlirumniiiio^ with the otiior hand upon the quarto, until I [i(!oidontaliy hjosenod tho clasps; when, to my utter astonishment, tlie little lK)ok gave two or tliree yawns, like one awaking from a (k'ep sleep; then a husky hem, and at length hegan to talk. At lirst its voice was very hoarse hnid hroken, being much troubled by a cobweb whirh some studious spider had woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold from lojig exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceedingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its ju'onunciation what in the present day would be deemed biir])arous; but I shall en- deavor, as far as 1 am able, to render it in modern parlance. It began with railings about the neglect of the world — about merit being sufiered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries: — that the dean only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- turned th^m to their shelves. * 'What a plague do they mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand vol- umes of us shut uj) here, jiiul watched by a set of old ver- gers, like so many beauties in a luirem, merely to be looked at now and then by the dean ? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and 1 would have a rule passed that the dean should pay each of us a visit at least once a year; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airmg. Softly, my worthy friend," replied I, "you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your generation, l^y being stored awny in this ancient library you are like the treasured remains of those saints and mon- archs which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels; while the remains of their contemjiorary mortals^ left to the or- dinary course of nature, have long since returned to dusf IT *rHE MUTABILITY OF UTKHATV lii:. KM) "Sir," said the little tonus riimi!i«; his Icavj's and look- ing big, '* I was written for all the \v<»i'l(l, not for the hook- worms of an ahhey. I >>as intended to cirenlate from hand to hand, like other great eontem[»orary works; hut here have I been clasped up for more than I wo rt'iitnrie.s, and might have silently fallen a prey to tiicse worms that are playing the very vengeanee with my intestines, if you had not by chaiiee given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to nieiu's." ** My good friend," rejoined J, *' luid you been left to the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere this iuive been no more. To jnd<^ -. from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years; very few of youi' eon- temporaries can be at |)resent in existeiuu', and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries wiiieli, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might pro})erly and gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attacdied to religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepit, and where, by lerably antiquated terms, that 1 have had inlinite dilVuuilty in rcuidering them into modern j)hraseology.] " r cry you mercy," said I, "for mistaking your age; but it mattiu's little; almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into forgetfulness; and De Worde's publications are mere literary rarities among book-col- lectors. 'Y\\o. purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your chiims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy liobert of Gloucester, who wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.'"* Even now, many talk of Spenser's * well of pure English unde- iiled,' as if the language ever sprang from a well or foun- tain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, j)erpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting'. Un- less thought can be committed to son^ething more perma- nent and unchangeable than such a medium, even thought I III Latin and French hatli nian.v soneraine wittes had great delyte to endyte, and have many noble things fnlfilde, but certes there ben some that speaken their poisj'e in French, of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in hearing of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's Testament of Lore. -llolinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by diligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and Jolni Gowrie, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lyd^ate, monke of Berrie, oiar said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type or perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jpwell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to tt ir great praise and im- mortal commendation." 77/ A' Ml'TAHr/JTV ftF /JT/HiAtflif':. 11) must uluiro tlii> fate of ovcrvthinns of time? and the caprice of fashion. He looks back, and beholds the early authors of liis country, once the favorites of their day, su|)plante(l l)y modern writers: a few shortages have covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the (|uaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he antici[)ates, will be the fate of liis own work, wliicli, however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a moilel (jf purity, will, in the course of years, grow anti(juated and obsolete, until it shall become almost as unintelligilde in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Kunic inscrip- tions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added I, with some emotion, *' when I C(Hitcmplato a mod- ern library, filled with new work^' in all the braverv of rich gildingaiid binding. I feel disposed to sit down and weep: like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and reiiected that ill one hundred vears not one of them would be in exist- eiicel "Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, " 1 see how it is; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the tine-spun euphuisms of the * unparalleled John Lyly/" "There you are again mistaken," said I; "the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's .Arcadia, the immortality of which ivas so fondly predicted by his admirers,^ and which, in truth, was full of noble thoughts, delicate im- ages, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and » " Live ever sweete booke ; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage ; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breat li of the miises, the honey bee of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print."— HAktVEv'a Pierce's Supererogation. I il ^ 1:1 n\ r ■ Hi \ \Vl Till-: shh'Tc/t ItiniK. t'VtMi liVly, tli(»ii;,'ij liin \vriliii«(s wvw onue tlu< dt'li^^'lit of :i court, and appurenlly pcrpL'timtcMl by ii j)n)Verl), is now sciirct'ly known evon l)y nunio. A wliol« crowd of awtliors wlio wrot(f and wran make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the l'e(!undity of nature would be a grievance instead of a ))lessing: the earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface become u tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and leai'iiing decline ami make way for subsecpiCiit productions. Ijanguage gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have ilourished their allotted time; otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the W(»rld, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the end- less nuizes of literature. Formerly there were some re- straints on this excessive multiplication: works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious oper- xtion; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and ex- tremely perishable. Autl^prship was a limited and un- profitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of man- uscripts 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 thoughts have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraiT-.s: they have made every Tin: MrTMiturv nj'- u ri:tiArnn:. li:i oiM' ii writer, Miul cniili'lctl every mi n*! In |K»ur ilstlf into i)riiit, siiid (lilTiise itHclf over tlie wliulo iiitellec iiul wurld. riio coiiHiMjuencert lire iiliirriiiiiij. 'I'he Htrenin of lilerature 1ms Hvvolleii iiilo u torrent — ;ni^meiite«l into :i river — ex- j);in(le(l into ii sen. A few (UMitiiries .since, live or six liiin- (Ired iniinus('rii»ts const itntetl ji ifwnt lii)rjuv; \m\ wiiat wonitl yon s;iy to lihraries, sneii sis iictually exist, eont.'iin- in^ tlircL' or four hundred thousund V(dnn)es; le_lrior^s of authors at tlie suine time l)usy; and Ji j>ress j;oin,i; on witii fearfully imn'easiiijijj activity, to doulih; an(i (|Uadru|de tin; numi)er? Unless some unforeseen nM)rtality should hreak out anson;^ the pronrcny of the Muse, now that she lias he- I'ome so prolilic, i tremhlo for ])osterity. 1 fear the mero iluctuation of lani^nafjfe will not he sufllcient. Criticism may do much; it increases with the increase of literature, ond resemhles one of those salutary chc('ks on population Kp dven of hy ecoin)mists. All |)ossiI)le eiu'ouraj^ement, tl "refore, should he <^ivun to tin* ^n'owth of critics, <;o()(l or l):id. But J fear all will ])(" in vain; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will })rint,iuul the world will inevitahly l)c overstocked with Thorow earth, and waters deepe, The pen by skill doth passe : And featly iiyps the worlds abuse, And shoes us in a glasse, The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve ; The honey combe that bee doth make, Is not so sweet in hyve, As are the golden leves That drops from poet's head ; Which doth surmount our common talke, Am farre as dross doth lead.— Churchtakd. r \i\ ^ * 1 iil i u rj lie THE t^KETClf-BOC^i RURAL FUNERALS. Here's a few flowers ! but about midniKht more : The herbs that have on them cold dew o' the night Are strewings fltt'st for graves You were as flowers now withered : even so These herb'lets shall, which we upon youstrow. — ChriTBELiNB. Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life wlrch still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing flowers before the funerals and planting them at the graves of departed friends.- These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no doubt, the spontaneous trib- utes of unlettered affection, originating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on tlie 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 ill, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and plaintive ditties of Ophelia : White his shroud as the mountain snow, Larded all with sweet flowers ; Which be-wept to the grave did go, With true love showers. There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female wlio has died young and unmarried. A chap- let of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl, nearest in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterward hung up in tlie church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chai)lets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is gen- erally a pair of white gloves. They arc 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 RURAL FUNERAL!^. iir to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns; a kind of triumph, "to show/' says Bourne," that they have finished their course with joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is observed in some of tlie northern counties, particuhirly in Nortliumlierbmd, and it has a pleas-^ ing, though melancholy effect, to liear, 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 thus, we compass round Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, And as we sing thy dirge, we will The Daffodill And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone.— Hebrick. There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller U\ the passing funeral in these sequestered places; for sucl^ spectacles, occurring among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As tlie mourning train ap})roaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he then follows si^ lently in the rear; sonietimes c|uite to llie grave, at other times for a few hundred yards, and liaving i)aid this trib- ute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his jour^ ney. The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a peaceful grave. The hum- blest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to his re- mains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, "thus lives she, and all her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continu- ally 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 capri- cious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl. When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell Her servants, what a pretty place it were To bury lovers in ; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and st i*ew her over like a corse. 1, ■' ■ i • .1 '■ , V- • \\ [S t ■. k I t 118 THE t^KETCH-JiOOK. i The custom of rleconiting graves wus once universally prevalent; osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjiired, and about them were planted ever- greens and flowers. " We adorn tlieir graves," says Eve- lyn, in his Sylva, " with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to tliose fading beauties, whose roots be- ing Iniried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage lias now become 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 Iluthven, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was in- terred, they stuck about the grave. He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay; some droop- ing, others quite perished. They were afterward to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and over- shadowed the tombstones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- rangement of these rustic offerings that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortality. '' This sweet flower," said Evelyn, " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Corydon's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : A garlaiKl shall be framed By Art and Nature's skill, Of sundry-coloured flowers. In token of good v/ill. RURAL FUNERALS. 119 And sundry-coloured 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 fresh and green. The 'white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin ; her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence ; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells is that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct sweethearts with rose-bushes." And Camden likewise remarks, in his Britannia : '* Here is also a certain custom observed time out of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this church- yard is now full of them." When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq., (published in 1651,) is the following stanza: Yet strew Upon my dismall grave Such offerings as you have, Forsaken cypresse and yewe ; For kinder flowers can take no birth Or growth from such unhappy earth. In " The Maid's Tragedy," a pathetic little air is intro- duced, illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who have been disappointed in love. Lay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew, Maidens willow branches wear. Say I died true. My love was false, but I was firm. From rav hour of birth, Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine i ^1 II 1 i t ' ^ ?? t ^ - J I «: B ^Ij ir IT W t , !•■ ;, ■ {X ilk ; it ** . 1-30 THE SKETCIf-BOOK I and elevate the mind; and we have a proof of it in th« purity of sentiment, and the unaffected elegance of tliou^lit whicli pervaded tlie whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution, that none but sweet- scented evergreens and flowers should be employed. I'lie intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of tlic tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased with the most delicate and beautiful objects in Nature. There is a dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagi- luition sbrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined asso- ciations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. " Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister. And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring. Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the living. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, And make tiiis place all Paradise. May sweets grow here : and smoke from hence Fat frankincense. Let balme and cassia send their scent From out thy maiden-monument ! May all shie maids at wonted hours Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers I May virgins, when they come to mourn, Male-incense bum Upon thine altar, then return. And leave thee sleeping in thy um! I might crowd my pages with extracts from the oldei British poets, who wrote when these rites were more prev- alent, and delighted frequently to allude to them; but I have already quoted more than is necessary. I cannot, however, refrain from giving a passage from Shakspeare, even though it should appear trite, which illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these floral trib- utes, and at the same time possesses that magic of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre-emi- nent. RrUiAL FUNERALS. 121 With fairest flowers. Whilst sumnier lasts, and I live h»Te, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad ;^rave : thou shalt not larek The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose ; nor The uzured harebell like thy veins ; no, nor The leaf of eglantine ; whom not to slander, Outaweetened not thy breath. There is oertaiTily something more afferting in these prompt and spontaneoius olferings of njiture, than in tlie most costly monuments of art; tlie hand strews tlie flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the grave as att'ection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is chilled {'oniong the cold conceits of sculptured marble. It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly ele- gant and touching hjis disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. Hut it seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion as people grow polite, they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust its sally- ing emotions, and to supply its most affecting and pictur- esque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an Eng- lish funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade: mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, "and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neigh- bourhood, 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 hurry- ing succession of new intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in every ear; it steals with its pervading 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 w.as the compiinion of our most retired i I ui II I? 122 THE SKETCH-JiOOK. walks, and gavo animation to every lonoly seene. His idea isassoeiiited with every (jliartn of Mature: we hear liis voice in the echo whioli he on(!e delighted to awaken; his spirit liauiits the grove wliieh he once frcqnented; we thiiiK of him in liie wild upland solitude, or amid the pensive beauty of tiie valley. In the fresiiness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety. and when soljer evening returns, witli its gathering shadows and subduing ({uiet, we call to mind nuiny a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet souled melancholy. Each lonely place shall him restore. For him the tear be duly shed, Beloved, till life can charm no more. And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the de- ceased in the country, is that the grave is more immedi- ately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer; it meets their eyes when their hearts are soft- ened by the exercise of devotion; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn mementos of the past. In North Wales, the peas- jxntry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays after the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practiced, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festivals, when the season brings the companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invaria- bly performed by the neare;t relatives and friends; no menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a neighborhood yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. i I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere in- clinations of sense languish and decline with th(? cliaruis, '.■ RURAL FUNKIiALS. vr.\ which excited thena,anfl turn with siiudfleringand dirtgnst from tlie dismal precincts of the tomb; hut it is tiionce that truly spiritual alTection rises purified from every sen- sual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the motiier who would willingly forget tlie infant that perished like a blos- som from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament ? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? AVho, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness ? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelm- ing burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollec- tion — when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is soft- ened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness — who would root out such a sor- row from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom; yet who would ex- change it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of rev- elry ? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh, the grave ! — the grave! — It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moulder- ing before him ? But the grave of those we love — what a place for medi- il ^. t ': ^ n 9 * '• J ^ ' 1 '' ^1 1 V ' iii l ^' fp!:. lil ' ^' ' V ^i • : II p «r ' '■■ "^ * , «t ■ h 1 "• :;(■ i ». 'I * I! I'M Ttff^: sKF/H'jr nnoK. tiitioiil Thoro it; is tliat wo cull up in lon^ review the wliolc^ liist(UT of virtiKf nrui ^eiitleiioss, iiiul tlie thoiissind endcurnicjits liivishod \\\^^)n iisiilinost milieeded in the daily inicrf'ourso of iiitinmcy; — there it is tluit we dwell upon the tenderness, the Holcnin, nwfnl tendiM'iH^ss of the pjirt- ini:: scene. The hed of dciith, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless uttendjince — its mute, Wiitchful nssidnities. 'i'ho liist testimonies of ex|)iri!i 4 i I.:./ n T.v; THE SKKTcnUuuK. Hiiiiill rliurrli, with ji l^urvin^-^n'ound adjoiiuii^. At tlm Iu>ji(Ih of i\\v jrnivcH were placed crosses of wood or iron. On sonie were ulVixod iiiiiiiatures, rudely cxeeiited, but evi- dently jitteni])ts jit likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hnu^ cluiplets of flowers, some withering, others fres]i,as if occasionjilly renewed. I paused with in- t(!rest at this scene; J felt that I was at the source of ])oet- ical (lescri])tion, for these were the beantiful, but unaffected oU'erings of the heart, which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more j)opulous place, I should have suspected them to hav(^ l)een suggested by factitious sentiment, de- rived from books; but the good peo])le of Gersau knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village; and T rjuestion whether any peasant of the place dreamt, while he mis twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of p(»etical devotion, and that he was practi- cally a poet. it i THE INN KITCHEN. Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn^—FaMaff. During a journey that I once made through the Neth- erlands, I had arrived one evening ' v the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of the tahle d'hote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from the relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly. I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested something to re.id; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the latter, read- ing 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 favorite a resort the kitchen of a country iuu is to the middle and inferior order of trav- 77/ A' INI^ KITcHHTf «>•*• 1'. I cilrrs; particularly in tliiit M)iiu'fl a«^nM'«'Hl)l(' toward t'V(Miin«(. I threw aside the iiowsjMipt'r, juid explored my way to the kiteheii, to take a ])eei) at the j^roup that appeared to ho s(> merry. Jt was (M>iMposed partly of travellers who had arrived some i ^iirs before? in a dili<^'e!i('e, and partly of the usual attend- ants and lian«(ers-on of inns. They were seated round a groat burnished stove, that might have beeTi mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshippinir. It was (covered with various kitcdien vessels of resplendent brightness; among which steamed and hissed a hug(^ copper tea-kettle. A largo lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, )>ringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yel- low rays partially illumined the s]>acious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote (•(►rners except where they set- tled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of ]>acon, or were reflected back from well-s(!oured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long goldfti j)endants in her ears, aiul a neckhice with a golden heart suspended to it, was the pre- siding priestess of the temi)le. Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of tliem with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a litth? swarthy Freiudiman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end of each of which there was one of those bursts of honest un- ceremonious laugliter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an inn. As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and lis- tened to a variety of traveller's tales, some very extrava- gant, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory, except one, wliich I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the pecu- liar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpu- lent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller, lie was dressed in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of overalls with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, < • r J' ' ' \ • ■;* t : 4 ! I "3 p i I'M THE ISKETiJU HOOK. and a pleasant twinkling eyo. His hair was light, and curled from iiiidor an old green velvet travelling-cap, stuck oil one side of his bead. He was interrupted more than once by tiiea/rival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors; and paused, .'^ow and then, to replenish his pipe; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, for the buxom kitc^hen maid. I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a liuge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume do, mer, decorated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a wdiimsical cut of the eye occaijionally, as he related the following story. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. A traveli^'.r's tale.^ I He that supper for is (light, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! . Yestreen to clianiber I him led. This night Gray-steel has made his bed ! Sir Egkr, Sir Grahamk, and Sir Ghay-stekl. On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from the confluence of the Maine and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and al- most buried among beech trees and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen strufffflins;, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and look down upon a neighboring country. The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Kat- zenellenbogsn,^ and inherited the relics of the property, find u^l the pride of his ancestors. Though the w^arlike disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the 1 The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will peroeive that tlM above tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a Ijttle French (■uecdo*ensates by nuiking it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany; and who should know better than thev ? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care, under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowl»()}[. \X\ i ■H- m In tlie warm-heiirifMl moment of recou^iiition, tho voiinir friends related all tlieir i)ast adventures and fortunes, aiul the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptinis with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of wliose charms he had received tlie most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to perform tlu^ rest of their journey togetlier; and that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the Count having given direc- tions for his retinue to follow ami overtake him. They beguiled tlieir wayfaring with recollections of their military scenes and* ad ventures; 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 for- ests of Germany have always been as much infested with robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the hordes of dis- banded soldiers wandering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst ol the forest. They defended themselves with bravery, but wei'c 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, lie was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtz- burg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body But half of his skill was superfluous; the mo- ments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. AVith his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly solicitous that this mission should be speedily and courteously exe- cuted. " Unless this is done," said he, " 1 sh.all not sleep quietly in my grave." He repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impres- sive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to ' ! V r ' • » (J. I*; »' " ill- ' |:^' 11 ' in PS ^ 'I I i:u THE SKETCH-BOOK. Koothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to execute his wisli, and gave him his liand in soUimn pledge. The dying mfin pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium — raved about his bride — his engagtanents — his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and expired in tlie fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear on the untimely fate of his comrade; aiul then jiondered on the awkward mission he had undertjiken. His heart wjks heavy, and his head perplexed; for he was to present liim- solf an unbidden guest among hostile ])e()ple, and to damj> their festivity with tidings fatal to tlieir liopes. Still tliere were certaiii whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously siiut \\\) from the world; for he was a pnssionate admirer of the sex, and tliere was a dash of eccentrieitv and enter- prise in his character, that made him fond of all singular adventure. Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with the holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of liis friend, who was to be buried in the ca- thedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his idustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the C^ount took charge of his remains. It is now high timetliatwe should return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for their dinner; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch- tower. Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron descended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats were already overdone; the cook in an agony; and the whole household had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Anotlier long blast tilled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder ill THE HPEVTRE BlilDEimOOM. ]:):» from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. lie was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming romantic eye, and an air of stately mel- ancholy. The Baron was a little mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience which had in- duced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. " I am sorry," said the stranger, " to break in upon you thus unseasonably- -" . Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compli- ments and greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided him- self upon his courtesy and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent of words, but in vain; so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more inter- rupted by the appearance of the female part of the fam- ily, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whi&pered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of in- quiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossi- ble for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavalier. The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted banquet. m A >■ *■ 'it b < »■ c. • ■ Ik ■• •■4 : r 1 W \ " W ' i? ■ :>: i ^' \ i'^r if if. •r/ji r.\Ci THE SKETCFI'JiOOK. It was servofl up in tho great hall of tho castlo. Around the walls hung tho hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies whicii they had gained in the tield and in the chase. Hacked croslets, si)lintered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare: the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the hoar, grinned horribly among cr<>ss-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pjiir of ant- hrs branched immediately over tlie head of the youthful bridegroom. The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertainment. lie scarcely tasted the l)anquet, but seemed absorbed inadminitionof his bride. He conversed in a low tone, that could not be overheard-^for the lan- guage of love is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the. softest whisper of the lover ? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her color came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some blush- ing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would steSl a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completely enamoured. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in love with each other at first sight. The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that at- tend ui)on light purses jind mountain air. 1'he Baron told his best and longest stories, and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was anything marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment; and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke, but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hoch- heimer; and even a dull joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear re- peating, except on similar occasions; many sly speeches whispered in ladies* ears, that almost convulsed them with THE SPECTRE BRTDEaROOM. \.\ >< fiiipprospod langhtor; and ;i soiifj or two rojirod ont by a })oor, but merry and })road-fiiojMl cousin of tlie Haro'i, tliat absolutely made the nuiiden aunts hold up their fans. Amid all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His <'ountenanee assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may Jippear, evcni 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 wandering of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride became more and more earnest aiul mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; wdiispers and glances were interchanged, ac(!ompanied by shri'gs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent; there were dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced an- other 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 Jjconora — a dreadful, but true 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 at- tention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the Baron, and as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, in the Baron's entranced eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck. "What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, everything was prepared for his reception; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire." The stranger shook his head mournfully, and mysteri- ously; "I must lay my head in a different chamber to- night!" There was something in this reply, and the tone in f 1 1. ^ if ^ w ■ ".} u I j, < I h f if ms Tl/fC SKETcil-nnOK. whieli it wa8 nttcrocl, tliat niiide tho Biiron's licjirt misgivo liiin; hut he ralliccl liis torci's. uud ropcattMl liis hos|)itjil)Io entreaties. 'I'lie straiigei* shook his head sik^ntly, hut j)os- itively, at every offer: and, \vavin«( his farewell to the eoni- ])any, stalk(Ml sh»\vly ont of the liall. Tlie maiden aunts were ahsolutely ])etritied — tlie hrichi liung lier liead, and a tear stoki to her eve. The Baron foUowed the stranger to the great court of tlie castle, where the hlack chaiger stood pawiug tlic^ earth, and snorting with ini[)atien('e. When tliey had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted hy a (cresset, the stranger i)aused, and addressed the liaron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. '* Now that we ji re alone," said he," I will im])art to you the reason of my going. 1 have a solemn, and indis})ensable engagenuMit " " Why," said the liaron, "cannot you send some one in your place ? " "It admits of no substitute — I must attend it in person — 1 must awav to Wurtzburg cathedral " "Ay," said the Baron, plucking ups])irit, " but not until to-morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." "No! no!" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the worms expect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by rob- bers — my body lies jit Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my ap- pointment! " He sprang on his bhick charger, dashed over the draw- bridge, and the clattering of his horse's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consterna- tion, and related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright; others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time im- memorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cava- lier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to THE .SJ'bJcTUK lllUIHUnUtoM. i:i!t accord with so nu'ljinpholy Ji porsonago. This, liowev(M-, drew on him tlio indigiiiition of tho wiioh^ company, and espocially of the liaron, wlio lookod upon him as litth> better tlian an infi(U'I; so that he was fain to al)jure his heresy as speedily as possihh', and eome into tiio faith of the true believers. But, whatever nniy liave been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives, eonlirming the intelligence of the young Count's murder, and his interment iii Wurtzburg cathedral. The dismav at tho castle mav well be imaufined. Tlu^ Haron shut himself u}) in his chMml)er. The guests who had C(mie to rejoi(H> with him could not think of abandon- ing him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hail, sliaking their iieads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles '.i 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 tlie most piti- able. To have lost a husband before she had even em- braced him — and such a husband ! if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble what must have been the living man ? She filled the house with lamentations. On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her chamber, a(ux)mpanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The clv.imber was remot(5 and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree l)efore tho lattice. The cas- tle clock had just told midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily froni her bed, and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenan(^e. Heaven and earth I she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom I A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and had fol- lowed her silejitly to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. i;5 1 IK) Tiib: sKbynii hook. Of tho two fcrnjilcs, tlio jiinii now ro(Hiiro(l tlio most soothing, for hIio was jxM'ft'ctly beside lierself vvitli terror. As to the yoini^ I'^Jy* there wuh Komethiii^', even in the R))0('tre of her lover, that stu'iiied eiideuring. There was Ktill tlie semhlaiiee of manly heaiity; and though the shadow of a man is hut litth^ ealenlated to satisfy the a iTec- itions of a love-siiik ^irl, yet, wiiere the suhstanee is not to be had, even that is eonsoliiii^. 'I'he aunt de(dared slie woiihl never sleep in that (^luunher again; the niece, for oTu^e, was refractory, and declare(l as stronjyjly that she would sleep in noothtM'in tlu^ castle: the consecpienee was, that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a ijromise from her aunt not to relate the story of the speiitre, lest she sliould be de!iied the only melanclioly pleasure left her on earth — that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. Ifow long the good old lady would have observed this promise is nncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, aiul there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted in the neigh- borhood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was snddenly absolved from all further restraint by inter gence bronght to the breakfast-table one morning that t yonng lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been slept in — the window was open — and the bird had ilown I The astonishment and concern with which this intelli- gence was received can only be inuigined by those who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great juan cause among his friends. Even the poor relations j)aused for a moment from the indefatigable labors of the trencher; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked ont, "The goblin I the gob- lin! she's carried awav bv the goblin! '' In a few words she related the fearful scene of the gar- den, and concluded that the spectre mnst have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful prob- THK sPKcTlih' niiinEdliooM, 141 ;il)ility; for events of tlie kind ;ir(> ext remely coninion in (iernijinv, as lujinv well-iiul iienticiited histories heur wit- lU'SS. Wlnit :i lanientalde sit nation was that of the pool" llaroni \\\\\\i a- heart-ren(lin«( (iih-niina lor a foii.l father, and a member of thi^ jjreat family of Kat/eiH'lienhoH;eM I ills only (lauuflitor had either been ra]tt away to t he ^xrave, or he was to l>ave some W(M)(l-(h'nion for a so)i-in-law, and, l)erohanee, a troop of <^'ol(lin ;^i'nnroar. The men were ordered to take iiorso. and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. Tin* Haron himself had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on Ids sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally fortii on the (b)ul)t- ful quest, when he was brouglit to a pause by a new appa- rition. A lady was seen a])proa(dung the castle, mounted oil a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horseback. She gal- loped up to the gate, S[)rang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet etnbraced his knees. it was his lost daughter, and her (U)m|»anion — tin* Spectre Ih'idegroomI 'I'he Jiaron was astounded. He looked at his daughter, tlum at the Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was womlerfully im[)roved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His (Iress was splendid, and set off a iu)ble figure of maidy symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with tlui glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you must have known all the while, he was lu) goblin) announced himself jis Sir Herman Von Starkeii- faust. He related his adventure with the voung Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Rfiron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his talc. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suf- fered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorelv perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat, until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden ^ \ (^1 14^ THn HKETCH-BitOK. hcnoatli tliP! yomig ludy's window — liad wooed — had won — had l)onie away in triunipli — and, in si word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances, the Baron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but beloved his daughter; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hos- tile house, yet, thank Heaven, he was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not ex- actly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, [issured him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, hav- ing lately served as a trooper. Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle w^ere resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness; he was so gallant, so generous — and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of strict .seclusion and passive obedience should be so badly exem- plifie;!, but attributed it all to their negligence in not hav- ing [he 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 coun- terfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and blood — and so the story endi. H WmTMlN^TEH A BBE Y. 14:; WESTMI1^;STER ABBEY. 11 •vi _ When I behold, with deep ast .nishmeut. To famous Westminster how there resorte, Living in braase or stony monument. The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; Doe not I see refonnde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon offenseless majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? And how a play-game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, Whome all the world which late they stood upon Coxdd not content nor quench their appetites, r.ife is a frost of cold fi licitie, And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Christoleru's Epigrams, by T. B., 1.^03. On one of those sober and rather r.iehiiicholy days, in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening ahnost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in ram- bling about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mourrful magniticenee of the old pile; and as I ])ass.3d its tlii-eshold, it seemed lilut the intercourse be- tween the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself up froiu the delights of social life, that he 10 fc i; «' TT I - ,1 i4G THli! SKBTiJH-BOOk. I niight tlie more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has l)een purcliased, not by deeds of violence «nd blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and sounding jic tions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great.. At every turn, I met with some illustrious nam6, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies : some kneel- ing in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates, with crosiers and mitres; and nobles in robes and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly trans- muted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast; the face was almost covered by the mo- rion; the legs were crossed in token of the warrior's hav- ing been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction — be- tween the history and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapel r. in which they are generally found; and in consid- ering ihem, the imagination is apt to kindle with the le- gendary associations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the ^■n WKSiTMTNSTim A B HE Y. 14t wars for the scpnlfliro of Christ. Tlioy aro tlio rolics of tiuios nttorly gone by; of Ix'ings passed from recollection; of customs and manners with whicli ours have no alHnity. They are like objects from some strange and distant laiul, of wliich we have no certain knowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary, 'i'liere is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the d.ying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanci- ful attitudes, the overwrouglit conceits, and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly : and I do not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier con- sciousness of family worth and honorable lineage, tlum one wdiich affirms, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous.'' In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a mon- ument which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art; but wliich, to me, appears horril)le rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sink- ing into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effoi-t, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of trii3mph, bursting from the distended jaws of the speetre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow ;ind meditation. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear: — the rumbling of the passing equipage; the murmur of the % I- 1: ■; : !; :, i! V r; ««<; J / 14H THE SKErciT-BOOK. nuiltitiule; or p('rli;ij)s ilie li,i>lit lau^Hi of pleasure. The (!oiitrust is strikiii Sir Thoii\as Brown. CHRI^TMAH. 153 Wlmt tlien is to insure tliis pile, wliicili now towers above me, from sluiriii^ the fate of mightier mausolenmH? The time must come when its gihhMl vaults, which now spring so h)ftily, sliall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, in- stead of the S(»und of melody and praise, the wi!i(l shall whistle tlirough the broken arehes, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower — when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine round the fallen eolumn; and the lox-glove hang its blos- soms about the nameless urn, us if in mockery of the dead. 'J'iius man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. \B, CHRISTMAS. But is old. olfl, K'>ofl old Christmas goiu'? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray old head and h^ard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him.— Hue and Cky after Chrihthah. A man might then behold At Christmas, in eacli hall, Good fires to emit the cold. And meat for great and small. The neighbors were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true, The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap wtis new.— (Jlu Song. There is nothing in England that exercises a more de- liglitful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest djiys of yore, in whicli, 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 grow- ing more and more faint, being gradually worn away Ijy 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 ux 11^ • %: i :i [HI ^ 154 rilK SKETCH WtOK. the additions and .'iltcnitioiis of latter days. Poetry, how- ever, cliiicfs w'itli ('licrisliiii^ fojidiiess uljout the rural game and holidiiy revel, from \vl)i(di it has derived so many of ilH themes — as tlie ivy winds its ricli foliage about the (lothie in'«'li iind mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, hyelasidng together their tottering remains, and, as jt were, euihalming tliem in vei'dure. Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awak- ens the strt»iigest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and saered feeling that l)lends with our eonviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and i^levated enjoyment. The services of tlu^ church about this season are extremely tender and insjiiring: they dwell on the beautiful st(u'y of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcemeni. : they gradually incivase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morn- ing that brought peace aiid good-will to men. 1 do not know a grander effect of mu.sic on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir ajid the pealing ojgan performing a ( 'hristmas unthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumidiaut harmony. It is SI beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commem«>rat(V5 the announiM'- ment of the religion of peat^e and love, has been nuule the season for gathering together of familv conncvLions, and drawing closer a^ai' those l)ands '*' kindred hearts, whiidi the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the AvoHd are con- tinually operating to cast loosi ; of calling back the chil- dren of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the l)aternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing me- mentos of childhood. ' There is something in the very season of the jear, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At otl.er times, we derive a great portion of our pleasure's from tin; mere L)eanties of Nature. "^ Our feelings sally fonh and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and wc "live abroad and everywhere." -The song of the bird, the murmur <>f the stream, the breathing fragranc^e 0/ spring, tlio softi voluptuoi sness of summer^ the golden pomp of '■I CJlIiLSTMAS. 155 autumn; ourth with its mantlo of ro^rosliing ^rccn, and lieavcMi with its (hu'p delicious hhio uiid its cloudy niag- iiifujpiu'c — ull 1111 us with uiuto hut ex(|uisitc ddiL^lit, and wo revel in the luxury of mere sensation. •' But in the depth of winter, when Natun^ lies despoiled of every cliarui, and wrapped in her shn>ud of siieeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. 'The drearini>ss and deso- lation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and dark- some nights, while they circumsta'ihe our wan(leriiiij:«:. shut in our feelings also from ramhling ahioatl,and make us mon^ keenly di 4)osed for the pleasures of the social cir( le. Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathit's more aroused. ■* We feel nujre scMisihly the charm of eacli other's society, aiul are brought nu)re closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. ' Heart calletli unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from tlu^ dec]) wells of loving-kindness which lie in the quictt recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to. furnish fortli the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on en- tering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial sum- mer and sunshine through the room, ami lights up each counteiumce into a kindlier welcome. Where does the lionest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps tlu^ dis- tant door, whistles about the casement, and rund)lcs down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltering security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity ? The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every chiss of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably intcrruj)t the stillness of country life; and they were in l'(»rmer (hiys jKirticularly observant of th.e religious and social rites of Christ'iuis. It is inspiring to read even the dry details which fc'ome antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the comjdete a])andonment to I^irth and good-fellowship, with which this festival wagj " .. I " k 156 THE HiKETCII-BOOK. Mt" celebrated. It soemed to tlirow opoii every door, and unlock evory heart. It bron^^lit the peasant and the peer to- getlicr, and blended all ranks in one WMrni generous flow of lov and kindness. M'lie old halls of castles and manor- houses resounded with tJio harp and the Christmas carol, and tlieir jiniple boards groaned under the weight of hos- pitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive senson with green decorations of bay and holly — the cheer- ful lire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the l)assenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot hud- dled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday cus- toms. It has completely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are oecome mat- ters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, whon m*jn enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigorously: times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of domestic life. Society has ac quired a more enlightened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses \\\ which they were cele- brated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay drawing-roo.ns of the modern villa. ^horn, liowever, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors. CHlihSTMAl^. "if.'T o^ I'hristinas is still a period of dfliij^litfiil ox(3itoin(Mii in l^ii^:- laiid. It is gratifying to see that liome feeliiig eompletoly aroused which holds so powerful ;i ])lacc in every Knglish bosom. The preparations making on every side for tlie social board that is again to unite friends and kindred — the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings — tlie evergreens distributed about houses and churclu'S, emblems of peace and gladness — all these have the most })leasing effect in producing fond associations, and kindling benev- olent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour "when deep sleep falletli upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into an- other celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind, llow delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns evt rything to melody and. beauty. The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, '* telling the night watches to his feathery danu's," was thought by the common people to announce the approach of the sacred festival : " Some say that ever 'painst that season cornea Wlierein'our Saviour's bh'th was celebrated, This bird of dawniiifj: singoth all night long : And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The niglits are wholesome — then no planets strike. No fiury takes, no witch Imth power to charm. So halloweil and so gracious is the time." Amid the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and. stir of the affections, which prevail at this l,)eriod, what bosom can remain insensible ? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but tlie genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit — as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the wearv nili^rim of the desert. x: ' H, ins THE SKETCH-HOOK. i Striingor and sojourner as T am in the land — though fot nie no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven ; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others tlie rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the feli- city of his fellow-beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfish gratifi- cation, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. THE STAGE-COACH. i;^! Omne bend Sine poena Tempus est ludeudi Venit hora Absque mora Libros depoiiendi. —Old Holiday School Song. In the preceding paper, I have mr.de some general ob- servations on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in tlie 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 jimusement. In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with ham- pers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies, and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. *rHli! l^TA(ibUu)ACH. 151) I hud three fine rosy-cheeked scdioolboys fo^' m}' feUow- passengers inside, full of the buxom healta and manly spirit which I have observed in the childrei of this coun- try. They were returning home for the lu liduys, in high glee, and promising themselves a world o enjoyment. Jt 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' enuincipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, Jind pedagogue. They were full of the anticipations of the meeting with the fam- ily and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the joy they were to give their little sisters, by the pres- ents with which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. IIow he could trot! how he could run! and theu such leaps ms he would take — there was not a hedge in the whole t^oun try that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of questions, and proaouncei him one of the best fellows in the whole world. Indeed, T could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and im- portance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. lie is always a personage full of mighty care and business; but he is particularly so dur- ing this season, having so many commissioiiS to execute in cjusequence o the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untrav- ''lied readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a geiieral representation of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever an English stage-coachman may be seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin; he is swelled into jolly di- I.:.^ U l> KiO 77/ IS HK mVJI- HOOK. If i iiiensioiis })y fiiMjuoiit potations of riuilt liquors, and hi^ bulk is still furtliur increased by a umltiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reach- ing to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in summer-time a Lirge bouquet of flowers in his button- hole, the present, most probably, of some enamoured coun- try lass. His waistcojit is commonly of some bright color, si 'iped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees, iiy meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half-way up ins legs. All tliis costume is maintained with miicli prt'cision; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, notwithstanding the seaming grossness of his appear- ance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is nlmost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse([ueiu^e and consideration along the road; lias frequent conferences with the village housewives, wlio look upon him as a man of great trust and depend- ence; and lie seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are lo be changed, he throws flown the reins witli something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler, his duty being merely to drive them from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the iiin-vard with an air of the most absolute lordli- ness. Heie lip is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of lostlers, stable-boys, slioeblacks, and those name- less hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, jind run er- rands and do all kind of odd jobs, for tlie })rivilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tai>-room. These all look up to him as to an ora- cle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore; and, above iill, en- deavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every ragamuflftn that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. Perhai)s it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A stage- 1 1 i THE .STAGE-COACH. U\\ couch, liowever, carries jiiiiniation jilways witli it, and puts tiie world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a gtMieral bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some with bundles and band-boxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the mo- ment can hardly take leave of a group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes jerks a small parcel or news- paper to the door of a public house; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to some lialf- blushing, half-laughing housemaid, an odd-shaped billet- doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, Avho take their sta- tions there for tiie important purpose of seeing company pass: but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a mo- ment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long- drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and sulphurous gleams of the smithy. Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk cir- culation in the villages; the grocers', butchers', and fruit- erers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red ber- ries, began to appear at the windows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas preparations. *' Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — must all die — for in twelve days a multitude of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies ' 1^: *. I it < 1G2 THE I^KETUH-IWOK. siTul brotli. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youtli must dance and sing to get them in a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy — " There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the hapjiy little rogues, clapping their hands. At the end of a lane, there was an old sober-looking servant in livery, Avaiting for them; he was accompanied ])y a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable Ban- tam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited him. I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and barking before him, and the others holding John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering him with questions abont home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward, to water the horses; and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with Bantam Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage i THE STAGE-COACH. i<;;i road. I loaned out of the coiU'li-wiiidow, in hopes of wit- nessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my siglit. In the evenina: we reached a villafje where I liad deter- mined to pass tlie night. As we drove into the great gate- way of the inn, I saw, on one side, tiie light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming throucfh a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth +ime, that i)icture of conven- ience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, ami decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; asmoke-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 order were pre- paring to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. 'I'rini housemaids were hurrying backward and forward, uiuler the directions of a fresh bustling landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. Ths scene completely re- alized Poor Robin's humble idea of the comforts of mid- winter; * Now trees their leafy liats t, A pot of ale and now a t(xist, Tobacco and a good coal flie, Are things this seasf.n doth require.' I had not been long at the inn, when a poslrhaisc '^rove up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out. and by the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. 1 moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye en aght mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracel)ridge, a sprightly good-humored young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the Continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance of an I' I! T' *^'' n » Poor Robin's Almanack, 1694. ■ 104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. old fi'llow-travollor nhvays brings up tlie reoollection of a thoustiiid plnMsiiiit sct'iios, odd tid\ eiitures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn, was impossible; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and wjis 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 which lay at a few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, *'and I can assure you of a hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must ijonfess the ])rep!iration I had seen for univer- sal festivity and social enjoyment, had made me feel a lit- tle impatient of my Joneliiu'ss. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments [ was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. CHRISTMAS EVE. II Saint Francis and Saint Benedight Blesse this house from wicked wight ; From the niglit-mare and the goblin, That is hight good fellow Robin ; Keep it from all evil spirits, Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets : From curfew-titne To the next prime.— Cartwright, It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground: the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows where he is going," said my companion, laughing, " and is eager to ar- rive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants' hall. My father, you must know, is a big- oted devotee of the old school, jind prides himself upor* keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity — the old English country gentle- man; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are CHIUSnfAS EVE. 105 'i ^ almost polished iiway. My father, however, from early years, took honest Peaehaiii ^ for h'la text-book, instead of Chesteriield ; he determined in his own mimi, that tiiere was no eondition more truly honorable and enviable than that of a eountry gentleman on his paternal hinds, and, therefore, passes the wiiole of his time on his estate. \\v, is a strenuous advo(.'ate for tlie revival (d' the old rural games and holiday ol)servan(a's, and is (k-eply read in the writers, aneient and mocU^'n, who have treated on the sub- ject. Indeed, his favorite range of rejuiin,!;* is among the authors who llourislied at least two centuries siiu-e; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true KnglishimMi than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, wiien Englaiul was itself, and had its })ecu]iar nuinners aiul cus- toms. As he lives at some distau(!e from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englislnnan, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. Joeing represen- tative of the oldest family in the neig]iborhood,and a gre;it part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and in general, is known simply by the ap])ellation of 'The 'Squire;' a title wiiich has been ac{M)rded to the head of the family since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to l)repare you for any little eccentricities that might other- wise appear absurd." We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stoi)ped at the gate. It was in a heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square col- nmns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge, shel- tered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the still frosty air, niid was answered by the dis- tant barking of dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a * Peachani's Complete Gt'iiUeman, Hi22. } :. 1 •A V^ 'I ■4 ' 1 f-' I I GO THK SKKTCHBOOK. Tull view of ii little i»rirnitiv(' (Imiiu', dn'ssod vory niiicli in Hiitifiuc tjiste, wth ii nciit kcrcliicr iuid sf^miuchor, iiiid licr silver litiir poe[)iii^' fnnri under a e.tp of suowv whiU'iicHS. Slio ciiiiic coiirtcHying foith with iiiiiiiy expressions of sim- ple joy sit seein^^ her younjjf master. Her hushiind, it seemed, was up at the house, keepiii<;' Christmas eve in the servants' iuill; they eould not do without liim, as he was tile hest liand at a song and story in tlie houseludd. My friend })r(»pose(l that we should alight, and walk tlirougli the })ark to the J I. ill, wiiicli was at no great dis- tance, while the ehaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, amongthe naked hraiudies of which the moon glittered a^ slu; rolled Ih-rougli the deep vault of a cloudh^ss sky. The lawn heyoiul was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there s])arkled as the moonbeams caught u frosty crystal; jind at a distance might be seen u thin transjiarent vai)or, stealing w\) fi'om ihe low grounds, and threatening gradu- ully to shroud the landscape. My companion looked round him with transport: — " IIow often/' said he, "have I scam^ red uj) this avenue, on returning home on school va'^atiojis! How often have 1 played uncler these trees when a boy! J feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always scru- pulous in exacting our holidays, and having us ai'ound him on family festivals, lie used to direct and supeiinteiul our games with the sti'ictness that some parents do to the studies of their children, lie was very ]»articular that we should play the old English games according to their ori- ginal form; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every * merrie disport;' yet, I assure you, there never was pedantry so delightful. It w;is tlie policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the hapiiiest place in the world, and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a 2)arent could bestow." We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came bound- ing open-mouthed across the lawn. I CJIUTSTMAS in'K. itir •' Thr liftlf" (lf>jrs nnd nil. Tray. lUanrlie, niid Sw«'«>thrftrt, see, they hark at m«»l" (!rio(l Hnici'bridi^'e, lau^Hiinrr. At the sound of liis voico, the hjirk was chun<^'e(l into ji yelp of deli;j;ht, and in u mo- ment lie was surrounded and almost, overpowered by the ciiresses of the faitliful aiiimals. We had now eome in full view of the old family man- sion, partly thrown in di'op siuidow, jind piirtly lit up hy the eold moonshine. It was an irre;;nljir l)nildin,i(of some ma;;nitude, ;ind seemed t(» be of tlie iircliitecture of dilTcr- ent periods. One win gr was evidently very ancient, witli heavy stone-shafted bow windows juttin;]; out and overrun witii ivy, froni among the foliage of which the small dia- mond-shaped })anesof glass glit tercel with the moonbeams. The rest of the house wms in the French taste of ("liarles the Second's time, having been rep;iired and altered, jis my friend told me, by one of his ancestors, who returned with thill mo)uirch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of arti- ficial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, aiul heavy stone ballustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, F was told, was extremely careful to i)reserve tliis obsolete finery in all its original state. lie admired this fashion in gardening; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening ha-d sprung uj) with modern republican notions, but did not suit a mon- archical government — it smacked of the levelling system. [ could not help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed sonu> a[)prehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was al- most the only instnnce in which he had ever he;ird his father meddle with })olitics; and he believed he had got this notion from m member of Parliament, who once passed a few weeks with him. The 'Squire was glad of ;niy argu- ment to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. As w.e approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one m t ! ^< 108 77//i' SKKT( 11 HOOK, lii< end of the })iill(liiii;. This, Hrji('('}>ri(l^'('SJii(l,Tmisf ]irorrpfI from tlio servHiits' Iwiil, wlicro ii j^rciit dcjil of revelry wmh jx'rinitted, uiid even (UU'ourii^^t'd, by the 'Sr|iiir(', tliroii;;!!- out tliti iwelvo duys of ChriHtinas, provided evi>rylinii.u wasdone conforiiiahly to jinoiont iiHiige. Here weri' kepi u]) the old *T^Hnies of lioodnian blind, shoe the wild mare, hot eofkles, sieal the white h)af, l)ob-ai)pk>, and sua))- dragfon; tlie Vule (Ho;?, and ChriHtmas (randle, were re<,ni- larly burnt, and tlie mistletoe, with its white 1)erries, hun^' up, to tlie imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.' So intent were the servants upon their s})orts, that we liad to ring repeatedly before wo could make ourselves lusird. On our arrival being announced, the ^Squire came out to receive us, accom])anied by his two other sons; one, ji young ollieer in the army, home on leave of absence; the other Jin Oxonian, just from the university. The 'Squint was a fine healthy-looking old gentlenum, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance; in which ii physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular mix- ture of whim and benevolence. The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the (>vening was far advanced, the ^Squire would not i)ermit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large old-fash- ioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occu])ied; some at a round game of cards; others conversing round the fireplace; at one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tjittered dolls about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, havijig frolicked through a happy day, had been car- ried off to shimber through a peaceful night. ' The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens, at Christmas ; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. pi I; rnius'nrAs kvk. ]C^^ While tho mutual <;n'ntiji had eviflciitly cudcuv- oimmI to restoro it to soiMcthiiijL!; of its {trifiiitivc stato. Ovor the heavy )>rojt'('tiiivt\ lairl in thf fircphice. and lighted with thehr;,- d o'' la - y< tr'scloj?. While it lasttid, there was great drink- ing, singing, and uilii.p: < t t;i'. :„ Sometimes it was aeeomnanied hy Christmas candles ; hv in tV'> < ott-aR-^w e only light was from theniddv hlaze'of the great wood fire. T':" . ti'c < 'mf »;• tO burn all night ; if it went out, it was considered a sign of ill!; =. Herriclc mentions it ai one of his songs : Come bring with a noise, 31y meriie, merrio boys. The Christmas Log to the firing ; While my good dame she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your hearts desiring. The yule clog Lisi a\\\y to lij^dit the iie.vt year'.s Christmas fire. i 170 THE S!KFT( H BOOK. m\ the very dog that Iny stretclied at his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, Avould look fondly up in his master's face, wa^ his tail against the lloor, and stretch himself again to sleej), confident of kindness and protec- tion. Thcn'o is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and put.;, the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before 1 found myself as much at home as if I had been one of tlie fiimily. 8upj)er was announced shortly after our arrival. Tt was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several familv ])ortraits deconited with holly and ivy. Ik^sides the accus- tomed lights, two great wax tapers, culled Christmas caij- dles, wrenthed with greens, were jdaced on a highly pol- ished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abuTuhmtly sj)read with substiintial fare; but the 'Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish ma(le of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. J was ha])py to fiiul my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast; and find- ing him to be perfectly orthodox, aiul that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the wai'mth wherewith we usually greet an old and very gen- teel accpuiintance. The mirth of the com])any Avas greatly i)romoted by the humors of an eccentric ])ersonage, whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the (juaiut a})pelIation of Master JSinion. lie was a tight brisk little man, with the air «>f :in arrant old bachelor. Mis nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot, his face slightly pitted with the small-i^ox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. He had an eye of great ({uicknoss and vivac- ity, with a drollery and lui'king waggery ol expression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies, and making iniinite merriment by harpings upon old themes; which, unfortuiuitely, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight, during supper, to keep a young girl next to him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, ^ :.l CHRrST.VAS EVE. 171 in spite of lior awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who Silt opposite. Indeed, lie wus tlie idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at everything lie said or did, and at every turn of his eounteniiiiee. I could not wonder at it; for he must have been a miracle of nceoni- plishments in their eyes. lie could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an old woman of his himd, with the jissistanoe of a burnt cork and ])ocket handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. I was let briefly into his history hy Vrank liracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful management, was sutlicient for all his wants. He revolved through the familv svstcm like a va- grant comet in its orbit; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another rpiite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connections and small for- tunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant dispositioi>, always enjoying the present moment; and his fre(|uent change of scene and company prevented his ac(]uiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old ])ji Ji- elors are so uncharitaldy charged. He was a c<)m])let(! family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of tlie v\']iole house of Uracebridgc, -svliicli made him a great favorite with ilie old folks; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and su]>erannuated s})in- stcrs, among whom he was habitually considered ratlier a, young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the cliildren; so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved, than Mr. Simon I>racebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he had become ;i factotum, and whom be particularly delighted by jumping witli his humor in re- spect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old soiiij to suit every occasion. AVe had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent; for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the sea- son introduced, than Master Simon was called on l^or a good old Cliristmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, exce[)ting that it ran occasion- ally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quav- ered forth a quaint old ditty : *>•', ¥• I 1.* '^r t-', %A ill? M 172 i II m ill; THJi: kSKETCH-BOUK. NoH' Christmas is come, Le^ us beat up the drum. And c'lll all our neigiibors together; And when they appeal-, I,et us make such a cheer, As w ill keep out the wind and the weather, etc. The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an okl harper was summoned from the servants' hall, wliere Ihe had been strumming all the evening, and to all appear- ance comforting himself with some of the \Squire's home- brewed, lie was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the vil- lage, was oftener to be found in the ^Squire's kitchen than his own home; the old gentleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in hall. " The dance, like most dances after supjier, was a merry T)ne; some of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire himself figured down several couple with a partner with whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to I)© a kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted liimself with a- little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober at- tempts at elegance: — such are the ill-sorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone! The young (jxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts, on "vvhom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with impunity; he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins; yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward of the 'Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, T suspected there was a little kindness growing up between them; and, indeed, tlie young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic gir). He wiis tall, slender, jind hand- some; and. like most young British officers of late years, had picked up various small accomplishments on the Con- CHRIST3IAS EVE. in tinent — he could talk Fronchaiid Itiilijiii— (lrawLm('-;f';i])es — sing very tolerably — dance divinely: hut, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo: — what uiil of scvi^nrccn, well read in poetry and roniancf. coukl i-( sist such a niii-- ror of chivalry and perfection ? The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and lolling against the old marble fu'eplane, in jin attitude which I am half inclined to susj)ect was studied, begun the little French air of the Troubadour. 'I'he 'Sf)uire, however, exclaimed against haviiig anytliing on (■hristnias eve but good old English; upon which tlie young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of mem- ory, struck into another strain, and with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's "Night-Piece to Julia:" Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, W'hose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o'-th'-Wisp mislight thee ; Nor snake or slow-w^rni bite thee ; But on, on thy vvi ', Not making a stay, Since ghost there is none to affright thee. Then let not th(^ dark thee cumber ; What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light. Like tapers clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soul I'll pour into thee. The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any sucli application , for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor; her face was sufPused, 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 indif- ference, that she was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. r 174 THE kiKETCH-BOOk. TIjo pjirt y nov/ l)i'ok<' \\\) for tlie night, vvitli tlie kiud- lieiirled old from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. \ had scarcely sot into bed when a strain of music seemed to break fort-h in the air just Ijelow the window: I listoued, and found it ]»i'oceeded iVom a band, which I concluded to be the waits from some neighboring village. They went round the house, playing under the windows. I drew aside the cui'- tains, to hear them more distinctly. The moonbeams fell thi'ough the ui)})er part of the casement, partially lighting up the antifpiated apartment. The sounds, as they re- ceded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with ouiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — thev became niore and more tenoer and remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sank upon the pillow, and I fell aslee^j. CHRISTMAS DAY. Dark and dull niplit flie lieiion away, And {?ivp the honour to this day That se»^s neceniber turu'd to May. Why does theohillinf^ Avinter's niorne Smile like a tield beset with corny Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus tm a sudden v come and see The cause, why things thus fragant be.— Herrick. When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, nnd I CUUTSiTMAS DA Y. 1T5 nothing but the identity of tlie niieient chamber eonvinced me of tlieir reality. While I lay musing on my pillow. I lieard thesonnd of little feet pattering onhMe of tlie door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small voi(?es chanted f'^rtli an old Cliristmas carol, the burden of which was — Rejoice, our Saviour he was born On Christmas day in the morning. I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door sud- denly, and beheld one of tiie most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a Ijoy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as serajjlis. They were going the rounds of the house, sing- ing at every chamber door, but my sudden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment })hiying on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from nnder their eye- brows, until, as if by one im[)ulse, they S('ampere(l away, and as they turned an angle of the gaUery, 1 heard them laughing in triumpli at tlu'ir est^a})e. KvcnTtliing conspii-ed to ])roduce kind and happy feel- ings, in this stronghold of old-fashiontMl li(>s[)itality. ^Plu^ window of my chamber looked out upon wiiat in sumnu-r would have been a beautiful lamlscape. There was a slop- ing lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumj)s of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smok(> 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'surroumled with evergreens, accord- ing to the English custom, which would have given ahnost all appearance of summer; but the morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning suu- had a da/zling effect among the glittering foliage. A robin jjcrched upon tlu' to]) 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; ami a peacock was dis- playing all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terra(;e- walk \ ' irc 'HIE ISKETCn-JiOOK. 1 1 f I* f I I licid scarcL'ly dressed Tiiyself, when a servant appeared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the hous where I found the principal part of the family already ; -cmbled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer-books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses; and I must do him the justice to say, that he actjuitted himself with great gravity and decorum. The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which ]Vrr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite author Herrick; and it had been adapted to a church melody by Master Simon. As there were several good voices among the household, the effect was extremely ])leasing; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy 'Squire delivered one stanza; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune : " 'Tls thou that crown'st my {^littering hearth With guiltless mirth, Aud giv'st me Wassaile bowles to drink Spic'd to the brink : Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping That soiles my land ; hand And glv"st me for my bushell sowne, Twii'e ten for one." I afterward understood that early morning service was road on every Sunday and s. int's day throughout the year, either l)y Mr. Bracebridge or some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it is much to be re- gretted that the custom is falling into neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those households, where the occasionai exer- (use of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. Our breakfast consisted of what the \Squire denominated true old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamen- tations over modL'x-n breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern effeminacy and f^^:m^^^ vnniSTMAf^ DAY. 17f wejik nerves, and tlie decline of old English heartiness: and though he admitted them to his tiihle to suit tlu^ pal- jites of his guests, yet there was a brave dis])lay of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard. After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank ]5racebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. 8imon, as he was called by everybody but the 'Squire. We were escorted by a nnmber of gentlemen like dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound — the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a snmll switch he carried in his hand. The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow sunshine than by ])ale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force of the ^Squire's idea, that the fornuil ter- races, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There jippeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what 1 termed a flock of them that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, Avho told me that according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a iniinfer of peacocks. '^ h\ the same way," added he, wich a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swal- lows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again as it was." I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- tion on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the pea- cocks were birds of some consequence at the Hall; for Frank l^racebridge informed me that they were great favorites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the I ' y t-i:;: ii ;:i KS THK t^KKTCH-liOok. l)r('t'(l, partly because lliey belonged to eliivalry, and were in great roqu(^st at the stately banquets oi the okien time; and })artly bectaui^e they had a pomp and mugnifieenee about them highly becoming an old family mansion, ^'oth- ing, he was acicustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity, than a peacock perched upon an anti([ue stone balustrade. Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some music of his selection. There was something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani- mal spirits of the little man; and 1 confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last cinmmstance to Frank J^racebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole stock of erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old authors, whistitiito of Mil orgjiii, he liiis foniu'd ii IkiikI from t ho villn^c jima- ti'urs, and ('stjilt]islK(l a musical cliil) f<»i" their iii4'' tvc- mt'iit; lit! has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my fa^'ier's i)ack of hound ., uceordin^^ to the directions of Jervaiso Jarkham, in Ids Country Contentments; for the bass he has sought out all the 'deep, s(demn mouths,' and for the tenor the Moud ringing mouth,' among the country hump- kins; and for 'sweet moutiis,' he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighhorhood ; though these last, he alhrms, are the most ditlicult to keep in tune; your pretty female singer being exceedingly way- ward and cai)ricious, and very liable to uecident.'" As the morning, though frosty, was remarkaldv fine Jind clear, the most of the; family walked to the church, which was ;; very old building of gray stone, and st(jod near a village, about half a mile from the })ark gate. Adjoin- ing it was a Ioav snug i)arsonage, whi(di seemed co(^val with the church. The front of it was iierfeetly 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 anti(|ue lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and i)receded us. I had expected to see a sleek well-comlitioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson Avas p, little, meagre, l)la(d\-looking num, witii a grizzled wig tiiat was too wide, and stood off from each e.'ir; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert in its shell, lie wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and 2)ockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enor- mous bu(!kles. I was informed ])y Frank Bracebrldge that th(f parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had re- ceived this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. lie was a comi)lete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed iji the Roman character. The editions of Caxtiui and Wynkin de Worde wore his . . I ISO THE SKETCH. HOOK. (l('li<;lil.; iiiid he \v:is iii(l«'riil iijfiiblc in Ins rcscjirclies jii'trr sjic.li old l*]i\L(li.sl; w liter,' jis liiivc i'ulli'ii into o]>livioii from tlioir worthlc'ssiit'ss. hi (h't'creiici', |)t'rliiii)S, to the notions of Mr. Jinic{'l)ri(l<;(', lie iiiid niiulc diligent investigiitions into the festive riles and lioly(hiy eustonis of former times; and liiid heon us /e)ih)iis in the inquiry, iis if lie liiid been ji boon eoiiipanion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with wliicii men of adust temperament follow up liny track of study, merely ])eejiuse it is denominated learn- ' ing; indilTereiit to its intrinsic nature, whether it bo the illustration of the »visdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of anti(juity. Jle had i)ored over these old volumes so in- tensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into bis countetijince; which, if the facc^ be indeed an index of the mind, might be com{)ared to a title-page of black-letter. On n^aching the chun'h-porch, we found the parson re- buking the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens Avith which the church was decorated. Jt was, he observed, an unholy j)lant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies; and though it might be innocently employed in the festive or- namenting ol halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally nntit for sacred .purposes. 80 tenacious was he on this point, that the p(jor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would cons(mt to enter upon the service of the day. The interior of the church was venerable, but simple; on the walls were several mural monuments of the Brace- bridges, and just 1)eside the altar, was a tomb of ancient woi'knumship, on which lay the etilgy of a warrior in armor, with his legs (crossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had signalized him- self in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture hung over the iirophice in the hall. During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, and rei)eated tlio responses very aiulibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by a gentle- man of the old school, and a man of old family connec- tions. J observed, too, that he turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish, possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched one of CHRISTMAS DA Y. 181 liifi fingors, iiTid whioli \v,n\ lli<^ look of a fjiniily wWc. I^iifc ho wjiH ('vi(I(Mitly most noliritoiis jibont the musicjil pari (»f the Horvico, k(H'j>i!ig liis eyi' lixctl intently on tln'choir, and boating time with niiidi gl^sti(•nlal ion imd . 'nphasis. The orclu'stra was in a, small gallery, aj;d }ir('sonl('(l a most whimsical grouping of liciids, piled one ;i1k»vo tlm other, among wliich J [tarlicularly noticed thai of the vil- bigo tailor, a [)ale fellow with a retreating I'rrehead and (diin, who played on the elnrionet, and seemed to have blown his faee to a point: and there was anotlier, a short pursy nnin, stooping and laboring at a i>ass viol, so as to show nothing but the top of a round hiM head, like th(5 egg of nn ostri(di. There were two or thrin^ pn-tty fii«*eH among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint: but the gentlenuMi choristers had evidently been cliosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks; ami as sevenil h.nl to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd ])hysiognomies, m)t unlike those groM})s of cherubs we sometitnes see on count it tombstones. The usuid services of the elutii* were maii;ige(l tolerably well, the vo(%il ));irts generally kigging a, little behind tlu^ instrumental, ami some loitering liddlei* now and then nuiking up for lost time by travelling over a i)iissage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter, to be in at the death. Hut the great tiial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Mas- ter Simon, and on wdiich he had founded great expecta- tion. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset — the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and ii'regularly, until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a sigiuil for parting com- pany: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could; excepting one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; "who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wra])pe(l up in his own melody, kept on a (puivering course, wrig- gling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a Uusal solo of at least three bars' duration. The piwson gi'SSG us a most erudite sermon on the rites hk ■;v> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET {MT-3) / ^ % 1.0 I.I 1^118 1^ 2.2 ^1^ i lb L25 i 1.4 m 1.6 6" — Photographic '^dences Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 87;>-4S03 o '! tr • •I 183 77/ Zi' tiKETi li Ii(K)IC. and oorpmoiiios of C'liristinas. and tlio propriety of observ- ing it, not incircly its u diiy of tlianksijiving, ])nt of rejoic- ing; sn})porting the ('orrcc^.ness of his opinions by the earliest nsjiges of the churcii, and enforcing tlieni by the antliorities of 'IMieoi)liilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chry- sostoni, St. Augustine, and ji cloud more of saints and fathers, from Avliom he made copious (piotations. 1 was a littl(! at a loss to i>erceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed imdined to dispute; Imt I soon found tliat tlic g(»od man liad a legion of ideal adversaries to contend witii; having, in the course of his researches on the sul)je(;t of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian con- troversies of tlie Revolution, when tlu^ Puritans made such a fierce assault u})on the ceremonies of thechurcli ami poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of I'arliamentJ 'I'he worthy parson lived but with limes j>ast, and knew but little of tlu^ ])resent. Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his anticjuated little study, the i)ages of old times were to liim as the gazettes of tlie day; while the era of the Kev- olution was mere nn>dern historv. lie for<;ot that nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery ])ersecution of poor min(H'-pie thi'oughout the land; wlien plum porridge was (ienouiu*e(l as " mere ])opery," and roast })eef as anti- Christian; ami that Christmas had been brought in again triumi)hantlv with the nu'rrv court of Kinjr Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his contest, and the host iianinarv foes Avith whom he had tocombat; he had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging his Jiearers, in tlu^ most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, ' From the " Flyliipr Kaplc. "" a small fta/.etto, publisliod December 24tli. Ifi52 — "The Uouse spent iiiii<'h tiint' this day about the business of the Navy, for seltlinj; the affairs at sea. and befoie tiiey rose, were presented with a terr'ble remonstrance apiinst Christ mas : in which Christmnsis<'a!led Antichrist's mas.se. and those Mas.sfnionu't'rs and i'apists wiio observe it. etc. In con.seipie'ice of wliich I'ar- lianu'iit spent some time in consnllatiin about the abolition of Christnuis day. j>a,sse(l orders to that etTect. and lesolvcd to sit on the fuUowii;^ day which was commonly called Christmas day. ■" CHUmTyrA^ VAY. 183 V if and feast and make merry on this joyful nnnivenary of the clunvh. I hiivesi'ldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate efTeets; for on leavinf]f the chnreh, the congrepition seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined hy their j)astor. 'JMie elder folks gathered in knots in the ehurehyard, greeting and shaking hands; and the ehildren ran ahout crying, "Ulel Ulel" and repeating some uncouth rhymes,' which tin* parson, who had joined us, informed me haut his doctrine in j)ractice, and a few years hefore he had kept o})en house during tlie holydays in tiie old style. Tiie country people, however, did not understand how to play iheir parts in the s(u?ne of hospitality; many uncouth cir- cumstiinces occurred; the nuinor was overrun hv all tlu> vagrants of the country, and more heggars drawn int(» tlu^ neigh horhood in one week than tlie parish otlicers could get rid of in a year. Since then lie had contented himself with inviting the decent })art of the neighhoring peasantry to call at the Hall on Christmas day, and with distrihuting heef, und bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might, make merry in their own dwellings. We had not been long home, when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, with- out coats, their shirt sleeves fancifullv tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their haiuls, were seen advancing up the avenue, followed by u larger number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, ad- vancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keep- ing exact time to the music ; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations. The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great in- terest and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans held pos- session of the island; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. " It was now," he said, '* nearly extinct, bat he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and had encour- aged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough cudgel-play, and broken headsj in tho evening." r ' 4 i; isfi THE SKETCH-BOOK. After the daiioo was ooiu'luded, tlie whole party was en- tertained with hrawn and l)eef, and atoiit homo-brewed, ^rhe 'Smiire liiniself rningk'd among the rustics, and was received witli awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, iis tiiey were raising tlieir tankards to their moutlis, wlien tlie 'Squire's back was turned, making some- ■ thing of a grimace, and giving eacli other tlic wink; but the moment tliey cauglit my eye they pulled grave faces, ' and were exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, how- ever, tliey all seemed more at their ease. His varied occu- pations and amusements had made him well known throughout the neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farm-lious.'^ and cottage; gossi})ed with the farmers and their wives; rom])ed with their daughters; and, like that type of a vagrant ])ache]or the humble-bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of tlie country round. The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a snnill pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dei)endent more than oil and v»'ine. AVhen the 'S(juire had retired, the merri- ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village; for 1 observed all his (companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them. The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- ment: as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking through ' a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wan- dering musicians, with pandeiin pipes and tambourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport, the girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and coloring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. THE (JHRISTMAti DINNER. isr THE CHRISTMAS DINNEK. •ri- Ix). now is come our jovfiil'st f»>flst ! Ijet «*v«'ry man Jm* jolV' Each roiinie with yvi»> leaves is drest, And every i>ost witli holly. Now all Dili* nei;;hht)nrs'chiiiineyH smoke, And Christmas l)l, who at once determined it to be the armor of the family I sir .lohn SuckllE(c. <,'fc r^ I 188 THE SKhrrCH-IiOOK'. h'i :i hero; and ns ho was alisoliito autliorify on all snrli snb- jccfs in his own household, the nuittcr Iuk! passed into cur- rent aceeptalion. A sidehoani was set oul just under this d, until lu^ cuiicluded his reiiiurks in an under voice, to a fat-lieadt''d })(>st was allot ed to "ancient sirloin," as mine host ternu'd it; heing, as he added, "the standard of old Knglish hospitality, and a joint of goodly })resence, and full of expectation.' There wercf several dishes (|naintly decorate(l, and which haft'. '^)xford. I was favored hy tin* parson witli a cojty of the carol as now siiiij;. and as it may be acceptable to sncii of my reudei"s as are curious in tiiese grave and », rned matters, I give it entire ' The boar's head in liand bear 1, HedecliM wiili bays and rosenuiry ; And I i)ray you. my masters, be rnerry, Quot e.stis in convivio. Caput oi)ri , tliou*,^!! at hiimlth' dis- taiicf, Hu' (jiiaiut riistoms of aiititiuit y. I was plcasccl. how- ever, to AkM the respect sliown to his whims h\ liis chihircii and relatives; who, indeed, entered readily into tiie full spirit of them, and seemed all well vi-rsed in tiieir parts; liHvin<( donhtlcss Ix'Cin |>resent at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound ;;ravity with which the hutler and otlu^r servants executecl the duties assii,nied them, howi'ver eccentric. Thev had an old-fashioned look; havin<,% for the most part, heen hroujrht u[> in the honse- hold,and jp'own into Keepin<,Mvith the anti(|uate(l numsion, and the humors of its lord; and most ])rohahly looked u|ton all his whimsical re;ed tbeiiis«*lves to undfrtake any pfrilims enterprise, wiieiH'e came the ancient oath, used hy .Justice Shallow, "hy cock and pic." The i)eacock was also an imiMtrtant dish for the Christmas feast, and .Mas sinper, in his City Madam, jrives some idea of the extravagance with wiilch this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the jjorKcous revels of the olden times : Men may talk of C<)untry Christ masses. Their thirty pound hntter'd ejfj^s, their pies of carps' tonjnies ; Tlieir pheasants drenched with amher^riti : the vtiivases of titree fttt wethcra bi-uisfd for {jrarif to make sai(ce for stan tial farmers at (jliristmas. It is al.so called Lamb's Wuol, and it i.s celeuraied by Herrick iu ids Twelfth Night: Next crowne the bowle full With prentle Lamb's Wool, Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger, With store of ale too ; And thus ye must doc To make th» W«ssaile L tiwituj^r- II (r me THE shr/rt:il HfutK. M'Ih' oM /^('iillciiiiiirs whole comitciiimrc hcamiMl \\\[\\ a nciTiM' look of iii(l\vt'lliiig (l('li;,^lit, jis* lie slirriMl this mighty howl. Iliivin^^ riiised it to his lips, with h hearty wish of ii nuMTy Christ ruas to nil prost'iit, lio sent it brimming round tlie hoard, for every one to follow hiH examj)le uccording to the primitive style; pronouncing it ** the ancii'iit fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met to- gether." ' There was much hiughing and rallying, us the honest omhlem of (Miristnuis joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly hy the ladies. I?ut when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in hoth hands, an<>\v1<', Ah it K^ti's i-iiuii(l ahout u, Kill Still, Ii»*t (lif WKiiil siiy what ii will, AikI tiriiik your illl all out a. Tlif (l«'»'i» raiint', Tho merry (it'»»p cnmu'. As thou (lost fl-i'i'ly quufT-u, Kliii>; B** as iiicrry as a kitiR, And houikI a lusty laugh-a.''' iVfuch of the oonversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to whicli I Avas a stranger. HMiere was, how- ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay witlow, with whom he was accused of having a llirta- tion. This attack was (commenced by the hidies; but it was continued tliroughout the dinner by the fat-headed oh] gentleman next the parson, with the persevering as- siduity of a slow hound; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- rivalled for their lalonts in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation, he renewed his banter- ing in pretty much the same terms; winking hard at nic with both eyes, whenever ho gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of bcMug teased on the subject, as old bachelors arc apt to be; aiul betook occasion to inform me, in an under- tone, that the lady in question was a jirodigiously lino wonuin and drove her own curricle. ' "The (Mistoiu of (li-inkiiiK out of the same cup j;av«» plai'«> to eaoh havhi^ his cup. When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times. ir«».s.s' old liiill iiiiiv liav(> n'soiiinlcil in its iiiin' willi II :iMV a sctciic id' Mioadrr miit and n'VcI.yct I d(»ul(t \vii('tli(r it ever wit ih-ssimI iikut lioiu'st and L'l'nuiiic oil jovniciit. Mow casv it is for one iM-iu'Volt'pt Ix-i iir to ditTus(> |)l('asiii-i> around liiiii: and liow truly is a kind lirart a fountain (d* L,dadii('ss, makin;; rvcryt liiii^^ in its vicinity to freshen into smiles. Tiie joyous disiiositioM of the worthy 'Sijiiiif was perfectly e<>Mtao«l thiiiLTs were hroaidicd which had ueeii thoii<;ht of (lurin<; dinner, hut which would not exactly do for a lady's e;ir; and thoiiirh 1 caniud posit iyely alVirm that there was miudi wit uttered, yet I liaye cert.iinly heard many contests of rare wit ]>ro- duco much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mii^hty tart, l»unt^ent in^j^redient, and much too acid for some stoimudis; hut iionest »^ood-humor is the oil and wine (»f i\ merry meotiiiij, ami there is no joyial companionship e(pial to that, where the jokiss arc rather small and tlie laughter ahundant. The 'Sfjuiro told several long stories of early college j)raiiks and adventures, in sotiie of whieh the parson had heeii a sharer; though in looking 'it the latter, it required some etTort of imagination to ligur.^ such a little dark an- atomy of a man, into the perp" ^or of a madea]) gamhol. Indeed, the two college chums pesented pictures of what men may he made hy their diU'erent lots in life: the 'Squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal do- mains, in the vigorous enjoyment of ju'osoerity and sun- shine, and had flourished on to a hearty ami llorid old age; while the poor ])arson, on the eontrary, had dried and withered away, among (iusty tomes, in the silence and i-iiadows of his stud\ Still there seemed to he a spark of almost exti ^uished t^re, feehly glimmering in the hottoni of hi soul; md, a&> ti <• 'Scpiire hinted at a sly story of tho parson and a nretty milk-maid whom they once met on the ])anks of t le Isis, tin' ohl gentleman made an "al[)ha- het of faces," which, as ir as J eouhl decipher his l)hy- 13 . 'I } i HI4 THE SKETCH JiOoK. sii>>giioiny, I V(!rily Ix-lieve was iiulieutive of laughter: — iiulocd, 1 have nirely met with un ohl gentlenmii that took alisohite «»lTeiiee at tlie imputed gallantries of liis youth. I fouiui the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of soher judgment. The company grew merrier and louder, as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humor as a grasshopper filled with dew; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. lie even gave a long song about the wooing of a Avidow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work en- titled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love;" containing stores of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me; the first verse was to this effect: He that would woo a widow must not dally, He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; He must not stand with her, shall I, shall i, Kut boldly say, Widow, thou nnist be mine. This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose; but he always stuck in tiie middle, everybody recollecting the latter part ex- i-epting himself. Tlie parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most sus^Diciously on one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing-room, and I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Si- mon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they })layed at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holi- day season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing- room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the ofllice of that ancient potentate, the Lord of >U, iBafa^rfMijfc* I w» THE c/fRrSTMAS DINNER. 195 Misrule,' was blinded in the midst of tlit^ hull. The little beings were as busy about him :is the mock fairies about Falsttilf; pinehing him, i)lu('king at the skirts of his coat, and tickling liim with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her fiaxen hair all in beautiful confu- her frolic f sion, ner iroiic race in a glow, her froc^k half torn olf her shoulders, a complete picture of a romj), was the chief tor- mentor; and from the shvness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and o])liged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the com- pany seated round the fire, listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his i)articular accommodation. From this venerable pie(^e of furniture, with which his shiidowy figure and dark weazen face so admir.ibly accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of the po])ular su- l)erstitions and legends of the 'uirrounding country, with Avhich he had become acquainted in the course of his anti- c|uarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinctured with super- stition, as men are very apt to be, who live a recluse and studious life in a se(|uestered part of the country, and j)ore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the marvellous .•uid supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighl)oring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader, wiiich 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 village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of tlie chur(;h- yard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered: and one old woman whose cottage bordered on the church- yard, 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 wromj had been left unredressed 1 At Christnja&se there was in the Kindt's house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or inayster of inerie (hsportes, ami the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honour ; or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall.— Stow. 13 ' 4- « I' 1 I!! '! : !ll| I 1 - • 1' n ** 1!»C T/IJiJ .SKETt'Jf-lHHfK. by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, whieh kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch; and there was a story current of a sex- ton, in old times, who endeavored to break his way to the cottin at night; but just as he reached it, received a vio- lent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These talcs were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics; yet wlu^n night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone iu the footimth that led across the churchyiird. From these and other anecdotes that f(»llowed, the cru- sader ap])eared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories tiiroughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have something siiixM-natuval about it: for they remarked that, in what- ever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still lixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, at the lodge, who had been boi'u and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, affirmed, thut in her young days she had often heard say, that on Midsum- mer eve, when it was well known Jill kinds of ghosts, gob- lins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the cru- sader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of itself; not that he needed it — for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pass be- tween two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, wjis very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighboring gossips with infi- nite gravity, and held the porter's wife in high favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them; for a super- stitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. THE VHIU^TMA^ DINNER. lo: on self Wliile we were all {ittontioii to tlie pjirsoii's stories, onr ears vvere suddenly assailed by a burst of hetcrogiMu^ou^ sounds from the hall, in wliicii were mingled somctliing like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with tlie uproar of many small voices and Lnrlish laughter. The door suddeidv tlew open, and a tr.iin iMme tro()i)ing into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the (;ourt of Fairy. That inchd'atigable spirit. Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a (Christmas mumnuuT, or imisk- ing; and having called in to his as.>-istan(.'e the Oxonian and the young otlicer, who were equiilly ripe for anything that should occasion romping ami merriment, 'they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield u[) the relics of finery that kad not seen the light for several generations; the younger part of the company had been privately convened from parlor and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.^ Master Simon led the van as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had very ■ much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of the Cove- nanters. From under this, his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy of a December blast, lie was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame ^lince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young ofiicer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal greon, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident e3'e to the picturesque, natural to a young 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 train had been metn- • Maskings or inuniineries, were favoritH sports at Christinns, in old tiiii*-:; ; nnd the wardrobes at liallsaiKl miiuor-liouse.s wore often laid iiiiiU'rooiitrihuiidii to iiirnish dresses and fantastic disjruisinps. I stroiirly ^nsp-'ft Masti'r Simun to have taken the idea of his from B^n Jonson's I\Iiis(iuo of Christmas. mi «#> ottomed wigs to represent the characters of Roast JU^ef, Plum l*udding, and other worthies celebrated in ancient mask- ings. The whole was under the control of the "Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the pagciint. The irruption of this motley crew, with bent of drum, according to ancient custom, was the consumnuition of uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient Christ- mas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though gig- gling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, Avhich, from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. I )itferent centuries were figuring at cross-hands and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoous; and the days of Queen Bess, jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. The worthy 'Scpiire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish delight, lie stood chuckling and rub- bing his hands, aiul si^arcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the la!!/"" was dis("oursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance of the Pavon, or jieacock. from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.^ 1^'or my ])art I was in a continual excite- ment from tho varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitility breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youth- ful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from ' Sir .John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon. from pave, a peacock, says, " It is a gi'ave and majestic dnnce ; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed witli caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the p«^ers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, tlie motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock." —History of Music. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 100 the consideration that these fleeting cnatoms were postini:: fast into oblivion, and that this was, perliaps, the only family in Encrland in which the whole of them were still |>nnetilionsly observed. There was a qnaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time and place; and as the old Miinor- house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemci] echoing back the joviality of long-departed yciirs. But enough of Christmas and its gaml)ols: it is time for me to pause in this garrulity, ^[ethinks I hear the ques- tion 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 instruc- tion of the world ? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement ? — It is so niucii pleasanter to please tlian to instruct — to play the compan- ion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom tiiat I could throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions may be safe guides of the opinions of others? But ii writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disappointment. Tf, 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 T can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a be- nevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his fellow-beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain. [The following modicum of local history was lately put into my hands by an odd-looking old gentleman in a small brown wig and snuff-colored cont, with whom I became acquainted in the course of one of my tours of observa- tion through the centre of that great wilderness, the City. I confess that 1 was a little dubious at first, whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often ])assed off upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such unmerited I'eproach. On making proper inquiries, however, t have received the most satisfactory assurances of the author's probity; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually 200 THE ISKETCH-BOOK. engaged in ii full and parti(3ular account of the very intor- esting regions in which ho resides, of which the following may be considered merely as a foretaste.] LITTLE BRITAIN. !ll^^ , f H :^ij:v;- D . :i '^ 1 ^ j M I ■ 1 \n^ ■What I write ia most true . . . I have a whole hooko of cases lying hy me, whicii if £ shoulfl eette foorth, someprrave anntieiits (within the hearing of Bow bt'll) would beoutof charity with me.— Nashe. In the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighborhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church school and St. Bartholomew's hospital bound it on the Avest; Smithfield and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, diviv"'.es it from the eastern part of the city ; while the yawning gulf of Bull-and- Mouth- Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions of New-Gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen 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 ot the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels took pos- session of their deserted abodes. For some time, Little Britain became the great mart of leiirning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of booksellers: these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great strait of New-Gate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul's church-yard; where they continue to in- crease and multiply, even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline. Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendor. Tliere are Severn 1 houses, ready to tumble down, the fronts of wliioh are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings J hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts aiul fishes; and fruits and ^ LITTLE BRITAIN. 1>01 flowers, which it would porplex a naturiilist to olnssify Thore uro ulso, in Ahlcrs^jjate Street, certain remains of what were once s})aeioin5 and lordly family mansions, l)ut which have in latter days l)een suhdivided into several tenements. Here may often he found the family nf a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, hurrowini,' uinonii^ the relics of antiquated tinery, in It ist»vi(loiit that the author of tliis iiitoivstinyjconitimincationhasini-Iinu'tl iQ his ffeneral til le of Little Hritain, many of those httie huu'.s and courts that, belong inuiiediately to Cloth Fau% 202 THE SKErcn-muiK. ;ii> Nil Mi itself, I havp niiinagod to work my way into all the con- (.'crns and soorets of tlio ulacc. Fjittlo Britain may truly he calUMl the heart"s-rore of tho city; tho strong-hold of true .Joim Bullism. It is a frag- nKMit of fiondon as it was in its hotter davs, with its anti- (juati'd folibert Nixon and Mother Shipton In' heart. No man (^an make so much out of an eclii)se, or even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly fright- ened out of their wits. He has lately f^ot hold of a popii- hir legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloouent. There has been a saying current among the ancient Sibyls, who treasure up these things, that whvn the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook bands with the dragon on the top of Bow C'liurch 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 re})airs of the cu})ola of the Exchange, and the steeple of How Church; and, fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jowl, in the yard of his workshop). ''Others,'' as Mr. Skryme is jiccustomed to say, "nniy go star gazing, and look for conjum.'tions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at liome, and un- der our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calcu- lations of astrologers." Since these portentous weather- cocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king, notwithstand- ing that he had lived eighty-two years, had all at oucv, given up the ghost; another king bad mounted the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly — another, in France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester — the great plot in Cato Street; — and, above all, the queen had returned to England! All these sinister events are recounted by Mr, Skryme with a mysterious look, and a r « i*f* 'I it n I'll llil III ' !i : i 1. I 204 THE NKETCH-JiOOJi. disMiiil slmko of ilio hond; niid bt'iiij:!; takoii with hia dru^s, and usHociiiti'd in tlic minds of liis auditors witii stulTed 8oa-moiist(U-H, bottled st rpciits, and his own visa^^c, wliich is a titl('-j)a;;(' of tribulation, they liavc si)i't'a(l ^roat (^looni tlirou*;!! tiic minds of tliu people in Littk^ I^ritain. 'i'bey shake their heads whenever they <^'o by Jiow Church, and earings, as to the legality of prohihiting the latter on account of their durabilitv. 'I'he feuds occasioned hv these societies have happily died away of late; l)ut tlu^y were for a long time prevailing thenu's of controversy, the people of Little liri- tain being extrenndy solicitous of funeral honors, and of lying (iomfortahly in their graves. liesides these two funiwal societies, there is a third of quite a ditferent cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old-fashioned house, kept by a ,j(dly j)ublican of the nanu' of WagstatT, ami bearing for insignia a resplemlent halt'-moon, with a most sedu(!tive l)unch of grapes. The whole editit^e is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, Hanbury & Co.'s Entire," '* Wine, Rum, and Hrandy Vaults," "Old Tom, Hum, ami (Vunpounds, etc." This, indeed, has been a temple of Bacchus and ^[omus, from tiine immemorial. It has always been in the family of the WagstaiTs, so that its history is tolerably })reserved by the ])resent laiuUord. It was much lre(|uented by the gallants and cavaliers of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles tln^ Second's day. But what Wagstaff i)rinci}>ally prides himself upon, is, that Henry the Eighth, in ime of his nocturmil rambles, broke the head of one of his an(!estors with his famous walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly S(!Ssions bore, goes by the name of " the Hearing Lads of Little Britain." They abound in all catches, glees, and choice stories, that « - rr ?p 'Min TIIK SKhVri'lf JiiHtK. . 4 I'l .. «•'! iii'c t railitidiuil in (lie pliicr, mikI not to l>c met witli in any onr's Iw'urt good to lioar on a cliilHiiglit I In* nlioutrt of mcrrinu'Mt, tlu' siiatclics of soiij.% kikI now and then tlif clioral lnirsts of lijilf a dozi'ii discordant voices, wliicli issue from this jovial niunsion. At such times tho street is lincjl with listeners, who enjoy a delight equal t«> that of gazing into a eonfuetioner's window, or snuiVmg up the steams of a cook-shop. There are two annual evtMits which j)roduce great stir ;ind sensation in Fiittle Britain; these are St. liartholo- uiew's Fair, and the Lord Mayor's day. During the time of the Fair, whi of l»oon eompaniops, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in hand, fondling and pro/- iiig and singing maudlin songs over their li([Uor. Fven the sober decorum of private families, which 1 must say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighliors, is no proof against tliis Saturnalia. U'here is no sucii thing Keeping maid servants within doors. 'J'heir brains are as absolutely set madding witli Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the PMre-Kater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt ginger- hread, and fill the house with the ialliputian din of drums, trumpets, and penny whistles. Hut the Lord Mayor's day is the great anniversary. The Lord Mayor is looKed up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain, as the greatest potentate upon earth; his gilt coach with six horses, as the summit of human splendor; and his procession, with all the sheriffs and aldermen in Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and wiukti. Even as goode felU>we8 shoUle doe, They shall not niysse to have tlie blisse. Good ale doth hrinj? men to. And all poorsoules that have soowred bowlea, Or have them lustily trolde, God save the ly ves of them and their wiTea, Whether tliey be yonge or olde. Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, etc. a' .4 '^ li*' ,*»t 20S 77//:' shiynn-iiiHjK. liis train, as the graiulest of e:iiM>ly pageants. ITow tlioy exnlt in the id'-a, tliat tlio king himself dare not enter the eity witliout first kiiocking at tlie gate of "^reniple liar, and asking jx'rniis.sion of tlie Lord Mayor; for if l»e did, lieaven and earth! tliere is no knowing wliiit might be tlie eonse- tjuenee. 'i'he man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champio]i, has orders to cut down everybody that ofTends against the dignity of the city; and then there is tlu^ little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state coach and holds tlie city sword, as long as a jiike-sti'tf — Od's blood! if he once draws tliat sword Majesty itself is not safe! Tender tlie protection of this mighty ])otentate, there- fore, Jie good peoi)le of Little Jiritain sleep in peace. Temple liar is an effectual barrier against Jill internal foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train baiuls, and put the standing arniy of beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world! Thus wrapi)ed up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to this great fungus metropolis. I have pletised myself with considering it as a chose^T spot, where the principles of sturdy John Jiullism were garnered up, like seed-corn, to renew the national characrer, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. 1 have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony tliut prevailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but transient clou Is, and soon l)assed aw:iy. The neighbors met with good -will, parted with a shake of the luind, and never abused each other except behind their backs. f could give rare description of snug junketing jiarties at whicli 1 have been present; ."here we played at All- Fours, Pope-^Toan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games: and where we sometimes had a good old Eng- lisli country dance, to the tune of Sir itoger de Coverly. Once a year also the neighbors would gather together, and go on a gypsy pjirty to Epping Forest. It would have done any man's lieart good to see the merriment that took TATTLE JiHJTArN. 2on ])la('C hero, as we banquotod on the grass luid or tlio trees. JIow we intide tlie woods ring witli buL-ts of hiuglitor at tlie songs of little AVagstaft* and tlie merry undertaker! After dinner, too, the young folks would play at blindman's buff and hide-and-seek; and it was amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine romjuug girl now and then squejik from among the bushes. The el(h>r folks would gather round tlie cheesomongev and tlie apothecary, to hear them talk polities; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now ami 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, numaged, somehow or other, to decide in favor of both parties. All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and in- novation creep in; factions arise; and families now and then spring up, whose ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total sub- version, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. The family of the 1 jambs had long been among the most thriving and popular in the neighborhood : the Miss Lambs were the belles of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased Avhen old Lamb had made money enough to shut \\i> shoj), and put his njime on a brass plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since, '^rhey could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blind- man's-buff; they could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobodv had ever hoard of in Little Britain; and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and play- ing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been fr I hi:; ::»- :i 14 .f im-i \M^' 10 THE tiKhyrcH-liOOK. artick'd to jin .'itiorney, .set u]* for a dandy and a critic, (•hiira(!ters liitlierto unknown in tliese parts; and he con- founded the wortliy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean, the Opera, and the Edinburgh Keview. What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they had a great deal of genteel company from Theo- bald's lload, Ked-lion Square, and other parts toward the west. There were several beaux of their brotiier's ac- quaintance from GrayVInn Line and Hatton Garden; and not less than three Aldermen's ladies with their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Bri- tain 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 the neigh borhooil might be seen pop))ing their night-caps out at every win- dow, wat(!hing tlie crazy vehicles rumble by; and ^here was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher's, and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. This dance was the cause of almost open war, and the whole neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements with her quality acquaint- ance, would give little humdrum tea junketings to some of her old cronies, " quite," as she would say, " in a friendly way;" and it is equally true that her invitations were al- ways 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 thrum an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they would listen with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman Plunket's family of Portsokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched-Friars; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation every thing that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. The only one of the family that could not be made fash- ionable, was the retired butcher liimself. 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 TATTLE JVniTAIN. 211 like a alioe-brnsli, and a l>ro}Hl face mottled like Iiis own lu'of. It was in vain that tlu^ daiij^hters always spoke of iim as tl le o Id (Id gentleman, addressed nun as jijipa, m Ih ing a tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax iiini into a dressiiii^-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what they might, tlnsre was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy nature would bri^ak through all their glozings. lie had a hearty vulgar good -humor, that was irrepressible. ^Tis very jokes nuide his sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o'clock, and hav- " bit of saus'cige w^itli his tea." lie was doonuul, however, to share the unpopularity of Ids family, lie found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him; no longer laughing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about "qutdity binding." 1'his both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife ami daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstances, at length pre- vailed upon him to give up his afternoon pii)e and tankard at Wagstaff 's ; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his ])int 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 talk- ing and laughing so loud, that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patromige, and actually induced a French danc- ing-master to set up in the neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack uj) fiddle and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forget to pay for his lodgings. I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror of innovation; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so vociferous in expressing for upstart pride, French fashions, and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say, that 1 soon })erceived the infection had taken hold; and that my neighbors, after condemning, were be- I'. .' ( 'i % € i-i' (.»i Fr '' 1 ■ i PJ 212 THE i^KETCn-JiOOK. giTining to follow tlicir oxaniple. T overheard my landlady iniportuTniij>" lier iiusl)aii(l to lot their daughters have one quarter at French and niusie, and that they might take a few lessons in quadrille; 1 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 Bri- tain. I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away; that the Lambs might move out of the neigh- borhood; might die, or might run away with attorneys* apprentices; and that quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community. ]Uit uuluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oil-man died, and left a widow with a large jointure, and a family of buxom daughters. The young li'.dies had long been repining in secret at the parsi- mony of a prudent father, which kept down all their ele- gant aspirings. Their ambition being now no longer re- strained broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advan- tage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high acquaintances, but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand; and tnough they might not boast of as good company, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable factions, under the banners of these two fa- milies. The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle- me are entirely discarded; there is no such thing as get- ting 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 pro- nounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of Little Bri- tain; the Lambs standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St. Bartholo- mew's. Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dhidy e one ake a of a 3isely I Bri- *, 'h ually eigh- neys' again )ower atli a The parsi- r ele- ir re- kthe ,t the ivan- speak , and e not two , and ), the they )uble into ^o fa- ckle- get- iting las, I pro- also Bri- Keys holo- 3rnal i ^f ! 5 ll: SilAKSn: AKM'.S TOM I! tiTRA TFOHD ON- A \ ON. 'n'^ dissensions, like the great empire whose name it hears; and what will l)e tlie result would dazzle tlu' apothecary himself, with all his talent at prognostics, to determine; though J api)reheiul that it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Hullism. The immediate elTeets are extremely uni)leasaiit to me. Being a single man, and, as 1 ohserved before, rather an idle good-for-nothing personage, 1 have been considered the only gentleman by ])rol*ession in the ])lace. 1 stand therefore in high favor with both i)arties, and have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual backbit ings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all occasions, 1 have committed myself most horribly with both parti«'s, by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconciI<> tliis to my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehensions — if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation, and comi)are m)t(S, I am ruined ! I have determined, therefore, to l)eat a retreat in time, and am actuallv lookimi- out Tor some other nest in this great city, where old English manners ai'e still kept \\\)\ where French is neither eaten, drank, (hunted, nor spoken; and where there are no fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat, hasten away before 1 have an old house about my ears — bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode — and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters, to divide the distracted empire of Little Biutaik. I !^' ii !S' '.!■ STRATFORD-ON-AVON. A Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream Of things more tlian mortal sweet Sliakspeare would dream ; The fairies Vjy moonlight dance roimd his green be-(>,\'AViiN. i and ided the for cror- lost waa farcfully KcriiblxMl, sitvimI l'(ti- piirloi', kitclini, and hall. Hows «»t' jiewtcr and cartlicii dishes flittered alontj tlio drcssc'i'. On an (dd (cikcn taMc, wcdl nihbctl and [udislicd, lay the family Hible unvill jtrobably be buried together in the neighboring ehureli}ard. Ft is not often that we see two streams of existenee r inning thus evenly and tra.iu[uilly side l)y side; it is only in su(di (piiet "bosom 8(;enes '' of life tliat they are to bo met with. I had hoped to gather some traditionary anec(h)tes of the bard from these amdeiit elu'ojucders; but they had nothing new to impart. The hjng interval, during which Shakspeare's writings lay in eomparative neglect, has spread its shadow over history; and it is his good or evil lot, that scarcely anything remains to his biographers bnt a scanty hjindful of conjectures. The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters, on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the i)rime mover of the fete, who superintended the arrangements, ami who, according to the sexton, wa.f *" a short punch man, very lively aud bustling." John Ange had tissisted also in cut- ^"ing down Shakspeare's mulberry-tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign r[uick- ener of literary conception. I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shak- speare house. John Ange shook his head when 1 men- % r'yfiT *.n.s TlIK SKETi'll liooK. I'* ' I'l: ^ 1i tioiH'd luT valiiiiltlc niul iiH'.\li;iUHtil)le rollrrtion of rolics, piirliciilarly her remains of (he niiillicrrv trj'c; and the old sexton even expressed n (l(»n]>t as to Sliakspeare liavin^' been horn in her house. I soon discovered that he hM)ked upon lier mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the ])()et's tomb; the latter haviiif]^ eoni]»arativelv hut, few visitors. Thus it is that historians diiTcM* at the very outset, and nu're pehhles maki' the stream of truth diverge into ditTer- ent ehannels, even at th(» fountain-head. We approiielied the ehureh throu;jfh theav(»iiu(» of limes, and entered by a fJothie })oreli, liighly oriiamented with carved doors of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture iind embellisliments superior to those of most country churches. There an^ several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of wliich hang fuiu'ral escutcheons, and banners drop])ing piecemeal from the walls. The torn)) of Sliakspeare is in tln^ chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave be- fore the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps np a low peri)ctual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in then: some- thing extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds: Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare To dig file dust inelost-d liere. Blessed be lie that spares these stones. And curst be he that moves my bones. Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, ift a bust of Shakspeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely arched forehead; and I thought 1 could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among his contempo- raries as by the vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for the world: for what fruit might not have been expected from the golden autumn of sucli a mind, sheltered as it was from the stormy vicis- situdes of life, and flourishing in the sunsliinQ of popului: ^ud royal favor', t STliA TFitUlxjN A VON. 210 Tlio iiiHrription on tlic tomlistcuio has not Immmi without its j'lTt'ct. It has prcvcntcMl tin* rniioval of his n-maiiis f''nn tiio hosom of iiis nativo place to Wcsttiiinslcr Ahhcv, wiiich was at one timo coiitcmplattMl. A few years since also, as some lahorers were (li^^i,niiy ;i <2"i]t ball and AvcMflKTCock. 'J'ho Avon, wliii'h winds through the pai'k, niiikcs a bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, wliieh sweeps down Troni the rear of the house. Large herds of deer wore feeding or reposing upon its borders; and swans were iling inajestieally ui its b As I it( )lated S DOSOni. .AS the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falstatt's en- comium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the att'ected in- dilTerence and real vanity of the hitter: " Fdlsfaff'. 'S'ou have here a goodly dwelling and a rieh. ^' Sltctllo'iv. Barren, barren, banen ; begj^ars all, beggars all, Sir John:— marry, good air. ■" Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- sion in the days of Shakspeare, it liad now an air of still- ness and solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the court-yard was locked; there was no show of ser- vants bustling al)out the place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I pjissed, being no longer harried by the moss- troopers of Stratford. Tiie only sign of domestic? life that I met with was a white cat, stealing with wary hjok ; nd stealthy pace toward the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of i\, scoundrel crow which I saw^ suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous exer- cise of territorial power which was so strenuously mani- fested in the case of the bard. After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a lateral portal, which was the every-day en- trance to the mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the civility and com- municativeness of her order, showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the appearance it must ha-vo had in the dayy of Shakspeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty; and at one end is a gal- le^'y, in which stands an organ. The weapon and trophies of the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is 15 ^ ,-.'*ff , 1 1.' *!' ■ ■ • ■' '! ' ^r !: i: i---; !i • •»- f>2fj yV/ IC t^KinX 'H-BOOK. a wide liospitablo fireplace, calculated for an {imple old- fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying ])lace of winter festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the court-yard. Jlere are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to ob- serve in the quarterings the three while luces by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. *' Shallow. Sir Hiisli. peisiuule me not: I will make a Star-Chamber matter of it ; if lieweretwenty Sir John Falstaflfs, he shall m)t abuse Robert Shallow, Esq. ''Slender. In the oounty of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. ^'Shalloir. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalor m. * Slender. Ay. and rafalorum too, and a ^tntleman horn, master parson ; who WTites himself Arviiyero in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Arinigero. " Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time these three lumdred years. ^^ Slender. All Ids successors gone before him have done "t. and all his ancestors that come after him may: they may give the dozen tvhite luces in iheir coat. " Shallotv. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. "Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot : there is no fear of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. " Shallow. Ha ! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it ! " Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter Lely of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family estate, among which was that part of the park where Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus lost have 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 paintnig over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the lu'll ^TRATFORD-ON-A VON. in the latter part of Shakspeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son; the only like- ness extant of the former being im eftigy upon his toml) in the church of the neighboring 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-colored 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, and one of the chil- dren holds a bow; — ^all intimating tlie knight's skill in bunting, hawking, and archery — so indispensable to an ac- complished gentleman in those days.^ ] regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall liad disappeared; .or I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country 'Squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains; and in which it might be presumed the redoubtable Sir Thomas sat enthroned in awful state, when the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this very hall had boon the scene of the unlucky bard's examination on the morn- ing after his captivity in the lodge. I fancied to myself tlie rural potentate, surrounded by his body-guard of but- ler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men with their badges; while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn and chapfallen, in the custody of game-keepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. \ fancied bright faces of curious house-maids peep- » Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his tune, observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different faiTiilies of dogs, and SHrving-men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobihty, and is exceedingly ambitious to seem delight«d with the sport, and have his fist gloved with nis jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of n Mr. Hastings, remarks, "he kept all sorts of hoimds that run. buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger ; and had hawks of all kinds, both long and short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with mari'ow-bones, and full of hawk peirhes, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds, aud spaniels.'" OOQ 77//; SK ETC ff- HOOK. ,'\ ; '^!| lu^j; fi'oiii tliLUiiill'-upcMicd duoi's; wliile IVoin the gullery the fair (liiii_i,Hik'rs of tlio Kiiiglit leiiiicd gnicofully forward, cyt'iii*,^ tlie yoiithJ'iil prisoner with that pity " tluit dwells in womanhood." — Wlio would have thought that this poor varlet, tlius trembling before the brief authority of a 'Squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes; the theme of all tongues and ages; the dictator to the human mind; and was to confer im- mortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon! I was noAV invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 1 felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the Justice treated Sir John FalstafC and Cousin Silence " to a last ye:ir's pippin of his own graffing, with a dish of carraways;" but I had already spent so much of the day in my rambliiig, that I was obliged to give up any further investigations. When about to take my leave, I was grati- fied by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that 1 would take some refreshment — an instance of good old hospitality, which 1 grieve to say we castle-hunters sel- dom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys in- lerits from his ancestors; for Shaks2)eare, even in his cari- cature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing instaiu;es to Falstaff : " By eock and i\v<', Sir, you sluxU not go away to-night ... I will not excuse yon ; y(»ii shall not he excused ; excuses will not be admitted ; there is no excuse shall serve ; j'ou shall not be excjised . . . Some pigeons, Davy ; acouple of short-legged hens ; a joint of nuitton ; and any ijretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 'William Cook.'" I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among them. Everything brought them ] as it were before my eyes; and as the door of the dining-' I'oom opened, I almost expected to hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : " 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, And welcome merry Shrove-tide ! " On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give to things and place a charm and character not their own, and to turn this " working-day world " into a perfect fairy land. STRA TF()RD-OX-A VoN. the the to md nd. TTo is indeed the tnio eiu^hniitor, whose s|)e]l oporntts, not ii[)on the seiisi'S, l)ut iij)i)ii the iiiiiijU'iiKilioii aixl tlic lu'iirt. I'liderthc wizard inlliU'iicc of Shaivspcare J iiad been wulk- itig ill! day in a eoniplcic dcln.-^ion. J liad snrvcyed tlic laiidsea})e throngh tlie prism of poetry, M'hicli tin^ircd every o])je('t with tile lines (tl.' tJie rainl)()\v. J liad been snr- witli mere airv iiothiiiir f-'^y roniided witli i'aiu;ied beings conjnred up by poetic ])t)Wer; yet wliieb, to me, liad all tiieeliiirmof re.ility. 1 had heard da!« lii' ■* •!Mivi- ' TRAITS OF INDIAN C^HAKACTEK. "I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin huiiRry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naiced, and he clothed liiin not."— Speech of an Indian Chief. There is something in the character and habits of the North American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking and sub- lime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support priva- tions. There seems but little soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his chanicter from casual observation, we should find him linked to his fellow- man of civilized life by more of those oympathies and affec- tions than are usually ascribed to him. It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions, by mercenary and fre- quently wanton warfare; and their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist TRAim OF INDIAN CHARArTEH. 2.11 has often treated tliom like beasts of the forest; and tlie anthor has endeavored to justify him in liis ontrages. Tiie former found it easior to exterminate tlian to civilize — tiie hitter to vilify than to discriminate. The apellations ui savage and pagan were deemed sufVicnent to sanction the hostilities of hotli; and thus the poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. The rights of the savage have seldotn been properly ap})reciated or respected by the white man. In peace, he has too often been the dupe of artful traffic ; in war, lu^ has been regarded as a ferocious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and convenience. A[an is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is en- dangered, and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to be expected from him when he feels the sting of the reptile, and is conscious of the power to destroy. The same prejudices which were indulged thus early, exist in common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes; the American govern- ment, too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to in- (Hilcate a friendly and forbearing spirit toward 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 fron- tiers, and hang on the skirts of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being bene- fited by its civilization. That proud independence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed and dannted by the superior knoMdedge and power of their enlightened neigh- bors. Society has advanced upon them like one of those ' The American government has been indefati arable in Its exertions to meli- orate the situation of the Indians, and to introduce amon^ them the arts of civilization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from thorn as a present, without the express sanction of government. Those procautions are strictly enforced. !/,• ! : i! »"!•• M I 2nL> 77//'; KKi'rrcif ii(KU\. \ i n i . Ifl i{ ■ I''''''' ^' i ^,L, i - a 1 ; , 1 ^rl li' t "' \vitl»('riii,L( iiirs tlwit will soTnotiTnos brcntlio dosolatioii ovor ;i wliolc n'gioii ol" fertility. It has cTiorvatcd their srroiiglh. iniiltii»iitMl their diseasos, and siiperindneed upon tlieir original barbarity the low viees of artitieial life. It has giv(Mi theni a thousand su])or[luous wants, while it has diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the rhaso, who 11 v from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settlemc^nt, and seek refugee in the de])ths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do wo too often find the Indians on our frontiers to be tlu! mere wreeks and remnants of oiu.'e powerful tribes, Avho have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and sui>k into precarious and Viigabond existence. Poverty, repining aiul hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind un- known in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every free and noble quality of their natures. They be- come drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and pusillani- mous, '^rhey loiter like vagrants about the settlements, among sjtacious dwellings, replete with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the comparat > wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads ample board before their eyes; but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the fields; but they arc starving in the midst of its abundance; the whole wilder- ness has blossomed into a garden; but they feel as rep- tiles that infest it. How different was their state while yet the undisturbed lords of the soil! Their wants were few and the means of gratification within their reach. They saw every one around them sharing the same lot, enduring the same hard- ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but he was Avolcome to sit down by its fire and join the hunter in his repast. "For," says an old historian of New Eng- land, "their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as com- mon goods, and are therein so coni])assionate, that nither than one should starve through want, they would starve all; thus do they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the Indians, T/i.irrs nr /.v/>/.i.v f/iARAcTiai. .>•••> iro (T- n- while in llic prido luid ciKM'Lry '>!* their |iri?iiiii\t' iiMtiircs; t lify rL'.s(.Miil)h' liiooO wild jthmts which tiirivc ix'sl in t!u' .siiiidos of the t'oiTsi, Init slirinix fi-oni tlu' hiind of ciiltivu- tioii, and porisli benoatii tho inlliuMUH* of tiio sun. In dii^cussin;^^ tl)e siivii^e ciiiiractor, writers hiivi» l)iM'n too })rono to indul^'O in vui;^;ir itri'jndicc mid passionate ex n^qf^crat ion, instead of tiie enndifl tempered' true philuso- jdiy. 'I'lu'y liave not snllicicntly considei-eil tiie prcniiar circiinistanccs in wITudi tlie Indians iiase l)een piaceil, and the puoiiliar i)rineipl(\s nndcr whicdi tlH\v liavo l)een edu- cated. No beinj]^ acts more rigidly from rule tlian tlie Indian. ITis whole eonduct is r(\i;nlate(l aceoi'dini; to some general maxims eai'ly implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to he sure, hut few; hut then he conforms to them all; — the white man abounds in laws of religion, morals, and manners, hut how numy does ho vio- late! A frequent ground of nccnsation ag;iinst the Indians is their disregard of treaties, ;ind the trea(du'ry and wanton- ness with which, in time of apparent ])eaee, they will sud- denly fly to hostilities. The intere(jurse of the white nuin with tho Indians, however, is too apt to be cold, distrust- ful, oppressive, and insulting. They schhtm treat them with that conlidence and frankness whic'h are indispensa- ble to real friendship; nor is sutlicient caution observed not to offend against those feelings of pi'ide or supersti- tion, which often i)rom})t the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The solitaiT savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not di (fused over so wide a surface as those of the white man; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. J lis i)ridc, his alfec- tions, his superstitions, arc all directed toward fewer ob- jects; but the wounds indicted on them ai'c pro})ortionab]y severe, and furnish motives of liostility wliich we cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of the whole, and the sentiment of vengeance is almost in- stantaneously diffused. One council-fire is suthcicnt for the discussion and arrangement of a j)lan of hostilities. Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Ekxpience and superstition combine to inlinine the minds of the war- t\ •:f,!l i.*-' „. 'I'' 234 THE SKETCH-BOOK. riors. The orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious desperation, by tha visions of the prophet and the dreamer. An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, aris- ing from a motive peculiar to the Indian character, is ex- tant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachu- setts. The planters of Plymouth had defaced the monu- ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which tliey entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, when by chance tliey have been travelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accu- rate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited; and there have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been vio- lated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in ihe following beautifully simple and pathetic harangae; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting in- stance of lilial piety in a saviige: " When last the gloriou?:: light of all the sky was under- neath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ' ]5ehold, my son, whom I have cher- ished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou for- get to take revenge of those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our an- tiquities and honorable customs ? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my spirits that we"e fled, and determined to demand vonr counsel and assistrnce." TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 235 m my ished, to get i, and I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributod to caprice and perfiuy, may often arise from deep and generoiis motives, Avhich our inattention to In- diim character and customs prevents our properly appre- ciating. Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians, is their barbarity to tlie vanrjuished. This had its origin partly in policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations, weie never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this was particularly the ease when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; jind many an instance occurs in Indian history, where ?i tribe, th[it liad long been formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, by the capture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor, to be merciless; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide fc'V future security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief frequent among barbar- ous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends wlio had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of tlie Ci^ptives. The prisoners, how- ever, who 'iio noi thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with tlu> confidence and affection of relatives and friends; nay, so liospitable and tender is their entertainment, that wIhmi the alternative is offered tliem, they will often prefer to remain with their adopted bretliren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians toward their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was formerly a compliance with policy and super- stition, has been exas])erated into a gratification of venge- ance. They cannot but be sensible that' the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, tlie cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and tliey are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desolation, and the overwhelming ruin o*" Euro])ean war- fare. The whites have too frequently set them an example i • ii iir Iff ill •lii III I' ' Pr 2:56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. of violence, by burning their villages a'^id hiying waste their slender means of subsistence; and yc.. they wonder that savages do not show moderation and magnanimity toward those who have left them nothing but mere exist- ence and wretchedness. We stigmatize tlie Indians, also, as cowardly and treach- \ erous, Ijecause they use stratagem, in warfare, iii preference to open force; but in thisU^hey are fully justified by their rude code of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy: the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe: he triumphs in the superioiA3raft and sagacity by wJiich he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to suhtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness iii 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, ho at first continues the same sub>- tie 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 elfected bv strata<::em. That chivalrous courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and jiroduced by education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sen- timent over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It has been the theme <»t' spirit-stirring song and chivjilrous story. The ])oet and miiisfrel have deliglited to shed romid it the splen- ped, our fires are nearly extinguished — a lit- tle longer and the white man will cease to persecute us — - for we shall cease to exist." PHILIP OF POKANOKET. AN INDIAN MExMOIIl. m; <' As monumental bronze unchanged his look : A soul that pity tonch'd, but never shook ; Trained, from his tree-rock\l cradle to his bier, The fierce extremes of ^ood and ill to brook Impassive— fearing; bnt tlie shame of fear — A stoic of the woods— a man without a tear. — Campbell. It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of the discovery and settlement of America have not given us more p.irticular and candid accounts of the remarkable PUT LIP OF PnKANOrCET. 241 ule, or our 'ti lit- US-— •euted •liiiractors that llourisluMl in siivjige life. The scuity ;m- e(!(l()tes wliich havo vt.'ai'hcd us arc full of peculiarity nud interest; they furnish us with nearer nature, and show what man is in a com state, and what he owes to civilization. There is some- thing of the charm of discovery in lighting uj)on these wild glimpses of iiuman paratively primitive ana unexi)lored tracts of human nature; m witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment; and perceiv- ing Uiose generous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized life, where the hap2)iness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied ])art. The bold and joeculiar traits of luitive character are refined away, or softened down by tlie levelling influence of what is termed good breeding; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difticult to distinguish liis real from his artificial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of j)ol- ished life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independ- ent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dic- tates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and strik- ing. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, wdio would stud}'" Nature in its wildness and va- riety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness, tlio outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New England. It is pain- ful 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 ex- terminating 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 i6 I:; •ii ;":;i!3 ii\ 77/ /t' f^KmVII-liOOK. Niitiiro's sterling coiiiiigo, wcro broken down und trampled in tlie dust! Such WHS the fate of Philip of Pokanoket, xm Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massa- chusetts and Connecticut. lie was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems, who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, the Wampanoags, and the other Eastern tribes, at the time of the first settlement of New England: a band of native untaught heroes; who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.^ When tlie Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of tlu* New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last degree gloomy and disheart- ening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perish- ing away through sickness and hardships; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate; their minds were filled with dole- ful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expelling them from his territories into which they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended toward them the rights of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers; entered into a solemn league of peace and amity; sold them a portion of the soil, and prom- ised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies. ' Wliile correctlnfif the proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished u heroic poem ou the story of Philip of Pokanoket. PirirjP OF P()KAN(^KE1\ 24:1 Whatovpr niav bo said of Tiuliaii ix-i'Tidv, it is fortain that the intciifi'itv and yood J'aith of Massasoit liavc ncvor hccii impuacht'd. IIu coiilimKjd a linn and inanj^naninions friend of the wliite men; sntTering them to extend tlieir })osses- sions, and to strenttler, recommending mutual kindness and confidence; and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself, migiit be continued afterward with his ciiil- dren. The good old Sachem died in peace, aiul was hap- pily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remained behind to experience the in- gratitude of white men. Ilis eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and i)roudly tenacious of Lis hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy aiuI dictatorial coiuluct of the strangers excited his indig- iiation; and he beheld with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neighboi'ing tribes. He was doomed S(j(ni to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Xarragansets to rise against the English and drive them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this ao cusation was warranted by facts, or was grouiuled on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their j)ower, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treat- ment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their court. ;i;f!^; ft? ■.\*<^ !V.X i«l ." il^' ii; Hi. ■i •'t I ! 1 1< r P l-\ *^ ■"I''" •iii'.. '^ $.M4 77/ A' SKI'JTClI-JiOffK. Mo Wiis t»'iif'<''l to liis woodljiml linimts, iind siirpri'^cfl at. ii limit iii^' hoiiso, wlicH' he \v;is rcposinn' with a h.-nid of Ills followens, uiiMi'incd, ul'tcr tlic toils ol' the chjisc. Tlio Kiid- s' tho Indi.'tns ^ircssed to revenge ihe death of their comrade, and the al.'trm of war resounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark aiul nudancholy times, M'e meet with nuiny indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstrac- tion, and the wildness of their situation, among trackless forests ami savage tribes, had disi)osed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chiTueras of witchcraft and opectrology. Thev were much given also to a belief \\\ omens. The tnnibles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awi'ul warnings which fore- ru]i great and puldic c.ilamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared iu tin; ;ur at N(}W iMymouth, which was iook< d uj^on by the inhabitants as a "prodigious ap- parition."^ At Iladley, Northampton, and other towns in their neigliboi'hood, " was heard the report of a great piece of (H-dnanee, with the shaking of tho earth and a consider- rilll.IL> OF raKANoKlCT, iiblo oclio."' OthcTfi wcrr iiljirrncfl (»ii a still ■^imshiiiy moniiiiir. l\v tlio disoljur^^o ul' ;^Mnis atid muskets; hnlh'ts sociikmI to whistle piist them, and the n(»is(» of drums re- soiiudod in the ail', seemin()ut the time, tilled the superstitious in some towns with doleful f.*rel)odin>' the love for tho marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. Tlu^ univei'sal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the urave ret^ord made of them hy one of the learned men of (he dav, are stroiiHv characteristic of the times. The natui'c of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare hetween civilized men ami Ravages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted with superior skill and success; hut with a wastefulness of the hlood, and a disregard of the natural rights of their jintag- onists: on the part of the Indians it was waged with the desperatioi'i of men fearless of death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, hut humiliation, dei)endence, ami decay. The events of the war are transmitted to ns hy a worthy •lergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indig- nation on every hostile act of the Indians, however justi- llahle, while he mentions with a[iplause the most sanguin- ary atrocities of the whites. Philip is reriled as a murderer and a traitor; without considering that ho was a true-horn prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his suhjects to avenge the wrongs of his family; to retrieve the tottering power of his line; and to deliver his native land from the oppression of usnrping strangers. * The llev. Imu'east' Mathii's History. 1 ^ ll w 1 i. ;' 1 M ll' !»•■.. 248 J^Z/i? SKETCH-BOOK. Tlie project of a wide miuI simiiltaneous revolt, if such had reiilly been formed, was worthy of a cnpaeious mind, and, had it not been prematurely discovered, mif:ht liMve been overwhelming in its eoiise()uences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail; a nu're sucees- sjon of casual exploits and unconnected enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius nnd daring prowess of Phili]); and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations that ha'^o been given of it, wecnn nrrive at sim- [)ie facts, we find him dis])laying a vigorous mind; a fer- tility in expedients; a contempt of sulfeiingand liardshi[); and an unconquerable resolution, that command our sym- ])athy ami appl:iuse. Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw himself into the depths of those vast jind trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were idmost im- pervious to anything but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the s+orm accumulat- ing its stores of mischief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, ana would suddenly emerge at a time and place le: old incn, tln^ rornen and the (ihildren, perished in tlij llaiii ^v ICS. lis last ontrnge ovei-ctnue even the stoicism oL' the savage. The neijihboriiii!^ woods resonnded with the veils of rai,^e and desi)air, uttered by the fugitive warriors as they be- held tho destruction of their dwellings, and heard the ago- n izmg cries of tl leir wives ai id otl'spring. '* The I) )ris[)ring. i ue Durning of the wigwams,'' says a eontemponiry writer/* the shrieks and cries of the women and chihli'en, and the yelling oP the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and iitfecl iiig scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers." 'i'he same writer cautiouslv adds, '' thev wercr in iiinrli (hmht then, and afterward seriously inquired, whether 1)urning their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevolent principles of the gospel." ' The fate of the brave and generous Ciinonchet is worthy of particular mention : the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian juagnanimitv. Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he would fight it out to tlie 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 wan- der away to the ' lanks of the Connecticut; where he formed a rallying poini to the whole body of Western Indians, and laid waste several of the English settlements. Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous ex]!cdi- tion, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod coun- n-y, and were in the centre of the Narraganset, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket l^iver, when an alarm was given of an apiiroaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canoufhet (!es]iatched two of them to tile top of a neighboring hill, to l)ring intelligence of the foe. » MS. of th« Rt'v, W. RusKles. ^^ i!^ i ! iiH 252 THE ^SKETCH-BOOK. Pjinic-striick by the {ippejiraiice of u trooj) of English and Jii(li;ms rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless ter- ror ))a8t tlieir chieftain, without Kto])|iing to inform him of the danger. Canonehet sent anotiier scout, who did the same, lie then sent two more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the whole Hritisli army was at hand. Oanonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight, lie attemiited to escape round the hill, but was i)erceived and hotly i)ursued by the hostile Indians, and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close u})on 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 le]igth, 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 afterward confessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength.-' To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the wliole i)ride of his spirit arose within him; and from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, not bins 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 ]iot attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with iofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, re- plied, " You are a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother or your chief come — him wdll I answer." Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition of submitting w^ith his nation to the English, yet he rejected them w^tii disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects; saying, that he knew none of them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith to^vard the whites; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor the parings of a Wampanoag's nail; and his threat that he wonld burn the English alive in their houses, he disdaiu-ed Pin UP OF POKANOKET. lis ts: ing to justify liinisi'lf, liimglitily {mswci'in,i>' tliut oilier;^ woi'c as fonvfird for tlie vvtir us himself, *' iiiul he desirtHl to lieur no more thereof." So noble unci unshaken a spirit, so true u fidelity to his cuuse and his friend, might huve touched the feelings of the generous and the bruve; but Cuiionchet was un Indiuu; a being towurd whom war hud no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion — he was condemned to die. The last words of his thut ure recorded, ure worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of deuth was passed upon him, he observed, " thut he liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he hud spoken unything unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for ho was shot at Stoningham, by three young 8acliems of his own rank. rn Uhe defeat of the Nurrhaganset fortress, and the death ot Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Pihilip. He made an ineifectuul attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the Mohawks to take jirms; but though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened ene- mies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfortumite chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning .around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes; his uncle was shot down by his side; his sister was carried into cai:)tivity; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," says the historian, "being thus gradually curried on, liis misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby; being himself made acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family rela- tions, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before bis own life should be taken aw^iy." To fill u}) the measure of his misfortunes, his own fol- lowers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonorable safety. Through I '■¥'• 'I i,'.:- 254 TH K ^KinVH-JiOOK, \ I 'rs seemed to Wiing his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that 'Mie never rejoiced afterward, nor had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken — tlie ardor of enterprise was extinguished: he looked around, and all was danger and darkness; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unha])py Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fatiiers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among tlie scenes of former power and pros- ])erity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situa- tion, than that furnished by the homely pen o*' the chron- icler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the render in favor of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, '^like a savage wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to Pfl/JJP OF J'nKA?^(H{KT. «■> or) 1 1 keep liini fast till the inossoiigers of (le.ith caine by divino permission to execute veiigeaiiee upon liini." Even at this last refuge of desperation and des})air, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We pietiire him to ourselves seated among his care-worn foUowers, brooding in silence over his biasted fortunes, and aecpiir- ing a savage sublimity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-])]ace. Defeated, but not dismayed — crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a tierce satis- faction in draining the hist dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; ])ut great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awak- ened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. Th<^ brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge be- trayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to tlie swamp wdiere Philip lay crouclied, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their approach, they had i)egun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trus- tiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong at- tempt at escape, but was shot through the heart by »> reii- egado Indian of his own nation. Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King Philip; persecuted while living, shmdered and dis- honored Avhen dead. If, however, 'vve consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by his eneniies, we may perceive in theni traces of amiable and lofty character, suificient to awaken sympathy for his fate and res])e('t for his memory. We find, that amidst all tlie harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive t(; the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tender- ness, and to the geneious sentiment of friendship. Th(^ captivity of his "beloved wife and only son '^ is mentioned with exultation, jis causing him poignant misery : tlie death of any near friend is ti'iumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desohited his heart, and to have bereaved him of all farther comfort. He was a patriot, attached to {>r,(; Tin: ^KJCTi U BOOK. his iiativo soil — n prince Irnc lo liis subjcols, mid iiuligiiaiit of llu'ir wi'oiio's— a soldier, daring in battle, Drm in adver- sity, patient of j'atigue, of hunger, of every variety of bod- ily suffering, and ready to perish in the eause he had es- jjoused. I'routl of heart, and with an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps a,nd morasses, rather thun bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and desj)ised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroie qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized war- I'ior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark, foundering amid darkness and tempest — wi^liout a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. U '• " JOHN BULL. An old aonpf, made by nri np:<»d oM pjite. Of an old worshijfnl f>:eiitl('iutin who had a {jreat estate, That kept a bravt^ old house at a bountiful rate, And an old portiT to relievo the i)oor at his gate. With an old study filled full of learned old booVs, With an old reveVend chfiplain, von niif^cht know him by his looks, With an old buttery-hatch worn quite off the hooks, And an old kitchen that maintained half a dozen old cooks. Like an old courtier, etc.-07d Song, There is no species of hnmor in which the English more excel, than tha,t Avliich consists in caricaturing and giving Indicrous appellations or nicknames. In this way they ' ^'' have whimsically designated, not merely individnals, but ^,;£jiations; and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they ^have not s])ared even themselves. One would think that, >y^i^^ personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture ■ ^' ""^ something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is charac- ? > , ^ teristic of tlie peculiar humor of the English, and of their kj : i^'-'.'i-'lu ]oy(» foi- ^vhat is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have '^f 2 \ < 'i A- u embodied their national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waist- ^' '''■-!' coat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus ^% 4 they have taken a singuhir delight in exhibiting their «■ ■■/ ' JOHN BULL^ or.-? most private ftjiblosiu u huigliablc i>oint of view; and liave l»eon so siKJces.sful in their delineation, tlinl there is scarcely a being in jictual existence more al)sohitely present to the public mind, than that eccentric personage, John l]ull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them, has contributed to ilx it upon the na- tion; and thus to give reality to what at first nuiy have been painted in a great meiisure from the imngination. Men are apt to ac(piire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the beau 'nh'td wiiich they have formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Rull-ism an apology lor their prejudice or grossness; and this 1 have especially noticed among those truly homebred and genu- ine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond tins sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little un- (30uth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a mo- ment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign relinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knick-knacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay ex- travagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of munificence — for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of being the honestest fellow in existence. However little, therefore, the character may fiave suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to study English pecu- liarities, may gather much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing 17 Ir: II 'ft- H /■a 2i>H Tin: SKF/rcil H(tnh. ij"'"'''!!!!!' «»ut now portniils, and pn'scntiiig (lilTcreiii iispt^nts from (litTerciit points of view; jind, often as 1h» iiiis Ijccn dc scribed, I Oiuuiot resist tlie temptation to give a slight sketch of him, sueli us he lias met my eye. .rolin lUill, to all appearance, is a i)lain downright mat- ter-of-fact fellow, with much less poetry about him than rich i)rose. There is little of romances in liis nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy rather than morose; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes sentiment, und has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon com- ])anion, if you allow him to have his luimor, and to talk iibout himself; and he will stand by w friend in a cpuirrel, with life and })nrse, however soundly he may be cud- gelled. In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not mer( ly for bin) If and family, but for all the country round, and is mo.si generally disposed to be everybody's chami>ion. He is continually volunteeiing his services to settle his neighbor's affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence w itliout asking his advice; though he seldom engages in any friendly oiilce of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defencie, and having accom- plished himself in the use of his limbs and his wapons, and become a perfect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has bad a troublesome life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neiglibors.; but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his relations of pride and policy so com- pletely over the whole country, that no event (an take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is liko some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a mamm JOlf^ HULL. S'lO for 111] to hv hreozo blow, vvitliout Htartliii^^ his i-f'{)(>st», iind ciiiisinnr him to sally forth wrathfully from his den. Thou^di rciilly a good-hoiirtod, good-tempercil old fellow Jit hottoni, yet h»' is siiignhirly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is one of his })eeuliurities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an uifray; he always got's into a fight with alacrity, bnt comes out of it grumbling even when vietoriw^ntly I saw a, funeral train moving across the village green; it wound slowly along a lane; was lost, and reap- peared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. The p:ill was supported by young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a cluqdet of white flowers: a token that the deceased was a vounn' and un- t(:;l 268 THE HKETIJH-BOOK. married female. The corpse was followed by i e parents. They were a venerable couple, of the better orck/ of peas- antry. The father seemed to repress his feelings; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply-furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive I bursts of a mother's sorrow. ! I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in the centre aisle, Jind the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied. Everyone knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funend 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 sim^ile, but most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — "Earth to earth — ashes to ashes — dust to dust!'' the tears of the youthful companions of the de- ceased flowed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord: but the mother ouly 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 cliil- dren, and would not be comforted." On returning to tha inn, I learnt the whole story of tlie deceased. It was a simple one, and sucli as has often been told. She had been the beauty and i)i*ide of the village. Her father had once been an opulent farmer, but was re- duced in cir(!umstances. Tliis was an only child, and \ brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over her education with paternal care; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to rais(^ her above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grac(> and delicacy of character that accorded with the ft agile loveliness of her form. She ap- peared like some lender ])lant of Mie garden, blooming ac- cidentally amid the hardier naiiver, of the fields. THE PRIIH: OF THE \ U.LAuE. •.'«i> 'i Tlio superiority of he/ chtirnis was Mt aiul acknowl- edged by her eoinpanioiis, but without envy: lor il wjis surpassed by the uiiassuiiiiii*^ geiitkMiess and winning kindness of her nuinners. It niiglit be truly said of hei": "This is Iht! pn-Uiest 1 )\v-l)(»rii luss, that evi-i- Ran on tho ^jiveiiswftnJ : nothing she does or seems, But siniicUs of soniethinj' greater than lierstjlf ; Too nol)le tor tills jiluce.' The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retain some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its present pastor; who was a lover of o!J customs, and one of those sim[)le (Jhristiaus that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the cen- tre of the village gi'een; on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a (jueen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the })rizes and rewai'ds. The picturestpu' situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Amonu; these, on one Mav-dav, was a vounsr ofticer, whose regiment had been recently quartered in tiie neighborhood. He v/as charmed witlr the native taste that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveli- uess of the queen of May. It was the village favorite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make iter acquaintance; he gradually won his way to her inti- macy; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. IMiere was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never even talked of love; but there are modes of mak- ing it, more eloquent than laiiguage, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of tho eye, the tone of the voice, the thousand tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action — these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and understood, but never described. Can we wonder that ^70 'VHE .SKETCH-BOOK ? :, W i h n tlu'V sliould readily win u lieart, young, guiloloss, and sus- ceptiljle I' As to her, siie loved tilmost unconsciously; she seurcoly inquired what was the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or what were to be its conse(|uences. She, indeed, looked not to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied her whole at- ^'Jntion; when absent, she tliought but of what had passed at their recent interview. She would wander with him through the green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new beauties in luiture; he talked in the language of polite and cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry. Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the sexes, more pui-e than this innocent girl's. 1'he gal- lant iigurc of her youthful admirer, and the splendor of his military attire, might at lirst have charmed her eye; but it was not these that had captivated her heart. Ifer attachment had something in it of idolatry: she looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his sofiety the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and [M»etical, and now lirst awakened to a keen })erception of the beautiful and grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune, she thought nothing; it was the differ- ence of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, from those of the rustic society to which she hadbten accustomed, that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek would mantl(? with enthusiasm : or if ever she vcnturetl a shy glance of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. Her lover was e(|ually in.^iassioned; but his passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser nature, lie had begun the connection in levity; for lie had of ten heard his bi'other olticers boast of their village conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufiliciently cold and self- ish by a wanderi^ig and a dissipated life: it caught fire from the very Hame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the nature of his situatioii, he became really in love. 77/ /i' PRIDE (tF Tllli: l/l.LAUK. > t i WliJit was ho to do ? There were tlie old ohstacdes whi < I so incessiintly occur in tliese liocdloss attachments. J 'is rank in life — the nrejudices of titled connections — liis ie- )endenceiipon a )roiid and unyielding father — all forhade lim to think of matrimony: — l)ut when he looked (h)wn upon this innocent heing, so tender and confiding, there was a purity in her manners, ;i blamelessness in her life, and a bewitching modesty in her looks, that awed down every licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify hint- self, by a thousand heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of generous sentiment, with tlu't cool ilerisive levity with which he had heard tliem talk of fe- male virtue; whenever he came into her presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious, but im{)assive charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought can live. The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to re})air to the continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for a short time in a state of the most pain- ful irresolution; he hesitated to communicate the tidings, until the day for marchi!ig was at hand; when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening ramble. The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked upon it as a sudden and insurn)ountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a child. lie dre>v her to his bosom and kissed the tears from her soft cheek, nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of min- gled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty apparently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his power over her, and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm his better feelings — he ven- tured to propose that she should leave her h(>me, and be the companion of his fortunes. lie was (piite a novice in seduction, and blusluMJ mid faltered at his own baseness; but, so innocent of mind was his intended victim, that she was at first at a loss to com- prehend his meaning; — and why she should leave her na- tive village, and the humble roof of her parents. When at last the nature of his proposals flashed upon her pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep — .*ho I "^fWW 2T2 Tf/K Sh'K'/'rf/ imoA. ill • (lid not break I'ortli intu roproaclu'S — slie suid not ii word — but she slmmk back aghast us from a vijtcr, guvo liiin a look of anguisli tliat piorccMl to liis very soul, and clasping her hands in ugony, iled, as if for refuge, to her fatlier's cottage. The otliccr retired, confounded, humiliated, and re})ent- ant. It is uncertain what miglit have been the result of the conflict of his feelings, had not his thoughts been di- verted by the '/Ustle of departure. New scenes, new pleas- ures, and new ('om})anions, soon dissipated his self-re})roach, and stilled his tenderness. Yet, amid the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and even the din of battles, his thouglits would sometimes steal back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity — the wiiite cottage — the footpath along the silver brook ami up the hawthorn hedge, and the little village maid loitering ah)ng it, leaning o)i his arm and listening to him with eyes bt\aming witli unconscious atfection. The sho(!k which the poor girl had received, in the de- struction of all her ideal world, bad indeed been cruel. Kaintings and hysterics had at first shaken her tender frame and were succeeded by a settli'd and })ining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the march of the depart- ing troops. She bad seen her faithless lover borne olf, as if in trium])!!, amid the sound of drum and trumpet and the pomp of arms. She strained a last acbing gaze after him, as the morning sun glittered about his figure, and his ])lume waved in the breeze; be 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 ber after- storv. It was like other tales of love, melaiicholv. She avoided societv, 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 barbinl sorrow that rankled in ber soul. Some- times she w^ould be seen late of an evening sitting in the porch of a village church; and the milk-maids, returning from the fields, would now and tbon overhear lier, singing some plaintive ditty in the liawthorn walk. She became fervent in ber devotions at church: and as the old peop'.e saw her api)roach, so wasted away, yet with a hectic bloori, and that ballowed air which melancboly diffuses round the T7TE PUn>E OF TinC VUJ.AaE. 2T3 form, thov would in;iko wny lor her, as for soiiH'tliinmed to be no more plejisure under the sun. If ever her gentle bos(;m had eiiterrained resentment against iier iovt'r. it was extinguished. She was in(!a[)able of angry ])assions, and in a moment of saddened temlerness she peiined him a farewell letter. It was couched in thesim})le8t language, but touching from its very simplicity. She tohl fiim that she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his con- duct was the cause. She even depicted tiie sutTei'ings which she had experienced; but concUided with saying, that she could not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing. Hy degrees her strength declined, and she could no longer leave the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, ])ropped n\) in her chair, it was her enjoy- ment to sit all day and look out upon the landscai)e. Still she ntterod no complaint, nor imparted to any one the mala-ly that was preying on her heart. She never even mentioned her lover's name; but would lay her head on her mother's bosom and weep in silence. Jler poor par- e!its hung, in mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering tliemselves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright nnearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek, might be the promise of returning health. In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and the soft air that stole in, bronght with it the fragrance of the clustering honeysuckle, which her own hands had trained round the window. Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible; it spoke of the vanity of worldly things, and the joys of heaven; it seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was fixed on the distant village church — the bell had tolled for the evening service — the last villager was lagging in.to the porch — and every thing had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the i8 1 «1 IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) V. i/j {/. 1.0 I.I l^|2^ |2.5 |50 "^™ HHB IAS 1^ 12.2 2.0 1.8 \IM ill U i 1.6 m <^ / O 7 //a '1' Hiotographic SGier:3s Corporation 33 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y, M5S0 (716) S72-4S03 f\^ '^ ^^v \ :\ LV ;\ •sj,*- jI 6^ i M' li ««•!?* ,.; I 'Ic: i 1 »... • *"" "■ ,.; 274 THE ^Khyrflf nnoK. » ^ of rest. Her j)5ir(Mits wore ^'aziui,' on licr with yCiirn- \\\g hcjirls. SifkiK'ss and sorrow^ wiiich jmss so roiiglily oVLT sonic faces, liad <;ivcn to hers the expression of a sen pii's. A tear treinbU'd in lier soft bhie eye. Was slie tliinking of lier faitli'ess lover I or were Jier tlionghts wandering to that distant chureliyard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered ? Suddenly tlie ehmg of lioofs was heard — a liorseman galloped to the cottage — he dismounted ])efore the win- dow — the poor girl gave a faint exclamation, and sank back in her chair: it was her repentant lover! lie rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his bosom; but lier wasted form — her death-like couiitenance — so wan, yet so lovely in its desolation — smot(» him to the soul, and he threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too fjiint to rise — she attempteil to extend her trembling hand — her lips moved as if she spoke, but no word was articu- lated — she looked down upon him with a smile of un- utterable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever. Such are the i)articu].irs which 1 gathered of this village story. They are but scanty, and I am conscious have but little novelty to recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and high-seasoned narrative, they may ai)pear trite and insignificant, but they interested mi^ si rongly at the time; and, taken in connection with the atTecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more striking nature. I lu.ve passed through the place since, and visited the church again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the churchyard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been ])ianted about llie grave of tiie village fjivorite, and osiers were bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. The church- door was open, and I stei)ped in. There hung the chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : the flowers were witliered, it is true, but care seemed to have been taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sympathy of the si)ectator: but I have met with none that spoke more touchingly to my ;^! TlfE AN(U.ini 0*'.'', iH'jirt, tliuii this simple, hut (h'licatc iiionuMito to (l('(>iirtiMi innocence. \ THE ANfiLKU. This day drtiiu' Natun' sjhmiumI in love, The histy san heKUii to move. Fresh juice ditl stir tli' eiiiliraciti^ vines^ And birds hnd druwii their vaU'iitines. The jealous trout tluit low did lie, Rose at a wt-li dissembled Hy. There stood my friend, with patient skill, Attendiuj; of liis treuililiuK (juill.- Sir H. Wotton. It is said that many an iinhicky urcliin is induced to run away from his family, and hetake liimself to a seafar- ing life, from reading the history of Kohinson Crusoe; and 1 suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy gentlemen, who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle-rods in hand, may trace the origin of their passion to the sedutttive i)ages of honest Izaak Wal- ton. I recollect studyingjiis "Complete Angler" several years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and, moreover, that we were all completely hitten with the angling mania. It was early in the year; hut as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the si)ring hegan to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand, and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever I)t»n Quixote from reading hooks of chivalry. One of our party had equalled the Don in the fulness of his equipments; being attired cjip-a-pie for the enter- ]»rise. lie wore a broad-skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets; a pair of stout slioes, ami leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one side for fish; a patent rod; a landing net, and a score of other incon- veniences only to be found in the true angler's armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and wonderment among the country folk, wlio had never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goat-herds of tlie Sierra Morena. Our first essay wjis along a mountain brook, among the highknds of the Hudson — a most unfortunate place for the execution or tln)se piscatory tactics which had been I' rli 'I 1: 1* 77/ .T .S'A7;7'' 11 BOOK, ■ i ^■■'1 invented alonrning'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 attention was at- tracted to a group seated on thennirgin. On aj)proaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much, but very carefully |)atched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently main- tained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its furrows had been worn into a habitual smile; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humored air of a constitu- tional philosopher, who was disposed to taku the world ks it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll v/arrani could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neighborhood in the darkest night. The other was a mi, atvkward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and w])- ?mn : r hn. , I S <" 278 77/A' SKETCH-BOOK. parcntly somcwluit of ;i rustic beau. Tho old uian wms t)usit'(l exjuuiniug tlie nuiw of a trout wliicli \\v h id just killed, to discover by its contents wliat insects were sea- sonable for bait: and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who a])pearod to listen with infinite defer- ence. I have a kind feelin<^ toward all " brothers of the )injL,de,'' ever since I read J/aak Walton. They are men, heattiims, of a " mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit;" and my esteem for them has been iiuireased siiujc I met with an old '^T/etyse of tishing with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fra- tcrnity. "* Take goode hede," sayth this honest little tre- tyse, '* that in going about your disportes ye o})en no nuin's gates, but ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this foresaid cnifti disi>ort for no covetousness to the increas- ing and sparing of your nujney only, but principally for your sohi(!e and to cause the heltli (if your body and specyally of your soulc." * I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an exemi)lification of what I had read; and there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks, tliat quite drew me toward him. I could not but remark the gallant num- ner 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 little rapia; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in Avliich the large trout are apt to lurk. In the mean while, he was giving instructions to his two disciples; showing them the numner 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 thjit pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describ- ing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close ' From this same treatise, it would appear that, angling is a more industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. " For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in flshynge, ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge eflfectually your customable prayei"s shall eschew and als ca,use to induce man And thus doj;ln^, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleness, which is a priucipall to many other vices, as it is right well kuow«," ^f' THE A Mi I.Eli. 'i:\) by tlio briUitifiil viilo of Gossford. ami just wIkmv tlio in- ferior Wclsli liills Ix'^iii to swell 11 |t from .imoiij; ficsh- smi'llinir mciulows. 'JMie d.iy, too, like that recorded in liis work, wiis mild and sunshiny; with now and then ii soft dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with diiimond.s. I soon fell into conversation with the old an*,der, and was so much (Mitertained, that, under pretext of retjeivinic instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole day: wandering along ti»e hanks of tiu^ stream, and listening to his talk, lie was very communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore; for who does not like iiow an(l then t() play the sage ? He had been much of a rambler in his day; and had passed some years of his youth in America, })articularly in Savannah, where he had enteret into trade, and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. lie had afterward exj)erienced many uj)s and downs in life, until he got int(^ the navy, where his leg was carried away by a c^annon-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This vvjis tin? only stroke of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got liim a pension, wliich, together with some snnill paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived quietly and independently, and devoted the re- mainder of his life to the " noble art of angling." I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed to have imbibed all his sim])le frankness and prevalent good-humor. Thougli he had been sorely buf- feted about the world, he was satistied that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been as I'oughly used in different countries as a j)oor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of every luition with candor and kindness, a{)pearing to look only on the good side of things: and above all, he was almost the only man I had ever met with, who had been an un- fortunate adventurer in Ameri'ia, and had honesty and juagnaniniity enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. TU^lad that was receiving his instructions I learnt wus i itr.; !,i-»-n |l|i I t 2S0 77//!,' SKKTcn BOOK. tlio soTi .'ind heir a])j):ir('iit «»f a fat old widow, who kept tlic villa;^f«' inn, and of roursr a youth of some cxpcctalion, and nnndi rourtcil l»y tiic idh', ^^cntlcnian-likc iM'rsona<;('S of the |iia(M', In lakin«.^ iiini inuh'r liis care, tiuTcfort', th(^ old man had |)roha))ly a!i eye to a itrivilcf^cd coriuT in tiic tap-room, and an occasional cnp of cheerful ale free of exjiense. IMiere is oertainly sometliinj* in angling, if wo could for^'et, wliich un^^lers are apt to do, the cruelties and tor- tures inflicted on wormsand insects, that tends to ])roduce a LTcntloness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. As tile Kn^^lish are iuetho(lical even in their recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has heen reduced among them to perfect rule jind system. Iiuleed, it is an amus(Muent jx-culiarly ada])ted to the mild and cultivated KceiuMT of Kngland, where every roughness has heen soft- ened away fi'om the landscai)e. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the hosom of this beuutifnl country; lead- ing one through a diversity of small home scenery, sonu'- times winding through ornamental grounds; sometimes brimming along tiirough rich pasturage, where the fresh green is minglcl with sweet-smelling flowers; sometimes venturing in sight of villages and hamlets; and then running cai)riciously away into shady retirements. The sweetiu'ss and serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sp.ort, gradually bring on pleasant fits of musing; wliich are now and then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird; the distant whistle of tie j)easant; or i)erhaps the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming transiently about its glassy surfatie. "When I would beget content," t..vys Izaak Walton, "and increase confidence in the power and wisdctm and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadoM's by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other little living creatures that arc not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust in nini." I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent and happy spirit; T4lh: A^hLKH. •.'81 Let lue liv« hnriulpssly. iiinl nrur thp lirink Of Tr»'iit or Aviiii hmt- n (Iwcllitnf iilaf*-; Whert' I iiiiiy Htn- my iinill or cork down sink, WItli t'ajft'r lilN'of ]'ii(f. or lilcak or F'lirt', AikI oil tlie worlilaiKl my Creator tliiiik : Wliilf somi' iiifii strive ill gotten jroodst' emJirace ; Aiul uthei'K Mpt'iid tlu'ir time in liase excvMi Of wine, or woi*w', in war or wantonness. Let theui that will tliestM)astinieH still ptirsiin And on sucli pleasing; faneies feed tliy till. So I the (lelds and meadows ^I'een may view. And daily l»y fresh rivers walk at will AmcmK the daisies and the violets l)hie, Uetl liyaeinth and yellow (hilTudil > On parting; witli tiio old anp:'tM\ I inr|niro(l after liis place of iibode, and ha])p('nini^ to l>o in the neiijhhorliood of the village a few eveniii J. Davors. THE SKETi'H IUKJK niul a parrot whicli he lia*l cuuglit and tamorl.jiiKl ednratcfl liiniself, in the courHo of one of his voyages; and whicii nttrred a variety of sea phrases, witli th»' hoarse rattling tone of H veteran ])oatswain. The estaldishinent reminded me of that of tlie renowned Kohinson C'rusoe; it was kept in neat onh'r, every tiling l)eing "stowed awav " with the reguhirity of a sliip of war; and he infovmecl me that he "Hcoured tlie deck every morning, and s ve{)t it between meals." 1 found him seated on a bench before tlu^ door, smok- ing his pij)e in the soft evening sunshine. IJis cat was purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot descril)ing 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 s])ort with as mucli minuteness as a general would talk over a canipaign; being paiticularly animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. How comforting it is to see a cheerful- and contented old age; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and (juiet harbor in the evening of his days! IHs happiness, however, sprang from within himself, and was independ- ent of external circumstances; for he had that inexhausti- ble good-nature, which is the most precious gift of Heaven ; spreading itself like oil over the trouble«. 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 favorite ir. the village, and the oracle of the tap-room; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, astonished them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neigh- borhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being princi- pally passed about the neighboring strei\ms, when the weiither and season were favorable; and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing tackle nratofl wliicli tittlin^ nindcd IK ko])! ith the hat lie sniok- it WHS in the fy and lesK SIS ularly ikeii a II and mine ;ented bein^' ^ and »inesK, pund- austi- aven ; •ught, ghest was a f the ongs, PS of was eigh- :ling; i^hole rinci- the BS he icklQ || ff rrr J 11 !! RIIAItODS KIDE. r I ^1 77//; IJCalCM) nF SLL'i:/') imi.LnW *iK\ for tlir II' xt r;mijiai;.Mi. or mimufactiiriii^ rods. iu'tj», hihI llics, lor Ills piitroiis iiii>. lli«»ii;;li lu» "^^•iM'rally r«'II aslft'jt iluriiiLT the scniioii. Ilr liad made it liis iiarticiilai' r('<|ti('st that \\i)cii he dicfl lie .-^liuuld Im> luirii'd ill a;^'n'('ii spot, wliitli In- rould sec I'lom liis scat in t'lmrcli, and wliich lit' had iiiarkfcj out over since he was a hov.iind iiad thoni;hl of wlu-n far from hotnc on the ra'Mn«r soa, lu (hin^^ci' of hcinir fdod for tiic lishcs — it was the sjiot, where liis father and mother had heen huried. I have (h»ne, foi" 1 fear tiiat my reader is ;,frowini,^ wearv ; hnt I eonhl not r«d"rain from drawin^r the idetiiic of this worthy " Itrother of the an:,de: " who has imnh' me more tlian ever in love with ihe theorv. thon^h I fear I shall never he adroil in tin' praet ice cd' his art ; and I will con- elinle this ramhlinir sketch in the words (d* honest Izaak Walton, hy cravin^r the i>lessini,' of St. IN-ter's Master npon my reader, *' and upon all that arc Iriu' lovers of virtue; ami dare trust in his inuvidcncc; uiid b(5 nuiutj and go a angling." m TFIK r.KfJKN!) ()K SLKKPV Hor.LOW. (found A.M()N(i Tijh i'Ai'i:i;s or iiii; i..\ i: i»ii;iu;i< ii K\i('Ki:i{|{o( ki:k.) A pleasing land of drowsy ln')«d it was. Of (Irt'ams that \vav»' h.-idic tlif hall shut »•>•• ; And of jray castl.s in tlie«'londs that pass. V(ir»'V)'r rtiishii'.^f rmuid a summer sky. -rdsZ/c <»/■ hnhilrnir. In tlu' bosont of one of those sjjucious coves which in- dent the eastern shore of the llmlson, at tliat hroad ex- |>ansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the 'J'appaan Zee. md where they always pru- dently shortened sail md imj».'>red the protei'tion of St, Nieholas wlic they rosseta, 'icre lies a small market town or rural fort, whi' h bv souh* is called (ireensburijh, but which is more gent ally and properly known by the name of Tarry Town, 'f'his nam • w.is given it, we are told, in former day. , by tl ' g(tod Uouscwivea of the adja- 284 Til t: HKi'rn ii book. %u l-.M I j: (•out oountry, from tho iiivetcratp ])r<)ponsity of thoir Inia- biiuds to liii^^or jil)out tlie villaijc tuvorii on market days. lie that as it mii\% I do not vouch for tlic fact, ])ut mordy advert to it, f(>r tlio sake of })ein«( precise and •luthentic. Not far from tliis villa^^e, perliaps about tliree miles, there is a little valley or rather lap of lau'l amou^ l>io^^ hills, ■Nvhi(!h is one of the rpiietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional whistle of a rpiail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost tho only sound that ?ver l)reaks in ui)on the uniform tranquillity. I recollect tliat, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the val'ey. I had wandered into it at noon-time when all nature is peculiarly quiet, ard was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever T should wish for a retreat whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley. From the listless repose of the })lace, and the hecnliar character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the nameof Slkkpv IToi.low, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow boys thnnighout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervadt the very atmo- sphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a liigli German doctor, during the early days of the settlement; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, that the place still continues under the sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are sub- ject to trances and visions, and frecpiently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whoh^ neighborhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country. I TIIK hEdENn OE SLEEP)' IlaLKOW. 2«^ jind tlie iiiii]it-m:in*. with Imm* wlmlc nino fold, sooins to iiiJiko it tlic t'iivorito sci'iic of lirr <:;nMl)ois. 'l\w (loiuiiiiiiit sjtirit, however, that haimts this on- (diaiitcd rcijioii, and sccins to ho coiiiiiiaiidcr-iii-cliicf of all the powers of tlio air, is the ;ij)i)arition of a tii^nrc on liorsehacdv without a liead. It is said l)y soino to ho tho gliost of a Hessian trooper, wliosc liead liad Ix'cii carried aAvay hy a cannon-hall, in some nameless hattle durinir the revolntionary war, and who is ever and anon seen hy the eountry folk, hurrvinef alon<' in the 'doom of nii^ht, as if on the wings of the win 1. His liaunts jrre not routined to the valley, hut extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great uistaiice. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of those parts, who have heen carefid in collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this s[)ectre, allege, that the hody of the trooper having heen hurled in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the scene of hattle in nightly quest of his head, and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes })asses along tlu^ hoIh>w, like a midnight hlast, is owing to his heing helated, and in a hurry to get hack to the churchyard hefore dayhreak. Such is the general puri)ort of this legendary supersti- tion, which has furnished materials for nuiny a wild story in that region of shadows; and the si)ectre is known at all the country firesides, hv the name of The Headless Jlorseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkahle, that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is not confined to the native inhahitants of the valley, but is unconsciously imhihed hy every one who re- sides there for a time. However wide awake th(>y may liave been hefore they entered that sleej)y region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching infiuence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. I mention this peaceful spot with all })os'^ible laud: for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the great State of New York, that population, manners, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this rest- less country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like .-% i* ■> hii »!i :>\ 28r> THE f^KfiJTCIf-JioOK. tlioso littlo nooks of still water. Avliich Itordor a rnnid strosun, where we uiiiy see the straw siiul hubble ridiiii,' (|iiietly Jit anchor, or slowly rev()lviiii( in their mimic har- bor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. Though many years liave el{ii)sod since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same familie;- vege- tjiting in its sheltered bosom. In tliis iiy-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American liistory, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy wigiit of the name of Icliabod Crane, w^ho sojourned, or, as he exi)ressed it, " tarried/' in Sleepy Hollow, for the jiurpose of instructing the children jof the vicinity. Tie was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. '^J'he cognomen of (h'ane was not inapplicable to his person. lie was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have se-ved for shovels, and his whole frames most loosely hunq* together. His head was small, and flat at top, with hugi' ears, large green glassy eyes, and a lonu' 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 tlie profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about liim, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. His school-house was a low building of one large roon\ rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched with leaves of co])y-books. It wa? most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the win- dow-shutters;* so that though a thief might get in witli perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out : — an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The school- house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, jast at the foot of a woody kill, with a brook running close by, ttnd a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. fnn iKaimn of sleepy hoi low. I'flDK i(i erched blow, windy liiiii, unino froT)\ From lionro tlio low inurmur or his pupil's voioos, ooTniins: over their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy sununer's day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command; or, perad venture, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind the golden maxim, "spare the rod and spoil the child." Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not spoiled. I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling that winced !it the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indul- gence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, w^ho sulked and swelled and irrew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he '&& )f it. called "doing his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assur- ance so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that " he would I'emember it and thank him for it the 1 ngest day he had to live." When school hours were over, he was even the companion jind playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons Avould convoy some of the smaller ones home, who liap- pened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pu[)ils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily l)read, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda; but to help out his nuiiii- tonance, he was, according to country custom in those })arts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these he lived suc- cessively, a Aveek at a time, thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. n:^^ . ' !«■ .) r )IHH Till: sKiynii-iiooK. 'I'hjit all this iJii<,^l/t not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic imtrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a g?'ievcus burden, and schoolnmsters as mere drones, liv- had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable, lie assisted the farmers occasion- ally in the ligliter labors of tlieir farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took the hor.:S to water; i^rove the cows from pasture; and cut wood for the winter fire. Jle laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with wliich he lorded it in his little emi)ire, the Kchool, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. lie found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the cliildren, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. In addition to his other vocations, ho was the singing- master of the neighborhood, and jiicked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with :i band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, ho completely itarried away the palm from the i)arson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and ihvvQ are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard I'^lf a mile olf, quite to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little make- shifts, in that ingenious way wliich is commonly denomi- nated " by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, by all who under- stood nothing of the labor of head-work, to have a wonder- ful easy life of it. The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being con- sidered a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His ap])e;i ranee, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stii- at the tea-table of a farm-house, and the addition of a superjiumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, perad- TIJE LE(iEM) UF .^LEICPY lloLLOW !S!I .eiilui't', the |)ar;i(l(.' ul' a silver leajx)!. (hir man of letters, therefore, was })eL'u]iarly haj)py in the smiles of all the country tlanisels. How he would figure among theni in the ohurehvard, hetweeu services on Suiidavsl ijatherin its note, wliicli is thouglittoreseuil.le those words. 19 IP I ' V iW' »)( .'IH> TJIE SKETCH JiiXJK. across liis \va\\\\ iiiul if, ])y fliaiico, a \\\\rcvailed in the earlier times of Connecti- cut; and would frighten them woefully with speculations upon cotnets and shooting stars, and with the alarming- fact thai the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy! But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cud- dling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- ward. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amid the dim and ghastly glare of fi snowy night! With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant win- dow! How often was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted spectre beset his very path! How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him! and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea TUE A/;.-;;.\/> Y iiolluw. •,»iU that it was tlie gjilloping Ilcssiiui on oiu' of his iiiirlilly sfon rings! All th('S(», however, were Jiiere terrors of the niirlit. pliaii- torns of the mind, that M'alk in darkness: Jind lhoiiLi:li he had seen many speetres in his time, and heen more tlian once heset hy Satan in divers shaprs, in his lonely peram- hnlations, yet daylif(ht put an end to all tliese evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his i)ath had not heen (Tossed hy a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, gohlins, aiul the whole race of witches put together; and that was — a woman. Am ng the musical disciph'S who assemhltMl. one even- ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psahnoijy. was Katrina Van 'J'assel, the daughter aiui only child of a substantial Dutidi farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; ripe and melting and rosy-oheeked as one of her father's peaclu's, and uni- versallv famed, not inerelv for her beautv, but h.er vast e\'i)ectations. She was withal a little of a (;ooMi, and a corner cu})boanl, knowingly left o})en, (lis))laycd ininmnse treasures of old silver jind well-nicnded <'hina. From the moment Ichal)od laid his eyes uj)on these re- gions of delight, the peace (d* Ins mind wa." at an end, and his only study was how to gain the atfections of the peer- less daugiiter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real ditlicnities than i>cncrallv fell to the lot (d' a knight-errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchanters, tlcry dragons, and such like easily conquered adversaries, to contend with: and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle-kee]) where the lady of his heart M'as eonfined; all which he acOiieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of course. Jchabod, on the contrarv, had to win his way to the heart of a country coquette beset with a labyrinth of whims and cajirices, which were forever presenting new diflfi(!ulties aiid impediments, and he had to encounter a host of fear- ful a»ys acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all dis- ])utes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no gainsay or ap- TUf: LK(iENI> nF SIKEI'Y //(UJjtW. ',M)5 c'ggs pfiil. lie wjis alwiiyw rrady for cltlici'a i\<^hi or a frolic; Miul more niiscliicf titan ill-will in Ins coinpositioM ; and with all his ovcrlicaiin;; roii<;hn('ss thci*' was a stron«i (la.»li of wagj^nsh j^^ood-hiinior at hottoru. He hail thrcr or four boon coinpaiiions ef his own stamp, mIio rci^anhMl him as their nnxU'l, and at the head of whom he sconreil the country, attending every scene of fend or merriment for miles round. In eold wcatlu-r he was uistingnished hy a fur <'ap, surm(>unte(l with a Haunt ini; fox's tail, and when the folks at a country <;;ithering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisking ahont among a scpiad of Inird riders, they always stood hy for a s<|uall. Sometimes his crew would he lu'anl dashing along past the farm-houses at midniglit, with whooj) aiul halloo, like a troop of I)(»n Cossacks, and the old dames, start le(| out of their sleep, would listen f(»r a nujtiient till the hurry-scurrv had chit- tered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes lirom Hones and Ills gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will; and when any madcap })rank. or rustic ])rawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Hrom liones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero liad for some time singled out the blooming Katrimi for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and ondearuients of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not altogether diseourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advjinees were signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inelimition to eross a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied {<> Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that, his master was courting, or, as it is tenned. " s})arking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Craiui had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the «'ompetition, and a wiser man would have despaired. Me had, however, a iiappy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his na- ture; he was in form and spirit like a sup})le-jack — yield- ing, but tough; though he bont, he lU'ver broke; an.l though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet the r. *l ! . ). *f m !• i >M !»« yv/A' sKirnii liiKth'. iiMtiin'iit it Wils MWiiy- jerk I ho wns jis oroct, iiml ciirrictl liis ln'iul iis lii;^'li its <'V<'r. '\\i liiivc tiikni tlu' Held openly M;;!iiM.st liis rival, woiilfl htivo Ikm'M injidin'ss; for lu> was not si niiiii to be tlnvartcd ill Ills aiiioiirH. any more than that stormy lover, Adiilh^s. Ichalfod, thcrrfon', made hJH advances in a qniet and ;rently-insiiiiiatiii«^ manner. I'lider cover of his character of sin^Mn;;-master, he made l're(|iien( visits at the farm- house: not that- he had anything' to appndiend from tlw meddlesome interference of jtarents, which is so often a Ktunihlin<:-bhM'k in the j)alh of lovers. Hall \'an 'I'assid was an easy. indiili;ent soul: he loved his daughter hetter even than his ])i|>c, and, like a reasonahle man, and an ex- cellent, father, let her have her way in everythin^^ His notahle lit t hi wife, too, had enouirh to do to attend to her housekeepinir Jind manaire tho ])oultry: for, as she sagely observed, ducks and ?2' scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly M'liispering behind them with one eye kept upon the nuis- ter; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned thr<»ughout the school-room. It was suddenly interrupted by the ap- pearance of a negro in tow-clotli jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, likejthe ea}) of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, v/ild, half-broken colt, whicJi he managed with a r<))ie by way of halter. Ih^ came clattering \\\^ to the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod t<> attend a merry-making, or "quilting frolic," to be held that evening at Mynheer Var Tassel's; and having delivered his message with that air of im})()rt5in(*e, and effort i\^ fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away uj) the hollow, full of the imi)ortance and hurry of his mission. All was iK)w bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- room. 'Y\\Q scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped over half with im})unity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quickeji their speed, or helj) them over a tall word. Books were flung aside, without being put away on the slielv "s; ink- stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time; bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy v.,t their early eman- cipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half- hour at his toiletv brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he miglit make his appearance before his mistress in the true stvle of a cavalier, he bor- rowed a horse fnmi the farmer with whom he was domi- ciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. BiU it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some ac- count of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost everything but his vieiousness. THE ]A<:aEND oF SLEEPY hoLLOW. 2!>1> - 1 % (11 He wjis giiurit iiiid sluiggod, with x ewe neck juul a liend like ;i liumnier; his rustv mane and tail were tanj^led and knotted witii burrs; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and si)e(itral, but the other liad the orleani of a. genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and metthi in his day, if we may judge from his name, which was Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master's, the ch(deric Van Rip])er, wbo was a furious rider, and liad infused, very prolmbly, sonu cf his own spirit into theaninnil; for, old and broken-down as he looked, then- was more of the lurkinfj devil in him than in anv voutiir fillv in the countrv. Ichabod was a suitable figuiv for such a steed. He ro(h> with short etirrups, which brought jiis knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his shar}) elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his whip per})endicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as the h(>rse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tail. Such was the apj)earance of Ichabod and his steed as tliey shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Kii)[)cr, and it was altogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. It was, as I have said, a flue autumnal dav; tiie skv w;is clear jind serene, and nature wore tiiat ricli iind gcddcTi livery which we always associate with tlie idea of al)uii- dance. The forests had put on their sober brown jnid yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind bad bcci nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of oi'ange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming llles of wild ducks began to mak(^ their appearance high in the air; the bark of the srpiirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whittle of the rpuiil at intervals from the neighboring stubble field. Tlie small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping a/id frolicking, from bush to bush, and tret- to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around tluMU. There was the honest cockrobin, the fiivoritc giune of stripling sportsmeii, with its loud fpierulous note, and the twitter- noo THE SKETCH-BOOK. tiiir "T iiig blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden- winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little nion- tero cap of feathers; and the bluejay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, scream- \ ing and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to b«^ on good terms with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with de- light over the treasures of Jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of In- dian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty- pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipa- tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid -heaven. A slanting ray lingered on tlie woody crests of the precipices that overhung some [)arts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail ..,. m THE LEQENI) OF SLI^JEPV IfoLlnW. 'M){ hanging uselessly against the mast; and as the reflection of tne sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air. It was toward evening thut Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found tiironged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles* Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city innovations. The sons, in short square-skirted coats, with rows of stu- pendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it bein.g esteemed throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks which kept the rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as un worth v of a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he en- tered the state parlor of Van TasseFs mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty dough-nut, the ten- der oly-koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple 1)ies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of lam and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of ij .t.tl \m ii-lf m '■ [' LU'-' -*: ■i::^* - M IN il sill! It' I If I '•t :;o'3 77/ /i' .SKKTCH-liOOK. ])iTsorv('(l })lnnis, and pcaclu'S, ami pears, and qiiinoes; not to mention ])roiled sliad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-pig- gledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — Heaven bless the mark I 1 want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proi)ortion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some luen's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling liis large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possil)i!ity thiit he might one dav be lord of all this scene of almost unimai»:ina)tl«' luxury and splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school-house; snap his fingi'is in the face of Hans Van Kipper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare i': call him (tomradel Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good-humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. Hisliospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laitgh, and a pressing- invitation to "fall to, and help themselves."' And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray-headr'd negro, v/ho had been the itinerant or- chestra of the neighborhood for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on tw^o or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping wtih his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle; and to have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, r THE LEHEXh OF SLEEPY IKUJjiW. es; not )gotlier (Iv-pij?- ith the om the d time {jger to ras not justice dilated ?er, and 1 drink, nd him 3 might iginabh' oil he'd fingiM's sfgardlv ors that ■5 gnests ', ronnd entions e of the )i'e>sing ommon ian was ant or- entnrv. If. The )!• three witli a id, and were to inch as )iit him ! in full d have ) dance, was figuring before you in person. He was tlie admiration of all the negroes; who, having gatliered, of ail ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and win- dow; gazing with delight ai: the scene; rolling tlieir white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous ? the lady of his heart was his part- ner in the dance, and smiling graciously in re})ly to all his amorous oglings; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with hn'e and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. When the dance \, as at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossipping over former times, and drawling out long stories about the war. This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one of those highly favored places which abound witii chronicle and great men. The British and American line had run near it during the w^ar; it had, therefore, been the scene ot marauding, and infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress up his talc with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, %o make himself the hero of every exploit. There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being to<> rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, being an excellent master of defen(*e, par- ried a musket-ball with a small-sword, insomuch tiiat lie absolutely felt it whiz r(mnd the blade, and glance olT at the hilt: in proof of which he was ready at any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had % consider- able hand in bringing the war to i\ happy termination. But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary treasures of the kiml. Local tales and supersti- tions thrive best hi these sheltered, long-settled retreats; ' ■' ,t fv •'• 1 ! m y^' >* "■ 11 ^ 1.^ il»~W-T» It.' 1 ■• rt :;o4 THt: iiKETCll liOitK. but are tnunplt'd imder foot, by the sliiftiii^^ tiiroiig tliut forms the population of most of our country phioes. lie- sides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our villages, for tliey have scarcely had time to linish their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their sur- viving friends have travelled away from the neighborhood: so that when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch communities. The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in tlie very air that blew from that haunted region; it l)reathea forth an atmosidiere of dreams and fancies in- fecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van TasseFs, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winte. nights })efore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre of Sleei)y Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the country; and it is said, tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. The sequestered situation of this church seems alwavs to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, be- tween which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon this grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which TILE Lh:fih:Nl> o//* sLJ'J/JJ'Y /toLLOW. :u)5 I'avcs a large brook jinioiig broken rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep blaek part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly tlirown a wooden bridire; the road that led to it, and the bridge it self, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, whieli cast a ghjom ai)out it, even in the daytime; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Su(di was one of the favorite haunts of the headless horsenum, and the place where he was most fre- quently encountered. Tiie tale was told (d' old JJi'ouwer, a most hereti(;al disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they gallojied over bush and brake, over hill and swam]), until they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old I^rouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-toi)S with a (dap of thunder. This story was immediately matched by a thrice-mar- vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who nuule light of the galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey, lie atllrmed, that on returning one night from tlie neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat thegol)lin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bi'idge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in. a flash of fire. All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invaluable au- thor. Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen m his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. Tb°! revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on Dillions behind their favorite swains, and their light-hearted aughter, mingling with tiie clatter of Jioofs, etilioed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and fainter, until they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and 20 :m THE SKKf( 11 hiiOK. >.« frolic wiis all siloiit uiid (U'sorti'd. icliiiljod only liiigorcd bcliiiid, iiccordino to i\\(\ custom of country lovers, to have u tcto-u-tcto with the heiress; fully convinced thut he was now on the high roud to success. What passed at this in- tervie'>y I will not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certaiidy sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chapfallen. — Oh, these women I these women! Could that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? — Was her en- couragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven only knows, not I ! — let it suflice to ssiy, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, rather than a fail lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several heartv cutfs and kicks, roused his steed most nnconrteouslv from the comfortal)le quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod. heavy-hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel home- ward, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappaan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some farm-house, away among the hills — but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occa- sionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had he.'ird THE LEU END OF SLEEJ'Y HoLLOW. in the uftenioon, now ojinio crowdintj^ upon liis recollec- tion. The night grew darker and darker; the stars st-i'ined to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his siijht. Jle had' never felt so loikely and dismal, lie was, moreover, approa(!hing the very })lace where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had heen laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip- ^'•08, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of hmdmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, ^nd 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 jy the name of Major Andre's tree. The (;ommon peot)le regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred name- sake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and dole- ful lamentations, told concerning it. As Icnabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry ])ranches. As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw some- thing white^ hanging in the midst of the tree; he paused, and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly, per- ceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan — his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were 1508 77/ A' HKhrnn liOltK. h ■ !,'.l W '' L '• "■■* • tlie Hturdy yoornoii (MHiccuh'd wlio surnriHod liini. Thi?* Ims over slneo lu'oii considered a Imunted stream, and feur- iul are the feelings of a schoolboy who has to puss it alone after dark. As he aj)proached the stream, his heart began to thump; he summoned up, liowever, all his resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes. The schoolmaster now be- stowed both whip and heel upon the starvelling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and snorting, 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. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigan- tic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of escap- ing ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride upon the wings of thie wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — " Who are you ? " He received no rei)ly. He repeated his de- mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexi- ble Gunpowder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a s(!ramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascer- tained. He appeared to be a horseman of largo dimen- sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. ■i'i 77/71' LlC'ihJNh or S/J'Jh'J'Y iKUJJfW. :t()0 He inado no otTcr of molestutioii or 80('ijil)ility, I)iit kept aloof on one sido of tlu' road, jog<;in;x aloii^' on tlic hiind side of old ( Junpowdcr, wlio had now <^'(>t ovur liis fright imd waywardnoss. lolijihod, wlio Inid no rtdisli foi* tliis stranerceivlng that he was headlessi but his horror was still more incre 's«'d, on observing that the head, which should have restiul on his shoulders, was car- ried before him on the pommel of his saddle I His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of ki(d\s and 1)1owk upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip — but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they dashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flashing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. They had now reached the road which turns ott" to Sleej)y Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge faiiious 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 unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got hau-way through the hollow, the girths of the, it: I '1 :U() Tilt: shirni/ non/c. W' m Hiiddlo ^avc way, uiul lu; ft-lt it slip}>iny riaspin^ <»ld (lun{>o\vdt'r lound the nt'('i<, when the naddie ft'li to tiie eartli, and lio licard it tram])ii'r shh:ia*Y /Kf/jjnv. :5I1 set oil foot, mid after dilij^'ciit iiivcstli^ntion tlicy canir 14)011 his tnircs. In one part of tin- mad Icadiiiir to tlic cliurcli, was found t]w saddle tramjth'd in the dirt; the lijKjks of liorses' hoofs deeply dentecl in the road, and rvi- tleiitly at furious spee(|, wrre tiaetMl to the hrid^'e, hcyond wlii(di, on the Itank of a broad part of the l)rook, where the water ran deep and Mack, was found the hat (d' the unfortunate Jehabod, and close beside it a shuttered pumpkin. Thel)rook was searched, ))ut tlie body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Kipper, as executor of his estate, examinecl tiie bundle wlii(di contained all his worldly clTects. Thev (Mmsisted of two sliiits and a half; two stocks for the neck; a jiairortwo of worsted stock- in<^s; an old pair of (Mn-duroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of i»siilm tunes full of douf's ears; and !i broken l)itcli-j»ipe. As to tin; books and furniture of the schooi- h(juse, they belon!nunity, exceptiii<,' Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New Kn^dand Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune-tellin<^^; in whi(di last was a sheet of fotdscap mindi scribbled and blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of v^u\ses in honor of the heiress of Van I'assel. 'I'hese magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the llanies by llaiis Van Uip})er; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to sc)io(d; ob- serving that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money the scdioolmaster possessed — and he had received his quarter's })ay but a day or two before — he must have had about his person at the time of his disppearance. The niysterious event caused mu(;h speculation at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the s}K)t where the hat and })umpkin had l>een found. The stories of Brouwer, of Hones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind, and when they had diligently considered theni all, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion, that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about. ' ( :U2 THE HKETCH-BOOK. \ ••: liim; the school wn-; removed to a different quarter of the Hollow, mid another pedagogue reigned in his stead. It is ti'ue, an old fanner who liad been down to New York on a visii several years after, and from wliom tliis account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought liome the intelligence that Ichalod Ch'ane war still ali\e; that he had left the neighborhood partly through feiir of ihe goblin and Hans Van Kipper, and partly in mortifica- tion at having been suddenly dismissed by tlie heiress; that ho had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to the bar; turned politician; electioneered; written for the newspapers; and finally, had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance, conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to susjiect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell. The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these matters, maintain to this day, that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favorite story often told about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious avv^e; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The school-house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chant- ing a r'elancholy psalm tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. POSTSCRIPT, FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. The preceding tale is given, almost in the precise words iu which I heard it related at a Corporation meet-. THE LEGEND OF ISLEEPY HOLLOW. 3ia iiig of the ancient city of the Mahattoes/ at which were present many of its sagest and most ilhistrions burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentk^manly ohl fellow in peper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertaining. Wlien his story was concluded there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleeji the greater part of the time. There was, how- ever, one tall, dry looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon tha floor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — when they have reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other a-kimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove. The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the table, ob- served that the story was intended most logically to prove: " That there 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 troop- ers, is likely to have rough riding of it : " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high prefer- ment in the state." The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him with something of a trium- phant leer. At length he observed, 'hat all this was very ■^ H H ■ I r 11 * New York. 3U THE SKBT('H-]iO(fK. well, but still lie tliouglit the story a little on the extravii- giiiit — tliere were one or two points on which he hud his doubts: *' Faith, sir," replied tlie story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K. L'ENVOY. Go, little booke. God send thee goo«i passage. And specially let this be thy prajere. Unto them all that thee will read or hear. Where thou art wrong, after their help to call Thee to correct, in any part or all. —Chaucer's Bell Dame sans Mtrcie. Ix concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the author cannot but express his deep sense of the indul- gence with which his first has been received, and of tlu^ liberal disposition that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual excei)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 particularly consured, another has as particularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums being set off against the objec- tions, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its deserts. He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed upon him ; for where abundance of valu- able advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if he should go astray, lie only can say, in his vindica- tion, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon his first; but he was soon brought to a stand by the con- trariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to ^ivoid the ludicrous; another, to shun the pathetic; a third rBNVOV. 31.") i assured him that lie was tolerable at description, l)ut cau- tioned 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 when in a pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if lie imagined himself to possess a spark of humor. Thus perplexed by the advice of his fj'iends, who each in turn closed sonu^ particular path, but left him all the world besides to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to staiul still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed; when, all at oiuic, tlui thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for dilTerent humors, it could not bo expected that any oiu' would he pleased with the whole; but that if it should contain some- thing to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with an equal appetite for each dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomiiuition ; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavor of venison and wild fowl; ami a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contemi)t on those nick- nacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is c(,tulemned in its turn; and yet, amid this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go away froju the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the guests. With these considerations hv, ventures to scrv(^ up this^ second volume in the same heterogeneous wav with his -?r3t; simply requesting the reader, if he should lind here und there something to i)lease him, to rest assiirctl that it was written exi)ressly for intelligent readers like hiuisell', but entreating him, should he find any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. To be serious. — The author is conscious of the numer- ous faults and imperfections of his work; and well awani how little he is disciplined and a(H'omj)lished in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his ])eculiar situation. lie finds himself writing in a strange '••nd, and a))|)earing before a public which he has been accustomed, fnuu chihlhood, to II I I !| n ^■m! I if. 'i 316 THE SKETCH-BOOK. regard with the highest feelings of tiwe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confidence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing; and thus he proceeds, half-venturing, half-shrinking, surprised at his own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity. I 3e. He 3t finds 3owers, ich are 3S with ig that hiis he at his ity. 'I I: ' $\'t\l t-^! ^ SKETCH OF IHVlNirs LIFK 1 1 1 ; . Washington Irving, the son of n Scotch father and an English mother, Avas l)orn in New York, in 178.*>. What the schools of the day were lacking in he made up by his reading : books of poetry, travels, legends, history, were his special delight, nor during the whole course of his life ^lid he show any disposition toward study of a severer kind. When he left school he was articled to a lawyer ; but law-books had little charm for him ; the law lost nothing thereby, and literature was much the gainer. Of many another writer that we love, including Sir Walter 3cott, the same story may be told. In 1806 he went abroad for his health, for he was not robust. On his return, after an absence of two years, he tried unsuccessfully to obtain an office under Government. Before his trip to Europe he had become known to the New York public by some humorous contributions, called Oldstyle Papers, to a periodical of the day. He now resumed his pen and wrote Salmagundi Papers, in which the social life of New York was for the most part humor- ously satirized. These were followed by the History of New York, hy Diedrich Knickerbocker, a most humorous burlesque, mingled with some real history and keen satire, dealing with the Dutch period in the history of New York. It is the most original of Irving's works, and our enjoy- ment of it is not a little heightened by the recollection of the indignation it gave rise to among the descendants of the Dutch colonists, who deemed their ancestors held up to ridicule by the impudent author.* * See Introductoiy portion of Bip Van Winkle. ^u» ILX) /'///■; ski: rcii-inKtK. ■J p I I; '■ living's iiK'oiiU' IVoiii lii> w riliii;;s \v;i> |»riis(i(nu^n('(' his hiotlicis took liim into \\\v'\v business tiriii, imd sent liiin in 1^15 letf'«l liis l;isf work, .t I,(1hi|- mT Iu\c, '/ /n /Jf',' of' W^ishhu/fou, (I «.'»:».) Irving was gifted -svitli t.lwil. f,''t'niMlit\ or(lis|u)siriou tliat Hows from a pure and kindly lu'art, slu'ddiiijjc lij^iit and gladness on all around. An omnivorous reader of li^iiter literature, — lejifend, travels, jxieti'v, fietion, history, — lu; was not a philosopher nor a i)rofound observer of hunnm life. He indeed studied tin; life aronnd liini, but it was for the keen delight he felt in observing" whatever was odd, ludicrous, or absurd, not that lu; mif^-ht influence it for good. Irving is essentially a humorist with a strong tendency to the poet; not a humorist who hiuglis at our follies to shame us out of them; but one who looks on and huiglis good-naturedly at our weaknesses, and who loves us non(? the less for them. He is at the same tinui as ready to shed tears of heartfelt sympathy with us in our sorrow. The gracefulness of Irving's style, the result of a, loving study of Addison and Goldsmith united to his own natural taste, gives to his productions an indescribable charm, felt most completely in those in which his humor illumines th(^ face or his pathos moistens the eye. The tendency in Irving's humor is toward exaggeration ; — he has even been accused of giving this i)eculiarlty to American humor in general. In his earlier woi'ks, notably in Knickerbocker's History of New York, exaggeration goes even to burlesque ; — the two best pieces in the Sketch-Book, Rip Van Winkle and Legend of Sleepy Hollow, are marred at the close by the irritating state- ments that they are ftibulous. IV w of the pathetic pieces have this fault ; most of them display an emotion that is wholly natural, as if the author drew upon the memory of his own great sorrow, and felt that this part of our nature at least must not be trifled with. In the reflective pieces I ^22 77//'; SKNTCir nnoK, ji^iiiii, we sec llic s.iiiic disposil inn to (ivrr«|o ilir iiiiitlri' : iln^ slijjflifost ('ircmi»si;inc(^ serves to iH'iii^ on a whole tniiii of l^o^Mlizlll^^ so iiuicli so that in Westiniiister Abbey one is tempted to sec either coni])l(^te conscionsncss oi c'Inhorntlon and Iumico laci^ of fcitding", or ni(;rely morbid s(!ntiment{ility. Tlie nuM'it of the sketches in tlie Sketch-Book is very une(]nMl : in Kip \'.*in AVinkie nnd SU'Cpy Hollow, the humor is almost ])erfeet of its kind, while the ])athos of The Widow mid Her Son ;nul The Pride of the Village is excjuisite. Tlu^ ])ieces referring to an English Christmas are exceedingly interesting and attractive; those about Shakespere are chatty, while much sinks to the level of commonplace — Roscoe, English Writers on America, The Country Church, Spectre Bridegroom, John Bull, the Indian Sketches, Little Britain, and others. Irving is known to the pul)lic at large almost wholly by Rip Van Winkle and Legend of Sleepy Hollow. ill * ■. ANNOTATIONS. IXTKODUCTOin XOTK. The MunoUitioiis ajUK'ndcd to tliis volumi' iwr almost wliolly of a cuiuiK)siti()iml chanicter ; tlic style of tlio author is so simple, the allusions an; to ol)j('cts of such every-day knowlcdji^c, that little of an explanatory nature is needed. The analytical notes are an attempt, in refer- ence to a few of the pieces, to show the author's mcithods of work, — his thought, his aim, his plan, his develoj)m(;nt of his plan ; they are not intended as a nuxiel for an analysis of the remaining pieces of the volume, though it is advis- able to have the pupils give outline sketches of sonui of these, such sketches containing much of the same matter as the analysis but without the author's consciousness of his plan. The process to which the pieces referred to have been submitted may seem opposed to what is said below in regard to the treatment of literature. But every piece of literature is a work of art ; it has a plan and a develop- ment, a frame-work, about it, however skilfully concealed. An analysis reveals the frame-work, which has a beauty of its own independent of the covering. But this analysis is a separate thing, and must be taken up by itstUf, not when the piece is being read for enjoyment, otherwise a distaste for literature will certainly follow. We pull a flower to !>■ :m THE SKE T( If-BOfUu IH pi(3ccs only wlicii wc Avish to exainiiic its structure ; usually we gaze on it, we smell it, that we may receive pleasure from its beauty and its fragrance. Nothing is said about the author's structure of sentences or paragraphs ; sliould information on these be required, it is readily attainable ; — the page is open to inspection by all. It is to be feared that the author's practice in rcferc^nce to paragraphs will not, in all cases, be held up as woi'thy of imitation. Tjittle blame is to be attached to him therefor ; — literature does not exist for paragraphs. G. A. Chase. LITERATURE AND COMPOSITION. At the present day the works of eminent writers are fr(?ely placed in the hands of the pupils of our schools and carefully studied, — the thought along with its expression in appropriate language. There can be no doubt that if the end in view is the acquisition of what is implied in the term language, this method is the only proper one. For it is but a continuation of the process by which parents ilrsfc impart language to their children. The needs of the child grow beyond what, as a rule, the home surroundings how- ever refined the home may be, can supply ; but if the language of the home moves in a narrov/ circle, still nar- rower is the circle in the school-room. It is scarcely too much to say that no advance in language can be made in the school-room. The par(^nt never gives language without thought ; with tliought the very first utterance is associated ; in literature thought and language are also combined — the printed page takes the place of the parent so far as is possible. The AXNOTATIOXS. .'VJ.") child's own languafje will l)e such as he iicars at home ; if refined, literature will keep it so; if not refined, literature will at least g-ive a knowledge of what is better, though old habits may be hard to throw off. In language the thought is the formative principle, on which depends the character of the expression. Hence the first necessity in actjuiring language is the conscious corapreiiension of the thought conveyed therein ; — conscious, beciiu.-e a mere dim per- ception of it cannot reveal the approi)riateness of the language. Here the teacher's work conies in. lie must be the guide, the companion of the pupils ; tiu; living voice or personation of tiie one Avho speaks in the written page, — as deeply interested, too, as any of his pupils. The conver.sati()n in the class over the, portion of the book set for the purpose, the interchange of opinion as to the thought, feeling, bearing on the author's v'un, characteristics of the language, and other inti^'csting features in endless variety suggested l»ya careful preparation on the teacher's part, will leave ver\ little room for listlessness or indiffer- ence in the pupil. i It will be destructive, however, of all interest in litera- ture for pupil and teacher alike if the study of a book is made a task ; a book should attract, not repel. 1'o turn a literature lesson into a lesson in grammar, derivation, spelling, or definitions, is to pervert it. Tlie meaning of words comes half unconsciously to us from tlieir association ; — few of the general meanings do any of us owe to a, dictionary, and none of the exact meanings unless they be; purely technical in character. Derivation is best deal! with merely as an incidental in the conversation when some special end is to be gained by knowing tlie etymo- logical force of the woi'd ; otherwise it is useless work. It is not meant here to discourag<' the use of a dictionary. On the contrary tlu; pui)ils should l)e encouraged to use f I ; I 320 TIIK SKE TCll- B()S KETCH-BOOK. much from pupils, even of the higher f(n'ms. And though from these we may be justified in expecting something more than from the lower forms, yet the first thing to be aimed at in all cases is the clear expression of what is to be said ; increasing maturity of mind, the gradual and unconscious development, through the study of literature, of taste with its attendant power of weighing thought and its expres- sion, will do the rest. The teacher's hardest work will be to get his pupils to think clearly, and then to write clearly what they think. Every pupil is able to tell if a thought — within his powers, of course — is clearly stated; not every pupil can tell if a thought is forcibly stated, or if the language is beautiful, etc., etc. ; this no teacher can give him the power to tell, or teach him how to tell. He need not attempt it ; such power is inborn and will develop when the surroundings are favorable. The shortness of the pieces in the Sketch-Book allows the plan and its development in each to be readily seen and comprehended. But the unfortunate lack of variety in the character of the subjects, — nearly all being narrative and amiably reflective, intended for entertainment, not for instruction, — leads often to a similarity of treatment, and aflbrds but a narrow field for thought. This is to be regretted all the more as the pupils themselves like what instructs and sets them thinking; the most interesting lessons are always those that call forth the fullest inter- change of ideas between teacher and pupil, or pupil and pupil, whether they be grave or gay, fact or fancy. It is to be hoped that the time for the study of an author as indicated by such questions as "How does the author secure pathos?" "What means does the author adopt to add strength?" has passed away. Literature is not a ^1 ANNOTATIONS^'. i\'2\) piece of jugglery ; language is tlie index of what is in the author ; if the language quivers with emotion it is because the author is quivering with emotion ; if the language is strong it is because the author's feelings are strong ; if he arouses us it is because he himself is fii*st aroused ; — we do not warm ourselves at the picture of a iire. The teacluu' must study the author till he can, as it were, identify him- self with his author, enter into his thought and share his feelings. Then there will certainly be no lack of matter to bring before a class ; thought and language will enter together into the pupils' mind and memory, and subjects for further thinking will suggest themselves in abundance. Annotations have their place, but the teacher or pupil who relies upon such will never know an author. NOTES ON "THE SKETCH BOOK." THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. Page a 5. Towil-crier. — A town-official in former days whose duty it was tt) cry throughout the town, accomi)anied by the ringing of a bell to attract attention, proclamations, announcements of various kinds, such as articles lost or found, rewards offered, etc. Here the reference is to young Irving's getting lost as a result of his ' ' Tours of Discovery. " Neigllboring Yillag^es. — In Irving's youth the villages and country districts around New Ye. or with the sweetness of flower or green leaf, and only then when there is some human association connected with it. t( 6. 1 had degenerated. — An illustration of Irving's peculiar humor — often, as here, carried U) excess and losing its effect by being out of keeping with the spirit of the con- text. It is a decided fault in taste. }:J2 Vaiff TIIK .SKKTCII-HOOK. Uctf ulur t rnvcller, otc. — IrvingV 4uiet way of chara<;t«r- izing his own work: lio has not, gono ovor tho groiuul that othurs liavo travelled, or given the stock-in-trade of other travellers : he has given what suits himself. . THE VOYAGE. Compositional. — The author lias crossed the ocean. He wishes to say something about the voyage ; what this shall be, whether a full or a ])artial description— or anything else whatever, so long as it is connected with the voyage— do i)ends wholly upon his own wilL He has chosen to deal with it as affording incident and opportunity for reflection. Such being the case, the act\ial order of succession in time of the incidents need not be preserved ; the author may bring them forward when he pleases, and as many as he pleases, his only guide being what is naturaL It would not, for instance, be natural for the meeting of the sick sailor and his wife to take place in mid-ocean, or for the author's home-sick reflections to arise as the ship was sailing up the Mersey in fuil vieAv of that English landscape of which he had read and dreamed so much. The incident of the floating spar might have occurred in any part of the ocean ; the sea monsters, too, were not all seen on the same occasion, and the luxurious, dreamy sensations pro- duced by calm ocean and beautiful weather, were not experienced all at one time — the author has grouped them. It makes no difference whether the author really saw such sights or had such thoughts as he desciibes ; the only thing he had to consider was whether such sights were natural to the place and conditions, and the thoughts such as might naturally arise from them. Imagination must look like reality. The author does not intend merely to say that he saw such and such sights and had such and such thoughts in consequence ; he wishes also to describe them — that is so to speak about them as to .bring the incidents clearly before the reader's mind, or to arouse the same feel- ings he himself had at the time. Hence the shai'k gliding noiselessly along just below the surface of the water, suggests " a spectre" not only by the shadowy form that we are accustomed to give to a spectre, but by all the sensations of terror that we associate with it ; as a con- sequence we see the shark as plainly as the author did. So too, * ' the gentle undulating of the billows," and the " bellowing ' of the thunder N()TI.l ly li{j[ht." Hirown hj- t\w lani]t over t.ho hualied grouj* listening t.o tlm tales of t«Mr(»r, rcceivos its charact^'r of ghastlinoss from the oxciUnl imagina- tion of tVio hearers themselves, and ire see the group thus far ; and then, what an awful effect would l)e produced by the bursting forth of the storm just at the moment when the stories told have made them alive to the fearful dangers of the sea ! It nuist have seemed as if the fate that had overtaken others must be theirs also. This is what is termed the writer's "art" — an innate power of em- ploying, and the exercise of that power, any and every means that taste, judgment, poetical imagination nxay suggest or approve. It is not a power that can be communicated, but it may be guided by one who can appreciate it. Paf/e 10. iniagrinary.— Note the use. " 10. quarter-railing.— The bulwarks, or railing, of the quar- ter-deck. In general, that part of the deck around the cabin or " house " in the after- part of the ship. " 10. mail -top.— The top of the lowest section of the main- mast, or rather the kind of semicircular platform at thi? placa 10. porpoise, grampus. — Both sea animals of the whale tribe, the former rarely exceeding five feet in length, the latter often being over tliirty. " Porpoise "= La t. ]x>rcuit, a hog, and piscis, a fish; grampus =<;»*» wtiis, great, and piHcia. 10. spectre. — The shark here referred to is of a dull color, and as it swims just below the surface of the water, with its huge dorsal fin protruding forth, the term spectre aptly describes the shadowv outline of the monster. u u fi u ii it. 10. phantasms. — Mermaids, Flying Dutchman, and such lika //. fragment. — The vessel belongs to the "world" of man; here, on the ocean, man does not inhabit. If}. roaring. . . .ear. — Those who have lain m a berth with their head resting against the side of the vessel, know this sound full well ■1 11 I' ill !i) . t. ; .134 TiiK sKirnn-itooK. Pnife i-'l. A. Wuv iUxy, - Not*- th<^ Kiarkrd tliuugo in stylo Mini siil»- ji'c.t hiTc. Tim iuitlior IumI Ix^mi lulled to sleep by tlio very sounds of tei'i'or 1»h descri^Kis, N<>t«, too, the i>t!ciiUar effect of " however." KOSCOR (Any biographical dictionary or encycloixvdia will j^ive liu' facta of Roscoe's life.) This sketorecl chai'auter, more es^xjcially in liis similes and metaphors. J*a(/e Ih\ Nntlirts etc. — The idea is that a jKjrson of great natural ahilitios, though bi-ought up amid suiToumlings wholly \uifavoral)lo to mental development, will often he found to sur])ass another of ordinary ability who has hud all the advantages that education can giva " Legitimate " is in contrast with ' ' chance " and has the meaning of ' ' ordinary " or "usual." It is a bold api)lication of the word in its ordinary application to offspring. '• 10. liuiiuiu frailty.— Byron, for example. At bo«t, etc.— Su(}h as Cowper and Wordsworth. a UK lilack-letter.— What is known as ' • Old English " letters: they were used in the earliest printed lHM)ks in imitation o£ the writing in manuscripts. THE WIFE. The '"observations" or general remarks with which Irving opens so many of his pieces in the Sketch-Bo(ik, and which are illustrated b}^ what follows, are in accordance with the prevailing fashion of last century when there was so much mere sentimentalism in literature Unless emploj'ed with caution, those introductory generalizations are a v/eakness ; they ai'e apt to rej^el the reader rather than attract We prefer to make our own generalizations, to draw our own moral : — to read a stor^^ for its own sake, not as a mere illusti*ation. This piece, though not one of Irving's best, contains a good dea' of fine pathos. NOTICS ON TIIK .SKincil-lluOK. 335 I KIP AT PLAY WITH THE CIIILDKEN. it KIP VAX WINKLR N.n.— The following; " Postscrijit ''was artdcd l)y Irvitip; at the end of lii«i story ftiid should have heen printed with tlie text. POSTSCRIIT. — The following are travelling notes from a nunnoran- dum-book of Mr. Knickerbocker : — *' The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, havo always been a region full of fabla The Indians considered thoni the abode of spirits, who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscajie, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mothei'. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night, to open and shut them at the proi)or hour. She hung uj) the new moons in the skies, and cut up the (jld ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, anrl send then\ off from the crest of the mountain, flake af tor flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air. until, dissolved bv the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle slu»wers, causing the grass to if; J; ;{;irt rilK SKKfCII lUMJK. Kpring, the fniitH to iij»en, and the corn to grow an inch an liour. If displeased, howovor, she wouhl brnw up cloudH black as ink, sitting in the midst of thorn like a bottle-l)elli(Kl spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! "In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who k«'pt about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and tice or raging torrent. ' ' The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great r(K5k or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountain, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers v/hioh abound in its iieighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Ko(,k. Near the foot of it is a smvJl lake, the haunt of the solitar3' bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not ytursuo his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way penetrated to the Cnrdeu Rock, where he beheld a numlier of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. Ouo of these ho seized and made off with, but in the 1 'i ry of his retreat he let it fall among the iocxi.-i, when a great suuaia gushed forth, which washed him away and swept Y'm do^vn f .'ecijiict'- where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day, being the identical stream known by the name of Kaaterskill. " Compositional. — The material that the author intends to use con- sists of a village "sage," — one of those loungers who used to furnish Irving with so much amusing study — his character and habits, Lis farm, his household — wife, children, and dog, the whole highly humor- ous; the "sage's" fellows, who are Dutchmen with peculiarit'as that the author delighted to portray, often with much exaggeration ; this, too, being highly humorous ; phases, likewise humorous, of modem American villaj^e life, especially as to politics and inns ; o. legend (iU'etanded or ootual) of the Dutch colonists along the Hudson River, regarding Hendrick Hudson ; the German legend regarding the NOTIOS n\ TIIK SKKTi^ll-IMMJK. 337 r^liai-iiuHl slwp of Fr<'ri(',k lUrbararil). ciiiiKTur of f}or- inuny ; finally, an Imliau logcnrl of the KaatMkill !VrountainH. Hin purpose is to wcavo this* divtMsn nuiti'iial into ono(',oim!Mt«»nt whole, with tho "sago "as tho central liguro of intx.'rest thnaighout. A plan is largely controlled by tho cliaract»>r of the material. Legends, by additions, omissions, or changes of various kinds, may readily bo transferrern AiiicricaM village life in contrast with Dutch ijoculiarities. The plan will harmonize all the various material. In the development of the plan the introfluction of the Kaatskill Mountains, with their weird a])i)earance so suggestive of being the haunt of the sui^ernatural, is followed in natural succession by the little Dutch village at thoir foot with a jdayful glance at Dutch prejudices; the introduction of the hei'o of the story. Rip. witli his nature and his character, mainly the cause of, but ))artly caused by, his peculiar domestic sun'oundings ; tho character of his faiiii, his wife, his children, his dog ; his inability to (endure his homo life, Asith his retreat for safety among his fellow "sages," who are therefore described ; his expulsion thence by his wife, and his consecpicnt last memorable trip for peace sake to the rioimtains, there to meet, in his own characteristic way, with the s'^range looking man; his ocular demonstration of the truth of the Hendrik Ilut to the legend nor to Rip and his surroundings, but to the richl}' humorous manner in which the whole has been conceived and ])rescnted. The humor never flags from "beginning to end, — from the time when Kip is introduced to us hurrying (m errands for village housewives, to the time when " with the privilege of old age " he sits IV the sun at the tavern door, telling his marvellous taie to all who will listen. It is true, the the author niight have portraj'ed to us in warning, even indignant terms, the sad consequences of laziness ; — how that it caused the ^^horn and the thistle to grow in Rip's neglected f?,rm ; lost him his ancestral possessions ; covered himself and his children with unsecnil3^ rags ; destroyed the temper of his industrious wife, and drove him forth from what should have l)een a peaceful happy home, to take refuge with the dissipated and worthless. But, then, who Avould exchange for such a discourse, " sounding in moral virtue " as it might bo, a sight of that same Rip as he hurries on the neighboring h jusewive's errands with troops of children following him, or when, with an occasional shrug of the shoulders and an upward roll of the eye, he meekly stands under the torrent of his wife's invective? — and of Mrs. Rip ; —though we cannot enter into her feelings of wrath against their silent object, we follow her down the street with little Rip "tiX)oinng" after her. his hands, for lack of better means, holding up his trousers, — once liis father's, but now his, unaltered, we fear, by scissors and needle ; and poor Wolf with tail curled between his legs, sneaking to the side of the room farthest from her but with eye fearfully fixed on her. ready, with "yelping percipitation," to rush for the door at any supposed move- ment of hers towards broomstick (n ladle? and lastly, woubi we consent to give up those two companion ])ieces the " perpetual club" with the '■ full-breadth " portrait of Nicholes Vedder, as he sits there in profound silence "uttei'ing clouds of smoke" and moving just enough to keeji in the shade, and the election day on the same spot, when, on returning after his wondrous draught, the aged Rin hearfj in his stunned brain t lie uncouth jargon. "Federal or Democrat,'' "liiuikcr Tnil," ''State Rights," '• Congress,'' etc., etc.? Undoubt,- edlv not. N0TR:.S on TlIK SlvKTCII-lKtoK. ;;;;^» m work, dulge to Irving'!?' . public. 3, but to onceived 1, — from r village " he sits all who to us in iiness ; — leglected and his lustrious peaceful IS. But, in moral 3S on the ing him, upward is wife's nto her own the lack of but now or Wolf le room y. with move- )uld we xlclub" ts there ng just ne spot, t) hear^ locrat," ndoubt- RIP'S mCTUVvN HOME, NOTES. Legendary lore had always a charm for Irving ; he was delighted with Scott's " Minstrelsi'- of the Scottish Border." — ballads, legendary and otherwise, taken down by Scott chiefly from the recitation of old peasant women ; he had read translations of German legends by different persons, and is said to have received from Scott the hint that some of these might be made the foundation of an excellent story. In the characteristic note at the end of Kip Van Winkle, Irving indicates the origin f>f his story —the legend of the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa. According to this legend the old emperor had not died, but, attended by faithful knights, was in a churnied sleep in an underground castle of the Kypphauser Mountain in the Hartz range, to return again when the glory and greatness of the German Em])ire had departed, in order to restore them once more. (See the German poem in note to page 41.) The attendant knights have been seen. One Peter Klaus, a villager, while wandering in the mountains met with a number of men in antique garb ; after being covirteonsly enter- tained by them he returned home only to find that he had b(x>n absent 'H ! I .'{40 THK SKE'nn -HOOK. twenty yjpars. Ot.lier stories inure or less resembling- this are eurrent among the German ])easantry. * Legends concennng tho 3U|)ornatural clisai)pearance of iteople from the earth and their snbse([uent return, are common in all parts of the world ; among otliors are that of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus — seven ycjung Christian men, who, to eseape ])orseoution in the reign of the Emperor Deciiis, retired to a ca\e, wliere tliey slept two hun- dred years, and awoke to find Christianity the established belief ; the legend of Thomas the Bhymer, or Thomas of Ercildoune, — so promi- nent in the Northern ballads of England and Scotland, — who was taken away from earth by the Queen of Fairy Land, and who returns from time to time on various errands ; the nursery fairy story of the Sleeping Beauty; Hoggs "Kilmeny;" the famous legend of King Arthur, so long and so persistently believed in by the Welsh (see Green's "History of the English People," reign of Edward I.) In the Passing of Arthur, in Tennyson's Idyls of the King, Arthur says : — " I perish by this people which I mnde,- Tho' Merlin sware that I should oonie To rule once more." aj^aiii Sir Bedivere cries, as Arthur moves away in the black boat : — " He passes to be Kins iimorny' the, decui. Ana after healing of liia iirio\ons woinul, He coines again." Although many features of Irving's story are of foreign origin, yet tho little village with its inhabitants and characteristics of both its early and later days, the hero, himself a denizen of the village, and the magnificent scenery of the Kaatskills with the "lordly Hudson" at their feet, are so inseparably united that we cannot conceive of the legend as belonging to any other spot than that to which the author has transferred it. Irving's prefatory note to the story is his answer to the adverse criticisms of his "History of New York" (see sketch of Life). In his own humorous way he accounts for his book by describing his tastes, laughs patronizingly at his angry critics, and intimates that he will write as he pleases. Page 2fi. Kiiickorbockei*. — Irving assumed ihis name in his ^^Tit- ings I'oferi'ing to Patch subjects. NmT;s ON riiK sKirron-iMJOK. :\4\ e current u ( 1 Pafjr 2S. Prilllltivo S«ttl«»rs.— Hondrik (or lloiiiy) Huflsoii. an Englishman in the scrvico of t,ho ])iitch, was tho fu> 6 1o explore (16()}>) tljo const in the ueighborliood of Now V i»rk. and to sail up the river. The Dutch claimed the c untry by right of discovery, and colonized it It came into the possession of the English in 1604. *Jfi. their wives. — Women seem to have always had the reputation of preserving tho legends and stories of former days. Saint Paul speaks of " old wives' fables '' ; the Ara- bian Night's Entertainments are stories told by women ; and the ballads collected by Bishop Percy, Scott, and others were taken down from the recitation, for the most part, of old peasant women. 'JS. black-letter. — See note page 19. The earliest printed books consisted chiefly of legends, tales, etc 2S. Dutch governors.— Wouter Van Twiller, Peler Kieft, Peter Stuyvesant {uy = i). •VO. Fort Christina. — In Delawara It was held by the Swedes who claimed and had in part colonized the surrou'ul- ing country. A famous account of the siege is given in the ' ' History of New York. " '■iO. tribulation.— Lat. ' ' tribulatio, " a threshing out of grain by means of a sledge set with sharp stones or iron teetli. Examine the use in the text in the light of this deriva- tion. .W. termagant. — The name of a god that mediaeval Christians supposed the Saracens worshipped. He was frequently represented in old plays as a violent, storming character. u l( t( • >/. galligaskins. — Wide, full trousers worn during the latter half of the 16th century and the beginning of tho 17th. AV. schoolmaster, etc. — Compare Irving's schoolmaster and inn with Goldsmith's in the "Deserted Village." Nicholas Vedder is a reproduction in miniature of Governor Wouter Van Twiller in the ' • History of New York. " The landlord serves materially to localize the story. 'M2 TIIIO SKKTCII-IJOOK. Hi 1 1 m' /;r>. ,ti}. ar,. Page H4. As ho was uImmiI* From tliis point to Ki|>'s Hii]»earaucH before the "Union Hotel'- llio story has bat little of the local nature ; it is in its main features the German legends. 'JMiese do not repi^esent the heroes as falling asleep, but as meeting with supernatural bnngs in whose company they are unaAvare of the lapse of time, — five, seven, or even two hundred years having passed away as if they were only a few hours. several pair. — Irving delighted in thus presenting his tj'pical Dutchman. In the "History of New York" he rei)resents one of the colonists, Ten Broeck, as deriving his name from wearing ten pairs of bre(;ches ; these were of such a size that, when the Indians had agreed to give the colonists as much land as a man's breeches would cover, the simple savages were amazed and confounded to see Ten Broeck's cover the whole of the future site of New York ! 0(ld-lookiiigr, etc. —So in the legend of Peter Glaus ; but Irving turns Barbarossa's knights into Dutchmen. doublet (Lat. duo + plus). — Originally a thick, wadded jacket for defence : afterwards a short close-fitting coat. o'6'. old g^entleniaii. — Hendrik Hudson : Irving, in imitation of the legends, gives to the river as its presiding genius the man who had discovered it, — a happy idea, thereby localiz- • ing the legend. />'.*>. bihous-lookiug. — Irving as heartily despised this typi- cal Tfankra "Jonathan" as he was amused at the plileg- matiii Dutchman. He lamented the displacement vt the old-time inn by the modern comfortless village "hotel"; ana ward and tavern politicians with their hypocritical and pseudo-patriotic cant and disgraceful personalities, he utterly loathed 4(K Federal or Democrat. — These were the names of two political parties in the early part of the century ; the former claimed more authority for the central government over the .separate States than the latter was willing to grant. 40, Tory-refugee. — The loyalists during the A.merican Revo- lution were tenned ' ' Tories " by their opponents ; at the close of the war their propei'ty was nearly all confiscated, and they themseb/es were compelled to leave the country. u NOTKS ON TIIK SKIOTCII-MOOK. :v\:i Page 41. Alltoiiy'H Xose.— A hu\i\ hoadlaiid on tlif ea-*teni sHe (jf the Tappan 7m^, a broad expansion of the Hudson near Tarrytown. For the origin of the name see Knickerbocker's History of New York, Bo•'»'. This is tlio iirst of tlioso piecos in the Sket(;li-nuok thai show Irving's hoart-felt aduiiratioii of Kiiglish country-life, and English hmdscapo scenery ; it lacks, however, the toucli that we recognize as Irving's, — it does not deal with indi- viduals, hut with abstractions ; and Irving did not deiiglit in abstractions. The humorous and its kindred, the ])athetif, are associated with individuals. u THE BROKEN HEART. i!0. Irving's fondness for introductory moralizing often materially injures the effect of what he really has to say, which is contained in the subsequent part. In this piece the narrative holds the position of a mere illustration to his general remarks. We should have much preferred a more extended narrative, with much less of an introduction, and with the consequent privilege of doing oui" own reflection. But notwithstanding the defects, in mannerism and in the exaggerated and labored character of some of the figures of si)eech, the sad pathos makes us carry away the story and forget the rest, — no small praise for what is really good in Irving. As in The Wife, the chief pathos centres around one scene, — the broken-hearted maiden at the mas- querade sitting unconscious of all around her, giving expression in a plaintive song to her grief-stricken soul. Not long before he wrote this Irving knew in his own bitter experience what it is to lose one tenderly beloved. Indeed this l(jss would seem to throw its softening influence over the ^\'hole of what the 8ketch-Book contains. u THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. ar). This genial whimsical satire on authors is to take the form «)f a dream, — not by any means an original device on the author's part, nor used on this occasion only. The dream comes as naturally as possible ; — the warm day, an unoccupied mind, a silent room, and listless musing all invite to drowsiness. ' ' Naturalness " has many sides, and NOTES ON THE SK Jro- verbial for their dullness. t( A ROYAL POET. 76. Had not James, etc.— This passage shows a full appre- ciation of an author's devices ; though the foundation, the fountain-head, of all true writing must be the thought or the emotion of the author, his judgment and his taste must be in constant exercise so as to bring out most effectiveh- what is to be saii. In other words, the author has a pur- pose in his writings and knows the end from the beginning and plans accoidingly. This process is natural, not mechanical. THE COUNTRY CHURCH. It would be instructive to know Irving's mood when he was writing The Country Church. He certainly was not in the mood when brain and fancy are light and airy, and when words answer uncalled. He seems to force himself to wri.5», and almost to be indifferent whether he writes well or ill. In su'.h a mood good work cannot be done ; — indeed, Irving confessed he could not write unless the mood was on him. A few leading faults are here pointed out ; very many others may be readily found on examination. The whole piece, beginning with ^'one," furnishes a striking illustration of the inaccuracies, or worse, that forced writing leads to. MCl THK SKKT(!II-|{0()K. I'erliaps the chief fault, vim running through tlio Avhole prtxluctiuii. is t\ni confiisif>n leffc in the rcador's niiiul as to whether the author'^ (lescrii)tion applies to what ho saw on one single occasion, or to what he ordinarily saw. Some of his statements point one way, some the other. On page 87 the author refers to the citizen's sons with the wordsa " I must not forget" ; these words should be omitted as also the fol- lowing "who"; so, also, on page 88, the whole of the first sentence of the first paragraph, except the last two words should be left out, — and consequently the first two words of the second sentence, — the reason in lx)th cases being that the evident sco|x3 of the comparison includes the whole family, and these expressions would seem to indi- cate to the contrary. The closing sentence of the first paragraph on page 86 is worse than useless ; and in the next paragraph either the word "vain" in "vain-glory" shou'.d be omitted or an appropriate adjective should be attached to ' • triumph. " ' ' Fleshy " is a disgusting word ; and that sentence that begins the first paragraph on page 87, — we have to go back and reread the pre- ceding paragraph, otherwise we should be puzzled to know what is meant ; — our attention has been taken up with the description of the parents, and we have lost sight of the fact that they are coming out of the carriaga In any case "followed" is a poor word. THE WIDOW AND HER SON. The plan followed in this the most truly pathetic narrative in the Sketch-Book, is very simple and natural. The author notices in church a feeble old woman whose evident poverty mingled with self- respect, attracts and interests him, and whose heartfelt devotion dis- tinguishes her from the formality of the rest of the congregation. He is fond of loitering in churchyards, as many of us are ; one day while so engaged he sees a grave being du^ in a remote comer, and as he is musing upon the neglect of the poor, a funeral approaches, and in the chief mourner he recognizes the poor woman that had interested him in the church. Natural curiosity draws him to the side of the grave ; he learns that the poor old woman, a widow, has lost her only son. Her speechless agony is too much for him ; he turns away, but shortly afterwards hears from the lips of a humble NOTKS (»N TIIK SKKTCII-HOOK. Ml friend of the widow the aad Htt)ry of tho young mau wlio has just been buried. The author might have adopted a different plan for his story ; lio might have describef father, mother, and son; tlie son, anxious to relievo his parents, going to seek work on a rivm* craft; his seizure by tho press gang ; tho hanlships endured on board a man-of-war and in prison ; tho despair of tho i)arents with tho death of tho father and the broken-hearted poverty of tho mother, and so on. He would thus follow tho occurrences in chronological order ; ho chose otherwise, and we feel that any one of us might have at any time an experience similar to tho one he nan'alos. Wo feel, too, the simplicity of the narrative in marked contrast with the ingenious joining and fitting in Rip Van Winkle, and with the elaborate musings in Westminster Abbey, where wo meet the plan at every turn. Not but that there are imperfections hera The introduction is hardly such as we should expect ; it should be associated in a more organic manner with the narrative itself. Tho worship inside tho church is indeed presented in painful contrast with what tho ' • holy repose" of a Sunday in the country should inspire ; but this has only a remote connection with the story ; nor yet is it " prostrate " piety that such a day should call forth. Besides, the pathos is blunted by the pointed reference to the ' ' well-fed " priest, the sexton, the service and the clerk, — another emotion, indignation, comes in to turn our attention from the sorrowing mother. Nor is it a sufficient answer to say that the author must describe what he sees, supposing he narrates an actual occurrence. If his purpose is to describe all that he sees, then he should do so ; but if he wishes, as here, to direct attention to only certain of a number of associated circumstances, then he should bring forward only those that bear on his purpose, — as an artist in jminting a landscape will omit everything from his picture that would spoil its beauty, his purpose being a beautiful pic ui-e, not literal truth, providing always that what he gives is faithful to nature, the omitted part being only accidenta I NOTES. Pafie iHK ** A few moiii'lier."— Observe the fine, tender effect f)f this incident ! some of us may have been such "children with unthinking mirth.*' J:l :>n' 318 TMK SKKTCH-HOOK. Patje U4. ** iHy ftrnt llll|mlHO.— Had flu* story (iiidal here we should iiofc have felt satistieaper. Parje //7. Littlo Britain.— See page 20(). " U7. 01(1 Jewry. — That part of London whore alone the .Toavs were allowetl to dwell bef(»ro their hanislmient in the reign of Edward I. " 'J'.K Billingsgate.— The great fish market of L(»ndon ; it has given its name to foul language. " 'J'.K Milton's ttng«ls.— See Miltf n's "Paradise Lost.'" Hk. II. IL 555. MUTABILITY OF LITEEATUEF. The author has something to say about the neglect or utter oblivion into which books and their writers sooner or later fall, excepting here and there one that continues to be known and revered. The leason. he thinks, is the unavoidable changes in language, and the temporary or individual interest of the subjects treated. The few enilure despite all changes because they speak of what interests human nature at all times, and what by its directness and compactness goes atraight to the heart. This is the thought. The setting^ or the method of presenting the thought, is the next consideration. Evidently the author is afraid of being prosy, — in fact he makes the dumpy tome accuse him of it: the subject is an illustration of the trite theme "all things human pas* away." His natiirally bright, whimsical humor comes to his aid. The little dumpy, plethoric volumes of b3^-g(me days have always amused liini ; hi\ will animate one of them and make it speak. NOTICS OX TIIK .SKKTi;il-IMH>K. .Hi) — in droaiiilaiul vlioro everf/ffiiiiij is natiual ami imthiiiii; raiistw siir- prist\ Tims tlio humor (tf thi^ nu'thiMl of |)r(>s«'iitati(>ii luiugles vitli the w'IkjIo ami wo nnid with an cvigcr curiosity what in anotlusr sot- ting wv should either pass ovrr or iciud listh>,ssly. Tho U^sson, how- »>vor, is loarnod, and with tho additional advantage of animation on tho toach side th rh Ih' 1 fronted with wht opponent, s|)eaks his own sentiments ir his own way. But it would not be natui'al for tho author to mako his "tomo'' s])eak at onco ; — lio must *'load u]) to it," pn>paro tho niind of tlus i-oader for it by taking him to droatii-land. Ho is in a " lialf-dnnim- ing n)oor Ablniy where ho may indulge his mofnl, is -lisli,"— Set^ Xote ou Ait oi' ii(H)k- Making, i»age OG. i( lO'.K «' lU). liM TIIK .SKI:T(II-IKK)K. RURAL FUNERALS. It, iH not iiiorrly witli tlio oyo and foolings of a ptKit that Irving 1 whom ho was hotrothtsd : h«>r i)ray()r-lKM»k was always undor his pillow, and her name ho never uttoriMl afterwards. N. B, — Refer to some liistory of Lit absence of restraint that characterised them accordwl with his dispo- sition ; more than once ho laments their disappearance h«^foro tlir more ])retentious nuKlom "hotel." Tho "Unjon Hotid, by .lonathan Doolittle,"of Rip Van Winkle, shows his apj^reciation of tho latter. Tho miscollaneous sociability hero referred to, with tho attendant stories, does not Ixjlong to onr mfxlom hotel. It THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. Tho humorously bantering tone that runs through this story, — one of the ''Inn Kitchen" group, — is carried out in th3 family names Landshort, Starkenfaust (stout-fist), etc ; Katzenellenbogen, how- ever, has no connection with "cat" ; the region was the homo of the ancient German tribe, the Catti. The student will, of course, notice tho numerous and varied sub- jects of tho author's mildly satirical banter, — not of tho liighost or most original order of humor. Pag^' I'Jlf. Heldeiibiich — i.e. Book of Heroes: — A collection of old (ierman legends about giants, dragons, etc. , etc. •• I2!t. Minnie-liedera.— i.e. Love songs ('"lieders" is an Eng- lish pluial on a German one ; — no fault here). Perhaps Irving means " Minne^^ingers " (German Minnesiinger)— (ierman minstrels cotemixiraries of the Troubadours of France, whose jjoetry was Avholly of war and lova NOTBH ON THE SKKruiI-IIOOK. aui Ptt'jf loJ. Klioiii-nciii, Frnu'-wrlii, Siiuh aiiihh'- tivt^ly, Rhino (native) wino, foivigii wine, itjvol and rint. *' l't-4. dash of ('ecciitrieity,ctc. -A usoIush hit of infornmtion \vt^ 'he most dural)le of material. The author uses what he meeti^< wit-i oi: ', visit to Westminster Abbey as suggestive of his various r^, .eoHon.^. The plan is thus simrde h. nj-poanv ;e. As in The Voyage, it is not proposed to describe ' ^\;fyli>,')i;r "^ --ia, only what the autiior deems needful in carrying out his plan , tinB objects, however, have a fixed place, differing in this respect from those in The Voyage ; but they may be approached from different directions, or visited in what oixler the author pleases. Hence /le may call up any sort o' reflection he may wish and in what order he may wish. Here as so often elsewhere in carrying out his plan the author strives to be natural — to make what he has to say come as a natural consequence. So his mood is gloomy and therefore all around reflects the same gloom. The days are melancholy, they are the last of the autumn, the last season of the year ; the morning has shadows, not tho radiance vv^e usually associate with if. and these meet tlw evening il'l 352 THK MKETCH-UOOK. shadows ; it is tho deoliuing year, the abbey is congenial — it i« mournful magnificence, the dim regions of antiquity, tlie shades of former ages. The passage is subterranean with a dim light ; the avenue is dark ; the view is distant ; the verger is black and seems like a s;'(ectre. Tho building itself inspires gloomy reflections : — the walls are ••discolored with damps and crumbling with age;" moss, a sign of decay, covers the funeral inscriptions on the walls ; the plot of grass in the court is sickly and the sunlight falling on it is dull and cheer- less, and wh'jt splendor there is, is "dusk3\" But the pinnacles of this structui'o where all is gloom are "smi-gilt," and jiouit away front earth and man to where there is no gloom — to the " azui'e heavens." Such is the author's most elaborate introduction to his subject, - an introduction indicating either an imagination excited to the highest pitch, or a slow labored, but critical deliberation that accum- ulates around its subject everything that will make it more striking. Turning then to his real subject, the vanity of man's attempts t(/ immortalize himself on earth, he sees the nearly obliterated inscrip- tions on tho stone beneath his feet at the very moment when the bell of the abbey clock tolling out brings to his mind that time is passing away and takes all with it. The huge buildings amaze him but only to show the piminess of man in comparison, not to arouse admiration of his power. The crowded tombs of the dead raise a bitter smile as he thinks of the insatiate desires of the living :— their name and fame pass away almost as rapidly as their ambition. Particularizing now, the author goes to the Poet's Corner. Unlike others, they have few monuments, few inscriptions ; they need, none, for thej are not dead, — they live in our hearts, they speak to us yet, for they jmsswl their lives not for pei-sonal gain, but to do good to man, their fellows. The tombs of the great with all their "quaint effigies" and "overwrought conceits," all their ei^'^Ccivor to draw attention to the dead, are silent, and are looked upon only as curiosities or "relics of times utterly gone by," they are dead things, with no voice to our hearts, the highest efiforts of architectural and artistic skill, the exclusiveness of pride, the scenes of former splendor — " the silence of death has settled upon them alL" The greatest iu power as in misfortune, in pride, in beauty, in enmity, — queens' of the earth lie silent and low in " two small aisles.'* But just as the thoughts of death's seemingly all-pervading power 'i NOTES ON THE SKETCH-BOOK. 35;^ fill tho autlior's hoart and tlie gloom settles deeper and deoixjr, tli<> poals of the oi;j;au in the worship of the Divine Being burst on his ear like a shout of triumph — "'Oh Grave where is thy victory?" carrying him away from earth heavenward, even as the })innacU>s of this house of death gleaming with light pointed upward to the living 1)1 ue sky. One more thought — the dishonoring and the mockery attending these efforts to preserve the memory of the dead, and the jiu-ring (l(jor chses on the author with a hollow echo as ho steps out into the street a fitting emblem of all that is earthly. l'(t;ie J IS. " and I saw," etc. —Note here the "natural" jn-epara- tion for the outburst of triumphant music later on. •• I'>:i. "The Eg:yptiaii mumiiiies." — The reference is to the use made of mummies. Pieces of mummy were worn in little sacks around the nock as charms ; and mummy- powder was a famous medicine. •• Jn2. ** Alexander," etc. — There seems to be many of Alex- ander's coffins ; one was found a few 3''ears ago. it is said, used as a trough. CHRISTMAS. This and several succeeding jjaiKn-s show the author's delight in the imiotient amusements of the family circle, Avhere all restraint and conventionality are thrown aside and the natural imptilses of loving liearts are the only guides. To iiim domestic life alVorded the purest of happiness •, and though he never marriefl, yet his home at Sunny- side was the shtilter of numerous nieces to whom he Avas as a father, and who gav-e him in return all a daughter's love. The scenes and (Uistoms he hero describes are all the more pleasurable to him since they in a great measure belonged to the older times, -for Irving- loved the antique. And what he wrote u'om his heart he wrote well. Whether the author purposely placed these descriptive picciis of happy, buoj^ant domestic life, immediately after '•Westminster Abbey," is uncertain ; but whether accidental or piu'posed in passing to them, we seem to come out of a stiflmg dungeon into the fresh air of spring time ; we need long, deep and repeated breaths of this fush !iir to enable us to throw off the poison tliat lias crept into our blood in this sickening gloom. 1 m 354 THK SKETCIl-lJOOK. Page lO.'l. Remark Irvinf;'s apIxx^iatioll of the comforts of an old- time inn, and compare the descri[)tion liero with that of "Union Hotel by Jonathan Doolittle. " in Hip Van Winkle. The following- modicuiii, etc.— This paraprai)h pro- ])erl3' belongs to a short sketch entitled '• London Anti(iui- ties," omitted in this edition, which sorxcd asan intro.'/. •Jh'O. •Jdi). 2t>l. 2i;-j. " III this last respect."-— The following is the old stor3'-, which has less truth in it than is supposed, that the English were always too ready to interfere in dispute-^ in which thej' had no concern. *' He is a little fond," etc. Irving's fellow countr}- nu-n are now surpassing Englishmen in this particular. "His family mansion."— Tlie English constitution is here glanced at. It is not difficult to follow the author's allusions, " An entire wing "— i», of course, the Established Church. '* John has," etc. — A reference to proposed consti- tutional reforms, and the determined conservatism of the English. " The eonseqiienee is." -Again the oft-repeated story of the inofficiency >i the English public service, and the far more ti'uthful one of the great and evil influence of " vested interests. " NOTKS 0\ TIM", SKET(II-i;<)()K. 355 Va, u (( 211-J. 2HH. 2Gf]. 264. 264. "A arreat pari." Of course, jhtsohs itcciving jioii- sioiis are referred to. ** He is gi von.'*— The reference i)rc»bably is to those who hold sinecure offices, or who live hy plundering the state. ** All these." — This para^^raph refers to the clamors for reforms of vaiious kinds, including the demands of the extreme radicals whose leader was AVilliani Cobbett. *' It may be readily.'*— The author doubtless has in view the tumultuous meetings held by the radicals, and the dispersal by military force of one held at Manchester and known as the "Manchester Massacre."" '* These family," etc. —Alluding to the great national debt of Oi'eat Bi'itiiin. and to tie fancied decay of Britisli pow'er. THE PEIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 260. It would be well to compare as to method of treatment this truly pathetic story with the Widow and Her Son. 267. \ hart seatert. Compare the reference to the bell with the same in Westminster Abbey. THE ANGLEE. 27/). We have too few of these fresh out-door pieces from Irving. It LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 2<9.9. This and Rip Van Winkle are the two humorous mas- terpieces of their l'enerous, compassionate, tender husband ; an honest, cai'cful and most affectionate father. Never, was a more virtuous or a hai)pier fire-side than his. The influ- ence of his mighty genius shadowed it imperceptibly : his calm good sense, and his angelic sweetness of heart and temper, regulated and softened a strict but paternal dis- cipline. His children, as they grew up. understood by degrcjes the high privilege of their birth ; but the profound - est sense of his greatness never disturbed their confidence in his goodness. The buoyant play of his spirits made him sit young among the young ; ] "a rent and son seemed to live in brotherhood together ; and the chivalry of his imagination threw a certain air of courteous gallantry into his relcitions with his dau^'hters, which gave a very peculiar grace to the fondness of their intercourse. Perhaps the most touching evidence of the lasting tender- ness of his early domestic feelings was exhibited to his executors, when they opened his repositories in search of his testament, the evening after his burial. On lifting up his desk, we found arranged in careful order a series of little objects, which had obviously been so placed there that his eye might rest on them every morning before he 4 ■'-- . !W«'j-^;.fc1iK.;»«;iij!K4A«l(liJW»|i<>) (IHAUACrEU OF SIU WALTKK SCOTT. ;]«l began his tasks. These were the old-fashioned boxes that had garnished his mother's toilet when he, a sickly child, slept in hei' dressing-rooM ; the silver taper-stand which the yonng advocate hnd bonght for her with his lirst live-guinea fee; a I'ow (»f small i)Mckets inscril)ed with her hand, and containing the hair of those of her otfsi)ring that had died befort; her ; his fathers snulf-box and pencil- case ; and more things of the like sort, recalling the "old familiar faces." The same feeling was apparent in all the arrangements of his private apartment. Pictures of his father and mother were the only ones in his dressing-room. Th-i clumsy anti(]ue cabinets that stood there — things of a very diflTerent class from the l)eautiful and costly produc- tions in the i)uhlic rooms below — had all belonged to the furniture of George's Square. Even his fatlun's rickety washing-stand, with all its cramped appurtenances, thougii exceedingly unlike what a man of his very scrupulous hal)its would have selected in these days, kept its ground. Such a son and parent could hardly fail in any of the other social relations. No man was a firmer or more indefatigable friond. T know not that he ever lost one ; and a few with whom, during the energetic middle stage of life, from political differences or other accidental circum- stances, he lived less familiarly, had all gathered round him, and renewed the full warmth of early affection in his later days. There was enough to dignify the connectiim in their eyes; but nothing to chill it on either side. The imagination that so completly mastered him when he chose to give her the rein, was kept under a most determined control when any of the positive obligations of active life came into question. A high and pure sense of duty pre- sided over whatever he had to do as a citizen and a magistrate ; and as a landlord he considered his estate as an extension of his heartli. — Lockharf. ■M i f •*• m INTHODTICTION TO "THE TALISMAN" By OnARU)TTE M. Yonge. Tn the year 1884, an Eiififlish traveller in Edom found tlhi Bedouin Aralis exclaiming to a shying" horse, " Teshonf RiJmrd? "— " Do you see Richard ? "—and the mothers still threateniuis^ their nrfractory children with, " I will call Kikard ! " The Lord de Joinville, who made his crusade with Louis TX. of Franci^ about half a century after the death of Ilichaivl C«eur de Lion, mentions these same expressions, and they have endured in the unchang*- ing East for full seven centuries, to testify to the terror impressed on the natives of Palestine by that lord of the mighty axe and beaming spear. Taken in one of its aspects, the Crusade ot Richard L against Saladin was one of the ideal conflicts of chivalry, and Scott has made the " Talisman " a kind of epitome of its most romantic moments, throwing* many incidents together which happened at different intervals. Yet the brilliaut fabric he has woven impresses the characters of the chief personages and the spirit of the Crusade on our minds better than mauv a more exact chronicle of facts. INTKODICTION TU " THK TAiasMAN. „' " ;{(;;; Tlu! Tliii'd CiMisadi', coiKluctcd li\ Ixk-linrd 1. of Km«,»"I'MI(I aiul IMiilip II, <)(' Kraiu't', coiniiionly callrd Aii^^ustiis, li;ul lnHMi 111 c()iU(iin|ilati<>n Im-Iopo iIk; dcatli of II«mii'>' II., and was only coniiiicnccd so |at<' in lis:> tliat tin; arniics liad to winter in Sicily, tli'- navi^''M;i'»n of tlir MfditciTancan Imin^^ unsafe^ foi* the vessels «»r that- century. Wlien tli*- ai'iiiies sailed, in th intended bride Bcreiigaria tVom Xavarre, jnid had arrived in Sicily in Lent, so that the marria^^-e iiad to l)e deterred I>y the rules of th(? Church, ;ind the princvss followed him in a separate ship with his sister Joan, the widowed (^uim'u of Sicily. A storm scattered the fleet, and the ship contain in,n' the ladies was forced to put in to the ]tort of Limasol in the island of Cyprus. The Greek sovcrei«.,''n of the island, Isaac Comnenus, churlishly refused sheltei- or I'efreshment to the ladies, and, on the tidiug's re;ichin' Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 iV "ci^^ ^ ,.v ^ O'^ 364 INTRODUCTION TO ' ' THE TALI8MAN. but was never used as a surname by his descendants till it was adoptcHi as such by the grandsons of Edward III., and thus it became convenient to distinguish tlie entire dynasty and their cliildren at Plantagenets, T\n\ hero of the story, Sir Kennetli of tlie Leopard, or as lie proves afterwards to be, David, Ivirl of Huntingdon, is a morci substantial personage, and was actually present in tiiis Crusade, but not in disguises as a kniglit adventurer, but as header of the force* contributed to tlie Crusad(^ by his brotiier William the Lion of Scotland. Nor could ho have been a young man, since iiis father, Henry of Scot- land, had died before U')!. He is a person whose name occurs again in the perjilexing genealogy of Hru<'e and Balliol, both of whom derived their claims to the Scottish Crown through him. He was Earl of Huntingdon in right of his mother, the daughter of the .Saxon Earl Waltheof, and his wife was Matilda, daughter of the Earl of Chester. He had sonn^ curious adventures on his return from tin* (>rusade, being driven by contrary wint^s to .Vlexandria. where the Saracens captured him and sold him as a slave. Some Venetian merchants bou^-ht him. apparently on spec- ulation, and carried him to Venice, where h(^ was ransome ApiWf r*^ '>- IXTUODLCTION TO '•THE TALISMAN. .*{(;:. SO famed, that Philip of Franco, always his eiK'iny, Ix'^an to hiitv liim more bitterly than ever. lifvantine fever soon attacked hoth the kin^jfs. nor indeed was h*ich.i rd ever i'vi^a from iiitermirtiii^'- attacks of it dnrin;»* tin.' r«.'mainin;j5" nine years of his lif(\ He was carried on a mattress to view the walls, and thence aimed with his crosshow at the Sai-acens on the walls. It was at this time that courtesies he»j:an to ]>ass between him and the Sai-ac(!n Sultan of Ej?ypt. — Saladin as we know him, thouirli his in'oper name was Ysuf or Joseph, his >obi-i(iuct. Salah-ed-deen, "the salvation of r<'li;::ion." The Saracens, or Kastern Arabs, had. in the former jji^en oration, conquered Ki?yi)t. Saladin was th<3 second of the dynasty and seems really to have been a man of tlie Hue persona; character that sometimes is found amon^ the Arabs, brave, truthful, and g"enerous, and at the same time following up all the best precepts of the Koran, so a> to lead a simple, austere life, and to be scrupulously honorable and just in all his dealin«^s. It was he who. live years previously, had h'd his forces out of Kt^ypt to driv(^ the Crusaders out of Palestine. The Uitin kinfjfdom of .Jerusalem had never been more than a collection of fortresses and cities, separat<'d from each other by lonjif distances, and, tlion^'^h the feudal system iiad been established there, the chiefs were almost independent of one another. T!u; enei'vating «'t1ect of the climate and habits of the East likt'wise had an evil inHiience on the character and lial>its of EuroiK^an settlers, who feM into many of the vices of the L^ast, and lost their courajje and hardihoixl in the second ^LJ^eneration. The Crown of Jerusalem had descended t(j Queen Sybilla. Her g'randfathei' had been a Count of Anjou, Fulk. who had in his later years ^iven up his county to his son (Teofi'- rey. the Plantag"enet, and been chosen to nmrry a young »l ;jfi() INTHOIUTTMKN' TO • niK TAl.ISMAN. lujiirss, (^)iujcii of .Jerusalem. Sybil la had inarriecl Guy de Luj-i«iiian, a noMciiian from tlie south of Pmncc, very liaiHlsoiiic. \mt weak, lioI|)k's,s, and despised by Crusaders jiiid Saraeeiis alike. Tersonal valor seems to have been ids only j^'oimI (juality, and the })rinces of the Holy Land iKTsuaded the Patriarch of Jerusalem to declare Svbilla 1 v separated from him on the day of her coronation, and free to chi'os(^ anotlier husband. Tiie lady turned around, sur- veyed them all, and then placed the crown on Guy's head, sayinjj:, 'WhattJod hath joined to^'ether, let not man put asundei*." It was a nobh' reproof, but so incapable was Lusi^nan, that when ids elder brother, the Count of La .Marciie, heard of his elevation, he said, "If they lui've uiadi; a kinjjf of Guy, they would make a g^od of me, if they could oidy see uie." (Juy could make no head against such a warrior as Sala- din, and on tlu^ Hill of Ilattin, near the Sea of Tiberias, was totally defeated and mad*; i)risoner, and with him a robber knight, ]{enau(l de Chatillon, who had shown himbclf law- less and treacherous, and had plundered a caravan among- which Saladin's mother was travelling". The King" W7is treated by the Sultan with all courtesy, led to his tent, and presented with a cup of cooling" sherbet; but, as Chatillon was about to drink, the Sultan exclaimed, -'Hold!" and swept off the traitor's head with a single blow of his sabre, ere the tasting" of his cup had bound him by the crude laws of hosi)itality. It is from this incident that the fate of the Grand Master of the Templars is borrowed. This defeat deiuided Jerusalem of defendei's, and Queen Syl)illa was obliged to surrender it, after it had been for eig"lity-eig"ht years in possession of the Franks. It was the hope of recovering" it that brought the two kings to Pales- tine, and negotiations were carried on during the siege ol IXTKOIKl'TION TO Tin: TAI,I>.MAN. a» » I Acre, and presents exchanged. Richard received a visit from Malek el Adel, Saladiifs brother, and wns asked )>y him what f^ift lie would wish to receive lr<>ni the Sultan. His request was tor poultry, (»n which to feed his tame fa icons ; and |)eai*s from Damascus, Syrian fi:ra})es, and mountain snow, were also sent to him. There was some dim idea entertained that the young Queen Joan nii^'"?it be the bride of the son of Malek el Adel, on his becoming a Christian, and that they might then reign at Jerusalem : but the scheme never appeal's to have been seriously enter- tained. The incident of the banner is taken from one that oc- curred immediately after the city of Acre had been taken. The standards of England and France, the three lions and the lilies, were set up together on the battlements, and the ensign of Austria was planted beside them, to the in- dignation of Richard, who tore it up and threw it int(j the moat, declaring it presumption in a duke to place his ban- ner beside those of kings. The watch assigned to Sir Kenneth is wholly imaginary, and the final and most ruin- ous offence was given to Leopold of Austria some months later, after the King of France had returned to his own country. Ascalon liad been taken, and Richard was anx- ious to advance to Jerusalem, but, having more general- ship than most men of his time, would not do so until he had repaired the fortifications ot' Ascalon, so as to Ijc able to leave a strong garrison in his rear. The soldiers niur- muwd, saying they came to take Jerusalem, not to build walls ; and Richard, to set them the example, worked him- self at carrying stones, cjiUing on th.e Duke of Austria to do the same. Leopold sullenly replied that he was nctt the son of a mason, which so provoked the fiery-tempered Lion Heart that his ready fist was raised against the haughty ;?o,s INTUOinJCTION TO "TIIK TALISMAN.' (Termun. Leopold iinnicdiatcly (luittcd the army and returned to liis own d(jininions, whore, as is well-known, he ungenerously captui*ed and imprisoned the ship-wrecked Kichard when rciturning. It is rather surprising to tind this same Leopold labelled as the G(X)d by his subjects. But the act, though ungenerous and revengeful, was not such an outrageous offence against the law of nations as it now appears, since it was believed that a sovereign prince in his neighbor's dominions, without a safe conduct, must be there for a bad purpose, and might be arrested. Besides this, L(;opold was a kinsman of Conrade of Mont- serrat, and believed, most unjustly, that Richard was guilty of his murder. Montserrat ("the saw-toothed mountain") is a little Ali)in(^ province, of which Conrade was marquis, that is to say, mark or border lord. By inheritance he was also lord of the little crusading principality of Tyre, and he had married Isabella the only sister of Queen Sybilla. On the dt^ath of Sybilla without children, a dis- pute broke out, Conrade claiming the kingdom in right of his wife, and Cuy de Lusignan maintaining that, having once been made king, he was king for ever. Richard, as head of the; House of Anjou, arbitrated between them, and decided in ftivor of Isabella and Conrade, giving Guy the kingdom of Cyprus, by way of compensation, and marry- ing him to the daughter of Comnenus. A few da\ s after his nomination to the crown, Conrade was murdered, but not by the Grand Master of the Tem- plars. Then^ Avas a strange, wild sect of Arabs, devoted to the bidding of a chief called the Old Man of the Moun- tain. The first founder was named Hassan, whence they were known as Assassins, — and thus has arisen our modern word, — for theii* vow bound them in utter recklessness of their own life to murder any person designated by their *'i.:..«Vb*9 INTUOUUCriUN TO "tiik tamsman." ;j«o they lern chief. Conradc, hs likely to be a more efticient kiiifj of Jerusalem tlinii his predecessor, was tliiis marked out by Richard's choice for tlu'ir venu^eauce, as, seventy years Uiter, the [)rowess of I'^lward I. madi; liiiu the obj'ect of one of tiieir attacks. I3efon^ liieiiard left Palt^stiiuN he had seen the wi(h)w«'d Isalx'lla married to Count Ileury, of Champagne, to wliose protection lie left the Holy Jjiind. lie liad not beim abh^ to recovci* Jrru.N'dem. Once lie had been on a hill commandin«jf a view of the city, but, when calhid to look at it, he turned away, covering;' his face with his hands, and sayiuijr, "They who are unworthy to serve it are unworthV to behold it I" A jnaffuiftcent victory at Jaffa was his last achievement in the Holy Land ere he ma ''•'. a truce with Saladin for three years, three months, three wec^ks, three days, arid three horn's, and returned to Europe, to meet witii many disasters, and end his career ])e fore a petty castle in Poitou. His brave enemy, Saladin, was already d(?a(l. As he? lay sick at Damascus, he caused his shroud to be carried througJi the strecits of the city with the proclamation, *Beh(:>ld all that Salah-ed-deen, the concjueror of the East, taketh away with him." He died in the March of 1103, Avhile Richard was still in his prison on the banks of the Danube. 'Witli much that is unhistorical, Scott has thus ^iven a vivid picture of the chief characteristics of the Third Cru- sade and the men who foujii-ht in it, — Saladin, g-allant, able, wary, and resolute, but with a native; generosity abU^ to appreciate a noble foe ; Richard, hig'h-minded and chiv- alrous, brave to rashness, and with the eye and talent of a general, but failing in his aims through his violent temper ; Phili]), astute, cunning, and bent solely on his own advan- tage ; and the permanent defenders of Palestine, corrupted ;J70 lNTI{Ul»L'CTlON TO •THE TAL18MAN. by tlioii- surroundings, treacherous, and unseruiuilous. Tlic Templars, of Avliom so niucli mention is made, were an ordy aAvHil ciinicH, thougiit to ;^aiji forgivciH'ss and rcfinisnioir by laying aside all earthly jtoiiips and visiting, in tlio guisn of liuni1>l(i itcnitcnts. the shrines of tlm Holy Tiand. I*ilg)"inis. upon tluMP return, were revered l)y their less fortu- nato neigliUtrs and kinsni(>n, and their intei'cessions cMiusidered to Iw most otHcacuoua on high. Tho shir^ worn l>y tho ])ilgrini vhen he ontorofl Jerusalem was ])res<(rv(Ml iu tho belief that it insured his entrance into tho New Jerusalem (/.*.. ll(>avun) if used as his shroud. Whilo this atrango m»>dley of Ixdief was creating througiiout Europe a j)rofound conviction of tho importance to Christinnity of .lerusalem. events in the East entirely changed tla; complexion of alTairs. If, as is said, Belgium has been the cockpit of EurojK.'. Palestine, to a far greater degree, has been the c(K'kpiv of the Eastern Hemis- |)hero. As in ancicnit times, tho ijossessiun of it had been fiercely fought for by Eg^'ptian, Babylonian, (rreek, and Roman, so now, as it fell from the nerveless grasp of the empire, Asia, Africa, and Furope again grai)pled for its mastery. It was st'ized by tho Persians in 01 1 A. i>. ; retaken by tho Empoi'or ITeraclius in ()2f) ; ccmquoi ed by tho Saracens under Omar, in 6H7 ; passed under tho sway of the Egyptian khaliffs, in 749, and of tho S(^l.iukian Tui'ks in 107nt natdrc glowing with indignation as \n< Indiclil tho insults IjcajKrl jipon Christianity in its very hirthjilacc, was fired with ono niiglit}' imrpos*'. Ho returned to Europe. det<'r>nined to know no rest so long ns the hated infidel ])Ossessed the Holy City. Clad in a gown of coarse cloth girt w ith a ro|»e. with hared head and bartnl foot, and riding u\y(.n an ass. he travorsec Urhan II. Peter found a ready helper, for tho fireek Emiteror, in terror lost the Turks, who had swept from him every vestige of i)owcr in Asia. should attempt the conquest < if tho imjierial city, had written him, imploring tho aid of the hravo warrioi*s of the West in his behalf. Anxious to extend his iK)wer. for the ftreeks did not acknowledge the poixjs as tho supremo head of the Church, and desirous of recover- ing Jerusalem, Urban determined to call a council of tho great prelates and nobles, and lay these weighty matters before it. Tho littlo town of Clermont, nestling among tho mountains of Central Franco, was tho place selected, and thither, in tho November of lOOo, stn'anuMl the powerful barons and chui'chmen of France an«l surrounding countries. After settling various minor matters, Urban brought up tho great subject about which all wore anxious to hear. Before tho vast concourse which assembled on this occasion in the market-place, countenanced and sui)ported by the head of the Church, Peter, clad in his well-known garb, cmacia^^ed and palo with excitement, arose and delivered an impassioned harangue. As he proceeded, with wild gesture and fi'antic manner, to describe the w(x»s of .Terusalem, his words thrilled the sympathetic audience. And when, after he had ceased, the Poyte called upon all to devote themselves to recovering the desecrated tomb of their Loid, and solemnly proclaimed the exceeding anger of the Almighty that such insults to religion should be tamely endured, the excitement of the audience burst all bounds. Breaking up in the wildest enthusiasm i 374 N'OTKS ON' nil; r A I, I S.MAN. with tho cry, " It in tlm will of ({(mI I Ii, is tli»> will of fJrxl I" (a cry *t Crusndi". woro iiliko ha>ity and inadofiuato. Unahlo to rostrain their iniitatiotico. vast nunihorf* of tho lowor classes flockofl to Peter, demanding to bo led to Jerusalem. Carrie«l away by their imjjortunity, in an evil moment he consontod, and starting with a confused multittido (it cannot be callwi an army) of U'tweon 80.000 and 100.(X)0, he set out overland, throtigh Hungary and Turkey, for (Constantinople. With a gleam of com ion sense as raro as it was desirable, ho divided this rabble, and asstuiiing the leadership of one division, assigned tho other to Walter tlu^ T\'nniless. Proceeding entirely without commissariat, strong in tho Ixdief that tho holiness of liis cause atoiuKi for any invasicm of tho rights of property, ho si)eedily l>ec^amo involved in hostilities with tho people along the route, whose objectioTis to having their lands devastated and houses plundered, in howsoTK.«S ON ''Tin: TAI.IN.MAN. iM«» in of id, of t3 |M)\vorful Imruii, rxiHtcMl more U'Wiiixti ot' tlu- ]H)rt tlip t<»ttontiij throne of JcntHaltMn. nu'ivly )MKt)toiMHl thf in»«vitahh( ov«'nt. Tlie Thii'il <'nisa* hancn of pcrniainMit rt'-^iiltn an any of tho ri'^t. Tho ronmining ("'nHar.i('tically to havo acooni|tliHh('d none of the various ohjeets for which they \ver(» gotten up. Notwithstanding: this uniform faihii'e, two causes rondered them popular: first. l(<»lief that entrance into heaven was assured to all Cnisiiders ; secondly, and towanl tho last, more ]»(»\veiiully. gratific.itinn of tho love of glory and a<^lventuro. of ])owor and j)lunder, tlie reiijnini!; pnssinns of the agr These conihined to produce anonthusiusui. desiructive of reason, which swept Ix^fore it high and low, saint, and sinner, young and oM. well and sick, and even women and children. 'J'he lailuro of those attempts is attributable to many sources. At first utter ignoranc;* of tho distances and of tho c((untries to bo traversed ; tlio unsultab' ^- ness of tho stt^el-clad knighton his heavily-armored hctrso for fighting under tho burning sun of Syria; tho excesses of tho Crusaders, fat;il in a hot climate, diminishing tho ofl'ectivo hgliting fon^es ; tiieso and associated evils contributofl their quota to the sum total of disast<'r. The double-dealing and cowardice of the fxrofdc etni)erors have to answer for much. Having invited the Lat i princes to help Ihem. they feareble, devoted, and unselfish ones like Godfre}' and Tan. ed, but t " majority vcre vi/jlentl}' swayed b}' hatred an jealous . >f each o' 'T Scott has very clevedy given an inside vi' w of the fu il discord which sapped tho life of many a Cnisada Repeatedly conquering ':ho Asiatics against fearful odds, the leaders ofte betraj ^d a recklessness and lack of foiethought NOTKS ON "TIIK TALISMAN. incomi)rohensibli) toiiKxlcin soldiors. In a country liostilo to invadei*s alike in its deserts and its mountains, thoy rciKjatedly violated in camp or on the march, the first principles of war. Inhuman when victorious, terrible vhon defoat(Hl, these soldiers in a holy war committed crimes which history fairly blushes to reconl. The suffer- ing, bloodshed, and loss of life through famine, pestilence, and war, caused by the Crusades, is incalculable. If they failetl of their avowed objects, it is pertinent to ask what benefits wei'o obtained at so dear expense. The indirect results were many and valuable. The banding together, for the accomplishment of a common object of the various peoples contributed in no small degree to break up the little communities into which feudalism had cr3'stalii!ed the nations of Europe, and thus prevented anything like real national unity. The Crusades told most heavily against the great bai'ons, who were the chief bulwark of the Feudal System, and who cinppled themselves at home so as to gain more ]K)wer abroad. Comparatively speaking, but few kings embarked in these enter- prises, so that the king representing the nation as no baroji could, and who at the beginning was hampered and browbeaten by hi** powerful vassals, upon whom vows of feplty sat lightly, at the end was found to have mounted on the wreck of the baronage to increased power, and to have become tlie real as well as apparent leader of the nation. Municipal liberty gained also at the expense of the baronage, and many a town took its first long stride towards comparative independ- ence and greatness during this period. The barons in whose territory they were situated, desirous of getting the necessary gold to arm and equip their followers, sold them chartiers, granting certain rights and privileges hitherto denied. Then the bounds of geographical knowledge were enlarged, the paths of commerce ext^nded^ and the dense ignorance of the Middle Ages was enlightened by contact with the more polished, if moi'e effete, civilization of the East. One of the greatest benefits, however, was the enforcement of a Holy Peace upon Europe during a Crusade. For almost the first time since the fall of the Roman Empire, lands devastated by countless wars experienced the rest and prosperity incident to profound peace. In short, the condition of Europe v/as materially bettered at the expense cjf Western Asia. In what respects history would have been changed had the Crusaders succeeded in all their schemes, is a question of probabilities. Between the broad, rich domains of Asia and the ambition and greed mtnk • NOTES ON rm; ialisman. :{7T of tlio Crusiidi^rs iiitcrvt'iicMl tlici wailiko Turks. Valiant as t.lu>s(' were, thcv \v«'n» no match for tlm Wi-steru warriors wlicu fighting under (Hinal conditions. Hud tlio hitter posscissed gtaieralshij) equal to their hravery, the}' would have advanceerty and good government l)een materially chi'cked. Note B. — Mohammrd. Mohannned, or Mahomet, tho founder of Mohammeilanism, or Islam, was born A. i). o70 or 571, at Mecca, an important town in west central Arabia, situated about forty niiles east of the Red Sea. Although descended from one of the most influential families, Mohammed, was left at an early age an orphan in straitened circum- .s^ances. In his youth ho travelled to various surrounding countries with the caravans sent out by tho merchants of his native placa In this waj"- he became acquainted with Jews and Christians, and was impressed with the sujierionty of the worship of Jehovah over the idolatry and irreligion of his countrymen. His marriage when twentj'-five with a rich Avidow of forty raised him to a position befitting his birth. Of an imaginative temperament, ho now began to indulge his fancy, and for five years lived mostly in a cave, giving himself up to religious dreams and visions. The expectations of the Jews that the Messiah was soon to appear on earth took strong hold of his imagination, until he became to believe that he was tho oxpectal Saviour. He began, privately, to seek converts to his new religion, proclaiming that there was but one God, Allah, and that he was his prophet. After sevei'al years of private ministration, discouraged by lack of success, he publicly began, in his fortieth year, to exhort his .{78 NOTES ON •Tin; TALISMAN. fcllow-towusineii to forsako their i*l<>|s and falsti iH-li^fs. and accept iiiui as tlie pr()i)hc't, of Allali, th(! only true God. Ho met suoh tlireatenini? opposition, howover. that ait'^v many fruitless attempts to ovprcomo it. ]u\ deeided to fleo to Me-di'-na. a, .^niall to'wn two hundred and seventy miles north-west from ]Mecea. Here, received with open arms, Vio hejjan actively to spread his relifjion. This flight to Medina (A. l>. 022) is called the He-gi'-ra,. and !?:> tlie date from which Moliammedans reckon time, .Vi'ming his folio wei's, Mohammed converted surrounding trihes hy |»eaceable, and when necessary, b}' forcible means. Soon ho attacked Mecca, where he was finally successfuL After laj'ing the foundations of a religion which numbers among the peoples of Asia and Africa more followers than all Christianity, he died at Medina in the eleventh year of the Hegira and sixt\--third of his life. After his death his Avritings and pretended revelations were cfdlected into one book, called the Ko-ran', the chapters of which, one hundred and fourteen in number, are termed su'-ras. For the details and pretended miracles of this renowned enthusiast, see cyclopaedias, etc. Note C— Knighthood. Amid the lawlessness and violence of the Middle Ages, when Might made Right, the institution known as Chivah'j'' kept alive and exalted tliose sentiments of honor and magnanimity which prevented Eui'ope from sinking to the barbarism of Asia. The corner-stone of Chivalry was the Knight, who, in addititm to the maintenance of its objects, viz., to alTord protection and help to the weak and defenceless, bound himself to the service of some noble lady, for whose favors he con- tended, and whose reputation he was ready to maintain. Candidates for Knighthood had to be of gentle {i.e. noble) birth, and to pass seven years (from the age of seven to fourteen) as pages in the family of some prince or noble, seven years as squires, and then, at the age of twenty-one, the degree v;f Knighthood could be confeiTcd, either on the battle-field or. if in time of peace, at some high festival. On the battle-field, the ceremony was necessarily'- short. The candidate (novice) arnied, but without helmet, sword, and spurs, knelt before the general or prince who was to knight him, while two persons- called sponsors, put on his gilded spurs and belted on his sword, Then from the one who ''dubbed" him Knight he received the ac'-co-lade' (a slight blow on the neck delivered with the flat of a .m^^im NOTES ON THE lAMs.MAN. y7i> sword) together with the v/ords, "I dubl) th»'e Knight in name of God and St. Michael. Be faithful, bold, and fortunate." In time of ])eaco the ceremony was more religious and elalx)rate. Among other observances, candidates were obliged to watch tluiir arms all night in a church or chapel, preparing themselves by vigil, fast, and pra\er. NOTK D.— Tkiai. )i\ Okokal. A favorite method of determining guilt was to try the accused by ordeal. The oideals dilTered with dilTerent countries and classes. In England among the nobility the susi^'cted })orson had to hold in his hand a piece of red-hot iron, or Mulk. blindflolded and barefoote e i .. In the various legends Blondel's name is intimately associated with Richard's. Accoitiing to tradition it was he who discovered the place of Richard's captivity in Austria. Seeking his former patron he roamed over tiie land with his harp, visiting the different castles. While singing, under tho very windows of a stronghold where his royal friend was confined, a song known only to Richard and himself, he was interrupted by a voice from an upper room completing tho strain. Thus learning of tho king's whereabouts, ho was enabled, by publishing to the world the ignominious fate of ono of tho greatest Crusaders of tho age, to effect his ultimate release. ; I r I i: DEFINITIONS OK (>LOSSARY\ Abstemious (ab-stc'-iui-ous), sparing in vi-;i» of foixi (ir strong drink. Abyss (ii-byss'). hero, hell; literally, bottomless pit. Achilles (A-kill'-es), one of Homer's heroes, famous for his prowess. Acolyte (ac'-o-lyte), attendant of a priest. Address (ad-rlress' ), skill. Alliphibions (am-flb'-i-us), able to live partl3' on land and partly in the water. Amulet (am'-u-let). Apostasy (a-pos'-ta-SNO, dopartuix) from a former belief ; here, for- saking Christianity for Mohammedanisui. Apothegm (ap'-o-them), wise saying. Ascillon (As'-ca-lon), a sea-port of Palestine. Asphaltites (As-phal-ti'-tes). Aualo^ous (a-nar-o-gous\ similar. Astracan (As-tra-o:in), city in South-east Russia, formerly inhabited by Tartara. Astucious (as-tu'-shus), crafty. Austere (au-stere'), severe, stern. Automaton (au-tom'-a-ton), figuiXi or machine moved by clock-work inside of it. B Bauble (baw'-ble), a fool's bauble was a short stick, canned at the end into a head ornamented with ass's ears. In the families of the great it was customary to have a jester or fool, who, by his Avit should amuse the lord and his guests. :m^lixirah(i&^j^ DKFINITIONS OK (iL088AUV. :'i88 Bayard (Bay'-aiti), a fabled luu-rfe of increclibl*' sikjchI. Bedizened (be-diz'nd), dress gaudily ; henco, as here, luibecomiugly, Borak (Bor'-ak), the anunal that convevofl >r()hammfvl to the seventh heaven. Brigandilie (hrig'-an-din), light armor. BllfToon (buf-foon'"j, ono who amnsps nthpr^ by jokos and comin gestures. Buckler (buck'-ler), kind of shield buckled on the arm. Bnskin fbus'-kin\ kind of half-boot. Caaba (Ca-a-ba), a black atf Imlmet. MoHqno (inosk). Mohammedan placn n( worship. MneKziii (Mii-oz'-zin), a priest or crier 'who proclaims from the minaret of a mosque (liells being forbidden) the hour of prayer. H XectubaiiiiH (NtT-to-ba'-nus). Xesle (Neel). Sne note G. Niche (nit«h). cavity in a wall, as for a Htatue^ Novice (nov'-ia). >)eginiier. Obduracy (ob'-R fH,OMAKT. :V«7 Saracen (sar'-a-c«ii). an Arabian, a Musfluhnun. Schirax (Schi-mz') a PiTHJan city notofl for its h«>autiful ganinis. Scurrll (scnr'-ril), indor4>nt. Sorratod (!ser'-ra-t«Ml), .iaifffcKl. sawlikf: fnmi MPrrn, Latin for «*a\v. Shrift, forgiveness* of sins. Specific (sixj-cif'-ic), tho\ver to proserv(j t.lm Iniarer from evil. es|)ocI- ally disease. Tlieodork'k (The-od' -o-rick i. Tiara (ti-a'-ra), crown, generally i»f Kastern monatv^hs. Truculent (true' u lent), tierce. I' Ulysses (U-lyss'-es). one of Homers heroes famous for his shrewd- ness. Unicorn (u'-ni-coin». » fabulous animal resembling the horse, but having one horn (Latin, imun. one, cornu, horn) issuing from its forehead. Yenial (ve'-ni-al), pardonable; not to 1h' eonf(»unded with ve'-nal* mercenary. Versatility (ver-sa-til'-l-ty), readiness tu change; here, being treacherous. Voluptuary (vo-lup'-tu-a-ry), one who lives for his own i>leasure. Yemen (Yem'-en), most fertile pait of Ai-abia, situated in S.W. Ysop (Ae'-sop), who. according to tradition, was a monster of uglines«. •♦■I. ?r^J^iff- Poems of Wordsworth. KIHTIOh l!V J. B. WBTHBRBLL, R.A., Principal of Strafhroy i'oUvtjiaic hisfitutf.. WITH A Memoir of Wordsw orih. ByPuoF. Wm. Clauk, LL.D., Trinity Liiiversity Toronto. ' An Essay on the Literary Mission of Wo rds- worth. By Principal CiHAxr, Queen's University. Kingston. Monograph on the Esthetic Use of Words- worth's Poetry . By Wm. Houston. M.A. A Critical Estimate of Wordswo rth. By PiioF. (^iiAKi.Es. G. D. Roberts. M. A , Kind's Collego. Windsor, x\.S. ^ Examination Questio ns. By A\ M. PIoi.STON. M.A. SSSfS'ftt^^ Wordsworth's Poems. School Edition of Wordsworth's Poems. A VALUABLE B(X>K To Teachers. The Publishers are glad to invj^«i the attention of High School i\x\(\ Collegiate Teachers, and indeed of all loveis of Wordsworth, to one of the most valuable literature text-books that liuve yet l)eon issued h Canada. A new edition of Wordswoi'tlfs Poems under the editorial manage- ment of Mr. Wethtnell, will be issued on the 20th of August. Our editor has invited to his aid four of our best- known Canadian iiuthors and has thereby produced a text- book that certainly reaches high-water mark. Contents. This A^olume contains the poems of Wordsworth that have been prescribed by the University of Toronto for the Pass Matriculation Examination, und adopted by the Edu- cation Department for the Junior L-iaving Examination. The Text. The text in the main is that of Matthew Arnold's edition ; but, as Wordsworth frequently revised his poems, and as Arnold has taken it upon himself to select in each case the version that suited his own poetic taste, often rejecting Wordsworth's final reading for an earlier one, a study of variants becomes useful if not neossarj'. This study in synonyms and poetic phrasing will prove very interesting to the thoughtful student. All the maierials for such a literary exercise will lie found in the full table of variant readings contained in the notes of this edition. Wb.^i^^i^^£££ Wordsworth's Fociu». Memoir of Wordsworth. The Memoir of AVordsworth by Prok. Wm. Clakk, of Trinity University, Toronto, will lx> found to contain all the information of a biographical nature tliat the youn^ student will need Literary Mission of Wordsworth. The article on the Literary Mission of Wordsworth by Principal Graxt, Queen's University, Kingston, is an excellent treatment of one of the most interesting themes in the literary history of the century. Esthetic Use of Wordsworth's Poetry. Mr. Wm. Houston's chapter on the Esthetic Use of Wordsworth's Poetry, containing a plan of study, is rich in matter and sviggestion. This article, it is believed, will be welcomed by all teachers of English literature in Ontario. Critical Estimate of Wordsworth. The judicial estimate of Prof. Roberts, M.A., King's College, Windsor, N.S. , concerning the place of Words- worlh among English bards will attract wide attention. The chief poet of Canada shows us clearly that Matthew Arnold's estimate of Wordsworth's genius is misleading and demanls correction. Sketch from "The Athenaeum/' The pleasing sketch from The AthemBuni on Dorothx- and AVilliam Wordsworth will help tlie reader to appreciate moi-e than one of the i)oems in this sf?lection. Wordsworth's Poems. The Notes. For obvious reasons the Notes on the poems in the present edition are somewhat numerous. Those teachers of English who look askance at annotated texts will of necessity make an exception in the case of Wordswortli. The poet himself has even condescended to be his own interpreter and annotator, and his abundant comments and delightful literary gossip have added many pages to the Notes. Poetic Tributes to Wordsworth. The ''Poetic Tributes to "Wordsworth " at the end of this volume speak for themselves. Those from the poeraj of Matthew Arnold and William Watson find a place here through the courtesy of Messrs. MacMillan. Examination Papers. Mr. Wra. Houston's Examination Questions on these poems will be found useful as specimens, illustrative of the theory he has advanced in his monograph as to their use for esthetic purposes. The questions are accompanied by some trenchant remarks on the use of written examina- tions. ^^iMa^s^mmm^^ NEW FRENCH LITEHATURE FOR 1893. BOITCO BY SQUAin AND M ACCI LLIVRAY. LES FRERES COLOMBE, BY PEYREBRUNE. AND LA FEE, BY FEUILLET U" one volume. > Prescriltedfor Hifjli School Leaving? and University Matriculation for I8!>.s. Edited by .1. Squaih, B.A., University College, Toronto, and Prok. MacGil- LIVRAY, Ph.D. Queen's University, Kinprston. The plan of this carefully preiKued text i.s m the mam that of the Editors' *' Sardou and De Maistre" of last year, consists of a general introduction, critical hiographical notices of the authors, texts, notes — grammatical and liter- ary — with refe.rence to the High School Grammar, complete vocabulary, and continuous composition exercises based on the texts. NOTES. In the Notes, textual difficulties are explained, ijeculiar- ities of construction noted, and the grammatical points involved enunciated and referred to the authorized gram- mar for fuller explanation. VOCABULARY. The Vocabulary contains every word in the text with its more general meanings in addition to its particular one in the text, indication of irregularities, and examples of idiomatic uses. For greater simplicity the derivations fol- low the explanatory and illustrative matter. COMPOSITION EXERCISES. Exercises in Composition are added and arranged so as to form synopses of the texts, on which they are based more or less closely. They are not merely a translation of the original, but move frequently a rendering sufficiently intri- cate to make a severe mental exercise as well as imitation necessary. The points raised or explained in the notes receive here their practical iipplicntion. i,^.?!»S;;i3?A':^v?«lPPS»!R!B*s •PBOIMKN ILLUSTRATION. CiESAR'S GALLIC WAR. BOOKS III. AND IV. Edited, loith Nottity Vocabulary, etc., bf/ J. C. ROBERTSON, B.A., f'lasts- ical Master, Oioen Sound Collegiate Instsittite. BOOK III., BO CENTS. BOOKS III. AND IV., 75 CENTS. LEADING FEATURES. The following; may be noted as among; the important features of the new Text on Cssar. The Introduction. This consists of five sections written for the capacity of the students who will use the book ; a life of Csesar ; a description of Gaul and the Gauls ; a summary of each book of the Gallic war, that students beginning with Book III. t'.«SAK's GALLIC WAR. or IV. may understand tlu. previous course of events; a description of the Coninieutaries as a work of literature ; a sketch of the Roman Army and methods of warfare. The Text, Maps and Illustrations. For convenience of reference the subsec- tions of chapters are indicated in the margin and in the notes. Two maps are given, one from Kraner's edition, the most complete yet published in a Canadian text, the other a sketch map giving the main features needed to nnderstand the story of Caesar's campaigns. A number of illus- trations have been prepared to make more vivid the pupils' conception of Roman warfare. The Appendices. The first contains a series of exercises in translation at sight, of sentences chosen from Caesar and illustrating the constructions and vocabulary used in each chapter. An equally valuable feature, serving as an introduction to these exercises, is a series of hints and suggestions for the translation of Caesar's Latin. These hints are arranged according to syntatical order, but deal solely with the best idiomatic rendering of such forms and usages as are coni« mon in Caesar. < !;i' «SK!K!«S?rt!3^?WS®S^. Cesar's axLiAc war. The second Appendix gives a graded series of exercises ill j)rose composition. These are not sentences in whicli C'tBsar's phrases are rei)roduced in much the same form as given in the text, hut will hoth test and develop the power to naci a given phrase in an entirely new .setting. Instead of the pupil merely selecting, he must combine a phrase and ii construction, both occurring in the text, but separ- ately. In all tliese exercises idioms and usages rarely occurring are avoided. ^=S><3 & © c §> cf SPBOIMBN ILLUSTRATIONS. The notes to ea(;h chapter are divided into two parts, the first for the average student, containing all that is necess- ary to the understanding and idiomatic translation of the text, and not a word more ; the second for the development of scholarship in the more advanced pupils. Apart from the exercise of common sense selection, the editor has tried to avoid the extremes of giving too much and giving too little help by two devices. First, in most cases only such parts of a sentence are translated as con- iUti,!*?* CESAR'S GALLIC WAK. tain the difficulty ; second and -nore important still, con- stant reference is made to the hints for the translation of Ceesar referred to above. By this means, in case of diffi- culty, the pupil can readily iind, within the same covers, just the help he wants ; while on the other hand, wherti the pupil is proficient enough to do without any explanation, the assistance needed for a weaker student is not directly before his eyes, tempting him to use it instead of dependinf;: on his own resources. Margfinal Space. A new feature is introduced in printing the text, so as to leave ample room for the making of marginal notes by students. Briefly the Book is specially Notewortliy as containing: Graded exercises in night translation and in re-translation. Hints and suggestions for the rendering of Ccesar's Latin. Constant reference to these hints in the notes. Notes divided into two parts for the different classes of student. An illustrated introduction. Reference to the new authorized text-hook and Grammars. Vocabulary that will be found complete and accurate. Euglioh and CaiudlAn Htstory Note Book. — - — y —^ New Topical English and Canadian History Note Book. This little Primer is preparf^d to cover tlie Public School History Course in English and ('anadian History, and is printed so as to furnish a numl^er of blank leaves to allow students to make additional notes. Price 25 Cents. LSADZXra FSATTTASS. The Notes. The Notes are arranged Topically under such headings as best indicate the True Growth of the nation. Progress of the People. The Progress of the People, the Struggle for Freedom, the Establishment of Representative Government, and the Development of Education. Literature, and Religion, are given more prominence than wars. Colonial Extension. The Colonial Extension of the British Empire is briefly outlined. The History is Classified. The whole History is Classified, so that the Relation- ships of the Great Upward Movement can be understood. Gii^irliMli and Ciiiiadiaii HiMtory Note Hook. Aprangrement of the Notes. The. Ainin^^ernonf of the Notes iiiakps it Easy. Di^finito, and thoroii^li reviewinj.^ perfectly simple without a teacher. Admirable Prepa ration. The Notes supply an admirable preparation for the study of larger histories, and the best means for (riearly remembering what hfs been learned from them. Additional Notes . Ample space has been left for additional notes to be written by the student. Used in Connection with any History. The Notes can be used in connection with any History and are intended to stimulate the further study of the important subject with which they treat. By the Use of this yote Book ; 1. Tima js saml to Teachers and Pupils. 2. Success at Examinations made mcn^e certain. 3. InteT-es Us aivakened in the Study of History, revealed. ' Honor Work in £iig:li!»li. FOE EOITOE WORZ IN B2TaLZSS. Hudson's Shakespeare. CarofuUy edltod, witli Explanatory NoU'h at the bottom of the page, and Critical Notes at the oiul of each volunio. By H. N. HunsoN, LL.D., Editor of Thf Harvard Shakespeare. Pkick, 3) Cents. Souiu of the Special Features of this edition are the 4'oiiv4'iii(>iit hIm- iiimI Mliti|K' or lllC VOllllllC, Tlie clear I.V|m^ aiiil siipoiioi* |ir<>fi.4«voi'k. The aiii|»le iiitrodiiclioiiM. The explaiialury iioleN, easily found at the f(K)t of the paRe. The erilieal iioles for M|ieeial >«lii4ly. The Jiidteioiis ex|»Hrj;alloii, never nianylin^' cither style or story. 1'he aeiile and .Hyiii|»athelie erilielMii Ihat han eoiiie to he hhho- eialed »ilh lie. lliulsoiiN uaiiie, and. finally. The I'easoiialdeiieMK of the prlee. Ilil'aiii rorsoii. Prof. <riiH Xorllirop, PreMdeut Uni- rerxitf/ n/Mitnie.'iota : They are con- venient In form and edited by Hud- son,— two f,'oo(l thin;;s which I can se(! al a Klance. €. T. WlneheNler, Pro/.of Knf)., WesU'iinn University : The notes and connncntfl in the school edition are iidnnrahly lilted to the need of the student, removinji- his diflficultics by stimulating: his interest and quicken- ins,' Ills iM-rcoption. {Feb. 10, 1887.) Prologue to the Canterbury Tales of Geoffrey Chaucer . pvice .ni> cents. The text, collated witli the seven oldest manuscripts, and a life of the Authoi', Introductory Notices, (Jranmiar Critical and Explanatory Notes, and Index to obsolete and ditflcult words. By E. F. Willoitghby, M.D. A new feature has l»een introduced in this edition, viz :— An attempt by the omi)loyment of diifereni type to indicate the correct metre and pro- lumciation so far at least as Is essential to tlie intelligent reading' <>f the text. W. J. (lAliK tt Co.'.S l*rHI,I(;ATU)NK. Gage's Standard and tflg h Sch ool Book- keeping Blanks. Prepnredin Accordance v)ith Hm'snt ItfffuldtiouH i>/ EiUn'ittionul Ih'partun'ii*. Made out of Xxtni Fltu; papor, having spi'oially hard rtiufai-c and firm texture, this Ix^lii;; parlifularly (U'sirahle for ii ImmiU wliicli requiros ho iniich handling j)r»'|>aralory to iii.siH'i-lioii liy cxnniiiii'rM. LarK*" l'o«t ito, HJ x I'"'. Unit linlod, 3(U paj^c-a, Press Hoard Covers, t Model P'orniB of N'oto.^, Cheques, etc. Bill Book. Drafts, Aiiperior to any. Am very niiicli pleased niili it. It is niiieh .Huperior to anv ili )t T liave si-en. ilase recoiiinit iidcd my students to pet it in preliTenee to all others.— A. R. I.nm;s, M.a., ('iiinmp.rcial Mastm- Jiichmouil Hill Iliijh School. An lnii»roveniont. Have examined Blaidta and found them an improvenuMit on I'ormer ones. Shall use tluni. — J. D. BUUELS. M.A.. l/.atf Mant.'r Deseronto Jli^jli SclmoL The flnei^t prodnoflon. I have fjfeal; ploasiue in des- cribiuK it i\6 tlie tinest i>rodiiction of the kind yet published in this country. It cannot fail to meet theapprovalof connnercialmtisters throughout the i)rovince. — L. Kin- NEAU, M. A.. Head Jla^ft^r Cai/naa High School . " Pleased. Am much pleased with it.— J. S. CoiT.AM), M.A., Science and Cnm. Master, Brockville C.L III every way excellent. In every way excellent.— Jon. \ Ilorsrox. Head Moftt.r Briahfn,t Ifijfli School. dxsssm^^^T!^ W. J. Gajsi'J & Co.'s PuiirJUATIONS. Revised Edition Oag^e's New Map Geography Primer. I'liiT itUM'iit.s. K(ir I'lipils |ir«*|iiii'iiiu: for IMtnnotioii K\aiiiliiiitloiin. b\tr riiplls pn'it.'iriiiu'- tor Kiilr;nif«^ KMiniiiintioiM. Kor l'iipil>( pi'fpiiriiiK' tor .liniinr inul Sniinr licaviiiu- K\aiiiliiii- tiollH. For Pu|)ilH iwlt;wliiK for (Jt>rtl»'cuti'H»tr Kiiiiil Kxaiuiiititioiis, f MOovcrcotno tho nvmt dlfTU'iilty of preparing' .stiidfiils fur tlio*l<', as tlie one dfK'S not pre^seiit the words from the text Im kjU so as to he rememiwri-d readily, and llie others neeessitate tiie \oha of nnieh valnal)le time. Further, the pupil flfw.-i not reeo>jrni7,(! the word in its written form, and thus the 8i>elHn>? is not taught. Of still more imiK>rtane(! and what in itself should eommend the work to teaehers and the pulilie KCiei'nlly, Is that the ('.ri't'cha hook' reqniretf for the (licUdion exercisen in Geojrraphy alono coats aa much as this primer. The work is arranged in tabular analysis, to jirevent the waste of t 'me in |K>rinfr over a prosy te.xtlxxjk. liri('f notes arc inserted at intervals lo eonvey information t»f speeial interest. Although merely preliminary, this lK)ok will he found to ecmtain all that is neeessary to tit a student for any of our examinations in the subject, Oeo^rraphy. Aa to vhnt and how much to teach, tho.se in ehar^re must exerei.>«e their own .jud4» ment-*. The attention of hoih teaelier anrtions of tli(> earth as Australia and i>arts of Oceania. Africa, the West Indies, and Central America. Tln-se plac»'s, containing as they do sister colonies, claiminsr a conunon ori,'jrin with ourselves from Hritisli stock, cannot fail to Ite of deep interest to all loyal Canadians. The stati.stics of the various countries, particnlary tliose speakinjr the English Lanf?ua^''e. have been brouirhl down (o the latest date : this is iwssible at this juncture owiniL,' to the prevailing- custom of takinur the ceusus every decade. W. .1. a Mil: & Co.'h Prni,UATio\s. itoviMod Kilitloii <;ii;f<>*:H Now Map <«oovrapliy rriiiMM*. Tlic Hiilhvay innp mid lottcr \»\vhh iii.stnK'tioii lU'coinpiiiiyin^ it, which t'oriii.s u H|N>t'iiil t'catmv of tlw work, Is also l»rou;,'ht down to latest dale, and will he found to nlinoiit fnruUh a " travellers' M-iddo," ns nearly ovny |)lar(> of iMi|iurtan(>*> will lu> found tlu>r«>in. It will Ih> noticed tliat tlx' older parts of noted : . X«*w Bnllwa.v Map. ffho Grand Trunk Railway System is indicated by ii Red Printinjr and Canadian Pacitic Railway indicated hy a Green Printing, tbns sliowimr at a irl.aiice these two irroat Railway System? of Canada. Svw M)ip>> of West Indies, Central America and Mexico have l>p<'n added, also ii map of the Dondnion of Canada showing' relative rela- tions of the different 'Provinces of Canatia. i-f'SS^swr W. J. Gacfj & Co.'s Publications. Revi'HHl Kditioii lv Vnge .^ap of Oiitnrlo.— Printea fitMii reliut' platet* in tliree i-olors with all of the most recent iiiforinatioii available. .\ew »oul»lr Fu{C4> fln|» of BrItlHh ('olumbla brouf^ht down to date. Ilouble Pngc Mup or Qiiehi^r. Sv-w l4tatiiitlcH of various countries have been inserted, tfivi"K infonna tlon to latest date In accordance with the recent census, in which Products, Manufncturea, Trade and Commerce have received 8i>ecial attention. A Chapter on Topical 4«r»grapby for Lan^ua^fe Lessons. (Specimen Pfomollou Examination Papers. Price.— Notwithstanding the l^x)k has been printed on beautifully calen- dered paper, entirely re-written ^vith a brge number of additional maps, the price remains the sinne, viz., 40 cents, and is about one-half of that of ordinary texts lxx)ks. t'oiiuty K«lltloii.s have been issued, the Counties being grou|>ed together and beautifully engraved maps of each County, witli every post-offlce. iwpulation of villages, towns, etc., and other useful information sup- plied. CONTENTS OF COUNTY MAPS. Each map marks the location of every post-office, shows the popula- tion of each village or town, shows the location of t(>legraph stations, the main travelled roads and the distances between stations oii the various lines of railway. County Edition A. Witli County maps of Esriex, Kent Lambton. Middlesex. Elgin. Perth, Huron. County Edition B. With County mai)S of Ov.ford, Norfolk, Brant, VVentworth, HaWli- mand, Tilneoln, Welland, Wot