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Les diagrammes suivants iiiustrent la mdthode. :• ^ 2 3 32X 1 2 3 4 5 6 1 II^ WASHINGTON IRVING ^ijjh jSchoxjl (gbitian THE SKETCH BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON BY WASHINGTON IRVING WITH INTRODUCTION, ANNOTATIONS ^ APPENDIX BY FRED. H. SYKES, M.A. / T O R O N T O THE f.Ori', c:i,AKJ< COMPANY, Limiikd 1892 172534 Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-two, hy TueCovp, (.lark Co., LiMiTKD, in the Office of the Minister of Agricnlture. CONTENTS. Introduction The Author's Account of Himself The Voyage Roscoe PAGE. V. 7 11 16 The Wife 22 Rip Van Winkle 29 English Writers on America 44 Rural Life in England 52 The Broken Heart 58 The Art of Book-making 63 A Royal Poet 69 The Country Church , 81 The Widow and her Son \ 85 The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 91 The Mutability of Literature ... 101 Rural Funerals 1 10 The Inn Kitchen 120 The Spectre Bridegroom 122 Westminster Abbey 136 Christmas 145 The Stage Coach 150 Christmas Eve ] 56 Chi'istmas Day , 165 CONTENTS, The Chrigtmas Dinner 177 Little Britain 190 Stratford-on-Avon 202 Traits of Indian Character 218 Philip of Pokanoket 228 John Bull 242 The Pride of the Village 262 The Angler • • 260 The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 268 Postscript 294 L'Envoy • • 296 Notes ■ 299 Appendix ^'1 f'r/e*^.,^i..^/;Z^ ./Wi«^k^^ INTRODUCTION. THE LIFE AND WORK OF WASHINGTON IRVING. [The following lives and critiques will be found helpful to the student of Irving. They form the basis of the present sketch. — The Life and Letters of Washington Irvinj, by his nephew, Pierre M. Irving, 3 vols., New York : Putnam's Sons; Wash- ington Irving, by Charles Dudley Warner, in American Men of Letters Series, Boston : Houghton, MifHin & Co. ; Prescott, Miscellanies, p. 88 ; Bryant, Orations and Ad- dresses, p. 93; Hazlitt, Spirit of the Age, p. 378; Edinburgh Review, 34, 1820, p. 160, and 37, 1822, p. 688; Blackwood's, 7, 1820, p. 554, 11, 1822, p. 688, and 17, 1825; Harper's, 2, 1851, p. 577, and 24, 1862, p. 271, also p. 349; Atlantic, 6, 1860, ;. 601, jvnd 13, 1864, p. 694.] When Washington Irving was born, on the 3rd of April of the yea; 1783, the United States, though they had won their liberty, had not yet obtained from George III. his «iirly recognition of their independence. They numbered but thirteen states, with a territory not extending west of the Mississippi, and a population about three-quarters that of Canada of to-day. The city of New York was a semi-rural town, little more than one-sixth the present size of Toronto. When General Washington visited New York as President of the United States, the Scotch maid-servant of the Irvings pushed her charge before him ; " Please your honour, here's a bairn was named after you." And the Father of his Country blessed the little lad ; — the hero and his future biographer met VI INTRODUCTION. Ill ago to together. All this speaks of a condition of social and political life very different from the present, and accounts for much in-. the nature and subject-matter of Irving's work. His father was a merchant of New York, of Scotch birth; and parentage, tracing his ancestry back to William de Irwyn^ secretary and armour-bearer to Robert Bruce. Serving on- board an English packet-ship plying between Falmouth and New York, he met Sarah Saunders, grand-daughter of an English curate, and made her his wife in 1761. Two years later the couj^e settled in New York, the petty -officer turning into a fairly successful merchant. The two-story house in which Wasliington Irving was born — 131 William Street — has long been torn down, and the more stately structure, with its Dutch gable, in which he s})ent his early year - No. 128 in the same street — was swept away half a centuiy make room for a pi-etentious " Washington Store." The boyhood days of our author were days of pranks and escapades — dizzy clambering to his neighbours' chimneys to drop a stone down the flues, then hastening back to chuckle- over the perplexity he had caused, or stealing away to witness- some tragic performance in the only theatre of the town ; — pranks that caused disquiet to his gentle yet admiring mother — " O, Washington!" she would exclaim, "if you were only good ! " To the God-fearing Presbyterian elder, the inno- cent escapades of his son must have been very trying, Tlie only relaxation he allowed his children with their three- Sunday services was the Pilgriin^s Progress. He was an admirable man, much respected by all, yet " When I was young," said Washington, " I was led to think that, somehow or other, *^verything that was pleasant was wicked." Despite- all this, there is no doubt that in those early years were im- planted the seeds of an upright and loveable and tender-hearted- nature. Of his education much cannot be said. He had the usual lot of children — instruction under indifferent and incompetent- teachers. But if his Latin was Shakspeare's Latin and liis- Greek Shakspeare's Greek, there is no doubt that the boy un- consciously absorbed that nourishment best suited to develop his^ natural strength of mind. He read Hoole's translation of Or- lando Furioso with delight at the age of ten ; at eleven, books- of voyages and travels became his passion, among which Sinhac^ INTRODUCTION. vli «,nd Robinson Crusoe were not the last. At scljool ho became proficient in a certain art o2 exchange — by no means a lost art in our schools of to-day — by which he wrote compositions for others, while they did sums for him. His master one day surprised him reading IVie World Discovered, under shelter •of his desk, when he should have been doing arithmetic ; but fortunately the master was somewhat sensible, and the crime brought no more serious consequence than a caution nob to neglect school duties. At home the boy would secrete candles, «o that when all were asleep, he might stealthily peruse his precious volumes — " Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas." It was no wonder, then that he should steal down to the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the passing ships bound to distant climes — and gaze with longing eyes after their lessening sails, and waft himself in imagination to the ends of the earth.* At the age of sixteen he entered a law office — I was on the point of saying he studied law — but that would not he true. It was much more pleasant to read liteiature, to visit the theatre, to cultivate the charming intimacy of the Hoffmans — the family of the head of his firm. His health too — symptoms of consumption showing themselves — did not permit severe study. Consequently for some years he led an idle, sociable life — visiting in Albany, Ballston Spring.s, and even penetrating by canoe, amidst dangers from Indians, as far as the wilds of Ogdensburg and Montreal. But none of his rambles made •deeper impression upon his susceptible mind than the holiday passed with his gun in the recesses of Sleepy-Hollow in 1798, and a voyage up the Hudson in 1800, — *in days before steam- boats and railroads had annhilated time and space and driven :all poetry and romance out of travel.' " What a time of intense delight was that lirst sail through the High- lands ! I sat on the deck as we slowly tided along at the foot of those stern mountains, and gazed with wonder and admiration at clifiFs im- pending far above me, crowned with forests, with eagles sailing and screaming around ; or listened to the unseen streams dashing down precipices ; or beheld rocks and trees, and cloud, and sky reflected in the glassy stream of the river. And then how solemn and thrilUng the * Sketch-Book, \->^§& 7, ▼m INTRODUCTION. I 1 i scene as we anchored at night at the foot of those mountains, clothed with overhanging forests ; and everything grew dark and mysterious ;. and I heard the plaintive note of the whip-poor-will from the mountain Bide, and was startled now and then by the sudden leap and heavy splash of the sturgeon. * * * But of all the scenery of the Hudson, the Kaatskill moun- tains* had the most witching eflfect on my boyish iniaginatiou. Never shall I forget the eflfect upon me of the first view of these, predominat- ing over a wide extent of country, part wild, woody, and rugged ; part softened away into all the graces of cultivation. As we slowly floated along we lay on the deck and watched them through a long summer's day, undergoing a thousand mutations under the magical eflfects of the atmosphere ; sometimes seeming to approach, at other times to recede ; now almost melting into hazy distance, now burnished by the setting sun, until in the evening they printed themselves against the glowing sky in the deep purple of an Italian landscape My heart will ever- revert to them with a filial feeling, and a recurrence of the joyous asso- ciations of boyhood To me the Hudson is full of storied associa- tions, connected as it is with some of the happiest portions of my life, "f In the year 1802 — Irving being nineteen — we have tlie first definite signs of literary genius that he displayed. During this year he contributed to his brother's newspaper, llie Morning Chronicle, irious letters on the drama and social life of New York, satues on actors and audience, so audacious that tne author had to shelter himself under the nom-ie on Wasfiington Irm'ng, 1860. INTRODUCTION. XI 'mock-heroics of the History inimitable. It purports to be a history of the Dutch Governors of New York, 'the only authentic history of the times that ever bath beCiv or ever will be published. But only the semblance of a historical nature attaches to the work. The references to the Dutch colonists afford endless suggestions for raillery over their their dress, habits and customs. The narratives of the events of the early settlement and life of the Dutch colony furnish g'.mply a justification for the stream of mock-heroics that flows through the work, — of marches of waniors brimful of wrath and cabbage, of bloodless victories gained in the decisive moment by the roar of the mighty Stuyvesant, or by a heaven-directed blow from his stone pottle charged to the muzzle with a double dram of Dut'h courage. If Communipaw escaped an attack from the English colonists of Virginia it was. because, when Captain Argal's ship hove in sight, — " the worthy burghers were seized with such a panic that they fell to smoking their pipes with astonishiag vehemence ; insomuch that they qnickly raised a cloud, which, combining with the surroundinc woods and marshes, completely enveloped and concealed their beloved, village, and overhung the fair regions of Pavonia — so that the terrible Captain Argal passed on, totally unsuspicious that a sturdy little Dutch settlement lay snugly couched in the mud, under cover of all this peS' tilent vapour. In connnemoration of this fortunate escape, the worthy inb'vbitauts have continued to smoke, almost without intermission, unto this very day ; which is said to be the cause of the rnnarkabe fog which often hangs over Communipaw of a clear afternoon."* The publication of die History, which took place on the 6th of December, 1809, was heralded by a most ingenious series of articles : notices in the daily press of the disappearance of an elderly gentleman named Knickerbocker, letters from travellers of his having been seen in distant places, of one from his su[)posed landlord threatening to dispose of his manuscripts if he did not return to satisfy his bills. The work moreover went to press in Philadelphia as a further cover", to the authorship. Great, therefore, was the excitement when the true nature of the volume disclosed itself. The descendants of the Dutch colonists, numbering one half of the inhabitants of New York, were for a time beside themselves over the irreverence with which the author had treated their worthy ances- tors. Mr. Verplankf saw in the work fancy wasting its riches * History of New York, ii. 3. t Address before the New York Historical Society, Dec. 7, 1818, by G. C. Verplank. zu INTRODUCTION. on an ungrateful theme, and exuberant humour in coarse car- icature. One old lady vowed, if she were a man, she would horsewhip the author. But on the other side we have the con- temporary judgment of Monthly Anthology that the work is * the wittiest our press has ever produced ' ; the judgment of Sir Walter Scott : * I have never read anything so closely re- sembling the style of Dean Swift, as the annals of Diedrich Knickerbocker "* ; the reviewer in Blackwood s\ saw clearly the faults of the work — that it at times becomes tiresome, that there is often a straining for ludicrous effect, that the humour is overdone — yet saw no less clearly its merits, looking upon it as *a work honourable to English litei-ature, manly, bold, and so altogether original, without being extravagant, as to stand alone among the labours of men.' But in mentioning the completion of the Knickerbocker History, we anticipate an event that tinged with sadness the whole life of its author. The intimacy which Irving enjoyed in the familv of the Hoffmans, of which we have al- ready spoken, had resulted in a deep affection for the second daughter of the house — not a great beauty, but lovely in person and mind, with most attractive manners and a tender sensibility and humour. Her death in April, 1809, at the age of eighteen, was a poignant blow, from which Irving never fully recovered. During after years her Bible and prayer-book were his constant companions. After the lapse of thirty years the memory of her was still too keenly ])ainfal for him. It is related that one day, at this late period, when he was at her father's house, a bit of embroidery fell from a music-rack to the floor. ** Washington," said Mr,, Hoffman, " this is a piece of poor Matilda's workmanship." Irving, who had been in the sprightliest humour, sank into utter silence, and in a few moments rose and left the house. It is thei-efore with the consciousness of his own loss that he penned the lines : — Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her ho most loved ; when he feels his lieart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetful- ness ? — No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attri- butes of the soul But the grave of those we loved — what a place of meditation ? There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of the virtue and ♦Letter to Henrj* Brevoort, April, 181 3. tJohn Nsal, Blackwood's ifagaziiie, xvii., 1825, p. 02. INTRODUCTION. Xll gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost un- heeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy— there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs — its noiseless attendance — the mnte, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love ! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling— oh ! how thrilling, pressure of the hand ! The faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection ! The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence !* ' ' For time makes all but true love old : The burning thoughts that then were told Run molten still in memory's mould, And will not cool Until the heart itself be cold In Lethe's pool." + For ten years Irving diJ little work in lit' rature. Only some naval biographies for the Analectic Magazine of Phila- delphia, and a biographical sketch of Campbell for a Philadel- phia publisher of ihe poet's works, break the long stretch of tinxe between the History of Neto York and the Sketch-Book. In 1810, the brothers Ebenezer and Peter living having formed a partnership to do business in Liverpool and New York, Washington was asked to join the house, not with the object of his becoming a man of business, but merely that he might have a means of subsistence while he devoted his talents to literature. Though he accepted the partnership, his devo- tion to letters was by no means a serious one : he revised an edition of the History of New York and edited, until editing became irksome to him. The Analectic Magazine. At the outbreak of the war of 1812, he became a staft-officer of the Governor of New York, with the title of colonel, but saw little active service. In the whirl of social gayety in New York and Washington and Baltimore, oi* idling among the beautiful country scenes of his native state, driven withal by a spirit of ennui for lack of definite afim, he carelessly fleeted the years away until he again went abroad. This was in May, 1815. Irving intended when he left for England to make only a brief sojourn in Europe : he re- mained seventeen years. He visited his brother Peter in Liverpool and his brother-in law in Birmin<»ham, when the " The Sketch-Book, pa^e 118. tA atttii/.a from Oaiuptifll's " \V lull's luilloweil kfioiiiid," .i Uvorilf poem o Irying's. XIV INTRODUCTION. 'ill! illness of Peter threw the management of the Liverpool branch upon his not incapable shoulders. But trade was bad, and Irving wrote early in 1816, "I would not again experience the anxious days and sleepless nights, which have been my lot since I have taken hold of business, to possess the wealth of Croesus." Yet for all this the years of 1816 and 1817 were of great value to him ; he made many short tours — to Kenilworth, Abbotsford, Stiatford-on-Avon ; and when his business engagements were lightened by the recovery of his brother, he was able to make a large circle of acquaint- ances, embracing Scott, Hallam, Jeffrey, Southey, Campbell, Milman, Rogers. D'Israeli. " Irving," said Scott, — and Scott's words may stand for the opinion all had of him — " is one of the best and pleasantest acquaintances I have laade this many a day." * But in 1818, the disasters that had long threat- ened the house of the brothers Irving swept it into bankruptcy. Washington faced the storm with steadv heart. He declined the chief clerkship of the Navy that was offered him through the influence of his congressman brother ; and with resolute mind tl'rew himself boldly upon the world, determined to conquer fortune with his pen. Thus we have the Sketch- Book as the first-fruits of this devotion to letters. The story and form of its first production we i)ave noted elsewhere, f It remains to note its immediate success. " We are greatly at a loss," wrote Lockart \ "to com))rehend for what reason Mr. Irving has thought fit to publish his Sketch-Book in America eai'lier than in Great Britain. Nothing has been written for a long time, for which it would be more safe to promise great and eager acceptance." The promise was amply fulfilled. The news of its success in America came to the author with a })aiuful delight. In a^iletter in September, 1819, Irving wrote to Brevoort, who had sent the news : — " The manner in which tho work has been received, and the eulo- giiuns that have heen passed upon it in the American papers and peri- odical works, have completely overwhelmed me. They go far, far be- yond my most sanguine expectations, and indeed are expressed with such peculiar warmth and kindness as to aflfect me in the tenderest ' Letter to John Kicliaidson, 22iid September, 1817. t In tlie Bibiioyrapltti in the Notes, page 301. \ Blackn'owVs for Feliruary, 1820, INTRODUCTION. XV this uction etliate "to fit to Great which manner. The receipt of your letter, and the reading of some of the criticisms this morning, have rendered me nervoiis the whole day. 1 feel almost appalled by such success, and fearful that it cannot be i-eal, or that it is not fully merited, or that T shall not act up to the expecta- tions that ma^' be formed. We are whin)sically constituted beings. I had got out t r' conceit of all that I had written, and considered it very questionable stuff ; and now that it is so extravagantly bepraised, I begin to feel afraid that I shall not do so well again. However, we shall see as we get on. As yet I am extremely irregular and precarious in my fits of composition. The least thing puts me out of the vein, and even applause flurries me and prevents my writing, though of course it will ultimately be a stimulus." We fancy that the work which could meet with the approval of Jeffrey must have some merit ; and that stern critic said of the Sketch-Book that " we have seldom seen a work that gave us a more pleasing impression of the writer's character, or a more favorable one of his judgment and taste."* "His Crayon," exclaimed Lord Byron, " T know it by heart, at least there is not a passage that I cannot refei* to immedi- ately." t One writer regarded the stories of " Kip Van Winkle " and " Sleepy FloUow " as perhaps the finest pieces of original fictitious writing that this country has ])roduced, next to the works of Scott. J In short, as the painter Leslie wrote, Geoffrey Crayon was the most fashionable fellow of his day. In a more extensive passage, which I a enture to quote, there is a criticism which touches, in a very felicitous manner, upon some of the most striking characteristics of the work : — " The Sicpfch-Bool' is a timid, beautiful work ; with some childish pathos in it ; some rich, pure, bold poetry ; a little puling, lady-like sentimentality : some courageous writing, some wit, and a world of humour, so hapjjy, so natural, so altogether unlike that of any other, man, dead or ali^^e, that we would rather have l>een the writer of it, lifty times over, than of everytliiiig else that he has ever written. The touches of poetry are everywhere ; . . . Irvine; has no passion ; he fails utterly in true pathos, — cannot speak as if he were carried away by Anything. He is always thoughtful ; and, save when he tries to be tine or sentimental, always natural. -Jhe ' diiKtii splendour ' of West- minster AbV)ey, the ' ship sfafj'jfring ' over the precipices of the ocean, the shark, ' dartimf, like a spectre, tliroiu/h the blue water.i,' all these tilings are poetry, such poetry as ... . never will be surpassed." ** August of 1820 found Irving in Paris, where his reputation ' KiUnhtinfh Rcmew, xxxiv., 1820. tCoiivi'i'satioti with Mr. ('oolidkfo of Boston. 1 Chiiiitbvr's CydopniUa (1844), ii. &!)4. " •liilui Neal, in Jilnekwimd'H, xvii., 182ri, x>. 02, 1 1 XVI INTRODUCTION. ' 1 I ;. h had preceded V^'y.. He fell in with ' Anacreon' Moore, and the two became very intimate — a charming joyous fellow, full of frank, generous, manly feeling, was Irving's opinion of the poet. It was from Moore that Irving took the hint for tlie plan of his next volume, Bracehridge Hall. " He has followed up," wrote Moore, " an idea which I suggested, and taken the characters in his " Christn)as Essay," Master Simon, etc., etc., for the purpose of making a slight thread of a story on which to string his remarks and sketches of human manner and feel- ing." Despite ill-health Irving completed his work, and super- vised its publication in London in 1822. It appeared under the title Bracehridge Hall or the Humourists, a Medley, by Geoffrey Crayon,, Gentleman. The same year an edition of the work was issued from the New York press. For the English copy- right the author received one thousand guineas, a sure sign of the established position he had achieved. Ill health — a malady threatening lameness — drove him to seek relief in the German curative springs. Many pleasant days were spent in Dresden, cheered by the friendship of the Fosters ; he took delight in the old city of Prague ; but in July of 1823 he was once again in Paris. The following year a series of English sketches anJ Italian stories was given to the world under the title of 7^ales of a Traveller. The American edition appeared in four pari,s, — Strange Stories hy a Nervous Gentleman, Bucktliorne and his Friends, The Italian Ban- ditti and The Money Diggers. While this last book wa.s in some respects the best work he had done, it was not new in style, and occasioned in some quarters * violent demons- trations of hostility.' Irving was downhearted at the criticism to which his volume was subjected. He felt that he had work- ed out his vein in narrative essay, and that he should have to cast about for new themes for his pen. In Spain he found the subject that fired all his powers, — the life of Colum- bus. Irving reached Madrid in February of 1826, and the three years he spent there were fruitful of many im])ortant works. He had pur[)osed at first merely to translate Navarrete's The Voyages of Columhiis, but stimulated by the great libraries of Madrid with theii- })recious archives, he plunged 'ever deeper into the chronicles and legends of old Spain. " How full of intejest," he wrote, "everything is, connected with the old INTRODUCTION. xvu times in Spain ! I am more and more cleliglited with tlie old literature of the country, its chronicles, plays, and I'omances. It has the wild vigour and luxuriance of my native country, which, however savage and entangled, are more captivating to my imagination than the finest park and cultivated woodlands." Under the spell cast upon him by the Oriental splendour of early Spanish history^ he was able in his AUiambra to * con- jure up images of Boabdil passing in regal splendour through these courts ; of his beautiful queen ; of the Abencerrages, the Gomares, and the other Moorish cavaliers, who once filled these halls with the glitter of arms and the splendour of Oriental luxury.' His Life of Columbus was published in 1828, and was followed by The Compactions of Columbus, and The Chronicle of the Conquest of Grenada, l^he Alhambra was not published until 1832. The immediate returns of these works in England alone were over thirty thousand dollars. Irving had therefore his head above water and the comfoitable certainty of a prosperous and honoured career. From all sides came the most graceful tributes to his charac- ter and to his genius. His countrymen made him Secretary of the Legation at London. In company wjth Hallam he was awarded a gold medal by the Royal Society of Literature ; in the University of Oxford, he was honoured by the distinction of D.C.L. Decidedly he had conquered fortune with his pen, as thirteen years before he had determined lo do. In May, 1832, Irving returned to America. It was no longer the America of his boyhood. During the seventeen yeai-s of his absence his native town had become a city of two hundred thousand inhabitants ; nine new States had been added to the Union ; steamboats were plying upon the rivers ; the West was open for colonization ; and the time of great fortunes suddenly acquired had begun. The reception given him by his countrymen was a tiiumph. It seemed as if their delight in his woi*ks, and their pride in the first great writer of their nation, restrained by his absence abroad, had suddenly burst forth. • A princely banquet in New York was followed by offers of the same honours in the leading cities of the Union. On all sides he met with the warmest expressions of personal esteem and admiration. He felt indeed that he had a birth- right in the' great country that welcomed him with such enthu- siasm. xvni iNfliODUCTlON. ;ii I " But how sliall 1 describe my emotions when our city rose to sight, seated in the midst of its watery domain, stretching away to a vast extent — when 1 beheld a glorious sunshine lighting up the skies and domes, some familiar to memory, other new and unknown, and beaming upon a forest of masts of every nation, extending as far as the eye could reach. I have gazed with admiration upon many a fair city and stately harbour, but my admiration was cold and ineffectual, for I was a stranger, and had no property in the soil. Here, however, my heart throbbed with pride and joy as 1 admired — I had a birthright in the brilliant scene before me : 'This was my own, my native land.'"* " If ever I should wish for a retreat," wrote Irving of Sleepy Hollow, with almost prophetic instinct, " whither I might steal away from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly away theremnant of a troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley." He did homage to the West iu his 2^our of the Prairies ; and then in Sleepy Hollow, in the very house of the Van Tassels, enlarged and renovated, crowned with a whimsical weathercock from a wind- mill of Rotterdam — in the " Roost " f or " Sunnyside," Irving made his home. A slip of ivy from Melrose spread over its walls ; within, the daughters of his brother brightened -^ his abode. They were happy years, and once only was Irving tempted to leave his haven of rest. He declined to be a can- didate for the mayoralty of New York ; he declined the offer of the Secretaryship of the Navy, with a seat in the Cabinet. But the offer of the mission to Madrid, " the crowning honour of his life," as he regarded it, that he could not refuse. Yet even in the court life of Madrid he wrote in 1845 : '* I long to be once more back at de»r little Sunnyside, while I have yet strength and good spirits to enjoy the simple pleasures of the country and to rally a happy family group once more about me. I grudge every year of absence that rolls by. To- morrow is my birth-day. I shall then be sixty-two years old, the evening of life is fast dawning over me ; still I hope to get back among my friends while there is a little sunshine left." After four years of absence, the exile again saw Sunnyside, there to live out the remaining thirteen years of his life. It was there that he wrote his contributions to the Knickerbocker Magazine, his Recollections of Abbotsford and * Speech of Irving at his reception banquet, t Wolfert's Roost—or Rest. vt I- gy ^lMWWM I Ul i m l tNfnoDVGTion. XIX lour Yet ^gto yet the )OUt To- old, le to Ihine saw rs of the arid Newstetid Abbey, The Legends of the Conquest of iSpain, Astoria, and his last groat work, the Life of Washington, [t wai tliere, on th(5 28th of November, 1859, tliat he died. It is there on a beautiful eminence commanding a view of the liver and the valley he loved and celebrated, that he lies buried. Of the mkny tributes to his memory, I find none more fitting, none that better expresses the abiding genial force of Irving, than that pronounced by George William Curtis ; " With Irving," says Mr, Curtis, " the man and the author were one. The same twinkling humour, untouched by personal venom ; the sweet- ness, geniahty, and £;vace. . . .which endeared the writer to his readers, endeared the man to his friends. Gifted with a happy temperament, with that clieerf 1. balance of thought and feeling which begets the sympathy which prevents bitter animosity, be lived through the sharp- est struggles of our politics, not without interest, but without bitterness, and with the tenderest respect of every party. His tastes, and talents, and hal)its were all those of the literary man. . . .It was given to him first of our authors to invest American landscape with the charm of imagination and tradition. . . . When his death was known. . , .the older authors felt that a friend, the younger that a father had gone .... On the day of his burial, unable to reach Tarrytown in time for the funeral, I came down the shore of the river he loved. As we darted and wound along, the Catskilla were draped in sober gray mist, not hiding them, but wreathing, and folding, and lingering, as if the hills were hung with sympathetic, but not unrelieved gloom. Yet far away toward the south, the bank on which his home lay, was Sunnyside stiU, for the sky was cloudless, and soft with serene sunshine. I could not but remember his last words to me, more than a year ago, when his book was finished, and his health failing : ' I am getting ready <> go ; I am shutting up my iloors and windows.' And I could not but feel that they were all open now, and bright with the light of eternal morning," ;«■■*■*■*■ I i*iM— ■Mi—pi J i 1 i i i i; THE SKETCH BOOK OT GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. ADVERTISKMKNT TO THE FIllST AMERICAN EDITION The following writings are publirthod on experiment ; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. lie is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicissitude !R. He cannot, thorofore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. Should he be en- couraged to proceed, much time may elapse between the ap- pearance of nis numbers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feelings ; sometimes treating of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely imaginary^ and sometimes wandering back with his recollec- tions to his native country. He will not be able to pve them that tranquil attention necessary to finished composition ; and as they must be transmitted across the Atlantic for publica- tion, he will have to tiaist to others to correct the fi-oquent errors of the press. Should his writings, however, witn all their imperfections, bo well received, he cannot conceal that it would be a source of the purest gratification; for though he does not aspire to those liign honours which are the rewards of loftier intellects ; yet it is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. London, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. The following desultory papers are part of a series written in this country, but published in America. The author is aware of the austerity with which the writings of his coiuitry- men have hitherto been treated by British critics ; he is con- scious, too, that much of the contents of his papera can be interesting only in the eyes of American readers. It was not his intention, therefore, to have them reprinted in this country. He has, however, observed several oi them from time to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has understood, that it was probable they would be republished in a collective form. He has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them for- ward himself, that they may at least come correctly before the public. Should they be deemed of sufficient importance to attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that cour- tesy and candour which a stranger has some right to claim who presents himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation. February, 1820. mSi^BAMSm^^m w t i THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and tliereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed Into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not whete he would. — Lyly's Euphues. I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into for- eign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, 1 extended the range of my observations. My hoUday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where* a murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighbonring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and grea^ men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, from whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the pier heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imaginations to the ends of the earth ! Farther reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bcands, 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 8 THE AUTHORS ACCOUNT OF IIIMSELF. Hi III: 'l:!'i^ gratification: for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mfghty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendous cata- racts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless pla:ns, wav- ing with spontaneous verdure; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling tvith 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 masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, the quaint pecuhari- ties of ancient and local custom. My native country was fidl of youthful promise ; Europe was rich in the accumulated treas- ures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to ■wander over the scenes of renowned^ achievement — to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity— to loiter about the mined castle— to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the conmionplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the gi-eat men of the earth. We have, it is time, our great men in America: not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore bo as superior to a great man of America as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving pas- sion gi-atified. I have wandered through different countries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say TUE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF UIMSELF. 9 ture eans ints; catar wav- )lling inhere dlinp; ; — no, Dr the )etical rt, the uhari- as full L treas^ )ne by, ged to tread, Hit the jape, in md lose "'A 'I that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the sauntering gazo with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometmies by the delineations of beauty, some- times by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modem tour- ists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me, at finding how my idle humour has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular travel- ler who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disap- pointment with an unlucky landscape-painter, who had travelled on the continent, but following the bent of his vagrant inclina- tion, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and land scapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the Cascade of Temi, or the bay of Naples; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. at men merica : ningled by the baleful irly the !at men iophers, ong the efore bo Alps to med, by .gnitude 3d, were us land kvhich I (■ing pas- Duntries, lotsay THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFEET CEAYOK, GEl^^T. " I HAVE no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of other men's fortunes aud adventures, and how they play their parts ; which, uie- thinks, are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theater or scene."— BuRToy. THE VOYAGE. Ships, ships, I will descrie you Amidst the main, I will come and try you, What you are protecting, \ And projecting. What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. Another stays to keep his count! y from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, Hallo! my fancie, whither wilt thou go?— Old Poem. To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening chain'' at each remove of 12 THE SKETCH-BOOK. I III our pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken; vtq can trace it back link by link ; and we feel that the last of them still grap- ples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from the secure anchor- age 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 uncer- tainty, that makes distance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least was the case with myself As I saw the last blue hne of my native land fade away like a doud in the hori- zon, it seemed as if I had closed one volimie of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all that was most dear to me in life ; what vicissi- tudes might occur in it— what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain cur- rents of existence ; or when he may return ; or Avhether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? I said, that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expres- sion. To one given to day dreaming, and fond of losing 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 loll over the quarter-railing or cHmb 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 peer- ing above the horizon; fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — to watch the gentle undulating billows, roUing their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, on the mon-. sters of the deep at their uncouth gambols : shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heav- ing his huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagina- tion would conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me : of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth, and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, THE VOYAGE. 13 ace it grap- IG. It nchor- Id. It een us uncer- ious. he last ff) hori- Id and opened , which vicissi- 3 in me, its forth Eiin cur- r it may 5 expres- f himself ion; but d rather ighted to »f a calm 3om of a list peer- ms, and e gentle to die md awe the mon-. )orpoises ^ly heav- Is shark, [imagina- of the Iroam its |k among ^antasms le ocean, would bo another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of hmnan invention ; that has thus triumphed over wind and wave ; hiis brought the ends of the world into communion; has established an inter- change of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north aU the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowl- edge, 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 bar- rier. "We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a dis- tance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkercliiefs, 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 sheU-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the i-oar of the tem- pest — their bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship ; what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intel- ligence 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. AU that shall ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard of more !" The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when the weather, which liad hitherto been fail', began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden stoi-ms that wiU sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp, in tlio cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his talo of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the capkiin : . , \\ 14 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. " A.S I was once sailing," said he, " in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that pre- vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead, even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length ot the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smack- ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with a broadside toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a fight. We struck her just a-mid-ships. The force, the size, the weight of our vessel, bore her down below the waves ; we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half -naked wretches, rushing from her cabin; they just started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears, swept us out of all farther hearing. I shaU never forget that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cr jised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal-guns, S.nd listened if we might hear the halloo of any eurvivors ; but all was sfient — we never saw or heard any thing of them more. " I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders boll owed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water; her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Some- times an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, • 'a THE VOYAGE. 15 across at pre- ahead, thick igth ol watch 3tomcd smack- gh the ead!'— was a s. The t. We eight of tver her Bck was if-naked )m their rd their t bore it ill never ithe ship 3 nearly ichored. ^e fired of any ly thing I roaring )alance, ito the Some- llm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still followed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded hke funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts ; the straining and groaning of bulkheads, as the ship laboured in the welter- ing 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 his prey : the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favouring breeze, soon put aU these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gaily over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep 1 I might fill a vohime with the reveries of a sea voyage ; for with me it is ahnost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to shore. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of ' ' land !" was given from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sen- sations which rush into an American's bosom when he fii-st comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his chfldhood has heard, or on which his Gtndious years have pondered. From that time, until the moment of arrival, it was all fever- ish excitement. Tlie ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrub- beries and green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overnm with ivy, and the taper spire of a vfllage church rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill— aU were charac- teristic of England. The tide and wind were so favourable, that the ship was enabled fo come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of friends or relatives, I could distinguish the merchant to whom tb<* 16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ship was consij^ied. I knew him hy his calculating brow and restless air. His hands were tlirust into his pockets, he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one /oung woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanour. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over tlie 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 weatlior was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recog- nize Mm. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- ances—the greetings of friends— the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. ROSCOE. ■^i!i- i In the service of mankind to be A guardian god below, still to employ The mind's brave ardour iu heroic aims, Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, And make us shine for ever— that is life. — Thomson. One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liver- pool, is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious read' ROSCOK 17 iW and [\Q was I space to his gs and ship, as icularly eresting , crowd; to catch Lted and — It was and had rhen the 3 for him increased ed a wish en helped ig against o ghastly, not recog- fted on his prow; she wringing acqnaint- )f men of friend to Ind of my in Liver- [boral and lious read' Ing-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with gravo-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was ad- vanced in hfo, tall, and of a form that might once have been com- manding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Eoman style of countenance ; a head that would have pleased a painter; and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. I inquired his name, and was infoi-mod that it was Roscoe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the solitudes of 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 crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our imaginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their own genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici min- gling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Eoscoe derives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves ; springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in [disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear [legitimate dulness to maturity ; and to glory in the vigour and [luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds )f genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others wiU now md then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle )ravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birth- )lace all the beauties of vegetation. 18 THE SKETCU-BOOK. I Such has beon the case with Wc. Roscoe. Bom in a place apiJarently uiigonial to the growth of hterary lalont; in the very market-place of trade; without fortune, family connec- tions, or patronage; self-prompted, self -sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and having become one of the ornaments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me particu- larly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or their own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease; and to revel in scenes of mental, but exclusive enjoy- ment. Mr. Roscoe, on thd contrary, has claimed none of the ac- cordcid privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares of hfe, he has planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the labouring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is a * ' daily beauty in his life, " on which mankind may meditate, and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a pic- ture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, unfortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and the elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not o^ the exclusive devotion of time and wealth; nor the qui(;kening rays of titled patronage ; but on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of noscoE. 19 fcisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can pive its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo de r.Iedici, agine something whimsical in this strange irruption into the regions of learning. Pigmies rummaging the armoury of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; or the air of intense, but baffled sagjicity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. ROSCOE. 21 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe's misfor- tunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tendercst feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the season of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the con- verse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and common- place, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never de- ceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. I do not wish to censure : but, surely, if the people of Liven pool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and to themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circimistance, which it would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely fanciful; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind strug- gling under misfortunes by one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, and we become too famil- iar with the common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious sim- plicity of character, which gives the nameless grace to real ex- cellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, wlio do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters who spealcs of Liverpool, speaks of it as the residence of Roscoe. — The intelli- gent traveller who visits it. inquires where Roscoe is to be scon. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its exist- ence to the distant scholar. — He is like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr, Roscoe to his books, on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If any thing can add effect to tlie pure feeling and elevated 22 THE SKETCH-BOOK. thought here displayed, it is the conviction, tlrxt the -ivhole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's hcai-t : TO MY BOOKS. As one, who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse, and enjoy their smile, And tempers, as he may, affliction's dart; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours. And happier seasons may their dawn unfold. And all your sacred fellowship restore ; When freed from earth, imlimited its powers. Mind shall with mind direct commimion hold. And kindred spirits meet to part no more. THE WIFE. • The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the concealed comforts of a man Lock'd up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come 'out near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth— The violet bed 's not sweeter ! MiODLETOK. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which womeii sustain the most overv/helming reverees of fortune. Thos'> disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and sup- porter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding, with un- shrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its TJTK WIFE. «23 whole is writer's ritli which )f fortune. man, and mergies of Ion to their Nothing ler female, TQ to every |,ths of life, and sup- r, with un- ^iage ahout when the it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in liis happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of ids na- ture, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If j ou 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 situa- tion in the world than a single one ; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and be- loved beings who depend upon bun for subsistence ; but chiefly, because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endear- ments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though aU abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is stiU a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt to run to waste and seK-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to rum, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample ; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex. — " Her life," said he, * ' shall be like a fairy tale. " The very difference in their characters produced a harmoni- ous combination ; he was of a romantic, and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if ■ there alone she sought favour and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with. his tall, manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cher- ! !-■■ 24 THE SKETGU-BOOK I! 8 ■il isliing 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 have ein- barked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disas- ters it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced 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 insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to hajjpiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek— the song will die away from those lips— the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow — and the happy heart which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down, Uke 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 hoard him through, I inquired, " Does your wife know all this?" At the question he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake!" cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife; it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness !" ' ' And why not ?" said I. ' ' She must know it sooner or Inter : you (^annot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidincs. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her syji^pathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together— an unreserved com- munity of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretLv preying upon your mind ; and true love '^k I of " nan I Plac war • less to bd blcsf- tond ingh ith o Ik yn\\ ves spa THE WIFE. 25 for its on the , fairer ,ve em- ot been n (iisas- uced to Liimself, •reaking •endered a smile mself to mth the im. She Lot to be jrfuhiess. ishments he arrow I her, the make her rill vanish lips— the and the will be ^es of the wiU not brook reserve: it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." "Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to aU he • future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar 1 — 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 — tho light of every eye — tho admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty? She has been brought up in all the refine ments of opulence. How can she bear neglect? She has bcci* the idol of society. 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 sub- sided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. " But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living — nay, " observing a pang to pass aci oss his counte- nance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never j placed your happiness in outv/ard show— you have yet friends, I warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being [less splendidly lodged: and surely it does not require a palace [to bo happy with Mary — " ' ' I could be happy with her, " cried convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into )overty and the dust ! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God 3less her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness. " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasp- Lg hi n warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the same dth you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph ko her — it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she )ves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormafit in the broad day- ight of prosperity ; but which kindles up, and beams and blazes ^1 tho dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife ^f hii: bosom is— no man knows what a ministering angel she 1 26 THE SKETGII-BOOK. is— until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative stylo of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by per- suading him to go home and unburthen his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding aU I had said, I felt some little sohcitude for the result. Who can calculate on the forti- tude 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 before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fasliionable life is accompanied by so many galhng mortifications, to wliich, iii other ranks, it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie, the next morning, without trep- idation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it?" * ' Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a reUef to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unliappy. — But, poor girl," added he, '* she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract : she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation : she suffers no loss of accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty 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 iiot 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 pover- ty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterwards, he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling-house, and taken a small cot- THE WIFFS. 27 as of this ,nner, and ae excited deal with; ed by per- eart to his felt some 1 the f orti- pleasures? path of low ht cling to i. Besides, my gaiUng i-anger.— In ithout trep- to her mind, if tliis was girl," added ;o. She has read of it in 10 privation: • elegancies, lid cares, its be the real the severest et the world mortifying: vliereas you the day. It ses a ruined empty purse come to an isarm pover- ishe perfectly to his wife, 'ortunes. the evening. a small cot-. tage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new estabUsh- ment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold, ex- cepting his wile's hai*p. That, he said, was too closely associ- ated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their court- ship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doating hus- band. He was how going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day, superintending its arrangement. My feeUngs bad become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and as wo wallced 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 any thing happened to her?" " What," said be, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a misera- ble cottage — to be obliged to toil ahnost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?" "Has she then repined at the change?" "Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humour. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her • she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort !" "Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my friend; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possessed in that woman." " Oil ! but my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first doy of real experience : she has been introduced into an humble dwelling —she has been employed all day in arranging its mis- erable equipments — she has for the first time known the fatigues of domestic employment — she has for the first time looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant— ahnosb of every thing convenient; and may now be sitting I i ; ■!• 28 THE iSKErCH-BOOK. f down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road, up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded by forest trees as to give it a complete air of secUision, we came in sight of the cottage. It Avas humble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees tlirew their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed several pots of flowers taste- fully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice, singing, in a style of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her hus- band was peculiarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward, to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel- walk, A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window, and vanished— a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us. She was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles —I had never seen her look so lovely. " My dear George," cried she, " I am so glad you are come; I have been watching and watching for you; and iimning doAvn the lane, and looking out for you. I've set out a table under a beciutiful tree behind the cottage ; and I've been gath- ering some of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them — and we have such excellent cream — and every thing is so sweet and still here. — Oh !" said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, wc shall be so happy !" Poor Leslie was overcome. — He caught her to his bosom— he folded his arms round her — he kissed her again and again — he could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes; and he has often assured me that though the world has since gone prosperously with him, and his life has indeed been a happy one. yet never has ho experienced a moment of more exquisite tciicity. THE WIFE. 29 [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New- York, who was very curious in the Dutch History of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among men ; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics ; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore, so invalu- able to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm- house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a bookworm. The result of all these researches was a history of the prov- ince, during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he pub- hshed some years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary character of his work, and, to tell the tiiith, 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 authority. The old gentleman died (Shortly after the publication of his work, and now, that he is dead and gone, it cannot do nmch harm to his memory, to say, that his time might have been much better employed in weightier labours. 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 neighbours, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, yet his errors and follies are remembered "more in sorrow than in anger,"* and it begins to be suspected, that he never intended to injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear among many folk, whose good opinion is well worth having ; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 1. 1- * Vide the excellent discourse of G. C. Verplauck, Esq., before the New-York Historical Society. 30 THE SKETCU-BOOK. RIP VAN WINKLE. A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRIOH KNICKERBOCKER. ! By Woden, God of Snxons, From whence comes Wensduy, that i8 Wodenaday, Truth is a thing tliat ever I will keep Unto thylke day in wliicli 1 creep into My sepulchre.- Oautwriqht. Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, must remem- ber the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, produces some change in t'le magical hues and shapes of these moun- tains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of gray vapours about their sununits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crovrn of glory. At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the hght smoke curling up fvom a village, whose shin- gle roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer land- scape. It is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the beginning of the govermnent of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of the houses of the origir;^l settlers standing within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought from Hol- land, having latticed windows and gable fronts, surmounte(? with weathercocks. In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which to tell the precise tinith, was sadly time-worn and weather- beaten), there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who x.^ared so gallantly in the chivalrous days lUP VAN WINKLE. 31 of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of fort Christina. Ho inherited, however, hut little of the mar- tial character of his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple good natured man; he was moreover a kind neighbour, and an obedient henpecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal popularity ; for those men are most i Apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribulation, and a curtain lecture is worth all the ser- mons in the world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing; and if so, Eip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his x>S'rt in all family squabbles, and never failed, when- ever they talked those matters over in their evening gossii)' pings, to lay all the blame on Dame Van Winlde. The chil- dren of the village, too, would shout with joy whenever he ap- proached. He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back, and play- ing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood. The great error in Rip's composition was an insuperable aver- sion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he woidd sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be en- couraged by a single nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squii'- , rels or wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neigh- bour, even in the roughest toil, and was a fV remost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn or building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do for them ; — in a word. Rip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own; but as to 32 TUK 8KETVU-B00K. doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found il impossible. In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on iiis farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; weeds were sure to ' quicker in his fields than anywhere else; the rain always ^ade a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do; so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was Uttle more left than a mere patch of Indian com and potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighbourhood. His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own hke- ness, promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes of his father. He was generally seen trooping Uke a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off gaUi- gaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her dn in bad weather. Rip Van Winkle '^ever, was one of those happy mortals, of foolish, weU-oiled aispositions, who take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the only side which, in truth, belongs to a henpecked husband. Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as much henpecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye as the cause of his master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honourable RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 Qd U m; it ivhole v^rong (ieces ; jages; where le bad nonial y acre, Indian 1 in the 3longed vnlike- ;9 of liis , at his )ff galli- aand, as mortals, ■Id easy, ith least ny than whistled tinually and the ly going, lorrent of Ing to all }own into cast up [ovoked a tw off his )nly side 10 was as I regarded )on Wolf so often Dnourable dog, he was as courageous an animal as over scoured the woods— but what courage can withstand the ever-during and all-beset- ting terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as years of matrimony rolled on : a tart temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of liis majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade, of a long lazy sum- mer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling end- less sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's money to have heard the profound dis- cussions which sometimes took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, from some passing traveller. How solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months after they had taken place. The opinions of this junta were completely controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as accurately as by a sun- dial. It is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him, and knew how to crather his opinions. When anything that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant vapour curl 34. THE 8KETGU~B00K. about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the iranquilhty of the assemb^age, and call the members all to nought ; nor was that august personage. Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair, and his only alternative to escape froji the labour of the farm and the clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand, an.! stroll away into the woods. Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor Wolf," he would say, "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee I" WoK would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face, and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart. In a long ramble of the kind, on a fine autumnal day, Rip h?,d unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the KaatskUl mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still sohtudes had echoed and re- echoed with the reports of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he ' threw himself, late in the afternoon, on a green knoll covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees, he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, hero and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands. On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled with fragments from the impending chffs, and scarcely hghted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; evening was gradually advancing; the mountains be- gan to throw their long blue shadows over the valleys; he saw that it would be dark long; before he could reach the village; and he heaved a heavy sirrh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. As he wa« about to descend he heard a voice from a distance RlJt VAN WmKLh. 15 Brfect ength sak in mbers edder irago, ind in sonly id the Laway at the Wolf, cution. \ dog's 1 shalt lis tail, pity, I heart. ly, Rip of tho lort of ind re- ued, he • covered ecipice. all the aw at a e on its purple ping on hlands. lin glen, 3P'ment«=i -eflected y on this ains he- he saw village-, imtering distance 1 i hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle 1 Rip Van Winkle 1" He looked around, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, " Rip Van Winkle I Rip Van Winkle 1" — ^at the same time WoK bristled up his back, and giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearmlly down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague i-pprehension stealing over him: he looked anxiously in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented place, but supposing it to be ^ome one of the neighbourhood in need of his assistance, he nastened down to yield it. On nearer approach, he was stiU more surprised at the singu- larity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short square- built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch fashion— a cloth jerken strapped round the waist — several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his shouldei"S a stout keg, that seemed fuU of liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other, they clambered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now and then heard long rolling peals, like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a c'aep ravine or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those tr.nnsient thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by per- pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which, impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of the azure sky, and the bright evening cloud. During the whole time. Rip and his companion had laboured on in silence; for though the former marvelled greatly what could be the ob- ject of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet t^ ore was something strange and incomprehensible about the nuknown, that inspired awe, and checked familiarity. h,i!i 36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder pr» sented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a com- pany of odd-looking personages playing at nine-pins. They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion : some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar; one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of an- other seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colours. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the parlour of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and which had been brought over from Hol- land at +he time of the settlement. What seemed particularly odd to Rip, was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they main- tained 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 rumbhng peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such a fixed Btatue-Uke ^ze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre coun- tenances, 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 trembhng; they quaffed the liquor in profound silence, and then returned tc their game. By degrees. Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He ever, ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the bev- erage, which he found had much of the flavour of excellent Hollands. He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam in his head, his head «Taduallv declined, and he fell into a deen sleen. « RIP VAN WINKLE. y. 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 pure mountain breeze. "Surely,'' thought Rip, "I have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The strange man with the keg of liquor— the mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — the wo-begone party at nine-pins— the flagon— "Oh! that wicked flagon!" thought Rip — "what ex- cuse 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 bairel encrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had put a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed hun of his gun. Wolf, too, had dis- appeared, but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He wliistled after him, and shouted liis name, but all in vain , the echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, "and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheamatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got dovn into the glen ; he found the gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding evening; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramL'''^ up its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel ; and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape vines that twisted their coils 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 traces of such opening remained. The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell 'into a broad deep basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to 38 THE SKETCILBOOK. a stand. He again called and whistled after his dog; he was only answered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, spoi-ting high in air about a dry tree that overLung a sunny precipiece ; and who, secure in their elevati Dn, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be done? The morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. As he approached the village, he met a num.ber of people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat surpiised him, fot he had thought himself acquainted with every one in the couu' try 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 re- currence of this gesture, induced Eip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonishment, he found his beard had grown a foot long ! He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and point- ing at his gray beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognised for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was altered : it was larger and more populous. There were rows of houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been his familiar haunts had dis- appeared. Strange names were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — everything was strange. His mind now mis- gave him ; he began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left but a day before. There stood the Kaatsldll mountains — ^there ran the silver Hudson at a dis- tance — there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been — Rip was sorely perplexed — "That flagon last night," thought he, "has addled my poor head sadly I" It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the roof fallen in, the win- dows shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog, that looked like Wolf, was skulking about it. Rip called RIP VAN WINKLE, 39 him by name, but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed. — "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has forgotten me !" He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, for- lorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for his wife and chil- dren — the lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the vil- lage inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety wcioden build- ing stood in its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, "The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doo- Uttle." Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the top that looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes— all this was strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe, but even this was singularly metamor- phosed. The red coat was changed for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head Was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in large characters. General Washington. There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustUng, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke, instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, dohng forth the contents of fin ancient newspaper. In place of these, a lean bihous-look ng follow, with his pockets full of handbills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of citizens— election -members of Congi'ess— liberty— Bunker's hill— heroes of seventy-six— and other words that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and the armv of women and cliildren that had erathered at his heels: soon attracted the at- H 40 THE SKKTCII-BOO^. Imw «l|i':'' tention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round hir^., 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?" Eip stared in vacant stupidity. An- other short but busy httle fellow pulled him by the arm, and ris- ing on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " whether he was Federal or Democrat." Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the ques- tion ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van Winkle, with one ai*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 gim on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?" " Alas ! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King, God bless him !" Here a general shout burst from the bystanders— " a tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee 1 hustle him ! away with hini !" It was with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. " Well — who are they?— name them." Eip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where » Nicholas Vedder?" There was a silence for a little while, when an old man re- pHed, in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen years 1 There was a wooden tomb-stone in the church-yard that used to tell all about him, but that's rotten and gone too." "Where's Brom Butcher?" " Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony-Point — others say he was drowned in the squall, at the foot of Antony's Nose. I don't know— he never came back again." "Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 rator , "on An- idHLs- ral or ques- sharp em to mting other •ating, I tone, )iilder, . a riot I am a ject of bory! a man in tenfold culprit, he poor merely usee! to iVhere» man re- he is wooden ut him, he war ; others Lutony's "He went oflE to the wars, too; was a great militia general, and is now in Congress." Rip's heart died away, at hearing of these sad changes in hia home and friends, and finding himaelf 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-Poiut ! — he had no courage to ask after any more friends, hut cried out in despair, "Does nobouy here know Rip Van Winkle?" " Oh, Rip Van Winkle !" exclaimed two or three. " Oh to be surel that's Rip Van Wiokle yonder, leaning against the tree." Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he went up the mountain; apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself or an- other man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded who he was, and what was his name? "God knows," exclaimed he at his wit's end; " I'm not my- self — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no — that's some- body else, got into my shoes— I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and they've changed my gun, and every thing's changed, and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or who I am !" The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keep- ing the old fellow from doing mischief ; at the very suggestion of which, the self-important man with the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh comely woman passed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began to cry. "Hush, Rip," cried she, " hush, you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman?" asked he. " Judith Gardenier. " " And your father's name?" " Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle; it's twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and never has been heard of since — his dop: came home without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indiahs, nobody can tell. I was then but a httle girl." 1^1 !l 42 THE SKETCff-BOOK. m. Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a faltering \oJC8; " Where's your mother?" Oh, she too had died but a short time since: she broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England pedlar. 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 I" cried he— " Young Eip Van Winkle once— old Rip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle !" All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, *' Sure enough I it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself. Welcome home again, old neigh- bour — Why, where have you been these twenty long years?" Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to him but as one night. The neighbours 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 comers of his mouth, and shook his head— upon which there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been haunted by strange be- ings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson,' the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half -moon, being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his enter- prise, and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at nine-pins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had heard, one summer after- noon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of thunder. To make a long story short, the company broke up. and "II t from ; under b is Rip neigh- sars?" irs had d when xnd put man in •etumed id shook the head ,ld Peter >ad. He Tote one he most 1 all the )od. He the most it was a that the range be- Hudson,' . kind of alf-moon, his enter- the great geen them hollow of mer after- Lunder. UP, and PilP VAN WINKLE. 48 returned to the more important concerns of the election. Rip's daughter took him home to Uve with her; she had a snug, weU-furnishod house, and a stout cheery farme:" for a hus- band, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins that used to cUmb 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 he soon grew into great favour. Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with impunity, he too]i his place once more on the bench, at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It was some time before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that there had been a rovohitionary war — that the country had thrown off the yoke of old England— and that, instead of being a subject of his majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician; the changes of states and empires made but little impression on him ; but there was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that was — petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end ; he had got liis neck out of the yoke of matri- mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his de- liverance. He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some points every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one point on 1 :i it -j-w 44 THE SKETCH-BOOK which he always remained flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins : and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Kip Van Winkle's flagon. Note.— The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. Knick- erbocker by a little German superstition about the Emperor Frederick der Kothr bart and the Kypphauser mountain : the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to tue tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fldeUty. " The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with liip Van Winkle myself, who, when lu -t I saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice, and signed with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibUity of doubt." ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. Ifip '* Methinks I see in my mind a noble puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes at the full mid-day beam." — Milton on the Liberty op the Press. It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the Uterary animosity daily growing up between England and America. Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the Republic; but they seem intended to diffuse error rather than knowledge; and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse be- tween the nations, there is no people concerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure information, or entertain more numerous prejudices. English travellers are the best and the worst in the world. WTiere no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for profound and nhilosonhical viewi3 of nocAntv. EJSQLISU WRlTEliS ON AMEUICA. 46 or faithful and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either the interest or reputation of their own countiy conies in collision with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their usual probity and candour, in the indulgence of splenetic remark, and an iUiberal spu'it of ridi- cule. Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more remote the country described. I would place implicit confi- dence in an Englishman's description of the regions beyond the cataracts of the Nile; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of India; or of any other tract which other travellers might be apt to picture out with the illusions of their fancies. But I would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbours, and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I dare not trust his prejudices. It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the worst kind of English travellers. While men of philo- sophical spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from Eng- land to ransack the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and customs of barbai'ous nations, vvitb which she can have no permanent intercourse of profit or pleasure; it has been left to the broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering mechanic, the Manches- ter and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles respecting Amer- ica. From such sources she is content to receive her infor- mation respecting a country in a singular state of moral and physical developement ; a country in which one of the greatest political experiments in the history of the world is now per- forming, and which presents the most profound and moment- ous studies to the statesman and the philosopher. That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America is not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contem- plation are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state of fermentation: it may have its frothincss and seditaent, but its ingredients are sound and wholesome : it has already given proofs of powerful and generous qualities; and the whole promises to settle down into something: substantially excellent. But the causes which are oneratingto strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirnblo properties, are all lost upon these purblind observ- ers; who are only affected by the little asperities incident to 46 Til±j hKiiiUVu-lJOOK, its present situation. They are capable of .indging only of the surface of thiiigH; ot those mattere which come in contact with their private interests and personal gratifications. They miss some of tlie snug conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over-i)oi>ulous state of society ; where the ranks of useful labour are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence, by studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence These minor comforts, how- ever, are all-important in the estimation of narrow minds; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowledge, that they arc more than counterbalanced among ub, by great and generally diffused blessings. They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unrea- sonable expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and sUver abounded, and the natives were lacking in sagacity; and where they were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations, produces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become embittered against the country on finding that there, as every where else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must win wealth by industry and talent; and must contend with the common difficulties ot nature, and the shrewdness of an iixtelligent and enterprising people. Perhaps, through mistaken or ill-directed hospitality, or from the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated with unwonted respect in America ; and, having been accustomed all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they become arrogfi- 1 on the common boon of civUity; they attribut'^ the l<»\viiiiesR of others their own ety Avher- there are no artificial ly clfcL. ;e such individuals as ence. r, that» information coming from such sou.i.. on a subject where th* truth is so desirable, would be received v4th caution \ the censors of the press ; that the motives of these men, their eracity, their opportuni- ties of inquiry and observation, and heir capacities for judg- ing correctly, would be rigorouslv -rutinized, before their evidence was admitted, in such oeninp- ext.ent ^srn\nat n elevation; and ^mdo^ distinctions, themselves One wor j,>po!3t ENGLI8U WB2Tj.1i8 ON AMERICA. 47 |g from ^irable, press; lortiini- jr judg- their \\x\fit o kindred nation. The very reverse, however, is the case, and it t'l 1 fiiishes a striking instance of human inconsistency. Nothing can BUi-pi^ss the vigilance with which Enghsh critics will exam- ine the credibility of the traveller who pubhshes an account of some distant, and compai-atively unimportant, cx)untry. How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or the description of a ruin ; and how sternly will they censure any inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowl- eart would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country, c the keenest castiga- tion of her slanderers — ^but I allude to a disposition to retaUate in kind, to retort sarcasm and inspire prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our writers. Let us guard par- ticularly against such a temper; for it would double the evil, instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy and in- viting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; but it is a paltry and unprofitable contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into indignation. If England is wilUng to permit the mean jealousies of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emi- gration; we have no purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national jealousy to gratify ; for as yet, in all our rivalships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resentment— a mere spiidt of retaliation; and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never repubhshed in England ; they fall short, therefore, of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse, they circu- late through our own country, and, as far as they have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, entirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a preju- dice, wilfully saps the foundation of his country's strength. The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the sovereign mind and sovereign wUl, and should be enabled to come to all questions of national concern with calm and un- biassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must have more frequent questions of ^ difficult and delicate character with her, than with any other nation ; questions that affect the most acute and excitable feel- ings: and as, in the adjusting of these, our national measure EKOLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 51 b ol L on mpt ;iga- liate jsems par- evil, d in- jrand aind, ition. ie, or igrity let us lifEuse g emi- leither as yet, Qd the re, but iation; blished it they V, they •ns and yr circu- 1 effect, ril most rely hy srve the ;ruth is prejU" |gth. lould be aons ot enabled and un- •elations jns of ^ iiy other ible f eel- neasuref must ultimately be determined by popular sentiment, we can- not be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all latent jjassion or prepossession. Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be our pride to exhibit an example of one nation, at least, destitute of national antipathies, and exercising, not mere* iy the overt acts of hospitality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring from liberality of opinion. "What have we to do with national prejudices? They are the inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant ages, when nations knew but httle of each other, and looked beyond their own boundaries with distrust and hostihty. We, on the contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enhghtened and philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, and the various branches of the human family, have been indefatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego the advantages of our birth, if wo do not shake off the national prejudices, as we woiild the local superstitions, of the old world. But above all, let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, so far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really ex- cellent and amiable in the English character. We are a young people, necessarily an imitative one, and must take our exam- ples and models, in a great degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no country more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her constitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people— their intellectual activity — their freedom of opinion— their habits of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the American character ; and, in fact, are all intrinsically excellent : for it is in the moral feehng of the people that the deep foundations of British prosperity are laid; and however the superstnicture may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be some- thing solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable \\\ the structure of an edifice that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tenipests of the world. Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality of British authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with determined candour. While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotrv with which some of our countrv- W m 62 THE SKETCn-BOOK. men admire and imitate everything English, merely because it is English, let them fmnkly point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place England before na as a per- petual volume of reference, wherein are recorded sound deduc- tions from ages of experience ; and while we avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith tc strengthen and to embellish our national character. RUEAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Oh 1 friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to v'rtue, and to peace, Domestic life iii rural pleasure < past !— Cowpkb. The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Eng- lish character, must not confine his observations to the metrop olis. He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; he must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in aU their conditions, and aU their habits and humours. In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and inteUigent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropoKs is a mere gathering plEice, or general rendez- vous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole surfi.ce of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhood :3 afford speci- mens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feel- ing. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the in- habitants of cities, bom and brouerht ud amomr brick walls and RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 53 seit lyof per- }duc- rrors may Lthtc eEng- letvop >umiu louses, ; along irches; d cope its and th and elegant almost ntrary, rendez- portion having arently ders of of the speci- ral feel- nature, of the 1 the in- alls and bustling streets, e^iter with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropoKs, where ho often dis- plays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower- garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the con- duct of his business, and the success of a commercial enter- prise. 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 ^^ith pictu- resque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in town, are apt t^ form an unfavourable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thousand engage- ments that dissipate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He hc.,s, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morning. An im- mense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men self- ish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings, 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. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold for- mahties and negative civilities of town, thro'vs off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He man- ages to collect round him all the conveniencies and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-scat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint, either upon his guests or him self, 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 Elnghsh in the cultivation of land, and u: ^ ii 1 1 :■ if 04 TUE SKErCn-BOOK. i I l!ii|Si^v;ii'l' 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 channs which, in other countries, she lavishes in wild soh- tudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic Ufe. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. Notliing can be more imposing than the magnificence of Eng- lish park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of fohage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in sUent herds across Miem; the hare, bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake— the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, Avith 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 EngMsh decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabihties, and pictures in his mind the future land- scape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage ; the introduction of a greuu slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water — all these are managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the coimtry, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The very labourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the Uttle flower-bed bordered with snug box. the RURAL LIFE 7iV ENGLAND. m w^oodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of flowers in the window; the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside: — all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English, has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit 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 recreations of the country. The hardy exer- cises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different ordei'S of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favourably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable, as in the cities. The 'manner in which prop- erty has been distributed into small estates and farms, has established a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substan- tial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry: and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so univei*saUy the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates having, in late years of dis- tress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system 1 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, oper- ated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influ- ences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing Hi i I I m THE SKETCH-BOOK rcvoltinp: in an intercourse -with the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower ordei*s of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest, heart-felt enjoyments of common hfe. Indeed, the very amusements of the country bring men more and more to- gether; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England, than they are in any other country; and wl; ^r the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may also be attributed the rural feehng that inins through British litera- ture; 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 brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have hved and revelled with her — they have wooed he^; 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 impas- sioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beau- tiful morality. The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupa- tions, has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is rather level, and would be monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and palaces; and embroidered with parks and gardens?. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture ; and as the roads are continu- ally winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small land* scapes of caDtivatine: loveliness. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 57 The great charm, however, of Enghsh 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-estabhshed prin- ciples, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Every thing seems to be the growth of ages of regular and peaceful exist- ence. The old church, of remote architecture, with its low massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its windows, rich with tra- cery and painted glass, in scrupulous preservation — its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ances- tors of the present lords of the soil— its tombstones, recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but re- paired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants —the stile and footpath leading from the church-yard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an immemorable right of way — the neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, its public gi'een, sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the present race have sported— the antique family inansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the sur- rounding scene— all these common features of English land- scape evince a calm and settled security, a hereditary trans- mission of home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the nation. It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the gi-een lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see them in the even- ings, gathering about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of affection In the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments; and I cannot close these desultory remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has depictea it with remarkable felicity. Through each gradation, from the castled hall, The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, \ But chief from modest mansions numberless, In town or hamlet, shelt'riug middle lite. >.. !l 1 1 r ! " 58 THE ISKETCUBOOK. Down to the cottoned valo, and Btraw-roof d shed; This western isle hath long been famed for scenes Where bliss domestic finds a d\vellinj?-i)lace; Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, (Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard,) Can centre in a little quiet nest All that desire would tly for through the earth; That can, the world eluding, be itself A world en joy'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.* THE BEOKEN HEART. I never heard Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.— Middletok. It is a common practice with those who Have outlived the susceptibility of early feehng, or have been brought up in the gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind deity, and go to the fuU extent of his doctrines. Shall I confess it?— I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of dying of disap- pointed love ! I do not, however, consider it a malady often fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down many a lovely woman into an early grave. Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for * From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. ■:| THE BROKEN HEART. 59 •end Rann 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 6itter pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness — it blasts some prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being ; he may dissipate his th hts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge in' . ;.v^o of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappoint- ment be . Jl of 1- infui associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, as it were, the wings of the morning, can " fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest." But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings ; and if they are turaed to ministers of sorrow, where shaU she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and aban- doned, and left desolate. How many bright eyes grow dim— how many soft cheeks grow pale— how many lovely fonns fade away into the tomb, ancl none can tell the cause that blighted their lovehness ! As the dove will clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the aiTow that is preying on its vitals — so is it the nature of woman, to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself ; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her, the desire of 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 the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken — the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melan- choly dreams — "dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury Look for her, after a little while, and you find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to " darkness and r eo THE SKliTCn-DOOK. the worm." You will be told of some wintry 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 : giticef ul in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooj)- ing its branches to the earth, and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smit- ten it with decay. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self -neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their deaths through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melan- choly, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me; the cir- cumstances are well known in the country where they hap- pened, and I shall but give them in the manner in which they were related. Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the Irish patriot: it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep im- pression on public sympathy. He was so young — so intelligent — so generous — so brave — so every thing that we are apt to hke in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country — the eloquent vindi- cation of his name — and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation— all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossi- ble to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won the affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested fervour of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and dif?i!;race and danger darkened around THE DliOKTiJN IIKAUT. 61 [\\6 name, she lovod him the more ardently for his very giiffer- jngH. If, then, his fate could awaken the synipatliy even of his foes, what must have been the ag;ony of her, whoso whole soul was occupied by his imago? Lot those tell who have had the i^ortals of the tomb suddenly c1o8(k1 b 3tween them and the being they most loved on earth — who have sat at its thresli- old, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. ikit then the horroi-s of such a grave !— so frightful, so dis honoured I There was nothing for memory to dwell on that (M)iUd soothe the pang of separation — none of those tender, though melancholy circumstances, that endear the parting scene — nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart ia 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 exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing atten- tions were paid her, by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of 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 soid — that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness— and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to fre- quent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there, as in the depths of sohtude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried Avith her an inward wo that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm ho never so wisely." The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquer- ade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone Avretchcdness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay — to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and wo-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow, ifter strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd 62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 4 I i I. with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some tiiae with a vacant air, that showed her insensibiUty to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching— it breathed forth such a soul of wretchedness— that she drew a crowd, mute and silent, around her, and melted every one into tears. The story of one so true and tender could not but exci.j<3 gi*eat interest •a a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won the heart of a brave ofiicer, who paid tns addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove affectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts were irrecoverably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. He, however, persioied in his suit. Ke solicited not her tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, and her sense of her own destitute and depc ident 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 assur- ance, that her heart was unalterably another's. He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melan- choly that had entered into her \ ery soul. She wasted away in a slow, but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the giave, the victim of a broken heart. It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, com- posed the following lines: She is far from the land where her young hero sleep*. And lovers a. yund hor are sighing; But colTlly she turns from their j,'aze, and weeps, For her heart in liis grave ii? lying. She sings the wild song of her dear native plr.ins, Everj' not**} all that to life had entwined him— Nor soon 3hal! tY ; tears of his country be dried, for long will his love rtay behind him! Dh! make her a grave where the nunbeams rest, Wlien they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile ii'om the wept. From her own loved island o^ sorrow ! /-,,..,,. ^^K-i THE ART OF BOOKMAKim, 63 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. "' If that severe doom of Synesius be true—' it i.s a greater offeuce to steal dead men's labours tlu-a their clutlies,'— what shall become of most writers ?"— BuuTONb Anatomy of Melancholy. I HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature seems to have inflicted the curse of harrenness, yet teem with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the journey of liie, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my pcregii- nations about this great metropolis, to blundei* upon a scene which unfolded to me bome of the mysteries ot the book-mak- ing craft, and at once put an end to my astonishment. I was one summer's day loitering through the great saloons of the British Miiseinn, with that listlessness with which one is apt to saunter about a room in warm weather; sometimes loll- ing over the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglypliics on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal success, to couiprehend the allogori(\nl paint- ings on the lofty ceilings. While I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant ilooi', at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some strange-favoured being, gen- erally clothed in black, would steal forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about this tliat piqued my langidd v'urioRiiy, and I detei-mined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions that lay beyond. The r'.oor yielded to my hand, Avitli all that facility with which the portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight- errant. I found myself in a spacious chamber, sur- rounded with gi*eat cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great number ot quaint black-louking portraits of ancient authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for i-eading and writing, at which sat many pale, cadaverous personages, por- ing incently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy majiuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. The ! i- IT 84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. h I most hushed stillness reigned through this mysterious aparc* raent, excepting that you might hear the racing of pens ovct sheets of paper, or, occasionally, the deep sigh cf one of thefcC sages, as he shifted his position to turn over the page of au old Loiio; douL.less arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned research. Now and. then one of these personages would write something )i\ 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 pondeious tomes, upon which the other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished voracity. I had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a phiiosopher, who was shut up in an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, that opened only once a year ; where ho made the spirits of the place obey his commands, and bring him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at tlie 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 o( the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose:— I found that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi, Avero principally autliors, and were in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in faci, 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 whi(3h are seldom read. To these sequestered pools of obsolete literature, there- fore, do many modern authors repair, and draw buckets full ol alassic lore, or " jjure English, undefiled. " wherewith to swell jheir own scanty rills of thought. Beiut,' now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, ind watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing some work of profound erudition, that would be ourchased by every man who wished to bo thought learned, i "laced upon a conspicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table—but never read. I observed him, now and TtlB Alii OF moK-MAKINO. m swell then, draw a large fragment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was endeavour- ing to keep off that exhaustion of the stomach, produced by muc>i pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students tliai^ myself to determine. There was one dapper little gentleman in bright colored (?lothes, with a chirping gossiping expression of countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on good terms with iiis bookseller. After considering him attentively, I recognised 'n him a diligent getter-up of miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made more stir and show of busi- ness than any of the others; dipping into various books, flutter- ing over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." The contents of his book seemed to be as lieterogencous as those of the witches' cauldron in Macbetli. It was here a finger and there a thumb, toe of f i"og and blind Avorm's sting, w^itli his own gossip poured in hke '' baboon's blood," to make the medley "slab and good." After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be im- planted in authors for wise purposes? may ^t not be the way in which Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the ino\atab]e decay of the -works in which they were first prO' (luced? We see that Natuie has wisely, though whimsically provided for the conveyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain birds; so that animals, which, in them- 8elvos, are little better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the corn-field, are, in fact, Nature's carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of anci^int and ob- solete writers are cai^ght up by these flights of predatory iuithors, and cast forth, again to flourish and bear fruit in a rpmote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind oC metempsychosis, and spring up undc"* new Lorms. What was formerly a ponderous history, revives in the shape of a romance—a-i old legend changes into a modern play —and a sober philoso]ihical treatise fui-nishes the body for a '\vhole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our Amevican. woodlands; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny of dwarf oaks start up in fcheir place; and we never see the prostrate trunk of a tree, I 13- 111 1 - '* I i mt: SKETCH-BOOK. mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of Nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be Mmited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never perish. Generation 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 nimierous progeny, in a good old. age they sleep with their fathers; that is to say, with the authors who preceded them— and from whom they had stolen. Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound quiet of the room; or to the lassitude arising from much wandering; or to an unlucky habit of napping at im- proper times and places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagina- tion continued busy, and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the portraits of ancient authoi'S, but the number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and in place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off clothes, Monmouth - street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by one of those incongrui- ties common to dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or anti(iue fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. T noticed, hoAvever, tnat no one pretended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. There was a i)ortly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle c>i one of the old fathers, and having purloined the gray beard of cinother, endeavoured to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking com- monplace of his coimtonance set at nought all the tiappings of wisdom. One sickly-looking gentleman wae busied embroid- ering a very flimsy garment with gold tliroad drown out of THE ART OF BOOK-MAKINO. 67 several old court-dresses of the leign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magnificently from an iUuminat- ed manuscript, 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, stnitted off with an ex- quisite 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 philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he had patched his small-clothefo with scraps of parchment from a Latin author. There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old writers, merely to im- bibe their principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array themselves, from top to toe, in the j^atch-work manner I have mentioned. 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 pastoral, but whoso 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 ribands from aJl the old pastoral poets, and hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical air, "bab- bling about gr< on fields." But the personage that most struck my attention, was a pragmatical old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way through the throng, with a look of sturd> self-confidence, and having laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and ewept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. In th»; height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly resounded from every side, of "thieves! thieves!" I looked, and lo I the portraits about the walls became animated ! The old authors thrust out first a head, then a shoulder, from the 'janvas, looked down curiously, for an instant, upon the mot- ley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The scene of scamperuig and hub- bub that ensued baffles all description. The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain to escape with their plunder. On ono Hide might be seen half-a-dozen old monks, stripping a modern 68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. professor; on another, there was sad devastation carried into tho ranks of modem dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volun- teer with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little com- piler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he had arrayed himself in as many patches and colours as Harlequin, and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, at-: about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieve^ N> <> -v. ^^<> r.w ^D fe ^ iV 74 THE SKETCHBOOK. reflection were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story, and to contrast with that effulgence of light and love- liness, that exliilarating accompaniment of bird, and song, and foliage, and flower, and all the revel of the year, with which ho ushers in the lady of liis heart. It is this scene in particular which throws all the magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had risen, he says, at day-break, according to cus- tom, to escape from the dreary meditations of a sleepless pil- low. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," despairing of all joy and remedy, "for, tired of thought, and wo-begone," he had wandered to the window, to inrjulge the captive's miserable solace, of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden rvrhich lay at the foot of the to^vcr. It was a quiet, jheltered spot, adorned with arbours and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges. Now was there made, fast by the tower's wall A garden faire, and in the corners set, An arbour ^reim with wandis long and small Railed about, and ho with leaves beset Was all the place, and ha\»'thoru hedges knet, That lyf * was none, walkyng there forbye, That might within scarce any wight espye. So thick the liranches and the leves grene, Beshadcd all the alleys that there were, And midst of every arbour might be seue Tlie sharpe, grene, swete juniper, Growing so faire with branches here and there, That as it seemed to a lyf Avithout, The boughs did spread the arbour all about. And on the small green twist is t set The lytel swete nyghtingales, and sung, So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, That all the garden and the wallis rung Ryght of their song- It was the month of May, when every thing was in bloom, and he intei'prets the song of the nightingale into the language Df his enamoured feeling: Worship all ye that lovers be this May; For of your bliss the kalends are begun, And sing with us, away, winter, away, Come, summer, come, the iweet season and sun. * Lyf, person. + Tunstis, small boughs or twigs. NoTJS.— The language of the quotations is generally modernized, A nor At ponf. %^ As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he gradually lapses into one of those tender and undefinablo reveries, which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and melting all nature into ecptacy and song. If it really be so great a felicity, ar'^. if it be a boon thus gene- rally dispensed to the most insignificant of beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoyments ? Oft would I thiuk, O Lord, what may this bo, That love is of such noble myght and kynde? • Loving his folk, and such prosperitoe, Is it of him, as we in books do find; May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd: Hath he upon oiu'e hertes such maistrye? Or is all this but feynit fantasye? For giff he be of so grete excellence That he of every wight hath care and chai^, What have I gilt t to him, or done offence, That I am thral'd and birdis go at large? In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eyes downward, he beholds "the fairest and freshest young floure" that' ever he had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to enjoy the beauty of that " fresh May morrowe," Breaking thus suddenly upon his sight in a moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world. There is in this charming scene an evident resemblance to the earl/ part of Chaucer's Knight's Tale, where Palamon and ii^rcite fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the p:arden of their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident which he had read in Chaucer, may have induced James to dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the picturesque and minute manner of his master, and being, doubtless, taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He dwells with the fondness of a lover on every article of her apparel, from the net of pearls, splendent with emeralds and sapphii'es, that con- fined her golden hair, even to the "goodly chaine of small orfeverye"t about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire burn- ing upon her wliite bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped I 1 ; 11 t! i i \ 1 S * Setten, incline. + Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. X Wrought gold. i. 76 THR SKETCHBOOK. up, to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was dccom^ panied by two female attendants, and about her sported a httle hound decorated with bells, probably the small Italian hound, of exquisite symmetry, which was a parlour favourite and pet among the fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of general eulogium: In her was youth, beauty with liumble port Bountee, richasse, and womanly feature, God better knows than my pen can report. Wisdom, largesse,* estate,t and cunning} sure. In every point so guided her measure, . In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance. That nature might no more her child advance. The "' ucpurture of the Lady Jane from the gardens puts an end to this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amor- ous illusion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Tlirough the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when evening approaches and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at the window, and, laying liis head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the mute melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses, '* half -sleeping, half -swoon," into a vision, which occupies the remainder of the poem, and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his passion. When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony pillow, and pacing his apartment full of dreary reflections, questions his spirit whither it has been wandering; whether, indeed, all that has passed before his dreaming fancy has been conjured up by preceding circumstances, or whether it is a vision intended to comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly a turtle-dove of the purest whiteness comes flying in at the window, and alights upon his hand, bearing in lior bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the leaves of which is writ- ten in letters of gold, the f olloAving sentence : Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I bring . The newis glad, that bliwsful is and sure. Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing. For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. ♦ Largesse, bounty. X Estate, dignity. t Cunning, discretion. A ROYAL POET. 77 ittle and, Ipct loses mend amor- scene idered inable at his ,, as he af and s head ^ve and of the into a and in ission. 3 stony actions, bether, as been it is a ndency. confirm 3B flying in her is writ- ition. He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads it with rapture, and this he says was the first token of his suc- ceeding happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or sv'hether the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her favour in tliis romantic way, remains to be determined accord- ing to the faith or fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision, and by the flower, is fulfilled by his being restored to liberty, and iiiade happy in the possession of the sovereign of his heart. Sach 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 finiitless to conjecture; do not, however, let us alwaj'^s consider what- ever is romantic as incompatible with real life, but let us some- times take a poet at his word. I have noticed merely such parts of the poem as were inunodiately connected with the tower, ajid have passed over a large part wliich was in the allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language of coui*se is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day ; but it is impossible not to bo charmed with the genuine senti- ment, the delightful artlessness aiid urbanity, which prevail throughout 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, refinomont, and exquisite deli- cacy which pei'vade it, banishing every gross thought, or iiuniodest expression, and presenting female lovehness clothed ia all its chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Grower, 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. T'lore are always, however, general features of resemblance in the works of cotemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the wide world ; they incorporate with their own conceptions the anecdotes and thoughts which are current in society, and thus each genera- tion has some features in common, characteristic of the age ia * - i i ! ■ i n >!^ 78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. H' which it lives. James in fact belongs to one of the most bril- liant eras of our literary history, and estabhshes the claims of his country to a participation in its primitive honours. Whilst a small cluster of English writers are constantly cited a^ the fathers of our verse, the name of their great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; but he is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of remote, but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together at the bright dawning of British poesy. Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish history, (though the manner in which it has of late been woven with captivating fiction has made it a universal study,) may be curious to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the fortunes of his love. His passion for the ■ Lady Jane, as it was the solai^e of his captivity, so it facili- tated his release, it being imagined by the Court, that a con- nection with the blood-royal of England would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and devoted wife. He found his kingdom in gi'eat confusion, the feudal chief- tains having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long interregnum to .strengthen themselves in tlieir pos- sessions, 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 tho reformation of abuses, the temperate and equable administra- tion of justice, the encouragement of the arts of peace, and the promotion of every vhing that could diffuse comfoH, com- j)etency, and innocent enjoyment, through the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among the coimnon people in disguise; visited their firesides; entered inio their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; infornied iiimself of the mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved ; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching mlh a benevolent eye over the meanest of hiS subjects. Having in this generous manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they had usurped ; to punish such as had been guilty ot flagrant offences ; and to bring the whole into proper obedience .!■•"■' "i! A ROYAL POET. 79 to the crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, but with secret impatience and brooding resent- ment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being t(jo old hunseK for the perpetration of the (Iced of blood, instigated his grandson, Sh Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and othei's of less note, to commit the deed. They br(jke into his bed-chamber at the Dominican convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faith- ful queen, rushing to thiow her tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin; and it was not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was accomi)lished. It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, cand of the golden httle poem, which bad its birth-place in this tower, that made me visit the old pile with more than connnon interest. The suit of armour hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embelhshed, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and romantic ]irince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem; I leaned upon the window, and endea- voured to persuade myself it was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; I looked out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and joy- ous month: the birds ^vere again vying with each other in strains of liquid melody : every thing was bursting into vegeta- tion, and budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of l)()Gtiy and love, and to have withheld his desolating baud. Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes fit tlio foot of the tower. It occupies Tvhat was once the moat of the keep, and though some parts have bee^ separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbours and shaded walks, as in the days of James; and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about the spot that has been printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and con- secrated by the inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, vather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the ?if t of poetry, to hallow every place in which it moves ; tc 6reathe round nature an odour more exquisite than the per !M \ i uf 80 THE 8KET0H-B00K fume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than the blush of morning. Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a war- rior and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as the companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common life. He was the firet to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since been so prolific of the most wholesome and highly flavoured fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north, all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did every thing in his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts which soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe a graxie round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote many poems, which, unfortunately for the fulness of his fame, are now lost to the world ; one, which is still preserved, called "Christ's Kirk of the Green," shows how diligently he had made himself acquainted with the rustic sports and pas- times, which constitute such a source of kind and social feel- ing among the Scottish peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humour he could enter into their enjoyments. He con- tributed greatly to improve the national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment and elegant taste are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his image Avitli whatever is most gracious and endearing in the national char- acter ; he has embalmed his memory in song, and floated his name down to after-ages in the rich stream of Scottish melody. The recollection of these things was kindling at my heart, as I paced the silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse with as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto; but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when contemplating the old tower and the littie garden at Windsor, and musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane, and the Royal Poet of Scotland. ban TEE COUNTRY CHURCH, 81 -^P war- jrely 1 the iweet He nt of most 1 him irts of to win which athe a t. He 3 of his served, ntly he nd pas- ial feel- plc and He con- Taces of in those ,d lonely ge witb lal char- >ated his melody, sart, as 1 |e visited >uld visit poetical the litlie ■es of tbe THE COUNTRY CHURCH. A gentleman 1 What, o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? Or Hsts of velvety which is't, pound, or yard, You vend your gentiy by?— Beggar's Bush. There are few places more favourable to the study of char- acter than an English country church. I was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particularly struclc my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which give such a peculiar charm to EngUsh landscape. It stood in the midst of a county fiUed with ancient families, and con- tained, within its cold and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were encrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly em- blazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous workman- sliip, with their effigies in coloured marble. On every side, the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. The congregation was composed of the neighbouring people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, fumishod with richly-gilded prayer-books, and de^.'^rated with tlieir arms upon the pew doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. The service was performed by a snuffling, well fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church He was a privileged ?iiest at all the tables of the neighbourhood, and had been tho keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing any thing more than ride to see tli(3 hoimds throw off, and make one at the hunting dinner. Under the mmistry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to got into tlie train of thought suitable to the time and place ; so ha\'ing, like many other feeble Christians, compromised with f it 82 THE SKETCHBOOK. •|j; '■»: •i . my conscience, by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person's threshold, I occupied myself by making obser- vations on my neighbours. I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman of high rank, consist ing of several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their appeai'ance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the kindesi manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refine- ment, but at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict neat- ness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanour was easy and natural, with tliat lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak free-born soids that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of in- feriority. There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with others, how- ever 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 concerns and field sports, in which the gen- tlemen of this country so much delight. In these conversa- tions, there was neither haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other; and you were only reminded of the difference of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune, and, having purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbour hood, was endeavouring to assume all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord of the soil. The family always came t(D church en prince. They were rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silv(^r radiance from every part of the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dour beside TllK COUNTRY CnUllCH. 83 citizen, isedthG ghbour giiity ot came t(i mg in =^ n silv(^r st coulcl red liat, his rosy beside him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its long springs with a peculiar statcliness of motion. The very hoi-ses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than common horses ; citlier because they had got a Httle of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. I could not but admire the stylo with which this splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall ;— a great smacking of the whip ; straining and scrambling of the horses; glistening of harness, and flaslung of wheels through gi'avel. This was the moment of triumph and vain- glory to the coachman. The horses were urged and checked, until they were fretted into a foam. Tliey threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagei*s sauntering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right and left gaping in vacant admira- tion. On reaching the gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on their haunches. There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, open tlie door, pull down the steps, and prepare every thing 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-market with a nod. His con- sort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. The Avorld went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, every thing was fine about her: it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was one long Lord Mayor's day. Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They cer- tainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-fashionablo in dress, and, though no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet their appropriate- ness might be questioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed dainty of tb© !&'. >«ii9« 84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. soil it trod on. They cast an excursive glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peasantry, until thty met the eyes of the nobleman's family, when their counto nances immediately brightened into smiles, and they made the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. I must not forget the two sons of this asi)iring citizen, who same to church in a dashing curricle, with outriders. They wore arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress wliich marks the man of questionable jjre- tensions to style. They kept entirely by themselves, eyeiuf; every one askance that came ne;^.»' them, as if measuring hi:; claims to respectability; yet they were without conversalic^n, except the exchange of an occasi(jnal cant phrase. They even moved artificially, for their bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had been disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art had done every thing to accomplish them as men of fashion, but Nature had denied them the name- less grace. They were vulgai-ly shaped, hke men formed for the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true gentl nan. I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two families, because I considered them specimens of what i? often to be met with in this country — the unpretending great and the arrogant Httle. I. have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by true nobility of soul ; but I hav( remarked, in all countries where these artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are always the most com- teous and imassuming. Tliose who are well assured of their own standing, are least apt to trespass on that of others: whereas, nothing is so offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbour. As, I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their behaviour in church. That of the nobleman's family wen quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervour of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable from good-breeding. The others, on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and 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 the whole burden of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with 'Tf THE WIDOW AND HER 80N. 85 a loud voice that might bo heard all over the church. It was evident that ho was one of those thorough church and kinj; men, who connect the idea of devotion and loyalty ; who con- sider the Deity, some how or other, of the government party, and religion * ' a very excellent sort of thing, that ought to bo countenanced and kept up." When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more b;y way of example to the lower orders, to show them, that thougl- 80 great and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as J have seen a turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin o] charity soup, smacking his hps at every mouthful, and pro nouncing it " excellent food for the poor." When the service was at an end, I was curious to Tritiiesr the several exits of my groups. The young noblemcii and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred strolling hom* across the fields, chatting with the country people as ihey went. The others departed as they came, in gi*and parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and tb^ g-littering of harness. The horses started off almost at a bound the villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wtieels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspiiing family was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. ! THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 3orry ) the lupon Iwith Pittie Okie age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have raign'd. Marlowe's Taniburlaine. During my residence in the country, I used frequently to nttend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its moul- dering monuments, its dark oaken panelhng, all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in the country, is so holy in its repose — such a pensive quiet reigns over the face of Nature, that every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. " Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and skvJ" 86 THE SKETCHBOOK. I cannot lay claim to the merit of being a devout man; but ihere 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 Sun- 'Aay, than on any other day of uhe seven. But in this church I felt myself continually thrown back upon the world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being that seemed thoroughly to feel tho humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepit oil woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of do(3ent pride \, ere visible in hor appearance. Her dress, though humble in tho extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes could not permit her to read, but whicji she evidently know by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or tho chantuxg of the choir. I am fond of loitering about country churches ; and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a beautifuil bend, and then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Its tail Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, Avith rooks and crows gener- ally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning, watching two labourers who were digging a grave. Th(^y had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners ot the churchyard, where, by the number of nameless graves arouna, it would appear that th 9 indigent and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the now-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of wo^-ldly rank, which extend thus down into the very dust, uiic toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. Thoy were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had notliing to do. A coffin of the plainest mate* TUE WIDOW AND 11 Kit SON. 87 rials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indif- ference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected wo, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged motber of the deceased -the poor old woman wliom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sui)ported by an humble friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor liad joined the train, and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now shouting with imthinking 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 sui'plice, with prayer- book in hand, and attended by +jhe clerk. The service, how- ever, was a mere act of chnrity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless. It was shuffled througli, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door ; his voice could scarcely be heard at the gi-ave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching cere- mony, turned into such a frigid mmnmery of words. I approached the grove. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it were inscribed the namj and age of the (de- ceased— " George Somcrs, aged 2Q years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head of it. Her with- ered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convidsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with tlie yearnings of a mother's heart. Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the eai-th. 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 grav(>l; which, at the grave of those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. Tlie bustle aroiuid seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords to lowor the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into an agcny of grief. The poor woman who attends .1 her, took, her by the arm, endeavour(Hl to raise hor from the earth, and to whisper sometliing like consolation —"Nay, now— nay, now— don't take it so sorely to heart." 88 THE SKETCH-BOOK She c raid only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to be comforted. As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coflBn, all the tender- ness of the mother burst forth ; as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering. I could see no more — ^my heart swelled into my throat— my eyes filled with tears— I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal arguish. I wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train had dispersed. When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart achod for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich? They have friends to soothe — pleasures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs. What are the sor- rows of the young? Their growing minds soon close above the wound— their elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure— their green and ductile affections soon twine around new ob- jects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after- growth of joy — the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, desti- tute, mourning over an only son the last solace of her years ; — these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way homeward, I met with the woman who had acted as com- forter : she was just returning from accompanying her mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed. The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably and comfortably. and led a happy and a blameless life. They had one son, who had grownup to be the staff and pride of their age. — "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one .around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did one's heart good to see him of a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supportinef his < on G mig] the c Ur scare one c had I a pre tiding ' notlii] ^ wlio V sunk ] feeble] parish out th( inhabii had pa in it, V wants tluction and the time at was gat the cott strange] wildly Pinaciat( sickness her, but knees be /i<''zed u] clear, de; Geoj-ge?'' >^'Jio, sha ^i^'nt, ha i'ei)ose an I will 1] «''iere soi nlivel— h( '^»d cherii '''111; and fcte, the THE WIDOW AND HER SOK his old mother to church — for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's ; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in the country round. " Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring river. Ho bad not been long in this employ, when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of liis seizure, but beyond that they could learn f nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, ^ wlio was already infirm, gi-ew heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widoAv, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kind of feeling toward her through- out the village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she Uved solitary and almost helpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro- ductions of her little garden, which the neighbours woidd now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage-door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened toward her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye— *' Oh my dear, dear mother ! don't you know your son? your poor boy Cleorge?" It was, indeed, the wreck of her once noble lad; A'ho, shattered by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprieon- m(>nt, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to re])ose among the scenes of his childhood. I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, wliere sorrow and joy were so completely blended: still he was alive!— he was come home! — he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in hini; and if any thing had been wanting to finish the work of fete, the desolation of his native cottage would have been f ■ i 90 THE SKETGir-BOOK. ;i I sufficient. He stretched himself on tl^e pallet on which liis widowed mother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. The villagers, when they henrd that George Somers had re- turned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assist- ance that their humble means afforded. Pie was too wcali, however, to talk— he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed unwilHng to bo helped by any other hand. There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood; that softens tlie heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in ad- vanced life, in sickness and. despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect n id loneliness of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness? Oh ! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor dojunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will sur- render every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity;— and, if mistortinie overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if dis- grace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace ; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sick- ness, and none to soothe— lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endiu'e his mother from his sight ; if she moved away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saAV her bending over him, when he would take hci hand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep with the tranquUlit}' of a child. In this way he died. My first impulse, on hearing this humble tale of affliction, was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuni ary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the vUlagers had prompted them to do every thing that the case admitted ; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows, I did not ven- ture to intrude. "A tnve hoard my, it was ail «'utl that It is tiio men tures. tlie num in the dn '^iinp to THE BOAUS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCUEAP. 91 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to Ler accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious affection and utter poverty: a black riband or so— a faded black handkerchief — and one or two more such humble attempts to express by outward signs that ^rief which passes show. — When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently over de- parted pride, and turned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sc row at the altar of her God, and offering up the ]>rayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted them- selves to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten iier afflictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood, I heard, Avith a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly bi'oathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrov/^ is never known, and friendfj arc never parted. THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. A SHAKSPERIAN RESEARCH. m^' ction, ecuni or, on mptcd poor )t ven' "A tavern is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of pood fellows. I hav^ heard my preat-p^randfather tell, how his preat great-grandfather should say, tliat it was an old proverb when his great-grand fatlier 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 Cathohc countries, to honour ttio memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pic- tures. 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 liis little chapel ; another may have a solitary lump to throw its bUnking ray^ athwart his effigy ; while the 02 Tiih: bianvH-moK. whole blazG of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beati- fied father of renown. The wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax ; the eager zealot, his seven-branched candle- stick ; and even the mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased, unless he hangs up his little lamp of smoking oil. The consequence is, in the eagerness to enlighten, they are often apt to obscure ; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officiousness of his followers. In Hke manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. Every writer considers it his bounden dvity, to light up some portion of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of dissei*tations ; the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity from their notes at the bottom of each page ; and every casual scribbler brings his farthing rush-light of eulogy or research, to swell the cloud of incense and of smoke. As I honour all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; every doubtful line had been explained a dozen differ- ent ways, and perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages they had all been amply praised by previous admirers : nay, so completely had the bard, of late, been over- larded with panegyric by a great German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had not been argued into a beauty. In tliis perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV. nnd was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar's Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of humour 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 fe-^v readers does it occur, that these are all ideal creations of n poet's brain, and that, in sober truth, no such knot of merry foysters ever enlivened the dull neighbourhood of Eastcheap. For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero of fiction that never existed, is just as vahin '•heap !^iame£ oears old St ('ooke.' other :ind sa I'oarin, lias gi^ THE BOAR'S imAD TAVEliN, EASTCHEAP. 93 pages, y IV. evelry these stency ' up in 'o lc^v is of n merry heap. lOHS ot vaUin ble to me as a hero of history that existed a thousand years since ; and, if I may he excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the gi'eat men of ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like me? They have con- quered countries of whi( h I do not enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit i^ leaf ; or they have furnished examples of hare-brained prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old Jack Falstaff!— kind Jack Falstaff!— sweet Jack Falstaff! has •onlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment ; he has added vast regions of wit and good-humour, in which the poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity. A thought suddenly struck me: " I will make a pilgrimage to Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boar's Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, there will be a kindred pleasure, in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to that the toper en- joys in smellmg to the empty cask, once filled with generous wine. " The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. 1 forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I en- countered in my travels, of the haunted regions of Cock-lane ; of the faded glories of Little Britain, and the parts adjacent; what perils I ran in Cateaton-street and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall and its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited London Stone, and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch-rebel, Jack Cade. Let it suffice to say, that I at length ari'ived in merry East- •lieap, that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding-lane )oars testimony even at tne present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stow, "was always famous for its convivial doings. The t'ookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals ; there was clattering of p^iier pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." Alas! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of Falstaff and old Stow ! The madcap royster has given i>lace to the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of .jr^mm^^m 04 THE SKiiTCn-BOOK. pote and the sound of "harpo and sawtrio," to the din of carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman's bell ; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased mackerel. I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly, The 01 dy relic of it is a boar's head, carved in relief stone, vvhich formerly served as the sign, but, at present, is built into the parting line of two houses which stand on the site of the renowned old tavern. For the history of this little empire of good fellowsliip, I was referred to a tallow-chandler's widow, opposite, who had been born and brought up on the spot, and Avas looked up to, as the indisputable chroni(;ler of the neighbourhood. I found her seated in a little back parlour, the window of whi(3h looked out upon a yard about eight feet square, laid out as a flower- garden ; while a glass door opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of soap and tallow candles ; the two views, which comprised, in all probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a century. To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and httle, from London Stone even unto the Monument, was, doubtless, in her opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the uni- verse. Yet, with all this, she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal, communicative disposition, which I have generally remarked in intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their neighbourhood. Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity. She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar's Head, from the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol, until the great fire of London, when it was un- fortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad measures, and othei iniquities which are incident to the sinful race of publicans, endeavoured to make his peace with Heaven, by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael's church. Crooked-lane, toward the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry meetings were regularly held there ; but it was observed that the old Boar never held up his head under church government. He gi-adually declined, and finally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The tavern was then turned into shops ; but she informed me that a picture of it was still preserved in St. Alich of th Miyse ^ rabli m'eat iiiipoi It ( lorret plore (lark J ancien I trace houses I Oi hea^ TJio se: lowly 1 eucoun such as c'ompan the eart seated { Wgh do over a : seldom anc'o of 'it the m nient, ai] "0, havii Pormissi Thee (ti«tanc(» fislimonti of glory, nionume Pfl with craft, as soldiers t I cann( »ien, to also the i Knight, -vAi Tyler, in I almost th THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCITEAP. dd Alichaors church, which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of thi8 picture was now my determination ; so, having informed ]iiyself of the abode of the sexton, I took my leave of the ven- t rable chronicler of Eastcheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore, and furnished an iiiiportant incident in the liistory of her life. It cost me some difficulty and much curious inquirj-, to lorret out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to ex- plore Crooked-lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with which this old city is perforated, Uke an ancient cheese, or a worm-eaten chest of drawers. At lengt.h I traced him to a corner of a small court, surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as much of +'ie face oi heaven a^ a community of frogs at the bottom of a well. The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, lowly habit ; yet he had a pleasant twinkhng in his eye, and if encouraged, would now and then venture a small pleasantry ; such as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of high church wardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found him in company \\dth the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton's angels; discom*sing, no doubt, on liigh doctrinal points, and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale; for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without the assist- ance of a cool tankard to clear their imderstandings. I arrived fit the moment when they had iinishcd their ale and their argu- ment, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order; so, having made known my wishes, I received their gracious permission to accompany them. The church of St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, standing a short distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many fishmongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of glory, and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regard- ed with as much reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or sokliers the monument of a Marlborough or Turenue. I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to observe that St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, contains also the ashes of that doughty champion, William Walworth, Knight, who so m.'\nfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat I Tyler, in Smithfield ; a hero worthy of honourable blazon, as I almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of 96 THE SKETCH-BOOK, aims ; the sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back windows of what was once the Boar's Head, stands the tombstone of Robert Preston, whilome drawer at the tavern. It is now nearly a century since this ti*usty drawer of good liquor closed his bustling career, and was thus quic^tly deposited within call of his customers. As I was clearing away oho weeds from his epitaph, tho little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and inforaied me, in a low voii i^, that once upon a time, on a dark wintry night, when the wind was unruly, howling and whistling, banging about doors and windows, and twirling Aveathercocks, so that tho living were friglitened out of their beds, and even the dead could not slc( jj quietly in their graves, tho ghost of honest Preston, which hap- pened to be airing itself in the churchyard, was attracted ly tho well-known call of "waiter," from the Boar's Head, and made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaiing chilj, just as the parish clerk was singing a stave from the ' ' mirrio gai'land of Captam Death ;*' to the discomlitine of sundry train- band captains, and the conversion of an iiifidel attorney, who became a zealous Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth afterwaids, except in the way of business. I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the authenticity of tliis anecdote ; though it is well known that * The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great conflagration. Hereunder lyth a man of fame, William Walworth callyd bj' name; Fishmonger lie was in lyfftinie here, And twise Lord Maior, as in books appeare; Who, with courage stout and manly mj'ght, Slew Jack Straw in Kjng Richard's sight. For which act done, and trew entent. The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; And gave \>'n: armcs, as here you see, To declare his fact and chivaldrie: He left this lyff the year of our God Thirteen hondrod fourscore and three odd. An arror In the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stow: "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that tlie rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Wahvortli, the then worth}' 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 Londoi. Boar'i churc endeth the air ccivin^ ern, o: bad be( * As thi "ilioM of I *'''io once THE BOAR'S MEAD TAVERN, EASTCIIBAP. 97 the churchyards and bye-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must hnvo heard of the Cock-lano ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of their wits. Be all this as it may, this Robert 'Preston seems to have been a worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his "anon, anon, sir," and to have transcended liis predecessor in honesty ; for Falstaff , the veracity of whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack; whereas, honest Preston's epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his conduct, the soundness of liis wine, and the fairness of his measure.* The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much captivated by the sober virtues of the tapster: the deputy organist, who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a significant wink, and a dubious shake of the head. Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet dis- appointed me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar's Head Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St. Michael's. "Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth my research!" So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, per- ceiving mo to be curious in everything relative to the old tav- ern, offered to show me the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when the parish ,ble Stovf. , that the rtliy I^ord Bnni-ile this ords. The first man; ♦ As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the admo nit ion of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some choice spirif who once frequented the Boar's Head. BacchMs, to Rive the toping world surprise, Produced one sober son, and here he lies. Though rear'd among full hogsheads, he defied The charms of wine, and every one beside. O reader, if to justice thou 'rt inclined, Keep honest Pr6ston daily in thy mind. He drew good wine, tooic care to fill his pots, Had sundry virtues that excustjd his faults. You that on Baceluis have the lilte dependence, Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance. 98 Tna aKsroH'BooK, ■ 1 1 meetings wore hold at the Boar's Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had been transferred, on the decline of the ancient eatablishmont, to a tavern in the nei^h- bonrhood. A few steps brought us to tha house, which stands No. 1)5?, Mile-lane, bearing the title of The Mason's Arms, and is kept by \ Master Edward Honeyball, the "bully-rock" of the cstabhsh- ment. It is one of those little taverns, which abound in tho heart of the city, and form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighbourhood. We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to struggle down to tho inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each containing a table spread with a clean white cloth, ready for dinner. This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided their day equally, for it was but just one o'clock. At the lower end oi the room was a clear coal fire, before which a bivast of lanib was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs ghstened along the mantelpiece, and an old-fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of kitchen, parlour, 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 be- speaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fish- ermen or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions, I was ushered into a Httle misshapen back room, having at least nine comers. It was lighted by a sky-light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and ornamented "with the portrait of a fat pig. It wn' evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I found n shabby gentleman, in a red nose, and oil-cloth hat, seated in one coraer, meditating on a half-empty pot of porter. The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an aii of profound importance imparted to her my errand, Damo Honeyball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, nnd no bad substitute for that paragon of hostesses, Damp Quickly. She seemed delighted with on opportunity to oblige ; and hurry- ing up stairs to the archives of lier house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying with them in her hands. The first she presented me was a j.npnnned iron tobacco-box, of at M-a coi but cal ;'uti turc poi-t on t thcr( insci ofth On ated, for x,h and t] JoJiD gust f Scribl( tlie K^ tion. Whi Honej' put in to the l^ore th J^nighf being i strengt oil-elotr doscenc ftom hi ^^'ok atl ^ow th^ The revolryl there is quarianl be no otl FalstaffF and whil ■m THE BOARS HEAD TA VERN, EA8TCHEAP. 00 fislv >oxep. iheretl 3rners. athern It wa^ 'Und n ted ill L an ail and no )viickly- hurry- Drecioiis smiling Icco-box, of gigantic size, out of which, I was told, the vestry had smoked at their stated meetings, since time immemorial; and which was never suffered to be profaned by vulgar hands, or used on common occasions. I received it with becoming reverence; but what was my delight, at beholding on its cover the identi- cal painting of which I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the Boar's Head Tavern, and before the door was to, bo seen the whole convivial gi'oup, at table, in full revel, pic- tured with that wonderfid fideUty and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are illustrated on tobacco boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning hmner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and FalstafI on the bottoms of their chairs. On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliter^ ated, recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use of the vestry meetings at the Boar's Head Tavern, and that it was ''repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767." Such is a faithful description of this au- gust and venerable relic, and I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long-sought sangreal with more exulta- tion. While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze. Dame Honej'ball, who was highly gratified by the interest it excited, put in my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the vestry, and was descended from the old Boar's Head. It bore the inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers Knight, and was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very "antyko." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gentleman with the rod nose, and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and casting a kno ving look at the goblet, exclaimed, "Ay, ay, the head don't ache now that made that there article." The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by modem churchwardens, at first puzzled me ; but there is nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as anti- quarian research ; for I inomediately perceived that tliis 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 'Mil" mtu 100 THE SKETCH-BOOK. the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that solemn con tract.* Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had m&n handed down from generation to generation. She also entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen vho have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so man;^ commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honour of Shakspearc. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbours, one and all, about Eastcheap, beheve that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled there. Nay, thore arc several legendary anecdotes concem^To him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason's Arms, whicL tl^oy give as transmitted down from their forefathers; and Mr. M'Kash, an Irisl: hair-dresser, whose shop stands on the site of the old Boar's Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack's not bid down in the books, with which he makes his customers ready to die of laughter. I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some farther inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had decUned a little on one side ; a deej^ ^gh heaved from the very bottom of his stomach, and, though I could not see a tear trembling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from, a comer of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savoury breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. I now called to mind, that in the eogemess of my recovidite investigation, 1 was keeping the poor n^an from his dinner. My bowels yearned with sympathy, and putting in his hand a small token of my gratitude and good- will, I dej^arted with n hearty benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the parif ' club of Crooked-lane— not forgetting my shabby, but sentci: tious friend, in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. Thus have I given a "tedious brief " account of this interest ing research ; for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature. * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin Cham- ber, at the round table, by a sea-coal Are. on Wednesday in Whitsun-- »'eek, when the Prince broke thy heati for likening his father to a singing man of Windsor; thou didst swear to rae then, as T. was washing thy wonnd, to marry me, and make nw Ujy lady, thy wife Canst thou deny it?— ifej.ji/ IV. part 3. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. tOl m deservedly popular at the present day. I am aware xhat a more skilful illustrator of the immortal bard wotild have swelled the materials I have touched upon, to a good merchant- able bulk, comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert Preston ; some notice of the eminent Jshmongei-s of St, Michael's ; the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private anecdotes of Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even mentioned: to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb, (and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat foot and ankle ;) the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire of Lcadon. All this I leave as a rich mjpe, to be worked by future com- mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the subject of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of volumi- nous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far-fameu Portland vase. THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I know that all beneath the moon decays, And what bj' mortals in this world is brought, In time's great periods shall return to nought. 1 know that all the muses' heavenly layea, With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. Drummond ok Hawthobnden. II m J! in Cham- ek, whtMi Isor; th"U niake n»e There are certain half dreaming moods of mind, in which we 1 aturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet launt, where we may indulge our reveries, and build our air ■astles undisturbed. In such a mood, I was loitering about the olil gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection: when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster school, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the monastic stillness o^ the place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. J 102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Hi sought to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and apphed to one of the vergers for admission to the libraiy. Ho conducted me through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of fonner ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the Chapter- house, and the chamber in which Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a key ; it was double locked, and opened with some difficulty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow staircase, and passing through a second door, entered the Ubrary. I f oimd 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 the floor, and which apparently opened uijon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the fire-place. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the library was a solitary table, with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and profound meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, that echoed soberly along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merri ment grew iamter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall. I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a venerable elbow chair, instead of reading, however, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, 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 theii- J cloiste still m painfu occupy read n f-iau, o lost ev( 'inimort the torn filhng t then pai While ble spec thrumrn dentally the Httle p deep £ At first troubled across it exposure flowever, iiigly fiiu was rath the preae vour, as J It bega ^ni lit bci coinmonp ^erly that -thtt th soDietime; a few moi "What I began to they meai here, and ties in a I Dean? Be andlwou) of us a vif 1 TEE MUT ABILITY OF LITERATURE. 103 thrust many weary daysl how many sleepless nights! How have theii' authors buried themselves in the soUtude of cells and cloisters ; shut themselves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature; and devoted themselves to painful research and mtonse reflection! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf — to have the titles of their works road now and then in a future age, by some drowsy church- (uian, or casual straggler lilce myself ; and in another age to be lost even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted 'immortality. A more temporary rumour, a local sound; like the tone of that boll which has just tolled among these towers, filUng the ear for a moment — hngering transiently in echo— and then passing away, Mke a thing that was not I While I sat half-murmurmg, half -meditating these unprofita- ble speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrummmg with the other hand upon the quarto, until I acci- dentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from deep sleep ; then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. At first its \oice was very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious spider had woven across it ; and having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to the cliills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, flowover, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an exceed- ingly fluent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation what in the present day would be deemed barbarous ; but I shall endea- vour, as far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance. It began with railmgs about the neglect of the world — about I m rit being suftered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and complained bit- xerly that it had not been opened for more than two centuries ; — thtt the Dean only looked now and then into the Hbrary, sometimes took down a volume or two, trifled with them ^or a few moments, and then returned them to their shelves. 'What a plague do they mean," said the little quai-to, which 1 began to perceive was somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers, like so many beau- I ties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the Dean? Books were written to give j)leasure and to be enjoyed; and I would have a rule passed that the Dean should pay each of us a visit, at least once a year; or if he is not equal to the ■■m ''1 f04 THE SKETCH-BOOK. iask, let them once in a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and then have an airing." "Softly, my worthy friend," repKed I, "you are not aware how much better you are off than most books of your genera- tion. By being stored away in this ancient library, you are hko the treasured remains of those saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the adjoining chapels ; while the remains of their cotemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to dust." \ "Sir," said the little tome, rufflihg his leaves and looking big, "I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great cotemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms that are playing the very ven- geance with my intestines, if you had not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." "My good friend," rejoined I, "had you been left to the cir- culation of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. To judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years ; very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence; and those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and gi'atefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and decrepid, and Avhere, by quiet fostering and no employment, tliey often endure to an amazingly good-for-nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation — where do we meet with their works? — what do wo hear of Robert Groteste of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder than he for immor- tality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumos. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has long since faUen, and only a f :w fragments are scattered in various libraries, Avhere they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we hoar of (liraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, thoolo,2:ian, and poet? He declined two bishoprics, that he might «hut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inqm'res after his labours. What of Honry of Huntingdon, who, besides a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 106 tho contempt of tlio world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three great heroic poems, one is lost for ever, excepting a mere frag- ment ; the others are known only to a few of the curious in Uterature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John Wallis, tho Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life? — of Wilham of Malmsbury ; of Simeon of Durham ; of Benedict of Peterborough ; of John Hanvill of St, Albans ; of " " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto in a testy tone, "how old do you think me? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time pnd wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir, was ushered into the world from tho press of the renowned Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native tongue, at a time when the language had be- come fixed ; and, indeed, I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." [I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.] "I cry you mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age; but it matters little ; almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into f orgetf ulness ; and De Worde's publications are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the worthy Robert of nioucester, w^ho wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon, f Even now, many talk of Spenser's ' well of pure English un- flofiled,'as if the language ever sprang from a well or fountain- head, and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this * In Latin and French hath many soueraine wlttes had greabdelyte to endyte, and liave many noble things fulfllde, but certes there ben some tliat spealten their ixiisye in French, of which speclie the Frenchmen have as good a fantasje as we liave in hearing of Frenchmen's EngUshe.— Chaucer's Testament of Lovt. + Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterr-\rds, also, by diligent travell of (icffry Cliaucer and .John Gowrie, in the time of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came tmto the type of perfection tiiitil the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to th^ir great praise and immortal commendation." I w 106 TUE SKETCH-BOOK, i! iiiil Mil which has made English Mterature so extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. Unless thought can be committed to something more permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, cv'cn thought nmst share the fate of every thing else, and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. Ee finds tbo language in which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back, and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favourites of their day, supplanted by modern writers : a few short ages have covered them with ob- scurity, and their merits can only be rehshed by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will, in the course of years, gro\7 antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become al- most as unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic inscriptions, said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. x declare," added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern library, filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the sijlendour of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in exist- ence !" " Ah," said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the 'unparalleled John Lyly.' " " There you are again mistaken," said I; " the writers whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, was f idl of noble thoughts, dehcate images, and graceful turns of ;."^l: * "Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, and the golden pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee of the daintyeat flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and the intellectual virtues, the arme of Beilona in the field, the tongue of Suadu in the churaber, the spirite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print-"— Harvrv's jpierce'*' Superei-ogation THE MUTABILITY Of" LtTSRATVRB, 107 'W golden was the intyeat le arme .ctise io tgatioinr lati^ftge, is now scarcely ever mentioned. Sackrille has Btnitted into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were once the dehght of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A wholo crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down with all their writings and their contro- versies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of anti- quity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. "For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of language a wise i)recaution of Providence for the benefit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy: we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up, fioiu-ishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing: the earth would groan \vith rank and excessive vegetation, and its surface be- come a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent pro- ductions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes of literature. Formerly there were some re- straints on this excessive multiplication: works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation ; they were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make way for another ; or on papyrus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was ahmited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined nlmost entirely to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, bo owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that the tonntains of thoughts' have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an end to all these restraints : they have made every one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse itself over the wholo intc^llertual world. The consequences ai'e alarming. The stream of literature has swollen into a torrent 108 THE 8KET0HB00K. --augmented into a river— expanded into a sea. A few ceil tunes since, five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time busy; and a press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quadruple the number i Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among the progeny of the Muse, now that she has become so prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much; it in- creases with the increase of literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable information at the present day reads scarcely any thing but reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be httle better than a mere walk ing catalogue." *'My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I per- ceive you are rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at him, for he was a poor, half- educated varlet, that know little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for deer- stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presmne he soon sunk into oblivion." "On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. There arise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in tho unchanging principles of human nature. They are like gigan- tic trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream, which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations of tho earth, preserve the soil arountl them from being swept away by the overflowing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is ■■PBP THE MVTABITJT7 OF LiTlSIiATUIiB. .lliO thd Case with Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying tho Giicroochments of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indiiroreut author merely from having flourished in his vicin- ity. JJut even he, I grieve to say, is gradually assmning the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost bury tho noble plant that upholds them." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, iiitil at length he broke out into a plethoric fit of laughter that liad well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpu- lency, "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, ' ' mighty well ! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be perpetuated by a vagabond dee)* stealer ! by a man without learning ! by a poet ! forsooth — a poet I" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. "Yes," resumed I posicively, "a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance for immortality. Others may wr:t«^ from the head, but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful portraycr of Nature, whose features are always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and unwieldy; their pages crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet every thing is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by every thing that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before liim. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of the ago in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose Avithin a small compass the wealth of tho language— its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a portable form to posteiity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue imaltered. Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical controversies ! What bogs of theological speculations 1 What dreaiT A\"astes of metaphvsicsJ 4;\ ;ii-i T I : t:'/l no mE SKETCHBOOK. \: Here and there only do we behold the heaven-illumined bardfl, elevated like beacons on their widely-separated heights, to transmit the pui*e light of poetical intelligence from age to ♦ Thorow earth, and waters deepe, The pen by skill doth passe: And featly nypa the worldes abuse. And shoes iis in aglasse, The vertu and the vice Of every wight alyve; The honey combe tliat bee doth make, Is not 80 sweet in liy ve, As are tlie golden leves That drops from jjoet's head; Which dotli surmount our common talko, As farre as dross dotli lead.— Chukchyabd. I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of the day, when the sudden ojjening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to mfonn mo that it was time to close the hbrary. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the worthy httle tome was silent ; the clasps were closed ; and it looked ])erfectly uncon- scious of all that had passed. I have been to the hbrary two or three times since, and have endeavoured to draw it into further conversation, but in vain : and whethejr all this ram- bling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment, been able to discover. RURAL FUNERALS. Here's a few flowers! but about mi'lnight more: The herbs that liave on them cold dew o' the night Are strewings fitt'st for graves You were as flowers now withered: even so These herb'lets shall, which we upon you strow.— CyMBELiNK. Among the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life which still linger in some parts of England, are those of strew- ing flowers before the funerals and planting them at the graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the primitive church ; but they are of still higher antiquity, having l^een observed among the Greeks and Ro- mans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no doub< natini song, met -w ^vhere ••nd ti 'Id en 1 InQ lies is ( vvildai There some of female ^ white fl( ("st in ag tlie chui f'haplets flowers Tliey ard and the In son the grn triumpi their cou informed ticularly molancl country h from a di i'lndscape 10 There n I Passing ful focciHTingr RURAL FUNERALS. Ill doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlottored affection, origi- nating long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out all the curious and 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 liis shroud as tho mountain snow, Larded all with sweet ilowcrs; Which be-wept to the grave did go, With tme love showers. There is also a most delicate and boa-.tiful rite observed in some of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a f(}male who has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is borne before the corpse by a young girl, near- est in age, size, and resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is generally a pair of white gloves. Tliey are intended as emblems of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has received in heaven. In some parts of the country, also, the dead are cariied to the grave with the singing of psalms and hymns; a kind of triumph, "to show," says Bourne, "that they have finished their course with joy, and are become conquerors. " This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern counties, par- ticularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly moving along the landscape. Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round Thy harmless and unhaunted ground, And as we sing thy dirge, we will The Daflfodill And other flowers lay upon The altar of our love, thy stone.— Herrick. There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the I passing fimeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, I occurrmg among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into tho 119 TUE SKETGU-BOOK. soul. As the mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncov- ered, to let it go by; he then follows Hilently in the rear; some- times quite to the grave, at other tinien for a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennoblinj^ graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the; solicitude shown by the common people for an honoured and n peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respeci may bo paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing he " faire and happy milkmaid," observes, " thus lives she, and iiU her care is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers stucke upon her winding-sheet." The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the gi'ave. In "The Maid's Tragedy," by Beaumont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful in- stance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl. When she sees a bank Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell ^er servants, what a pretty place it were "o bury lovers in; and make her maids Pluck 'em, and strew her over like a corse. The custom of decorating graves was once universally preva- lent : osiers were carefidly bent over them to keep the turf un- injured, and about them were planted evergreens and flowers. "We adorn their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redolent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in dishonour, rise again in glory." This usage has now become extremely rare in Eng- land ; but it may still be met with in the churchyards of re tired villages, among the Welsh mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of RuthAen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clowyd. I have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about the grave. He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same manner. As the flo^vers had been merely stuck in the liUJiAL FU^EIiALS. 118 !0V- mc- Ircd i:cd, jling a 11 ic ind a nuiy g he ndull store 1, too, idvcvt Maid's ful in- ly of a ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various states of decay ; soma drooping, others quite perished. They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other evergreens; which on some graves had grown to gi'eat luxuriance, and overshadowed the tombstones. There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the ar- rangement of these i-ustic offerings that had something in it truly poetical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem of frail mortaUty. "This sweet liower," 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 colour of the flowers, and of the ribands with which they were tied, had often a particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were ex- pressive of the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled "Cory don's Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decorations he intends to use : ^ preva- turf un- lowcrs. "witli )f man, fading igain in I in Eng- hs of re- pUect an fcs at tlie told also Ig girl in fr apron*^ }ed, they >d in the pk in the A garland shall be framed By Art and Nature's skill, Of sundry-coloured flowers, In token of good will. And sundry -coloured ribands On it I will bestow; But chiefly blacke and yellowe With her to giave 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 o virgin; her chaplet was tied with white ribands, in token ot lier spotless innocence; though sometimes black ribands were intermingled, to bespeak the gidef of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally used, in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevolence; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in his time, near his dwell- ing 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 Brittania: " Here is also a certain custom observed tipic out of 114 THE SKETCH-BOOK. mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the young men and maids who have lost iheir loves ; so that this churchyard 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 ii flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colours. 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 introduced, illustrative of this mode ojE decorating the funerals of females who have been disappointed in love. Ijay a garland on my hearse Of the dismal yew, Maidens willow branches wear, Say I died true. My love v,ras false, but I was Arm, From my hour of birth, Upon my buried body lie Lightly, ger+le eartli. The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the mind ; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment, and the unaffected elegance of thought, which per- vaded the whole of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution, that none but sweet-scented evergi-eens and flowers should be employed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased witli the most delicate and beautiful objects in Nature. There is a dismal process going on in tlie grave, ere dust can return to its kindred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those re- fined associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth and beauty. "Lay her i' the earth," says Laertes of his virgin sister, And from her fair and unpolluted ilesh May violets spring. RURAL FUNERALS. and licate rocoss dust, nd we 3se rc- ore us rtes of iia Herrick, also, in his "Dirge of Jephcha," pours forth a fra- grant flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the dead in the recollections of the hving. Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spioe, And make this place all Paradise: May sweets grow here 1 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 flowersi May vfrgins, wheu they come to mourn Male incense bum Upon thine altar ! then return And leave thee sleeping in thy urn. I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets, who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, 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 tributes, and at the same time pos* sesses that magic of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent. With fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose; nor The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander, Outsweetened not thy breath. There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly monuments of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is Avarm, and the tear falls on the grave as affection is binding tho osier round the sod; but pathos expires under the sIoav labour of the chisel, and i^ chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. It is gi'oatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant and touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the most remote and insignificant villages. But It seems as if poetical custom always shuns the walks of culti- vated 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 sallying emotions, and I'm -J 116 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ■""\ i ! to supply it& most affecting and picturesque usages, by studied form and pompous Ceremonial. Few pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is made up of show and gloomy paradt? : mourning carriages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a mockery of grief. "There is a gi-ave digged," says Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighbourhood, and when the daies are fimshed, they shall be, and they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succes- sion of new intimates and new plea^ares effaces him from our minds, and the very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. But funerals in the country are sol- emnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the tranquU uniformity of rural life. The passing beU tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals vvith its pervading melancholy over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. The fixed and unchanging features of the country, also, per- petuate the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; who was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of Nature : we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented; we think of him in the wild upland sohtude, or amidst the pensive beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety ; and when sober evening returns, with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet-souled melan- choly. Each lonely place shall him restore, For him the tear be duly shed, Beloved, till life can charm no more. And mourn'd till pity's self be dead. Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in the country, is that the grave is more immediately in sight of the survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer ; it meets their eyes when their hearts are softened by the exercise of devotion ; they linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind IS disengagec 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 pc friend the tei it is a^ vals, \[ more -^ neares ployed deeme( Iha-y is one c ?rave i passion impulse tinuallj but the brance. with th( ing and is thenc( f^onsual I sanctify The s( refuse t( every ot a duty t( in soIitu( tlie infar every rei willingly be but to the frien( closing u heart, as eept of c( tl in love V of the soi wiien the tear of re sivo ngon softened (^ays of it II RURAL FUNERAL8. 117 the peasantry kneel and pray over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays after the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, and other festi- vals, when the season brings the companion of former f(,>stivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends ; no menials nor hirelings are em- ployed, and if a neighbourhood yields assistance, it would be deemed an insult to offer compensation. I have dwelt upon this beautiful ixiral custom, because, as it is one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The c:rave 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 attachmf nt. The latter must be con- tinually refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is seated in the soul can live on long remem- brance. The mere inclinations of sense languish and dechne with the charms which excited them, and turn with shudder- ing and disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that tnily spiritual affection rises purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal — every other affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open — this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willinglj^ forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember bo but to lament ? Who, even in th e hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal ; would ac- ee]it of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness?— No, thn love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection— when the sudden nnguiGh and the convul- givo ngony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the lays of its loveliness — who would root out such a sorrow from tbr> honrt? Thoiifrb it mav somofimes thro"' " ^-'^ocnyy^ (%\o-->a i'. ■ ; M'i \ ' ■ "'1 118 THE SKETCH-BOOK. over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom; yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the hving. Oh, the grave !— the grave ! — It buries every error — covers every defect— extinguishes every resentment! From its peacefiil 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 ho should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that hes mouldering before him? But the grave of those we loved — what a place for meditation ! There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; — there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs— its noiseless attendance— its mute, watch- ful assiduities. The last testimonies of expirmg love ! The fee- ble, fluttering, thrilling, oh! how thriUing! — pressure of the hand. The last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of existence. The faint, faltei'ing ac- cents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affec- tion! Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never — never — never return to be soothed by thy contrition ! If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent— if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth— if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that gener- ously confided in thee — if thou art a lover and hafit ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and stiU beneath thy feet ; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronginc: back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy sov^ - tlien be sure that tliou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and.uttei: the unheard groan, and pour the ui and u The natur< with t ingby and h( charge In w fuU del merely paiticu paper, l)ly into for so b been an I mug of adon sides Er is obser apt to I Bright, ofmarb] among prally ai gives a < scribe, f tlie ami; ho, "If, \vith son niidst of ^voman turf, wh inf,' crow this affec in^' than I will <>noo me at the V Jake of I •capital \:t) RURAL FUNERALS. 119 the unavailing tear— more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender, yet futile tributes of rrccret ; — but take warn- ing by the bitterness of this thy contrite atfliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the dis- charge of thy duties to the living. In writing the preceding article it was not intended to give a full detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to furnish a few hmts and quotations illustrative of particular rites, to be appended, by way of note, to another })aper, which has been withheld. The article swelled inscnsi- l)ly into its present form, and this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investigated in other works. I must observe, also, that I am well aware that tliis custom of adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries be- sides England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed oven by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its simplicity, and to Regenerate into affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of marble, and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of gi'een-house plants ; and that the graves gen- erally are covered with the gayest flowei-s of the season. He gives a casual picture of final piety, which I cannot but de- scribe, for I trust it is as useful as it is delightful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. "When I was at Berlin,'' says ho, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young woman who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf, which she anxiously protected from the feet of the pass- inj^ crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of this affectionate daughter presented a monument more strik- ing? than the most costly work of art." I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once mot with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the lake of Luzerne, at the foot of Movmt Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic, shut up between the Alps and 120 THE SKETCn-BGOK. the lake, and accessible on the land side only by footpaths. The whole force of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting men; and a few miles of circumference, scooped out, as it were, from the bosom of the mountains, comprised its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a smaU church, with a burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely executed, but evi- dently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for these were the beautiful, but unaffected offerings of the heart, which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I should have suspected them to have been suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books; but the good people of Gersau knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the village ; and I question whether any peasant of the plac^o dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of his mistress, that he was fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet. THE INIs KITCHEN. Shall I not take mine ease in mine mnl—Falstaff. During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I had arrived one evening at the Pomme d'Or, the principal inn of a small Flemish village. It was after the hour of tlio table dliote, so that I was obliged to make a solitary supprr from the relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly ; I was seated alone in one end of a great gloomy dining-room, and my repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested something to read ; he brought me the whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of the lat« givnig there ter, in inn. As I teri]7g a v.irie very d erous I fear, wliich narrate a veter elling-j '^^'^rn11« TRtJ iNN KITCHEN. 121 ter, reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to pro- ceed from the kitchen. Every one that has travelled on the Continent must know how favourite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellei 3 ; particularly in that equivocal kind of weather when a fire be- comes agreeable toward evening. I threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours before in a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers-on of inns. They were seated round a great burnished stove, that might have been mistaken for an altar, at which they were wor- shipping. It was covered with various kitchen vessels of re- splendent brightness ; among wliich steamed and hissed a huge copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess r.f the temple. Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love adventures; at the end of each of wliich there was one of those bursts of honest unceremonious laugh ter, in which a man indulges in that temple of true liberty, an- inn. As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blus- i tering evening, I took my seat near the stove, and hstened tof a v.iriety of traveller's tales, some very extravagaijt, and most very dull. All of them, however, have faded from my treach- erous memory, except one, which I -will endeavour to relate. I fear, however, it derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the pecuhar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished green trav- elling-jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair of f^^'^rnll" ^vith buttons from the hips to the ankles. He wqs of 122 THE SKETGUBOOK ! I 1 i i a full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap, stuck on one side of liis head. He was interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors ; and paused, now and then, to replenish his pipe ; at which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke, for the buxom kitchen maid. I wish my reader could imagine the old fellow lolling in a huge arm-chair, one arm a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted tobacco-pipe, formed of genuine ecume de mei\ deco- rated with silver chain and silken tassel — his head cocked on one side, and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as ho related the following story. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. A traveller's tale.* He tlmt supper for is dight, He lyes full cold, I trow, this night 1 Yestreen to chamber I him led, This night Gray-steel has made his bed! Sir Eger, Sib Qhahame, and Sir Qray-stebl. 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 aliuost buried among beech trees and dark firs ; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to larry a high head, and look down upon a neigh- bouring country. The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzen- ellenbogen,t and inherited the relics of the property, and all ♦ Tlie erudite reader, well versed in pood for nothing lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote,, of a circu»nstance said to have taken place at Paris. + t. e., Oat's Elbow— the name of a family of those parts, very powerful in former times. The apiiellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dam« of the family, celebrated for a flue arm. it • (-1. TUE SPECTRA DltiDEOnoOM. 123 tho pride of his ancestors. Though the warUke disposition of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessivas transactmg in a different part of the Odenwald. The yoimg Count Von Altenburg was tranquiV uirsuing his route in that sober jog-trot way in which a mc vols to- ward matrimony when his friends have taken all tiio trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is wait- ing for him, as certainly as a dmner, at the end of his journey. He had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion in arms, with Avhom ho had seen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of Geiinan chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His father's castle was not far distant fron; the old fortress of I/andshort, although an hereditary feud ren dered the families hostile, and strangei-s to each other. In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the younp; friends related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charm? he had received the most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agi'eed to perform the rest of their journey together; and that they might do it more leisurely, set off from Wurtzbm*g at an early hour, the Count having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. THa: SPEGTRK BRIDKOIWOM. 127 They beguiled their wayfaring with recoUectioiia of theii military scenoe and adventures ; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited liim. In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and tliickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests ol Germany have always been as much infested with robbei-s as its castles by spectres ; and, at this time, the former were par- ticularly numerous, from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wan- dering about the country. It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They defended them« selves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered when the Count's retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the Count had received a mortal woiuid. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighbouring convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body. But half of his skill was superfluous ; the mo- ments of the unfortunate Count were numbered. With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair in- stantly to the castle of Lo dshoil;, and explain the fatal cause of his not keeping his ap 'wntment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of love he wa*^ one of the most punctili- ous of men, and appeared eai '^stly solicitous that tliis mission should be speedily and courteously executed. ' ' Unless this is done," said ho, "I shall not sleep quietly in my grave!" He repeated these last words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted no hesitation. Starken- faust endeavoured to soothe him to calmness ; promised faith- fully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into delirium— raved about his bride— his engage- ments—his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier's tear on the un- timely fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and hi* head perplexed; for he was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisner 128 THE SKETCIIBGOK. m ings of curiocity in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the world ; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and entei'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 solem- nities of his friend, who v/as to be buried in the cathedral oi Wurtzburg, near some of his illustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the Count took charge of his remains. It is now high time that we siiould return to the ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still more for their dinner ; arid to the Avorthy little Baron, whom we left airing himself on the watch-tower. Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron de- scended from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had 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. AU were seated at table, and just on the point of commencing, when the sounr" of a horn from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from the walls. The Baron b'^.stened to receive his future son-in-law. The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate. He was a tall gallant cavaHer, mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The Baron was a little mortiiied that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignitj for a moment was ruffled, and ho felt disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for the im- portant O'^casion, and the important family with which he was to be connected. He pacified himself, however, with the con- clusion that it must have been youthful impatience which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants. "I am sor'-y," said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus unseasonably — " Here the Baron ii.terrupted him with a world of compliTnents and g 'eetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courteny and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or THE SPECTRE BRIDEOROOM. 129 on you twice, to stem tiie torrent of words, but in vain ; so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow on. By the time the Baron had come CO a pause, they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the appearance of the female part of the "iamil/, leading forth the shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole sold beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died away ; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a cavaUer. The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time for parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particu- lar conversation, until the moraing, and led the way to the un- tasted banquet. It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung the hard-favoured portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the field and in the chase. Hacked croslets, splin- tered jousting spears, and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare : the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the en- tertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed ab- sorbed in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone, that could not be overheard — for the language of love is nevei* loud; but where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest wh'sper of the lover? There was a mingled tender- ness and gn- v^ity in his manner, that appeared to have a power- ful effect upon the young lady. Her colour came and went, as she listened with deep attention. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident that the young couple were completel., enamoured. The aunts, who i u J. 130 THE SKETCH-BOOK. were deeply vevsed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had faller in love with each other at first sight. Tlie feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest storias, and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If there was any thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment ; and if any thing facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to utter any joke, but a dull one; it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hochheimer; and even a duU joke, at one's own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; many sly speeches whispered in ladies' ears, that almost convulsed them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. Amidst aU this revelry, the stranger ^uest maintained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it may appear, even the Baron's jokes seemed only to render him the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times there was a perturbed and restless wanderiixg of the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run through her tender frame. All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bride- gi'oom : their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent ; there were di-cary pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still more dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried away the fair Leo- nora — a dreadful, but true story, which has since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by aU the world. The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. THE SPECTRE BRTDEaROOM. 131 ition. 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 waa perfectly thunderstruck. " What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, every thing was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire. " The stranger shook his head mournfully, and mysteriously ; " I rniist lay my head in a different chamber to-night!" There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was uttered, that made the Baron's heart misgive him ; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company,, stalked slowly out of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrined-~the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black charger stood parang the earth, and snorting with impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and addressed the Baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. " Now that we are alone," said he, "I will impart to you the reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable en- gagement — " " Why," said the Baron, " cannot you send some one in your place?" "It admits of no substitute— I must attend it in person— I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral—" "Ay," said the Baron, plucking up spirit, " but not until to- morrow — to-morrow you shall take your bride there." * ' No ! no !" replied the stranger, with ten-fold solemnity, "my engagement is with no bride — the worms! the worms ex- pect me ! I am a dead man — I have been slain by robbers — my body lies at Wurtzburg — at midnight I am to be buried — the grave is waiting for me — I must keep my appointment !" He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the clattering of his horee's hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation. '^('■'I 132 TIJE SKKTCIIBOOK. '11 and related what had passed. Two ladies faintca outright; others sickened at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some, that this might be the wild hunts- man famous in German legend. Some talked of mountain pprites, of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of Germany have been so griev- ously harassed since time immemorial. One of the poor re- lations ventured to suggest that it might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the whole com- pany, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon him as +le better than an infidel ; so that he was fain to abjure his jresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true believers. But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming the intelligence of the yoimg Count's murder, and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron shut himseK up in his chamber. The guests who had come to rejoice with him could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a hus- band before she had even embraced him — and such a husband ! if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble what must have been the hving man? She filled the house with lamenta- tions. On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been re- counting one of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was remote, and overlooked n small garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as. they trembled on the leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just told mid- night, when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden. She rose hastily fi-om her bed, and 8tei)ped lightly to the win- ise IS vellous frightf hood, it to ] solved the brc to be Blt^pt in The was re( nossed auion^ 'UE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 183 dow. A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the coun- tenance. Heaven and earth 1 she beheld the Spectre Bride- groom ! A loud shriek at that moment bui-st upon her ear, and her amit, who had. been awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. Of the two females, the aunt now required the most sooth- ing, for she was perfectly beside herself wi\ h terror. As to the young lady, there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed endearing. There was stilJ the sem- blance of manly beauty ; and though the shadow of a man is but little calcidated to satisfy the affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be had, eyen that- is con- soling. The aunt declared she would never sleep in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and de- clared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone ; but she di'ow a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth —that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. How lojig the good old lady woidd have observed this prom- ise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the mar- vellous, and there is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, however, still quoted in the neighbour- hood, as a memorable instance of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week; when she was suddenly ab- solved from all further restraint, by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one morning that the young lady was not to be found. Her room was empty — the bed had not been sl(^pt in— the window was open— and the bird had flown ! The astonishment and concern with which this intelligence was received, can only be imagined by those who have wit- nessed the agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. Even the poor relations paused for a mo- ment from the indefatigable labours of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, ' ' The goblin ! the gobhn I she's carried away by the goblin !" In a few words she related the fearful scene of the garden, and concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated the opinion, ft>»' they had m 134 TUB 8KKTVII-B00K. heard the clattering of a horse's hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as many well- authenticated histories bear witness. What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a mem- ber of the great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daugh- ter had either been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grand-children. As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and path and glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on liis jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey attended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the Baron's feet embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her companion — the Spectre Bride- groom ! The Baron was astounded, lie looked at his daugh- ter, then at the Spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance was flushed with the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye. The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as you must have known aU the while, ho was no gob- lin) announced himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the young Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent re- treat, until the Baron's goblin stories had suggested his eccen- tric exit. How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his visits by stealth — had haunted the garden TllK tyPECTltli: BUWEGliOOM. 135 beneath the young lady's window — had wooed— had won — had borne away in triumph— and, in a word, had wedded the fair. Under any other circumstances, the IBaron would have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and de- voutly obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank lieaven, he was not a gobhn. There was something, it must be ac;knowledged, that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man ; but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured hmi that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper. Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron par- doned the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous— and so rich. The aimts, it is true, were some- what scandalized that their system of strict seclusion and pas- sive obedience should be so badly exemphfied, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified at having her marvel- lous story marred, and that the only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit ; but the niece seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and biood— aiid so the story ends. 136 THE SKETCH-BOOK. WESTMINSTER ABEEY. When I beliold, with deep astonishment, To famous Westminster how there resorte, Living in brasse or stony monument, The princes and the wortliies of all sorte; Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, And looke upon oflfenseless majesty, Naked of pomp or earthly domination? And how a play -game of a painted stone Contents the quiet now aui- silent sprites, Wliome all the world which late they stood upon, Could not content nor quench their appetites. Life is a frost of cold felicitie. And death the thaw of all our vanitie. Christolero^ s Epigrams, by T. B., 1598. On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows of morning and even- ing almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in rambhng about Westminster Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among the shades of former ages. I entered from the inner court of Westminster school, through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost sub- terranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the neighbouring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains, prepares the mind for its solemn contemplation. Tlie cloister still retains something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discoloured by damps, and crumbhng with age ; a. coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural momuncnts, and obscured tlie death's heads, and other funeral emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the rosea which adorned the key-stones have lost their leafy beauty, everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 137 of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendour. From between the arcades, tiie eye glanced up to a bit of blue sky, or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this min- gled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavouring to decipher the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eyes were attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely eft'aced ; the names alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later times; (Vitalis. Abbas. 1083, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176.) I remained some Uttle while, musing over these casual reUcs of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been and had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these faint recoi-ds will be obliterated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down upon the gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warnins: of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an amazing height: and man wandering about their bases, sbrunk into insignificance in comparison with his own handy- worlc. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearfid of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb; while every footfall wliispi>rs along the walls, and chat- WW 138 TITE SKETCHBOOK. teis among the sepulchres, making lis more sensible of the quiet wc have interniptod. It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. "We feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together, and jostled in the dust; what par- simony is observed in doling out a scanty nook — a gloomy cor- ner — a httle ] irtion of earth to those whom, when alive, king- doms could i.ot satisfy; and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices, are devised to catch the casusxl notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monu- ments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford no striking themes for the sculptor. Shakspeare and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; but the gi'eater part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these memorials, I have al- ways observed that the visitors to the abbey remain lonp:esl about them. A kinder and fonder feehng takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for indeed there is something of companionship between the author and the reader. Other men are known to posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually growing faint and obscure ; but the intercourse between the author and his fellow- men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed surrounding en- joyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and distant ages. Well may the world cherish his reno^vii; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may pos- terity be grateful to his memory ; for he has left it an inherit' ance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden veins of language. Fr( of th^ wanrl occup: turn, : some ] into tl quaint others togetht lates, M nets, ]y strange it seems city, wl stone. Ipaus ^'night i] the han( breast; t were croi the holy military ( niance, a; fact and 1 Js somett ^entureris and Gotl cliapeis in them, the ciations, t ?:eantry, -s chre of CI of beings ^vith whic some stra: knowledge ^sionary. those effig ^eath, or t effect infinl ^liattitudl ^'hich abo] Ml WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 139 Ml end monu- i afford Lddison ter part iptions. lave al- lon^esl of tbat e on the y linger ons; for |e author tlirougli aint and Is fellow- jived for idinpc en- ^cial life, [nt minds reno^vll; id blood. Uay pos- |i inherit' ut wlwle] From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I Avandered among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn, I met with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it catches ghmpses of (juaint effigies: some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; warriors in armour, as if reposing after battle ; pre- lates, with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes and coro- nets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone. I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the efflgy of a knight in complete armour. A large buckler was on one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast ; the face was almost covered by the morion ; the legs were crossed in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader ; of one of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled religion and ro- mance, and whose exploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction — between the history and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the tombs of these ad- venturers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; and in considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary asso- ciations, the romantic fictions, the chivalrous pomp and pa- geantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the Sepul- chre of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. They are like objects from some strange and distant land, of which we have no certain 'mowledge, and about which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the fanci- j fill attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegorical groups, I which abound on modem monuments. I have been struck, 140 THE SKblTCU-BOOK. also, with the superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscrip- tions. Tkoro was a noble way, in former timeb, of saying »,>i 3 simply, and yet saying them proudly: ard I do not kn 1 an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worla and honourable lineage, than one which affinns, of a noble house, that "all the brothers were brave, and ,' 11 the sis- ters virtuous. " In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner, stands a monument, wliich is among the most renowned achievements of modern art; but which, to me, appears horrible rather than subhmo, It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is i-epresented 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 liis victim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible tnith and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of trimnph, bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. — But why should wo thus sc(>k to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horroi-s round the tomb of those we love? The grave should be sur- rounded by every thing that might inspire tenderness and ven- eration for the dead ; or that i aight win the living to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear: — the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around ; audit has a strange effect uifon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of active life Imrrvine: al' 'ic; and beating against the very walls of the sepnl I continued in this way to move fr'^ni ir from chapel to chapel. The day wa^ i the distant tread of loiterei*s abm less frequent ; the sweet-tonguo-1 1 as sm ing prayers; and I saw at a distaiK ■ the cliorister? in their M-^hite surplices, crossing the aisle and enl* ring the cho; I stood before the entrance to Henry the Seventh's Cxjapel. flight of steps leads up to it, through a deep and gloomy, bi magnificent arch. Great gates of brnss, 'ichly and delicnt^^ wrought, turn h6avily upon their hinges, as if proudly r nb, a' ,-aw;r less an(i li. g to even- WESTMLWSTh'Ii A liDK Y HI cnp- ying » not Linily of a e siH- iment, odevn blinw lottom narWe oud is i at liis arms, 5 blow, almost, •om the LIS SC(4 horroi-s be sur- md ven- ■tuo. It •ow and nt aisles, dstence )lins of perbaps witb the ^;()n the (G; al"^f^ lb, 11' aw ioss auti to even- in their cboi J uapel. )omy, ^1 delicnto' dlyr tant to admit the foot of common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architec- ture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, encrusted /ith tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded with the sti> i s of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning laboi. )ttho chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density , sus- pended aloft, as if by magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy security of a cobweb. Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, tliough with the grotesque decorations of Gotliic architecture. On the pinna- cles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords; and above them are suspended their bannera, emb^izoned with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour of gold and jiurple and crimson, with the cold gray fretwork of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder,— his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly ^vrought brazen railing. There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these embleni:5 of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner or later tenniinate. Nothing impresses the mind with a deeper fechng of loneliness, than to tread the silent and deserted scene of foi-nior throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the rows of dusty bui gorgeous banners that were once borne before them, my im- agination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright with the valour and beauty of the land ; glittering with the splen- dour of jewelled rank and military array ; alive with the tread of many feet, and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away ; the silence of death had settled again upon the place; interrupted only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and desertion. When I read the names inscribed on the bar ers, they were those of men scattered far and wide about the a irld ; some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms in di tant lands ; some minghng in the busy intrigues of courts and cabi- 142 THE SKETCH-BOOK. nets: all seeking to deserve one more distinction in this man- sion of shadowy honours— the melancholy reward of a monu- ment. Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touch- ing instance of the equality of the grave, Avhich brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate Ma?'y. Not an hour in the day, but some ejaculation of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sym- pathy heaved at the grave of her rival. A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary Ues buried. The light struggles dindy through windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and tinted by time and -weather. A marble figiu'e of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from ^he abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repe;\ting the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The still- ness, the desertion and obscurity that were gi*adually prevail- ing around, gave a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : For iu the silent prave no conversation, No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, , No careful father's counsel— nothings heard, | For nothing is, but all oblivion, i Dust, and an endless darliness. Suddenly the notes of the deep-labouring organ bur«it upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling as it were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volunie and grandeur accord with this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell throvigh its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal!— And \\o^\' they rise in triumphant ac- clamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound. —And now they pause, and the soft WESTMINSTEli ABBEY. 148 voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody, they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, ..nd seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upoi" the soul. What long- drawn cadences 1 What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful— it tills the vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls— the ear is stunned — the senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee— it is rising from the earth to heaven— the very soul seems rapt away, and floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the shadows of evening were gradually thickening around me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token of the slowly waning day. I arose, and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and J ascended the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between pillars and funeral tro- phies to the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie moulder- ing in " their beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness? — to show it, even in the moment of its proudert exaltation, the netrlect and dishonour to which it must soon arrive? how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away ; and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be trampled upon by the leet of the meanest of the multitude? For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. Tliere is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with awful and hal- lowed things^ and there are base minds, which delight to re- 144 THE SKETCH-BOOK. venge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the hving. The coflBn of Edward the Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral ornaments ; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious EUzabeth, and the effigy of Henry the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated; some covered with ribaldry and insult— all more or less outraged and dishonoured ! The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening brooze crept through the isles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even the distant footfall of a verger, travers- ing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jar- ring noise behind me, filled the whole building with echoes. I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the empti- ness of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ? It is, indeed, the empire of Dc h; his great shadowy palace; where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How idle a boast, aftei- all, is the immortality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we are too much engi'ossed b}' ihe story of the present, to think of the characters and anec- dotes that gave interest to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, be st slanted by his successor of to-morrow. *'Oiir fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves incur short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." Histoiy fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the inscription moulders from tlie CHRISTMAS. 146 tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand— and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust ? What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and liis empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies which Cambyses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cu^es wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * What then is to insure this pile, which now towers above me, from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall he in rubbish beneath the feet ; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered tower— when the garish sunbeam shall break into these gloomy man- sions of death ; and the ivy twine round the fallen column ; and the fox-glove hang its blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away ; his name per- ishes from record and recollection ; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin. CHRISTMAS. But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good, gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have more of him. Hue and Cry after Christmas. A man might then behold At Christmas, in each hall, Good fires to curb the cold, And meat for great and small. ' The neighbours were friendly bidden, And all had welcome true. The poor from the gates were not chidden, When this old cap was new.— Old Sung. There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination than the lingerings of the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pic- tures 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 * Sir Thomas Bn>wn. 146 THE SKETGH-BOUE be all that poets had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavour of those honest days of yore, -in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more home- bred, social, and joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holy day revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes— as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure. » Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awsikens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feehng that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoy- ment. The services of the church about this season are ex- tremely tender and inspiring : they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accom- panied its announcement : they gradually increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good- will to men. I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the peahng organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony. It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announce- ment of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connexions, and draw- ing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures ar ^'' sorrows of the world are continually operat- ing to cast loose ; jf calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood. There is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we dc CHRISTMAS. 14: rive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and every where." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, tho breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they cir- cumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from ram- bling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleas- ures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving- kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kind- lier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospitality ex- pand into a broader and more cordial smile— where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent— than by the winter fire- side? and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that foehng of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity? The Enghsh, from the great prevalence of rural habits throuf^hout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holydays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life ; and they were in former days particu- larly observant of the religious and social rights of Christmas. It is inspiring to road even the dry details which some an- tiquaries have given of the quaint humours, the burlesque 148 THE SKETCH-BOOK. pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good-fello^v- ship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all .nks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green decorations of bay and holly — the cheerful fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes, and oft-told Christmas tales. One of the least pleasing effect of modern refinement is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holyday customs. It has completely taketi off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Fal- staff, are become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They flourished in times full of spirit and lusti- hood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigor- ously : times wild and picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the drama with its most attrac- tive variety of characters and manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipation and less of enjoy- ment. Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet chan- nels, where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of do- mestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and ele- gant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside delights. The tradi- tionary customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospi- talities, and lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, the gre.'it oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlour, but are unfitted for the light showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England It is gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused Ami spirits, what of rege fire of in the memor home, •inimat times pilgi'im Stran no socir dooi's, thresho ^y sou i CHRISTMAS. 149 which /lolds so powerful a place in every EngHsh bosom. The prepai iitions making on every side for the social board that is again \,o unite friends and kindred — the presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings — the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of peace and gladness — all these have the m( ist pleasing effect in producing fond associations, and kind- ling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy,, breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and solemn hour ' ' when deep sleep falleth upon man, " I have listened with a hushed delight, and connecting them %vith the sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, announc- ing peace and goodwill to mankind. How delightfully the im- agination, when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the country, "telhng the nigtitwatches to his feathery dames," was thought by the conmion people to announce the approach of the sacred festival: " Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth was celebrated, i I This bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad ; The nights are wholesome— then no planets strike, No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, ' So hallowed and so gracious is the time," Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—the season foi kindling not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, re- animates the drooping spirit— as the Arabian breeze will some- times waft the freshness of the distant fields to the weary pilgi'im of the desert. Stranger and sojourner as I an in the land— though for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, noi the warm gi'asp 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 150 THE SKKTCHBOUK, happiness is reflective, like the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and glowing with innocont enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his lone- Uness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong excitement and selfishness gratification, but he wants the genial and social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. THE STAGE COACH. Omne benS Sine poBMu Tempus est ludendi Veil it hora Absque mora Libros deponendi. Old Holyday School Song. In the preceding paper, I have made some general observa- dons on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing which, I would most courteously in- vite my reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holyday spirit, which is tolerant of folly and anxious only for amusement. In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day pre- ceding 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 Christ- mas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked school-boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this country. They were returning home for the holydays, in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of pleasure of the fUK STAGE-COACn. 161 or a little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks' emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of the anticipations of the meeting with the family and house- hold, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the joy they were to give their little sistei'S, by the presents with which their pockets were ci-ammed ; but the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Ban- tam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he would take— there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear. They were under the particular guardianship of the coach- man, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they ad- dressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows iu the whole world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a pei'sonage full of mighty care and business ; but he is particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a man- ner, 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 dimensions by fre- quent potations of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further in- creased by a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed low-crowned hat, a huge roll of coloured hand- kerchief about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in siunmer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole, the present, most probably, of some ena- moured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some bright colour, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below ^m THE! SKETCHBOOK. ^he knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which roach about half-way up his legs. All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and, not- withstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys gi'eat conse- quence and consideration along the road; has frequent con ferences with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have a good understanding with every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to bo changed, he throws down the reins with something of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler, his duty being merely to drive them from one stage to another. When off the box, his hands are thinist in the pockiits of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn-yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers- on, that infest inns and taverns, and i-un errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drip- pings of the kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo, his opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Ever> ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an embryo Coachey. Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the journey. A Stage-Coach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the en- ance of a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten iv^.thto meet friends; some with bundles and band-boxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the gi'oup that accompanies them. In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant ; sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands to soi le half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid, an odd-shaped Silleti oux. from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles ik THE 8TAQE-C0ACH. 163 through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glance^ on every side of fresli country faces, and bloom- ing giggling girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of vil- lage idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing company pass: but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend their ringing ham- mers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and permits the ^■'thmatic engine to heave a long-drawn sigh, while he • '^ . jugh the murky smoke and sulphureous gleams of *' lithy. Perhaps the impending holyday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for iv seemed to me as if every body was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright-red berries, began to ap- pear 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 daj'^s a multitude of people wiU not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the contention o. Holly and Ivy, whether master or dame wears the bree»' aes. Dice and cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do no' ack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers." I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation, by a shout from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the coach-windows for the last few miles, recog- nizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy— " There's John! and there's old Carlo ! and there's Bantam !" cried the happy 3ittle rogues, clapping their hands. At the end of a lane, there was an old sober-looking servant 164 THE aKBTOH'BOOK, m. livery, waiting for them: he was accompanied by a super- ann^jated pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat c a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood ilozing quietly by the road-side, little dreaming of tho bustling times that awaited him. I was pleased to see the fondn(»ss with which the little fel lows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object of interest ; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some 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 about home, and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated ; for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither known care nor sorrow, and a holyday was the summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards, to water the horses ; and on resum- ing 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 eaw my little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach- window, in hopes of witness- ing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of tho inn, I saw, on one side, the hght of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broc^d honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimeiiSions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pohshed, and decorated here and there with a Chris' mas green. Hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspei Jed from the ceiUng; 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 kit- chen, with a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands, upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale seemed mountiig guard. Travellers of inferior order were preparing to attack this stout cepafit, whilst others sat smoking and js;ossiping over tneir Trim nndei seizin and 1 These rjomfo Iha( to the ( of tho though his eye bridge, had on tremelj always odd ad^ transiei I was obsorva his fatl holydaj than ea "and the old- must CO and socE my lone the chai On my \ ■i^W TIIK STAG EGO ACR. 150 tneir ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards, under the directions of a fresh busthng landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's humble idea of the- (^omforts of raid-winter: Now trees their leafy hats do bare To reverence Winter's silver hair; A handsome hostess, merry host, A pot of ale and now a toast, Tobacco and a good coal Are, Are things this season doth require.* I had not been long at the inn, when a post chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the liglii of the lamps I caught a gUmpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Brace- bridge, a sprightly good-humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the continent. Our meeting was ex tremely cordial, for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn, was impossible ; and finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to which he was going to pass the holydays, and which lay at a few miles' distance. " It i better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, "and I can assure you of a hearty welcome, in something of the old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment, had made me feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, with his invitation ; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the Bracebridges. * Poor Robin's Almanack, 1694. 155 THE SKETCH-BOOK, aSRISTMAS EVE. ' S'^int Francis and Saint Benedight . Blesse this houbT from wicked wight; \ ^ From the night-mare and the goblin. That IS bight good fellow Robin; r. , Keep it from all evil spirits, i ' . * . : . Fairies, weazles, rats, and ferrets: From curfew-time To the next prime.— Cartwright. It was a. brilliant moonlight night, biit extremely cold ; oui 3haif-;e wliiried rapidly over the frozen ground; the post-boy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. "He knows where he is going," said my companion laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment and good, cheer of the servants' hall. My lather, you must know, ib a bigoted devotee of the old school, and. prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitahty. He is a tolerable specimen of what you wiU rarely meet with now-a-days in its purity, — the old English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years, took honest Peacham * for his text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his ovm mind, that there was no condition more truly honourable and enviable than that of a country gentle- man on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holyday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modem, who have •eated oa the subject Indeed, his favourite range of reading \7j iniong the authors who flourished at least two centiuits since ; who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true Eng- lishmen than i -/ of their successors. He even regrets some- times that ht had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its pecjuliar manners and customs. As he Uves at some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the co. ntry, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an onportunity of irdulging the bent of his own humour v/ithout • Peuchara's Complete Gentleman, 1682. ■■ifl CnmSTMAS EVE. 157 molestation. Being representative of tho oldest family in tho neigliboui'hood, and a great part of the peasantry being his t'3n- ants, he is mach looked up to, and, in general, is kno^vn simply by the appellation of 'The 'Squire;' a title which has been accorded to the head of the family since time immemorial, think it best to give you these hints about my worthy ok father, to prepare you for any little eccentiicities that might otherwise appear absurd. " We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy mag- nificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square columns that sup- ported the gate were surmoimted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the poi ter's lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in shrubbery. The post-boy rang a large porter's bell, which resounded through the ctill frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, ^^ith which the mansion-house seemed garri- soned. An old woman immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in antique tuste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the house, keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they couLi not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the house- hold. My frier d proposed that we should alight, and walk through the park to the Hall, which was at no great distance, while tho chaise should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked branches of which the moon gliUerod as she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. Tl'.o lawn boyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, wiifh hero and there spari.led as the moonbeams caught a fi'jsty c]ystal ; and at a distance might be seen a thin transpar- ent vapour, stealing up from the low grounds, and threatening grudually to shroud the landscape. My companion 'ooked round him ^^ath transport: — "How often," said he, *'h ive I scampered up tluM avenue, on return- ing home on school vacations! How often have I played under those trees Svhen a boy I I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us in child* 158 THE SKETCH-BOOK, hood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our "holy- days, and having us around him on family festivals, He used to direct and superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He was very particular that we should play the old English games according to their original form ; and consulted old books for precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport ; ' yet, I assure you, there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest place in the world, and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." We were interrupted by the clamour 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 bounding open-mouthed across the lawn. " The little dogs nnd all, Tray, Blanche, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!" cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of hifj voice, the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals. We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of different periods. Oik; wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and ovoirun with ivy, from amon^ the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered with the moon-beams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by one of his ances tors, who returned with that monarch at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clip^ 7d shi'ubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone ballustrades, ornamented with uriis, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of watei'. The old gentleman, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in aU its original state. He admii-ed this fashion in gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befit- ting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in CHRISTMAS EVE. 159 modern gardening had sprung up with modern repubUcan notions, but did not suit a monarchical government — it smacked of the IcvoUing system. I could not help smiling at this intro- duction of ]iolitics into gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I shoidd find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance in which he had ever heard his rather meddle with politics ; and he believed he had got this aotion from a member of Parliament, who once passed a few weeks with him. The 'Squire was glad of any argument to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners. As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the soi vants' hall, where a great deal of revelry was permitted, and (^ven encour- aged, by the 'Squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every thing was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob-apple, and snap-dragon; the Yule clog, and Christmas candle, were regularly burnt, and the misletoe, with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty house-maids.* So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being nnnounced, the 'Squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons ; one a yoimg officer in tlie army, home on leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The 'S(iuire was a fine healthy look- ing old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid countenance; in which a physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint or two, might dis- cover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence. The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the sveiiing was far advanced, the 'Squire would not permit us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a numerous family connexion, where there were the usual proportion of old * The miatlptoe in still hiiug up in farm-hoiisos and kitchens, nt Christmns; and thi' young men have the privilege of kissing the pirls unrlcr it, pliujlviiig each time a beiTj from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the priviletie otiLsed. 160 THE SKKTGll-BOOK. m uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, half -fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied; some at a round game of cards: others conversing round the fire-place ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a m^ "e tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro- fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about the floor, showed traces of a troop of Uttle fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried oil to slumber through a peaceful night. While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apart- ment. I have called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the 'Squire had evidently endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy project- ing fire-place was suspended a picture of a warrior in armour, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs ; and in the corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern convenience had been added, and the oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole j^resented an odd mixture of par- lour and hall. The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fire-place, to make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log, glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast vohmie of light and heat ; this I imderstood was the yule clog, which the 'Squire was particular in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient cus- tom.* * Tlie yule dor/ is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the houHe with great ceremony, on Ciiristmas eve, laid in *.he flre-place, and lighie'l \ '.th the brand of last year's clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages, the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire. The yule clog was to burn all night: if it went out, it was considered a sigu of ilJ luck. Herrlck mentions it in one of his songs: 4 . Comt iiring with a noise. My merrie. merrie boyg. CHRISTMAS EVE. 161 It was really delightful to see the old 'Squire, seated in his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ances- tors, and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he lazily shifted 'his position and yawned, would look fondly up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, con- fident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I foimd myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around which were several family por- traits decorated with hoUy and ivy. Beside the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with sub- stantial fare ; but the 'Squire made his supper of frumenty, a uish made of wheat cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being i. standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly orthodox , and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we usuaL'y greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours of an eccentric personage, whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. Ho was a tight bri^k little man, with the air of an arrant old l->aehelor. His nose was shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pittea with the small-pox, with a dry perpetual The Christmas Log to the firing; While my pot^d dame she Bids ye all be free, Aiif^. drink to 3-our hearts des ring. The ytile clop Is still burnt in many farm-hotises and kitcliens In England, par- ticularly In the north; and there are several superstitions connected with it ariong th« peasantry. If a scjuinting person come to the house while it Is burning ir a person barefooted, it is considpred an ill oinen. Tlie brand nnnaiiiins from the Mle clog is carefullj put away to li£;ht the uaxl viear's Christmas fire. 162 TUE SKETCHBOOK. bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf in autumn. Be had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a droUei*}- and lui'king waggery of 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 infinite merriment by harpings upon old themes; wliich, unfortunately, my ignor- ance of the family chi'onicles did not permit me to enjoy. It i3eemed to bo his great delight, during supper, to keep a young giii next him in a continual agony ofe stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat oppo- site. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the com- pany, who laughed at every thing he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomphshments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; makt an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket handker- chief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were ready to die with laughing. I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his wants. He re- volved through the family system hke a vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of extensive connexions and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and his frequent change of scene and company prevented his ac- quiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chronicle, oeing versed in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him a great favourite with the old folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not a more popular being in the sphere in which he moved, than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost entirely with the 'Squire, to whom he had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his hu- moiu' in respect to old times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his last -mentioned talent; for no sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the season CHRISTMAS EVE. 163 Iff , He ili,"by le re- in its lotlicr snsive Irping, It; and lis ac- ^ch old _iplete |y, and made of all Lom he Ihe was -as not ., than almost ;totum, |his hu- anold tnien of fmoved, season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good oid Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty : Now Christmas is come, Let us beat up the drum. And call all our neighbours together; ^nd when they appear, Let us make such a cheer, As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where he had been strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comfort- ing himself with some of the 'Squire's home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and though ostensibly a resident of the village, was of tener to be found in the 'Squire's kitchen than his own home ; the old gen- tleman being fond of the sound of " Harp in haU." The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one; some of the older folks joined in it, and the 'Squire himself figured down several couple with a partner with whom he af- firmed he had danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connect- ing link between the old times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavouring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her wild vi- vacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance:— such are the ill-sorted matches to which antique f!;entlemen are unfortunately prone ! The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries vnth 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 favourite among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer, and a ward of the 'Squire's, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected there was a little kindness growinec up between them: and. indeed, tho 164 THE SKETCU-BOOK. % young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl* He was tall, slender, and handsome; and, like most yoimg British officers of late years, had picked up various small ac- complishments on the continent — he could talk Jrrench and Italian — draw landscapes — sing very tolerably — dance divinely ; but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : — what girl of seventeen, weU read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection? The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and loUing against the old marble fire-place, in an attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, began the lit- tle French air of the Troubadour. The 'Squire, however, ex- claimed against having any thing on Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the yoimg minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and with a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's " Night-Piece to Julia:" Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of Are, befriend thee. No Will- o'-th"-Wisp mislight thee; Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; But on, on thy way, ■ Not making a stay. Since ghost there is none to aflFright thee ; Then let not the dark thee curnber; , What though the moon does slumber, The stars of the night Will lend thee their light. Like tapei-s clear without number. Then, Julia, let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me: ' And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, ^ My soul I'll pour into thee. The song might or might not have been intended in compli ment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called : she, however, was certainly unconscious of any such applica- tion ; for she never looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor; her face was suffused, it is true, with a beauti- ful blush, and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise of the dance : indeed, 80 great was her indifference, that she was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers. CHRISTMAS DAT. 1G5 and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. The party now broke up for the night, with the kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of the yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow; and had it not been the season when *'no spirit dares stir abroad," I should have bjen haK tempted to steal from my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels about the; hearth. My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponder- ous furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room was panelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely intermingled, and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of nmsic seemed to break forth in the air just below the window: I listened, and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits froin some neighbouring vilv lage. They went round the house, pla ying under the Avindows. I drew aside the curtains, to hear th(^m more distinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement, par- tially hghting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to ac- cord with quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened — they became more and more tender and remote, and, as they grad- ually died away, my head Sunk upon the pillow, and I tell asleep. CHEISTMAS DAY. Dark and dull night flie hence away, And give the honour to this day That sees December turii'd to May. ♦ ♦***** Wliy does the chilling winter's morne Smile like a field beset with corn? Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, Thus on a sudden?— come and see The cause, wliy things thus fragrant be.- -Herrick. When I vvoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and noth- ing but the identity of the ancient, chamber convinced me of 166 THE SKETCHBOOK. m < their reality. "While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whis- pering consultation. Presently a chou* of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of which was — Rejoice, our Saviour he was born On Christinas day in tiie morning. I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, singing at every chamber door, but my siidden appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape. Every thhig conspired to produce kind and happy feelings, in this strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitaUty. The window of my chamber looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging over it ; and a church, with its dark spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. The house was smTOunded with evergreens, according to the EngUsh custom, which would have given almost an appearance of summer : but the morning was extremely frosty ; the hght vapour of the preced- ing evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. Tlie rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the ghttering foliage. A robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash, that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, was basking himself in the simshine, and piping a few quendous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace-walk below. I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I found tho principal part of the family already assembled in a kind of CHRISTMAS DAT. 167 gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, and large prayer- books; the servants were seated on benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the responses ; and I must do him the justice to say, that he acquitted himself with great gravity and decorum. The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr, Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favour- ite 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 pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sud- den sally of grateful feeling, with which the worthy Squire dehvcred one stanza; his eye glistening, and his voice ram- bhng out of all the bounds of time and tune : " Tis thou that crown'st my glitteriug hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me Wassaiio bowles to driok Spic'd to the briuk: Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand .1 That soilea my land : And giv'st me for my busheli sowne, ■ Twice ten for one." , I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every Sunday and saint'" day throughout the year, either by Mr. Braoebridge or some member of the family. It was once almost universally the case at the seats of the nobiHty and gentry of England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order and serenity prevalent in those house- holds, where the occasional exercise of a beautifid form of worship in the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every teraper for the day, and attunes every spii-it to harmony. j Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated time old English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes of modem effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old English heartiness : and though he admitted them to his table to suit the i3alates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the side- board. iVfter breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank Biacebridee and Master Simon, or Mr Simon, as he w^« pjiJl«r3 ^^ f IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 7 Pa ^ -k y. £vr Vx v. 1.0 I.I Ki. ilM IIIIIM IIM IIIIM II 2.2 1.8 1 1.25 1.4 1.6 -< 6" — ► ^^ fh % % / # Photographic Sciences Corporation 4. 4^ ^ « \\ >4V» -!^ '^O' 6^ "l^ .*.<^ 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 ma^Kk c^- 10 168 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ■\ by every body but the 'Squire. We were escorted by a number of gentlemen-like dogs, that seemed loungers about the estab- lishment ; from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound —the last of which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind — they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols woidd glance an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yel- low sunshine than by paie moonhght ; and I could not but feel the force of the 'Squire's idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded ballustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon what I termed a flock of them that were basking under a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon, who told me that according to the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. "In the same way," added he, with a sUght air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird "both understanding and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in comers, till his tail come again as it was." I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so whimsical a subject ; but I found that the peacocks were birds of some consequence at the Hall ; for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great favourites with his father, who was extremely careful to keep up the breed, partly be- cause they belonged to chivalry, and were in grea ^ request at the stately banquets of the olden time; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence about them highly be- coming an old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustome'i to say, had an air of greater state and dignity, than a peacock perched upon an antique stone ballustrade. Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform, some music of his selection. There was somethinii IW CHRISTMAS DAY. 160 extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors who certainly were not in the range of every-day reading. I mentioned this last circum- stance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me with a smile that Master Simonle whole stock of erudition was confined to some half-a-dozen old authors, which the 'Squire had put into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long winter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Hus- bandry; Markham's Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Isaac Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities; and, like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on aU occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old books in the 'Squire's library, and adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the last centsiry. His practical application ot scraps of literature, however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book-knowledge by all the grooms, hunts- men, and small sportsmen of the neighbourhood. While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the village bell, and I was told that the 'Squire was a little particu- lar in having his household at church on a Christmas morning; considering it a day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing; for, as old Tusser observed, — " At Chr'stmas be merry, and thankful withal, And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small." *'If you are disposed to goto church," said Frank Brace- bridge, " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the village amateurs, and est.vb° lished a musical dub for their improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my father's pack of hounds accord- ing to the directions of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments ; for the bass he has sought out aU the ' deep, solemn mouths,' and for the tenor the 'loud ringing mouth,' among the country bumpkins; and for 'sweet mouths,' he has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighbourhood; though these last, he affirms, are tie most difhcult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being ex- fli 170 TEE BKETGH-BOOK. ceedingly ■wayward and capricious, and very liable to acci dent." As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with the chm*ch. The front of it was perfectly matted with a yew tree, that had been trained against its walls, through the dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to admit hght into the small an- tique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. I had expected to see a sleek well-conditioned pastor, such as is often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron's table, but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each ear; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within it, hke a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the church bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles. I was informed by Frank Bracebridge that the parson had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had received this living shortly after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black-letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman character. The editions of Caxton and "Wynkin de Worde were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in his researches after such old Enghsh writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessncss. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made diUgent investi- gations into the festive rites and holyday customs of former times ; and had been as zealous in the inquiry, as if he had been L a boon companion ; but it was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust temperament follow up any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the wis- dom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been reflected into his countenance ; wliich, if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to a title-page of black-letter. On reaching the church-po^ieh, we found the parson rebuking w CHRISTMAS DAT. 171 the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens with which the church was decorated. It was, he ob- served, an unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be in nocently employed in the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tena- cious was he on this point, that the poor sexton was obhged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, be- fore the parson would consent to enter upon the service of the day. • The interior of the church was venerable, but simple ; on the walls were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges, and just beside the altar, was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in armour, with his legs ci'ossed, a sign of his having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose picture liunig over the fire-place in the hall. During service. Master Simon stood up in the pew, and re- peated the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of cere- monious devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old family connexions. I observed, too, that he turned o^'-er the leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish, possibly to show off an enormous seal- ring which enriched one of his fingers, and wliich had the look of a family rehc. But he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating tune with much gesticulation and emphasis. The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most whimsical gi'ouping of heads, piled one above the other, among which I particularly noticed that of the village tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was another, a short pui'sy man, stooping and labouring at a bass viol, so as io show nothing but the top of a round bald liead, like the egg of • tn ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint : but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old Cremona fiddles, more for tone than looks ; and as several had to smg from the same book, there were clusterings of odd phj'^qgnomies. not 172 THE SKETCH-BOOK. unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumen- tal, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelUng over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox-hunter, to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been pre- pared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at th« very outset — the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon was in a fever; every thing went on lamely and irregularly, until they came to a chorus beginning, "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself , and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could ; except- ing one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose ; who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, oghng his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it, not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of Saints and Fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty aiTay of forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a legion of idec.1 adversaries to contend with ; having, in the course of his researches on the subject of Christ- mas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies of the church and poor old Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of Parhament.* The * From the " Flying Eagle," a small Gazette, published December 24th, 1652— "The House spent much time this day about the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance igainst Christinas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16. 1 Cor. xv. 14. 17; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grcnded upon these Scriptures, John xx. 1. Rev. i. lU. i'saluit;, «.;s.>iii. ill. L-.'v. wl'd. 7, 11. Mark xv. 8. I'sahn.s. Ixxxiv. 10; in rm CHRISTMAS DAT. 173 worthy prrson lived but with times past, and knew but little of the present. Shut up among worm-uaten tomes in the retirement of his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had olajised since the fiery persecution of poor mince-pie through- out the land; when pliun porridge was denounced as "mere popery,'' and roast beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of his contest, and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a stubborn confhct with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of Christmas festivity ; and con- cluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the church. I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church, the congre- gation seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the children ran about crying, ' ' Ule I Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had joined us, in- formed me had been handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their hats tc the 'Squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every appearance of hoartf elt sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me tliat, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity . On our way homeward, his heart seemed overflowing with generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising wliich Christmas is called Anti Christ's masse, and those Masae-monpers and Papists wlio observe it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in consul- tation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and re solved to Bit on the following day which was commonly called Christmas day." *"UI<'! ITlo: Three puddings in a pule; Crack nuts and crv uld.'" 174 THE SKETCH-BOOK, #»i ground which commanded something of a prosi)ect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then reached our ears; the 'Squire paused for a few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and to bring out the living green which adorns an English landscape even in mid-winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass; and sent up flight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung jubt above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom of winter; it was, as the 'Squire observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, break- ing through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thaw- ing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the comfortable farm-houses, and low thatched cottages. * ' I love, " said he, "to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a greao thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost dis- posed to join with poor Eobin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this honest festival: " Those who at Christmas do repine, And would fain hence despatch him, * May they with old Duke Humphry dine, Or else may 'Squire Ketch catch him." The 'Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games and amusements which s/ere once prevalent at this season among the lower ord^^ ^% and countenanced by the higher; when the old halls of castles and manor-houses were thrown open at dayiight; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and humming ale; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make merry.* "Our old games * " An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i.e. on Christmas day iu the morning, liad all his tenants and neighbours enter liis hall by day-break. CHRISTMAS DAY. 175 and local customs," said he, "had a great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one of our old poets, " I like them well— the curious preciseness And all pretended gravity of those Tbat seek to banish hence these harmless sports, Have thrust away much ancient honesty." "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem to think their in- terests are separate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to alehouse politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep them in good- humour in these hard times, would be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old English games going again." Such was the good 'Squire's project for mitigating public discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doc- trine in practice, and a few years before he had kept open house during the holydays in the old stjle. The country people, however, did not understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitahty ; many uncouth circumstances oc- curred; the manor was overrun by all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighbourhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year. Since then he had contented himself with inviting the decent part of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the P"aU on Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, that they might make merry in their own dwellings. We had not been long home, when the sound of music was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats deco- rated with greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advanc- ing up the avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and las day ly-break. The strong beer was broached, and the black jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled by day-break, or else two young men must take the maiden (i.e. the cr>ok) by the arms and run her round the market place till sh« is shamed of her laziness."— iv'ound about our Sea-Coal Fire. 176 THE SKETCH-BOOK. :ii I 1 1 peasantry. They stopped before the hall door, where the musio struck up a pecidiar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact time to the music ; wliile one, whimsi- cally crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which flaunted down liis back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas-box with many antic gesticulations. The 'Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to the times when the Eomans held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be followed up by rough cudgel- play, and broken heads, in the evening." After the dance was concluded, the whole party was enter- tained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The 'Squire liimseK mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived two or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards to their mouths, when the 'Squire's back was turned, making something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Mas- ter Simon, however, they aU seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had made him well known throughout the neighbourhood. He was a visitor at every farm- house and cottage; gossiped with the farmers and their wives; romped with their daughters ; and, hke that type of a vagrant bachelor the humble-bee, tolled the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and affability. There is something genuine and affec- tionate in the gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependant more than oil and wine. When the 'Squire had retired, the merriment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village \ for I observed all his companions to TF THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 177 wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratu- itous laugh before they could well understand them. The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a small court, and looking through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band of wandering nmsicians, with pandean pipes and tambourine ; a pretty coquettish house- maid 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 colouring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected confusion. THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast 1 Let every man be jolly, Each roome with yvie leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with bak't meats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if, for cold, it hap to die, Wee '1 bury 't in a Christmas pye, And evermore be merry.— Withers' Juvenilia. I HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace- bridge in the Hbrary, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The 'Squire kept up old customs in kitchen as weU as hall; and the rolling-pin struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to carry in the meats. Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, And all the waiters in a trice His summons did obey; Each serving man, with dish in hand. Marched boldly up, like our train band, Presented, and away.* ' The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 'Squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackhng fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, * Sii- John Suckling. 178 THE SKETCU-BOOK. and the flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide- mouthed chimney. The great picture of tlie crusader and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the opposite wall, which I undei"stood were the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by-the-by, I had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting and armour as having belonged to the crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I was told tbat the painting had been so considered time out of mind ; and that, as to the armour, it had been found in a lumber-room, and ele- vated to its present situation by the 'Squire, who at once deter- mined it to be the armour of the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple ; " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewera ;" the gorgeous uten- sils of good companionship that had gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial housekeeperp Before these stood the two yule candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament of silver. "We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy ; the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fire-place, and twanging his instrument with a vast deal more power than melody, Never did Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious assemblage of countenances ; th^se who were not handsome, were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare improver of your hard-favoured visage. I alwaj s con- sider an old English family as well worth studying as a collec- tion of Holbein's portraits, or Albert Durer's prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be from hav- ing continually before thejLr eyes those rows of old family por- traits, with which the mansions of this country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint features of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines ; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture-gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to generation, al- most from the time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be observed in the worthy company around me. Many 11 Tm: CHRISTMAS DINNER. 179 of their faces had evidently originated in a Gtothic age, and been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and there was one little girl, in particular, of staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an anticiue vinegar aspect, who was a great favourite of the 'Squire's, being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his ancestors who fig- ured in the court of Heniy VIII. The parson Siiid grace, which was not a short familiar one, 3uch as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these un ceremonious days ; but a long, courtly, well- worded one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if something was expected; when suddenly the butler entered the haU with some degree of bustle ; he was attended by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's heacl, decorated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great formality at the head of the table. The moment this pageant made its ap- pearance, the harper sti'uck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the 'Squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as foUows: Caput apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The boar's head in hand bring I, With parlands gay and rosemary. I pray yon all synge merily Qui estis in convivio. Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentrici- ties, from being apprized of the peculiar hobby of mine host; yet, I confess, the parade with which so odd a dish was mtro- duced somewhat perplexed me, until I gathered from the con- versation of the 'Squire and the parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the boar's head — a dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas day. " I like the old custom," said the 'Squire, "not merely because it is stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- lege at Oxford, at which I was educated. When I hear the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and gamesome — and the noble old college hall — and my fellow- students loitering about in their black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their graves !" The parsoo, however, whose mind was not haunted by such ■ i !■■ ! ■! 1 I i i 180 THE SKETCH-BOOK. associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian's version of the carol ; which he affirmed was different from that sung at col- lege. He went on, with the dry perseverance of a commenta- tor, to give the college reading, accompanied by sundry an- notations ; addressing himcelf at fii-st to the company at larg'^ ; but finding their attention gradually diverted to other talk, and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of audi- tors diminiohed, until ho concluded his remarks in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plate-full of tur- key.* The table was literally loaded with gooa cheer, and pre- centod an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was allotted to ** ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it- being, as he added, *' the standard of old English hospitahty, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evidently something tradi- tional in their embellishments ; but about which, as I did not Hke to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently deco- rated with peacocks' feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. * The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas day, is till ob- Berved in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was favoured by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readera as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it eutire: The boar's head in hand bear I, Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; Aid I pray you, my masters, be merry, Quot estis in convivio. Caput apri f'efero. Reddens laudes Domino. The boar's head, as I understand, Is the rarest dish in all this land. Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland Let us servire cantico. Caput apri defero, etc. Our steAvard hath provided this ' In iionour of the King of Bliss, Which on thi« day to be served ifl In x^eginensi Atrio, Caput apri defero, «Wt» aw** etot ip-fl THE CHRISTMAS BI^JVEIi. 181 This, the 'Squire confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he could not prevail upon himself, to have one killed.* It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the other make- shifts of this worthy old humorist, by which he was endeavour- ing to follow up, though at humble distance, the quaint cus- toms of antiquity. I was pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and relatives; who, in- deed, entered readily into the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old- fashioned look , having, for the most part, been brought up in the household, £„nd grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion, and the humours of its lord; and most probably looked upon aU his whimsical regulations as the established laws of honourable housekeeping. "When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver vessel, of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the 'Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christ- mas festivity. The contents had been prepared by the 'Squire himself; for it was a beverage, in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided himself: alleging that it was too ab- struse and complex for the comprehension of an ordinary ser- vant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed of the rich' * The peacock was anciently in great demand 'jr stately entertainments. Some- times it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above fho crimt in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivahy, when Kiiifj^hts-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence ciiiiie the aucient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." Tlie peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast, and Massinger. ill his Citj' Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, ps well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels o^ the olden times: Men may talk of Country Christmasses. Their thirty pourd butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues: Their pheasantc< drench'd with ambergris; the. carcases of three fat wether* bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock! 182 THE SKETCH-BOOK. \ est and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about the surface.* The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having raised it to his lipn, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one to follow his example according to the primitive style ; pronouncmg it ' ' the ancient fountain of good feeling, whore all hearts met together."! There was much laughing and rallying, as the honest emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the ladies. But when it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon companion, struck up an old Wassail Chanson: The brown bowle, The merry brown bowle, As it goes round about-a, Fill Still, Let the world say what it will. And drinlc your fill all out-a. The deep canne, The merry deep canne, As thou dost freely quaff-a, Sing Fling, Be as merry as a king, And sound a lusty laugh-a.f X From Poor Robin's Almanack. Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with * The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with nut- meg, supar, toast, gin}?er. and roasted crabs; in this way the nut-brown beverage is still piepared in some old families, and round the hearth of substantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb's Wool, and it is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth Night: Next crowne the bowle full Witli gentle Lamb's Wool, Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger. With store of ale too; And thus ye must doe To make the Wassaile a swinger. + " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his ctip When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to c .y three times, Wassel, Wansel, Wnssel, and then the chappell (chaplain) was to answer with a rp THE CHRISTMAS DINNER J8S Whom he was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was commenced by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed old gentleman next the parson, with the persevering assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long-winded jokers, who, though rather dull at starting gome, are unrivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conversation, he renewed his bantering in ^jretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be; and he took occasion to inform me, in an under-tone, that the lady in ques- tion was a prodigiously fine woman and drove her own curricle. The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, and though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being to diffuse pleasure around him; and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity to freshen into smiles 1 The joyous disposition of the worthy 'Squire was perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; and the httle eccentricities of his humour did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, be- came still more animated : many good things were broached which had been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a lady's ear; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit produce much less laughter. WH, after all, is a mighty tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs ; but honest good-humour is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companion- • ship equal to that, where the jokes are rather small and the laughter abundant. The 'Squire told several long stories of early college pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer; though in looking at the latter, it required some effort of imagi- nation to figure such a little dark anatomy of a man, into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made by their different lots in life : the 'Squire had left the university to hve lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoyment of 184 THE SKETCH-BOOK. prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on to a hearty and florid old age; whilst the poor parson, on ihe contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomos, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and, as the 'Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty milk-maid whom they once met on the banks of the Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces," which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily beheve was indicative of laughter ; — indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder, as their jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grasshopper filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work entitled "Cupid's Sohcitor for Love;" containing store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me ; the first verse was to this effect : He that 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, But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several attempts to tell a rather broad story of Joe Miller, that was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, every body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having grad- ually settled down into a doze, and his wig sitting most suspi- ciously 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 joviahty seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. • After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy holyday season, and could not help to ture rec anc veil fane the it w{ try, byt the nigh who; the mmm THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 186 stealing out of the drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game of bUnd-man's-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fullil the office of that ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall. The httle beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about Falstaff ; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickhng him with straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was the chief tormentor ; and from the slyness with which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the company seated round the 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 hbrary for his particular accommodation. From this vener- able piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, he was deaUng forth strange accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of the surroimding country, with which he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinc- tured with superstition, as men are very apt to be, who hve a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled with the mar- vellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighbouring peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the only monument of the kind in that part of the coun- try, it had always been regarded with feehngs of superstition by the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered; and one old woman whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of the church, when the moon shone, slowly pac- * At Christmasse there was in the Kinoes house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes- and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honor; or good worshippe- were he spirituall or temporall.— Stow. 186 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ing up and down the aisles. It was the beh'ef that some wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restless- ness. Some talked of geld and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there was a story current of a sexton, in old times, who endeavom^ed to break his way to the coffin at night ; but just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics ; yet when night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the churchyard. From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader appeared to be the favourite hero of ghost storirs throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung up in t*' > hall, was thought by the serv'^ants to have something supernatural about it: for they remarked that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, toO; at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip among the maid-ser- vants, affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which occasion the church door most civilly swung open of itself ; not that he needed it — for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of the dairy-maids to pass between two bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. All these superstitions I found had been very much coun- tenanced by the 'Squire, who, though not superstitious him- self, was very fond of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbouring gossips with infinite gravity, and hold the porter's wife in high favour on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often lamented that he could not believe in them; for a superstitious person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a biu^t of heterogeneous sounds Tf THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 187 from the hall, in which wore mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into the room, that might alm.ost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Fairy. That in- defatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a^ Ohrintmas mummery, or masquing; and having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally ripe for any thing that should occasion romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen the light for several generations ; the younger part of the company had been privately convened from parlour and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique masque.* 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 .^or a village steeple, and must indubi' tably have figured in the days of the Covenanters. From under tliis, his nose cuived boldly forth, flushed with a frost- bitten bloom that seemed the very trophy of a December blast. Ho was accompanied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as "Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable magnificence of faded biocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to a young gallant in presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as " Maid I^Iarian." The rest of the train had been metamorphosed in various ways ; the girls trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the striphngs bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad iu broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies celebrated in * Masquings or mummeries, were favourite sports at Christmas, in old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisinprs. I strongly suspect Master Simon to liave taken the idea of his from Ben Jonsou's Masque of Christmas. 188 THE SKETGU-BOOK, ancient masquings. The whole was under the control of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I ob- served that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the pageant. The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, ac- cording to ancient custpm, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateUness with which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though giggling. Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as though the old family por- traits had skipped down from their frames to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross-hands and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; and the days of Queen Bess, jigging merrily down the middle, through a line of succeeding generations. The worthy 'Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish delight. He stood chuckhng and rubbing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most authentically on the an- cient and stately dance of the Pavon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the varied scenes of whim and inno- cent gayety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitaUty breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the freshness of youthful enjoy- ment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the considera- tion that these fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in which the whole of them were still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest: it was suited to the time and place; and as the old Manor-house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviahty of long-departed years. * sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a pea- cock, says, " It is agjrave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the motioa whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock."— if tafort/ of Musit. — rp THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 189 But enough of Christmas and its gambols: it is time for nae to pause in this gari*uhty. Methinks I hear the question asked by my graver readers, "To what purpose is all this — how is the world to be made wiser by this talk?" Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the instruction of the world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler pens labouring for itS' improvement?— It is so much pleasanter to please than to in- 3truct — to play the companion rather than the preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest de- ductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disappoint- ment. If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, i-ub out one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of one moment of sorrow— if I can now and then penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make my reader more in good humour with his fellow beings and him- self, 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-coloured coat, with whom I became acquainted in the course of one of my tours of observation through the centre of that great wilderness, the City. I r-onfess that I was a httle dubious at first, whether il was not one of those apocry- phal tales often passed off upon inquiring travellers like myself; and which have brought our general character for veracity into such immerited reproach. On making proper inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assur- ances of the author's probity ; and, indeed, have been told that he is actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interesting region in which he resides, of which the fol- lowing may be considered merely as a foretaste.] 190 THE SKETCHBOOK. LITTLE BRITAESr. What I write Is most true * * ♦ * i have a whole booke of cases lyfnjf by me^ whi(,')i if I should sette foorth, some grave auutieuts (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of charity with me.— Nashk. In the centre of the great City of London lies a small neigh- bourhood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very venerable and debihtated houses, which goes by the name of Little Britain. Christ Church school and St. Bar- tholomew's hospital bound it on the west ; Sniithfield and Long lane on the north; Aldersgate-street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the city ; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth-street separates it from Butcher lane, and the regions of New-Gate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul's, swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Cor- ner, and Ave-Maria lane, looks down with an air of motherly protection. This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient times, the residence of the Dukes of Brittany. As London increased, however, rank and fashion rolled off to the west, and trade creeping on at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some time, Little Britam became the great mart of learning, and Avas peopled by the busy and prohfic race of book-sellers: 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 increase and multiply, even at the present day. But though thus fallen into decline. Little Britain still bears traces of its former splendour. There are several houses, ready to tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts and fishes ; and fruits and flowers, which it would per- plex a naturalist to classify. Tliere are also, in Aldersgate* street, certain remains of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in latter days been subdi- vided into several tenements. Here may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery furniture, bur- rowing among the reUcs of antiquated finery, in great rambling time-stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cornicee^ * It is 6' tamediat LITTLE BRITAIN, 191 and enormous marble fire-places. The lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale; but, like your small ancient gentry, steadily maintaining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable-ends to the street; great bow-windows> with diamond panes set in lead; grotesque carvings; and low-arched doorways.* In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed leveral quiet years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the smallest, but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber, with small panels, and set off with a miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three or four high-backed, claw-footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, and have doubtless figured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbours ; as I have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow-window ; on the panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants for many genera- tions; mingled with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely decipher; and which extol the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage, with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week, I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the neighbourhood ; and being curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the concerns and s^crets of the place. Little Britain may truly be called the heart's-core of the city; the strong-hold of true John BulKsm. It is a fragment of Lon- don as it was in its better days, with its antiquatea folks and fashions. Here flourish in great preservation many of the holyday games and customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove-Tuesday ; Lot-cross-buns on Good-Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas ; they send love- letters on Valentine's Day; bum the Pope on the Fifth of *It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included in his c^eneral title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong immediatoJy to Clotli Fair. 102 THE SKETCn-BOOK. November, and kiss oil the girls under the mistletoe at Chrisir mas. Roast beef and plum-pudding arc also held in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds as the only true English wines— all others being considered vile out- landish beverages. Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its inhabitants consider the wonders of the world : such as the jreat bell of St. Paul's, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the figures that strike the hom*s at St. Dunstan's clock; the Monument; the Uons in the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They still behove in dreams and foitune-telling; and an old woman that hves in BuU-and-Mouth-street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be rendered uncom- fortable by comets and eclipses ; and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly con- cerning the old mansion-houses ; in several of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the formei in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and swords, the lattei in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court-dresses. Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the most important of the former is a tall dry old gentleman, of the name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary's shop. He has a cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projec- tions ; with a brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He, is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of conjuror, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over alarming accounts of plots, conspi- racies, fires, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena he considers as signs of the times. Ho has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to his customers, with their doses, and thus at the same time puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and predic- tions, and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day ; and he shook the tail of the last comet over the heads of his customers and discinlfw ger, and midst little Hugg His readt IT LITTLE BRITAm. 193 until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the ancient Sybils, who treasiu-e up these things, tha when the grasshopper on the top of the Exchange shook handi with the dragon on the top of Bow Church steeple fearful events would take place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, tho dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard of his workshop. ** Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads together, wonderful events had already oc- curred. The good old king, notwithstanding that he had Kved eighty-two years, had all at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne ; a royal duke had died suddenly— another, in France, had been murdered ; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester — the great plot in Cato-street ; — ^and, above all, the Queen had returned to England ! All these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look, and a dis- mal shake of the head; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed sea-mon- sters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title- page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the people in Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected any good to come of taking down that steeple, which, in old times, told nothing but glad tidings, as the his- tory of Whittington and his cat bears witness. The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemon- ger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the niidst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no httle standing and importance ; and his renown extends through Huggin lane, and Lad lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with 194 TEE SKLTCHBOOK. I i! W ihe Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable max- ims, which have borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that " it is a moral impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that any thing can shake her: and he has much +o say on the subject of the national debt; which, some how or ©th^r, he proves to be a great national Wwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the pur- lieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having be- come rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has thei-e- fore made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighbouring towns, where he has passed whole after- noons in looking back upon the metropolis ^' -rough a telescope, and endeavouring to descry the steeple of St. Bartholor^.sw's. Not a stage-coachman of Bull-and-Mouth-street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he is considered quite a patron at the coach office of the Goose and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been very urgent for him to make an expedi- tion to Margate, but he has great doubts of these new gim- cracks the steam-boats, and indeed thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. Little Britain has occasionally its factions and v^i- isions, and party spirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of two rival *' Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger : the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary : it is needless to say, that the latter was the most flourishing. I have parsed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the best mode of being buried ; the comparative merits of churchyards; together with divers hints on the subject o^ patent iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its bearings, as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on ac- count of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these socle- ties have happily died away of late ; but they were for a long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of funeral honours, and of lying comfortably in their graves. Besides these two funeral societies, there is a third of quite a different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good- humour over the whole neighbourhood. It meets once a wi^ek Rt a. little old-fashioned house, kept by a jolly pubhcan of thfi not Bri majr Isia join pots, TffT: LITTLE BRITAIN. 19fi luite a good' of tbfi nainc of Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half- moon, with a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edi- fice is covered with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, Hanbury & Co.'s Entire," "Wine, Eum, and Brandy Va,ults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds, etc " This, indeed, has been a temple of Bacchus and Momus, from time immemorial. It has always been in the tamily of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is tolerably pre- served by the present landlord. It was much frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff princippJly prides himself upon, is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his iioctumal rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous waUdng-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubious and vain- glorious boast of the landlord. The club which now holds its weekly sessions here, goes by the name of "the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in all catches, glees, and choice stories, that are tradi- tional in the place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropohs. There is a madcap undertaker, who is inimi- table at a merry song; but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His anepstors were all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to generation as heir-looms. He is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot beUy, a red face with a moist merry ey-j, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every club night, he is called in to sing his " Con- fession of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton's needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it from his father's lips ; for it had been a standing favourite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes e\' er since it was written ; nay, he affirms that his pre- decessors have often had the honour of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mununeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* • As mine hf the wliite men with the Indians, however, is too apt to be Cf d, distrust Pul, oppressive, and in- sulting. They seldom treat hem with that confidence and frankness which are indispen. ble to real friendship; nor is sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feehngs of pride or superstition, which often prompt the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The soUtary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white man ; but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects; but the wounds inflicted on them are proportionably 3overe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot suffi- ciently appreciate. Where a community is also hmited 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 instantane- ously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all tlie fighting nion and sages assemble. Elo(iuence and superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens m • 222 ^iiE sKinc'inooK. tlieir martial an jur, and they aro wrought up to a kind ot religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer„ An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a motive pecuUar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The plant- ers of Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead ct Passonagessit, and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their ancestors, wh^n by chance they have been travelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the hip;hway, and, guided by won- derfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in woods, wheie the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited; and there have passed horn's in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother's tomb had been vio- lated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, ond an affecting instance of fHial piety in a savage : "When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my cus- tom is, to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled; and trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold, my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take revenge of thoBo wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honourable customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave lies like the common people, de- faced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores th.y aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land. If this bo suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said, the spirit van- ished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollected my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and assistance." I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show how these sudden acts of hostilitv, which have been TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 223 d ot L the ising in an >lant- ad at liem's Tho Brtain )assed Lonby I been T won- miles mes of passed le and en vio- in the curious mce of »meath ly ciis- 1 closed, much It cried 5ee tho warm, If those spiteful istoin;j? Iplc, dc- In, and newly ^ot rest •it van- >gan to •e fled, h' ends to |ro been attributed to caprice and x>erfidy, may often arise from do^p and generous motives, which our inattention to Indian charac- ter and customs prevents our properly appreciating. Another gi'ound of violent outcry against the Indians, is tiieir barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in pohcy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though some- times called nations, were never so formidable in their num- bers, but that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this was particularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been formidable to its neighbours, has been broken up and driven away, by the cap- ture and massacre of its principal fighting men. There was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor, to bo merciless ; not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for futuie security. The Indians had also the superstitious belief, fre- quent among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed by the blood of the captives. The prison- ers, however, who are not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their families in the place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection of relatives and friends ; nay, so hos- pitiable and tender is their entertainment, that when the alter- native is offered them, they will often prefer to remain with theii" adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the friends of their youth. The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was fi'omerly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been ii xasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of vneir ancient dommion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual de- stroyers of their race. They go forth to battlo, smarting with injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide- spreading desolatif^u, and the OA^erwhelming ruin of European warfare. The ^vhites have too frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their %^nages and laying waste their slender means of subsistence ; and yet they wonder that sav- a,[?es do not shov/ moderation and magnanimity t(^ wards those ^vllo have left them nothing but mere existence and wretched- ness. Ye stigmatize the Indians, also, as t 3wardly and treacherous. 224 THE SKETCH-BOOK. because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this they arc fully justified by their rude code of honour. They a re early taught that str atagem is praiseworthy : the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of his foe : he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone s to subtilty than open valour, owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns, with tusks, wil h hoofs, and talons: but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns his hostility against his fellow man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of warfare. The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy, with the least harm to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces us to despise the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain danger, is the offspring of society, and produced by education. It is honourable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after personal ease and se- curity, which society has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame ; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimu- lated also by various means. It has been the theme of spirit- stirring song and chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendours of fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity A narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward : monu- ments, on which art has exhausted its skill,- and opulence its treasures, have been e-ected to perpetuate a nation's gi-atitudj and admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an extraordinary and , factitious degree of heroism ; and, ar- rayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the human character, and swell the tide of human happiness. But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it, TRAITS Oi^ INDIAN CHARACTER. SSj He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are congenial to his nature ; or rather seem nocessai'y to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to liis existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes whose mode of warfare is by am- bush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight, and hvea with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean,— as the bird mingles umong clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air ; so the Indian holds his course, silent, soUtary, but undaunted, through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in distance and danger witii the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed ^o the haz- ards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his wanderings : in his light canoe of bark, he sports like a feather on their waves, and darts with the swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His veiy subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the bulfalo ; and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract. No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in Ills lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its cruellest affliction. Indeed, we here behold him rising superior to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's mouth ; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and tri- umphantly endures it, amidst the varied torments of surround' ing foes, and the protracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and provokmg their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devouring flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies with- out a groan. Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright gleams occasionally break through, which throw a dogi'ee of melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occa- sionally to be met with in the ri:de annals of the eastern prov- inces, which, though recorded with the colouring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for themselves ; and will be dwelt on 226 .777^ SKETCH-BOOK. with applause and sympathy, when prejudice shall have passed away. In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read, of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and the miserablef inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape, " all being despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian pi'" 'isly observes, " being resolved by God's assistance to make f .J destruction of them, " the unhappy savages being hunted fro-r their homes and fortresses, and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pe- quod warriors, with their wives and cliildren, took refuge in a Gwamp. Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; with hearts bursting with gri' -i at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused to ask their Uves at the hands of an in- sulting foe, and preferred death to submission. As the night drew on, they were surrounded in their dismal retreat, sc as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their enemy "plied them with shot all the time, by which means many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that preceded the dawn of day, some few broke through the besiegei's and escaped into the woods: "the rest were left to the conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would rather, in their self- willedness and madness, sit still and be shot through, or cut to pieces," than implore for mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the swamp, ' ' saw several heaps of them sil- ting close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve pistol-bullets at a time ; putting the muzzles of the pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them ; so as, besides those that were found dead, many moi*e were killed and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe." Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale, without ad. miring the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftinass of spirit, that seemed to nerve the hearts of thec*^ self-tauffht Tx.AITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER 237 heroes, and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed in their robes and seated with stem tranquillity in their curule chairs; in this manner they suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and magnanimous— in the hapless Indians, it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance ! How different is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obi^^curely in a wilderness ! But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The east- ern tribes have long since disappeared; the forest that she^ tered them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the thickly-settled states of New-England, excepting here and there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must sooner or later be the fate of those other tribes wliich skirt the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they Avill go the way that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the Sasquchanna; and of those various nations that flourished about the Potowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapour from the face of the earth ; their very history will be lost in f orget- fulness; and " the places that now know them wiU know them no more for evei." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But Bhoidd he ventui-e upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness; should he tell how they were invaded, cor- rupted, despoiled; driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers ; hunted like wild beasts about the earth ; and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave —posterity wiU either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. "We are drivgii back," said an old warrior, 228 WE SKETCn-BOOK. "until we can retreat no farther— our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires are nearly extinguished — a httle longer and the white man will cease to persecute us — for we shall cease to exist." PHILIP OF POKANOKET. AN INDIAN MEMOIR. As monumental bronze unchanged his look: A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook ; Train'd, from his tree-roclc'd cradle to his bier, The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook Impassive— fearing but the shame of fear — A stoic of the woods — a man without a tear. — Campbell. It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of the discovery and settlement of America have not given us more particular and candid accounts of the remarkable char- acters that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached us are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization. There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature ; in witnessing, as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment ; and perceiving those generous and roman- tic qualities which have been artificially cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnificence. In civilized hfe, where the happiness, and indeed almost the existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down by the levelling influence of what is termed good breeding ; and he practises so many petty deceptions, and affects so many generous sentiments, for the purposes of popu- larity, that it is difficult to distinguish his real from his arti- ficial character. The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of polished hfe, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly * ■ PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 220 great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every rough- ness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface ; he, however, who would study Nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bit- terness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New-England. It is painful to perceive, even from these partial narratives, how the footsteps of civihzation may be traced in the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the colo- nists were moved to hostihty by the lust of conquest; how merciless and exterminating was their warfare. The im- agination shrinks at the idea, how many Intellectual beings were hunted from the earth — how many brave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterhng coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust ! Such was the fate of Philip op Pokanoket, an Indian war- rior, whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary Sachems, who reigned over the Pequods, the Narrhagansets, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the fii-st settlement of New-England : a band of native untaught heroes ; who made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry, and fit sub- jects for local story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, hke gigantic shadows, in the dim twiMght of tradition,* When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situa- tion was to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships ; surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes ; exposed to the rigours of an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate ; their * While correcting the proof-sheets of this article, the author is informed, that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished a heroic poem on the story of Philip of Polianokei. _—..--• ! 230 TUE BKErCJlDOOK. minds were filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing pre- served them from sinking into despondency but the strong ex- citement of religious enthusiapm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Warn panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the strangers, and expclhng them from his territories into which they had inti-uded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and extended towards them the rights of primitive hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers ; entered into a solemn league of peace and amity ; sold them a portion of the soil, and promised to secure for them the good- will of his savage allies. Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suffering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen themselves in the land ; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death, he came once more to New-Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity. At this conference, ho endeavoured to protect the religion of his forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries ; and stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his people from their ancient fL.ith ; but, finding the English obstinately opposed to any ruch condition, he mildly reUn- quished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they had been named by the Enghsh) to the residence of a principal settlor, recommending mutual kindness and confidence ; and entreating that the same love and amity which had existed between the white men and himself, might be continued afterwards with his children. The good old Sa(;hc m died in peace, and was hap- pily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon his tribo; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude of white men. His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the strangers excited his indignation ; and he bcheUI with uneasiness their exterminating wars with the neigli PHILIP OF POEANOKET. 281 boiiring tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with the Narrhaganscts to ri:;e against the Enghsh and di-ive them from the land. It is im- possible to say whether this accusation was warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is evident, however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, thau they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid in- crease of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander, and to bring hmi before their court. He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after th© toils of the chase. The sudden- ness of his arrest, and the outrage offered to his sovereign dig- nity, so preyed upon the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw liim into a raging fever ; he was permitted to re- turn home on condition of sending his son as a pledge for his reappearance; but the blow he had received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. The successor of Alexander was ]\Ietamocet, or King Philip, as he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may very probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He considered them as originally but mere in- trudei^ into the country, who had presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influence baneful to savage life. Ho saw the whole race of his countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered, and depend- ent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased by the settlers ; but who does not know the nature of Indian pur- chases, in the early periods of colonization ? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains, through their superior adroit- ness in traffic ; and they gained vast accessions of territory, by easily-provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the refinements of law, by which an injury may be gradually and legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges ; and it was enough for Phihp to know, that before the intrusion of^he Europeans his countrymen 232 77r^ SKETCHBOOK. nfft were lords of the soil, and that now they were becoming vaga- bonds in the land of their fathers. But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, and his particular indignation at the treatment of big brother, he suppressed them for the present ; renewed the contract with the settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Poka- noket, or, as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance; and he was at length charged with attempting to instip ite the various eastern i;ribes to rise at once, and, by a sim iltaneous effort, to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts of violence on the part of the whites, that gave weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounds .1, where tale-bearing met with countenance and reward ; and the sword was readily unsheathed, when its success was certain, and it carved out empire. The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accusation of one Sausaraan, a renegado Indian, whose natural cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had received among the settles. He changed his faith and his allegiance two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the whites ; and, in order to gain their favour, charged his former benefactor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to retract ; they had previously determined that Phihp was a dangerous neighbour ; they had publicly evinced their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility; according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly after found dead in a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of hi? ♦ Now Bristol, Rhode Island. PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 23a tribe. Tliree Indians, one ol' whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, v/ere apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one -v ery questionable witness, wore condemned and executed as murderei'S. This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment of his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet, awakened him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himseK no longer in the power of the white men. Tho fate of his insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind ; and he had a further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narrhagansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidiously de- spatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his fighting men about him ; persuaded all strangers that he could, to join his cause ; sent the women and children to the Narrha- gansets for safety ; and wherever he appeared, was continually surrounded by anned warriors. When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irntation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The Indians, having v, capons in their hands, grew mischievous, and committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings, a warrior was fired upon and killed by a settler. This was the signal for open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war re- sounded through the Plymouth colony. In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times, we meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind. The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wild- ness ot their situation, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They were much given nlso to a belief in omens. The troubles with Philip and his Indiana were preceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful warn- ings which forerun great and public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at New-Plymouth, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition," At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in their neighbourhood, "was heard the report of a groat piece of ordnance, with the shaking of the earth and a considerable m 234 THE SKKTCILBOOK, m echo."* Others wore alarmod on a still sunshiny morning, hy tho discharge of giins and mnskets; bullets seemed to whistlo past them, and the noise of drums resounded in the air, seem, ing to pass away to tho westward ; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and certain monstrous bu'ths which toolc place about the time, fiUed the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena; to the northern lights which occur vividly In those latitudes; the meteors which explode in the air; the casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest; the crash of falling trees or disrupted rocks; and to those other uncouth sounds and echoes, which will somctinietj strike the ear so strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been exaggerated by the love for tho marvellous, and listened to with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and mysterious. The univeisal currency of these superstitious fancies, and the grave- record made of them by one of the learned men of the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the part of the whites, it was conducted with superior skill and success ; but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disre- gard of the natural rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged -vith the desperation of men fearlf ss i>f death, and who had nothing to expect from peace, but hu- mihation, dependence, and decay. The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indigni- tion on every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions with applause the most sanguine alru< ties of the whites. Phihp is reviled as a muv ' »M a. traitor; without considering that he was 'gallantly fighting at the head of his sv' wrongs of his family; to retrieve the line; and to deliver his native land usurping strangers. The project of a wide aaid simultaneous revolt, if such had really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had •0, .lie the o^^i'ossion of * The Rev. Increase Mather's History. rillUP OF rORANOKRT. 235 -ning, by D whiBtlg ir, seem- aat they I certain illed the 1. Many ribed to r vividly I air; the 8 of tlie ; and to tmetinies llness of lancholy e for tho 'hich we inivei-sal '•e record day, are too oft(m savagvs. rior skill i a disre- 3 part of 1 fearl' ss but liu- worthy indipri- istifialilo, a, ■0, .iic his lession of such had and, had it not boon prematurely discovorcd, raipht have been ovor- whehniug in its consecjuencbs. The war that actually broke out was but a war of detail ; a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnef'ted enterprises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and wherever, in the pre- judiced and passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find liim displaying a vigor- ous mind; a fertility in expedients; a contempt of suffering and hardship ; and an unconquerable resolution, that command our sympathy and applause. Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he tlirew himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted the settlements, and were almost impervious to any ( hing but a wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered to- gether his forces, like the storm accumidating its stores of mis- chief in the bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were now and then indications of these impending ravages, that filled the minds of the colo- nists with awe and apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no white man ; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would sometimes return home wounded ; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the skirts of the forest, and suddenly disappearing; as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the tempest. Though sometimes pursued, and even surrounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toila ; and plunging into the %vilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far diS' tant quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his stiongi holds were the great swamps or morasses, which extend li ome parts of New-England ; composed of loose bogs of dee\. lack mud; perplexed with thickets, brambles, rank weeds^ the shattered and mouldering tmnks of fallen trees, over* shadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian couid thread their labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to venture into these dark and fri:^htfuJ 236 THE SKETCh BOOK. recesses, where they might perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking io3s. They therefore invested the en- trance to the neck, and began to build a fort, with the thought of starving out the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the dead of night, leaving the women and children behind; ar.d escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threat- ening the colony of Connecticut. In this way Philip became p. theme of universal apprehen- sion. The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The whole country abounded with rumours and alarms. Philip seemed olmjst possessed of ubi- quity ; for, in whatever part of the widely extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Phihp was said to be its leader. Maiiy superstitious notions also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and incanta- tions. This indeed was frequently the case with Indian chiefs ; either through their own credulity, or to act upon that of their followers : and the influence of the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in recent in- etanccs oi savage warfare. At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his fortiines were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in Canonchot, Chief Sachem oi all the Narrha- gansets. He was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who as already mentioned, after an honourable ac- quittal of the ^ 'large of conspiracy, hrd been privately put to ;leath at the perfidious instigations of the settlers. " He ^as the heir," says the old chronicler, " of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as of his malice towards the EngUsh ;" he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murdar. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms; and gave them the most genorous countenance and support. This at once drew upon him the ho:itility of the^nglish ; and it was determined PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 237 to strike a signal blow, that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great force was, thei fore, gathered together from Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, ani was sent into the Narrhaganset country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and leaii^ss, could be traverseci with comparative facility, and would IjO longer afford darlj and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had convoyed the greater- part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; w here he and Phihp had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or kind of island, of five or six acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these two chieftains. Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through December snows, to this strong-hold, and Carrie upon the garrison by siu-prise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their bravest officers were rfhot down in the act of storming the fortress, sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgement was effected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces ; and after a long and bloody bat- tle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving war- riors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding forest. The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of the old men, the women and the children, perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame 9ven the stoicism of the savage. The neighbouring woods re sounded with the yells of rage and despair, utiered by the fugitive wfjriors as tiiey beheld the destruction of their dwell- ings, and heard the agonizing cries of their wives and off- spring. " The burning of the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, "the shrieks and cries of the women and children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved sonje of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, "they were in much doubt then, and afterwainls seriously inquired, whether burning their ti: 238 THE SKETCUBOOK. enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and tho benevolent principles of the gospel." * The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the noblest instances on record of Indian magnanimity. Broken down in his power and resources by this signal de- feat, yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on con- dition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that ' ' he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant to the English." His home being destroyed; his coun- try harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquer- ors ; he was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Con- necticut ; where he formed a rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the English set- tlements. Early in the spring, he departed on a hazardous expedition, with only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed-corn to plant for the sustenance of his troops. This httle band of adventurers had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narrhaganset, resting at some wigwams near Pautucket river, when an alarm was given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the top of a neighboming hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians rapidly advancing, they fled in breatliless terror past their chieftain, without stopping to infovm him of the danger. Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then sent two more-, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told him that the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice but immediate flight. He jittempted to escape round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile Indians, and a few of tho fleetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, firet his blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by wliich his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. At length, in dasl';...^, through the river, his foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so * MS. of the Rev. W. Rugbies. I' IT' niTLir OF POKANOKET. 239 Btruck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, " his heart and his howels 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 Poquod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance, though a man of great vigour of body and boldness of heart. But on being made prisoner, the whole pride of hig spirit arose within him; and from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the Enghsh who first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty-second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, ' ' You are a child — you cannot understand matters of war — let your brother or your cliief come — him will I answer." Though repeated olfers were made to him of his hfe, on con- dition of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the great body of his subjects ; sayii. j, that he knew none of them would comply. Being reproa.. ^d with his breach of faith towards the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor the parings of a Wampanoag's nail ; and his threat that he would bum the English alive in their houses ; he disdained to justify himself, haughtily answer- ing that others were as forward for the war as himself, "and he desired to hear no more thereof." So noble and unshaken a. spirit, so true a fideUty to his cause and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous and the brave ; but Canoncbet was an Indian ; a being towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no com- passion — ho was condemned to die. The last words of his that are recorded, are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was passed upon him, he observed, " that he liked it well, for he should die before his heart was soft, or he nad spoken any thing unworthy of himself." His enemies crave him the death of a soldier, for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. The defeat of the Narrhaganset fortress, and the death ol Oanonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. 1 le made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stir ring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of the native talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror o! 240 THE SKETCn-BOOK. :i% their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the neigh, bouring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw liimself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning; around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; others fell victims to hun- ger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured ; his chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle was shot down by his side ; his sister was carried into captivity ; and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only son to the mercy or tne enemy. " His ruin, "says the historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made ac- quainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the cap- tivity of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own life should be taken away." To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might purchase dishonourable safety. Through treachery, a number of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset,a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Weta- moe was among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighbouring river : either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution ceased not at the grave : even death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female, whose great crirne was affectionate fidel- ity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of rmmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the head was severed from the bf)dy and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed, at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. They immedi- ately recognised the features of their unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that we are told they bi'oke forth into the "most horrid and diabolical lamen- tations. " However Phili]i had borne up against the complicated mis- eries and misfortunes that surroimded him, the treachery of liis followers seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, noi" had success in any of his designs." The spring of hope was broken— the ardour of enterprise was extinguished : he looked PUILIP OF rOKANOKET. 241 around, and all was danger and darkness ; there ■was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring dehverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situa tion, than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favour of the hapless warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, " hke a savage wild beast, ha^dng been hunted by the English forces through the woods above a hundred miles backward and for- ward, at last was driven to his own den upon Llount Hopo, where he retired, with a few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to execute vengeance upon him." Even at this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to our- selves seated among his care-worn folio Wei's, brooding in silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sub- limity from the wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not dismayed —crushed to the earth, but not humiliated — he seemed to grow more haughty beneath disas- ter, and to experience a herce satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune ; but great minds rise above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and ho smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in i-evenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before ho was aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt at escape, but wtis shot through the heart by a renegade Indian of his own nation. Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate J^ing Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonoured when dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes fiu-nished us by his enemies, wo may perceive in wr SH ii 242 THE SKETGII-BOOK. them traces of amiable and lofty character, sufficient to awaken sympathy for his fate and respect for his memory. We find, that amidst all the harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer feehngs of connu- bial love and paternal tenderness, and to the generous senti- ment of friendship. The captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" is mentioned with exultation, as causd.ag him poig- nant misery: the death of any near friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities ; but the treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved him of all farther comfort. He was a patriot, at- tached to his native soil -a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs— a soldier, darmg in battle, l.^m in advereity, patient of fatigue, of bun ;cr, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to perish in the cause he had es- poused. Proud of heart, and with an untameable love of natu- ral liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of the forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian ; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went down, like a lonely bark, foundering amid darkness and tempest — without a pity- ing eye to weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. JOHN BULL. An old song, made by an aped old pate, Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a pTPat estate, That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate. And an old p )rter to relievo the poor at his gate. With an old study flll'd full of learned old books. With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks, With an old buttery-hatch worn quite oiY the hooks. And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. Like an old courtier, etc.— OZd Song. » There is no species of humour in which the English more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludi crous appellations or nicknames. In this way they have whim* JOHN BULL. 2^3 sically designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and in their fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared evei' themselves. One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is characteristic of the pecuhar humour of the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and famil- iar, that they have embodied their national oddities in tho figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and have bceu so successful in their dehneation, that there is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind, than that e(icentric personage, John Bull. Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus to give reahty to what at first may have been painted in a great measure from the imagination, ^Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually ascribed to them. The com- mon orders of English seem wonderfully captivated with the heau ideal which they have formed of John Bull, and endeav- our to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually be- fore their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent tmths, he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If h* now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, he observes that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he thanks Heaven for his ignorance — he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and knick- nacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of munificence— for John is always more generous than wise. Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himseK of being the honastest fellow in existence. However little, therefore, tho character may have suited in the first instance, it has gradually adanted itself to the nation. 244 Tilt: SKETCH-BOOR. or rather they have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to study EngHsh pecuHarities, may gathei much valuable information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile humorists, that are continually throwing out now portraits, and prcsentmg differ- ent aspects from different points of view; and, often as he has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. John BuU, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter- of-fact fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is little of romance i. his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in humour 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, and has no tui'n for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humour, and to talk about himself ; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled. In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely for himself and family, but for all the coimtry round, and is most generally disposed to be every body's champion. Ho is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbours' affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He un- luckily took lessons in his youth in the noble science of de- fence, and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become a pei'fect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. Ho cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbours, but he begins incontinently to fumble Avith the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honour does not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has extended his relations of pride and policy 80 completely os^er the whole country, that no event can take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these fila ments etretchmg forth in every direction, he is like somfi JOHN BULL. : one, and has been in +he family a lou^ . lile; but for all that, they have known many finer es- tates come to the hammer." What is worst of ..11, is the effect which these pecuniary em- barrassments i-iiu domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, which he used to present, he has of late become ;is shrivelled and shrunk a^ x frostbitten apple. His scarlet gold laced '^'^aistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosjior- ous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like 0, mainsad in a calm. His leather breeches are all \r> folds and ^•'^rinkles ; and apparently have much ado lo JOHN BULL. 251 ing of ill bin ins up ither's agrees )iiie so 1 of re- in aiivl •actor^ tie cud- \icb at his son t living the old racket- t sabre, ay hini- hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy- legs. Instead of strutting about, as formerly, with his three-cor. nered hat on one side ; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; i(jokmg every one sturdily in the face, and trollin^^, out a stave of a catch or a drinking song; he now goes about whistling houghtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his cud- gel tucked under his arm, and liis liands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty. Such is the phght of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all this, the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is the richest and stoutest follow in the country ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn ?us house or to buy an.-ther estate; and, with a valiant swag- ger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have an- ithcr bout at quai'tere Uff . Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I confcbS I cannot look upon John's situation without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humours and ob- stinate prejudices he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfuhy f-ne a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good a.^ his neighbours represent him. Iliri virtues areaU his own; f 11 plain, homebred, and unaffected. Mk very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance savours of his generosity ; his quarrelsome- n(>ss, of his courage ; liis oredulity, of his open faith ; his vanity, of his pride ; and his bluntness, of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like his own oak; rough without, but sound and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrr.^cences in proportion to the growth an l grandeur of the timb(3r; and whoie branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their varj magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appeai'ance of his old family mansion, that is ex- trein(>ly poetical and pictui esquo ; and, as long as it can be ren- dered comfortably habita )le, I should almost tremble to see it moddled with during th^ present f^'onflict of tastes and opinions. f^ome of his advisers ar.' no doubt good architects, that might bo of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levellei*s, who, when they had once gou to \vork with tiieir mattocks on the venora- ado to .^ .,. 252 THE SKETCE-JOOK bio edifice, would never stop until thoy had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish, is, that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in future; that he may cease to distress his mind about other people's affairs; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good ul" his neighbours, and the jioace and happiness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; that he may remain quietly at home ; gradually get his house into repair ; cultivate his rich estate according to his fancy ; husband liis income— if he thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order — if ho can ; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honourable, and a merry old age. THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. May no wolf howle: no sereech-owle stir ' A wing about thy sepulclire! No boysterous winds or stornie? come hither, To starve or wither Thy soft sweet f-artli ! but, like a spring, Love keep it ever flourishing.— Herrick. In the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that load through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which lie on the groat coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbouring scenery. My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to the church, which stood at a little distance from the vil- lage. Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being completely ovetrun with i v y, so that only here and tliere a jutting buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up; and though sullen clouds still hung over head, yet there was a broad tract of golden uky in the west, from which the settiug ■Nl^v.. THE PRTDE OF THE VILLAGE. 253 to the s. All 3I1 him ess his up the and the ei; that ise into ixisband fen into isperity; .ourahle. Sim gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise again in glory. I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was musing, as one is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes, and early friends— on those who were distant, and those who were dead— and indulging in that kind of melan- choly fancying, Avliich has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower tell on my ear ; its tones were in unison with the scene, and instead of jarring, chimed in with my feel- ings ; and it was some time before I recollected, that it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb. Presently I saw a funeral train mv*ving across the village green; it wound slowly along n laue; was lost, and reappeared through the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place %' litie I was sitting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in white; and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a chaplet of white flowei*s: a token that the deceased was a young and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the parents. They were a venerable couple, of the better order of peasantry. The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his fixed eye, contracted brow, and deeply- furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the convulsive hiivsts of a mother's sorrow. I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed ill the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied. Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral service ; for who io so fortunate as never to have followed some one he has loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains of innocence and benuty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence- what can be more affecting? At that simple, but most solemn consignment of the body to the grave — "Earth to earth— ashes to ashes — dust to dust !" the tears of the youthful companions of the deceased flowed unrestrained. The father st ill seemed to struggle with his feelings, and to comfort him- self with the assurance, that the dead are blessed which die in the Lord _ but the mother only thought of her child as a flower in 254 THE SKETmi-BOOK. of thb field, cut down and withered in the midst of its sweet* noss : she was hke Eachel, ' ' mourning over her children, and would not be comforted." On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the lloceaaed. It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. Shs liad been the beauty and pride of the viilnj;e. Her father had one-? been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only child, and brought up en- tirely at home, in tiio simplicity of rural hfe. She had been the pupil of tne village pastor, the favourite lamb of his little liock. The good man watciiea over her education with pater- nal care ; it was hmited, and suitable to the sphere in which she was to move ; for he only sought to make her an ornament to her station in life, not to raise ner above it. The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and tiie CTemntion from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a naiural grace and delicacy of character that accorded with the irapile iovcliness of her form. She appeared Hke some tender plant- of the garden, blooming accidentally amid the hardier natives of the fields. The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed cy the unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It might be truly said of her, — *' This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever • Ran on the preensward : nothing she does or seems, Rut snincks of s'lint'tliinp greater than herself ; Too noble for this place." The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retain some vestigos of old English customs. It had its rural tostivals and holyday pastiinos, and still kept up some faint observance of the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its present paster; who was a lover of old customs, and one of those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on eai*th and good will among mankind. Under his auspices the May-pole stood from jear to year in the centre of the village green ; on May-day it was decorated with garlands and streamers ; and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizea and i-ewards. The pic- turesque situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its 1 iistic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, whose regi- ment had been recently quartered in the neighbourhood. H9 THE PRIDE OF TUB VILLAGE. 255 weet* L, and .f the . been Her [?ed iii Lip en- I been 3 little pater- Ich she icnt to ierness •oni all lelicacy of her garden, ieids. igcd by i cy the lanners. ich still ts rural liie faint indeed, lover of ink their ood will 3od from ly-day it queen or preside The pi^!- Sf5 of its visitors, lose regi- lood. H9 w^as charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favourite, who was crowned with flowers, and blushing and smiling in aU the beautiful con- fusion of girlish diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into her intimacy ; and paid his court "en day vvitli the most placid denuire face imaginable ; as I have seen 3ome pestilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-hiunour, come dimphng out of doors, swimming, and curtsying, and smiling upon all the world. How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times, through some bosom of green meadow land, among the mountains ; where the quiet was only interrupted by the occa- sional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter's ase from the neighbouring forest 1 For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above half an hour, before I had completely "satisfied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Wal- ton's opinion, that angling is something like poetry — a man must be bom to it. I hooked myself instead of the fish; tangled my line in every tree; lost my bait; broke my rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My compan- ions, however, were more peraevering in their delusion. I have them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream, as they break in upon his rarely-invaded liaunt; the king-fisher watching them suspiciously from his Jry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the gorge 01 the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip sideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning himself ; and the panic- etruck frog pmmping in headlong as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around. I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and creep- ing about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any suc- cess, in spite of all oui- admirable a]iparatus, a lubberly coun- try urchin came down from the hills, with a rod made from a branch of a tree ; a few yards of twine ; and, as heaven shati IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V {/ A fe'< Q^ ^ i/x w. 1.0 I.I il.25 lAi 50 128 " IIIM ilM 1.8 L4_ 11 1.6 y] (p^ '3 m ^ ^ o >? ^^. // 7 Photographic Sciences Corporation m. ■^ iV #> v \ \ 23 WEST MAIN STRE" WEBStER.N.Y. MSl (716) 872-4503 ^ Ci^ % 262 THE SKETCHBOOK. I - — kl f: i 1 ■ ^ i help me ! . believe a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earth-worm— and in half an hour caught more tish than wo had nibbles throughout the day. But above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, hungry" repast, which we made under a beech-tree just by a spring of pure sweet water, that stole out of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the milk-maid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since. In a morning's stroU along the banks of the . Vlun, a beauti- ful little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on the margin. On approaching, I found it to con sist of a veteran angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a wooden leg, with clothes very much, but very carefully patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its furrows had been worn into a habitual smile; his iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humoured air of a constitutional philosopher, who was disposed to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any gentleman's fish-pond in the neigh- bourhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awk- ward, country lad, with a lounging gait, and apparently some- what of a rustic beau. The old man was busied examining the maw of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was lectur ing on the subject to his companions, who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind feeling toward all "brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ;" and my esteem for them has been increased since 1 met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive frater nity. "Take goode hede," sayth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about your disportes ye oi)en no man's gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use this fore- THE ANGLER. 263 said crafti disport for no covetousness to the increasing and sparing of your money only, but principally for your solace and to cause the helth of your body and spocyally of your soule."* I thought that I could perceive in the veterai angler before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a heerlul contcntedness in his looks, that quite drew me to- vvards him. I could not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of the brook to another ; wav- ing 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 rapid ; sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are ipt to lurk. In the meanwhile, he was giving instructions to his two dis- ciples ; showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind the instructions, of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton is fond of describing. It; was a part of the great plain of Cheshire, close by the beauti- ful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior Welsh hills; begin to swell up from among fresh-smelling meadows. Tlie day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sun- shiny ; with now and then a soft dropping shower, that sowed the whole earth with diamonds. I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much entertained, that, under pretext of receiving instruc- tions in his art, I kept company with him almost the whole- day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, having all the easy (garrulity of cheei'ful old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then to play the sage? He had been much of a rambler in his day ; and had passed ♦ From this same treatise, it would appear that angling: Is a more industriloua 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 yoji of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge effectually jour customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall esc^hew and also avoyde many vices, as ydleness, which is a principall cause to inronn'sing than this little valley. From the listless rei)ose of the i)lace, and the peculiar char acter of its inhabitants, who are descendants from tho original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its rustic lads are called the li mmm THE LKOEND OF SLEEP! HOLLOW. 269 Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over the land, and to pei-vade the very atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high German doctor, during the early days of the settlement ; others, that an old Inc^ian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his powwows there before the coun- tiy was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Certain it is, that the place still continues under the sway of some witch- ing power, that holds a spell over the minds of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They arc given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs ; are subject to trances and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. The whole neighbourhood abounds with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the country, and the night-mare, with her whole nine fold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her gambols. The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powci'S of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic liistori- ans of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and col- lating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege, that the body of the trooper having been bu.'^'ed in the churchyard, the ghost I'ides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the nishing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard before davbreak. Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have men- tioned is not confined to the native inhabitants of the vallev ,V'"P"l| ■W1 27G TllK SKETCIIBOOS. 6ut is unC'^nsciously imbibed by every one who resides there for a time. However wide awake they may have been before they entered that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative — to dream dreams, and see apparitions. I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it k in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there em bosomed in the great State of New- York, that population, mannere, and customs remain fixed, while the great torrent ol migration and improvement, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are Mke those little nooks of still water, which border '^, rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbour, undisturbed by the rush of the passing cur- rent. Though many years haveielapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, ;et I question whether I should not still find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered bosom. In this by-place of nature there abode, in a remote period of American liistory, that is to say, come thirty years since, a worthy "svight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, "tarried," m Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier woodmen and country school- masters. The cognomen of Crane was vio^. inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow snoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and fiat at top, with huge ears, large gi'een glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, lo tell which wa> the wind blow. To see him striding along the profile of a hiU on a windy day, with his clothes bagging, and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield. His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partlj^ patched with leaves of copy-books. It was mos^ in- geniously secured at vacant hours by a withe twisted in the ■»"^IP^ TUE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 271 I there beforo ime, to I grow )r it JF )re em ilation, rent ol 3essant y them water, a,w and n their ig cur- irowsy old not g in its Briod of 3ince, a 3umed, for the was a 3n with Is forth school- to his narrow lile out and his small, 1, and a jerched w. To ly day, might Lg upon roonv 3d, and aost in- in the handle of the door, and stakes set against the window-shutters; so that though a thief might got m with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in getting out : — an idea most proba- bly borrowed by the architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot. The school-house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant- situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a brook nmning close by, and. a formidable birch-tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a beehive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appal« ling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a con- scientious man, that 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 ; taken the burthen off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that "he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to hve." When school hours were over, he was even the companion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behoved him to keep on good terms wit^i his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was snuxll, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, he was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farmers. 272 THE SKKTGIIBOOK. whose children he instructed. With those he lived succei* sively, a week at a time, thus going the rounds of the neigh' bourhood, with all his worldly effects tied up in a cottoD handkerchief. That all this might not be too onerous on the pursed of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the Costs of schooling a grievous burthen, and 83hoolniastei*s as mere drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter laboure ot their farms; helped to make hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water ; drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favour in the eyes of the mothers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, which whilomo so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of the neighbourhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmo ' It was a matter of no little vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gallery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may even be heard half a mile off, quite, to the opposite side of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers httle make- shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated "by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on toler bly enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the labour of head-work, to have a wonderful easy life of it. The school-master is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighbourhood ; being considered a kind of idle gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, in- deed, inferior in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm-house, and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver TUB LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 273 teapot. Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays I gathering grapes for them from the wild^vines that overrun the surroimding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond : while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envy- ing his si;perior elegance and address. From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to house ; so that his appearance was always greeted with satis- faction. He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's History of New- England Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and potently beUeved. He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had been increased by his residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of clover, border- ing the little brook that whimpered by his school-house, and there con over old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination ; the moan of the whip-poor- will * from the hill side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbmger of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl ; or the sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from Gheir roost. The fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, as one of un- common brightness would stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blunder- ing flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch's * The whip-poor will is a bird which is only heard at night, from Its notes which is thought to resemble tbose words. It receives its name 274 TUE SKETCH-BOOK. . : token. His only resource on such occasions, either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm tunes;— and the good people of Sleepy HoUow, as they sat by their dooi*s of an evening, were often fiUed with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or along the dusky road. Another of his sources of fearfid pleasure was, to pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and hsten to their marvellous tales of ghosts, and gc'jhns, and haunted fields and haunbed brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses, and particularly of the headless hoi'seman, or galloping Hessian of the Hollow, as they some- times called him. He would delight them equally by his anec- dotes of witchcraft, and of the du'eful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earher times of Connecticut ; and would frighten them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turn roimd, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy 1 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path, amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night! —With what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across the waste fields from some distant window ! — How often was he appahed by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted spectre beset his very path 1 — How often did he shrink with curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty cmst 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 disnuiy by some rush ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the galloping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! All these, however, w^ore mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind, that walk in darkness : and though he had seen many spectres in his time, and been more ihan once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet day- light put an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite of the Devil and all his works, f^ THE LEOEiy'D OF SLEEPY JIOLLOW. 275 if his path had not been crossed by a being thai 3aiises more perplexity to mortal man, than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together ; and that was— a woman. Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a sub slantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eigh been ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withai a Httle of a coquette, as might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient end modem fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from Saardam ; the tempting stomaciier of the olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. Ichabod Crane had a soft and f oohsh heart toward the sex ; and it is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found favour in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He sel- dom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his own farm ; but within these, every thing was snug, happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the style in which he lived. His strong- hold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one of those gieen, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nesthng. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest ard sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighbouring brook, that babbied along among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the fai*m-house was a vast barn, that might have served for a church ; everv window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the root 276 TEE aKETGU-BOOR. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and abun. dance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squad- ron of snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoy- ing whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm-yard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it like L.' tempered housewives, with their peevish, discontented cry. Before the bam door strutted the gaUant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman ; clapping his bur- nished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart— sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously caUing his ever-hungry family of wives and chil- dren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. The pedagogue's m,outh watered, as he looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind's eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig running about, with a pudding in its belly, and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gi*avy ; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, hke snug married couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey, but he beheld daintily trussed up,, with its gizzard under its wing, and, per- adventure, a necklace of savoury sausages; and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his chiv- alrous spirit disdained to ask while hving. As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his gi'eat green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian com, and the or- chards burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already reahzed his hopes, and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee — or the Lord knows where! m THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLlOW. ni \Q or- the Ir the iation imed wild buBjr the inted with Imself Ig out When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, with high ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the first Dutch settlers. The low projecting eaves form- ing a piazza along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were himg flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the neighbouring river, Benches were built along the sides for siunmer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, and a chum at the other, showed the various uses to which tliis important porch might be de- voted. From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion, and the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one comer stood a huge bag of wool, ready to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey- wolsey, just from the loom; ears of Indian com, and strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar, gave him a peep into the best parlour, where the claw-footed chairs, and dark mahogany tables, shone like miiTors; and- irons, with their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; mock-oranges and conch shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of various coloured birds' eggs were suspended above it; a gi'eat ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes ux)on these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was how to gain the affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, however, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to the lot of a knight- errant of yore, who seldom had anything but giants, enchant- ers, fiery dragons, and such hke easily conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant to the castle- keep where the lady of his heart was confined ; all which ho achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave hun her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the ccmtrary, had to win his way to the heart of a counti'y coquette beset with a labyrinth of wliims and caprices, which were for ever presenting new difficulties and impcdmients, and ho had to encounter a host of 27ff THE SKEl'CII.nOOK. i fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rus tic admirers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly ouli in the common cause against any new competitor. Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, roystering blade of the name of Abraham, or according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rung with his feats of strength and har- dihood. He was broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant coun- tenance, having a mingled air of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of hmb, be had received the nickname of Brom Boines, by which he was uni- versally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, bein^^ as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights, and with the ascendancy which bodily strength always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and tone that admitted of r\r, gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and with all his overbearing roughness there was a strong dash of waggish good-humour at bottom. He had three or four boon companions of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, whisk- ing about amon^ a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and h&Uoo, like a troop of Don Cossacks, and the old dames, star- tled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry- scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang !" The neighbours looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration, and good-will ; and when any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. This rantipole hero had for some time singled out the bloom- ing Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, anc? though his anvovous toyir.gs_\vere something like the gentle TBSi LMENt) OF SLEEPS tlOLLOW. 270 caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that jhe did not altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his idvances were signals for rival candidatas to retire, who felt (10 inclination to cross a Uon in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sun- day night, a sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters. Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to contend, and considering all things, a stouter man than he would have shrunk from tlfe competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack — yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet the moment it was away— jerk ! — he was as erect, and carried his head as high as ever. To have taten the field openly against his rival, would have been madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and gently-insinuating manner. Under cover of his character of singing-master, he made frequent visits at the farm-house ; not that he iiad any thing to apprehend from the meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling-biock in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an e isy indulgent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, hke a reasonable man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in every thing. His notable httle wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese are fooliah things, and must be looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would 3it smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a Uttle wooden warrior, who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod would carry on his suit \\uh the daughter by the side of the spring undsr the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so f.avourable to the lover's eloquence. I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed and won. ^o me they have always been matters of nddle and ;l 980 TUB SKETCHBOOK. admiration. Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, oi door of access; while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand diirerent v^^ays. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a still greater prooi of generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He that wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over tlio heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from tne moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined : his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud giadu- ally arose between him. and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. Brora, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would fain have carried mattei*s to open warfare, and settled iheir pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, the knights errant of yoro — by single combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his adversary to enter the lists against him ; he had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up, and put him on a shelf;" and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. There was somotliing ex- tremely provoking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw upon tke funds cf rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object cf Vv himsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing- school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the school- house at night, in spite of his formidable fastenings of withe and window stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy; so that the poor schoolmaster began to think ail the witches in tho country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog Avhom he taught to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod's, to instruct her in psalmody. In this way, matters went on for some time, without pro- ducing any material effect on the relative situations of the contending powers. On a fine autuimial afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on tlie lofty stool from whence THIS LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 281 point, 01 lues, and is a grent prooi of V a man low. He ntitled to over tliG this was from tne terests of iger seen Lid giadu- ;ollow. s nature, ad settled of those it of yore Lis of the linst him ; "double le was iioo etliing ex- m; it left of rustic . practical JL whimsical rs. They is singing- he school- 3 of withe -turvy; so witches in 1 was still rning hini scoundrel 3 manner, Lct her in thout pro- )ns of the L, Ichabod, m whence de usually watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. In iiis nand he swayed a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power; the Dirch of justice reposed on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; wh0.e on the desk before him might be seen cundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, det<>cted upon the persons of idle urchins; such as halt-mui-ched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole bgions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently thei-e had been some appalhng act of justice recently inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school- room. It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half -broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the school-door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a merry- making, or "quilting frohc," to be held that evening at Myn- heer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his message with that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, uU of the importance and hurry of his mission. All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, with- out stopping at trifles; those who were nimble, skipped over half with impunity, and those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a taU word. Books were flung aside, with- out being put away on the shelves; inkstands were over- turned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual time ; bursting forth hke X legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at their early emancipation. The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half-hour at his toilet, bi*ushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavaher, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman, of tho name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus gallantly mounted, issued WWT 382 TBE SREfCIinoOR. I 4- forth like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. But it ia meet 1 should, in the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The animtil he bestrode was a hroken-down plough-horse, that had outlived almost every thing hut liis viciousner. :. He was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but Tic other had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his day, if we may judge from his name, which w. /. Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favourite steed of hii master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, very prob- ably, some of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any young -illy in the country. Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass- hoppers'; he carried his whip perpendicularly in hit; hand, like a sceptre, and as the horse jogged on, the motion of hie arms was not unhke the flapping of a pair of wings. A smaJ wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strij of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse's tad. Such wac the appear- ance of Ichabod and his steed as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was aitogether such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad dayUght. It was, as I have said, n, fine autiunnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden hveiy which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yeUow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and ccarlet. Streaming filee of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves oi beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighbouring stubble field. The smaU birds wore taking their fnrewell banquets. In fcho fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolick- ing, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the favourite game of stripling sportsmen, THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 283 with its loud querulous note, and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds; and the golden winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage; and the cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow- tipt tail, and its little monteiro cap of feathers; and the blue jay, that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and bowing, and pretending to be on good termsi with every songster of the grove. As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autmnn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets rnd barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian com, with its fj^olden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yeUow 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 odour of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate httle 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 ill the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater dejith to the (lark gray and puri)lo of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflec- 'tion of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as ijf the vessel was suspended in the w, iill ill 'a 11 284 TUE SKETCH-BOOK, i i 1 i i ( It was toward tvening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the Heer Van Tassel, which ho found thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmere, a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and breeches, blufi stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, in close crimped caps, long waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with, scissors and pin cushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on the outside Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers, except ing where p. rtraw hat, a fine riband, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city Innovations. The sons, in short square- skirted coats, with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could procure an eelskin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to the gathering on his favourite 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 tract- able well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of spirit. Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-tabie, 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 tender oly-koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies ; besides slices of ham and sinoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapour from the midst-: Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with THIS LEUliND OF SLEEPl UOLLOW. 285 my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating, as some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large eyes romid him as he ate, and chuckling with the possibiMty that he might one lay be lord of all this scene of almost imimaginable lux- ury and splendour. Then, he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old school-house; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to call him comrade ! Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face dilated with content and good-humour, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and help themselves." And now the sound of the music from the common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician was an old gray- headed negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighbourhood 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 two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a motion oi the head ; bow- ing almost to the ground, and stamping with his foot when- ever a fresh couple were to start. Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his vocal powere. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame In full motion, and clattering about the room, you would have thought St. Vitus himself, that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighbourhood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at eve»*y door and window ; gazing with delight at the scene ; rolling their white eye-ball«, and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in ■> Jiy to all his amorous oglingF, ; while Brom Bones, sorely snutten with love and jealousy, s.'it brooding by himsell in one comer. I 286 TlIK 8KmVU-D00K. fiiffl i 1 ' 1 1 ■ t i 1 J 1 !■ , \ I i i ; i i i" ■ ■'•'■'' " , * When the danco was at an end, Tchabod was attracted to a knot of the sagor folks, who, with Old Van Tassel, eat smokinj? at one end or the piazza, gossiping ovcir former tinitis, and drawling out 1« ig stories ab |at night to call hear of lies. >f super to the Itho verv Iforth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies infecting all tlie land. Sev- eral of the Sleepy Hdllow people were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild and wonderful leg- ends. Many dismal talcs were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and waUings heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major Andre was taken, and whicl stood in the neighbourhood. Some mention was made also oi the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief ppii; of the stories, however, turned upon the favourite spectre of Sleepy 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 church- yard. The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have made it a favourite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, suri'ounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian purity, beaming through the shades oi retirement. A gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon this grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quiet- ly, one would think that there at least the dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks and tiiinks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day-time; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the favourite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where he was most frequently on- 3ountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brou>ver into th« brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. This story was imi^iediately matched by a thrice marvellous u 'y % ! • it 1 ., ;5 288 THE SKLTCU-BOOK. adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping Kessian as an arrant jockey. lie affirmed, that on retiiining one night from the neighbouring 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 the gobhn horse all hollow, but just as tiiey came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and van- ished in a Hash of fire. AH these tales, told in that drowsy under tone with which aion talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kj id with large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added mor;^ marvellous events that had taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks about Sleepy Hollow. The vovel 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 dis- tant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favourite swains, and the.'r light-hearted laughter, min- gling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent wood- lands, sounding fainter and faint .-, until they gradually died away — and the late scene of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered behind, according to the . us- tom of country lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress ; fully convinced that he was now on the high road to success. What passed at this interview I ^vill not pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very groat interval, with an air qui^e desolate and chapfallen — Oh, these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been play- ing off any of her coquettish tricks? — Was her encouragement of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?— Heaven only knows, not II — ^let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, ratliei* than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth, on v/liich he had so often gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty culfs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quartei-s in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. \\. pri ha lin THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 289 lloping iii-ning he had 2red to won it just OS ad van- a v'hich LI'S only lare of a them in Cotton id taken il sights loUow. gathered leard for • the dis- is behind iter, min- jnt wood- ally died tilent and the V US- heiress ; 3 success, ay, for in me, must T no very lion— Oh, 3een play- iragenient conquest ice to say, n sacking ,it looking on Avliich table, and becd most Lch he was 1 oats, and It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far beloTr 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 anchoi under the land. In the dead hush of midnight, he could ever hear the barking of the watchdog from the opposite shore ot the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his distance fi'oni this faithful companion of nan. 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 hke a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull-frog from a neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping un- comfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. All the stories of ghosts and gobhns that he had heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sijrht. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. Ho was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of tliQ road stood an enormous tulip-trf j, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbourhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was con- nected with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andre, w^ho had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known by the name of Major Andre's tree. The common people regarded it with t. mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamenta- tions, told concerning it. As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. As he ap- proached a little nearer, he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the tree ; he paused, and ceased whist- ling; but on looking more naijrowly, perceived that it was a ■ i 290 THE SKETCUBOOR. place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groar« -his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were invayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but aew perils lay before him. About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brools crossed the road, and ran ijto 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, thrcAv a cavernous gloom over it. To pass this bridge, was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of a school-boy who has to pass it alone after dark. As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave liis horse half a score of kicks in the ribs and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per- verse 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 r'teed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder-bushes. The school master now bestowed both whip and heel upon the st, rvelirg ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forwards, snuffling and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a sad denness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over hi£ head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the daik shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he behold something huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller. The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with terror. What was to be done? To turn and fly was now too lato ; and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which coidd ride upon the wings of /HE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 291 Ihewind? Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he dems Tided in stammering accents — "Who are you?" He re- ceived no reply. He repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and shutting bis eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervour into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimen- sions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and waywardness. Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight com- panion, and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind — the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he endeavoured to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious compan- ion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, Avhich brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod was hoiTor- struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! but his norror wa? still more increased, on obser\ing that the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of his saddle! His terror rose to desperation; he lained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip— but the spectre started full jump with him. Away, then, they clashed through thick and thin; stones flying and sparks flash ing at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horee's head, in the eagerness of his flight. They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged W' ■V \ i^n^ 292 THE SKETCHBOOK. ) T A headlong down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge famous in gobhn story ; and just beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the white- washed church. As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; but just as he had got half-way through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. He . seized it by the pommel, and endeavoured to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed across his mind— for Ij was his Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears : the goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider that he was 1) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's b"ck-bone. with a vio- lence that he verily feared would cleave him asunder. An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver «tar in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He recollected the place where Broni Bones' ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, "I am safe," Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close behind him; he ev«n fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another convul- sive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the gobhn rising in his stir rups, and in the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabt/d endeavoured to dod^e the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash — he was tumbled headlong mto the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the gobhn rider, passed by like a whirlwind. The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not make his appear- ance at breakfast— dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 293 •ough a a mile, ,nd just white- fill rider had got lie gave sed it by \m.\ and iipowder he heard iient the lind— for ity fears: ider that jmetimes 3metimes ith a vio- LOpcs that btion of a e was not y glaring ere Brom 3ut reach then he lind him; sr convxd- upon the le gained a to see a .shof fire n his stir^ Ichahod late. It . — he was ;he black Id. ihout his Ipping the appear- lod. The boys assembled at the school-house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Icha- bod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investif:ation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church, was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a bioad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The biv>ok was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster WdS not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all liis world- ly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog's ears; and a broken pitch-pii)e. As to the books and furniture of the school-house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a New-England Almanac, and a book of dreams and fortune- tolling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted, by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honour of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who, from that time forward, de- termined to send his children no more to school; observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading anvl writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his person at the time of his disappearance. The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church Dn the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were 3ollected in the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the si^ot where the hat and pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to mind, and when they had diligently considered them all,, and compared them with the symptoms of the present case,, they shook their heads, and came to the conclusion^ that Icha- bod had been carried off by the galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more about him ; the school was removed to a different % III 294 THE SKETCHBOOK. quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in his stead. It is true, an old farmer who had been down to New- York on a visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought home the intel- Hgence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that ho had left the neighbourhood partly through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in mortification at having been sud- denly dismissed by the heiress ; that he had changed his quar- ters 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 suspect that he ^inew more about the matter than he chose to tell. Tlie old country wives, however, who are tlie best judges of these matters, maintain to this day, that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural means; and it is a favourite story often told about the neighbourhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than ever an object of superstitious awe ; and that may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to approach the church by the border of the- mill-pond. The schoolhouse, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plough-boy, loitering home- ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among the tran- quil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. } POSTSCRIPT, FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OP MR. KNICKERBOCKER. Tt ;'tie preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I hoard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient city of the Manhattoes,* at which were present many of its sagost and most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow in pepper-and-salt * New- York. THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 296 clothes, with a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor — he made such efforts to be entertaining. "N^Tien his stoi-y was concluded there was much laughter and approbation, paiiicularly from two or throe deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old gentle- man, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout ; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turiv ing a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds — when they have rea- son 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 cage motion otthe head, and contraction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it v/ent to prove. The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his tolls, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an air of infinito deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the tabW, observed that the story was intended most logically to prove :— "That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and nlcasures — provided we will but take a jol^e as we find it: "That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin trooperi, is likely to hfive rough riding of it: " Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state. " The cautious old gentleman knit his brows te«fold closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocina- tion of the syllogism; while, methought, t^ie one in pepper- and-salt eyed him with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but SiUl he thought the story a little on the extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his doubts : "Faith, sii," replied the story-toller, 'as to that matter, I don't believe one-half of it myself." D. K. Iff 206 TUE 8KETCR.B00K L'ENVOY. Go, Uttle booke, God send thee good passage, And speciail.v let this be thy prayere, Unto them all that thee will read or hear, Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, Thee to correct, in any part or all. —Chaucer's Bvll Dame sans Mercie. In concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the A-uthor cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his first has been received, and of the liberal dis- position that has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics, whatever may be said of them by othei*s, he has found to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race ; it is true that each has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost to a total condemnation of his work ; but then he has been consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured, another has as particu- larly praised : and thus, the encomiums being set oil against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, commended far beyond its^deserts. He is aware that ho runs a risk of forfeiting much of tliis kind favour by not following the counsel that has been hber- aUy bestowed upon him; for where abundance of valuable advice is given gratis, it may seem a man's own fault if ho should go astray. Ho only can say, in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to govern himself in hia second volume by the opinions pp.ssed upon his first ; but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of excellent coimsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous; another, to shun the pathetic ; a third assured him that he was tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone ; while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a story, and was really entertaining when in a pen- sive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined him- self to possess a spark of humour. Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in twvix closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be to stand still. He remfained for a time sadly embar* r ENVOY. 29: rassed ; when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and writ- ten for different huinours, it could not be expected that any one would be pleased with the whole ; but that if it should con- tain something to suit each reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down to a varied table with an e(iual appetite for each dish. One has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a devil in utter abomina- tion; a third cannot tolerate the ancient flavour of venison and wild fowl; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those knicknacks, here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each ai*ticle is condemned in its turn; and yet, amidst this' variety )l appetites, seldom does a dish go away from the table without being tasted and relished by some one or other of the «5uests. With these considerations he ventures to serve up tliis second volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first ; simply requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelligent readers like himself, but entreating him, should he fmd any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the Author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined taste. To be serious.— The Author is conscious of the numerous faults and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how lit- tle he is disciplined and accomphshed in the arts of authorship. His deficiencies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his peculiar situation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing before a public which he^ has been accus- tomed, from childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full of solicitude to deserve theii- approbation, yet finds that very solicitude continually embar- passing his powers, and depriving him of that ease and confi- dence which are necessary to successful exertion. Still tho kindness with which he is treated encourages him to go on, hoping that in time be 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. ^^ ill . ' m t I i 1 ■ 1 ,5. ■''ii r f. , : sjl ■ JH 1 1 1 u ^Hi^^f^if^H 1 ( ul Mjl > LI! 1 i^ : ii NOTES TO THE SKETCH-BOOK. Mi ! «i NOTES TO THE SKETCH-BOOK. [The following works are the chief Hourccs of infonnatioii for ;.he annotations of this vflunie : — The Dictiunari/ of Nation a I. Bionraphy, (d.n.b.) ; Li})pincott's Bw<]raj)hieal IHctumatji and Gazetteer, (l.); Murray's New linglixh Dictionart/, (.v.e.d.) ; The Cen- tury Dictionary, (c.v.); The Imperial Dictionary, (i.u.); London Pant and Present, by Wheatley and Cunningham, (l.p.i'.) ; and the usual readers' helps, such as Brewer's lleader'g Haiidhook, (b.) ; Chambers's Book of Days (o.b.d.) ; Wheeler's Familiar Allusions, {yi.) etc., etc. Notes (r.) are credited to the Riverside Serirs, in which a few of Irving's essays are published.] BIBLIOGRAPHY. AN ACCOUNT oF THE PUBLICATION OF THE SKETCH-BOOK. In 1817, while Irving was still abroad in his second residence in Europe, his brothers in New York were becoming more and more em- barrassed in pecuniary affaira. In the following year their house went unde#, and Irving found himself forced to make a rdfeolute effort to help tliem and himself. This effort resulted in the Sketch- Book. It tirst appeared in parts. In a letter from London to his brother, March 3rd, 1819, Irving writes : I have sent by Capt. Merry, by the Rosalie, the first number of a work which I hope to be able to continue from time to time I have been for some time past nursing my mind up for literary operations, and collecting materials for the purpose. 1 shall be al)le, I trust, now to produce articles from time to time that will be surtii;ient for my present support, and form a stock of copyright property that may be a little capital for me hereafter. The title under which the series appeared was the "Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent"." It was printed by C. S. Van Winkle in New York. The first number was made up of the prospectus — advertise- ment to the American edition, page 5 — "The Author's Account of Himself," "The Voyage," " Roscoe," " The Wife," and "Rip Van Winkle." It appeared simultaneously in New York, Boston, Philadel- phia and Baltimore, shortly after the time of its copyrighting on the 15th of May, 1^19. On the 1st of April, 1819. the second number was transmitted to America. It consisted of four articles : " English Writers on America," "Rural Life in England," "The Broken Heart," and "The Art of Book-making." The third number was despatched on the I3th of May. It contained: " The Mutability of Literature," " The Spectre Bridegroom," and "John Bull." But the last paper was held back for the sixth number, and ' ' Rural Funerals, sent four days later, was substituted for it. [The success of these numbers encouraged the author to send the printed copies to the great publisher Murray, hut they were refused Oct. 27th, 1819.] The fourth number was published in America, Nov. K^th, and con- :){y> TJJE SKETCTlJiOoK. H i> i I I tiiiiioil : "The Widow and Her 8011," " A Uiyal I'oet," "The Country Church," and " Boar's Head 'J'avern," The tiftn, consisting of " Christmas,"' was despatched in October ; and on the -J'Jth of December, " The Pride of the Village," and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," were sent over, which with " John Bull," made up the sixth part. [Ill Jaiuiarv, 18;^(), Irving issued a voimiie of hiHSkcleh-Binik in Eufflanrt, the publisher beuijiT John Millet ; but the author inidertook all the exjiense and risk. .Scott was delig-hted with the volume, and wiie?i the publisher failed, he ' put his own shouklerto the wlieel," and induced Miu-ray to undertake publii;ation.| The Seventh P'\rt, containing " Westminster Abbey," " Stratford-on- Avon," "Little Britain," and "The Angler," appeared Sept. 13th, 1820, and ended the series as published in America. In the early months of 1820 a])peared the English edition of John Murray. It consisted of two volumes, made up of the sketches above mentioned and two articles contributed by Irving to the " Analectic Magazine," — " I'raits of Indian Character," and " Philip of Pokanoket," and concluding with " L'Envoy." [Late in the year Murray urfjed Irviiifj^ no longer to conceal his name from the world but to accept openly the wreath thepui)lic had in store for him.] To this bibliography we have only to add the full account that Irving himself gave in the Preface to the edition of the Sketch-Book in 18#8 : PRETACE TO THE EDITTON OF 1848. The following papers, with two exceyitions, were written in England, and formed but part of an intended series for which I had nia/le notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, however, cinnimstances compelleublished f ron\ time to time in portions or numbers. It was not my intention to publish them in England, being conscious that much of their (contents could be interesting only to Ameriiian readers, and, in truth, bi-j g deterred by the severity with which American productions had been treated by the I, tish Press. By the time the c /ntents of the first vohune had appeared in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kinti encomiums, in the London " Literary (xazette. ' It was said, also, that a Loudon book- seller intended to jmblish them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I iu-cordingly took the printed numbers I h-ul rei^eived from the United States to Mr. .John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination, informing him that should he be inclined to bring them before the public, I hiul materials enough on hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed without any conununication from Mr. Murray I iuldressed a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacnt rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had left with him might be returned to nu>. The following was his reply : — ■ " My dkar Sir, - 1 entreat you to believe that I feel truly obligeeople at this time, y, id 1 have otily an office to transact business in ; and yestei-day I was wholly occuipied, r r I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. " If it would not suit me to engage in the j>ublication of your j)resent work, it is only becuvuse 1 do not see that scope in the nature of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, without which I really feel no satisfsu'tion in engaging ; but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, antl shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. " With much reganl, I remain, dear sir, •' \our faithful servant, "John Murray." Country )ctober ; d "The n Bull," ' publisher Seott was houkler U) tfonl-on- )t. 13th, of John es above Analectic tanoket," the world at Irving I 18*8 : fonneitality durin>f a visit to Edinburgh ; but firs'; I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the coiflial reception I had experienced from him at Ablwtsford a few years jireviously, and by the favourable opinion he had expressetl to othei-s of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch Book in a jiarcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had the pleasure of partaking of his lios])itality, a reverse had taken ])lace in niy affairs, which made the successful exercise of my i)en all-im))ortant to me ; I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I hiwl forwanled to him, and, if he thought they would bear Kurojiean republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the jiublisher. The i>arcel containing my work went by coach to Scott's address in Kdiiibiirgh ; the letter went by mail to his residencie in the country. By the very first post 1 re(\eivei)rehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient good-will which belonged to his nature, he had alreiuly devised a way of aiding me. A weekly ])eriodical, he went on to inform ine, was about to be set up in Kdinburgh, siijijiorted by the most respectable talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary information. The a])i>ointnient of tlie eilitor, for which aiiij)le funds were jirovided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable prosjyect of further advantages. This situation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he expressefl an apprehension that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. " Yet 1 risk the <|uestion," added he, " because I know no man so well (pialifled for this important task, and pcrhajts because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my jiroposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and there is no harm done. ' And for my love I jiray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrarj', you think it could be made to suit yiiu, let me know as soon as possible, addressing Castle Street, Edinliurgh." In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds: " I am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to CRIMI' you, if it be possible. Some ditticulties there always are in managing such a matter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as much as we ])ossil)ly can." The following is from an imperfect draft of my reply, which underwent some modifi- cations in the copy sent. " I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begiui to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a genial sun- shine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart anfl confidence. Voiir literary proposal both surprises an our command. But 1 can add little to what I have said above, pxcept n»y earnest reconmiendation to Con- stable to enter into the negotiation." Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had determined to look to no leatling bookseller for a launch, but to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim, according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to 8cott, and soon received a reply : — " I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in Britain. It is ce.taihly not the very best way to publish on one's own account ; for the l^ooksellers set their face against the circulation of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of altogether danuning up the road in such cases between the author and the imblic, which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's man- sion. I am sure of one thing, that you have oujy to be known by the British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so ludess I really was of that opinion. " If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called ' Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine,' you will find some notice of your works in the last number : the author is a friend of mine, to whom 1 have introduced you in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected with my family. My faithful friend Knickerliocker is to be next examined and illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when " Your name is up, and may go From Toledo to Madrid." u I * M And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the middle of the month, and ]>romise myself great pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand." The first volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in London as 1 had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still, some attention had been called to it by the extracts which had previously appeared in the " Literary Gazette," and by the k'nd word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the sale was interrii)ited. At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more projutious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favourable representations, Murray was (juickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work which he had previously declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off, and the second volume was put to press, and from that time Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all hi.s dealings with that fair, open and liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellere. Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sii' Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Kurope ; and I feel that I am but discharging, in a ti'ifiing degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledtring my obligations to him. But who of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did i.vjt experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance ? The noDi de plume of Geoffrey Crayou was used by Irving not only in the Sb'tch-Book, but also in the Crayon Pitpers, Brarchr'uhje Hall, Wol- fn'f'ti Roonf, and many miscellaneous papers contributed t(» the "Knicker- bocker." NOTES. 305 THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 7, 6, Lyly's Euphues- John liyly was born about 1553, and died probably in l()0(i. He was one of the cleverest of the early Eliza- bethan writers. His first work, Euphues, was a novel imitated from the Spansh author Guevara's Marco Aurelio. It was a remarkable success, and encouraged the publication of a sequel, Euphuex and His EiKjIand. These volumes represent not only the first English novel of manners, but also the perfection of un affected style in vogue at the time of their appearance (1578-9). — a style soon known through the ajipelatiou of Gabriel Harvey as Euphuisni. From the quotation some of the charac- teristics of this style may be noted — balanced and antithetical sentences, marked usually by transverse alliteration and overabundant similes. As a dramatic poet, Lyly was the author of eight court comedies, the favoi'ite plays of Queen Elizabeth ; comedies, which, of no great value intrinsically, reflxed to Bohn's edition of The Life of Lorenzo de' Medici .] 16, 31. ^^illiam Roscoe, an eminent l"'nglish historian and poet, was born at Mount Pleasant, Liverpool, the 8th of March, 1753. His father was a respectable inn-keeper, (cf. 18, 3) ; his mother, to whom he owed his careful moral training, a woman of su{)erior mind and character. He early left school (cf. 18, 4 f. ) to aid his father in his market garden. This was when he was in his twelfth year, when he had been taught little beyond reading, writing, arithmetic, with a little mensuration and algfbra. He helped to cultivate j)otatoes and carried them to market in a large basket on his head. "In that and other laborious occupations," he himself tells us, " p.'irticularly in the care of a garden, T passed several years of my life, devoting my hours of relax- ation to reading my books. Tliis mode of life gaveliealth and vigour to my frame, and amusement and instruction to my mind, and to this day I well remember the delicious sleej* which succeeded my labours, for which I was again called at an early hour." At sixteen he was aiticled to a Liverpo(d attorney and devoted himself earnestly to the study of law, becoming an attorney in 1774. Through the friendship of Francis 308 THl^J SKETCH- HOOK. m n ^ HoUlni, William CJlarke and Richard Ijowndes, the yoiing Roscoe was able to devote much time to the acquiring of French, Gi-eek, r>atin and Italian. When the agitation for the abolition of the nlave-trade arose, Roscoe took part in panij)hletH and )H)enis against the trattic. In his poem " Mount Pleasant " he described the wrongs of the negro, and as early as 17S7 put forth "An Original View of the African Slave Trade," in which he demonstrated its injustice. As the trade was a source of great profit to his native city, Roscoe incurred great animosity. The people of Liverpool liated his outspoken denunciation. To the ultra- Tories he was a meddler, a busybody, a mischief-monger, and to this cause we may attribute the a]>athy which Irving attrir)ute3 to his fellow- citizens at the time of his linancial straits. In 179G he published his first great M-^ork, — The Life of Lorenzo de' Med el (cf. 17, 27 and 19, 2). The success of this work drew him away from law to literature. " In the spring of the year 1799 he became the purchaser of a moiety of the AUerton estate (cf. 20, 7), a property lying about six miles from Liver- pool ; and to the pleasant residence of Allerton Hall Mr. Roscoe retired, to prosecute at leisure his literary labours, and to enjoy the more healthy employments which agriculture and botany afford." In a desire to help William Clarke, Roscoe became a partner in the banking house (cf. 19, 20) of which Clarke was a member. This did not prevent the completion of Roscoe's second great work, The Life «.• ■/ Pontificate of Leo X., which was published in 1805. In ISDO he was elected member of parliament for Liverpool and helped to secure the passage of the bill for the aboli- tion of slavery. Ten years later arose tiie financial difficulties which finally overwhelmed him. The banking house failed, and Roscoe offered to public sale " the whole of his personal effects, including his library, pictures, and other works of art, which he had employed himself in collecting for nearly half a century." " A number of his frien.ls united to purchase a portion of the library for him without his knowledge. The aspect of his affairs, however, seeming to be more favourable, Mr. Roscoe earnestly begged permission to re-jjurchase such portion himself, and their generous contributions were returned to them. But this remnant, which was to be again within his power, he was unable to retain and it was again re-purchased and presented to the library of the Atheuicum at Liverpool." He was active in the foundation of the liverpool Roj'al Institution ; he mainly established the Athenamm ; en- couraged the study of botany ; helped struggling artists, .such as the sculptor Cibson. On his death in 18SI, a statue of Mr. Roscoe, executed by the sculptor Chauntrey, was erected "in the Royal Institution in his native town, where it now appears, surrounded l»y many paintings which he had collected in illustration of the progress of that art." 16, 36. Thomson, dames Thomson (170(»-1748), won fame in London by his poem of Wintej- (172.5), followed by Summer, Spriwj, Autmnv, the four poems forming the series called the Seasoiifi. His tragedies, Soplioiiislxt, Aj/dincnnion, TatirreiJ lo(fi/, pp. 107-8. 21, 8. turns to dross. An echo of Herbert's lines : — " Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never jfivea ; 3ut though the wliole world turn to (.'oal, Then chiefl\ lives," 310 TIfE SKETCH mOK. I' ' i 21, 39. Pompey's Pillar. This jtillar has iioUiin;^ to do - ith the RoiiiHii, thotigli its iiaiiic wouhl imply .is rniii:)!. " On a higii piece of ground near to th(! viist ccnietery standH the inoHt .striking nionuniental relic in Alexandria l'oni|)ey\H I'ili.'ir. It i» ii liandHonie Corinthian colunin of red granite, fioni Assouan, lOf) feiit high including tlie ca]iital aud ImHe, and i.s helieved to he tiie sole existing relic of the famous Serapenm. It was erected oji its present site, overhtoking Lake Mareotis and the modern city, in honour of the Kmjieror Diocletian, some say to commenior.ate his siege and cai)ture of Alex* '"''i in A.i>. 2{)(), after the rebellion of Acliilleus, wliilt; others, who li jhronologi..;al difiiculty attaching to this view, say it was erected in .nnienioration of a gift of corn, ])n\sented by Diocletian to the citizens in a time of famine." Edwin Hodd(ir, Cifh/i of the World, vol. i. 22, 26. Thomas Middleton. (died in 1027.) One of the least known of the Elizabethan dranuvtists, chronologer of the City of London, author of about twei'ty plays. The ({notation is from the drama Wouun Bcwiirc Woiiicn, iii., 1. It is part of asphaulid soliloquy of Leantio on his return to his home and to his wife Bianca. 25, 43. a ministering angel. So Scott writes :— (), v\'(>iiiuii ! in our hours of case ; Unci'i-tuin, coy, ami luird to ]iU'iv«e, And viiriahk! as the shade \\y (he \\\r\\t (|iiiv('rinK' aspen made ; When jiain and anfruish wrinf,' tlie l)row A ministering' ani^el thou ' Marinioti, vi., xxx. n ii lUP VAN WINKLE. The central idea of h'i/) ]'(t)i Winkle is by no means a new one in literature or in legend. Almost every nation civilized and barbarous has embodied its national aspirations in a tradition of the sleep of a great ruler, who is some day to awaken and revive the glories of his race. So King Arthur in the British legends, as Holinshed tells us, 'was not dead, but carried awaie by the fairies into some pleasant place, where he should remain for a time, and then returne againe and reigne inns great authority as ever.' In (rermany, King Frederick Bar barossa (note 44, II) awaits the ful- ness of time ; (Jharlemagne too is to arise, deliver ('hristendom, and tit the earth for the sectmil coming of Ciirist. The (Jrecian legend telis us that the poet Epimemides, wandering about when a l>oy in search of his sheep, entered a -cave and slept for iifty-seven year.«. .So, too, the Seven Sleepers, noble youths of Ephesus, were blocked in a cave, where they had taken refuge, for twp hundred and tliiity years before they were discovered and awakened. So might be mentioned the Scandinavian tradition of Olaf Tryggvason ; the Scottish legend of Thomas of Ercel- doune ; the Morrish of Bobadil el Chico ; the .Swiss of 'i'ell : the Irish of Brian Bert>indie ; the Jewish of Klijah ; to 3ay nothing of the Teu- tonic story of Sigurd and Brynhild, and its more familiar desceudent the Sleeping Beauty. Nnn:s. Ml 20. 2. Diedrich Knickerbocker. A lull .-K^count of this jiersoiiage, t;> wlioiii Irving liiiiiMMiiously ;itthl»utu«l his //intor;/ of' Ncn^ YorJc, will l>o found in the o[>uuiMg pages of that work, tit; was a aiuall, l>ri8k-looking old guiitluuiau lodging in tlic Judt-pendent ('oluniltiau Hotel. He did not pay for his lodging, l>ut on hin «leatli left to the ho»t his «ar in a coarse caricature.' Irving took tlu ensure ^ood-naturedly, and as he read Verplanck's words just as he vas Huisliing the story of Uift Van Winkle, he gave them this playful notice in the nitroduction. " (r.) .29, 36. New Year cakes. " An oblong seed-cake, still made in ISew York at New Guar's time, and of Dutch origin." (r. ) 29, 38. Queen Anne's farthing. "There was a popular story that only three farthings were struck in Queen Anne's reign ; that two were in public keeping, and that the third was no one knew where, but that its lucky finder would be able to hold it at an enormous price. As a matter of fact there were eight coinings of farthin^^.s in the reign of Queen Anne, and numismatists do not set a high value oti the piece." (r.) 30, 1. Rip Van A^Tinkle. This name is by no means imaginary. I was recently pleased to meet with a lady, a descendant of a Van Winkle who, she said, hatl much to ilo with Irving's business affairs, and who was characterized by the same inability to work that brought the fictitious Rip into so much trouble. 30, 2. a posthumous writingr- A. composition published after the deatli of its author. Irving here makes use of the well-known literary device of setting up a fictitious author as the source of his work. In the Moorish GhronicAes he used a similar device. See also ' ' Little 312 THE SKETnB-BOOK. i U' i 1 1 !• f Britain " and " The Legend of Sleepy Hollow " in this volume, fienei*- ally speaking, there is a distinct literary gain from such shifts, the author is able to oast off his own personality and to make what might have seemed to his readers incongruous, absurd, and incredible from his own pen, assume an air of vrai-mimhlanw when coming from the pen of a well-chosen intermediary. 30, 7- William Cartwright (1G11-1()43) was both dramatist and divine. As a divine he was pronounced " the most florid and seraphic preacher in the university" (Oxfor;^) ; as a dramatist, Ben Jouson said of him, " My son Cartwright writes all like a man. " The Ordinary, Tut Lady- Errant, The Boi/al Slave, and The Siege are his plays, but a large number of epistles, translations, and love-poeras also came from his pen. 30, 9. K!aatskill, or CatskiU, one branch of the Appalachian range of mountains, extending for 1,500 miles froin Alabauia to Quebec, and embracing the i^ileghauy, the CatskiU, the Adirondack, the Green, and the Whi'e Mountains. 30, 27. early ti.mes of the province. Captain Henry Hud- son, an Englishman in the employ of Holland, endeavoring in 1609 to find a passage through or about America to China and India, sailed in the " Half- moon " up the river, now called by his name, as far as the site of Albany. His report to the Dutch East India Company gave such hopes of profitable trade in furs that they sent over ships to carry it on. In 1614 Holland took possession of the country about the Hudson, from the Delaware to the Connecticut and north to Fort Orange (Albany). 30, 29- Peter Stuyvesant. The last Dutch Governor of New Netherland (1647-16H4). During his ruie the English, claiming the count' / bj' right of the discoveries of the Cabots, appeared with a fleet and aemanded the surrender of New Amsterdam. The Dutch flag was hauled down, and the city and county i"e-named in honor of Jamea, Duke of York. The fall of the Dutch province occupies Bk. vii. of Irving's Histonj of New York. 30, 32. latticed windows. Windows v/ith small diamond- shaped panes. 30, 32. gable fronts. With the gable (/\) of the house fronting the street. "The houses of the higher classes were generally constructed of wood, excepting the gable end, which was of small black and yellow Dutch bricks, and always faced the street." — H'ldorif of New York, iii., 3. 30, 37. province of Great Britain. That is, shortly before the Revolutionary War. 30, 39. Van Winkles, who figured, etc. The reference is to the successful expedition under Peter Stuyvesant agahist New Sweden (now Delaware), es|)eciaily against Fort Christina (now the town Chris- tiana or Christeeu, between Philadelphia and Baltimore). The reduction of the fort brought the extension of Dutch power over the Swedish pettlements in New Jersey and Delaware. "Then came on the intrepid Peter— his brows knit, his teeth set, his fists olencheut now of other skins. George Washington's uniform of blue and bufif is still preserved in the National Museum in Washington. 39, 38. Bunker's Hill. A height now included iu Boston, the field of an indecisive battle between the English and American forces June 17, 1775, at the opening of the war of Independence. 39, 39. Babylonish. Here^' mixed,' 'confused,' like the con- fusion of tongues at the building of the tower of Babel. [Babel — Assyrian hab-ilu, gate of God Babylon.] 40, 6. Pedv^ral or Democrat. Federal party in United States history, is a name applied first to those who favoured the adoption by the States of the (Constitution framed by the Constitutional Convention at Philadelphia in 1787, and later to the party which in the first years of the Federal Government became fully formed under the leadership of Alexander Hamiltim Its chief aims were the creation and mainten- ance of a strong central government, the strengthening of the spirit of nationalism, the control of politics by the more intelligent and substan- tial classes, the fostering of commercial interests, and the preservation of friendly relations with Great Britain, (o. d. ) The Democratic party (or anti-FederalisLs as they were first called) thought a strong central government dangerous to the liberties of the people, and preferred to have the cl ief power exercised by the different States of the Union. 40, 20. a tory. At the time of the American Revolutionary war, those who sympathized with British connection were called tories, and underwent the severest ])ersecutions, having often — as in the case of the United Empire Loyalists — to emigrate. 40, 35. stony Point- A high rocky peninsula on the Hudson River, about forty miles above New York. It is the site of an old fort which Gen, Wayne took by storm on the night of July 1(5, 1779. This was one of the most brilliant exploits performed in that war. ' (l.) 40, 40. Antony's Nose or St. Anthony's Nose, in Putnam Co., N.Y.; a bold promontory on the east side of the Hudson, projecting from the south side of Breakneck Hill, at the north entrance to the Highlands, fifty-seven miles from- New York, (l.) erica. It light ; its is much witch-elm nfiniana). are broad r sprains. wice, the I cap with rm of the. sd States. >f buffalo- shington's [useixm ill jston, the can forces i the con- [Babel- ied States ion by the ention at b years of lership of maintcn- : spirit of substan- servation st called) 1 of the itlerent utionary d tories, case of Hudson old fort This am Co., ojecting to the NOTES. 315 The chronicler of the Dutch (jioveruors, already cited, explains that the cape took its name from Antony Van Corlear, trumpeter to Gov. Peter Stuyv^esant. "The nose of Antony the truniiwter was of a very lusty size, strutting boldly from his countenance like a mountain of Golconda. . . . Now thus it happenetl, that bright and early in the morning the go(xl Antonj', having washed his burly visage, was leaning over the quarter railing of the galley, contemplating it in the glassy wave below. Just at this moment the illustrious sun, breaking in all his splendor from behind a high bluff of the highlands, did dart one of his most potent beams full upon the refulgent nose of the sounder of brass— the reflection of which shot straightway down, hissing hot, into the water and killed a mighty stingeon that was sporting beside the vessel ! . . . When this astonishing mira(!le came to be made known to Peter Stuyvesant he . . . marvelled exceedingly ; and as a monument thereof, he gave the name of A ntony's Now to a stout promontory in the neighborhootl, and it has con- tinued to be called Antony's Nose ever since that time." (r.) History of New York, Book vi., chap. 4. Adrian Vauderdonk, 42, 26, historian of that name. alluded to in the HiHtorn of Ntw York. 42, 34. Hendrick Hudson. See note 30, 27. 42, 38. river . - . called by his name- Construe the clause with " river," for New York was at tirst New- Amsterdam. " Being satisfied that there was little likelihood of getting to China, unless like the blind man he returned from whence he set out and took a fresh start, he forthwith crossed the sea to Holland, where he was received with great welcome by the honour- able East India Company, who were very nmch rejoiced to see him come back safe— w ith their 8hi]i ; an(l at a large and i'es])ectable meeting of the first merchants and burgomasters of Amsteixlani, it was unanimously determined that as a nuinifi(!ent reward (or the eminent services he had ))erformed and the important discovery he had made, the great river Mohegan should be called after his name ! — and it continues to be called Hudson River unto this ^■erv day." UiKtory of New York, ii., 1. 44, 11, The Kypphauser. A famous ruined castle, crownmg an eminence in Thuringia, underneath which, in a vault, the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa, (1121-1190) is fabled to lie enchanted. The ancient Barbarossa, Friedrich, the Kaiser great. Within the oa.stle-cavern Sits in enchanted state. He did not die ; but ever Waits in the chamber deep. Where, hidden under the Civstle, He sat himself, to sleep. The splendor of the empire He took with him away. And back to earth will bring it When dawns the chosen daj'. Translatefl from the German of Ruckert. To this note Irving added at a later date the following : Postscript. The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. Knickerboi-ker :- ■ The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region full of fable. Thv Indians considered th'.'m the abode of si)irits, who influenced the weather, spreading siuisl)ipe or clouds over the Ijwulsptipe, tuid sending jco^i, "•" 'w' huntiPff sem*oiis, i 'i !: i ! I 'i 316 THE SKETCH-BOOK. Thej' \ 'ere ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She hung uj) the ne'.v moons in the 8kie.s, and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if i)ro])erly propitiated, she would spin light siunmer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and seiid them oflf from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakee of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds as black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web ; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he woidd assume the form of a bear, a ])anther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forest and among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! leaving him aghast on the brink of v beetling precipice or raging torrent. The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It h a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, anfl from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary 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 bj- the Indians, insonnich that the bolflest hunter would not jmrsue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a hunter, who had lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, where he beheld a nimiber of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these h>' seized and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he Jet it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down precipices, where he was ashed to pieces and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day ; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kil], ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. The attitude of English writers towards America twenty years ago is by no means overdrawn by Irving. Readers of even Dickens will remember the representation — or rather the misrepresentation— of the United States in his American Notes and Martin Chuzzletvit (1842). Happily the era of depreciation is over and that of appreciation has begun. At the same time the people of the United States have lived through the youthful period of over-sensitiveness to other people's opinions, and have attained new confidence in the greatness of their country. To-day the writers of England and the United States are mighty factors in the bringing together of the two countries. 44, 27- mewing. Literally casting oflf, as a bird casts off its feathers, outgrowing. 44, 28. Milton. John Milton (1608-1674) received a most excellent education from his father, from Cambridge, and from travel abroad. The classic serenitj"^ of his early poems Lycidaa, Arcades, U Alle- gro, II PeiiHerom deepened into tragic and epic force as the cause of Puritanism, with which he was associated, fell into disrepute. In blindness he composed Paradise Lod, Paradine Regained and Sammn Agonizes, poems which enroll their author among the grgat poets of the world. The Areopagitica, from which the (quotation is taken, was Milton's plea to the Long Parliament and to England for the liberty of the press — its freedom from censorship ; but being in advance of the time, it failed in its inxmediate object. NOTES. 317 relt on the ) open and ind cut up ,vould spin f from the in the air ; laupinj; the displeased, iheni like a woe betide Spirit, who uisfhievous inetimes he ed hunter a ing off with inj; torrent, cliff 0!i the )er about it, name of the littern, with the surface, dest hunter ;r, a hunter, a mmiber of i off with it, rreat stream rhere he was es to flow to xters-kill. ears ago is kens will )n— of the it (1842). ation has lave lived people's of their States are sts off its „ a most •om travel p«, L'Ade- cause of pute. In 1(1 Snmtion poets of Jaken, was liberty of Ice of the 46, 15- El Dorado, l^it. 'tlie golden,' [Sp. el, the, dorado, past part of dorar, to gild]. A country inconii)arahly rich in gold and precious stones, which the early Spanish explorers thought tliey could discover in America, and which Orellana declared he had discovered on the Amazon (1540). From this use of the wonl came the one in our text, that of 'a country abounding in easy means of acquiring wealth,' (C. D.) 47, 13. apocryphal volumes Strictly, books not regarded as true and inspired ; here, books not founded on fact and therefore to be rejected. 49,23. mausoleum, (mau m k' am). [Jf(o^»."<, Kingof Caria, to whom Artemisia, his widow, erected a stately monument, that ranked as one of the seven wonders of the world]. A nuignificent tomb ; or here, a sepulchral edifice. RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Thoughts and suggestions on rural life in England may be gathered from The Task, Bks. iii., iv., v., vi. William Winter's Shake >< pear c'n England is a panegyric on English country scenes ; so also is " Mellow England " in John Burrough's Winter Sunxhine. See also the latter author's Fresh Fields. 52, 12. Cowper. William Cowper was born 1731, in Hertford- shire. The tender affection of his mother he commemorated in the Hues "On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture." He was educated at West- minster School, where his scholarship pleased the masters and his skill at cricket his companions. He studied law, but never with assiduity, idling away the hours in i)reference with his cousin Theodoi.*. But the cloud of melancholy which was rising even in his boyhood days began to spread upon him, and by 1763 deepened into temporary insanity, lleligion and the society of the Unwins gave him, on his recovery, a new lease of happiness. Yet at Oliiey, in 1773. his religious fervor, his confined life, and the dreariness of the ))lace brought on his old malady. Again recovering, he found cons(dation in gardening and literature, and the close connection of his life and his pen seems to have raised up in him that new spirit of poetry— a spirit that looked beyond tlie artificial maxims of the school of l*ope to a deep sympathy with nature and human life. Cowper died in 1800. His chief works are : The 7V^^•^• (1784), Tirocenium (1784), a transhition of Homer (1791), and many short poems and hymns. The .quotation is from The Task, Bk. iii., 11. 290-293. 52. 19. wakes. [A.S. icaen, wake, watoli.] Here an annual festival or fair, originating in a desire to commemorate the completion of a parish church. The wake was begun by an all-night watch in the ( liiirch, followed' by merrymaking on the following day, which was a lioliday, " Didsbury wake.s will be celebrated on the 8th, !)th and 10th of AujjUHt (18'25] Tbe enjoyments consist chieHy of ass-races, for purses of gold ; pri.son-bar v>layin>f, and i;iiniiint( thriiuy:h ^(jllars for ale; and balls each eveniiisj." Hone's Year Hook l^ i 318 TRE SKETCH-BOOK. 62, 26. rendeZ-VOUS- [From the Fr. rendez-voun, noun from verb-f-proiiouu— • betake yourself.'] Place of meeting. (Pronounce roil (fa voo'. ) 5d, 7- love to visit a cottage. This was the favorite theme of the ]>astoral poets ; l)ut Keats, in Lamia, speaks in a very diflferent strain : " Love ill a hut, with water and a crust, Is — Love, forgive us! — cinders, ashes, dust." 56, 19. Geoffrey Chaucer, the father of Engish poetry, was born in 1H40 (?), a native of London. After a university education, he entered court life, and held an important office in an embassy to Italy. On his return he was made comptroller of the customs, and took part in several other negotiations abroad. His death took place in 1400. Chaucer's chief works are TJw. Homt of Fame, (before 1384) Troylm and Chry- neydc, (1380) Lqfeiuh of Oood Wovien, (1382), and the greatest of all — the Canterbury Tales. "He is the first great figure of modern English liter^iture, the first great humorist of modern Europe, and the first writer in whom the dramatic spirit, so long vanished and seemingly extinct, reappears. Except Dante, tliere is no poet of the middle ages of superior faculty or distinction. " "Many pieces that used to pass current as Chaucer's, are now con- lidently pronounced spurious 'The Flower and the Leaf,' attributed to him by the donor of the Chaucer window in Westminster Abbey, (a poem years and years later in point of date, as its language and grammar show, quite un-Chaucerian in point of metre, and which internal evidence informs us was written by a lady.)" — Professor Hales. The "Flower and the Leaf" may be found in Chaucer's Works, edited by Bell, vol. iv. 56, 20. rustic life. pastoral writers. Writers treating of themes from 57, 7- Gothic tower. A tower tapering to a point, with pointed arches and vaults. "The adjective [(lothic] is inappropriate as applied to one of the noblest and completest styles of architecture ever developed, which owes nothing whatever to the Goths, and is seldom now described as Gothic in other languages than English." (c. D. ) THE BROKEN HEART. " The particulars of- the Broken Heart were given to Mr. Irving by a young Liverpool friend, Mr. Andrew Hamilton, who had himself seen the heroine ' at a masquerade,' the same in which she is introduced by our author." Life of Irving, by P. Irving. 58, 17. Middleton. See note 22, 26. 58 29. The blind deity. Cupid was represented as blind by the ancients. Dim from ^renounce } favorite in a very , was born he entered f. On his in several Chaucer's and Chry- at of all— rn English I the tirst seemingly iiiddle ages ', now con- the Leaf,' ''estminster ts language and which !,sor Hales. >rks, edited ernes from ith pointed as applied cture ever eldom now 'rving by a mself seen roduccd by s blind by ^()T}^S. 310 58, 35. man is a creature of interest, etc. Myron has said all tliis in Don Juan, Canto cxuiv. " Man's love is of man's life a thinjr apart ; 'Tis woman's whole exMstenee. Man may ninj,'e The fouit, camp, church, the vessel and the mart, Sword, uow'i, !fain, fflory, oifer in exchantje Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart. And few there are whom these cannot estrange : Men have all these resounies, we but one— To love attain and be a^ain undone." 58, 39. The Rev. Rann Kennedy, a clergyman of Birming- ham, and a friend of Irving's. 'i'he passage is from Kennedy's poem on the Princess Charlotte, the only daui,diterof (ieorge IV. She died in 1817, at the age of twenty-one. (r. ) 59, 14. the wings of the morning. Cf. Ps. 139, 9. 59, 29. female. This use of ' female ' for ' woman ' is one of the few instances in which Irving has sinned against good English. See note to 111, 17. 59, 38. ''dry sorrow drinks her blood." Quoted from Romeo and Juliet, iii. .'i, which, however, reads : — " Dry sorrow drinks our blood." 59, 43 " darkness and the worm" "The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave. The deep damp vault, the darkness and the worm." \ o\u\^'» Ni'jht Thonyhts, Nijjhtiv., 11. llt-11. 60, 24. young E . Robert Emmet,* an eloquent Irish enthusiast, born in Cork in 1780.".. ..was an ardent but misguided parti- san of Irish independence, and appears to have been a sincere patriot. Like his brother, he was one of the chiefs of the "United Irishmen." In July, lhO.3, hi' rashly put himself at the head of a party of insurgents, consisting of the rabble of Dublin, who murdered the chief justice, Lord Kilwarden, and Others, but were quickly dispersed by the military. Emmet was arrested, was tried, and, after an eloquent and impassioned speech in vindication of his course, suffered with an intrepid courage a felon's death, September 1803. The poet Moore commemorated his tragic fate and attachment to Miss Curran in two of his "Irish Melodies." (l.) 60, 40. late barrister. John P. Curran (1750-1817), Irish lawyer and patriot, one of the wittest of British orators. 61, 34. heeded not the song of the charmer. Quoted from the version of Psalm o8, />, in the Book of Common Prayer. "Like the deaf adder, that stoppeth her ears; which refuseth to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." 62,. 29. Thomas Moore (1779-1852) was Irish, with the warm- heartedness, jollity, wit and genius of the Irish r.ace. He was born in Dublin and educated in the university of his native city. Even when a school-boy he wrote verses, and when he wont to liOndon to study law, a volume of translations of Anacreon was in his pocket. Receiving a post in Bermuda, he travelled much in America, living for a time in (Janada. Visitors to the Ottawa are still able to see his cottage at Ste. 320 ETTK SKF:r('H-liO(fh\ Aimu's, from the porcli of wiiiuh "the |M)et used no doubt to see the boatn)en aud their rafts, and hear as Mell their songs as their h)g rafts swept towards the St. Ijawrenee." On his return to Kngland Mooru pub- lished Odeti ami EpittkH. His ucm; writings were satirical, light, witty, effective, beyond t'...)se of any other satirist of his day. But satirical poetry is not what has endeared this poet to tlie heart of the nation — especially of the Irish nation. His fame rests durably upon a different sort of work. hJvery one knows and sings some of the /rish Meloditfi, old Iri.sh airs with Moore's words to them. They l)reiitlie of Irish hopes, and glories, aud sufferings, and must ever be dear to the poet's and the l)atriot's heart. Then came La/la Rookli, followed by Lores of the Anycls, T]ie Ejncnrean, and other works, but iu)ne possess that sincerity of feeling which makes the Irtish Melodien the most durable of his works. In prose he wrote a Lif'i of Lord Byron aud a JJitstory of Irdand. THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 63, 2. Synesius («* nee' she us), a celebrated neo-Platonic philos- opher, was born at Cyrene, in Africa, in 378 A. D. He was a disciple of Hypatia at Alexandria ; but was afterwards converted to Christianity, and became bishop of Ptolemais in 410 a.d He was the author of a treatise On Dreamn, Dmi or On Self- Discipline, Letters, Hymns, Epi- grams. He died about 410. (l. ) 63,3 Burton. See note 11, 4. 63, 16. British Museum. 'J'he British Museum was opened in ]7o9, l)ut the present buildings on (Ireat Russel Street were not com- pleted till 1847. It contains a library of over a million volumes, museums of oriental, classical, and British antiquities, of mineralogy, zoology, botany, etc. 63, 19. hieroglyphics. Symbols used in writings and inscrip- tions, particularly by the Egyptians, as signs of sacred, supernatural, or divine things, (i.) 63, 23 suite of a^partments (pronounce suite .«w;eei). A series of apartments ot m \tual suitability, devoted to some special object. 64, 5. foUo. [L. folium, &. leaf.] A book of the largest size, made by one doubling of a sheet. It was a favorite form of book among the ancient learned authors. 64, 5. flatulency, windiness in the stomach. 64, 8. familiar [1^. familia, family.] (Jenerally a spirit who could be summoned at a call, but here an attendant. 64, 13. Magi, (ysoft. ) [L. magus.] A sect of priests and phil- osojjhers of the Medes and Persian, once held in the highest esteem. 64,34. "pure English." Quoted imperfectly from " Dan Chatux'r, -aoH of Eii{^lish, uiidefyled On fame's eternal beadroU worthie to be fj'led." Spenser, Faerie Queene, IV'. c. ii. s. 32, 65, 15. "line upon line," etc. See Isaiah xxxiii. iO, 13. NOTES. im to see the ' log rafts oorj pub- lit, witty, b satirical ! nation — I, different Melodies, sh hopes, 's and the ['e.H of the ; sincerity lis works. id. lie philos- lisciple of ristianity, athor of a mmn, Epi- is opened not corn- museums , zoology, d inscrip- 'itural, or A series iject. gest size, ok among jirit who and phil- teom. . ii. s. 32, 3. 65, 17. Witches' cauldron. Marheik, iv. i. 1st Witch. Hound ahout the caldron g'p ; III the poidon'd entiaiU throw. Toad, that under the cold stone. Days anil nights hast thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, fJoil thou first i' the charmed pot i All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; Fire bum, and caldron bubble, Snd Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake : Kye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and bliiui-worm's sting. Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing. For a charm of powerful trouble ; Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; Fire burn, and caldron bi' '^le. Srd Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf ; Witches' nuiiumy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark ; Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark ; Liver of blaspheming Jew ; Gall of goat, and slips of yew, Silver'd in the moon's eclipse ; Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips ; Finger of birth-strangle*! babe, Ditch-deliver'd by a drab. Make the gi-uel thick and slab ; Add thereto a tiger's chaudron For the ingredients of our caldron. All. Double, double, toil and trouble ; , Fire burn, and caldron bubble. 3nd Witch. Cool it with a baboon's blood. Then the charm is firm and good. 65, 36. metempsychosis. [Grk. metempsitdiosiH, lit. ' beyond life. '] The doctrine of transmigration, especially of the passing of the soul of man after death into some other animal body. 6fi, 16. soporific. \L. sopor, sleep, facio, I make]. Tending to cause sleep. QQ, 27. Monmouth Street. " Monmouth Street [Loudon] was noted througiiout tlie eighteenth century for the sale of second-hand clothes, and several of the shrps continue to be occupied by Jew dealers in left-off a]jparel. (l. p. p. ii. 554). ' Thames Street gives cheeses, Covent Oarden fruits, Moorfields old books, and Monmouth Street old suits.' Gay's Trivia. GQ, 39. old fathers. The early writers of the Christian Church, such as St. Augustine and St. CJhrysostom. 67, 1. old court-dresses. Reference to courtiers, such as Sidney and Ualeigh, that were authors. 67 4. "Paradise of Dainty Devices." One of those precious collections of Elizabethan lyrical poetry, published in 1570. ;^22 thp: ^KKivn hiiOK. 67, 4- Sir Philip Sidney was l»orii in l.V>4, and died of ;i wound received in the battle of Zutphen in I.kSH. The Arcadia (prose) was pubHshed in I iMX)-!).'^, the sonnetw and Hong« Giit\t\Qi\ A ulraplu'l and Slrlla appearetl in loDI, and The Jh/nicc of Poexy, (prose) in loDa. "Sidney's prose is the most Howing and poetical that had yet been written in Knglisli. . . .The thought is more poetical than the language ....Notwithstanding the conceits into which it fre<|uently runs.... Sidney's is a wonderful style, always Hexible, harmonious, and luminous, and on tit occasions rising to great stateliness and splendour, while a wealth of beauty and noble feeling lives in and exhales from the whole of his great work, like the fragrance from a garden of Hovvers." —Q. L. Craik. 67, 10. small-clothes, troupers. 67, 20. Arcadian hat- A shepherd's hat, — with a high conical crown. 67 22. Primrose Hill, a liillock on the north side of Regent's Park, from which it is divided by two roads and a canal. . . .laid out as a public recreation ground .... of late circumscribed by the progress of buildings, (l. r. p.) 67, 22. Regent's Park, a public p. rk in London of 372 acres, deriving its name from the Prince Regent, afterwards George II., who intended building a residence in it. The Zoological Gardens are at the upper end of the park. 67, 25- babbled of green fields. The words occur in a reference to the death of i^'alstatf', as described by the Hostess in Henry V., ii. .3. A' nuwle a finer end and went away an it had been any cristom child ; a' parted even Just between twelve and one, even at the turning o' the tide : for after I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with flowers and smile upon his finjjers' ends, I knew there was but one way ; for his nose was sharp as a pen, and a' babbled of jjreen fields. «' How now, Sir John?" (pioth lie, "what, man I be of good cheer." So a' cried out •'God, God, God !" three or four times. 67, 17. pragmatical, busy over trifles, self-important. 68, 2. Francis Beaumont (1584-1GH>), dramatist of the Eliza- bethian era. Educated at Oxford, he began to write plays in conjunction with John Fletcher (1579-1625), with whom he lived on terms of wonderful friendsliip. 7'/te Maiden Trayedi/, Philaster, A King and No King, The. Knight of the Burning Pestle, Cupid's lievenge, The Coxcomb are the chief plays of their common muse. "In the most important plays that they write together Beaumont's share outweighs Fletcher's, both in quantity and quality. Beamont had the firmer hand and the statelier manner ; liis diction was more solid ; there was richer music in his verse. Fletcher excelled as a master of brilliant dialogue and sparkling repartee. , In the management of his plots and in the development of his characters he was careless and consistent. But in his comedies the unceasing liveliness and bustle atone for structural defects ; and in tragedy his copious command of splendid declamation reconciles us to the absence of rarer qualities." (d. n. b. ) 68, 3. Castor and Pollux, twin sons of Leda and T'yndareus, NOTES. IV2[\ king of S|»arta, ln-othcrH of tln^ mudi lo\ (m1 and much 1)IaintMl Htilcii. For their porfrct hrotlinrly htvi; they were placed by Zeus among the ntars. 68, 4. Ben JonSOn- Anotlier Klizabethan dramatist, tlie great- est after Shak.speare, was \W,\i Jonson (l'il4-\i)'M}. He was a stu&2 he became tutor to Mary, yueeii of Scots, and afterwards preceptor to James VI. His works are a Latin version of the Psalms, a "History of Scotland" {15H2), the latter said to be deficient in impartiality, (l. ) 71, 18. " Have you not seen," etc. A quotation from a poem by Sir Koger L' Estrange, entitleil The Liherty of t/ic hinn'imm'd Jioynl- hitx. It was probably composed while he lay in prison after his capture by the Parliamentary forces. 71, 30. TasSO. Tor([uato Tasso (1541-1595), a great Italian epic poet, liad one of the most melancholy lives in literary history. His poem of "Kinaldo" (1562) brought him the favour of the Duke of Eerrara, who rivalled the Medici in their patronage of art. In the court of this prince he began his great poem JcriiKalon Deliinri'd, Ijut had no sooner completed it ( 1575) than his haj^piness was at an end. Because he ventured to love the Duke's sister, or, perhaps, because his mind became unhinged, he was conlined l)y Alfonso to a convent. He escaped, returned to Eerrara, but left to wander aimlessly through Italian cities, lleturning to Ferrara in 1579 he was thrown into an insane asylum. Seven years afterwards he was released. He ilied at Rome in 1.595, the day before he was to be crowned with laurel at the capitol. His greatest poem is pronounced by Hallam " the great epic poem, in the strict sense, of modern times." 71, 32. ICing''s Quair- An obsolete form of 7'"/ ' , used in older English in the sense of book. The King's Little Book. (c. n.) "Go, litel quayre, go unto my lyves queiu LykifM maek Kuufht, 1. 674. a Scol 71,39. Ballenden. John Belle rui,,, who served James V, as " Clerk of hi of Moray about 1530. He trausl.i land " from the Latin into the poems. Died in Rome about 15' .) 71, 39. Hector Boece v -1536) historians. He studied in I'aris, wliere h osophy. His " History of Scotland" (in Latin, 1526) ranks an best historical works of that jieriod. |Mtet, me IV jacon listor^ oi Scot- id wrote several me of the earlv Scottish became a profeh n- of phil- I >ug the n XoTKS. 325 71, 40 isir Roger LEstrange (M)ir)-17()4). KngliHh writer, a |»r()i!ouiM;ess of sij^ht, of thee I nmst comphvin ! Blind amonj; enemies, O worse than chains, Uun;^eon, or hegtfary, or decrepit age ! Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, And all her various objects of delight Aiinull'd, which might in part my grief have cased. Inferior to the vilest now become Of man or worm ; the vilest here excel me : They creep, yet see ; I, dark in light, exj)osed To daily fraud, contemi)t. abuse, and wrong, Within doors, or without, still as a fool. In power of others, never in my own ; Scarce half I seem to live, deiwl more than half. O dark, dark, dark, amid the hlaze of noon, IrrecoveraV)ly dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day ! " Saitimn Agonigte». See also Sunuet xxii, 74, 17. "Now was there made." Note the form of this stanza, often called " Chaucerian stanza," because used by the great English poet in, for example, 'J'hc Alan of Lawes Talc. King James learned it from his master, anil from his using it in the Kiny's Quair, it is also called " Khyme lioyal." m I ii < '.V2(\ THE SKPlTCILnnoK. 74, 19. Wandis, wands. Note that is is the termiiiatiou of the (i) plural and (ii) possessive, in the Scottish King's Englislj. 74, 41. calends- 1 1'- cnhnda'.] Among the Koniaus the first day of each month. 75, 30. Chancer's Knighf s Tale. The first of the Canter- hnry Tales. Thesens of Athens, had put twc young princes of Thebes into close confinement. Palamon one morning from his window saw the fair Emelye, his captor's sister, in the garden surrounding his tower. He was smitten with love ; and his fellow-captive Arcite, .shared his fate. The story ends, after iuany adventures, with the death of Arcite, and the marriage of Palamon and Emelye. 76, 20. Phoebus, god of the sun : here, the sun itself. 76, 38. gilliflower, or gillyflower. [Fr. fjirojl^e, (jirojle, clove,] the popular name of beautiful and fragrant flowers, such as the wall- flower, stock, etc. 77, 33. Gower. The "moral f4ower" (1320-1402), was a con- temporary and friend of Chaucer. His chief work is the Con/esnio Amaniis, (" Confession of a Ijover "). He was a man of learning, though not a great poet. 77, 34. one of his stanzas. The last stanza of the Quair. Maisters dear Oower and f ihaiicer, that on the steppes sate Of rhetorick while they were livand h»re, Superlative of poets laureate. Of jnorality and eloquence ornate." 78, 9. morning stars. See Job xxxviii. 7. This is Tennyson's thought at a la Ler time : — " ' The Legend of Good Women' lon<^ ix^o Sung by that morning' star of song, who made His music heard below, Dan Chaucer, the first warbler," Dream of Fair "»'..„.„,;. 78, 13. captivating" fiction. The works of Sir Walter Scott of which Waihrky, Qui/ Mannerinc), The Black Dwarf, Old Mortality, Boh Roy, Heart of Midlothian, Ivanhoe, Lajend of Montrose, had appeared by 1819. 78, 25. interregnum. [L. inter, between ; reijo, I rule.] Time between the death of one king and the accession of his successor. 80, 18. Christ's I^irk. The claim to the authorship of this '"vely holiday poem has been disputed, but Allan Ramsey, Sir Walter ;:>( ott and others, unhesitatingly ascribe Chri/it'ti Kirk on the Green, to the royal poet. 80, 32. Vaucluse. A village and remarki-.ble fountain of France, department of Vaucluse, 1,5 miles c. of Avignon. Its scenery is pictur- esque, but it derives its chiack, preceding or accom- panynig a carriage. 85, 10. turtle-fed. Turtle- soup is the proverbial dish of the aldernianic epicure. A SUNDAY IN LONDON. [The followiiiyr sketfh is not in the oriifiiial editions of the Sketch Book, but it appears in the later, between "The Widow and her Son" and "Boar's Head Tavern."] In a proceeding paper 1 have spoken of an English Sunday in the cotmtry, and its tranquillising effect upon the lantlscape ; but where is its sacred infUience more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that great Babel, London ? On this sacred day, the gigantic monster is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an end. The sliops are shut. The fires '>f forges and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober, yellow radiance into the ([uiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forth with anxious counte- nances, move leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of bus'ness and care ; they have put on thsir Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with th^ir Sunday clothes, aiul are cleansed in mind as well as in person. And now the melod' >us clangor of bells from ctuircn towers summons their several Hocks to the fohl. Forth issues frcn his mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daugliters, with small morocco-bound jnayer-books in the folds of tlieir pocket-handker- chiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile l\oa\ hev young mistresses, at whose toilet she lias assisted, 328 THE SKETCH-BOOK. i-w Now rumbles along tlie carnage of some magnate of the city, perad- ventiire an alderman or a sheriff, and now tlie patter of nuvny feet announces a ijrocession of charity scholars, in uniforms of antique cut, and each with a prayer-})0()k under his arm. The ringing of hells is at an end ; the rumbling of the carriage has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the Hocks are folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where the vigilant bear-wl died "Christopher Marlow, slain by Francis Archer, the 1 of June, io93." The (pxotation is from Tamhurlalnf, a drama founded on the con(]uest3 NOTES. 329 of the Scj'^thian warrior. It is part of the entreaty of the virgins of Damascus to the conqueror to spare their native city in Part I., v. 1. 85. 36. "STVeet day, so pure," etc. Quoted from a lyric by George Herbert (l.'593-l().S2), author of The Temple, or Sacred Poeim and Private EjacnlationH. 86, 31. coeval [L. con, with, femm, age], of the same age. 91, 10. hatctinient, the coat-of-arms of a person dead. ,the the Satir- London iholding ;o come nature. lo (i>'st which licalth liospi- 3t Eng- t; about iy-line ' t'erse in 'ai(sf.i(-s, 'cr. lu ler, the Kpiests THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. [To this «!ssay there is only one suitaMe introduction, which is that aCFortled hy the rcarliiif^ of the jUays Henri/ IV. and the Merri/ Wlrrs of Windsor, in which FalHtafT fiK'ures ; or if not the complete works, at least the "coniio scenes" of Henry IV., especially i. 2 ; ii. 2, 4 ; iii. :J ; iv. 2 ; v. 4 of Part I.; and i. 2 ; ii. 1, 2, 4; iii. 2 ; iv. 3 ; v. 3, h, of Fart II. The death of Falstaff is recounted in Hennj V., ii. 1, 3. Nor should we pass over the admirable paper, Exmti V., by Oliver Goldsmith, so like Irvinjj's, but written in ig'norance that the orif,''inal Shaksperiau tavern dis- appeared in the Great Fire.]} 91, 25. Eastcheap, so called in distinction from Westcheap, iiow Cheapside. 'I'he street was swallowed up in the improvements necessary to the building of the new London Bridge, 1831. It took its name from a market {cheap) formerly situated there. In Eastcheap wjus built the Boar's Head Tavern famous for the revels of FalstafFand Prince Hal. It was destroyed by the Great Fire in 1666, but was rebuilt of brick " witli its door in the centre, a window above, and then a boar's head cut in the stone with the initials of the landlord (I. T.), and the date (near the snout) of 1668. Subseciuently it was divided into two and ceased to be a tavern. At the time of its demolition the house was occupied by a gunsmith. The stone with the boar's head is now in the City Museum, Guildhall." (l.p.p. ) 91, 30. Mother Bombie. The last comedy of .lohn Lyly (see note 7., 6.), written about l.liM), printed 1594, and taking its name from a fortune-teller who has much to do with the solution of the diffi- culties of the plot. The quotation is in the opening of the scene at a tavern, where the four old men of the play, Memphio, iStellio, Sperantus, and Prisius by chance meet together. 92, 16. farthing rush-Ught. Imitated from— How commentators each dark i)assajfe shun And hold their farthinsj: candle to the sun. * Young, Loti'> of Fame, Sat. vii., !)7-S. 92, 28- German critic. The reference, no doubt, is to August VVilhelm von Schlegel, who translated Shakspeare into (Jerman, and lectured on dramatic literature and art about 1808. 93, 9; Old Jack Falstaff- A reminiscence of Shakspeare's line, "Sweet Jack Falstaff", kind Jack Falstatf, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff," 1. Ifoiri/ IV., ii. -4. 93, 19. Dame Quickly. Ho.stess of the Boar s Head Tavern. 93, 26. the haunted regions of Cock-lane. For "the haunted regions." see note 97, 3. Cock-lane is a narrow lane in West Smithtield, London. i L ! ! i 330 THE SKETCH- HOOK. 93, 27- Little Britain, now Aldersgate Street to Duke Street. "The street called Little Hritaia, wherein the (Jhurch [St. Botolph's, Aldersgate] is situated, was anciently denominated Britain Street, from the city mansion of the Duke of Bretagne, in France, therein situate." ** In 1756 Maitland describes Little Britain as ' very ruinous,' the part from the pump to Duck Lane (Duke Street) as well built, and though much inhabited formerly by booksellers, who dealt chietly in old books, it is now much deserted and decayed." (L.P. p. ) See Irving's p]ssay " Little Britain," p. 190. 93,28. Cateaton Street. Chea])side. "Catte street beginneth at the north end of Ironmonger Lane, and runneth to the west end of St. Lawrence Church." Stowe. 93, 28. Old Jewry, a street in London, running from the north side of the Poultry to Ciresham Street, so called as being in the Middle Ages the Jews' quarters in the city. 93, 29. the Guildhall. It is the city hall of London, in which civic business is transacted. Tn the hall are two giants — which used to form part of the pageant of a Lord Mayor's Day — and known as (log and Magog, though antiquaries diiTer about their jjroper appelLition , some calling them Colbrand and Brandamore, others Corineus and ( logmagog. They were carved by Richaid Saunders, and set up in the hall in 1708. They are made of wood, and hollow within L. P. p. 93, 31. London Stone. A rounded stone set in and seen through an oval oi)ening in a large stone case, and now built into the outer or street wall of the church of iS'^. Sivif/dn, London Stone, or St. Swithin, Cannon Street, city. Camden considers it to have been the central Mlllkiriani, or mile stone, similiar to that in the forum at Home, from which the British roads radiated, and from which the distances on them were reckoned. [The stone was much worn away even before the Fire, and to preserve it, it was cased over with stone.] ScENH, Cannon Street. Enter Jack Qwm with his followers. He strikes kin staff on London Stoni-. Cade. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here sitting upon London Stone, I cliarg:e and ooimnaiid, that, of the city's cost, the cr>nduit run nothinjj but claret wine this first year of our reign. —Shakspeare, II. Henry VI., iv., 6. (L. V. \\ li., 433.) 93, 32- Jack Cade, leader of the Kentish peasant's insurrection of 1450. He cliumed relationship with the Duke of York, calling him- self Mortimer. He marched on London, entering the city, but a promise of pardon to his followers effected their dispersion . Cade was captured and executed. 93, 34- wassail- [A.S, wan hCil! be hale !] The word means (i) a salution. ec^uivalent to "Here's to your health ! " (ii) a Christmas drink made of f i and wine, tiavored with sugar and spices, fruit, etc., (iii) a drinking-bi.at or carouse. 93, 36. Pudding" Lane, from Eastcheap to Lower Thames Street. T'he Great Fire began on the east side of this street. The lane is "now almost entirely occupied by wholesale fruit merchants and brokers," (I.. P. f.) NOTES. 331 ; staff on eana (i) ■is drink ., (Hi) a 93, 37- old Stow ^,( 1 5*25- 1605), one of the earliest and greatest of English antiquaries, born in London, author of Summary of English Chronicles, Annals of England, and the greatest of all, A Survey of London. The quotation may be found on page 81 oi this last work. 94, 1. sawtrie, a psaltery, or small stringed instrument, on the principle of the harp, Vjut played with a crooked stick. 94, 3- Billing"Sg"ate. A gate, wharf and fish-market on the Thames, London. It is notorious for its coarse language — billingsgate. 94, 22. the Monument, a fluted colunm of the Doric order, 202 feet high, erected 1071-1077, at a cost of £13,700. It stands 1.30 feet from the house in Pudding Lane in which the great fire originated, and commemorates that great event, (l.p.p. ) 94, 31- the vaUant Pistol. A blustering bomba'Stic follower of Falstatf, in II. , Henry I V. and soldier in Henry V. In the latter play he appears" as the second husband of Mistress Quickly. 94, 31. the great flre. In 1()()G, " which, beginning near Fiah Street, reduced the whole city to ashes from the Tower to the Temple. Thirteen hundred houses and ninety churches wei-e destroyed. The loss of mercliandiae and property was beyond count." — Green. 94, 37- St. Michael's, Crooked-lane, a church destroyed in the great fii'e, but rebuilt by Sir C. Wren, only to be removed in tlie London Bridge improvements. " It was substantial stone edifice with a tower 100 feet high." Sir William Wadsworth founded a college in the old church and dying was " buried in the North chapel by the clioir." 94, 37- Crooked-lane, " so-called from the windhigs thereof" ran along the rear of the Boar's Head Tavern. It has been partly demolished in the improvements before mentioned, (l. p. p. ) 95, 21. Like Milton's angels. A reference to the description of the fallen angels on the dissolution of the Stygian council. In discourse more sweet — For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense- Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge -ahsolute ; And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost. Milton, Paraih'ge Lost, ii., 555. 95, 36. tomb 'of Virgil. Virgil (b.c. 70-19), greatest epic poet of Rome, author of the jEneid, Georglrs, Eclognefs. That which is known as the tomb of Virgil is on the promontory of Pausilippo, on the Puteolan Way, two miles from Naples, overlooking the Bay of Naples, It bears the inscription [not genuine]: "Mantua me genuit : Calabri ra)}uere : tenet nunc Parthenope : cecini pascua, rura, duces." " VirifiVa tomb is so called, I believe, on the single authority of Donatus. . . .And who is this Donatus ? An obscure grannnarian, or rather his counterfeit. The structure itself resembles a ruined i>igeon-h()use, where the numerous columbaria would indicate a family sepuk^hre ; but who should repose in the tomb of Virgil, but Virgil alone? \ isitors of every nation, kings and princes, have scratched their names on the stucco of this apocryphal ruin." Forni/th, 95, 37. Marlborough (1650-1722), great military leader of the War of the Spanish Succession, victor in many battles. 'm fiiE SKETCH- nooK. 96. 37- Turenne. A great military hero of France; born 1611, died 1675. His military genius contributed greatly to the victories that led to the Peace of Westphalia. He gained illustrious successes in the wars with the Low Countries. A cannon-ball killed him while he was reconnoitering the ground for a grand engagement against the Germans at Salzbach. Louis XIV^. had his body interred in the royal mausoleum of Saint Denis. His monument was renioved by Kapoleon to the Invalides. 95, 41. "Wat Tyler, soklier in the French wars, leader of the Peasants' insurrection of 1381. See Clreen's Short HUtorij, p. 245 flf. 95, 42- Smithfleld, a little north of Newgate and west of Alders- gate, once a large open spot serving as a playground and cattle-market. Tournaments, executions, etc., took place there, and the great St. Bartholomew's Fair was there held. 96, 1. sovereigns of Cockney. Lord Mayors of London. Cockney [^L Kng. cokeney, i.e., cock's c^g, used figuratively of an effeminate fellow], hen. t; a derisive appelation of a townsman ; the word is especially used of Londoners, " born within the sound of Bow-bells." London itself, from Fr. pay.«''\ dry]. The name of ditterent sorts of dry wines, more especially Spanish wines. " Sherris .sack," (ef. 14S, 20), seems to have been sherry, but "tlie exact nature of this famous wine [has] been much discussed." Dyce in his (JLuHHarij gives five pages to a discussion of the word. 97, 25. "marry and amen." • V^erily and in truth. ' "Marry," i.e., by Mary — ^a strong asservation. 97, 34. Bacchus, god of wine. 98, 7- bully-rock, or ' bully-rook ' was a term in Elizabethan English for 'bully (fellow).' Kowe reads ' bully-rock ' in the following passage : Fal. Mine host of the Garter — Hmt. What says my bully-rook ? — Menu Wiirn, i.,2. 99, 21. Scr^blerius. The name Scriblerus is synonymous with a learned pedant, given to useless research. See Pope's Diinciad and Arbuthnot's Memoirs of.. . . Martimua ScribleruH. 99, 22. sangreal- Also written * sancgreall ' or ' Saint Grail ' [.sa?t, Fr. .mint, L. saiictus, holy ; Mid. Eng. (jrni/lc, from O. Fr. graal, from Fiate Lat. (jrcuala or ijradala, a low fiat dish.] It was "supposed to be the dish upon which the pascal lamb was served at tlie Last Supi)er, and in which Joseph of Arimathiea afterwards received the blood from the wounds of Jesus at the crucifixion. It was then, accordina to the legend, brought by Joseph to England ; but like many other relict of the Roman Catholic Church, has a diviiled report as to its ultimate i-esting- place. The original vessel is said now to be in the cathedral of dienoa— an emerald dish of hexagonal shape. Whatever its outward form aiul ultimate destination, however, this symbol of the knightly guest of the ideal has become one of the poets' special belongings, which will never cease to be religiously potent, let us hope, in his hands." E. Rhys. See Tennyson's tSir Galahad and The Hofi/ Cniil. 99, 33. valiant Bardolf, follower of Falstaff, who addressed him : — Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life : Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern in the poop -but 'tis in the nose of thee ; thou art the knight of the burn- ing lamp Thou art a perpetual triumph, an everlasting l)onHre-light ! Thou ha.st saved me a thousand marks in links and torches, walking with tliee in the night twixt tavern and tavern. I. //euc*/ /!'., iii. 3. 99, 41. parcel-gilt goblet. 'Parcel' eUiptically used for 'in parcel,' i.e., partially, partly ; ct. 'part ' for 'in part.' II. Henry IV., ii., 1. 100. 36. "tedious brief." Quoted from Midsmnmcr Night" ii Dream, v. 1. ;{:i4 Tirf) sKETan-iiooK. 101, 17- shield of Achilles, maiU- for the Cheek hero by Hupliiii.stn.s. ()ji it lio wrought the earth aiiil the heavens ; two cities of mortal man, in tiie one esponsals ami marriage feasts, in the other two armies in siege ; a phtughed lieUl and a liehl in harvest, a vineyard, a lierd of kine, a pasture, a (hineing- place ; and around the uttermost rim the River of Ocean. {llUul, Bk. xviii.) The foi'm, arrangement, meaning of the shield ;' the authenticity of the description ; the state of iireek art signified l»y it — each of these has been the occasion of endless discussion. 101, 18. Portland vase. A beautiful urn of dark blue glass found in the middle of the 16th century in a marble sarcophagus near Rome. It is a two-handled vessel ten inches high, covered with a layer of opatjue white glass forming iigui-es representing the marriage of Peleus and Thetis, It came into the possession of the Duchess of Portland, and in 1810 the Duke oi "^ortland placed it in the British Museum. In 1845 a miscreant dashed the valuable relic to pieces with a stone ; fortunately it has been repaired and is still in the Museum. (Okanibern^x Eacyclo- ptudin. ) THE MUTABILITY OF LITEUATURE. 101, 28. William Druminond of Hawthomden (loS.!- 1(549), a Scottish poet, the lirst who wrote well in modern English. He is the author of " The River Forth Feasting," " The lluin of a Solitary Life," and many pure, polished, and elegant sonnets, from one of whidi the quotation is made. 101, 36. Westminster School was founded by Queen Eliza- beth for the education of 40 i)oys known as Queen's scholars, who are prepared for the universities. Other persons send their sons to it, and it has h)ng been (me of the leading English public schools. The school building, with the chapter-hou.se and cloisters, is to the south of the Al)bey and connected with it. 102, 3- verger, attendant iu a church. 102, 5. Chapter house. 'I'he place of meeting of the chapter, or body of clergymen connected, with a cathedral. 102, 6. Doomsday Book. The ancient record of the survey ()f tlie lands of England, made by order of William the Concjueror, about 1080. It consists of two volumes, a large folic) and a quarto, and gives the ])roi)rietors' tenures, arable land, woodland, etc. — Wehder. 104, 32. Robert Groteste or Grosseteste, English prelate and autlun- during the thirteenth century, and frieml of Sinmu de Mcuitfort. " His learning was prodigious. . . . Latin, Greek, Hel)rew, French, mathe- matics, medicine and music were among his attainments. .. .The list of his works .... of which ouiy a few have been published, occupies 25 closely-j)rinted pages in quarto." 104, 39. Girald'us Cambren'sis or Giraldus de Barry (1140- 1220), a learned churchman and liistorian lie was a Welshman, studied in Paris, Ijecame chaplain to Henry II. and preceptor to Prince John. Ho was twice offered the bishoT>ric oi St. David's, but the opposition of JVOi'iVAb'. 335 hero by () citiea of other two ineyaril, a irniost rim theutiuity \i of these blue glass lagus near ith a layer i of Peleus tland, and . In 1845 ortunately 's Eucydo- en gUsh (loS.')- He a Solitary e (ti whioii leeu Eliza- s, who are to it, and riie school uth of the e chapter, le survey Conqueror, a quarto, late and MiMitfort. h, mathe- 'hc list of :cupies 25 rry (114(5- n, studied nee John, (osition of Henry II. and the Archbishop of Canterbury prevented him fron) hold- ing the otKce. His chief works are Illncrarinm Caiub/iii:, Tup(Mjra/)lii(ti Ilihcniia', Euvutfiuitio Hthvruioi, Dcttcr'iptio Cdinbria'. 104, 42 Henry of Huntingdon flourished about 1150. Ho became archdeacon r)f Huntingdon, and wrote a history of Knglund as tar as the death of .Stei>hen, and Latin poems. 105, 2. Joseph of Exeter, or Iscanius, was born in Kxeter. He accompanied iiichard 1. on the Crusades, and wrote Latin poems such as " On the Trojan War." 105, 7- John "WaUis, a Franciscan monk. 1 can hnd no further information of tliis writer. 105, 9. William of Malmsbury, English hi8t«>rian, born about 1075. He became a mcnik and librarian in the monastery of Malmesbury. He wrote a history of England, a narrative of contem- porary events, and a history of Englifh [)relates, all works of careful research. He died in 1143. 105, 9. Simeon of Durham, Englisli clironichr of the eleventh century. He wrote a liistory of the Kings of Eni,dand from OlO to 1 130. 105, 9. Benedict of Peterborough, abbot of Peterborough (II 17), author of a history of Henry II. and a Life of Becket. 105, 10. John Hanvill, '^ Latin poet of the 12tli century. He became a Benedictine in the monastery at St. Albans, where he com- posed in Latin a poem in nine books called the Work of ArcltilrcnhCH, (leploring the misei'ies of all classes of society. 105, 16. Wynkyn de Worde (died in 1534), an English printer, who assisted the first printer in England, Caxton, and c'*)n- tinued his work of printing on the deatli of his master. 105, 29. Robert of Gloucester wrote in verse a chronicle history of Kngland down to the deatli of Henry III. This was in the thirteenth century — the transition period from 8axon to Middle English. 105, 31- Spenser- Edmund !^penser (1553-159J>), the greatest ])urely poetical genius of the Elizabethan era. He was edncated at (yand)ridge, and published his lirst volume The SheplnnV.s Cnloidttr in 157!>. Ife served as secretary to Lord Wiltcm, Queen's deputy in Ireland ; but his Irish home was sacked in 'I'yrone's rebelli(ni. His great work is the Faerie Queen, " in breadtli and s))]endour of pictorial eflfect never supassed. . . .jiervaded by moral wisdom and serenity." 105, 31. well of English. See note 04, 34. 105, 33. confluence of various tongues. See Hlarle, Phl/- (iloijil, p. 00 0". 105, 39. Holinshed, an Englisli chionicler of the sixteeiitli cen- tury (died L5S0). His works are chronicles « f Kngland, Scotland and Ireland, which are a mine of wealth not only U,v the historian but for tlie poet anil the diamatist. 105, 41- John Scrogan. an inferior poet and imitai>>r of Chaucer, conteniporary with Ly Tllh: SKIHTCJI iKHtK. I Kdimind'a, where he taught languageH ami rhetoric. He once stoo*! higli as a [loct, having written The Stori/ of Thebes, The Fall of Prinren, The History, >Si('(/e, aud Dextruct'um of Troy. 105, 43. John Jewell ( l r)22- 1 .17 1 ), Inshnp of Salisbury, one (.f ahlcst divines of the English Keformation. His " Apology for the Church of England " in I>atin is said to have done more for the pro- motion of the Reformation than that of any other volume. 105, 43. John Fox (lolT-loS?), fellow of Magdalene College, from winch he was expelled for heresy. On the death of Mary, he was rewarded for his Protestantism. The famous and widely read " Book of Martyrs," in his great work. 106, 17- obelisk. A lofty (juadrangular monolithic column of a pyramidal form. . . .The proportion of thickness to height aSout one to nine. . . .Egypt abounded with obelisks, which were always of a single jtone . . .It is generally believed that obelisks were originally erected as monumental structures, as ornaments, to open S(|uares, or to celebrate some important event. . .They were usually adorned with hieroglyp'iics . . . .The largest are a]»out 180 feet in height. (\. I). ) 106, 18 Runic inscriptions. Kunic characters were the alphabetic characters in use by Teutonic nations before they learnt the Roman letters. They may have been originally imitaticms of Roman characters, with the lines cut straight " from the exigencies of cutting on wood." See Earle, Philology, p. 91) tf. 106, 22. like the good Xerxes. Xerxes began to rule over I'eiisia in B.C. 48;") ; crossed the Hellespont at Abydos (h.c. 480) with a countless host of /soldiers, which he surveyed from a marble throne. 106. 29. Sidney. See note 67, 4. 106, 29 Thomas Sackville, Earl of Dorset (I53G-1C08), poet and statesnum oi the l rule over 80) with a irone. 008), poet !^orton he 1561, in i/ork The :)f English jr writing liiif, of the of this seuta the s/i Poetr'u' ses in the A'olume." lasion [L. poet and He was replied iii Pierce's Snpereroijalion (1503). See D'Israeli, Culamitus and QtuwreU of Authors., vol. i. 107, 3. delight of a court. " All our ladiea were then his st'holhTH ; and that Heautie in court, whioh could not I'arley, Kuphuixnte, was as little reganled ; as sh<^ which now there, Hueaks not French." Ed. Hount, 7'» the Reader, in his edition of Lyly's Six Court Comedies (1632). lOY, 31. papyrus. Egyptian paper made from the papyrus ])lant, and greatly esteemed in antiquity. It was expensive, costing a dollar a sheet. The word ' paper ' is an abbreviation of the Lat. papyrus, 108, 28. little of Latin. So at least said Ben .Jonson, in his poem To the Memor;/ of Shak/ipearc, where he speaks of the poet's "Small Latin, and less Greek." 109, 14. vagabond deer ^-^aler. See "Stratford-on-Avon," page 208 ff. Shakspeare "hiwl, by a misfort innon ujrh to youny fellows, fallen into ill company ; and anionjfst them .,iiat made . frequent practice of deer-stealing engaged him with them more than once in robbing a park that belonged to Sir Thomas Lucy, of < 'harlecote, near Stratford. For this he was jiiosecuted by that gentleman, as he thought, somewhat too severely ; ano .n order to revenjfe that ill-usage, he made a ballad upon him. And though this, probably the first essay of his poetry, be lost, yet it is said to have been so very bitter that it redoubled the pro8e<.'Ution against him, to that degree that he was obliged to leave his business and family in Warwickshire for some time and shelter himself in Ix)ndon." Kowe, lAffi of Shakspeare. 109, 38. setting — rene"wed — Chaucer. Irving refers to the modern versions of Chaucer's tales, such as those njade by Dryden, Pope and Wordsworth. 110, 16. Thomas Churchyard, an English poet, born at Shrewsbury in 1520, entered the service of the Earl of Surrey, and Knally became a soldier. His works include a Lvgi'iut of Jane Shore and other poems. KURAL FUNERALS. Of this essay, Irving wrote to Brevoort : "I have not had time to give this article a proper finishing, and wish you to look sharp that there are not blunders and tautologie.s in it. It has been scribbled oft" hastily, and part of it actually in a church-yard in a recent ramble into the country." 110, 34. "Here's a few flowers." The quotation is from Shakspeare's CymheUnt . 111, 8. Glamorganshire. The most important commercial county in southern Wales. It is on the southern coast. Ill, 10. Ophelia. The heroine of Hamht. Her ditty is sung in the insanity that canity upon her when Hamlet had cast her off and had killed her father — ."let. iv., Sc. 5. Ill, 12. larded. Thickly covered. Ill, 17- female. The use of this word for woman is very gener- ally condemned. Kichard Cirant White en lis it "one of the most un- pleasant and inexcusable of perversions of language. Any she-brute is &, (emale just as wouiau ifj," 338 THE SKETCH- BOOK. Ill, 27. Henry Bourne (U59(;-1733), antiquary, author <)f Antu/nitatrn VulijdrcH, or the Aiiti«|uitieH of the Common I'eople, giving an account of their opinions and ceremonies. 111, 40. Robert Herrick, t»ne of the most i^racefullyric poets of Knclancl, (ir)91-l()74). He was the vicar of Dean Prior till lie was ejected hy the Roundheads, when he lived merrily in London. On the Restoration he received back his livin<(, wliich he kept till his death. "The select beauty and picturescjueness of Herrick's language, when he is in his hapjuest vein, is worthy of his line cro<«7is.] being in the shade, unreal, unsubstantial. 113, 18. "Corydon. Corydon was a common name for a sh*)p- herd. It occurs in the IdyUn of Theocritus ; the Eclugues of Virgil ; the Faery Queen of Spenser, etc. / 113, 42. William Camden (ir)5M632). An eminent English antiquary and aiithor. He was a graduate of Oxford and btcame master in Westminster School. A description of Great Britain, written in Latin, is his most celebrated work. NOTJiS. 339 Aitlior of le, giving ^ric poets ill he was On the lis death. ,ge, when ; and his like some , and pre- iliort, and , and take sung by ! story of r Women, n English rose work, h praised, m, "is the etcher (see jman, who er in order es. ,uthor and vicos, and [Sylva, or a )y order of niannal of Irated in his 1." (L-) plant with in cookery |y- \nlct, iv., 5. ^de, unreal, 1 for a sljf-p- of Virgil ; |int English vnie master IwriUen in 114, 7. Thomas Stanley (1625-78). An English scholar and writer, a graduate of {.'and)ridge. He wrote a " History of Pliilosophy" and " I'oeniH anil Translations." 114, 18. "Lay a garland" ^oe note to ll 2, 17. When the attendant maids arc decking Kvadue for her bridal, Aspatia, the rejeyted, sings this pathetic air. 114, 40. LaerteS' Ophelia in a Ht of insanity was drowned, and her brother Laertes at her burial utters these words. Hatnlvt, v. i., 1. '74. 115, 7. frankincense. An aromatic gum used in the East for burning before altars. 115, 8. cassia- The bark of cassia plants, used as spices, very like cinnamon. 115. 10. Shie, old spelling for 'ehy.' 115, 20. passage from Shakspeare. Ci/inhdhip, iv. 2. 116, 6. Jeremy Taylor (1<)1. 'M (507), 'the .Shaksin'are of divines,' an English bishop and author of great eminence. His chief work is "Holy Living and Holy Dying." 117, 4. ^Whitsuntide- White-Sunday-Time — so called anciently from the white rohes of the newly-baptised, to whom the sacrament was administered. It is the week following Pentecost Sunday, fifty (lays from Easter, connnemorating the descent of the Holy (Jhost upon the Apostles (Acts ii.) 119, 22- Bright- Uichard Bright, M.D., author of "Travels from Vienna through Lower Hungary," published in quarto in 1818. "Agriculture and statistics," says .Stevenson, "form the principal topics of this vohmie. " 119, 29- Iflfland (17i)9-18I4), a celebrated German actor, critic, and dramatist, a native of Hanover. "It is inipossihle," says Mme, de Stael, "to have more originality than iftland; he is as superior in the theory as in the practice of his art." 119, 39. GersaU- ecially around the upper parts of the river. 126, 1. Ferne-wein— (/«"'•' H^' m/i)— [(Jer, fern, far, distant], foreign wine. 126, 1- Heidelburg" tun- A monstrous cask in the . cellar of the •lined castle in Heidelburg, (Germany. It is thirty-six. feet I'mg and twenty-four feet high, capable of holding eiglit hundred hogsheai, . 126, 3. Saus und Braus [mwxH nut hrmvsH) [der. Snu8, tuiiiult, bustle ; iiiid, and ; Hraii-<, st(>rm, uproar ; hence to live in Santt uml Braiin, is i(» revel and riot], with Howing ciiet-r .-uid revelling. 126, 27- Wurtzburg. A fortified town in Bavaria, capital of Lower Franconia. 126, 29. Von Starkenfaust (ro» Hhtarkenfowd), lit. of Strong Fist. 130, 12. Hochheimer, name of celebrated wines made in and a))out ihe village of Hochlieini, nerr Wiesbaden, Prussia. The wine is noM- called ' hock.' 130, 40. goblin horsenaan — Leonora. The dead lover claims his lu'ide, and rides ort' with lier on iior.seback behind liim. It has been made the subject of a spirited ballad l)y the (German poet Biir- ger (174S-1704), \iuder the title of Leonora, translated by Bayard 'I'aylor. 131, 23. cresset- [l*'r. croUoth', little cross], a beacon (formerly sunnounted by a cross), a lamp or ttM-ch 132, 3. the vild huntsman. A sijectral himtjman riding vvith dugs thro, {h the IMack Forest in chase of wild animals. The legend has been made by the (iernum poet Biirger into a ballad, Der Wilde '/'iijer, which was translated by Sir VValter Scott, — T/ic Wild The tradition, in tlm words of Sir Walter Scott, is as follows : - r'oriiiiTly a WiiMjiiavt.', of kt'i'iior of (liv fji'i'st, luiiiii'il F!ilkri\l)L'r,t'\ wuh ho mucli ruldicU'd lo tlio pk'iusim'M of 'tlii' chiiso, aii(.'asaiii- who were niidfi' bis \ Mssalani'. Whou this second Ninu'od died, tlic pco)>le adopted a superstition, foumled )>ioliab'- on llie many uncouth sounds heard in the dep(!i of a t!ern:an forest dni'iuK the silence of the nin'iit. Thfy conceived Ih^.N still bea'd lbecr\ of tile Walilgiux e's lioundM : and the Well-known cheer of the c|ecea:,«'il hiMler, the sonnd-* of his hor.ses fi^'i, arnl the nisllinc' of the lu'uiicheH he(ore itween tion of ;uiy V)y inelied\ fth and • elweide point]. in the e river, listaut], ir of the -»ng antl ii:. tuiiiulfc, d Bntiiti, ipital of )f Strong ill ami wine is lover ini. It let Biir- Uayard ft>nnerly riding H. The id, Dcr ',r Wild tt, is as NOTJiJS. 341 HO lUUcll •ruel, that ■ (lays coil ipprosisioi) iiroil (lied, 111 s(Uiiids coiioeived ifcr of till' llt'S t.lK'tOl'f the ^aiiie, the potik, and the sportsineii, are also distinctly discriiniiiatt'd ; but the phantoms are rarely, if e\er, visilile." 134. 16. jack -boots, boots serving as arra;)ur for the legs. WESTM I N'ST K R ABB KY. The student aliouhl not omit reading Addison's essays in tlie Spectator, numbers 2G and ;i2S), and (loldsmith's paper in the Citizen of the World (Letter xiii.) Westinister Abbey was lirst built by Edward the Confessor between lO."),") and lOOo, on the site on whieh Segbort, King of the East Saxor.n had bounded his monastery four liundred and lifty years before. As iSt. Paul's had buen called Eastmi'.ister, so the new abbey was called Westminster, i.e., the West nionr.stery or church. " As in its orit^in, " says Dean Stanley, "it bore the traces of the fantastic, childish character of the king and of the age, in its architecture it bore the stamp of the peculiar position which Edwa.d occupied in English history between Saxon and Xorinan. i^y birth he wa:5 a Saxon, liut in all else he ^vas a foreigner. Accordingly, the church at Westminster was a wide sweeping innovation on all that had been fp.en befure. ' Destroy- ing t'iC old building,' be says in his charter. ' I have built up a new one from the very foum^ition.' Its fame as 'a new style of compositicm ' lingered in the minds of men for generations. It was the first crucib-rm church in England, froni which all the rest of like shape were coi»ied, — an expression of the increasing hold which the idea of the Crucitixion, in the tenth century, had laid on the imagination of Euroiie. Its massive roof and pillars formed a contrast with the rude wooden rrfters and beams of ^'e comnKm Saxon churches. Its very si/e — occupying, as it did, alhisL the whole area of the present building —was in itself portentous. The deep fcmndations, of large s(piare blocks of gray stone, were duly hiid. The east end was rounded into an .-qise. A tower rose in the centre and t'"o at the western point, with live large bells, 'i'he hard, strong stones were richly sculptured. The windows were filled with stained glass I'hc roof was coNcreil with lead. The cl, listers, chapter-house, refectory, dormitory, inlirmary, with its .sjiacious chapel, if not comiileted by Edward, wx'ie all begun, and finished in the next generation on the same j»)an. This structure, venerable as it would Ijc if it had Listed to our time, has almost entirely vanished. Possibly one vast dark arch in the so.ithcrn transept -certainly the substructures of the dormitory, witli their huge pillars, ' grand and regal at the bases and capitals' — the massive low-browed pnr^sage, leading from the great cloister to l^ittle Dian's Vanl and some portions of the refectory and of the iirtirm.iry chajiel, remain as speinmcns of the work which astonished the last age of tlic Anglo-Saxon and the lirst age of the Norman moiiarcli}'." I'mf th. present edifice is l>y im nutans the original structure, of which the 1';. X IxMise is abdut the only relic. It is due mostly to Hcniy III., who ii, '2'JO erect,' 1 a chapel to the Virgin, and tweiity-li'e years later the piv.sent choir and transepts. " The west front and its great window wer-.' the work of Kiehard III. and Henry \'ll. Thelafter pulled down tiie chapel erected by Henry J 1 1, at the east end of the church, anil built 342 THE iiKETCU-JiOOK. the chapel known as Henry VIT.'s chapel. This coni])leted the interior of the chapel as it now stands, the only im})0!tant addition made since then having been the upper part of the two western towers, which were the work of Sir Christopher Wren. The whole building forms a cross. Its extreme length ... .is ol 1 ft. ; its width across the transepts is 203 ft. . . . .The heijjht of the roof is 102 ft. . . .It is the interior of the abbey, however, that has at all limes excited the most enthusiastic admiration. The harmony of its i)roportions and the ' dim religious liglit ' of the lofty /md long-drawn aisles, leave on th^j mind impressions of grandeur and solemnity. . . .The abbey was at one time the burying-place of the English kings, and it has become a national honour to be interred within its walls. It is crowded with toml)S and monuments. The chapel of Edward the Confessor, at the east eiul of the choir, contains his shrine, erectetl by Henry III., the altar-tond)s of Edward I., Henry III., Henry v., and Edward III. ... Against the altar-screen in this part of the church stand the two coronation chairs, (hie, the king's chair, encloses the stone brought by Edwurd 1. from 8cone, on which the Scottish kings were crowned. ... Most of the English king.s, from the time of Henry VII. down to that of (icorge III., were buried in Henry VII. 's chapel, and there accordingly are the tond)s of (^>ueen lOlizabeth aiul Mary Queen of Scots. The most remarkable '.nonuments in other parts of the church are those in the east aisle of the southern transept, known as "Poe*""' Corner," where many of the most eminent British poets have b<"H.a buried. There are monuments erected to Chaucer, Beaumont, Dra.^ ton, Cowley, Dryden, Milton, Cray, Prior, Shakspeare, Thomson, Cay, Coldsmith, Addison, and Ben Jonson. In the iiorth transept are the monuments of Pitt, Kox, C'hatham, Canning, and Wilberforce. Else- where are the monuments of the great engineers and inventors, Telford, Watt, and Stevenson. South of the ab})ey are the pyx-house, the cha])ter-hou8e, the cloisters, the building occu)jied by Westminster School, formerly the monks' dormitory. C/iaDihcr.i'.s Eiicijcloptpdia. There are now but two menioiial receptacles unoccupied in the Abbey, and these are reserved by tacit consent for Gladstone and Tennyson. 136, 38. mural monuments, monuments set in the walls. [Eat. niiD'nx, wall |. 136, 42. key-stone, the highest central stone of an arch. 137. 16. abbot- |1j. o.hhns\, the head of an abbey. 139, 5. cognizance (<•<>//' izam'c). [Fr. coiinaiHmuri-, E. ruijnos- al iJukt' i(f Nt'Wfiistk', uiitl his Dulclii-ss his si^cuntl wiff. 1j,\ wlitnii llt-r iiiinif was Miirirurel l.utas, yt)Uiij?esl sistiT liMhe l.oi'l liniiis of NOTES. 343 walls. Iiiioiiu- whom l.dciis of Colohrstcr, a iiohlr fiunilv ; for all I he lu'olhors wiTc valiaiii aiirl.iU I hr sisters virtuous. This J)iil,ciii's.s was a wise, willy, aiul learnt'd liul\, whicli her many I>()oiarte crucifix and chain back again into ihe coffin, and sought the the dean to apprise him of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at tlie time, and fearing that the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine about two or thiee hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subse- ([ueutly had the old coffin enclosed in a new one of great strength, " each plank being two inches thick, and clamped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited. " As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a description of it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a British writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch the rays of the eun, for ever set on its splendour. . . . Only two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is mucli broken, and covered with dust, 'i'he mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the rich marble remain, "--Malcolm, Lo)i(L licxlir., quoted in lloutleilge's edition of the Sketch -Book. 144, 40. Sir Thomas Browne (1(>U5-1()82), English physiciaq, philosopher, and author. He wrote " Iteligio Medici" (Religion of a Doctor), " Pseudodoxia Epideniica, or In(|uirics iuro Vulgar and Uoui- mou Errors," and a "Treatise on Christian Morals." "A superior genius," says Hallam, . . . . " his learning so much out of the beaten track tliiit it gives a peculiar and uncommon air to all he writes." 145, 5. Alexander the Great (h.c 356-323), pupil of Aristotle, king of Macedonia, concjueror of the world from (ireece to the Indus. He died in Babylon in his thirty-third year. 145, 6. sarcophagus [d.^nrx, fiesh, pcujo, I eat ; hence a stone of which the (rreeks made coffins that quickly consumed the dead bodies.] A stone coffin. The great sarcophagus, saiil to be that of Alexander, was brought by the British from Egypt in 1801, and deposited in the British Museum. N<)rpji=(. :^4n 146, 7. Canibyses, Kiniri'l tin- Mcilu.s uml FV^iaus, inviulfd iiiul ooiKjuered Kgy])t in n.v. iy'li). He died B.C. iVJl. 145, 8. Mizraim. the ancient name of Egyiit, here taken for the early rulers of Egypt, end)altned as mummies, and now sold, according to Sir Thomas BrOwne, for medicines. 8o also Pharaoh stands as a general namo of the rulers of Egypt other than those signified by Mizraim. 145, 20- tale that is told. "We spend our years as a tale that is told." I'salms, xc. 9. Cf. MarbHh, v., 5. " Life's l>nt a Wiilkiiij^ shtulow, a poor player. That stints and frets liis hour U|iee\iliar to the Eng lish, and illustrative of their greatest holiday. The old rhymes which are interspei-sed are but selections from many which I found among old worlds in the British Museum, little read even by Englishmen, and which will have a value with some literary men who relish these morsels of ajitiquated humor." Letter by Washington Irving to his brother Ebenezer, ISl!). "At the time of the first publication of this paper the picture of an old-fa-shioned Christmas in the (H)untrj- was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had afterwai-ds the opportiuiity of wit?iessing almost all the customs abo\'e described, ex- isting in unexi)ected vigour in the outskirts of Derbyshire and Yorksliire, where he passed the Christmas holiday . The reader will find some, account by them in New- stead Abbey." Note to revised editio.i of The Sketch-Bonk, ISIS, p. 2'.>S.\ 146, 2'^- pastoral scones, etc' J^uke ii. 149, 8. waits [O.K. waite, (jaitc, O.II.(j. icahta, a ^uard, watch, conp"cted with A.S. wacan, to watch.] W'^rn^.s- were formerly minstrels or musical watchmen, who attended on great men, and sounded the watch at night. At present the namo is given to those itinerant musicians who, in most of the largo towns in England and Scotland, especially London, go round the prmcipal streets at night for some time before Christmi.s, play two or three tunes, call the hour, tlieu remove to a suitable distance, where they go through tho same cerenu)ny, and so on till four or live o'clock in the morning. (r. u. ) (Jf. 1G5, 20 It'. See also Chambers's Book of Dai/n, vol. ii. 149, 11. Night, when deep sleep falleth on men. Job iv., 13 ; xxxiii., lo. 149, 22. " Some say that ever." (,>uotedfrom //(i?/t/^/, i., 1. 11. 158-164. ^■'i**'??-;*^ 346 TTTE SKETCH-noOK. I'HE STAGK COACH. ll 150, 12. Omne bene, fete. All is well. Without punishineut There is a time for playin}^. Conies the hour Without delay For puttiiig' hooks aside. 151, 11. Bucephalus ('>'< ••^cf « ''<*) was a famous horse brought to Pella, capital of Macedonia, valued at sixteen talents ($'20,000). No one could manage him till Alexander brought him undei- control and kept hiin as his favorite steed. 151, 20. Christmas greens- Box, laurel, holly and mistletoe. 152, 21. battening. Fattening. 152, 45. billet-doux. (English pronuneiatiou bWle-doo'). A French phrase literally ; "sweet note" ; a love-letter. 153,9- Cyclops. [Gk. Ku/cuops, circular eye.] In ancient myth ology one-eyed giants, slaves to Vulcan, helping him to forge the thunderbolts of the gods. The word is citlier a singular or a plural. 153, 23. an old writer's account. The reference is to a work entitled Twc/re Motu'th-^, by M. .Stevenson, IGGl, p. 56. 153, 33. Holly and Ivy. The contest of the Ivy and the Holly is a famous old carol, (hie version is in Ritson's "Ancient Songs and Ballads." The following version is from Wright's " Songs and Carols." (See BuUen's Carols and Poenin. ) "Hollyi and Ivy2 made a great party Who should have the mastery In lands where thej' go. Then spake Holly, 1 am free and jolly 1 will have the mastery, In lands where they go. Then spake Ivy, I am loud and proud, And I will have the mastery In lands where they go," et<'. •Representing the man. ^R^pi-egenting the wife. 154, 37. a smoke-jack. A machine for turning a roasting spit by niean^ of a tly-wheel or wheels, set in nu)tion by the current of ascending air in a chimney, (i. D.) 155, 1. settle, a chair or bench. 155, 18. Prank Bracebridge. I» his later work, Bracehrldge Hall, Irving pictures himself as passing some time at the family residence of the Bracebridges on the occasion of the marriage of the second son (iuy. The volume is a collection of sketches of characters he saw there and of stoiies he heard told. 155, 37. Robin's Almanack. k. is quite wrong in attribut- ing this ahuanac to the poet Herrick. The a. n. b. remarks : — "There is a tradition that the poet Herrick was the original projector of Poor Robin's Almanack; but this is a mistake. 'Poor Robin' was the nmn de phtnie of Robert Winstaidey, of SaflFron Walden. Verses of Herri«k are occivsionally quoted in the Almanack." "Poor Robin: an Almanack, KMW; forward. It wa.s commenced by several hands, NOTES. 347 Ittribut- Ir llobin'tf If Robert in the hands, probably includiiiji: Poor Robin, in the previous year ; but henceforward conipiletl by him alone till deatli, after which it was continued by others till 1776." Notes atul Queries, (ith Ser., vii., 321. zeal, CHRISTMAS EVE. 156. 2, Saint Francis (1182-1226), a monk of great ' blameless and gentle,' founder of the great order of Franciscans. 156, 2, Saint Benedight (Benedict) (480-543), an Italian monk who founded the order of Benedictines. 156, 5. hight g-OOd fello-W Robin- Called llobin Goodfellow. This name was given to a domestic spirit believed in by the Elizabeth- ans. If a bowl of milk were set for him, he would do many services for the domestics ; but llobin would annoy them if this were neglected : — ■ * * * You are that shrewd and knavish spirit Call'd Robin Goodfellow : are you not he That frijihts the maidens of the villaj^fery ; .Skims milk, and sometimes labours in the quern. And bootless makes the breathless housewife churn, And sometime makes the drink to bear no barm ; Misleads nijjht-wanderers, laughing at their h.ann ? Those that Hobfjfoblin call you, and .Sweet Puck. You do their work, and the.>' shall have ifood luck. Shakspcare, Midsummer Night's Drcaii). 156, 9. to the next prime [I.at. primus, first.] the first of the day, the dawn. " Early and late it rung, at evening and at prime." Speiiser. 156, 24. Henry Peacham, an English writer, born in Hert- fordshire in the IGth century. His chief words are Minerva Brittanica, or a Oarden of Heroic Devices, (1612), and The Complete Gentleman (1622), once a i)opular work. " Peacham's work was the standard authority in etiquette ; and when Sir Charles Sedley was indicted before Chief-Justice Hyde for an off(;nce against good manners, that magistrate asked him if he had ever read the "Compleat Gentleman," AUibone's Dietionari/ of Authors. 156, 24. Chesterfield ( 1693- 177 ">), Earl, statesman, and author, " Distinguished by brilliancy of wit, polished grace of manners, and elo(juence of conversation, he lived in intimacy with Pope, Swift, Bolingbrook." His best-known work is Letters to his Son, in which he inculcates, says Mr. Johnson, the morals of a courtesan and the man- ners of a dancing-master. Still they are in good taste and elegant English. 157) 22. stomacher, an ornamental covering for the breast, often richly decorated. 158, 7- " merrie disport. " Quoted from Stow. See the foot note to p. 185. 158, 14. "mongrel, puppy," etc. Quoted from Goldsmith's Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dotj. I— « And in that town a dog was found, ' '.'. '..;[ ' As iuany dogs there be, ' (.' .'. Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, •; ; And CHI'S of low degree. .... 4 348 THE SKETCH-BOOK. t "The little dogs and all," etc. (Quoted from K'ukj From Christmas Eve till Twelfth 158, 18. /jcar, iii., 4. 159, 17. the twelve days. Night, tlu! sixth of .Jamiary. 159, 19f. hoodman blind, an old name for blind-man's buflF. 159, 19. shoe the wild mare. I'he character of this game I have been unable to determine. I lind abundant references in old literature, but none delinite enough to satisfy the curious. Even Strutt's S/>o)'fs mid Pasllnu'.i, that repository of old sports, fails to deline either this or " Steal the White Loaf" or "Tom-come-tickle-me. " Having exhausted all availalde works of reference in Toronto, J should be glad of light (»n the character of these games. In Ilesper'ulea, Her- rick writes of the lirst of these games : — "Of the care The youii},'' men havo to shoe the mare." 159, 20- hot cockles is a game in which one kneels, aiul cover- ing his eyes, lays his head in another's lap and cries " Hot cockles, hit.'' Immediately one of the players behind him strikes him. If the striker is rightly guessed, he must kneel down in turn. 159, 20. steal the white loaf. See note \m, 19. 159, 20- bob-apple. A game in which children bob for apples, either lioating or susi)ended. (\. E.n. ) 159, 21. snapdrag'On. A (piantity of raisins are placed in a large shallow dish or bowl, and brandy or other spirit poured over the fiiiit and ignited. Tlie bystanders then endeavor to grasp a raisin by plunging their hands tarough the flames, an act reipiiriug courage and agility. " With his hluo and lappinff tongue Many of you will be stung, Snip ! Snap ! Dragon ! For he snaps at all tliat comes Snatching at his feast of plumbs, Snip, Snap, Dragon !" (c.b.o.) Yule. . • .candle, i^ee foot-note to page IGO. Herri ck- • . songs- In " Ceremonies for Christmasse," 159, 21. 160, 42. Hi^KjH'ridc". 161, 19. 161, 21. beaufet. [Fr. hnffH], side-board. frumenty. " There was one nati(mal dish that was held indispensal)le. This was furmaute, or frujnenty. Take clean wheat, and bray it in a mortar, that all the hulls may be gone, and seethe it till it burst, and take it up and let it cool ; and take clean fresh broth, and sweet milk of almonds, or of kine, and temjjer it all ; and take the yolks of eggs. Boil it a little, and set it down and mess it foi'th with fat vtmison or fresh mutton." (<.'. u. u. ) 161, 25. perfectly orthodox. Mince-pie was once by no means orthodox. See note \~'A, !S. 161,31. /master Simon. Irving devotes a chapter, '"I'he Kasy Man," in Brnceliridijc Hall to this character. 162, 35. Master of the revels, also called Lord of Misrule, a N(>TES. 34fl person chosen to superintend the sports and aniuseuients of Christmas time. 162, 38. factotum. [L^t, far., do, totinn, everything], a servant who does all kinds of work. 163, 29. heel and toe, an oUl-fashioned dance. 163, 29. rigadoon [tV. rh/odon] is an oKl-faHhione,'." Luke x. 165, 7- "No spirit dares," etc. Quoted from Hnm/et, i. I, 1. 1()1. Cf. for context, see page 149, 1. 22, fit". 165, 16. tester. The curtain lianging about the old-fashioned four-post bed. CHRISTMAS DAY. 165, 31. " Dark and dull night," (juoted from Herrick's "A Christmas Carol," sung to the Kiug in the Tresenee at Whitehall, Hesparides. 167, 16. 'Tis thou that Cro-wn'st. (Quoted from Herrick's "A Ihanksgiving to (iod for His House," in the "Noble Numbers" of Ht'spfridcs. 168,24. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert ( 1 470- loSS), eminent judge, author of a ' ( Jnuinde Abridgement ' of Knglish law, ' The Hoke of Husbandrie ' (1523), wliicii is "a manual for the farmer of the most practical kind," etc. (d.n.b.) 163, 12 Sir Thomas Cokayne (l."i9;M.-)92) was known as 'a professed hunter and not a scholar.' Hunting till his lifty-second year, he became an authority on the sport, at the same time not neglect- ing public duties. His book is entitled " \ Short Treatise of Hunting, compyled for the Delight of Noblemen and (Gentlemen " (1590). 169, 11. Gervase Markham (ir)7916o5) served in the army of Charles I., wrote a tragedy of "Herod and Antipater," " Poem of Poems," etc. 169, 12. Isaak "Walton (1593-1 r>S3), the ever memorable eulo- gist of iishing. " The Cou'plete Angler, or Contemplative Man's llccreation " first appeare 1 in 1G5.S, and is pronounced the bei^t pastoral in English. Walton wrote as well lives of Wotton, Hooker, and Herbert. See also the notes to "The Angler," 260, Ul 169,27. oldTusser. Thomai Tusser (l.-)2O-l.-)S0). Knglish poet, author of "4''ive Hundred Points of (Jood liiisbaudry, united to as many of (Jood Housewifery, ' cud»odying loaiiy (juaint maxims. 170,27.. William Caxton (I4l2-n41), learned the art of printin!^^ while trailing in t'>f Ldw Countries. if» 1477 he establish- ed himself as a printer in London and issued the lirst books printed in England. i'hey were all in black-letter. 171. 4. Druids. These priests of the ancient Britons, reverenced the unstletue when growing on an ftak. According to Pliny, a Druid, .'{50 TIIU SKmVU-lJOOK. olotlied in white, mounted the tree and, with a knife of gohl, cut the niistkitoo, which was received by another, standing on the ground, in his wliite rohe. " I mil of thi- (>iiiiiit)ii inisllitoc never entered the 8acre, became bishop of his native city, gy niiiug of ishop of II uiuler i,re very Antiouh. eachor of ly Chris- S^umidia. ; in Home 1 had the service tfate Dci^ Kocms (o have thrivcil frnm r.iainr.s /'itjni/iir A»/ii/iii/i' x, whoro. it is tlehtrilu'd at hoiih- hiiLjtl). 173, 42. pule. HalHwell alone nientionn ''pule" a.s a noun — Laneasliire dialect for " a pew " ; which, howt-vtir can ^(^arcely he the meaning in the text. It is proltahly a childish coinage made for the sake of the niynie. 174, 31. dine with Duke Humphrey, tog(» Nvithout dinner. To stay hehind in St. I'aid's aisli;s, under pretence of finding out the monument of Duke llumpiirey, while others more fortunate went home to dinner. [It was really tiie moiuiment of .lohn lU-anchamp, who died in !.'{.")(>, that the "dinnerless" hungahout. (n.)J 174, 32. Jack Ketch. C'onnnon name for the hangman in Jtlngland ; said to liave heen the name of that officer in the reign of .Tantes II., or a corruption of .lactpietts, from the name of the lord of the manor of 'I'yhurn [in which the famous prison was situate1 /a ^ -''s mj^ / *^/.;^ . '/ y ^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 873-4503 iV iV L NJ \ \ ^9> V ^ <^ ^-b^ % 1? ^^ & \ ^Y'l I .%2 TTTE SKETfTT- hOO K. 179, 22. Caput apri, etc. • A lioar's heafl I present ' OfFeriiijf praises to ftfxl Who are in this banquet. 180, 38. servire cantico, serve with soug. 180, 43. Reginensi Atrio, (in) the Hall of Queen's ((JoUege). 181,38. Justice Shallow. A character in //fw^v ^I^- For the quotation see page 21(), line 31> of this volume. 181, 38. "by cock and pie." Our author is very much astray as to the etymology of this oath. It is really an oath by God and the service-l)ook, though euphemistic — " by cock's body" (for by God's body). Pie is the name of the old Iloman Catholic service-book. (n. e. u. and c. d. ) 181, 39. Ma,ssinger. Philip Massinger (1.5S4-1640), dramatist in liondon, aided his brotlier-dramatist Fletcher. His first independent work was Hw Vlnjin Marti/r (1622), after which he wrote many plays, the best of which are The CU;/ Madam, A New Waji to Pay Old DehU, and The Fatal Dowry. 181, 44. ambergr^'is. A secretion of the whale, very like wax, used in perfumery autl spicing. 182, 14. Chanson [Fr. chanson, L. cautare, to sing], song. 182, 37. Twelfth Night, one of the lyrics of Herrick's Henjxrldefi. 182, 47. ArchOBOlogia, tracts published by the Society of Anti- quaries of London. 184, 8. Isis. A river flowing through Oxford and emptying into the Thames. 184, 20. Cupid's SoHcitor of Love, with sundry compli- ments, by Richard C!rimsaU or Olimsell, London, 12mo. 184, 29. Joe MLiler (1084-1771), a celebrated comedian, especi- ally succes..01), English dramatist and pamphleteer, author of the tragedy Dido, of the comedy Suminer'x Lad Will and T^'sttimint, and of various prose writings of matchless vigour and wit, such as Tlia Supplication of Pierce Penniless to the Devil. (See note 10(), 43. ) 190, 8. Little Britain. See note 1)3, 27, and 191, foot-note. 190, 8. Christ Church School, ('hrist's Hospital, Newgate Street, founded by Edward V'l., 1.553 — connnonly called the "Blue Coat School." See Lamb's essays — liecoUcciions of Chrld's Hospital, Christ's Hospital Five and '/'hlrt;/ Years Ago. 191, 37. Shrcve-Tuesday. Lit. the Tuesday of shriving-time or Confession. The Tuesday l)efoi'e Ash Wednesday, the lirst tlay of Lent. "When Shrove Tuesday dawned, the bells were set a-ringijig, and everybody abandoned himself to amusement and good humour. All through the day there was a preparing anil devouring of pancakes, as if some nnportant religious principle were involved in it; The pancake and Shrove Tuesday are inextricably associated in the popular mind and in old literature. " (See All's Well, ii., 1.) (c. B. u. ) 191, 37. hot-cross buns. Strictly these were consecrated loaves, bestowed in tlie church as alms, or for those who cimld not receive the host, and made from the douj^h of the host itself. " In London, aixd all over England. . . .the morning of (iood Friday is ushered in with a uni- versal cry of Hot Cross Buns. A parcel of them appears on every breakfast table. It is a rather small bun, more than usually spiced, and having its brown sugary surface marked with a cross." (c. B. o., i., 418.) 191, 38. Michaelmas i mlk'elmas), a church feast on September 28th, in honour of the archangel Michael. 'I'he custom appears to have originated in a practice among the rural tenantry of bringing a good stubble goose at Michaelmas to the lamllunl when i)ayiiig their rent, with a view to making him lenient It seems at length to have become a superstition that eating of goose at Michaelmas insured easy circum- stancesfor the rest of tlie year. (c. B. i)., ii. , 3S9. ) 191, 29. Fifth of November, the night of the discovery of Guy Fawkes' Flot — the ' Jutipowdcr Plot -to blow up the Farliament and overturn I'-lnglish I'rotestautistm. On (Juy Fawkes' Day, or i*ope-Day, there was a holiday, celebrated by burning Guy Fawkes' or the Pope in effigy. I 354 Tmj sKF/r(yft-noy>K. 191, 42. Cloth Fair, West vSnithliuM. It is a T shaped street, deriving its name from Jiaving been the resort of the cldthiers an«l drapers at St. Bartholomew's Fair. As late as ISirj it was still occupied chieHy by tailors, clothiers, etc. (l.p.p. ) 192, 8 bell of St. Paul's. "The diameter of the bell is about 10 feet, and its weight is generally stated at 4^ tons. It is inscribed, " Richard Phelps made me, 1716," and is never used except for the striking of the hour, and for tolling at the deaths and funerals of any of the royal family, the Bishops of London, the Deans of St. Paid's, and the Lord Mayor." (l. p. p.) 192, 9. St. Dunstan in the West. " The projecting clock anil the two iigures in the old church which struck the hours and the ouarters were a never-failing attraction to country visitors." The hgures were set up in 1G71, but removed on the demolition of the old church in 1817. 192,10, Monument — Tower — Guildhall. See notes, 94, 22 ; 97, 4 ; 93, 29. 192, 18. mansion-houses. The homes of great families who once lived in Little Britain. See 191, 15. 192, 21. lappet- A small decorative fold or flap of lace or muslin, in a garmeut or head-dress. 192, 40. Robert Nixon. In an old volume, The Life and Pro- phecien of the celebrated Hubert JS'ixou, the Cheshire Prophet, there is what purports to be a 'life.' Nixon was born in 14G7, and was starved to death by accident in the court of Henry VII. The country-folk of Cheshire have as much faith in his prophesies as in the fact of their own existence. Notes and Queries, Ist Ser. viii., 257, 326. 192, 40. Mother Shipton. The heroine of an ancient tale entitled "The Strange and VVomierful History and Prophecies of Mother Shipton." (b.) 193, 4. Sybils. Tu antiquity the Sybils were certain women sup- posed to be possessed of prophetic instinct, ui^neas consulted, accord- ing to legend, the Sybil of Oumas, who wrote the Sybilline books famous in Roman history. Our author plays upon the name. 193, 5. the Royal Exchange, first founded by Sir Thomas Gresham, 1566, for tlie convenience oi merchants and bankers. On the south or (Jornhill front was a bell-tower, and on the north a lofty (Jor- inthian column, each surmounted by a grasshopper — the crest of the Grtshams. It was destroyed in the great hre of 1666. The second exchange was similar to the Hrst, but ornamented by statues of the kings and queens of England. It too was destroyed by lire, 1838. 193, 6. St. Mary Le Bow — Bow church— on the south side of Cheapside. I'he present ediKoe was built by Sir C. Wren in 1677. "Bow-bells" have h)ng been famous. The peal of the bells, of which the largest is nearly three tons, is unmatched in the city for sweetness. A Cockney is a Londoner born within the souud of Bow-bells. (243, 27). The dragon, 8 ft. 10 inches long, on Bow steeple was celebrated. " I'll climb How steeple presently, bestride the dragon." Otway, Soldier'n Fortune. NOTES. 356 I street, ers anccurred in 1819 under similar circumstances resulting in the death of many people. 193, 24- Cato Street (now Horace Street), the scene of the "Cato Street Conspiracy " of Arthur Thistlewood and his associates, to mur 13. Punch, etc. In the article in Hone's Every Day Book, we iind a description of the Fair as it was seen by the editor on the 5th of September, 1825. There were puppet shows in abundance, male and female giants and dwarfs, menageries of elephants, lions, panthers, etc., monstrosities of all kinds, theatical shows, dancing horses, Indian women, Malays, a white negro, performing pigs, mer- maids, conjurors, tire-eaters, fortune tellers, etc. The Fair by 1825 had ceased to be of any use, and had become "an annual scene of debauchery." 197, 17. Lilliputian. The people of Lilliput, an imaginary kingdom described by Swift in Gulliver's Travels, were not more than six inches in height. Hence ' Lilliputian ' denotes ' of minute size. ' 197, 26. Temple Bar, a stone gateway, which, until 1877, separated the Strand from Fleet street, and oifbe indicated the limits of the jurisdiction of tiie City of London proj.er. There gates were invari- ably closed by the city authorities whenever the Sovereign had occasion to enter the city. A herald sounded a trumpet before the gate — another herald knocked — a parley ensued — the gates were then thrown open. (L. p. r. ) Od's blood, a euphenustic oath, originally by "God's Beef-eaters. The popnlar name of the yeoman of the 197. 33. blood." 197, 40. guard. 198, 13. All-Fours, a game of cards for two or four persons ; so called from there being four chances to f^ove : high the best trump out ; low the smallest trump dealt ; Jack the knave of trumps ; game the highest number of points. See Bohn's Hand-book of Games, p. JJ23. 198, 14. Pope-Joan, a ganje of cards in which the nine of diamonds is styled Pope. The game is too complicated for explanation here. The curious will find a full account of the game in Bohn's Book of GaincM, p. 316. m)TTjs. 3f)7 18. The f -lad m ho, from air, held Bartholo- ■eat cloth ceremony shooting, bera, wild iration of r a person larked by )ay Book, or on the Ijundance, its, lions, , dancing pigs, mer- pome "an imaginary iiore than te size.' ntil 1877, limits of ere invari- d occasion — another own open. y "God's lan of the r arsons ; so •ump out ; (jaiiie the p. 323. e nine of xplanation jhn's Book l98, 16. country-dance, l'(>»«/>7/4(A<«fe.] A dance which l)egins witli the dancers facing each other in two lines, and tliose at the extreme ends dancing together and returning to their places. Also called Sir Roger de Coverley. 198, 18. Kean (1787-1833), a celeltratcd English tragedian, ex- celling in Shakfiperian characters. 1P9, 18. Edinburgh Review, a review founded by Jeffreys in Edir.burgh in 1802. It was the lirst established of the great critical journals of this century. 198, 18. Bppingf Forest. A royal forest of 60,000 acres in Essex. STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 202, 28. David Garrick (1716-1779), a great English actor, studied law but relinquisheil it to go on the sta-^e. He rapidly took his place as the great actor of his age, excelling iu the representation of Shakspeare's chai'acters. As an author he composed many comedies — JJigh Life Below Stabs, Mins in Her Teens, etc. He was buried iu Westminster Abbey. The quotation is from the Ode upon dedicating a building and erecting a statue to Shakspeare at Stratford-on-Avon, 1769, by David (Jarrick. 203, 13. take mine ease, etc. Quoted from I. Henry IV,f iii., 2. 203, 16. little parlour. Now known as the Washington Irving parlour. The Refl Horse Inn io in new hands now without havin}^ parted with either its antique furniture or its delij^htful uutiiiue ways. The red uialu)>>any and wax-eandle period has not ended yet in this happy i)lace, and \ou sink to sleev) in a snow-white pillow, soft as down and fragrant as lavender. One important chanjfe is especially to be renmrked. They have made a niche in the rijjfht-hand corner of Washington Irv- ine's parlour, and in it have plai-ed his arm-chair, recushioned and j)olished, and sequestered from touch by a larjje sheet of jihite-fjlass. The relic may still be seen but the pilgrim can sit in no more. Perhaps it might be well to enshrine "Geoffrey Crayon s Sceptre " (see 203, 7), in a somewhat similar way. At present it is the tenant of a muslin bag, and keeps its state in the seclusion of a bureau drawer. William Winter, ShakHpearc''' England, IbT. 203, 28. jubilee and Garrick. The ju)»ilee m memory of Shakspeare's was held in 8trcitlord-on-Av(m, September, 1769. It brought together a great concourse of people. Judith, a sacred drama, was performed in the' church of the town ; songs and choruses were sung^; a hall and statue were erected to the poet's memory, upon which David Garrick, the "steward"' of the festival, read an ode. (See Annual KetfUter for 1769, p. J 01.) 203, 38. tradition- 'I'he following passage sums up the value of the various tr.aditions as to Shakspeare : — " That he was a schoolmaster ; that he was an attorney's clerk, that he was a dealer in wool, that he was a butcher, are all either conjectural inferences from passages in his writings, fron» the trafShak>ipcare,\.,(i4. m n^ THM SKETCH- nooK. m is '1 1 I I 204, 12. Sir Walter Raleigh (152-2-lHlS), in addition to being a tanious coiirtioi- and author, ex|>l(»ri:(l Virginiiv. He introduced tohaceo into England from America. 204, 13. Hamlet. .Shakspeare seems to have played no higher role than the ghost in Hamlet. 204, 14. Friar Lawrence, the priest who marries Romeo ami Juliet, and who tliscovers them «lead at the tomb. 204, 15. mulberry tree, isee note 20(5, 2r>. 204, 34. Santa Casa I l^at,], Holy House. See note , 208,2 gossip. .. .jambs. Of. 148, 11. The jambs are the inner surfaces of openings in buildings, such as hearths and windows. 206, 25. Shakspeare's mulberry tree. Shakspeare's estate came in l753 into tue hands ot tue Itev. Francis Gastrell "He knew little of Shakspeare, but he knew that the fi-equent incursions, into his garden, of strangers who came to sit beiieath ' Shakspeare's mulberry, ' was a troublesome annoyance. He .... cut down the tree (175(3). The wood was jmrchased by Thomas Sharp who con- verted it into toys and kindred memorial relics." Winter, Shakspeare's Enyland, p. 140. The corpoi-ation of Stratford, in presenting the freedom of Stratford to Garrick, enclosed it in a "i)ox matle from a mulberry tree undoubtedly planted by Shakspeare's own hand." See Annual Register for 17(>9, p. 102. ' 206, 40. limes, lime-trees or sycamores. 208, 3. his wife was Anne Hathaway. She died in 162.3 and was buried in a grave "close by that of her husband." His children were three : — Susannah the poet's favorite daughter was born in 1583 and married Di. John Hall, a physician of Stratford. She died in 1G49, leaving one child Elizabeth. With the death of Elizabeth in 1670, the line of Shaks- peare became extinct. Hamuet and Judith, twins, were baptised in 1585. Hamnet died at the age of eleven. Judith married Air. Thomas Quiney, vintner of Strattor^j and had three children, of whom one died in infancy and two just as they reached manhood.' 208, 5. John Combe- Shakspeare bought lands off the Combes in 1602 and 1610. John (..ombe, called the usurer, left him a legacy of £5 in 1614 ; " this fact disposes of the silly story of Shakspeare having satirized him in infantile iloggerel." — (Fleay, Life of Shakspeare, p. 70.) 208, 28. treatment. " Lucy, who had him often whipped and sometimes imprisoned, and at last made him Hy his native country to hia great advancement." — Richard Davis, rector of Saperton, (1690). ^208, 29. pasquinade. [Paquin, a satirical tailor of Rome.] A lampoon. Rowe says tlie ballad or lampoon is lost. " There is, indeed^ what purports to be the identical ballad, beginning — ' A Parliament member,' etc., where the first stanza seems older than the rest ; but there is one expression in the ballail which marks it, as beyontl question, of a latter period." — Hunter, Illustrations of Shakspeare, i., 56. NOTES. 35ft 213, 1. 213. 10. and a building. dren 213, 17 • 1 city. rried 213, 20 209, 10- Justice Shallow. A character — well -named — in Henry IV. and Merry Wiiies. For his coat-of-arms, see the latter play, i. 1., (juoted on page 214 of this volume. 209 26. as he has dramatic laws. <>ur dramatist often violates the "unities, i.e., the limits, set presumably by Aristotle, as to the time and scenes of dramatic action. 209, 39. elder Ireland. Samuel Ireland (died in 1800), dealer in scarce works, published 8 vols, of Picturesqufi Towns and Views in fireat Britain and the Continent (1790-1800) ; (Jraphic Illustrations of Hogarth (1704) ; Miscellaneous Papers of William Shakspeare. This was the " Ireland Forgery" concocted by his son the yo^intjer Ireland. 210, 30. Falstaff to his sack. Cf. Merry Wiven, ii., 1, and elsewhere. 211, 2. song in Cymbeline. In Actii., Sc. 3. 211, 4. Phoebus, god of the sun, for the sun itself. 211, 7. Mary-buds, marigold buds. 211, 9. bin, provincial for 'is,' 'are.' 211, 38- Reginald Scot (die 2. vizaments, advisements, consideration. 215, 4. Sir Peter Lely. See note 69, 25, 215, 25. "cane-coloured beard." See Memj Wlve^, i. 4, 215, 39. fist jesses- The hawk is held to the iist by a strand of leather (called a jess) tied to its. leg. 216, 26. "a last year's pippin." See II. Henry IV., v. 3. 217, 13. "workinj?-day world." "O, how full of briars is this working-day world." 8h " ' Shakspeare, Ah Ymi Like It, i, 3. hear Jacques soliloquize- An You Like It, ii, i. Rosalind and C'elia in the forest of Arden, Ah You 217, 22. 217, 23. Like It, ii, 4. 217, 27- Master Slender, companion of Justice Shallow in Merry Wires. 217, 27- sweet Anne Page, the sweet daughter of Master Page, wooed by Slender, in the Merry Wives. TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 218, 20- Logan- 'I'ah-gah-jute, called Logan, a chief of the Cay- ugas and "friend of the white man." His family were murdered by white men and Logan avenged their death by inciting against the whites the Shawnees, Delawares and Mingoes. After great bloodshed, a treaty was negociated by Governor Dunmore. Logan declined to attend the conference but transmitte 31. Canonchet, pronttunced can-on' -cltet. 237, 3. PljTmouth. This commonwealth, occupying the terri- tory from Cape Cod nearly to Boston, did not merge into Massachusetts until 1692. 238, 18. Seaconck or. See-konk, a few miles from Provi- dence, R.I. 238, 40. 5 peag (V<'fV)i ^^^ ^^ polished and rounded coloured shells, strung on a thread, and used as money. 239, 36. Stoningham, better Stonington, Conn., on the At- lantic coast, 12 miles E. of New London. 239, 41 . Mohawks. One of the tribes of the Iroquois, dwelling in the valley of the Mohawk River, New York. 240, 20. Wetamoe, pronounced wit'-a-mO. 240, 33. Taunton, in Hhode Island. 240, 36. "most horrid- •• lamentations," quoted from Increase Matlier, p. 191, 364 THE SKETCH-BOOK. % A ' JOHM BULL- The reader will notice a rathei subtle allegory running through this essay. Without entering into minute details, we may point out that the author suggests that the people of England learned in the struggles of her early national life how to defend themselves ; but that now, with the close of the great contest against Napoleon, the country is in a somewhat impoverished state — a state by no means improved through the efforts of the bar-room politicians and the soldiers returned from wars abroad. While some are clamoring for political changes, some are calling for reli- gious changes — the disestablishment of the Church of England and the recognition of Methodism. . 242, 29. John Bull [so called with reference to the cc^arse burly form and bluff nature ascribed to the typical Englishman], here the English collectively. The name first appeared in a satire called T/ie History of John Bull, written by Dr. Arbuthnot. (c. D.) 242, 36. buttery-hatch- Buttery, a place for storing liquor or provisions ; buttery-hatch, the half-door over which provisions are served. 243, 21. beau ideal (Fr. phrase; Eng. pronunciation boidee'al). The ideal beautiful, beauty in its ideal perfection ; also, as here, the highest conceivable type of beanty or excellence. 245, 24. " fancy," a slang term for the sporting fraternity, especi- ally of prize-fighters. 245, 27. brought upon the parish. The 'parish' was originally a district in the charge of a priest, now a civil division of local self-government, as regards the poor, sanitation, education. Hence ' to be brought upon the parish ' = to be made dependent on public charity. 246, 11. castellated manor-house. A manor-house is the residence of the proprietor of a manor or a landed estate : castellated, furnished with turrets and battlements. 247, 2. peccadillo [Sp. pecadlllo, dim. of pecado ; from L. pecca- ttim, sill, from peccare to sin]. A slight offence, a petty crime or faidt. 251, 18. quarter-staff. An old English weapon, formed of a stout pole about 6^ ft. long. It was grasped by one hand in the middle and by the other between the middle and the end (hence the name quarter). In the attack the latter hand shifted from one quarter to the other and gave the weapon a rapid circular motion which brought the weapon down at unexpected points, (c. D.) THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 252, 15. "May no wolf howl." Quoted from "The Dirge of Jephtha's Daughter," in the " Noble Numbers" of the Hesperides. 252, 34. buttress. A pcrtJon of a wall built on the outside of an other, to serve as a support or prop to it. NOTES. 305 253, 38. " Earth to earth," etc. Quoted from the Burial Ser- vice in vue " Book of Common P.ayer." 253, 42. dead are blessed. Revel., xiv , 13. ■ 254, 2. Rachel. See Jeremiah, xxxi., 15, and Matthew, ii., IS. 257, 41. Like the stricken deer. Cf. the description of the stricken deer in Ax You Like, ii., 1. " A ]ioor sequester'd stajr, That from the hunter's aim had ta'eii a hurt, Did coiiip to lanjfuibh." 259, 37. . the gloves. See page 111, 22, of this volume. THE ANGLER, In the summer of 1816, on his way from Liverpool to visit his sister's ' tmily at Birmingham, Irving tarried for a few days at a country place near Shrewsbury, on the border of Wales, and while there encountered a character whose portrait is cleverly painted. It is interesting to com- jjare this sketch with the elaboration of it in the essay on the The Angler in the " Sketch Book," — Warner, Life of Irving. " III one of our moriiinan heart I ought to mention that lie had two companions— one, a ragged, jiicturesque varlec, that had all the air of a veteran poacher, and I warrant would flnd any flsh-|X)nd in the neighborhood in the darkest night ; the other was a disciple of the old philosophei', studying the art under him, and was son and heir apparent to the landlady of the village tavern." 260, 9. Sir H. Wotton (1568-1639), was secretary to the earl of Essex in the reign of Elizabeth, and English ambassador to V^enice under James I. His prose works are The Sfnfr of Chnstcnu: i.. The Elements of Architecture, and Charactem of aonte of the Emjlixh Khirfu ; but he is most known by a few lyrical poems which hold for this author a place among the Elizabethan poets. The quotation is from a poem on spring, quoted in the Complete Anrffer, chap. i. 260, 17. the " Complete Angler " was tii-st published in les.'). and has passed through countless editions. It aims to afford instruction by means of discourses between Piscator, the fisherman, and his disciple -;- ',11' ■ 366 THE SKETCH-BOOK. ■I' Ml Venator, a huntsman, but the whole charm of the work lies in the quuint, kindly, and philosophic reflections uttered by Piscator, to whom fishing is * the contemplative man's recreation. ' 260, 18. knot of friends. Irving spent part of the summer' of 1810 at the summer retreat of Captain Phillips in the Highlands of New York. V "Near by was the mountain brook described in 'The Angler,' aiid here it was that Brevoort sallied forth to catch, trout, with the elaborate equipment described in that article." Life of Irving, by Pierre Irving. 260, 23. Don Quixote, hero of the romance of that name, written by the Spaniard Cervantes (1547-1616). He was a gaunt, whimsical, imaginative 6ld knight of I^a Mancha. The knight's head was turned by the reading of antiquated romances of knight-errantry to such an extent, that, accompanied by his 'squire Sancho Panza, he sets forth to do knightly deeds. He tilts against wind-mills as giants, takes flocks for armies and inns for feudal castles. Ultimately he is brought to his mind, and dies a Christian gentleman. 260, 25. Cap-^-pie [O. F. from L. caput, head ; ad, to ; pes, foot.], in armour from head to foot. 260, 26. fustian. Woven stuff made of cotton and linen. 261, 21. A man must be born to it. Allusion to the old saw — poeta nascitur, non fit, the poet is born, not male. 262, 4. "good, honest," etc. This is the nature of the break- fast, Piscator promised Venator under the sycamore-tree. (Chap. v. of The AnfjUr). 262, 8. scene with the milk-maid. Piscator and Venator meet with a milk-woman and a milk-maid, her daiighter, and persuade them to sing two songs, — the younger the " Come live with me, and be my love " of Marlowe, while the elder replies with Raleigh's *' If all the world and love were young." 262, 12. scene I witnessed. See the introductory note to this essay. 262, 36. ' * brothers of the angle." "A brother of the angle " is a favorite phrase of Walton's when he speaks of a fisherman. 262,39. "mild, sweet spirit. " [Apostles] men of mild, and sweet, and peaceable spirits, as indeed most anglers are." 263, 40. let. Obsolete sense equivalent to "hinder." 264, 1. Savannah. Tlie chief seaport of Georgia. 264, 5. Camperdown, '^ victory won by the English fleet under Admiral Duncan, 1797, against the Dutch acting under orders from Napoleon. The scene of the battle was off the tlowns near the village of Camp, in North Holland. 265, 17. one of those — champions of angling, ^o. Davors, supposed to be author of The Secret of Angling ; teaching the choicest tools, baits. . . . London, 1652. The quotation is taken from a poem by Jo, Davors, quoted in the CompkU' Ati'jier, chap, i. * NOTES. no-j in the whom immer nds of . 'The trout, Irving, written msical, turned luch an [orth to s flocks aght to io ; pes, the old e break - ap. V. of Venator persuade , and be f all the note to angle " of mild, set under era from le village n^. Jo. chuig the id in the 266, 8. Admiral Hosier's Ghost. Francis Hosier (1073- 1727), vice-admiral, died of fever .at .lamaica. The circumstances of his death were misrepresented by liis political opponents, and these mis- representations are preserved in popular memory by the naval ballad re- ferred to, written by Thomas Gloyer. The first stanza describes Admiral Vernon rejoicing at the capture of Porto Bello ; after wlii'ih the ghost of Hosier rises to vindicate the late admiral's honour. " As near Porto Bello lyini^ On the gently swelling flood, At midnight, with streamers fl.N'inj,'', Our triumphant navy rofle ; There while Vernon fat, all-glorious From the Spaniards' late defeat, And his crews, with shouts victorious. Drank success to England's fleet," etc. — Political Ballads, ii., 261. 266, 8. AM in the Downs. A song by the poet Gay, begin- ning :— " Allm the Downs the fleet was moor'd, The streamers waving in the wind. When black -eyed Susan came on board. Oh ! where shp'l 1 my true love find"? Tell me, ye jovia' i>ailors, tell me true. If my sweet William sails among your crew?" 266, 9. Tom Bo'wling, a celebrated naval song by Charles Dibdin (174.5-1814) it begins,— " Here a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The dprling of our crew ; No more he'Jl hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to." 266, 12. quadrant [L. quadrans, a fourth], an instrument, partly consisting of a cpiarter of a circle, used by sailors in determining the altitude of the sun or stars. 267, 32. blessing of St. Peter's Master. Walton closes his quaint volume with the words used hy our author. LEGEND OF SLEEPY HULLOW. The outline of this story had been sketched more than a year before at Birmingham, after a conversation with his brother-in-law, Van Wart, who had been dwelling on some recollections of his early years at Tarry- town, and had touched upon a waggish fiction of one Brown Bones, a wild blade, who professed to fear nothing, and boasted of his having once met the devil on a return froili a nocturnal frolic, and run a race with him for a bowl of milk punch. The imagination of the author suddenly kindled ovei' the recital, and in a few hours he had scribbled off the framework of his renowned story, and was reading it to his sister and her husband. He then threw it by until he went up to London, when it was expanded into the present legend. — Life of Irving, by I*. Irving. 268, 7. Castle of Indolence. A poem by Thomson. (See note 16, M). I'he quotation is from stanza vi. 36S THE SKETCn-BOOK. ;f r •K li68, 10. Tappaan Zee. An expansion of the Hudson, twelve hiiles long and three and a half wide, between Rockland and Winche.ster counties, New York, a few miles up the river from the city of New York. 268, 12. St- Nicholas. The patron saint of the Dutch, Our Santa Glaus, for Father Christmas, comes to us through the Dutch St. Nicholas. 268, 16. nigrht-mare ninefold. The incubus, night-mare, was once regarded as a spirit of the night, oppressing sleepers, " He met the uight-mare and her nine-fold." King Lear. 269, 4. high German doctor. That is, one from the southern or higher part ot (iermany. 260, 21. Hessian trooper, (ieorge III. in his war against the Revolutionary forces ifsed mercenary troops from Hesse. 271, 5. eel pot, a wicker-work basket with a funnel-shaped open- ing into wliich the eels may crawl easily but cannot escape. 271, 15. golden maxim. Cf. Proverbs, xiii, 24, " He that spareth his rod hateth his son ;" and Love is a boy by poets styl'd ; Then spare the rod and spoil the child. Butler, Hiidibras, III, i. 23. 271, 21. taken. Read "taking." 272, 17. lion bold which Whilome. Whilom once on a time. In the New England Primer, almost the oulj' juvenile book in the early schools of this country, occurs the following rude couplet : — " The lion bold The lamb doth hold." A coarse woodcut, representing a lion with his paw resting lovingly (!) on a lamb, accompanies the rhymes ; and the main object seems to be to impress indelibly on the learner's mind the letter L. (r, ) 273, 15. Cotton Mather (1663-1729), a son of Increase Mather, (see note 226, 11), born in Boston, After graduating from Harvard College, he entered the ministry. Salem about this time was troubled with ' witchcraft,' and Mather having investigated it wrote his Memor- able Providences relating to Witchcraft and PoHseasions, a work the sombre superstition of which was the cause of much persecution and bloodshed. 273, 32. boding cry of the tree-toad. The tree-frog is common in the middle and northern parts of the United States. It be- comes very noisy on the approach of rain. 27'^, 4. "in linked sweetness." Quoted from Milton's poems UAlkgro. 276, 15. Saardam, or Zaandam, on the Y, a few miles west of Amsterdam. 276, 43. Kentucky. It must be kept in mind that Irving is Avriting about 1820, and settlements had not then been extended beyond the Mississippi. 277, 36. adamant, an old name for any extremely hard sub- stance, such as diamondy steel. rp"->-i* NOTES. 369 278i 33. GossackSi military people living on the steppes of Rus- sia, along the Don and Dnieper, and also in eastern Russia As light cavalry they form an element in the Russian army veiy valuable in skirmishing operations and in protecting the frontier of the empire. (CD.) 278,41. rSLIitipole [ranti/ jJole; poll, hesid], wild, roving, rakish. 279, 7. sparking. The term " spark " for beau, occurs in Gold- smith — " Fly to your spark," She Stoops to Conquer, iii,, but the c. D. notes only American authoriiiies for the verbal use of the word. 279, 14. supple-jack, a strong, pliant cane, made usually of a climbing shrub ot the same name. 279, 20. Achilles. At the opening of the siege of Troy, a dis- pute arose between the (J reek hero Achillea and his leader, Agamemnon, because Agamemnon had taken away Briseis, a beautiful captive that had fallen to his lot, and to whom he was devoted. It was not till after the loss of his friend Patroclus that Achilles consented to take part again in the war. 281, 14. tow-cloth, coarstB hempen cloth. 281, 15. cap of Mercury. Mercury, messenger of the gods, Is represented in antique sculpture wearing a small, ciose-iitting casque with wings projecting. 281,19. quilting frolic, quilting "bee." 283, 4. cedar-bird, or wax-wing, called cedar-bird from its fond- ness for juniper-berries. 283, 5. monteiro, or montero (mon-ta'ro) [Sp. montera, a hunting cap, from montero, a huntjr], a horseman's or huntsman's cap, having a round crown, with Haps which could be drawn down over the sides of the face, (c. B, ) 283, 23. slap-jack or Hap- jack, one term in American English for griddle-cake or pan-cake. 284, 2. Heer [Ger.], (pronounced hdr), mister. 284, 32. oly-koek {d'-H-kook) [Ducch, eliekoek, oil-cake], a cake made of dough sweetened and fried in lard, richer and tenderer than a cruller. 284, 33. cruller. This word as well has come into American- English from the Dutch [krolle7% one who curls]. 286, 18. mynheer {mln-har), mister, gentleman. 286, 19. "White Plains, about twenty-two miles above New York. Near the village the battle of White Plains was fought between the English and Americans, Oct. 2S, 1776. 287, 6. Major Andr6, au English oflficer of Swiss parentage. He was employed by Sir Henry Clinton to conduct secret negotiations with Benedict Arnold, with a view to the capture of West Point on the Hudson. Arnold furnished Andre with maps and plans of the fort. Passing from the place of meeting, on the Ist of September, 1780, Andr6 was incautious in returning to the Xjuglish lines. As he was crossing asmall stream near Tarrytown, he was captured by three Ameri- I III 370 THE SKETCH-HoOK. ■\\},. , . cans. He was delivered to the American general, and hanged an a spy at Tarrytown, Oct. 2nd, 1780. 288, 3. Sing-Sing, 32 miles n. of New York, on the Tappan Zoo expansion of the Hudson. Now a small town, chiefly noted as the situation of the state-prison of New York. 288, 20. pillion, a pad or cushion fitted for adjustment to- a saddle behind as a seat for a second person, utsiially a woman. 288, 26. t6te-drtdte (almost tm-ah-tut). [Fr. lit. head to head], a private interview, ^ 289, 1. the very witching time. "'Ti8 now the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn." Hamlet. 289 26. tulip-tree, a tree very like the poplar, bu^ in size inferior only to the sycamore. Its wood is called ivhite-wood. Its name is taken from the flower, which resembles that of the large tulip. 293, 16. stock, a stiff band of horsehair oj" leather, covered with black satm, taking the place of a cravat. 293, 19. pitch-pipe, a small wooden or metal pipe, to be sounded with the breatli, to give the pitch of a certain note. 294, 13. Ten Pound Court. By the statutes of the colony of New York (1759, 1769) justices of the peace were given jurisdiction over cases involving sums not greater than £10. The court would therefore correspond to our Division ('ourt. 294, 37- city of the Manhattoes. One name of New York in the History of New York. 295, 32, ratiocination of the syllogism, terms of logic— the reasoning of the argument. L'ENVOY. This paper closed the second volume of the English edition of the Sketch-book, 1820. I'envoy (len-voi') [Fr.]. The envoy, a sort of postscript to a com- position, enforcing or commending what precedes, and consequently al- most equivalent to "conclusion." rr'i APPENDIX '1 ■ y " AITENDIX. A COURSE OF ESSAY WORK BASED ON THE " SKETCH-BOOK " OF WASHINGTON IRVING AND THE " TALISMAN " OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Looking over the essays of the Sketch-Book, we notice that they appeal to our interest in many and various ways. Now it is a tale of simple domestic affection, such as "The Widow and Her Son," or " The Wife " ; again it is a narration of quaint humour, such as " Rip Van Winkle," or the '' Legend of Sleepy Hollow." Now it is a description of the rural beauty of Eng- land, and again of the solemn magnificence of Westminster Ab- bey. So in the Talisman, we meet now with portraits of the Christian knights or of Saracen cavaliers, and again with pen- pictures of desert and oasis, of the plains and the rocky defiles that marked the battle-ground of Palestine. Now it is the chronicle of the journey of the Knight of the Leopard to the Hermit of Engaddi, and again the stirring nari-ative of the Trial by Combat at the Diamond of the Desert. But all these make their impressi< 'i upon us mainly in two ways : they either present sc;'ne.s or persons of such intrinsic interest as will arouse our imagination ; or they present such a series of events befalling the personages of the story as will enlist our sympathies in their behalf. They interest us either by one or other of two great departments of literary art — by Description or by Narration. These departments do not necessarily exclude one another ; often we have in the same essay a varying })lay of interest from one to the other kind of composition. But it will generally be found that one or other predominates, giving a characteristic quality to the piece. In Westminster Abbey, the descriptive element far outweighs the narrative, while in Rip Van Winkle the descriptions afford only the setting, the background, the atmosphere, so to s])eak, of the events described. 3^4 TITJ^J SKETCH- IK >()K. 1>KS(1KIPTI0N. Studies in gUFsrRirrroN Description Defined. — Description ia the portrayal in words of indivuluui scenes, objects or persons. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. There is no better model of j>urely descriptive writing afforded us by the ISketck-Jiook than " Westminster Abbey." The steady development of the theme, the proportion of the parts, the harmony between the style and the lofty subject render this essay worthy of careful study and of manifold perusal. Examining the essay we find that Irving portrays the Abbey in the following way : — (i) The theme ia stated : A ramble in Westminster Abbey. (ii) Tlie general effect is Its mournful, antique, magniticent charac- giveu — the tone which ter. this essay is to reproduce, (iii) The writer enters upon the details : [Here it will be noted that as it in impossible to see the Abbey tully from one tlxed point, he represents himself as wanderin|jf about from the cloisters into the Abbey, then viewing the Poeis' Corner, the sepulchre of the kings, the onapel of Henry VH., just as a traveller would natur- ally do. This shifting pouit of view — the traveller's view — adds a certain narrative interest to the description, and should al- ways be adopted when wo wish to give a certain panoramic view of the scene — to present details that would not be revealed at a fixed point. J ^ (iv) The essay is given a The general impression made by the names, dejinite conclusion. inscriptions, and tombs upon the writer — the transiency of all things human. We notice, then, that this description involves a methodical presentation of the scene, following the scheme of (i) Theme, (ii) General Outline, (iii) Detail, (iv) Summary or Conclusion. It is a great advantage to a writer to have some such plan in his mind when composing.* It guides him aright in the (a) The entrance from Westminster School through the cloisters. {b) The general view presented as one first enters. (c) The "details : the Poets' Corner, the sepulchre of tlie kings, Henry VII. 's chai^el ; [the episode oi the music from the organ gives relief from the enumera- tion of the tombs ;] the shrine of Ed- ward the Confessor. *It need scarcely be said that the student, though he may carefully plan his essay ))efore setting to work to compose, should not, unless specially called upon to do so, indicate formally in his essay that he is following a plan. The best art is ars celare drterrt, : when the building is completed, take away the scaffolding. . APPENDIX. 375 names, writer plan his upon to St art ia selection of details; for with a definite plan of work before him irrelevant circumstances will not occur to him, or if they do by chance occur, they will at once be rejected. Moreover, he will be able most easily to amplify his p!ira'j[raphs throusjh the ideas sui(j?ested by the different headings of bin plan. On the other hand, the mind of the reader is impressed almost en- tirely in consequence of the unified, compact, symmetrical nature of the composition. He must V)e made to feel that the composition is a complete harmonious structure — as well-built, as perfectly balanced, as a piece of architecture or a figure in marble. Let us consider this sqheme in detail : — (i.^ The Statemrnt of the Themr. — To write clearly and effectively one must know very definitely the theme of one's own discourse. Especially in abstruse themes is it of decided advantage to a writer at once to state his thenje. For the reader this statement of theme is indispensable, because without it he cannot easily understand the general dtift of the writer's thought, nor can he arrasp his subsequent statements in their pi'oper relationship. There is, however, an important exception to be made. It is often inadvisable, especially in the case of a narration, at once to reveal the nature of the theme. For in nai'ration the writer is beat able to arouse interest by keeping the reader in suspense as to the real drift of the story. Rule 1- — State at the outset (unless you have good reasons to the contrary) the theme of your description. (\i) The General Outline. It is usually hel]iful to a writer to have before him in general outline the scene he is about to describe. He is thus guided in selecting those details that will amplify and illustrate the general effect of the scene. The reader finds a general outline helpful, for by it he is enabled most easily to grasp the general character of the description, and to arrange the details in their proper connection, and — most important of all — he is put into that disposition of mind in which the author wishes him to receive the essay itself Rule 2- — (a) Let a (jeneral outlim' of the scene yon describe precede the detailed description — and (h), when possible, ffive the key-note to the emay — its graiJe, pathetic, romantic tone — by means of this rjeneral outline. (iii) The Details. — (a) The Choice of Details. In the description '^ 'Outlined above, we do not find a mere mass of details. J . the fii'st place, the author does not enter iuoo 376 27/ii' SKETCH-BOOK. minute details tw to the history of the Abbey ; he merely callH attention to the monuments of the first abbots. He does not describe the exterior, except as a passing glance thiongh one of the arcades reveals the gjicterinm pinnacles of the towers. In short, he selects the details of his desciiption in harmony with the character of his theme — a ramble in Westminster Abbey. All details not naturally unfolding themselves from this point of view are excluded. Rule 3. -In the /iflficfionq/ dctaiU, (he. writer must he ijidded hif the point of new froni which he wrifeM. He mud tte/ect ordy such detaila as harmonize with his plan. (b) Economy of Detail s. But, again, Irving might have enumerated an almost infinite mass of details, as to architec- ture, scidpture, lives of the poets, etc., seen or suggested as he walked through the edifice, i'otice, however, that he by no means crowds his canvas with these infinite details. Of the poets, he mentions only Shakspeaie and Addison, of the kings and queens only Heniy VII. and his consort, Elizabeth and Mary, Edward the Confessor and Henry V. and draws pjir- ticular attention to but one other figure — Roubillac's group of the Nightingales. All the other tombs with which the Al)bey is crowded fall into the background and are sketched in merely general terms. Rule ^.— Where, a yreat niatiii details preaent themsdveH, it in hetter to deal specialli/ with only a few, k'ltiixj the rest be majyented by the yeneral tone of the description. (c) Sequence of Details. Again, there is a rational airange- ment of details. They are grouped in a natural order in the order in which they would present themselv; s to the visitor to the Abbey, as he entered and wandered about within its walls. Rule 5. — Follow the natural sequence of the details as they reveal themselves one by one to the observer. [Elsewhere we have descriptions from the fixed point of view, such as the Kaatskills and Sleejjy Hollow The same laws will be found ob- served in descriptions from the fixed, as from the traveller's point of view.] (iv.) The Summary or Conclusion'. The advantage of the conclusion is that it summarizes and fixes the details of the description. The reader is enabled to gather the full signifi- cance of the scene, and the writer, rising upon the details he AFFUNDIX. 377 lias eimmerHtetl, is aHTorded an opportunity for cliinHcteric effect, by which he can give a Hatisfyiug conclusion to his composition. Rule 6. — There Hhoiihl, in (jeiieral, he a conc.lainon or Hunimarij that will xiiiniaarize the detaUn of the (lexcnption, and afford a roiicliiHion i/Vn< in lone and thougnt will natinfy the mind of the reader. RIP VAN WINKLE. The sketclies of persons are equally interesting with sketches of scenes from nature or the works of man. Irving is often inimitable in his skill in the j)ortrayal of individual character's. Hip Van Winkle and Ichabod Crane need only be mentioned as illustrations of his success in this kind of literarv art. The theme and yeneral dtate.ment : The details : General xtivimary : A simple good-natured fellow of the name of Kip Van Winkle. His family history. His character as a husband, as a neighbour, as a patron of the village boys. His personal qualities— hatred of work, neglect of his farm and of his children. One of those happy mortals who, if left alone, would have whistled away life in perfect contentment. From this analysis, the same laws of composition will be noticed as were deduced in the preceding discussion. STUDIES AND EXERCISES IX DESCRIPTION. Fro7n the " Sketch-Book" .•— 1. A Voyage. [The writer may dencribe the scenes that came before him in some voyage or journey, — followin>f Irving in his description of his trip to England, or treating freely of experiences of his own.] 2. The Country Church. [The writer is advise^e as found among the papers of an old Dutch historian ; the scene is laid among fairy mountains, among superstitious people, in a remote time. Again he brings forward the declar- ation of KnicKerbocker to lend an air of humorous reality ta the story. The character of the hei'O, moreover, was such as to permit some such event to happen to him as did befall him. Then again ther.i is always sufficient reason implicit in the narrative to justify the result. One incident natumlly bringa about another. Rip fp s in company with the strange crew; he- takes part — a large part — in their potations, consequently fall- ing into the profoundest sleep, etc., all these events naturally grow out of each other, or naturally arise out of the charac- ters of the actors. Rule 4. — Each incident must appear to spring from those that pre^^ cede it, oj arise naturally out of the characters of the actors. fi II APPENDIX. 381 The Climax of Interest. — Narrative is nothing as art im- leas yh.e nai'rator is able to evoke a gradu<\lly increasing in- terest in the fate of the hero. The reader must be led on from incident to incident until the culminating poiat of the story is attained — until the denouement is reached, and the i-esult satisfies and calms the reader's excitement. This involves a change in the mode of presentation from that observed in Description. All traces of the real nature of the perils into which the hero is led, every hint of the fate — good or evil — that is to befall him, is suppressed, and the reader's imagination is constantly stimulated by the cumulating interest in the fate of the hero — a fate that he watches with eager mind. This plot-interest is the great interest in every narrative; hence the details of the narrative must rise in significance, or, as we say, the plot thickens, until the denouement is reached.* Hule 5. — Details must be arranr/ed in the order of increasimj import- ance, so that the interest of the reader is greatest when the ddnovemeut is reached. The denouement must likewise satisfy our interest in the /ute of the cJuxracters of the narrative. STUDIES AND EXERCISES IN NARRATION. From the ''Sketch-Book " ; — 1. The Life and Works of Roscoa. 2. The Wife. {Tlie writer may compose a tali6, involving a similai* theme to that in Irving's "The Wife," but presenting details that come within the range of his own experience.] 3. Rip Van Winkle. {Involving introductory descriptions of the Kaatskills and of Rip Van Winkle.] 4. A Tale. IL!u9trating Middleton's lines : — ' I never heard Of any true affection, but 'twas nipt With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats The leaves of the spring's sweetest book, the rose.'] 5. How Books are Written. f [Throw this sketch into narrative form, as Irving does, in preference to the expos tory form.] 6. James the First of Scotland : Poet and King. 7. The Widow and Her Son. [The writer may proceed as indicated in the note to 2 above.] * In biography of course this plot-interest is rarely present, for we know the general course of the man's life. The statement of the theme and general outline may, there- fore, be given without disadvantage. IT' ? ■.h ml' n r 882 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 8. A Search for the Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. [The writer may stibstitute for this a narrative of his search for any curiosity of the- county or city vith which he is familiar. J 9. The Inn Kitchen. [Introducing a short story heard related therein.] 10. How we kept Christmas at . 1 1 Philip of Pokanoket. 12. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. [Introducing descriptions of the Hollow and of the actors who figure in the narrative. From the " l^alisman " : — 1. The Contest of the Knight of the Leopard and the Sara- cen Cavalier. 2. St. George's Mount. [A narrative of the incidents that centred about the vantage ground of the Richard's Btandaixl.] 3. The Trial by Combat at the Diamond of the Desert. [Including a description of the oasis.] 4. The Life and Character of Richard Coeur de Lion. 6. The Third Crusade. EXPOSITION. Exposition Defined. — In addition to the de]iartments of literature known as Description and Nan-ation we have another ini))ortant department — Exposition. When Irving wishes ua to know, for exami)le, the tiaits of the Indian character, he doe» not attain his object by stating the chaiacteristics of one par- ticular Indian ; he gathers together the traits common to the Indians in general. He therefore does not write a descrijition^ which deals as we have noticed with the individual scene or person. He, moreover, does not relate any sequence of events forming a narrative. He merely seeks to set before us the true nature of the Indians in general. This endeavor to place before us the true nature of general notions is termed Exposition. EuLES OF Exposition. — Briefly stated the rules of P^xposi- tion are as follows : — (i) Tite laws as to In^oduction, Proposition (for General Outline), Discusnon (for Details), Con- clusion, are practically the same as in Description^. APPENDIX. 383-- {2) The treatment must he dear, and if possible simple 'Rural Pu^rllsl-r' '''™^''' ""^ illustrations are great aids to simplicity; cf. {3) The treatment is progressive-in the case of arqu- Studies and Themes in Exposition. 1. The Influence of the Press upon late.national Relations. ^. itural Life in England. ■|if&Ca£^i;r" ''"'""''^' "'^"*"*^ ^" -'^^' «*»-i"^ the general character of rura 3. Eural Funerals. [See note above.] 4. The Mutability of Literature 3nterStr^£^^^^^^^ interest thereby gained exposition. The writer will ?S the expoSo^yVrmT '™''' ''"* *^' e^4'a^an 6. The Indian Character. 6. The Influence of the Crusades on E. rope.