WASHINGTON IRVING. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK 
 
 OF 
 
 GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT. 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVINCK : 
 
 " I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator of 
 other men s fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts ; which, methinks, 
 are diversely presented unto me, as from a common theatre or scene. "BURTON. 
 
 NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION. 
 
 COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME. 
 
 NEW YORK; 
 
 WILLIAM L. ALLISON COMPANY, 
 PUBLISHERS, 
 
IN MEMORIAM 
 
A/ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THE AUTHOR S ACCOUNT OF HIM&ISLF, ...... n 
 
 THE VOYAGE, . . .............. 13 
 
 -ROSCOE, . . < . . . ............. 18 
 
 -THE WIFE, ................. 24 
 
 RIP VAN WINKLE, ..... , ........ 30 
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA, ......... 45 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND, .......... . 52 
 
 -THE BROKEN HEART, ............. 58 
 
 -THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING, ........... 63 
 
 - A ROYAL POET, ............... 68 
 
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH, ............ 80 
 
 -THE WIDOW AND HER SON, ........... 84 
 
 -A SUNDAY IN LONDON, ............. 90 
 
 THE BOAR S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP, ...... 92 
 
 -THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE, ......... 101 
 
 RURAL FUNERALS, .............. no 
 
 -THE INN KITCHEN, .............. U9 
 
 -THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM, ........... 121 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY, ............. 134 
 
 CHRISTMAS, ................. 143 
 
 THE STAGE COACH, .............. 147 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE, ............... 153 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY, ............... 162 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER, ............ 173 
 
 -LONDON ANTIQUES, , .... ...... , . , 184 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN, ............... 189 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON, ...... . ..... .201 
 
 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER ......... .216 
 
 PHILIP OF POKANOKET, ............. 225 
 
 JOHN BULL, ................. 239 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE, . . ........ 248 
 
 -THE ANGLER, ................ 255 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLCW, ........ 262 
 
 -L ENVOY .......... . ...... 288 
 
 APPENDIX, . , ...... . ........ 291 
 
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. 
 
 THE following papers, with two exceptions, were written in Eng 
 land, and formed but part of an intended series, for which I had 
 made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, 
 however, circumstances compelled me to send them piecemeal to 
 the United States, where they were published from time to time in 
 portions or numbers. It was not my intention to publish them in 
 England, being conscious that much of their contents would be 
 interesting only to American readers, and, in truth, being deterred 
 by the severity with which American productions had been treated 
 by the British press. 
 
 By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in thif 
 occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlan 
 tic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the L ^ndon 
 Literary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller 
 intended to publish them in a collective form. I determined, there 
 fore, to bring them forward myself, that they might at least have 
 the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I accordingly 
 took the printed numbers which I had received from the United 
 States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I 
 had already received friendly attentions, and left them with him 
 for examination, informing him that should he be inclined to bring 
 them before the public, I had materials enough on hand for a sec 
 ond volume. Several days having elapsed without any communi 
 cation from Mr. Murray, I addressed a note to him, in which I 
 construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged 
 that the numbers I had left with him might be returned to me. 
 The following was his reply : 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, 
 
 I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind 
 intentions towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned 
 respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely 
 filled with workpeople at this time, and I have only an office to 
 transact business in ; and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I 
 should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. 
 
 If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your pre 
 sent work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature 
 
*: "- *. / : : : * i PREFACE. 
 
 .. pf itj^hicli would pnabte,me to make those satisfactory accounts 
 %3>fe<we.en;u9, vtfithoijt .wjiich: I really feel no satisfaction in engaging 
 but I will do all 1 can* to promote their circulation, and shall be 
 most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. 
 With much regard, I remain, dear sir, 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 
 JOHN MURRAY. 
 
 This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any 
 further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republication 
 in Great Britain rested entirely with me; but I apprehended the 
 appearance of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald 
 Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with much 
 hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; but first I determined to 
 submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged 
 to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced from him at 
 Abbotsford a few years previously, and b.v the favorable opinion 
 he had expressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly 
 sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch Book in a parcel by 
 coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had 
 had the pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had 
 taken place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of my 
 pen all-important to me ; I begged him, therefore, to look over the 
 literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they 
 would bear European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Con 
 stable would be inclined to be the publisher. 
 
 The parcel containing my work went by coach to Scptt s address 
 in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in the coun 
 try. By the very first post I received a reply, before he had seen 
 my work. 
 
 "I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached 
 Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse with 
 Constable, and do all in my power to forward your views I assure 
 you nothing will give me more pleasure." 
 
 The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune, had struck the 
 quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient 
 good will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a 
 way of aiding me. 
 
 A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be 
 set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, 
 and amply furnished with all the necessary information. The 
 appointment of the editor, for which ample funds were provided, 
 would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable 
 prospect of further advantages. This situation, being apparently 
 
PREFACE. 1 
 
 at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he 
 intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he 
 expressed an apprehension that the tone it was desired to adopt 
 might not suit me. " Yet I risk the question," added he, "because 
 I know no man so well qualified for this important task, and per 
 haps because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my 
 proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and 
 there is no harm done. And for my love I pray you wrong me 
 not. If, on the contrary, you think it could be made to suit you, 
 let me know as soon as possible, addressing Castle-street, Edin 
 burgh." 
 
 In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, "I am just 
 come here, and have glanced over the Sketch Book. It is posi 
 tively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be pos 
 sible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such a mat 
 ter, especially at the outset ; but we will obviate them as much as 
 we possibly can." 
 
 The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which 
 underwent some modifications in the copy sent : 
 
 "I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I 
 had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty ; but, 
 somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms 
 every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your literary pro 
 posal both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher 
 opinion of my talents than I have myself. * 
 
 I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted 
 for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, 
 but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. "My whole 
 course of life," I observed, "has been desultory, and I am unfitted Ij 
 for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body j 
 or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they areT^ 
 and have to watch the vary ings of my mind as I would those of a 
 weather-cock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule ; 
 but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own 
 country Indians or a Don Cossack. 
 
 " I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun ; writ 
 ing when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my 
 residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or 
 whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write better and 
 more copiously by and by. 
 
 " I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answer 
 ing your proposal than by showing what a very good-for-nothing 
 kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feei inclined to make 
 
8 PREFACE. 
 
 a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he will encourage me to 
 further enterprise ; and it will be something like trading with a gipsy 
 for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing 
 but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a silver tankard." 
 
 In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declin 
 ing what might have proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred 
 to the original subject of our correspondence; entered into a 
 detail of the various terms upon which arrangements were made 
 between authors and booksellers, that I might take my choice; 
 expressing the most encouraging confidence of the success of my 
 work, and of previous works which I had produced in America. 
 "I did no more," added he, "than open the trenches with Con 
 stable ; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to write to him, you 
 will find him disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of 
 attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place to 
 see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and whaf 
 ever my experience can command is most heartily at your com 
 mand. But I can add little to what I have said above, except 
 my earnest recommendation to Constable to enter into the 
 negotiation."* 
 
 Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had 
 determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but 
 to throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it 
 sink or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, 
 and soon received a reply : 
 
 "I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in 
 Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one s 
 own account ; for the booksellers set their face against the circula 
 tion of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. 
 But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in 
 such cases between the author and the public, which they were 
 once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan s Holy 
 War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding s mansion. 
 I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the Brit- 
 
 * I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott s letter, 
 which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our correspondence, 
 was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss 
 Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father s poems pub 
 lished in Edinburgh in quarto volumes ; showing the " nigromancy" of the 
 American press, by which a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. 
 Scott observes : "in my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sophia s name for 
 the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am not 
 quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much 
 more of papa s folly then she would ever otherwise have learned : for I had 
 taken special care they should never see any of those things durlne their 
 earlier years. I think I told you that Walter i.4 sweeping the Imminent with 
 ajeather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe 
 in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar iu the 18th dragoons/ 
 
PREFACE. f 
 
 ish public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I 
 
 real^was of that opinion. 
 
 "Tf you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Black- 
 wood s Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your 
 works in the last number: the author is a friend of mine, to whom 
 I have introduced you in your literary capacity. His name is Lock- 
 hart, a young man of very considerable talent, and who will soon 
 be intimately connected with my family. My faithful friend Knick 
 erbocker is to be next examined and illustrated. Constable was 
 extremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for your 
 works, but I foresee will be still more so when 
 
 Your name is up, and may go 
 From Toledo to Madrid. 
 
 And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London 
 
 about the middle of the month, and promise myself great pleasure 
 in once again shaking you by the hand." 
 
 The first volume of the Sketch- Book was put to press in London 
 as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown to 
 fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is trum 
 peted into notice. Still, some attention had been called to it by the 
 extracts which had previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and 
 by the kind word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was 
 getting into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before 
 the first month was over, and the sale was interrupted. 
 
 At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for 
 help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Her 
 cules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favor 
 able representations, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the 
 future publication of the work which he had previously declined. 
 A further edition of the first volume was struck off, and the second 
 volume was put to press, and from that time Murray became my pub 
 lisher, conducting himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, 
 and liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well-merited 
 appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. 
 
 Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I 
 began my literary career in Europe; and I feel that I am but dis 
 charging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory 
 of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obligations to 
 him. But who of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him 
 for aid or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, gener 
 ous, and effectual assistance ! 
 
 W.L 
 
 184*. . 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 THE AUTHOR S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 
 
 I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel 
 was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit 
 on ; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time 
 transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion 
 Vith his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would." 
 
 LYLY S EUPHUES. 
 
 I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange 
 characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began 
 my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign 
 parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm 
 of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As I grew 
 into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holi 
 day afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding coun* 
 try. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or 
 fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been 
 committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and 
 added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and 
 customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even 
 journeyed one long summer s day to the summit of the most dis 
 tant hill, 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 long 
 ing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in 
 imagination to the ends of the earth ! 
 
 Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague 
 inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it 
 more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had 
 I oeen merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire 
 to seek elsewhere its gratification, for on no country have the 
 charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty 
 lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright 
 aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendou 
 
Ift THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; her boundless plains, waving 
 with spontaneous verdure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn 
 silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation puts 
 forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the magic of 
 summer clouds and glorious sunshine; no, never need an American 
 look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of nat 
 ural scenery. 
 
 But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical associa- 
 1 tion. There were to be seen the masterpiece of art, the refine 
 ments of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of 
 ancient and local custom. My native country was full of youthful 
 promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. 
 Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mould 
 ering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes 
 of renowned achievement to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of 
 antiquity to loiter about the ruined castle to meditate on the fall 
 ing tower to escape, in short, from the common-place realities of 
 the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the 
 past. 
 
 I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great men oi 
 the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not a 
 city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them 
 in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they 
 cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade 
 of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was 
 anxious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the 
 works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in 
 \merica, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, 
 /nought I, must therefore be assuperior 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 anong us, who, I 
 was assured, were very little people in their own country. I will 
 visit this land of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from 
 which I am degenerated. 
 
 It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion 
 gratified. I have wandered through different countries, and wit 
 nessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I 
 have studied them with the eye of a philosopher; but rather with 
 the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque 
 stroll from the window of one print-shop to another; caught some 
 times by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of 
 caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is 
 
THE VOYAGE. 13 
 
 the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring 
 home their protfolios 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 humor 
 has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular 
 traveller 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 inclination, 
 had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch 
 book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and 
 obscure ruins; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter s, or the 
 Coliseum; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naples; and had 
 not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. 
 
 THE VOYAGE, 
 
 Ships, shi 
 Ami 
 
 Amidst the main, 
 I will come and try you, 
 What you are protecting, 
 And projecting, 
 
 What s your end and aim. 
 One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
 Another stays to keep his country from invadi 
 
 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 novel 
 ties of another world. 
 
 In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a con 
 nected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story 
 of life, and lessen the effect of absence and separation. We drag, 
 to i true, " a lengthening chain, at each remove of our pUgrimag*; 
 
14 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back link by ?ink : awi 
 we teel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voy 
 age severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose 
 from the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a 
 doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, but 
 real, between us and our homes a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, 
 and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. 
 
 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue 
 line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it 
 seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, 
 and had time for meditation before I opened another. That land, 
 too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all most dear to 
 me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it what changes might 
 take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when 
 he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain 
 currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may 
 ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 
 
 I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the expression. 
 To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in rev 
 eries, 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 climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours 
 together on the tranquil bosom of a summer s sea ; to gaze upon 
 the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy 
 them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my 
 own ; to watch the gentle, undulating billows, rolling their silver 
 volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 
 
 There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe 
 with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters 
 of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumb 
 ling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his 
 huge form above the surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like 
 a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination would con 
 jure 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 fisher 
 men and sailors. 
 
 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, 
 would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this 
 fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of exist 
 ence! What a glorious monument of human invention; which 
 
THE VOYAGE. 15 
 
 has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the 
 ends of the world into communion ; has established an interchange 
 of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the 
 luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the 
 charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those 
 scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed 
 to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. 
 
 We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. 
 At sea, every thing that breaks the monotony of the surrounding 
 expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that 
 must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains 
 of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened them 
 selves 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 ascer 
 tained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; 
 clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds 
 flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their 
 struggle has long been over they have gone down amidst the roar 
 of the tempest their bones lie whitening among the caverns of 
 the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, 
 and no one can tell the story of their end. What sighs have been 
 wafted after that ship! what prayers offered up at the deserted 
 fireside of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, the mother, 
 pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this 
 rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety 
 anxiety into dread and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one 
 memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever 
 be known, is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard 
 of more ! " 
 
 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dismal 
 anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening, when 
 the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and 
 threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms 
 which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voy 
 age. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that 
 made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck 
 and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by 
 the captain. 
 
 "As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across 
 the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which pre 
 vail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead 
 even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that 
 we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. 
 
16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 \ kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to 
 look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor 
 on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we 
 were going at a great rate through the water. Suddenly the watch 
 5fave the alarm of a sail ahead ! * it was scarcely uttered before 
 we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her 
 broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neg 
 lected to hoist a light. We struck her just amid-ships. The force, 
 the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; 
 we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crash 
 ing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
 half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just started from 
 their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their 
 drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to 
 our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget 
 that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, 
 she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could 
 guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised 
 about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns, 
 and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors : but all 
 was silent we never saw or heard any thing of them more." 
 
 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fan- 
 ries. 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 over head seemed rent asunder 
 by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, 
 and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
 bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and pro 
 longed by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering and 
 plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that 
 she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards 
 would dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the 
 waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to over 
 whelm 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 like funereal 
 wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning 
 of bulk-heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were fright 
 ful As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and 
 roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death wwe raging round 
 
THE VOYAGE. \j 
 
 fttis floating prtson, seeking for his prey : the mere starting of a nail, 
 tfce yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 
 
 A fine day, nowever, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, 
 soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to 
 resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. 
 When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, 
 and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gal 
 lant she appears how she seems to lord it over the deep! 
 
 I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, for with 
 me it is almost a continual reverie but it is time to get to shore. 
 
 It was a fine, sunny morning when the thrilling cry of " land ! H 
 was given from the mast-head. None but those who have experi 
 enced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations 
 which rush into an American s bosom, when he first comes in sight 
 of Europe. There is a volume of associations with the very name. 
 It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his 
 childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pon 
 dered. 
 
 From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish 
 excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants 
 along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the 
 channel ; the Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were 
 objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I recon 
 noitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight 
 on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. 
 I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 
 taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighbor* 
 ing hill all were characteristic of England. 
 
 The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was enabled 
 to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people ; some, 
 idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I 
 could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned, 
 I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His hands 
 were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling thoughtfully, and 
 walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the 
 crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were 
 repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged between the shore 
 and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I par 
 ticularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interest 
 ing demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd ; 
 her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some 
 wished-for countenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; 
 when I beard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor 
 
1 8 THE SKETCHBOOK. 
 
 sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sym 
 pathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his 
 messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but 
 of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his ham 
 mock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before 
 he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, 
 and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so 
 wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye 
 of affection did not recognize him, But at the sound of his voice, 
 her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume of 
 sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
 wringing them in silent agony. 
 
 All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaintances 
 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* 
 
 ROSCQE. 
 
 In the service of mankind to be 
 A guardian god below; still to employ 
 The mind s brave ardor in heroic aims. 
 Such as may raise us o er the grovelling herd, 
 And make us shine for ever that is life, 
 
 THOMSON. 
 
 ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool 
 is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious 
 plan; it contains a good library and spacious reading-room, 
 and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour 
 you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking person 
 ages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. 
 
 As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention 
 \vas attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced 
 in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, 
 but it was a little bowed by time perhaps by care. He had a 
 noble Roman style of countenance ; a head that would have 
 pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on his brow 
 showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye stili 
 beamed with the fire of a poetic soul There was something In bis 
 
4 % V ROSCOE. 19 
 
 whole appearance that indicated a being of a different ordei from 
 the bustling race around him. 
 
 I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Roscoe. I 
 drew back with 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 genius, and 
 surrounded by a halo of literary glory. 
 
 To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling 
 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. Roscoe derives his highest claims to admira 
 tion. It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to 
 create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and 
 working their solitary but irresistible way through a thousand 
 obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities 
 of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to maturity ; 
 and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance produc 
 tions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though 
 some may perish among the stony places of the world, and some 
 be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, ye/ 
 others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, 
 struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile 
 birthplace all the beauties of vegetation. 
 
 Such has been the case with Mr. Roscoe. Born in a place 
 apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very 
 market-place of trade ; without fortune, family connections, or pat 
 ronage ; self-prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he 
 has conquered every obstacle, acheived 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 particularly 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 
 
20 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 no Itsson to the world, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human 
 frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away 
 from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in 
 the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental 
 but exclusive enjoyment. 
 
 Mr. Roscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the accorded 
 privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of 
 thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the high 
 ways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by the way 
 side for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has 
 opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside 
 from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams 
 of knowledge. There is a "daily beauty in his life," on which 
 mankind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and 
 almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence ; but 
 presents a picture 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 citi 
 zens of our young and busy country, where literature and the 
 elegant arts must grow up side by side with the coarser plants of 
 daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not on the 
 exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of 
 titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the 
 pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited 
 individuals. 
 
 He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of 
 leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it can give its own 
 impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo De 1 Medici, 
 on whom he seems to have fixed his eye as on a pure model of 
 antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life with the history 
 of his native town, and has made the foundations of its fame the 
 monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you 
 perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. 
 He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of 
 traffick; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the 
 garden of literature. By his own example and constant exertions 
 he has effected that union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, 
 so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings : * and has 
 practically proved how beautifully they may be brought to har 
 monize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions for 
 literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such credit on Liver- 
 4ddi*M on the opening of tiie Liverpool Institution. ~ 
 
ROSCOE. It 
 
 pool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have 
 mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by 
 Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence 
 and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial 
 importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awak 
 ening an ambition of mental improvement among its inhabitants, 
 he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. 
 
 In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author in Liver 
 pool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his having 
 been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard 
 some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of pity. 
 Those who live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast 
 down by the frowns of adversity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to 
 be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in 
 upon the resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his 
 own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to neglect, 
 and to roam abroad in search of less worthy associates. He is 
 independent of the world around him. He lives with antiquity and 
 posterity; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retire 
 ment ; and with posterity, in the generous aspirings after future 
 renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoy 
 ment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are 
 the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from 
 heaven, in the wilderness of this world. 
 
 While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my for 
 tune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out 
 with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liverpool, when he 
 turned off, through a gate, into some ornamented grounds. After 
 riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, 
 built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had 
 an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn 
 sloped away from it, studded with clumps of trees, so di posed as 
 to break a soft, fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The 
 Mersey was seen winding a broad, quiet sheet of water through 
 an expanse of green meadow-land ; while the Welsh moun 
 tains, blended with clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the 
 horizon. 
 
 This was Roscoe s favorite residence during the days of his 
 prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary 
 retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saw the 
 windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have 
 mentioned. The windows were closed the library was gone. 
 Two or three ill-favored beings were loitering about the place. 
 
3* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like visit 
 ing some classic fountain, that had once welled its pure waters in 
 a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and 
 the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. 
 
 I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe s library, which had con 
 sisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had 
 drawn the materials for his Italian histories ; it had passed under 
 the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. 
 The good people of the vicinity thronged like wreckers to get some 
 part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such 
 a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine some 
 thing whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. 
 Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the 
 possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might 
 picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with cal 
 culating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an 
 obsolete author ; of the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with 
 which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the 
 black-letter bargain he had secured. 
 
 It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Roscoe s misfortunes, 
 and one which cannot fail to interest the studious mind, that the 
 parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest 
 feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could pro 
 voke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear 
 these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and inno 
 cent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When all that is 
 worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady 
 value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates 
 languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only con 
 tinue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us 
 with that true friendship which never deceived hope nor deserted 
 sorrow. 
 
 I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool 
 had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and 
 themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly 
 reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it 
 would be difficult to combat with others that might seem merely 
 fanciful ; but it certainly appears to me such an opportunity as sel 
 dom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling 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, 
 
ROSCOE. *3 
 
 we become too familiar with the common materials which form ihe 
 basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe s towns 
 men may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a 
 politician; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupa 
 tions, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on some points of 
 worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unostentatious simplicity 
 of character, which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, 
 may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do 
 not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. 
 But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as 
 the residence of Roscoe. The intelligent traveller who visits it 
 inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the literary landmark 
 of the place, indicating its existence to the distant scholar. He 
 is, like Pompey s column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic 
 dignity. 
 
 The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books on 
 parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. It any 
 thing can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here 
 displayed, it is the conviction that the whole is no effusion of fancy 
 but a faithful transcript from the writer s heart. 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 As one who, destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 
 
 And tempers as he may affliction s dart ; 
 
 Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, 
 
 Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 
 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
 
 And happier seasons may their down unfold. 
 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore : 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 
 
THE WIFE. 
 
 1 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the eonceal d comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman s love. I scent the air 
 Of blessings, when I come hut near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ?. 
 The violet bed s not sweeter. 
 
 MlDDLBTON. 
 
 I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which 
 women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. 
 Those disasters which break down the spirit of a man, and pros 
 trate 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 touch 
 ing than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all 
 weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, 
 while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in 
 mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under 
 misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking 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 lifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, 
 and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by 
 Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament 
 of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when 
 smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged 
 recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and 
 binding up the broken heart. 
 
 I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 
 blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. " I can 
 wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a 
 wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share 
 your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, 
 indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune 
 is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; 
 partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities 
 of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for sub 
 sistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved 
 by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by find 
 ing, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there 
 is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch 
 Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; tn 
 
TtiE WIF& 2$ 
 
 fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to rain 
 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 an harmonious 
 combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; 
 she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rap 
 ture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her 
 sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of 
 applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she 
 sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her 
 slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The 
 fond, confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call 
 forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he 
 doted on his lovely burden for its very helplessness. Never did a 
 couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited 
 marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. 
 
 It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked 
 his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married 
 many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was 
 swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. 
 For a time he kept 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 cheerful 
 ness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandish 
 ments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow 
 deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more 
 torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. 
 A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that 
 cheek the song will die away from those lips the lustre of those 
 eyes will be quenched with sorrow ; and the happy heart, which 
 now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, 
 by the cares and miseries of the world. 
 
fi6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 At length ne came to me one day, and related his whole situation 
 in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I 
 inquired, " Does your wife know all this ? " At the question he burst 
 into an agony of tears. "For God s sake!" cried he, " if you 
 have any pity on me, don t mention my wife ; it is the thought of 
 her that drives me almost to madness ! " 
 
 " And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later : 
 you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon 
 her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself; for the 
 accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are 
 depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely 
 that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together 
 an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon 
 perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true 
 love will not brook reserve ; it feels under-valued and outraged, 
 when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it. 
 
 " Oh, but, my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all 
 her future prospects how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, 
 by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego 
 the elegancies of life all the pleasures of society to shrinl- with 
 me into indigence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged 
 her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to 
 move in constant brightness the light of every eye the admira 
 tion of every heart ! How can she bear poverty ? she has been 
 brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear 
 neglect ? she has been the idol of 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 sor 
 row relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, 
 and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently 
 and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook 
 his head mournfully, but positively. 
 
 "But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she 
 should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration 
 of your circumstances. You must change your style of living 
 nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance , " don t let 
 that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in 
 outward show you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not 
 think the worsteofyou for being less splendidly lodged: and surely 
 it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary " 
 
 "I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, "in a hovel! 
 I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! I could 
 I could God bless her ! God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into 
 a transport of grief and tenderness. 
 
TH WIFE. 27 
 
 "And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up and grasping 
 him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she cati be the same with 
 you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her 
 it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of 
 her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for 
 yourself. There is in every true woman s heart a spark of heavenly 
 fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity ; but 
 which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of 
 adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is no man 
 knows what a ministering angel she is until he has gone with her 
 through the fiery trials of this world." 
 
 There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the 
 figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination 
 of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with ; and following 
 up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go 
 home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. 
 
 I must confess, notwithstanding all I had.said, I felt some little 
 solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one 
 whose life has been a round of pleasures? Her gay spirits might 
 revolt at the dark, downward path of low humility suddenly pointed 
 out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they 
 had hitherto revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accom 
 panied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it 
 is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie the next, morning 
 without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. 
 
 "And how did she bear it? " 
 
 "Like an arrf el ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, 
 for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all 
 that had lately made me unhappy. But, poor girl," added he, 
 "she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no 
 idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in 
 poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation; 
 she suffers no less of accustomed conveniencies 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 not poverty so muck 
 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 
 
2* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 and you disarm poverty of its sharpest sting." On this point 1 
 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 cottage in 
 the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day 
 in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few 
 articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture 
 of his late residence had been sold, excepting his wife s harp. 
 That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; 
 it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest 
 moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over 
 that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. I 
 could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a dot 
 ing husband. 
 
 He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been 
 all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become 
 strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it 
 was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. 
 
 He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked 
 out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. 
 
 44 Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. 
 
 44 And what of her?" asked I: "has anything happened to 
 her?" 
 
 44 What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to 
 be reduced to this paltry situation to be caged in a miserable 
 cottage to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her 
 wretched habitation ? " 
 
 44 Has she, then, repined at the change?" 
 
 4< Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. 
 Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; 
 she has been to me all love, and tenderness, and comfort! " 
 
 " Admirable girl!" exclaimed I. "You call yourself poor, my 
 friend ; you never were so rich you never knew the boundless 
 treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." 
 
 4 Oh! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were 
 over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day 
 of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble dwell 
 ing she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable 
 equipments she has, for the first time, known the fatigues of 
 domestic employment she has, for the first time, looked round her 
 on a home destitute of every thing elegant, almost of every thing 
 
THE WIFE. 29 
 
 convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, 
 brooding over a prospect of future poverty." 
 
 There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not 
 gainsay, so we walked on in silence. 
 
 After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly 
 shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, v.o 
 came in sight of the cottage. It was humble enough in its appear 
 ance 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 Jrees threw their branches gracefully over it; and I observed 
 several pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on 
 the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a foot-path 
 that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we ap 
 proached, we heard the sound of music Leslie grasped my arm; 
 we paused and listened. It was Mary s voice singing, in a style 
 of the most touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband 
 was peculiarly fond. 
 
 1 felt Leslie s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward to 
 hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. 
 & bright, beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished 
 i 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 running down 
 the lane, and looking out for you. I ve set out a table under a 
 beautiful tree behind the cottage; and I ve been gathering some 
 of the most delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them 
 and we have such excellent cream and everything is so sweet 
 and still here Oh!" said she, putting her arm within his, and 
 looking up brightly in his face, "Oh, we shall be so happy!" 
 
 Poor Leslie was overcome. He caught her to his bosom he 
 folded his arms round her he kissed her again and again he 
 could not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes ; and he has 
 often assured me, that though the world has since gone prosper 
 ously with him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one, yet 
 never has he experienced a moment oi more exquisite felicity. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 
 
 A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 By Woden, God of Saxons, 
 
 From \yhence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 
 
 Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
 
 Unto thylke clay in which I creep into 
 
 My sepulchre 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 [The following Tale was found among the papers of the late 
 Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who was 
 very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners 
 of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical 
 researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among 
 men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topics; 
 whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their wives, rich 
 in that legendary lore, so invaluable to true history. Whenever, 
 therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shu\ 
 up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he 
 upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied 
 the zeal of a bookavoim. 
 
 The resuTtrt>f all these researches was a history of the province 
 during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some 
 years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary 
 character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better 
 than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which, 
 indeed, was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since 
 been completely established; and it is now admitted into all his 
 torical collections, as a book of unquestionable authority. 
 
 The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work, 
 and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his 
 memory to say that his time might have been much better employed 
 in weightier labors. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his 
 own way ; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little 
 in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends, 
 for whom he felt the truest deference and affection; yet his errors 
 and follies are 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 by many folk, whose good opinion is well worth 
 having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so 
 far as to imprint his likeness on their new-year cakes ; and have 
 thus given him a chance for immortality, almost equal to the being 
 stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a (^ueen Anne s farthing.] 
 
KIP VAN WINKLE. 31 
 
 WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remem 
 ber the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered 
 branch of the great Appalachin family, and are seen away 
 to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording 
 it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
 change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some 
 change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and 
 they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
 baronteters. 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 vapors about their 
 summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and 
 light up like a crown of glory. 
 
 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have des 
 cried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs 
 gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland 
 melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a 
 little village, of great antiquity, having been founded by some of 
 the Dutch colonists, in the early times of the province, just about the 
 beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant, 
 (may he rest in peace!), and there were some of the houses of the 
 original settlers standing within a few years, built of small, yellow 
 bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable 
 fronts, surmounted with weather-cocks. 
 
 In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, to 
 tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
 there lived many years since, while the country was yet a province 
 of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip 
 Van Winkle. He was a ^ie^cenda^t of the Van Winkles who 
 figured so gallantly in the clnvalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, 
 and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, 
 however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I 
 have observed that he was a simple, good-natured man; he was, 
 moreover, a kind neighbor, and an obedient, hen-pecked husband. 
 Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness 
 of spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for those men 
 are most apt to be obsemrious and concilhiting abroad, who are un 
 der the discipline of shrSws at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
 rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic 
 tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all the sermons in the 
 worleLfor teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A 
 termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a 
 -toteraDle" blessing; and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 
 
3 2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among all the good 
 wives of the village, who, as usual with the aml&ble sex, took his 
 part in all family squabbles ; and never failed, whenever they 
 talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the 
 blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, 
 would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at 
 their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly kites and 
 shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, and 
 p Q Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
 * surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clamobring 
 on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; 
 and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neighborhood. 
 
 The great error in Rip s composition was an insuperable aversion 
 ^ to all kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the want of 
 assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with * 
 rod as long and heavy as a Tartar s lance, and fish all day with 
 out a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a 
 single nibble. He would carry a fowling-^aece on his shoulder for 
 hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill 
 and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. He would 
 never refuse to assist a neighbor even in the roughest toil, and was 
 a foremost man at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or 
 building stone-fences ; the women of the village, too, used to 
 employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as 
 their less obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, 
 Rip was ready to attend to anybody s business but his own ; but as 
 io doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it 
 impossible. 
 
 In fact, he Declared it was of no use to work on his farm ; it was 
 the most pestHfent 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 
 e4ther go astXy, or get among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to 
 grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always 
 made a point of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; 
 so that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his 
 management, acre by acre, until there was little more left than a 
 mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst con 
 ditioned farm in the neighborhood. 
 
 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
 to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
 promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. 
 He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother s heete. 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 
 
 (quipped in a pair of his father s cast-off galligaskins, which he 
 had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
 train in bad weather. 
 
 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
 foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white 
 ~~bT3tror brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble, 
 and would rather starve on a permy than work for a pound. If 
 left to himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect con 
 tentment ; but his wife kept continually dinbing in his ears about 
 his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bringing ^pn 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 
 vclle\ from his wife ; so that he was fa\i to draw off his forces, 
 and take to the outside of the house the only side which, in truth, 
 belongs to a hen-pecked husband. "^^ 
 
 Rip s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, j^ho was as 
 much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
 them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
 an evil eye, as the cause of his master s going so often astray. 
 True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he was 
 as courageous an animal as ever scoured the Avoods but what 
 courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors of 
 a woman s tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house his crtest 
 fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his legs; he 
 sneaked about with a galloVs air, casting many a sidelong glance 
 at Dame Van Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or 
 laate, 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 mellbws with age, and a 
 sharp tongue is the only edged 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 His Majesty George the Third. Here they used to sit in 
 the shade through a long, lazy, summer s day, talking listlessly over 
 village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But 
 it would have been worth any statesman s money to hare heard 
 the profound discussions that sometimes ux>k place, when by ib"Ui _e 
 
4. THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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^choolmaster, 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 junto wre completely controlled by Nicho 
 las 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 neighbors could tell the hour by his move 
 ments 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 under 
 stood him, and knew how to gather 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 vapor curl 
 r bout his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of perfect 
 approbation. 
 
 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at lengtn routed 
 by his termagajit~wlfe > "wHo would suddenly break in upon the 
 tranquillity of the assemblage and call the members all to naught; 
 nor was that august personage, Nicholas^ Vedder himself, sacred 
 from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him 
 outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 
 _Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only 
 alternative, to escape from the labor of the farm and clamor of his 
 wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods. 
 Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, and 
 share the contents of his wallet s with Wolf, with whom he sympa 
 thized 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 
 Jad, whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee! " 
 Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master s face, and if 
 ogs can feel pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sennhient 
 with all his heart. 
 
 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
 inconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaats- 
 dll mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, 
 ind the still coptudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 35 
 
 of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the 
 afternoon, on a green knbll, covered with mountain herbage, that 
 crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the 
 trees he could over-look 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 reflec 
 tion of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there 
 sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue 
 highlands. v 
 
 On the other sicje he looked down into a deep mountain gleK 
 wild, lonely, and sh\gged, the bottom filled with fragments from 
 the impending cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
 the setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene; 
 evening was gradually advancing; the mountains began to throw 
 their long, blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would be 
 dark long before he could reach the village, and he heaved a 
 heavy sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
 Van Winkle. 
 
 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
 distance, hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!" He 
 looked round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary 
 flight across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
 deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he heard the 
 same cry ring through the still evening air; "Rip Van Winkle! 
 Rip Van Winkle ! " at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, 
 and giving a low growl, skulked to his master s side, looking fear 
 fully down into the glen. Rip now felt a va^ie apprehension 
 stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the same direction, and 
 perceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
 under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
 surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
 place, but supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in need 
 of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 
 
 On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity 
 of the stranger s appearance. He was a short, square-built old 
 fellow, with thick, bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress 
 was of the antique Dutch fashion a cloth jerkin strapped round 
 the waist several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, 
 decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at the 
 knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed full of 
 liquor, and made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the 
 load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, 
 Rip complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving one 
 
j6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 ^another, they clafhbered 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 deep ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, 
 toward which their rugged path conducted. He paused for an 
 instant, but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those tran- 
 si^nt thunder-showers which often take place in mountain heights, 
 he proceeded. Passing through the rawne, they came to a hollow, 
 like a small amphitheatre, surrounded by perpendicular precipices, 
 over the brinks of which impending trees shot their branches, so 
 that you only caught glimpses of the azuve sky and the bright, 
 evening cloud. During the whole time Rip and his companion 
 had labored on in silence ; for though the former marvelled greatly 
 what could be the object of carrying a keg of liquor up this wild 
 mountain, yet there was something strange and incomprehensible 
 about the unknown, that inspired awe and checked familiarity. 
 
 On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder presented 
 themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd- 
 looking personages playing at nine-pins. Th^y were dressed in a 
 quaint, outlandish fashion ; some wore short doublets, others jerlHns, 
 with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enorrnous 
 breeches, of similar style with that of the guide s. Their visages, 
 too, were peculiar: one had a large beard, broad face, and small, 
 piggish eyes: the face of another seemed to consist entirely of 
 nose, and was surmounted by a white, sugar-loaf hat, set off with a 
 little red cock s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and 
 colors. There was one who seemed to be the commander. He 
 was a stout old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; 
 he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat 
 and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with roses in 
 them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old 
 Flemish painting, in the parlor of Dominie Van Shaick, the village 
 parsbn, and which had been brought over from Holland at the 
 time of the settlement. 
 
 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these 
 folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
 gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
 most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
 interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, 
 which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like 
 rumbling peals of thunder. 
 
 As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
 desisted from fheir play, and stared at him with siich fixed, statue- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 
 
 like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-lustre countenances, 
 s that nis heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. 
 His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
 flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He 
 obeyed with fear and trembling; they qiSlffed the liquor in pro 
 found silence, and then returned to their game.\ 
 
 By degrees Rip s awe and apprehension subsicled. He even ven 
 tured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
 which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. He 
 wa$ naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat the 
 draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiterated his visits 
 to the flagon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, 
 his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell 
 into a deep sleep. 
 
 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had 
 first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes it was a 
 bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering 
 among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting 
 the pure mountain breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not 
 slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
 asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor the mountain 
 ravme the wild retreat among the rocks the wobegone party at 
 nine-pins the flagon " Oh ! that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " 
 thought Rip " what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ! " 
 
 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, well-oiled 
 fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel 
 incruSted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. 
 He now suspected that the grave roysfeerers of the mountain had put 
 a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed 
 him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
 strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him 
 and shouted his name, but all in vain ; the echoes repeated his 
 whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 
 
 He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening s gambol, 
 and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. 
 As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and wanting 
 in his usual activity. " These mountain beds do not agree with 
 me," thought Rip, " and if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of 
 rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." 
 With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he found the 
 gully up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding 
 evening ; but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now 
 foaming down it, leaping from rock to rock, and- filling the glen 
 
38 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 with babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up 
 its sides, working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassa 
 fras, and witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by 
 che wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to 
 tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. 
 
 At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
 the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of such opening 
 remained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall over 
 which the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
 fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur 
 rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
 He again called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered 
 by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a 
 dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and who, secure in their 
 elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the poor man s per 
 plexities. 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 number of people, but 
 none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
 thought himself acquainted with every one in the country round. 
 Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 
 was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of sur 
 prise, and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
 stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture 
 induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his astonish 
 ment, 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 pointing at his gray 
 beard. The dogs, too, not one of which he recognized for an old 
 acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was 
 altered ; it was larger and more populous. There were rows of 
 houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been 
 his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over 
 the doors strange faces at the windows everything was strange. 
 His mind now misgave him ; he began to doubt whether both he 
 and the world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was 
 his native village, which he had left but the day before. There 
 stood the Kaatskill mountains there ran the silver Hudson at a 
 distance there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 39 
 
 been Rip was sorely perplexed " That flagon last night," though* 
 he, "has addled my poor head sadly ! " 
 
 It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own. 
 house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every 
 moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found 
 the house gone to decay the roof fallen in, the windows shattered, 
 and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like 
 Wolf was skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
 snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind 
 cut, indeed "My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has forgotten 
 me! " 
 
 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle 
 had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, and appar 
 ently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial 
 fears he called loudly for his wife and children the lonely cham 
 bers rang for a moment with his voice, and then all again was 
 silence. 
 
 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, the village 
 inn but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety, wooden building stood 
 in its place, with great, gaping windows, some of them broken and 
 nnended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was painted, 
 <c the Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great 
 tree that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there 
 now was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the top that 
 looked like a red night-cap, and from it was fluttering a flag, on 
 which was a singular assemblage of stars and stripes all this was 
 strange and incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, how 
 ever, 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, bustling, 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, doling 
 forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of these, a 
 lean, billious-iooking fellow, with his pockets full of handbills, was 
 haranguing vehemently about the rights of citizens elections 
 
40 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 members of congress liberty Bunker s Hill heroes of seventy- 
 six and other words, which 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 an army of women and chil 
 dren at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. 
 They crowded round him, eyeing him from head to foot with great 
 curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him partly 
 aside, inquired "on which side he voted?" Rip stared in vacant 
 stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow pulled him by the 
 arm and rising on tiptoe, inquired in his ear, " Whether he was a 
 Federal or a Democrat?" Rip was equally at a loss to compre 
 hend the question ; when a knowing, self-important old gentleman, 
 in a sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting 
 them to the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and plant 
 ing himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other 
 resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it 
 were, into his very soul, demanded, in an austere tone, "What 
 brought him to the election with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob 
 at his heels, and whether he meant to breed a riot in the villager 1 " 
 "Alas! gentlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, "I am a 
 poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject ot the 
 king, God bless him ! " 
 
 Here a general shout burst from the bystanders "A tory ! a 
 tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was 
 with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked hat 
 restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, 
 cmanded 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 neigh 
 bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 
 
 "Well who are they? name them." 
 
 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, " Where s Nich 
 olas Vedder?" 
 
 There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, 
 in a thin, piping voice, "Nicholas Vedder! why, he is dead and 
 gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in the 
 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 vas 
 drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony s nose. I don t know 
 he never came back again." 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 4t 
 
 Where s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 
 
 " He went off to the wars, too, was a great militia general, and is 
 now in congress/ 
 
 Rip s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
 home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
 Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous lapses 
 of time, and of matters which he could not understand; war con 
 gress Stony Point ; he had no courage to ask after any more 
 friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van 
 Winkle?" 
 
 "Oh, Rip Van Winkle!" exclaimed two or three, "Oh, to be 
 sure! that s Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the tree." 
 
 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he 
 went up the mountain : apparently as lazy, and certainly as ragged. 
 The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his 
 own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the 
 midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded 
 who he was, and what was his name ? 
 
 " God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit s end ; "I m not myself 
 I m somebody else that s me yonder no that s somebody else 
 got into my shoes I was myself last night, but I fell asleep on the 
 mountain, and they ve changed my gun, and everything s changed, 
 and I m changed, and I can t tell what s my name, or who I am!" 
 
 The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink sig 
 nificantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. Then 
 was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping the old 
 fellow from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which the self- 
 important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. 
 At this critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through tbe 
 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, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it s twenty 
 years since he went away from his home with his gun, and nevev 
 has been heard of since his dog came home without him ; but 
 whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians, 
 nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 
 
 Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a fal 
 tering voice : 
 
42 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 " 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 peddler." 
 
 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. The 
 nonest man could contain himself no longer. He caught his 
 daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your father! " cried 
 he" Young Rip Van Winkle once old Rip Van Winkle now ! 
 Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 
 
 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from among 
 the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering under it in his 
 face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure enough ! it is Rip Van Win 
 kleit is himself! Welcome home again, old neighbor ! Why, 
 where have you been these twenty long years ? 
 
 Rip s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been 
 to him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard 
 it ; some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues in 
 their cheeks : and the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, 
 when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down 
 the corners of his mouth, and shook his head upon which there 
 was a general shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 
 
 It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
 Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
 was a descendent of the historian of that name, who wrote one of 
 the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient 
 inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all the wonderful 
 events and traditions of the neighborhood. He recollected Rip at 
 once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. 
 He assured the company that it was a fact, handed down from his 
 ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always 
 been haunted by strange beings. 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 enterprise, 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 sum 
 mer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of 
 thunder. 
 
 To make a long story short, the company broke up, and returned 
 to the more important concerns of the election. Rip s daughter 
 took him home to live with her ; she had a snug, well-furnished 
 house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip recol- 
 
RIP VAN WINKLE. 43 
 
 tected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As 
 to Rip s son and heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning 
 against the tree, he was employed to work on the farm ; but 
 evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but 
 his business. 
 
 Rip riow 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 gen 
 eration, with whom he soon grew into great favor. 
 
 Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
 age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place once 
 more on the bench at the inn door, 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 ov gossip, or could be made to comprehend the 
 strange events that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
 there had been a revolutionary war that the country had thrown 
 off the yoke of old England and that, instead of being a subject 
 of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free citizen of the 
 United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician ; the changes u, 
 states and ejnpires made but little impression on him ; but there 
 was one species of despotism under which he had long groaned, 
 and that was petticoat government. Happily, that was at an end ; 
 he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could go 
 in and out whenever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of 
 Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, 
 he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; 
 which might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, 
 or joy at his deliverance. 
 
 He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 
 Doolittle s hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some 
 points every time he told it, which was, doubtless, owing to his 
 having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
 the tale I have related, and not a man, woman, or child in the 
 neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
 doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
 head, and that this was one point on which he always remained 
 flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
 gave it full credit. Even to this day they never hear a thunder 
 storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say 
 Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and 
 it is a common wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbor 
 hood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
 a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle s flagon. 
 
44 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 
 Mr. Knickerbocker by a little Gorman superstition about the 
 Emperor Frederick der Rothbart, and the Kyphaiiser mountain: 
 the subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, 
 shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity 
 
 "The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many 
 but nevertheless, I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity o* 
 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 Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
 was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and con 
 sistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person 
 could refuse to take this into the bargain ; nay, I have seen a cer 
 tificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
 with a cross, in the justice s own handwriting. The story, there 
 fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 
 
 D. K. M 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book of 
 
 Mr. Knickerbocker: 
 
 The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 
 full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, 
 who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over tht 
 landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were 
 ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt 
 on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors 
 of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She 
 hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into 
 stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin 
 light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send 
 them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like 
 flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air ; until, dissolved by the 
 heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass 
 to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. 
 If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, 
 sitting in the midst of them like a bottle- bellied spider in the midst 
 of its web ; and when these clouds broke, wobetide the valleys ! 
 
 In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
 Monitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Cat- 
 skill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all 
 kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he 
 would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the 
 bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
 among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! 
 leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
 torrent. 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 45 
 
 The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 
 rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
 flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
 abound in its 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 watersnakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the 
 pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great 
 awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not 
 pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, 
 a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, 
 where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of 
 trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the 
 hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
 stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
 precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its 
 way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day ; 
 being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 
 
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 
 
 " Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself 
 like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks: methinks I 
 see her as an eagle, mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled 
 eyes at the full midday beam." 
 
 MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS. 
 
 IT is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary 
 animosity daily growing up between England and America. 
 Great curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the 
 United States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of 
 travels through the Republic ; but they seem intended to diffuse 
 error rather than knowledge; and so successful have they been, 
 that, notwithstanding the constant intercourse between 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. 
 Where no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal 
 them for profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful 
 and graphical descriptions of external objects ; but when either 
 the interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision 
 with that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget 
 their usual probity and candor, in the indulgence of splenetic 
 remark, and an illiberal spirit of ridicule. 
 
 Hence, their travels are more honest and accurate, the more 
 remote the country described. I would place implicit confidence 
 
45 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 in an Englishman s descriptions of the regions beyond the ca!a 
 racts 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 illustrations of their fancies ; but I 
 would cautiously receive his account of his immediate neighbors, 
 and of those nations with which he is in habits of most frequent 
 intercourse. However I might be disposed to trust his probity, I 
 dare not trust his prejudices. 
 
 It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by 
 the worst kind of English travellers. While men of philosophical 
 spirit and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack 
 the poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and 
 customs of barbarous nations, with which she can have no perma 
 nent intercourse of profit or pleasure ; it has been left to the 
 broken-down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering 
 mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be our 
 oracles respecting America. From such sources she is content to 
 receive her information respecting a country in a singular state of 
 moral and physical development ; a country in which one of the 
 greatest political experiments in the history of the world is now 
 performing ; and which presents the most profound and momentous 
 studies to the statesman and the philosopher. 
 
 ""That such men should give prejudicial accounts of America is 
 not a matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contemplation 
 are too vast and elevated for their capacities. The national 
 character is yet in a state of fermentation ; it may have its frothi- 
 ness and sediment, 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 operating to strengthen and 
 ennoble it, and its daily indications of admirable properties, are all 
 lost upon these purblind observers ; who are only affected by the 
 little asperities incident to its present situation. They are capable 
 of judging only of the surface of things ; of those matters which 
 come in contact with their private interests and personal gratifica 
 tions. They miss some of the snug conveniences and petty 
 comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished, and over- 
 populous state of society where the ranks of useful labor are 
 crowded, and many earn a painful and servile subsistence by 
 studying the very caprices of appetite and self-indulgence. These 
 minor comforts, however, are all-important in the estimation of 
 narrow minds; which either do not perceive, or will not acknowl 
 edge, that they are more than counterbalanced among us by great 
 and generally diffused blessings. 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 47 
 
 They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unreason 
 able expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured 
 America to themselves an El Dorado, where gold and silver 
 abound, and the natives were lacking in sagacity ; and where they 
 were to become strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforseen, 
 but easy manner. The same weakness of mind that indulges 
 absurd expectations produces petulance in disappointment. Such 
 persons become embittered against the country on rinding that there, 
 as everywhere else, a man must sow before he can reap ; must win 
 wealth by industry and talent ; and must contend with the common 
 difficulties of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and 
 enterprising people. 
 
 Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill-directed hospitality, or from 
 the prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, 
 prevalent among my countrymen, they may have been treated 
 with unwonted respect in America; and having been accustomed 
 all their lives to consider themselves below the surface of good 
 society, and brought up in a servile feeling of inferiority, they 
 become arrogant on the common boon of civility : they attribute 
 to the lowliness of others their own elevation ; and underrate a 
 society where there are no artificial distinctions, and where, by 
 chance, such individuals as themselves can rise to consequence. 
 ** One would suppose, however, that information coming from such 
 sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would be 
 received with caution by the censors of the press ; that the motives 
 of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of inquiry and 
 observation, and their capacities for judging correctly, would bt 
 rigorously scrutinized before their evidence was admitted, in such 
 sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse, 
 however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human 
 inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which 
 English critics will examine the credibility of the traveller who 
 publishes an account of some distant, and comparatively unim 
 portant country. How warily will they compare the measure 
 ments of a pyramid, or the descriptions of a ruin ; and how sternly 
 will they censure any inaccuracy in the contributions of merely 
 curious knowledge : while they will receive, with eagerness and 
 unhesitating faith, the gross misrepresentations of coarse and 
 obscure writers, concerning a country with which their own is 
 placed in the most important and delicate relations. Nay, they 
 will even make these apocryphal volumes text-books, on which to 
 enlarge with a zeal and an ability worthy of a more generous 
 cause. 
 
45 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 T shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackneyed topic, 
 nor should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest appar 
 ently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious 
 effects which I apprehended it might produce upon the national 
 feeling. We attach too much consequence to these attacks. They 
 cannot do us any essential injury. The tissue of misrepresenta 
 tions attempted to be woven round ns are like cobwebs woven 
 round the limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually 
 outgrows them. One falsehood after another falls off of itself. 
 We have but to live on, and every day we live a whole volume of 
 refutation. 
 
 All the writers of England united, if we could for a moment 
 suppose their great minds stooping to so unworthy a combina 
 tion, could not conceal our rapidly-growing importance, and 
 matchless prosperity. They could not conceal that these are 
 owing, not merely to physical and local, but also to moral causes 
 to the political liberty, the general diffusion of knowledge, the pre 
 valence of sound moral and religious principles, which give force 
 and sustained energy to the character of a people ; and which, in 
 fact, have been the acknowledged and wonderful supporters of 
 their own national power and glory. 
 
 But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England ? 
 Why do we suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she 
 has endeavored to cast upon us? It is not in the opinion of Eng 
 land alone that honor lives, and reputation has its being. The 
 world at large is the arbitrator of a nation s fame ; with its thousand 
 eyes it witnesses a nation s deeds, and from their collective testi 
 mony is national glory or national disgrace established. 
 
 For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little impor 
 tance whether England does us justice or not; it is, perhaps, of far 
 more importance to herself. She is instilling anger and resentment 
 into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its growth and 
 strengthen with strength. If in America, as some of her writers are 
 laboring to convince her, she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, 
 and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers for having 
 provoked rivalship and irritated hostility. Every one knows the 
 all-pervading influence of literature at the present day, and how 
 much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its control. 
 The mere contests of the sword are temporary ; their wounds are 
 but in the flesh, and it is the pride of the generous to forgive and 
 forget them ; but the slanders of the pen pierce to the heart ; they 
 rankle longest in the noblest spirits ; they dwell ever present in the 
 mind, and render it morbidly sensitive to the most trifling collision, 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 49 
 
 It is but seldom that any one overt act produces hostilities between 
 two nations ; there exists, most commonly, a previous jealousy and 
 ill-will ; a predisposition to take offence. Trace these to their 
 cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the mis 
 chievous effusions of mercenary writers; who, secure in their 
 closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the 
 venom that is to inflame the generous and the brave. 
 
 I am not laying too much stress upon this point ; for it applies 
 most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the 
 press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America ; 
 for the universal education of the poorest classes makes every 
 individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on 
 the subject of our country that does not circulate through every 
 part of it. There is not a calumny dropped from English pen, nor 
 an unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does 
 not go to blight good-will, and add to the mass of latent resent 
 ment. Possessing, then, as England does, the fountain-head 
 whence the literature of the language flows, how completely is it in 
 her power, and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of 
 amiable and magnanimous feeling a stream where the two nations 
 might meet together, and drink in peace and kindness. Should 
 she, however, persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time 
 may come when she may repent her folly. The present friendship 
 of America may be of but little moment to her; but the future 
 destinies of that country do not admit of a doubt ; over those of 
 England there lower some shadows of uncertainty. Should, then, 
 a day of gloom arrive ; should these reverses overtake her, from 
 which the proudest empires have not been exempt ; she may look 
 back with regret at her infatuation in repulsing from her side a 
 nation she might have grappled to her bosom, and thus destroying 
 her only chance for real friendship beyond the boundaries of her 
 own dominions. 
 
 There is a general impression in England, that the people of the 
 United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the 
 errors which have been diligently propagated by designing writers. 
 There is, doubtless, considerable political hostility, and a general 
 soreness at the illiberality of the English press ; but, generally 
 speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favor of 
 England. Indeed, at one time, they amounted, in many parts of 
 the Union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of 
 Englishman was a passport to the confidence and hospitality of 
 every family, and too often gave a transient currency to the worth 
 less and the ungrateful. Throughout the country there was some- 
 
50 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 thing of enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We 
 looked to it wich a hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration, 
 as the land of our forefathers the august repository of the monu 
 ments and antiquities of our race the birthplace and mausoleum 
 of the sages and heroes of our paternal history. After our own 
 country, there was none in whose glory we more delighted none 
 whose good opinion we were more anxious to possess none towards 
 which our hearts yearned with such throbbings of warm consan 
 guinity. Even during the late war, whenever there was the least 
 opportunity for kind feelings to spring forth, it was the delight of 
 the generous spirits of our country to show that, in the midst of hos 
 tilities, they still kept alive the sparks of future friendship. 
 
 Is all this to be at an end ? Is this golden band of kindred 
 sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken for ever? Per 
 haps it is for the best it may dispel an illusion which might have 
 kept us in mental vassalage ; which might have interfered occa 
 sionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of proper 
 national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie ! and 
 there are feelings dearer than interest closer to the heart than 
 pride that will still make us cast back a look of regret, as we 
 wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, and lament the 
 waywardness of the parent that would repel the affections of the 
 child. 
 
 Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of Eng 
 land may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part 
 would be equally ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited 
 vindication of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her slan 
 derers but I allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind ; to retort 
 sarcasm, and inspire prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely 
 among our writers. Let us guard particularly against such a 
 temper, for it would double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. 
 Nothing is so easy and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm ; 
 but it is a paltry and an unprofitable contest. It is the alternative 
 of a morbid mind, fretted into petulance, rather than warmed into 
 indignation. If England is willing to permit the mean jealousies 
 of trade, or the rancorous animosities of politics, to deprave the 
 integrity of her press, and poison the fountain of public opinion, let 
 us beware of her example. She may deem it her interest to diffuse 
 error, and engender antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigra 
 tion ; 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 rival- 
 ships with England, we are the rising and the gaining party. There 
 can be no end to answer, therefore, but the gratification of resent- 
 
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA. 51 
 
 ment a mere spirit of retaliation ; and even that is impotent. Our 
 retorts are never republished in England ; they fall short, therefore, 
 of their aim ; but they foster a querulous and peevish temper 
 among our writers ; they sour the sweet flow of our early literature, 
 and sow thorns and brambles among its blossoms. What is still 
 worse, they circulate through our own country, and, as far as they 
 have effect, excite virulent national prejudices. This last is the 
 evil most especially to be deprecated. Governed, as we are, en 
 tirely by public opinion, the utmost care should be taken to pre 
 serve the purity of the public mind. Knowledge is power, and 
 truth is knowledge ; whoever, therefore, knowingly propagates a 
 prejudice, willfully saps the foundation of his country s strength. 
 
 The members of a republic, above all other men, should be can 
 did and dispassionate. They are, individually, portions of the 
 sovereign mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come 
 to all questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judg 
 ments. From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, 
 we must have more frequent questions of a difficult and delicate 
 character with her than with any other nation ; questions that 
 affect the most acute and excitable feelings ; and as, in the adjust 
 ing of these, our national measures must ultimately be determined 
 by popular sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify 
 it from all latent passion or prepossession. 
 
 Opening, too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every por- 
 cion 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 merely the overt acts of 
 hospitality, but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring 
 from liberality of opinion. 
 
 What have we to do with national prejudices? They are the 
 inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant 
 ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond 
 their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the con 
 trary, have sprung into national existence in an enlightened and 
 philosophic age, when the different parts of the habitable world, 
 and the various branches of the human family, have been inde- 
 fatigably studied and made known to each other ; and we forego , 
 the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the national 
 prejudices, as we would the local superstitions of the old world. 
 
 But above all let us not be influenced by any angry feelings, so 
 far as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excellent 
 and amiable in the English character. We are a young people, 
 necessarily an imitative one, and must take our examples and, 
 
52 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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 .pinion 
 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 intrin 
 sically excellent ; for it is in the moral feeling of the people that the 
 deep foundations of British prosperity are laid ; and however the 
 superstructure may be time-worn, or overrun by abuses, there must 
 be something solid in the basis, admirable in the materials, and 
 stable in the structure of an edifice that so long has towered 
 unshaken amidst the tempests of the world. 
 
 Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings 
 of irritation, and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality of British 
 authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with 
 determined candor. While they rebuke the indiscriminating big 
 otry with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate every 
 thing English, merely because it is English, let them frankly point 
 out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place 
 England before us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are 
 recorded sound deductions from ages of experience; and while we 
 avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the 
 page, we may draw thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, 
 wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national character. 
 
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 
 
 Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
 Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
 Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 
 
 COWPEB. 
 
 THE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English 
 character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. 
 He must go forth into the country ; he must sojourn in villages 
 and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages ; he 
 must wander through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green 
 lanes ; he must loiter about country churches; attend wakes and 
 fairs, and other rural festivals; and cope with the people in all 
 their conditions, and all their habits and humors. 
 
 In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 53 
 
 of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intel 
 ligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boor 
 ish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis is a 
 mere gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, 
 where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gayety 
 and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of carnival, return 
 again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The 
 various orders of society are, therefore, diffused over the whole sur 
 face of the kingdom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford 
 specimens of the different ranks. 
 
 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
 They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature and a 
 keen relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This 
 passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, 
 born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter 
 with facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occupa 
 tion. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the 
 metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the 
 cultivation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as 
 he does in the conduct of his business, and the success of a com 
 mercial enterprise. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are 
 doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive 
 to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of 
 nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the 
 drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers; every 
 spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-bed ; and 
 every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, and 
 gleaming with refreshing verdure. 
 
 Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form an 
 unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed 
 in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that dissi 
 pate time, thought, and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has, 
 therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wher 
 ever 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 wander 
 ing to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating 
 how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in 
 the morning. An immense metropolis like London, is calculated to 
 make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and 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 
 
54 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 feelings. H breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and 
 negative civilities of town ; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and 
 becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect round 
 him all the conveniences and elegancies of polite life, and to ban 
 ish its restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, 
 either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise, 
 Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of 
 all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests 
 or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means 
 of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his 
 inclination. 
 
 The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what 
 is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have studied 
 nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful 
 forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, which in 
 other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled 
 round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her 
 coy and furtive graces, and spread them like witchery about their 
 rural abodes. 
 
 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English 
 park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, 
 with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles 
 of foliage : the solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with 
 the deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the hare, bounding 
 away to the covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the 
 wing : the brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings, or expand 
 into a glassy lake : the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering 
 trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout 
 roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic temple 
 or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, gives an air of 
 classic sanctity to the seclusion. 
 
 These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what 
 most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English dec 
 orate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habita 
 tion, 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 capabilities, 
 and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot 
 grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art 
 which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cher 
 ishing 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 green slope of velvet turf; the par- 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 4$ 
 
 tial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water: 
 all these managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assid 
 uity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a 
 favorite picture. 
 
 The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country 
 has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that 
 descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched 
 cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. 
 The trim hedge, the grass plot before the door, the little flower-bed 
 bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, 
 and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in 
 the window, the holly, providently planted about the house, to cheat 
 winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green 
 summer to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of 
 taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest 
 levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights 
 to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. 
 
 The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English 
 has had a great and salutary effect upon the national character. I 
 do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. 
 Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterize the men 
 of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and 
 strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, 
 which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in 
 the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea 
 tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a 
 healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity 
 of manners, which even the follies and dissipations of the town 
 cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the 
 country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more 
 freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon 
 each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so 
 marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which 
 property has been distributed into small estates and farms has estab 
 lished a regular graduation from the nobleman, through the classes 
 of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down 
 to the laboring peasantry ; and while it has thus branded the extremes 
 of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a 
 spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so 
 universally the case at present as it was formerly ; the larger estates 
 having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some 
 parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small 
 farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual break* in the 
 general system I have mentioned 
 
56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
 leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; 
 it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by 
 the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a man 
 / may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of 
 refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with 
 the lower orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles 
 with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and 
 reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter 
 into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed, the 
 very amusements of the country bring men more and more 
 together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into 
 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 why the latter have endured 
 so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more 
 generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 
 
 To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
 attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the 
 frequent use of illustrations from rural life ; those incomparable 
 descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets, that have 
 continued down from " the Flower and the Leaf " of Chaucer, and 
 have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the 
 dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as 
 if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted 
 with her general charms; but the British poets have lived and 
 revelled with her they have wooed her in her most secret haunts 
 they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
 tremble in the breeze a leaf could not rustle to the ground a 
 diamond drop could not patter in the stream a fragrance could 
 not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson 
 tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned 
 and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful 
 morality. 
 
 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations 
 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 continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves 
 
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. tf 
 
 and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small 
 landscapes of captivating loveliness. 
 
 The great daarm, however, of English scenery is the moral feel 
 ing that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with 
 ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-estaolished principles, of 
 lioary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the 
 growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church 
 of remote architecture, with its low, massive portal; its gothic 
 tower; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass, in scrupu 
 lous preservation; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies 
 of the olden time, ancestors 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 repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants 
 the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, across 
 pleasant fields, and along shady hedge-rows, according to an 
 immemorial right of way the neighboring village, with its vener 
 able cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which the 
 forefathers of the present race have sported the antique family 
 mansion, standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking 
 down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : all these 
 common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled 
 security and hereditary transmission of home-bred virtues and 
 local attachments, that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral 
 character of the nation. 
 
 It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is send 
 ing its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peasantry 
 in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerfulness, 
 thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it is still 
 more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about their 
 cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and 
 embellishments which their own hands have spread around them. 
 
 It is this sweet home-feeling, this settled repose of affection in 
 the domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest 
 virtues and purest enjoyments ; and I cannot close these desultory 
 remarks better than by quoting the words of a modern English 
 poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : 
 
 Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 
 The city dome, the villa crown d with shade, 
 But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
 In town or hamlet, shelt ring middle life, 
 Down to the cottaged vale, and straw roof d shed; 
 
58 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 
 
 This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 
 Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place : 
 Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove 
 (Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard). 
 Can centre in a little quiet nest 
 All that desire would fly for through the earth 
 That can, the world eluding, be itself 
 A world enjoy d ; that wants no witnesses 
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven ; 
 That, like a flower deep hid in the rocky cleft, 
 Smiles, though tis looking only at the sky.* 
 
 * From a Poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend 
 Eann Kennedy, A.M. 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 I never heard 
 
 Of any true affection, but twas nipt 
 With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats 
 The leaves of the spring s sweetest book, the rose. 
 
 MlDDLETON. 
 
 ris a common practice with those who have outlived the suscep 
 tibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay 
 heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to 
 treat the tales of romantic passion as mere fictions of novelists and 
 poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to 
 think otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the 
 surface of the character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of 
 the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, 
 still there are dormant fires lurking in the depths of the coldest 
 bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are 
 sometimes desolating in their effects. Indeed, I am a true believer- 
 in the blind deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines. Shall 
 I confess it ? I believe in broken hearts, and the possibility of 
 disappointed love. I do not, however, consider it a malady often 
 fatal to my own sex ; but I firmly believe that it withers down 
 many a lovely woman into an early grave. 
 
 Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads 
 him forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but 
 the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals 
 of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the 
 world s thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a 
 woman s whole life is the history of the affections. The heart is 
 
THE BROKEN HEAR T. 59 
 
 her world : it is there her ambition strives for empire \ it is there 
 her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her 
 sympathies on adventure ; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic 
 of affection ; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless for it is a 
 bankruptcy of the heart. 
 
 To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter 
 pangs : it wounds some feelings of tenderness it blasts some 
 prospects of felicity ; but he is an active being he may dissipate 
 his thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation, or may plunge into 
 the tide of pleasure ; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full 
 of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking, 
 as it were, the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts 
 of the earth, and be at reft." 
 
 But woman s is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and medita 
 tive life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and 
 feelings ; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall 
 she look for consolation ? Her lot is to be wooed and won ; and 
 if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been 
 captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate. 
 
 How many bright eyes grow dim how many soft cheeks grow 
 pale how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none 
 can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will 
 clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is 
 preying on its vitals, so is it the nature of woman to hide from the 
 world the pangs of wounded affection. The love of a delicate 
 female is always sby and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely 
 breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the 
 recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the 
 ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. 
 The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the 
 cheerful exercises which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses, 
 and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. 
 Her rest is broken the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by 
 melancholy 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 the worm." You will be told of 
 some wintry chill, some casual indisposition, that laid her low ; 
 but no one knows of the mental malady which previously sapped 
 b&.i strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler. 
 
 She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove ; 
 
66 THE SKETCH-BOOK 
 
 graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying 
 at hs heart. We find it suddenly withering, when it should be 
 most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping 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 thunder 
 bolt that could have smitten it with decay. 
 
 I have seen many instances of women running to waste and 
 self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as 
 if they had been exhaled to heaven ; and have repeatedly fancied 
 that I could trace their death through the various declensions of 
 consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached 
 the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the 
 kind was lately told to me ; the circumstances are well known in 
 the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the 
 manner in which they were related. 
 
 Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E , the 
 
 Irish patriot ; it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the 
 troubles in Ireland, he was tried, condemned, and executed on a 
 charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public 
 sympathy. He was so young so intelligent so generous so 
 brave so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His 
 conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid. The noble 
 indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason 
 against his country the eloquent vindication of his name and 
 his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condem 
 nation 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 impossible 
 to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the 
 affections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late 
 celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disinterested 
 fervor of woman s first and early love. When every worldly 
 maxim arrayed itself against him ; when blasted in fortune, and 
 disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him 
 the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could 
 awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the 
 agony of her whose whole soul was occupied by his image ! Let 
 those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed 
 between them and the being they most loved on earth who have 
 sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world 
 whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed. 
 
THE BR OKEN HEAR T. 6l 
 
 But then the horrors of such a grave ! so frightful, so dishon 
 ored ! there was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe 
 the pang of separation none of those tender though melancholy 
 circumstances, which endear the parting scene nothing to melt 
 sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven, to 
 revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish. 
 
 To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred 
 her father s displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, 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 attentions 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 lover. But it was all 
 in vain. There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and 
 scorch the soul which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness 
 and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never 
 objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone 
 there as in the depths of solitude ; walking about in a sad reverie, 
 apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with 
 her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friend 
 ship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never 
 so wisely." 
 
 The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade. 
 There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking 
 and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering 
 like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all arc- nid is gay to see 
 it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and 
 wobegone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a 
 momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the 
 splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, 
 she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and, looking 
 about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility 
 to the garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly 
 heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice ; 
 but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth 
 such a soul of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent 
 around her, and melted every one into tears. 
 
 The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great 
 interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely 
 won the heart of a brave officer, who paid his ad ires c ts to her. 
 
62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 and thought that one so true to the dead could not but prove affeo 
 tionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her thoughts 
 were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former lover. 
 He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her tenderness: 
 but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his worth, 
 and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation, for she 
 was existing on the kindness of friends. In a word, he at lengtl 
 succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn assurance 
 that her heart was unalterably another s. 
 
 He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene 
 might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an 
 amiable and exemplary wife, and made an effort to be a happy 
 one ; but nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy 
 that had entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow, 
 but hopeless decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim 
 of a broken heart. 
 
 It was on her that Moore, the distinguished Irish poet, composec 
 the following lines : 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, 
 
 And lovers around her are sighing: 
 But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, 
 
 For her heart in his grave is lying. 
 
 She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 
 
 Every note which he loved awaking 
 Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, 
 
 How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 
 
 He had lived for his love for his country he died, 
 They were all that to life had entwined him 
 
 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, 
 Nor long will his love stay behind himl 
 
 Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, 
 When they promise a glorious morrow ; 
 
 They ll shine o er her sleep, like a smile from the west* 
 From her own loved island of sorrow ! 
 
THE ART OF~ BOOK-MAKING, 63 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING. 
 
 "If that severe doom of Synesius be true It is a greater offence to teal 
 dead men s labor, tlian their clothes, what shall become of most writers! " 
 
 BURTON S ANATOMY or 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 
 seemed to have inflicted the curse of barrenness, should teem 
 with voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the 
 iourney of life, his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is con 
 tinually finding out some very simple cause for some great matter 
 of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about this 
 great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me 
 some of the mysteries of the book-making craft, and at once put an 
 end to my astonishment. 
 
 I was one summer s day loitering through the great saloons of 
 the British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to 
 saunter about a museum in warm weather ; sometimes lolling over 
 the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics 
 on an Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal 
 success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty ceil 
 ings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way, my attention was 
 attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It 
 was closed, but every now and then it would open, and some 
 strange-favored being, generally clothed in black, would steal 
 forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any of the 
 surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery about. this that 
 piqued my languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the pas 
 sage of that strait, and to explore the unknown regions beyond. 
 The door yielded to my hand, with that facility with which the 
 portals of enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. 
 I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases 
 of venerable books. Above the cases, and just under the cornice, 
 were arranged a great number of black-looking portraits of ancient 
 authors. About the room were placed long tables, with stands for 
 reading and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, 
 poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy 
 manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their contents. A hushed 
 stillness reigned through this mysterious apartment, excepting that 
 
64 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 you might hear the racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occa* 
 sionally, the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his posi 
 tion to turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless arising from 
 that hollowness and flatulency incident to learned research. 
 
 Now and then one of these personages would write something 
 on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar 
 would appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the 
 room, and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which 
 the other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. I had 
 no longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of magi, 
 deeply engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene 
 reminded me of an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in 
 an enchanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened 
 only once a year ; where he made the spirits of the place bring 
 him books of all kinds of dark knowledge, so that at the end of 
 the year, when the magic portal once more swung open on its 
 hinges, he issued forth so versed in forbidden lore as to be able to 
 soar above the heads of the multitude, and to control the powers 
 of nature. 
 
 My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to one of th 
 familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an inter 
 pretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were suffi 
 cient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious personages, 
 whom I had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and in 
 the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the read 
 ing-room of the great British Library an immense collection of 
 volumes of all ages and languages, many of which are now for 
 gotten, and most of which are seldon read : one of these seques 
 tered pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors repair, 
 and draw buckets full of classic lore, or " pure English, undefiled," 
 wherewith to swell their own scanty rills of thought. 
 
 Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner, and 
 watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean, 
 bilious-looking wight, who sought none but the most worm-eaten 
 volumes, printed in black-letter. He was evidently constructing 
 some work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by 
 every man who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a con 
 spicuous shelf of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never 
 read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large fragment of 
 biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw ; whether it was his dinner, or 
 whether he was endeavoring to keep off that exhaustion of the 
 stomach produced by much pondering over dry works, I leave to 
 fcarder students than myself to determine. 
 
THE ART OF BO OK-MAKING. 65 
 
 There was one dapper little gentleman in bright-colored clothes, 
 with a chirping, gossiping expression of countenance, who had all 
 the appearance of an anthor on good terms with his bookseller. 
 After considering him attentively, I recognized in 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 business than any of the others ; dip 
 ping into various books, fluttering over the leaves of manuscripts, 
 taking a morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, "line upon 
 line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little." The 
 contents of his book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the 
 witches caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a 
 thumb, toe of frog and blind-worm s sting, with his own gossip 
 poured in like "baboon s blood," to make the medley "slab and 
 good." 
 
 After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be implanted 
 in authors for wise purposes ; may it not be the way in which 
 Providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and wis 
 dom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable 
 decay of the works in which they were first produced ? We see 
 ihat nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the con- 
 veyance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
 birds; so that animals, which, in themselves, are little better than 
 carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and 
 the cornfield, are, in fact, nature s carriers to disperse and perpet 
 uate her blessings. In like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts 
 of ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by these flights of 
 predatory writers, and cast forth again to flourish and bear fruit in 
 a remote and distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, 
 undergo a kind of metempsychosis, and spring up under new forms. 
 What was formerly a ponderous history revives in the shape of a 
 romance an old legend changes into a modern play and a sober 
 philosophical treatise furnishes the body for a whole series of bounc 
 ing and sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our Ameri 
 can woodlands ; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a 
 progeny of dwarf oaks start up in their place : and we never see 
 the prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it gives birth 
 to a whole tribe of fungi. 
 
 Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion into which 
 ancient writers descend ; they do but submit to the great law of 
 nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall 
 be limited in their duration, but which decrees, also, that their 
 elements shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in 
 3 
 
66 THE SKETCH-J5 O OK. 
 
 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 numerous 
 progeny, in a good old age they sleep with their fathers, that is to 
 say, with the authors who preceded them and from whom they 
 had stolen. 
 
 Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had leaned 
 my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing 
 to the soporific emanations from these works ; or to the profound 
 quiet of the room ; or to the lassitude arising from much wander 
 ing ; or to an unlucky habit of napping at improper times and 
 places, with which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell 
 into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and, 
 indeed, the same scene remained before my mind s eye, only alittle 
 changed in some of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was 
 still decorated with the portraits of ancient authors, but that the 
 number was increased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in 
 place of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, 
 such as may be seen plying about the great repository of cast-off 
 clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized upon a book, by 
 one of those incongrutles common to dreams, methought it turned 
 into a garment of foreign or antique fashion, with which they pros 
 ceeded to equip themselves. I noticed, however, that no one pre 
 tended to clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve 
 from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus decking 
 himself out piecemeal, while some of his original rags would peep 
 out from among his borrowed finery. 
 
 There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed 
 ogling several mouldy polemical writers through an eye-glass. He 
 soon contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old 
 fathers, and, having purloined the gray beard of another, en 
 deavored to look exceedingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace 
 of his countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One 
 sickly -looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very flimsy 
 garment with gold thread drawn out of several old court-dresses of 
 the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself mag 
 nificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in 
 his bosom, culled from "The Paradise of Daintie Devices," and 
 having put Sir Philip Sidney s hat on one side of his head, strutted 
 off with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but 
 of puny dimensions, had 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 
 
THE AR T OF BOOK-MAKING. 67 
 
 perceived that he had patched his small-clothes with scraps of 
 parchment from a Latin author. 
 
 There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only 
 helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own 
 ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some, too, seemed to con 
 template the costumes of the old writers, merely to imbibe their 
 principles of taste, and to catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve te 
 say, that too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe in 
 the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit to 
 speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an Arca 
 dian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose 
 rural wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Prim 
 rose Hill, and the solitudes of the Regent s Park. He had decked 
 himself in wreaths and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, 
 hanging his head on one side, went about with a fantastical lack-a- 
 daisical air, "babbling about green fields." But the personage 
 that most struck my attention was a pragmatical old gentleman, in 
 clerical robes, with a remarkably large and square, but bald head. 
 He entered the room wheezing and puffing, elbowed his way 
 through the throng, with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and hav- 
 kig laid hands upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head 
 and swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 
 
 In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly re-> 
 sounded from every side, of "Thieves! thieves! " I looked, and 
 lo ! the portraits about the wall became animated ! The old 
 authors thrust out, first a head, then a shoulder, from the canvas, 
 looked down curiously for an instant upon the motley throng, and 
 then descended with fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. 
 The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all 
 description. The unhappy culprits endeavored in vain to escape 
 with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old 
 monks, stripping a modern professor ; on another, there was sad 
 devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers. 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, raged round the field like 
 Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders 
 than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the 
 dapper little compiler of farragos, mentioned some time since, he 
 had arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as Harlequin, 
 and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as 
 about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to see many 
 men, to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and rev 
 erence, fain to steal off with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. 
 Just then my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman it 
 
68 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 the Greek grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright 
 with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! They were close 
 upon his haunches : in a twinkling off went his wig ; at every turn 
 some strip of raiment was peeled away ; until in a few moments, 
 from his domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy, 
 " chopped bald shot," and made his exit with only a few tags and 
 rags fluttering at his back. 
 
 There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this 
 learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, 
 which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle were 
 at an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old 
 authors shrunk back into their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy 
 solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake 
 in my corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms gazing at 
 me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but 
 my burst of laughter, a sound never before head in that grave 
 sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom, as to electrify 
 }he fraternity. 
 
 The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded whether I 
 /iad a card of admission. At first I did not comprehend him, but 
 I soon found that the library was a kind of literary "preserve," 
 subject to the game-laws, and that no one must presume to hunt 
 there without special license and permission. In a word, I stood 
 convicted of being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a pre 
 cipitate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors let 
 loose upon me. 
 
 A ROYAL POET. 
 
 Though your body be confined, 
 
 And soft love a prisoner bound, 
 Yet the beauty of your mind 
 Neither check nor chain hath found, 
 Look out nobly, then, and dare 
 Even the fetters that you wear, 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 ON a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made an 
 excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and 
 poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud 
 old pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its inegulal 
 walls and massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a 
 lofty ridge, waves its royal banner in the clouds and looks down, 
 with a lordly air, upon the surrounding world. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 69 
 
 On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind, 
 which calls forth all the latent romance of a man s temperament, 
 filling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote poetry and 
 dream of beauty. In wandering through the magnificent saloons 
 and long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indifference 
 by whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered 
 in the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties which 
 graced the gay court of Charles the Second ; and as I gazed upon 
 them, depicted with amorous, half-dishevelled tresses, and the 
 sleepy eye of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely, which 
 had thus enabled me to bask in the reflected rays of beauty. In 
 traversing also the "large green courts," with sunshine beaming 
 on the gray walls, and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was 
 engrossed with the image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless 
 Surrey, and his account of his loiterings about them in his stripling 
 days, when enamored of the Lady Geraldine 
 
 " With eyes cast up unto the maiden s tower, 
 With e asie sighs, such as men draw in love." 
 
 In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient 
 Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland, the pride 
 and theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of 
 his youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, 
 that has stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. 
 It stands on a mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the 
 castle, and a great flight of steps leads to the interior. In the arm 
 ory, a Gothic hall, furnished with weapons of various kinds and 
 ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall, which 
 had once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a stair 
 case to a suite of apartments of faded magnificence, hung with 
 storied tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that 
 passionate and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his 
 story the magical hues of poetry and fiction. 
 
 The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is 
 highly romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from 
 home by his father, Robert III., and destined for the French court, 
 to be reared under the eye of the French monarch, secure from the 
 treachery and danger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. 
 It was his mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands 
 of the English, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV., not 
 withstanding that a truce existed between the two countries. 
 
 The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many 
 sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. "The 
 
7 o . THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 news," we are told, "was brought to him while at supper, and 
 did so overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to give 
 up the ghost into the hands of the servant that attended him. But 
 being carried to his bed-chamber, he abstained from all food, and 
 in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay." * 
 
 James was detained in captivity above eighteen years ; but 
 though deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect 
 due to his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches 
 of useful knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him 
 those mental and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a 
 prince. Perhaps, in this respect, his imprisonment was an advan 
 tage, as it enabled him to apply himself the more exclusively to 
 his improvement, and quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowl 
 edge, and to cherish those elegant tastes, which have given such 
 a lustre to his memory. The picture drawn of him in early life by 
 the Scottish historians is highly captivating, and seems rather the 
 description of a hero of romance than of a character in real history. 
 He was well learnt, we are told, "to fight with the sword, to joust, 
 to tournay, to wrestle, to sing and dance ; he was an expert medi- 
 ciner, right crafty in playing both of lute and harp, and sundry 
 other instruments of music, and was expert in grammar, oratory, 
 and poetry." f 
 
 With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, 
 fitting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated 
 to give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been 
 a severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry,, to pass the spring 
 time of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune 
 of James, however, to be gifted with a powerful poetic fancy, and 
 to be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse. 
 Some minds corrode and grow inactive under the loss of personal 
 liberty ; others grow morbid and irritable ; but it is the nature of 
 the poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of con 
 finement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and, 
 like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 
 A pilgrim coop d into a cage, 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 
 In that her lonely hermitage ! 
 Even there her charming melody doth prove 
 That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove. %. 
 
 * Buchanan. 
 
 t Ballenden s Translation of Hector Boyce- 
 
 t Roger L Estrange. 
 
A ROYAL POET. ?l 
 
 Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is 
 irrepressible, unconfinable ; that when the real world is shut out, 
 it can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power, can 
 conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to 
 make solitude populous, .and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. 
 Such was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso 
 in his disrnal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid 
 scenes of his Jerusalem; and we may consider the " King s Quair," 
 composed by James during his captivity at Windsor, as another 
 of those beautiful breakings-forth of the soul from the restraint and 
 gloom of the prison house. 
 
 The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beaufort, 
 daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood 
 voyal of England, of whom he became enamored in the course of 
 his captivity. What gives it a peculiar value is that it may be 
 considered a transcript of the royal bard s true feelings, and the 
 story of his real loves and fortunes. It is not often that soverigns 
 write poetry, or that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the 
 pride of a common man, to find a monarch thus suing, as it were, 
 for admission into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by 
 administering to his pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality 
 of intellectual competition, which strips off all the trappings of 
 factitious dignity, brings the candidate down to a level with his 
 fellow-men, and obliges him to depend on his own native powers 
 for distinction. It is curious, too, to get at the history of a mon 
 arch s heart, and to find the simple affections of human nature 
 throbbing under the ermine. But James had learnt to be a poet 
 before he was a king : he was schooled in adversity, and reared in 
 the company of his own thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time 
 to parley with their hearts, or to meditate their minds into poetry ; 
 and had James been brought up amidst the adulation and gayety 
 of a court, we should never, in all probability, have had such a 
 poem as the Quair. 
 
 I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem 
 which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or 
 which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have 
 thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such circum 
 stantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive in his 
 prison, and the companion of his meditations. 
 
 Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and 
 of the incident which first suggested the idea of writing the poem. 
 It was the still midwatch of a clear moonlight night ; the stars, he 
 says, were twinkling as fire in the high vault of heaven: and 
 
72 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 Cynthia rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius." He lay in bed 
 wakeful and restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. 
 The book he chose was Boetius Consolations of Philosophy, a 
 work popular among the writers of that day, and which had been 
 translated by his great prototype, Chaucer. From the high eulo- 
 gium in which he indulges, it is evident this was one of his favorite 
 volumes while in prison : and, indeed, it is an admirable text-book 
 for meditation under adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and 
 enduring spirit, purified by sorrow and suffering, bequeathing to its 
 successors in calamity the maxims of sweet morality, and the trains 
 of eloquent but simple reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear 
 up against the various ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfor 
 tunate may treasure up in his bosom, or, like the good King James, 
 lay upon his nightly pillow. 
 
 After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his mind, 
 and gradually falls into a fit of musing on the fickleness of fortune, 
 the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken 
 him even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing 
 to matins ; but its sound, chiming in with his melancholy fancies, 
 seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the 
 spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with this intima 
 tion : he, therefore, takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of the 
 cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy land 
 of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and 
 it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of 
 the simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are 
 sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the 
 mind. 
 
 In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar 
 hardness of his fate; thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and 
 shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the 
 meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness, how 
 ever, in his very complaints ; they are the lamentations of an 
 amiable and social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind 
 and generous propensities ; there is nothing in them harsh nor 
 exaggerated; they flow with a natural and touching pathos, and 
 are, perhaps, rendered more touching by their simple brevity. 
 They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated repinings, 
 which we sometimes meet with in poetry ; the effusions of morbid 
 minds sickening under miseries of their own creating, and venting 
 their bitterness upon an unoffending world. James speaks of his 
 privations with acute sensibility, but having mentioned them passes 
 pta, as if his manly mind disdained to brood over unavoidable 
 
A ROYAL POET. 73 
 
 calamities. When such a spirit breaks forth into complaint, how* 
 ever brief, we are aware how great must be the suffering that 
 extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic, 
 active, and accomplished prince, cut off in the lustihood of youth 
 from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and vigorous delights 
 of life ; as we do with Milton, alive to all the beauties of nature 
 and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief, but deep-toned 
 lamentations over his perpetual blindness. 
 
 Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might 
 almost have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection 
 were meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story; and 
 to contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, that exhil 
 arating accompaniment of bird and song, and foliage and flower, 
 and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the lady of 
 his heart. It is this scene, in particular, which throws all the magic 
 of romance about the old Castle Keep. He had risen, he says, at 
 daybreak, according to custom, to escape from the dreary medita 
 tions of a sleepless pillow. " Bewailing in his chamber thus alone," 
 despairing of all joy and remedy, " fortired of thought and wobe- 
 gone," he had wandered to the window, to indulge the captive s 
 miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from which he 
 is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden which 
 lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot, adorned 
 with arbors and green alleys, and protected from the passing gaze 
 by trees and hawthorn hedges. 
 
 Now was there made, fast by the tower s wall, 
 
 A garden faire, and in the corners set 
 An arbour green with wandis long and small 
 
 Railed about, and so with leaves beset 
 Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 That lyf* was none, walkyng there forbye 
 That might within scarce any wight espye. 
 
 So thick the branches and the leves grene, 
 Beshaded all the alleys that there were, 
 
 And midst of every arbour might be sene 
 The sharpe, grene, swete juniper, 
 
 Growing so fair, with branches here and there, 
 That as it seemed to a lyf without, 
 The boughs did spread the arbour all about. 
 
 And on the small grene twistisf set 
 
 The lytel swete nightingales, and sung 
 
 * Lyf, person. t Tivistis, small boughs or twigs. 
 
 Note. The language of the quotations is generally modernized. 
 
74 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 So loud and clear, the hymnis consecrate 
 
 Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among, 
 That all the garden and the wallis rung 
 Right of their song 
 
 It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom ; and 
 he interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his 
 enamored feeling : 
 
 Worship, all ye that lovers be, this May, 
 
 For of your bliss the kalends are begun, 
 
 And sing with us, away, winter, away, 
 
 Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun. 
 
 As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, 
 he gradually relapses into one of those tender and undefinable 
 reveries which fill the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He 
 wonders what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and 
 which thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, 
 and melting all nature into ecstasy and song. If it really be so 
 great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the 
 most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off from its enjoy 
 ments? 
 
 Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be, 
 
 That love is of such noble myght and kynde F 
 
 Loving his folke, and such prosperitee 
 Is it of him, as we in books do find : 
 May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd: 
 
 Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye ? 
 
 Or is all this but feynit fantasye ? 
 
 For giff he be of so grete excellence, 
 
 That he of every wight hath care and charge, 
 
 What have I giltf to him, or done offense, 
 
 That I am thral d, and birdis go at large? 
 
 In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he 
 beholds "the fairest and the freshest young floure " that ever he 
 had seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane, walking in the garden to 
 enjoy the beauty of that "fresh May morrowe." Breaking thus 
 suddenly upon his sight, in the moment of loneliness and excited 
 susceptibility, she at once captivates the fancy of the romantic 
 prince, and becomes the object of his wandering wishes, the sove 
 reign of his ideal world. 
 
 There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to the 
 *8etten, incline. ~\~Gilt, what injury have I done, etc. 
 
A ROYAL POET. ?$ 
 
 early part of Chaucer s Knight s Tale ; where Palamon and Arcite 
 fall in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of 
 their prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the inci 
 dent which he had read in Chaucer may have induced James to 
 dwell on it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given 
 in the picturesque and minute manner of his master ; and being, 
 doubtless, taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of 
 that day. He dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every article 
 of her apparel, from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and 
 sapphires, that confined her golden hair, even to the "goodly 
 chaine of small orfeverye "* about her neck, whereby there hung a 
 ruby in shape of a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of fire 
 burning upon her white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was 
 looped up to enable her to walk with more freedom. She was 
 accompanied by two female attendants, and about her sported a 
 little hound decorated with bells ; probably the small Italian hound 
 of exquisite symmetry, which was a parlor favorite and pet among 
 the fashionable dames of ancient times. James closes his descrip 
 tion by a burst of general eulogium : 
 
 In her was youth, beauty, with humble port, 
 Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature; 
 
 God better knows then my pen can report, 
 
 Wisdom, largesse,! estate, J 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 departure of the Lady Jane from the garden puts an end to 
 this transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illu 
 sion that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his cap 
 tivity, and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more 
 intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through 
 the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when 
 evening approaches, and Phoebus, as he beautifully expresses it, 
 had "bade farewell to every leaf and flower," he still lingers at 
 the window, and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent 
 to a mingled flow of love and sorrow, until, gradually lulled by the 
 mute melancholy of the 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, 
 
 * Wrought gold. f Largesse, bounty. 
 
 t Estate, dignity. Cunning \ discretion. 
 
;6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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 tc 
 comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays 
 that some token may be sent to confirm the promise of happier 
 days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a turtle dove, of the 
 purest whiteness, comes flying in at the window, and alights upon 
 his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, on the 
 leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the following sentence : 
 
 Awake ! awake ! I bring, lover, I bring 
 
 The newis glad that blissful is, and sure 
 
 Of thy comfort ; now laugh, and play, and sing, 
 For in the heaven decretit is thy cure. 
 
 He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread ; reads it 
 with rapture : and this, he says, was the first token of his succeed 
 ing happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether 
 the Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her favor in this 
 romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or 
 fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem by intimating that 
 the promise conveyed in the vision and by the flower is fulfilled, by 
 his being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of 
 the sovereign of his heart. 
 
 Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adven 
 tures in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, and 
 how much the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture: 
 let us not, however, reject every romantic incident as incompatible 
 with real life ; but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have 
 noticed merely those parts of the poem immediately connected 
 with the tower, and have passed over a large part, written in the 
 allegorical vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of 
 course, is quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its 
 golden phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day ; but 
 it is impossible not to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the 
 delightful artlessness and urbanity which prevail throughout it. 
 The descriptions of nature, too, with which it is embellished, are 
 given with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the 
 most cultivated periods of the art. 
 
 As an amatory poem, it is edifying in these days of coarser 
 thinking, to notice the nature, refinement, and exquisite delicacy 
 which pervade it ; banishing every gross thought or immodest 
 expression, and presenting female loveliness clothed in all its chiv 
 alrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace. 
 
A ROYAL POET. 77 
 
 James flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 
 and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. 
 Indeed, in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters ; 
 and, in some parts of his poem, we find traces of similarity to their 
 productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are 
 always, however, general features of resemblance in the works of 
 contemporary 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 current in society ; and thus each generation has 
 some features in common, characteristic of the age in which it 
 lived. 
 
 James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary 
 history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participation 
 in its primitive honors. Whilst a small cluster of English writers 
 are constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their 
 great Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence ; but he 
 Is evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of 
 remote but never-failing luminaries, who shine in the highest firma 
 ment 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 capti 
 vating fiction has made it a universal study), may be curious to 
 learn something of the subsequent history of James and the for 
 tunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the 
 solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined 
 by the court that a connection with the blood royal of England 
 would attach him to its own interests. He was ultimately restored 
 to his liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady 
 Jane, who accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most 
 tender and devoted wife. 
 
 He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains 
 having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long 
 interregnum to strengthen themselves in their possessions, and 
 place themselves above the power of the laws. James sought to 
 found the basis of his power in the affections of his people. He 
 attached the lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the 
 temperate and equable administration of justice, the encourage 
 ment of the arts of peace, and the promotion of everything that 
 could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment through 
 the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among the 
 common people in disguise; visited their firesides; entered into 
 
78 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 their cares, their pursuits, and their amusements ; informed himaeii 
 of their mechanical arts, and how they could best be patronized 
 and improved ; and was thus an all-pervading spirit, watching with 
 a benevolent eye over the meanest of his subjects. Having in this 
 generous manner made himself strong in the hearts of the common 
 people, he turned himself to curb the power of the factious 
 nobility ; to strip them of those dangerous immunities which they 
 had usurped; to punish such as had been guilty of flagrant 
 offences; and to bring the whole into proper obedience to the 
 crown. For some time they bore this with outward submission, 
 but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy 
 was at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his 
 own uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old 
 himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his 
 grandson, Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, 
 and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke into his 
 bedchamber at the Dominican Convent near Perth, where he was 
 residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. 
 His faithful queen, rushing to throw her tender body between him 
 and the sword, was twice wounded in the ineffectual attempt to 
 shield him from the assassin ; and it was not until she had beer 
 forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was accomplished. 
 
 It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and 
 of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this Tower, 
 that made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. 
 The suit of armour hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embel 
 lished, as if to figure in the tournay, brought the image of the 
 gallant and romantic prince vividly before my imagination. I 
 paced the deserted chambers where he had composed his poem ; I 
 leaned upon the window, and endeavored to persuade myself it 
 was the very one where he had been visited by his vision ; I looked 
 out upon the spot where he had first seen the Lady Jane. It was 
 the same genial and joyous month ; the birds were again vying 
 with each other in strains of liquid melody ; everything was burst 
 ing into vegetation, and budding forth the tender promise of the 
 year. Time, which delights to obliterate the sterner memorials of 
 human pride, seems to have passed lightly over this little scene of 
 poetry and love, and to have withheld his desolating hand. 
 Several centuries have gone by, yet the garden still flourishes at 
 the foot of the Tower. It occupies what was once the moat of the 
 Keep ; and though some parts have been separated by dividing walls, 
 yet others have still their arbors and shaded walks, as in the days 
 of James, and the whole is sheltered, blooming, and retired. There, 
 
A ROYAL POET. 79 
 
 is a charm about a spot that has been printed by the footsteps of 
 departed beauty, and consecrated by the inspirations of the poet 
 which is heightened, rather than impaired, by the lapse of ages. 
 It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every place in which it 
 moves ; to breath around nature an odor more exquisite than the 
 perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint more magical than 
 the blush of morning. 
 
 Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior 
 and a legislator ; but I have delighted to view him merely as the 
 companion of his fellow-men, the benefactor of the human heart, 
 stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry 
 and song in the paths of common life. He was the first to cultivate 
 the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since 
 become so prolific of the most wholesome and highly-flavored fruit. 
 He carried with him into the sterner regions of the north all the 
 fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did everything in his 
 power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle 
 arts, which soften and refine the character of a people, and wreathe 
 a grace round the 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 pastimes which con 
 stitute such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish 
 peasantry ; and with what simple and happy humor he could enter 
 into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve the 
 national music ; and traces of his tender sentiment and elegant 
 taste are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the 
 wild mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus con 
 nected his image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in 
 the national character ; he has embalmed his memory in song, and 
 floated his name to after ages in the rich streams 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 little garden at Windsor, 
 and musing over the romantic loves of the Lad/ Jane and the 
 Royal Poet of Scotland. 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 
 
 A gentleman ! 
 
 "What, o the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
 Or lists of velvet ? which is t, pouud, or yard, 
 You vend your gentry by? 
 
 BEGGAR S BUSH. 
 
 are few places more favorable to the study of character 
 than an English country church. I was once passing a few 
 weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided in the vicinity of one, 
 the appearance of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one 
 of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar 
 charm to English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country 
 filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold and 
 silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble generations. The 
 interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every age and 
 style. The light streamed through windows dimmed with armorial 
 bearings, richly emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of 
 the church were tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorge 
 ous workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. On every 
 side the eye was struck with some instance of aspiring mortality ; 
 some haughty memorial which human pride had erected over its 
 kindred dust, in this temple of the most humble of all religions. 
 
 The congregation was composed of the neighboring people of 
 rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished 
 with richly-gilded prayer-books, and decorated with their arms 
 upon the pew doors ; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the 
 back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor 
 of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 
 
 The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who 
 had a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest 
 at all the tables of the neighborhood, and had been the keenest 
 fox-hunter in the country ; until age and good living had disabled 
 him from doing anything more than ride to see the hounds throw 
 ofY, and make one at the hunting dinner. 
 
 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it impossible to get 
 into the train of thought suitable to the time and place : so, having, 
 like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience 
 by" -laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person s thres 
 hold, I occupied myself by making observations on my neighbors. 
 
THE CO UNTR Y CHUR Cfi. 8f 
 
 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, consisting of several sons and 
 daughters. Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than 
 their appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest 
 equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and 
 converse in the kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the 
 children, and listen to the stories of the humble cottagers. Their 
 countenances were open and beautifully fair, with an expression of 
 high refinement, but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and 
 an engaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly 
 formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; with strict 
 neatness and propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 
 Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with that lofty grace 
 and noble frankness which bespeak freeborn souls that have never 
 been checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a 
 healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never dreads contact 
 and communion with others, however humble. It is only spurious 
 pride that is morbid and sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. 
 I was pleased to see the manner in which they would converse with 
 the peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports, in which 
 the gentlemen 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 neighborhood, was endeav 
 oring to assume all the style and dignity of an hereditary lord of 
 the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were 
 rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The 
 crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness 
 where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman, in a 
 three-cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling close 
 round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish 
 dog beside him. Two footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge 
 bouquets, and gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose 
 and sunk on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. 
 The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, and glanced 
 their eyes more proudly than common horses ; either because they 
 had caught a little of the family feeling, or were reined up more 
 tightly than ordinary. 
 
82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 I could not but admire the style with which this splendid pageant 
 was brought up to the gate of the church- yard. 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 horses, glistening 
 of harness, and flashing of wheels through gravel. This was the 
 moment of triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses 
 were urged and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They 
 threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at 
 every step. The crowd of villagers 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 sud 
 denness that produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them 
 on their haunches. 
 
 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to alight, pull 
 down the steps, and prepare everything for the descent on earth of 
 this august family. The old citizen first emerged his round, red 
 face from out the door, looking about him with the pompous air of 
 a man accustomed to rule on Change, and shake the Stock Market 
 with a nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed 
 him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in her com 
 position. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar enjoyment. 
 The world went well with her ; and she liked the world. She had 
 fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children, everything 
 was fine about her: it was nothing but driving about, and visiting 
 and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long 
 Lord Mayor s day. 
 
 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They certainly 
 were handsome; but had a supercilious air, that chilled admira 
 tion, and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra- 
 fashionable in dress ; and, though no one could deny the richness 
 of their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be questioned 
 amidst the simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily 
 from the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a step 
 that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive 
 glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces of the peas 
 antry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman s family, when their 
 countenances immediately brightened into smiles, and they made 
 the most profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a 
 manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. 
 
 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came 
 to church in a dashing curricule, with outriders. They were 
 arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of 
 dress which marks the man of questionable pretensions to style, 
 
THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 83 
 
 They kept entirely by themselves, eyeing every one askance that 
 came near them, as if measuring his claims to respectability ; yet 
 they were without conversation, except the exchange of an occa 
 sional 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 everything to 
 accomplish them as men of fashion, but nature had denied them 
 the nameless grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed 
 for the common purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious 
 assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. 
 
 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two 
 families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to 
 be met with in this country the unpretending great and the arro 
 gant little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accom 
 panied with true nobility of soul ; but I have remarked in all 
 countries where artificial distinctions exist, that the very highest 
 classes are always the most courteous and unassuming. Those 
 who are well assured of their own standing are least apt to tres 
 pass on that of others : whereas nothing is so offensive as the 
 aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating 
 its neighbor. 
 
 As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their 
 behavior in church. That of the nobleman s family was quiet, 
 serious, and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor 
 of devotion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred 
 places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, on the con 
 trary, were in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a 
 a continual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of being 
 the wonders of a rural congregation. 
 
 The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the service. 
 He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself, stand 
 ing bolt upright, and uttering the responses with a loud voice that 
 might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was 
 one of those thorough church and king men, who connect the idea 
 of devotion and loyalty; who consider the Deity, somehow or 
 other, of the government party, and religion "a very excellent sort 
 of thing, that ought to be countenanced and kept up." 
 
 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed more by way 
 of example to the lower orders, to show them that, though so great 
 and wealthy, he was not above being religious ; as I have seen a 
 turtle-fed alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, 
 smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it " excellent 
 food for the poor," 
 
84 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 When the service was at an end, I was curious to witness the 
 several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters, 
 as the day was fine, preferred strolling home across the fields, 
 chatting with the country people as they went. The others departed 
 as they came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled 
 up to the gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clat 
 tering of hoofs, and the glittering of harness. The horses started 
 off almost at a bound ; the villagers again hurried to right and 
 left ; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family 
 was rapt out of sight in a whirlwind. 
 
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 
 
 Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires 
 Honour and reverence evermore have rain d. 
 
 MAKRLOWE S TAMBURLAINB. 
 
 finHOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters, must 
 have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sun 
 day. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke 
 of the flail, the din of the blacksmith s hammer, the v/histling of the 
 ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural 
 labor are suspended. The very farm dogs bark less frequently, 
 being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such times I have 
 almost fancied the winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny land 
 scape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the 
 hallowed calm. 
 
 Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky. 
 
 Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of 
 rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has 
 its moral influence; every restless passion is charmed down, and 
 we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within 
 us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a country 
 church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience 
 nowhere else ; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better 
 man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven. 
 
 During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently to 
 attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles ; its moulder 
 ing monuments ; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the 
 gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. fe$ 
 
 meditation; but being in a wealthy, aristocratic neighborhood, the 
 glitter of fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt 
 myself continually thrown back upon fie world by the frigidity 
 and pomp of the poor worms around me. The only being in the 
 whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble 
 and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor, decrepit old 
 woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She 
 bore the traces of something better than abject poverty. The 
 lingerings of decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her 
 dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. 
 Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her, for she did not 
 take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone on the steps of 
 the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all 
 society ; and to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. 
 When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in prayer; 
 habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand and 
 failing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidently 
 knew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that 
 poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, 
 the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir. 
 
 I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so 
 delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a 
 knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and 
 then wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. 
 The church was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed almost 
 coeval with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among 
 them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was 
 seated there one still, sunny morning, watching two laborers who 
 were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote 
 and neglected corners of the churchyard; where, from the num 
 ber of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent 
 and friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the 
 new-made grave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I 
 was meditating on the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend 
 thus down into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the 
 approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, 
 with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest 
 materials, without pall or other covering, was borne by some of the 
 villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of cold indiffer 
 ence. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected 
 woe ; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after the 
 corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased the poor old 
 woman whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She 
 
86 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavoring to com* 
 fort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train, 
 and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now 
 shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with 
 childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner. 
 
 As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued 
 from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book 
 in hand, and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a 
 mere act of charity. The deceased had been destitute, and the 
 survivor was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, 
 but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few 
 steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely be heard at 
 the grave ; and never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime 
 and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery of 
 words. 
 
 I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. 
 On it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased George 
 Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to 
 kneel down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, 
 as if in prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, 
 and a convulsive motion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last 
 relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother s heart. 
 
 Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There 
 was that bustling stir which breaks so harshly on the feelings of 
 grief and affection; directions given in the cold tones of business: 
 the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of 
 those we love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle 
 around seemed to waken the mother from a wretched reverie. She 
 raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint wildness. As 
 the men approached with cords to lower the coffin into the grave, 
 she wrung her hands, and broke into an agony of grief. The poor 
 woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavoring to 
 raise her from the earth, and to whisper something like consolation 
 "Nay, now nay, now don t take it so sorely to heart." She 
 could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be 
 comforted. 
 
 As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of trie 
 cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruc 
 tion, there was a justling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the 
 mother burst forth; as if any harm could come to him who was far 
 beyond the reach of worldly suffering. 
 
 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 stand- 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. 8? 
 
 ing by, and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I 
 wandered to another part of the church-yard, where I remained 
 until the funeral train had dispersed. 
 
 When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, 
 leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, 
 and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. 
 What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich! they have friends 
 to soothe pleasures to beguile a world to divert and dissipate 
 their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young ! Their growing 
 minds soon close above the wound their elastic spirits soon rise 
 beneath the pressure their green and ductile affections- soon twine 
 round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no 
 outward appliances to soothe the sorrows of the aged, with whom 
 life at best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no after 
 growth of joy the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, 
 mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years; these are 
 indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation. 
 
 It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my way 
 homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter ; she 
 was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely 
 habitation, and I drew from her some particulars 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 grown 
 up to be the staff and pride of their age. "Oh, sir!" said the 
 good woman, "he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so 
 kind to every one around him, so dutiful to his parents ! It did 
 one s heart good to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in his best, so 
 tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother to church 
 for she was always fonder of leaning on George s arm, than on her 
 good man s; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a 
 finer lad there was not in the country round." 
 
 Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity 
 and agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the 
 small craft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been 
 long in his employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and 
 carried off to sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but 
 beyond that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their 
 main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless 
 and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely 
 
88 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 in her age and feebleness, could no longer support herself, and 
 came upon the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward her 
 throughout the village, and a certain respect as being one of the 
 oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which 
 she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remain 
 in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants 
 of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her 
 little garden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate 
 for her. It was but a few days before the time at which these cir 
 cumstances 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 seaman s 
 clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one 
 broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened 
 towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering ; he sank on his 
 knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed 
 upon him with a vacant and wandering eye "Oh, my dear, dear 
 mother! don t you know your son? your poor boy, George?" It 
 was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad, who, shattered by 
 wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, 
 dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes 
 of his childhood. 
 
 I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, 
 where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: still he waf 
 alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live to comfort and cherish 
 her old age ! Nature, however, was exhausted in him ; and if any 
 thing had been wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation 
 of his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched 
 himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed 
 many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again. 
 
 The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, 
 crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that 
 their humble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk 
 he could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant 
 attendant ; and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other 
 hand. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of 
 manhood ; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings 
 of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in 
 sickness and despondency ; who that has pined on a weary bed in 
 the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land ; but has thought on 
 the mother "that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pil* 
 
THE WIDOW AND HER SON. $9 
 
 fc>w, and administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an endur 
 ing tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends 
 all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by self 
 ishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, 
 nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
 convenience ; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; 
 she will glory in his fame*, and exult in his prosperity : and, if 
 misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfor 
 tune ; and if disgrace settle upon bis 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 sickness, 
 and none to soothe lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. 
 He could not endure his mother from his sight; if she moved 
 away, his eye would follow her. She would sit for hours by his 
 bed, watching him as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a 
 feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her bending 
 over him ; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and 
 fall asleep, with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died. 
 
 My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was to 
 visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assist 
 ance, and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that 
 the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every 
 thing that the case admitted : and as the poor know best how to 
 console each other s sorrows, I did not venture to intrude. 
 
 The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to my sur 
 prise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her 
 accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. 
 
 She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for 
 her son ; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle 
 between pious affection and utter poverty : a black ribbon or so 
 a faded black handkerchief, and one or two more such humble 
 attempts to express by outward signs that grief which passes show. 
 When I looked round upon the storied monuments, the stately 
 hatchments, the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned 
 magnificently over departed pride, and turned to this poor widow, 
 bowed down by age and sorrow, at the altar of her God, and offer 
 ing up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I 
 felt that this living monument of real grief was worth them all. 
 
 I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the con 
 gregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves 
 to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflic 
 tions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. 
 
#> THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 \ In the course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from he* 
 ; usual seat at church, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, 
 with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, 
 and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where srrrow 
 
 I ana naa gone to rejoin tnose sne lovea, in ina 
 1 is never known, and friends are never parted. 
 
 A SUNDAY IN LONDON * 
 
 IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the 
 country, and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape ; but 
 where is its sacred influence more strikingly apparent than 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 shops are shut. The 
 fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished ; and the sun, 
 no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a 
 sober, yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The few pedestrians 
 W meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious countenances, 
 move leisurely along ; their brows are smoothed from the wrinkles 
 t)f business and care ; they have put on their Sunday looks, and 
 Sunday manners, with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in 
 mind as well as in person. 
 
 And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers 
 summons their several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his 
 mansion the family of the decent tradesman, the small children in 
 the advance ; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by 
 the grown-up daughters, with small morocco-bound prayer-books 
 laid in the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid 
 looks after them from the window, admiring the finery of the 
 family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young 
 mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted. 
 
 Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, 
 peradventure an alderman or a sheriff ; and now the patter of 
 many feet announces a procession of charity scholars, in uniforms 
 of antique cut, and each with a prayer-book under his arm. 
 
 The ringing of bells is at an end ; the rumbling of the carriage 
 has ceased ; the pattering of feet is heard no more ; the flocks are 
 folded in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of 
 the crowded city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the 
 
 * Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions. 
 
A SUN DA Y fN L OND OJV. 1 
 
 shepherd s dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time 
 every thing is hushed; but scon is heard the deep, pervading 
 sound of the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes 
 and courts; and the sweet chanting of the choir making them 
 resound with melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible 
 of the sanctifying effect of church music, than when I have heard 
 it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost recesses 
 of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all the sordid 
 pollutions of the week ; and bearing the poor, world-worn soul on a 
 tide of triumphant harmony to heaven. 
 
 The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive 
 with the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again 
 relapse into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to 
 the city tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more 
 leisure for social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family 
 can now gather together, who are separated by the laborious occu 
 pations of the week. A school-boy may be permitted on that day 
 to come to the paternal home; an old friend of the family takes his 
 accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well-kno\\ n 
 stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known jokes. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe the 
 fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs. 
 Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a 
 London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful 
 in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city 
 enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon 
 the green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the 
 mother s breast ; and they who first spread out these noble parks 
 and magnificent pleasure-grounds which surround this huge 
 metropolis, have done at least as much for its health and morality, 
 as if they had expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons, 
 and penitentiaries. 
 
THE BOAR S HEAD TAVERN, 
 EASTCHEAP. 
 
 A SHAKSPEARIAN RESEARCH. 
 
 " A tavern Is the rendezvous, the exchange, the staple of good fellows. 1 
 have heard my great-grandfather tell, IK>W his great-great-grandfather should 
 say, that it was an old proverb when his great-grandfather was a child, that 
 it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine/" 
 
 MOTHER BOMBIE. 
 
 IT is a pious custom, in some Catholic countries, to honor the 
 memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their pictures. 
 The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the 
 number of these offerings. One, perhaps, is left to moulder in the 
 darkness of his little chapel ; another may have a solitary lamp to 
 throw its blinking rays athwart his effigy ; while the whole blaze of 
 adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beautified father of 
 renown. The wealthy devotee "brings his huge luminary of wax; 
 the eager zealot his seven-branched candlestick, and even the 
 mendicant pilgrim is by no means satisfied that sufficient light is 
 thrown upon the deceased unless he hangs up his little lamp of 
 smoking oil. The consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten, 
 they are often apt to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an 
 unlucky saint almost smoked out of countenance by the officious- 
 ness of his followers. 
 
 In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakspeare. 
 Every writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion 
 of his character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. 
 The commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of disser 
 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 rushlight of eulogy or research, to swell 
 the cloud of incense and of smoke. 
 
 As I honor all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I 
 thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the 
 memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, 
 sorely puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found 
 myself anticipated in every attempt at a new reading ; every doubt 
 ful line had been explained a dozen different ways, and perplexed 
 beyond the reach of elucidation ; and as to fine passages, they had 
 all been amply praised by previous admirers ; nay, so completely 
 
THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 93 
 
 had the bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great 
 German critic, that it was difficult now to find even a fault that had 
 not been argued into a beauty. 
 
 In this perplexity, I was one morning turning over his pages, 
 when I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry IV., and 
 was, in a moment, completely lost in the madcap revelry of the 
 Boar s Head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes 
 of humor depicted, and with such force and consistency are the 
 characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind 
 with the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it 
 occur, that these are all ideal creations of a poet s brain, and that, 
 in sober truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened the 
 dull neighborhood of Eastcheap. 
 
 For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. 
 A hero of fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a 
 hero of history that existed a thousand years since : and, if I may 
 be excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human 
 nature, I would not give up fat Jack for half the great men of 
 ancient chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or 
 men like me ? They have conquered countries of which I do not 
 enjoy an acre ; or they have gained laurels of which I do not 
 inherit a leaf; or they have furnished examples of hair-brained 
 prowess, which I have neither the opportunity nor the inclination 
 to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack Falstaff! sweet 
 Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; 
 he has added vast regions of wit and good humor, in which the 
 poorest man may revel ; and has bequeathed a never-failing 
 inheritance of jolly laughter, to make mankind merrier and 
 better to the latest posterity. 
 
 A thought suddenly struck me : "I will make a pilgrimage to 
 Eastcheap," said I, closing the book, "and see if the old Boar s 
 Head Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some 
 legendary traces of Dame Quickly and her guests ; at any rate, 
 there will be a kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal 
 with their mirth, to that the toper enjoys in smelling to the empty 
 cask once filled with generous wine." 
 
 The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I 
 forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I encountered 
 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 C ate aton -street and old Jewry ; of the renowned Guildhall ana 
 its two stunted giants, the pride and wonder of the city, and the 
 terror of all unlucky urchins ; and how I visited London Stone, 
 
94 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 and struck my staff upon it, in imitation of that arch rebel, Jack 
 Cade. 
 
 Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, 
 that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of 
 the streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testi 
 mony even at the present day. For Eastcheap, says old Stowe, 
 "was always famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried 
 hot ribbes of beef roasted, pies well baked, and other victuals : 
 there was clattering of pewter pots, harpe, pipe, and sawtrie." 
 Alas ! how sadly is the scene changed since the roaring days of 
 Falstaff and old Stowe ! The madcap royster has given place to 
 the plodding tradesman ; the clattering of pots and the sound of 
 " harpe and sawtrie," to the din of carts and the accursed dinging 
 of the dustman s bell; and no song is heard, save, haply, the strain 
 of some siren from Billinsgate, chanting the eulogy of deceased 
 mackerel. 
 
 I sought in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The 
 only relic of it is a boar s head, carved in relief in stone, which 
 formerly served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting 
 line of two houses, which stand on the site of the renowned old 
 tavern. 
 
 For the history of this little abode of good fellowship, I was 
 referred to a tallow-chandler s widow opposite, who had been born 
 and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the indisput 
 able chronicler of the neighborhood. I found her seated in a little 
 back parlor, the window of which looked out upon a yard about 
 eight feet square, laid out as a flower garden ; while a glass door 
 opposite afforded a distant peep of the street, through a vista of 
 soap and tallow candles : the two views, which comprised, in all 
 probability, her prospects in life, and the little world in which she 
 had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part 
 of a century. 
 
 To be versed in the history of Eastcheap, great and little, from 
 London Stone even unto the Monument, was doubtless, in her 
 opinion, to be acquainted with the history of the universe. 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 neighbor 
 hood. 
 
 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 unfortunately burnt down. It 
 
THE BOARS HEAD TA VERN, EASTCHEAP. 95 
 
 was soon rebuilt, and continued to flourish under the old name and 
 sign, until a dying landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, 
 bad measures, and other iniquities, which are incident to the sinful 
 race of publicans, endeavored to make his peace with heaven, by 
 bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael s Church, Crooked Lane, 
 towards 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 
 gradually 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. Michael s Church, 
 which stood just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was 
 now my determination; so, having informed myself of the abode 
 of the sexton, I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of East- 
 cheap, my visit having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her 
 legendary lore, and furnished an important incident in the history 
 of her life. 
 
 It cost me some difficulty, and much curious inquiry, to ferret 
 out the humble hanger-on to the church. I had to explore Crooked 
 Lane, and divers little alleys, and elbows, and dark passages, with 
 which this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm- 
 eaten chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a 
 small court surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants 
 enjoy about as much of the face of heaven, as a community of 
 frogs at the bottom of a well. 
 
 The sexton was a meek, acquiescing little man, of a bowing, 
 lowly habit: yet he had a pleasant twinkling in his eye, and, if 
 encouraged, would now and then hazard a small pleasantry; such 
 as a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company 
 of high churchwardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I 
 found him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like 
 Milton s angels, discoursing, no doubt, on high doctrinal points, 
 and settling the affairs of the church over a friendly pot of ale 
 for the lower classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty 
 matter without the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their 
 understandings. I arrived at the moment when they had finished 
 their ale and their argument, 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 fish- 
 mongers of renown ; and as every profession has its galaxy of 
 glory, and its. constellation of great men, I presume the monument 
 
96 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 of a mighty fishmonger of the olden time is regarded with as muck 
 reverence by succeeding generations of the craft, as poets feel on 
 contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a 
 Marlborough or Turenne. 
 
 I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, 
 to observe that St. Michael s, Crooked Lane, contains also the ashes 
 of that doughty champion, William Walworth, knight, who so 
 manfully clove down the sturdy wight, Wat Tyler, in Smithfield ; a 
 hero worthy of honorable blazon, as almost the only Lord Mayor 
 on record famous for deeds of arms : the sovereigns of Cockney 
 being generally renowned as the most pacific of all potentates.* 
 
 Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under 
 the back window of what was once the Boar s Head, stands the 
 tombstone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer at the tavern. It is 
 now nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed 
 his bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of 
 his customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph, 
 the little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and 
 informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time, on a dark win 
 try night, when the wind was uaruly, howling, and whistling, bang 
 ing about doors and windows, and twirling weathercocks, so that 
 the living were frightened out of their beds, and even the dead 
 could not sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, 
 which happened to be airing itself in the church-yard, was attracted 
 by the well-known call of "waiter" from the Boar s Head, and 
 made its sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as 
 the parish clerk was singing a stave from the " mirre garland of 
 Captain Death ; " to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains, 
 and the conversion of an infidel attorney, who became a zealous 
 
 *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 by name ; 
 Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here, 
 And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere ; 
 Who, with courage stout and manly myght, 
 Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Eichard s sight. 
 For which act done, and trew entent, 
 The Kyng made him knyght incontinent; 
 And gave him annes, as here you see, 
 To declare his fact and chivalclrie. 
 He left this lyff the yere of our God 
 Thirteen hundred fourscore and three odd. 
 
 An error In the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable 
 Stowe. "Whereas," saith he, "it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar 
 opinion, that the rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, 
 the then worthy Lord Maior, was named Jack Straw, and not Wat Tyler, I 
 thought good to reconcile this rash-conceived doubt by such testimony as I 
 3nd 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. STOWB S LONDON, 
 
THE BOAR S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 97 
 
 Christian on the spot, and was never known to twist the truth after 
 wards, except in the way of business. 
 
 I beg it may be remembered, that I do not pledge myself for the 
 authenticity of this anecdote ; though it is well known that the 
 church-yards and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much 
 infested with perturbed spirits ; and every one must have heard of 
 the Cock Lane ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in 
 the Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost 
 out of their wits. 
 
 Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a 
 worthy successor to the nimble-tongued Francis, who attended upon 
 the revels of Prince Hal ; to have been equally prompt with his 
 " annon, annon, sir; " and to have transcended his predecessor in 
 honesty ; for FalstafT, the veracity of whose taste no man will ven 
 ture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack ; 
 whereas honest Preston s epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his 
 conduct, the soundness of his wine, and the fairness of his 
 measure.* The worthy dignitaries T)f 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 remarks on the abstemiousness of a man brought up among 
 full hogsheads ; and the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a 
 significant wink and dubious shake of the head. 
 
 Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the 
 history of tapsters, fishmongers, and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed 
 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. "Marry and amen!" said I, "here endeth my 
 research ! " So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a baf 
 fled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be 
 curious in everything relative to the old tavern, offered to show me 
 the choice vessels of the vestry, which had been handed down 
 from remote times, when the parish meetings were held at the Boar s 
 Head. These were deposited in the parish club-room, which had 
 
 * As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the 
 admonition of delinquent tapsters. It is, no doubt, the production of some 
 choice spirit, who once frequented the Boar s Head. 
 
 Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
 Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
 Though rear d among full hogsheads, he defy d 
 The charms of wine, and every one beside. 
 reader, if to justice thou rt inclined. 
 Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 
 He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
 Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
 You that on Bacchus have the like dependants. 
 Pray copy Bob in measure and attcnoano*. 
 
98 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 been transferred, on the decline of the ancient establishment, to a 
 tavern in the neighborhood. 
 
 A few steps brought us to the house, which stands No. 12 Miles 
 Lane, bearing the title of the Mason s Arms, and is kept by Mas 
 ter Edward Honeyball, the " bully-rock " of the establishment. It 
 is one of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city, 
 and form the centre of gossip and intelligence in the neighborhood. 
 We entered the bar-room, which was narrow and darkling; for in 
 these close lanes but few rays of reflected light are enabled to 
 struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a 
 tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each con 
 taining a table spread with a clean, white cloth, ready for dinner. 
 This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and 
 divided their day equally, for it was but just one o clock. At the 
 lower end of the room was a clear coal fire, before which a breast 
 of lamb was roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and 
 pewter mugs glistened along the mantlepiece, and an old-fashioned 
 clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in 
 this medley of kitchen, parlor, and hall, that carried me back to 
 earlier times, and pleased me. The place, indeed, was humble, 
 but everything had that look of order and neatness which 
 bespeaks the superintendence of a notable English housewife. A 
 group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be either fishermen 
 or sailors, were regaling themselves in one of the boxes. As I was 
 a visitor of rather higher pretentions, I was ushered into a little mis 
 shapen back-room, having at least nine corners. It was lighted 
 by a sky -light, furnished with antiquated leathern chairs, and orna 
 mented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was evidently appro 
 priated to particular customers, and I found a shabby gentleman 
 in a red nose and oil-cloth hat, seated in one corner, meditating on 
 a half-empty pot of porter. 
 
 The old sexton had taken the landlady aside, and with an air of 
 profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honey- 
 ball was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substi 
 tute for that paragon of hostesses, Dame Quickly. She seemed 
 delighted with an opportunity to oblige ; and hurrrying upstairs to 
 the archives of her house, where the precious vessels of the parish 
 club were deposited, she returned, smiling and courtesying, with 
 them in their hands. 
 
 The first she presented me was a japanned iron tobacco-box, of 
 gigantic size, out of \vhich, 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 
 
THE BOARS HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP. 99 
 
 occasions. I received it with becoming reverence ; but what was 
 my delight, at beholding on its cover the identical painting of 
 which I was in quest ! There was displayed the outside of the 
 Boar s Head Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole 
 convivial group, at table, in full revel ; pictured with that wonder 
 ful fidelity and force, with which the portraits of renowned generals 
 and commodores are illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit 
 of posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cun 
 ning limner had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Fal- 
 staff on the bottoms of their chairs. 
 
 On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated, 
 recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use 
 of the vestry meetings at the Boar s Head Tavern, and that it was 
 "repaired and beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 
 1767." Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable 
 relic ; and I question whether the learned Scriblerius comtemplated 
 his Roman shield, or the Knights of the Round Table the long- 
 sought san-greal, with more exultation. 
 
 While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honey- 
 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 inscrip 
 tion of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, knight, and was 
 held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered very 
 " antyke." This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby gen 
 tleman in the red nose and oil-cloth hat, and whom I strongly su 
 pected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph. 
 He suddenly roused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and, 
 casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, " Ay, ay ! the 
 head don t ache now that made that there article ! " 
 
 The great importance attached to this memento of ancient 
 revelry by modern churchwardens at first puzzled me; but there is 
 nothing sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian research; 
 for I immediately perceived that this could be no other than the 
 identical "parcel-gilt goblet" on which Falstaff made his loving, 
 but faithless vow to Dame Quickly ; and which would, of course, 
 be treasured up with care among the regalia of her domains, as a 
 testimony of that solemn contract* 
 
 Mine hostess, indeed, gave me a long history how the goblet had 
 
 * Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin 
 chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, on Wednesday, in whitsim- 
 week, when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing mnn 
 at Windsor; thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to 
 marry me, and make me my lady, thy wife. Canst thou deny it ? Henry IV,. 
 
loo THE SKETCH S O OK. 
 
 been handed down from generation to generation. She also enter- 
 tained me with many particulars concerning the worthy vestrymen 
 who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of the ancient 
 roysters of Eastcheap, and, like so many commentators, utter 
 clouds of smoke in honor of Shakspeare. These I forbear to relate, 
 lest my readers should not be as curious in these matters as myself. 
 Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and all, about Eastcheap, 
 believe that Falstaff and his merry crew actually lived and revelled 
 there. Nay, there are several legendary anecdotes concerning 
 him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the Mason s Arms, 
 which they give as transmitted down from their fore-fathers; and 
 Mr. M Kash, an Irish hair-dresser, whose shcp stands on the site 
 of the old Boar s Head, has several dry jokes of Fat Jack s not 
 laid down in the books, with which he makes his customers ready 
 to die of laughter. 
 
 I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further 
 inquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head 
 had declined a little on one side ; a deep sigh heaved from the very 
 bottom of his stomach; and, though I could not see a tear trem 
 bling in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a cor 
 ner of his mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the 
 door which stood open, and found it fixed wistfully on the savory 
 breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire. 
 
 I now called to mind that, in the eagerness of my recondite 
 investigation, I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My 
 bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small 
 token of my gratitude and goodness, I departed, with a hearty 
 benediction on him, Dame Honeyball, and the Parish Club of 
 Crooked Lane; not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, 
 in the oil-cloth hat and copper nose. 
 
 Thus have I given a "tedious brief" account of this interesting 
 research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can 
 only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature, so deserv 
 edly popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skillfu/ 
 illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials 
 I have touched upon, to a good, merchantable bulk; comprising 
 the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw, and Robert 
 Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St. Michael s; 
 the history of Eastcheap, great and little; private anecdotes of 
 Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even 
 mentioned ; to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast ol iamb 
 (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 Wai 
 Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire .of London. 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURE. lot 
 
 All this I leave, as a rich mine, to be worked by future com 
 mentators ; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco-box, and the 
 "parcel-gilt goblet," which I have thus brought to light, the 
 subjects of future engravings, and almost as fruitful of voluminous 
 dissertations and disputes as the s u teld of Achilles, or the far-famed 
 Portland vase. 
 
 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE, 
 
 A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER - 
 
 I know that all beneath the moon decays, * 
 And what by mortals in this world id brbagnf, 
 In time s great period shall return to nought. 
 
 I know that all the muse s heavenly lays, 
 With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 
 As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 
 
 That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 
 
 DKUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN. 
 
 fT^HERE are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in which we 
 naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some 
 quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build 
 our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about 
 the old gray cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury 
 of wandering thought which one is apt to dignify with the name 
 of reflection; when suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from 
 Westminster School, playing at foot-ball, broke in upon the 
 monastic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
 mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought to take 
 refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the solitudes 
 of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers for admission to the 
 library. He conducted me through a portal rich with the crum 
 bling sculpture of former ages, which opened upon a gloomy pas 
 sage 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 library. 
 
 I found myself in a lofty, antique hall, the roof supported by 
 massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row 
 of Gothic windows at a considerable height from the floor, and 
 which apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An 
 ancient picture of some reverend dignitary of the church in his 
 
102 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 robes hung over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a smaV 
 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 
 *able with two or three books on it, an inkstand without ink, and a 
 jbw 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 school 
 boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and the sound of a bell 
 tolling for prayeixjechoing soberly along the roofs of the abbey, 
 By degrees the shouts of merriment grew fainter and fainter, and 
 kf leri^tji dted away ;.*he bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence 
 reigned through" the dusky hall. 
 
 I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound in parch 
 ment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a vener 
 able 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 
 weary days ! how many sleepless nights ! How have their authors 
 buried themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters ; shut them 
 selves up from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of na 
 ture ; and devoted themselves to painful research and intense reflec 
 tion! And all for what? to occupy an inch of dusty shelf to have 
 the title of their works read now and then in a future age, by some 
 drowsy churchman or casual straggler like myself ; and in another 
 age to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this 
 boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumor, a local sound ; 
 like the tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, 
 filling the ear for a moment lingering transiently in echo and 
 then passing away like a thing that was not ! 
 
 While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unprofitable 
 speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming 
 with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened 
 the clasps ; when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave 
 two or three yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then a 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURE. 103 
 
 husky hem ; and at length began to talk. At first its voice 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 chills and damps of 
 the abbey. In a short time, however, it became more distinct, and 
 I soon found it an exceedingly fluent, conversable little tome. Its 
 language, to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pro 
 nunciation, what, in the present day, would be deemed barbarous ; 
 but I shall endeavor, as far as I am able, to render it in modern 
 parlance. 
 
 It began with railings about the neglect of the world about 
 merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such com 
 monplace topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that 
 it had not been opened for more than two centuries. That the dean 
 only looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a 
 volume or two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then 
 returned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they mean," 
 said the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat 
 choleric, " what a plague do they mean by keeping several thou 
 sand volumes of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old 
 vergers, like so many beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at 
 now and then by the dean? Books were written to give pleasure 
 and to be enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the dean 
 should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or if he is not 
 equal to the task, let them once in a while turn loose the whole 
 school of Westminster among us, that at any rate we may now and 
 then have an airing." 
 
 "Softly, my worthy friend," replied 4, "you are not aware how 
 much better you are off than most books of your generation. By 
 being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured 
 remains of those saints and monarchs, which lie enshrined in the 
 adjoined chapels ; while the remains of your contemporary mortals, 
 left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to 
 dust." 
 
 "Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and looking big, 
 "I was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an 
 abbey. I was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other 
 great contemporary works ; but here have I been clasped up for 
 more than two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to 
 these worms that are playing the very vengeance with my intes 
 tines, 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 circula- 
 
104 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 tion 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 liken 
 ing to harems, you might more properly and gratefully have 
 compared to those infirmaries attached to religious establishments, 
 for the benefit of the old and decrepit ; and where, by quiet fostering 
 and no employment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for- 
 nothing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circula 
 tionwhere do we meet with their works ? what do we hear of 
 Robert Groteste, of Lincoln ? No one could have toiled harder 
 than he for immortality. He is said to have written nearly two 
 hundred volumes. He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to 
 perpetuate his name : but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, 
 and only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, where 
 they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiquarian. What do we 
 hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the historian, antiquary, philosopher, 
 theologian, and poet ? He declined two bishoprics, that he might 
 shut himself up and write for posterity ; but posterity never inquires 
 after his labors. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides a 
 learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the contempt of the 
 world, which the world has revenged by forgetting him ? What is 
 quoted of Joseph of Exeter, styled the miracle of his age in classical 
 composition ? Of his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, 
 excepting a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few of 
 the curious in literature ; and as to his love verses and epigrams, 
 they have entirely disappeared. What is in current use of John 
 Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the name of the tree of life ? 
 Of William of Malmsbury; of Simeon of Durham; of Benedict 
 
 of Peterborough ;-of John Hanvill of St. Alban ; of " 
 
 " Prithee, friend," cried the quarto, in a testy tone, " how old do 
 you think me ? You are talking of authors that lived long before 
 my time, and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a 
 manner expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten ; * 
 but I, sir, was ushered into the world from the press of the 
 renowned W T ynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
 tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; and, 
 indeed, I was considered a model of pure and elegant English." 
 
 * In Latin and French hath many soueralne wittes had great delvte to endlte, 
 and have many noble thinges fuliilrte, but ccrtos there ben some that speaken 
 their poisye in French, of which spoche the Frenchmen have as good a fan- 
 tasye as we have in hearying of Frenchmen s Englishe. C/iawcer Testament 
 
THE MUTABILITY Of LITER A TURE. 105 
 
 (I should observe that these remarks were couched in such intol 
 erably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite difficulty in ren 
 dering them into modern phraseology.) 
 
 " I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; but it 
 matters little : almost all the writers of your time have likewise 
 passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde s publications are mere 
 literary rarities among book-collectors. The purity and stability oi 
 language, too, on which you found your claims to perpetuity, have 
 been the fallacious dependence of authors of every age, even back 
 to the times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his his 
 tory in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.* Even now many talk oi 
 Spenser s well of pure English undefiled, 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 
 inter-mixtures. It is this which has made English literature so 
 extremely mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. 
 Unless thought can be committed to something more permanent 
 and unchangeable than such a medium, even thought must share 
 the fate of everything else, and fall into decay. This should 
 serve as a check upon the vanity and exultation of the most popu 
 lar writer. He finds the language in which he has embarked his 
 fame gradually altering, and subject to the dilapidations of time 
 and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and beholds the early 
 authors of his country, once the favorites of their day, supplanted 
 by modern writers. A few short ages have covered them with 
 obscurity, and their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste 
 of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will be the fate of 
 his own work, which, however it may be admired in its day, and 
 held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years grow anti 
 quated and obsolete ; until it shall become almost as unintelligible 
 in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic 
 inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare, " 
 added I, with some emotion, "when I contemplate a modern 
 library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich gilding 
 and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep ; like the good 
 Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor 
 of military array, and reflected that in one hundred years not one 
 of them would be in existence ! " 
 
 * Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, "afterwards, also, by diligent travell 
 of Geftry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time of Richard the Second, and 
 after them of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie our said 
 toong was brought to an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came 
 into the type of perfection until 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 their great 
 praise and immortal, commendation." 
 
106 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 "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 
 Sydney s Arcadia, Sackville s stately plays, and Mirror for Magis 
 trates, 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 
 Sydney s Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly pre 
 dicted by his admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble 
 thoughts, delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now 
 scarcely ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity ; 
 and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight of a 
 court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely 
 known even by name. A whole crowd of authors who wrote and 
 wrangled at the time, have likewise gone down, with all their writ 
 ings and their controversies. Wave after wave of succeeding liter 
 ature has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, that it is 
 only now and then that some industrious diver after fragments of 
 antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the curious. 
 
 " For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability of lan 
 guage a wise precaution of Providence for the benefit of the world 
 at large, and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy 
 we daily behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables 
 springing up, flourishing, adorning the fields for a short time, and 
 then fading into dust, to make way for their successors. Were not 
 this the case, the fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead 
 of a* blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive 
 vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. In like 
 manner the works of genius and learning decline, and make way 
 for subsequent productions. Language gre dually varies, and with 
 it fade away the writings of authors who have flourished their 
 allotted time ; otherwise, the creative powers of genius would over 
 stock the world, and the mind would be completely bewildered HI 
 the endless mazes of literature. Formerly, there were some 
 restraints on this excessive multiplication. Works had to be trans 
 cribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious operation ; they 
 
 * 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 the 
 writer was the secretary of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey-bee 
 of the daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual 
 virtueSj the arme of Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, 
 the sprite of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print. Har 
 vey Pterce s Supererogation. 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITER A TURE. Io? 
 
 were written either on parchment, which was expensive, so that 
 one work was often erased to make way for another ; or on papy 
 rus, which was fragile and extremely perishable. Authorship was 
 a limited and unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the 
 leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manu 
 scripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely to mon 
 asteries. To these circumstances it may, in some measure, be 
 owing that we have not been inundated by the intellect of anti 
 quity ; that the fountains of thought 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 
 tself into print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. 
 The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature has 
 swollen into a torrent augmented into a river expanded into a 
 sea. A few centuries since, five or six hundred manuscripts con 
 stituted a great library ; but what would you say to libraries such 
 as actually exist, containing three or four hundred thousand 
 volumes ; legions of authors at the same time busy ; and the press 
 going on with fearfully increasing activity, to double and quad 
 ruple the number? Unless some unforseen mortality should break 
 out among the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so 
 prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of 
 language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. It 
 increases with the 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 criti 
 cism 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 life-time merely to learn their names. 
 Many a man of passable information, at the present day, reads 
 scarcely anything but reviews ; and before long a man of erudition 
 will be little better than a mere walking catalogue." 
 
 " My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily 
 in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive 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, how 
 ever, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their 
 heads at him, for he was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew 
 little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run 
 me country for deer-stealing. I think his name was Shaksneare. 
 I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 
 
168 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 "On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that 
 the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the 
 ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and 
 then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because 
 they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human 
 nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the 
 banks of a stream ; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrat 
 ing through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very founda 
 tions of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept 
 away by the ever-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring 
 plant, and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 
 case with Shakspeare, whom we behold defying the encroachments 
 of time, retaining in modern use the language and literature of his 
 day, and giving duration to many an indifferent author, merely 
 from having flourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to 
 say, is gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is 
 overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clambering 
 vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds 
 them." 
 
 Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until 
 at length he broke out in a plethoric fit of laughter that had well 
 nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency. " Mighty 
 well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty 
 well ! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age 
 is to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man without 
 learning; by a poet, forsooth a poet!" And here he wheezed 
 forth another fit of laughter. 
 
 I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, 
 however, I pardoned on account of his having flourished in a less 
 polished age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point. 
 
 " Yes," resumed I, pos^ively, " a poet ; for of all writers he has 
 the best chance for immortality. Others my write from the head, 
 but he writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand 
 him. He is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are 
 always the same, and always interesting. Prose writers are 
 voluminous and unwieldy; their pages are crowded with common 
 places, 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 everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He 
 enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before 
 him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I 
 may use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They arc 
 
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE. 109 
 
 caskets which inclose within a small compass the wealth of the 
 language its family jewels, which are thus transmitted in a port 
 able form to posterity. The setting may occasionally be antiquated, 
 and require now and then to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; 
 but the brilliancy and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. 
 Cast a look back over the long reach of literary history. Whal 
 vast valleys of dulness, filled with monkish legends and academical 
 controversies ! what bogs of theogical speculations ! what dreary 
 wastes of metaphysics! Here and there only do we behold the 
 heaven-illuminated bards, elevated like beacons on their widely- 
 separate heights, to transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence 
 from age to age."* 
 
 I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of 
 the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn 
 my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was 
 time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the 
 quarto, but the worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps were closed : 
 and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have 
 been to the library two or three times since, and have endeavored 
 to draw it into further conversation, but in vain ; and whether all 
 this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was 
 another of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have 
 never to this moment been able to discover. 
 
 As are the golden leves 
 
 That drop from poet s head ! 
 Which doth surmount our common talke 
 
 As farre as dross doth lead. 
 
 Churchyard. 
 
 * Thorow earth and waters deepe, 
 
 The pen by skill doth passe : 
 And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
 
 And shoes us in a glasse, 
 The vertu and the vice 
 
 Of every wight alyve ; 
 The honey comb that bee doth mafce 
 
 ftnotsoewvetinhyre, 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 
 
 Here s a few flowers! but about midnight more: 
 The herbs that have on them cold dew o the night; 
 
 Are strewings fitt st for graves 
 
 You were as flowers now wither d ; even so 
 These herblets shall, which we upon you strow. 
 
 CTMBELINE. 
 
 AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural life 
 which still linger in some parts of England, are those of 
 strewing flowers betore the funerals, and planting them at the 
 graves of departed friends. These, it is said, are the remains of 
 some of the rites of the primitive church; but they are of still 
 higher antiquity, having been observed among the Greeks and 
 Romans, and frequently mentioned by their writers, and were, no 
 doubt, the spontaneous tributes of unlettered affection, originating 
 long before art had tasked itself to modulate sorrow into song, or 
 story it on the monument. They are now only to be met with in 
 the most distant and retired places of the kingdom, where fashion 
 and innovation have not been able to throng in, and trample out 
 all the curious and interesting traces of the olden time. 
 
 In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies 
 is covered with flowers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and 
 plaintive ditties of Ophelia : 
 
 White his shroud as the mountain snow 
 
 Larded all with sweet flowers : 
 Which be-wept to the grave did go, 
 
 With true love showers. 
 
 There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some 
 of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who 
 has died young and unmarried. A chaplet of white flowers is 
 borne before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and 
 resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the 
 accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes 
 made of white paper, in imitation of flowers, and inside of them is 
 generally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems 
 of the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has 
 received in heaven. 
 
 In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the 
 grave with the singing of psalms and hymns : a kind of triumph, 
 "to show," says Bourne, that they have finished their course with 
 
^ URAL FUNERALS. 1 1 1 
 
 joy, and are become conquerors." This, I am informed, is 
 observed in some of the northern counties, particularly in North 
 umberland, and it has a pleasing, though melancholy effect, to 
 hear, of a still evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful 
 melody of a funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the 
 train slowly moving along the landscape. 
 
 Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round 
 Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground, 
 And as we sing thy dirge, we will 
 
 The daffodil! 
 
 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 passing 
 funeral in these sequestered places ; for such spectacles, occurring 
 among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the souL As the 
 mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by ; 
 he then follows silently in the rear ; sometimes quite to the grave, 
 at other times for a few hundred yards, and, having paid this trib 
 ute of respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey. 
 
 The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English 
 character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling 
 graces, is finely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the 
 solicitude shown by the common people for an honored and a 
 peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his 
 lowly lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be 
 paid to his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury, describing the " faire 
 and happy milkmaid," observes, "thus lives she, and all her care 
 is, that she may die in the spring-time, to have store of flowers 
 stucke upon her windingsheet. " The poets, too, who always 
 breathe the feeling of a nation, continually advert to this fond 
 solicitude about the grave. In "The Maid s Tragedy," by Beau 
 mont and Fletcher, there is a beautiful instance of the kind, 
 describing the capricious melancholy of a broken-hearted girl : 
 
 When she sees a bank 
 
 Stuck full of flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell 
 Her servants, what a pretty place it were 
 To bury lovers in; and make her maids 
 Pluck em, and strew her over like a corse. 
 
 The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent : 
 osiers were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and 
 about them were planted evergreens and flowers. "We adorn 
 their graves," says Evelyn, in his Sylva, "with flowers and redo- 
 
1 12 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 lent plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been com 
 pared in Holy Scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots 
 being buried in dishonor, rise again in glory." This usage has 
 now become extremely rare in England ; but it may still be met 
 with in the church-yards of retired villages, among the Welsh 
 mountains ; and I recollect an instance of it at the small town of 
 Ruthen, which lies at the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. 1 
 have been told also by a friend, who was present at the funeral of a 
 young girl in Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their 
 aprons full of flowers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they 
 stuck about the grave. 
 
 He noticed several graves which had been decorated in the same 
 manner. As the flowers had been merely stuck in the ground, and 
 not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen in various 
 states of decay; some drooping, others quite perished. They were 
 afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and other ever 
 greens ; which on some graves had grown to great luxuriance, and 
 overshadowed the tombstones. 
 
 There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrange 
 ment of these rustic offerings, that had something in it truly poet 
 ical. The rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general 
 emblem of frail mortality. "This sweet flower," said Evelyn, 
 " borne on a branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the 
 lily, are natural hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, 
 and transitory life, which, making so fair a show for a time, !s not 
 yet without its thorns and crosses." The nature and color of the 
 flowers, and of the ribbons with which they were tied, had often a 
 particular reference to the qualities or story of the deceased, or 
 were expressive of the the feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, 
 entitled " Corydon s Doleful Knell," a lover specifies the decora 
 tions he intends to use : 
 
 A garland shall be framed 
 
 By art and nature s skill, 
 Of sundry-colored flowers, 
 
 In token of good-wilL 
 
 And sundry-color d ribands 
 
 On it I will bestow ; 
 But chiefly blacke and yellowe 
 
 With her to grave shall go. 
 
 I ll deck her tomb with flowers, 
 
 The rarest ever seen ; 
 And with my tears as showers, 
 
 1 11 keep them fresh and green. 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. 113 
 
 The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin ; 
 her chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless 
 innocence ; though sometimes black ribbons were intermingled, to 
 bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally 
 used in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for benevo 
 lence ; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of 
 lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct 
 in his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, " where the 
 maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct 
 sweethearts with rose-bushes. * And Camden likewise remarks, in 
 his Britannia: "Here is also a certain custom, observed time out 
 of mind, of planting rose-trees upon the graves, especially by the 
 young men and maids who have lost their loves; so that this 
 church-yard is now full of them." 
 
 When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems 
 of a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress ; 
 and if flowers were strewn, they were of the most melancholy 
 colors. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 
 1651), is the following stanza : 
 
 Yet strew 
 
 Upon my dismall grave 
 Such offerings as you have, 
 
 Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe ; 
 For kinder flowers can take no birth 
 Or grow from such unhappy earth. 
 
 In "The Maid s Tragedy," a pathetic little air is introduced, 
 illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who 
 had been disappointed in love : 
 
 Lay a garland on my hearse, 
 
 Of the dismall yew, 
 Maidens, willow branches wear 
 
 Say I died true. 
 
 My love was false, but I was firm 
 
 From my hour of birth, 
 Upon my buried body lie 
 
 Lightly, gentle earth. 
 
 The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate 
 the mind ; and we have the proof of it in the purity of sentiment 
 and the unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole 
 of these funeral observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution 
 that none but sweet-scented evergreens and flowers should be 
 

 114 THE SKETCH-BOGK. 
 
 employed. The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors 
 of the tomb, to beguile the mind from brooding over the L^sgraces 
 of perishing mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased 
 Y with the most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a 
 dismal process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kin 
 dred dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating ; and 
 we seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those refined 
 associations which it awakened when blooming before us in 
 youth and beauty. "Lay her i the earth," says Laertes, of his 
 virgin sister, 
 
 And from her fair and unpolluted flesh 
 May violets spring ! 
 
 Herrick, also, in his " Dirge of Jephtha," pours forth a fragrant 
 flow of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms 
 tne dead m the recollections of the living; 
 
 Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice, 
 
 And make this place all Paradise : 
 
 May sweets grow here ! and smoke from hence 
 
 Fat frankincense. 
 
 Let balme and cassia send their scent 
 From out thy maiden monument. 
 * * # * * * 
 
 May all shie maids at wonted hours 
 
 Come forth to strew thy tombe with flowers ! 
 
 May virgins, when they come to mourn, 
 
 Male incense burn 
 Upon thine altar ! then return 
 And leave thee sleeping in thine urn. 
 
 I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British 
 poets who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and 
 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 ; 
 .vhich illustrates the emblematical meaning often conveyed in these 
 floral tributes; and at the same time possesses that magic of 
 language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre 
 eminent. 
 
 With fairest flowers, 
 
 Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele, 
 I ll sweeten thy sad grave ; thou 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, 
 Outsweeten d not thy breath. 
 
 There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and 
 
RURAL FUNERALS. iff 
 
 spontaneous offerings of nature, than in the most costly monuments 
 of art ; the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the 
 tear falls on the grave as affection is binding the osier round the 
 sod ; but pathos expires under the slow labor of the chisel, and is 
 chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble. 
 
 It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant and 
 touching 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 cultivated society. In proportion 
 as people grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of 
 poetry, but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust 
 its sallying emotions, and to supply its most affecting and pictur 
 esque usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few 
 pageants can be more stately and frigid than an English funeral in 
 town. It is made up of show and gloomy parade ; mourning car 
 riages, mourning horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, 
 who make a mockery of grief. " There is a grave digged," says 
 Jeremy Taylor, " and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the 
 neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they shall be, and 
 they shall be remembered no more." The associate in the gay 
 and crowded city is soon forgotten ; the hurrying succession of new 
 intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the 
 very scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctu 
 ating. But funerals in the country are solemnly impressive. The 
 stroke of death makes a wider space in the village circle, and is an 
 awful event in the tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing 
 bell tolls its knell in every ear ; it steals with its pervading melanr 
 choly over hill and vale, and saddens all the landscape. 
 
 The fixed and unchanging features of the country also perpetuate 
 the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them ; who 
 was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation 
 to every lonely scene. His_idea is associated with every charm of 
 nature ; we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to 
 awaken ; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented ; we 
 think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive 
 beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we 
 remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety; and when 
 sober evening returns with its gathering shadows and subduing 
 quiet, we call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and 
 sweet-souled melancholy. 
 
 Each lonely place shall him restore, 
 
 For him the tear be duly shed ; 
 Beloved, till life can charm no more ; 
 
 And mourn d till pity s self be dead. 
 
16 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in 
 the country is that the grave is more immediately in sight of the 
 survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer, it meets their eyes 
 when their hearts are softened by the exercises of devotion : they 
 linger about it on the Sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from 
 worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present pleas 
 ures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn memen 
 tos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray 
 over the graves of their deceased friends, for several Sundays after 
 the interment ; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting 
 flowers is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsun 
 tide, and other festivals, when the season brings the companion of 
 former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also invariably per 
 formed by the nearest relatives and friends ; no menials nor hire 
 lings are employed ; and if a neighbor yields assistance, it would 
 be deemed an insult to offer compensation. 
 
 I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is 
 one of the last, so is it one of the holiest offices of love. The grave 
 is the ordeal of true affection. It is there that the divine passion 
 of the soul manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of 
 mere animal attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed 
 and kept alive by the presence of its object ; but the love that is 
 seated in the soul can live on long remembrance. The mere incli 
 nations of sense languish and decline with the charms which 
 excited them, and turn with shuddering disgust from the dismal 
 precincts of the tomb ; but it is thence that truly spiritual affection 
 rises, purified from every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy 
 Jame, to illumine and sanctify the heart of the survivor. 
 
 The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse 
 to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal every other 
 affliction to forget ; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep 
 open this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where 
 is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished 
 like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ? 
 Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of 
 parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the 
 hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns ? 
 Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he 
 most loved ; when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the 
 closing of its portal ; would accept of consolation that must be 
 bought by forgetfulness ? No, the love which survives the tomb is 
 .one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has 
 likewise its delights ; and when the overwhelming burst of grief if 
 
R URAL FUNERALS. I If 
 
 calmed Into the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden 
 anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that 
 we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that 
 it was in the days of its loveliness who would root out such a sor 
 row from the heart ? Though it may sometimes throw a passing 
 cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness 
 over the hour of gloom, yet who would 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 living. Oh, the 
 grave ! the grave ! It buries every error covers every defect 
 extinguishes every resentment ! From its peaceful bosom spring 
 none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look 
 down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunc 
 tious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful 
 of earth that lies mouldering before him. 
 
 But the grave of those we loved what a place for 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 uporj. ,the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness 
 of the parting scene. \The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs 
 its noiseless attendance its mute, watchful assiduities. The last 
 testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling oh! 
 how thrilling! 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, turned upon us even from the 
 threshold of existence ! 
 
 Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate ! There settle 
 the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited 
 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 generously confided in thee if 
 thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that 
 true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet ; then be 
 sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle 
 action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking 
 dolefully at thy soul then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrow- 
 
Ii8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 ing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard ginas, and 
 pour the unavailing tear ; more deep, more bitter, because unbear-d 
 and unavailing. 
 
 Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties oi 
 nature about the grave ; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, 
 with these tender, yet futile tributes of regret ; but take warning by 
 the bitterness of this thy contrite affliction over the dead, and 
 henceforth be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy 
 duties to the living. 
 
 In writing the preceding article, it was- not intended to give a full 
 detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely 
 to furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites, 
 ,o be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been 
 withheld. The article swelled insensibly Jnto 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 investi 
 gated in other works. 
 
 I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of 
 adorning graves with flowers prevails in other countries besides 
 England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed 
 even by the rich and fashionable ; but it is then apt to lose its sim 
 plicity, and to degenerate into^affectation. Bright, in his travels in 
 Lower Hungary, tells* of monuments of marble, and recesses 
 formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of green 
 house plants ; and that the graves generally are covered with the 
 gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of filial 
 piety, which I cannot but transcribe ; for I trust it is as useful as it 
 ? s delightful, to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. " When 
 i was at Berlin," says he, " I followed the celebrated Iffland to the 
 grave. Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feel 
 ing. 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 
 ing crowd. It was the tomb of her parent ; and the figure of tins 
 affectionate daughter presented a monument more striking than 
 the most costly work of art." 
 
 I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once 
 met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the 
 village of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the Lake of 
 lucerne, at the foot oj Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a 
 e republic, shut up between the Alps and the Lake, and 
 
TffE 7JWV KITCHEfo r t$ 
 
 Accessible on the land side only by foot-paths. The whole force oi 
 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 small church, with a 
 burying-ground adjoining. At the heads of the graves were placed 
 crosses of wood or iron. On some were affixed miniatures, rudely 
 executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On 
 the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, some withering, others 
 fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with interest at this 
 scene ; I felt that I was at the source of poetical description, for 
 these were the beautiful but unaffected offerings of the heart which 
 poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more populous place, I 
 should have suspected them to have been suggested by factitious 
 sentiment, derived from books; but the good people of Gersau 
 knew little of books ; there was not a novel nor a love poem in the 
 village ; and I question whether any peasant of the place 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 devo 
 tion, and that he was practically a poet 
 
 THE INN KITCHEN. 
 
 Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? FALSTAFP. 
 
 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 the 
 table d 1 hote so that I was obliged to make a solitary supper from 
 the relics of its ampler board. The weather was chilly; I was 
 seated alone in one end of a great, gloomy dining-room, .and, my 
 repast being over, I had the prospect before me of a long, dull 
 evening, without any visible means of enlivening it. I summoned 
 mine host, and requested something to read ; he brought me the 
 whole literary stock of his household, a Dutch family Bible, an 
 almanac in the same language, and a number of old Paris newspapers. 
 As I sat dozing over one of the latter, reading old and stale criti 
 cisms, my ear was now and then struck with bursts of laughter which 
 seemed to proceed from the kitchen. Everyone that has travelled 
 on the continent must know how favorite a resort the kitchen of a 
 
120 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 country inn is to the middle and inferior order of travellers ; particu* 
 larly in that equivocal kind of weather, when a fire becomes agree 
 able 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 worshipping. It was covered with various 
 kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness ; among which steamed 
 and hissed a huge, copper tea-kettle. A large lamp threw a strong 
 mass of light upon the group, bringing out many odd features in 
 strong relief. Its yellow rays partially illumined the spacious 
 kitchen, dying duskily away into remote corners ; except where 
 they settled in mellow radiance on the broad side of a flitch of 
 bacon, or were reflected back from well-scoured utensils, that 
 gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping Flemish lass, 
 with long, golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace with a golden 
 heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of the temple. 
 
 Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of 
 them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was 
 occasioned by anecdotes, which a little swarthy Frenchman, with 
 a dry, weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love 
 adventures; at the end of each of which there was one of those 
 bursts of honest, unceremonious laughter in which a man indulges 
 in that temple of true liberty, an inn. 
 
 As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious, blustering 
 evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety 
 of traveller s tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. 
 All of them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory 
 except one, which I will endeavor to relate. I fear, however, it 
 derived its chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the 
 peculiar air and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent 
 old Swiss, who had the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed 
 in a tarnished green travelling-jacket, with a broad belt round his 
 waist, and a pair of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the 
 ankles. He was of a full, rubicund countenance, with a double 
 chin, aqualine nose, and a pleasant, twinkling eye. His hair was 
 light, and curled from under an old green velvet travelling-cap 
 stuck on one side of his head. He was interrupted more than once 
 by the arrival of guests, or the remarks of his auditors; and 
 paused now and then to replenish his pipe; at which times he had 
 generally a roguish leer and a sly joke for the buxom kitchen- 
 maid. 
 
THE SEPCTRE BRIDEGROOM. l$l 
 
 I wish that my readers could imagine the ojd fellow lolling in a 
 huge arm-chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously 
 twisted tobacco pipe, formed of genuine tcume de mer, decorated 
 with silver chain and silken tassel his head cocked on one side, 
 and a whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the fol 
 lowing story. 
 
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 
 
 A TRAVELLER S TALE.* 
 
 He that supper for Is dlght, 
 
 He lyes full cold, I trow, this night! 
 
 Yestreen to chamber I him led, 
 
 This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. 
 
 SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, AND Six GRIT-STEEL. 
 
 ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild 
 and romantic tract of Upper Germany, that lies not far from 
 the confluence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, 
 many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It ii 
 now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech-trees 
 and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch-tower may still 
 be seen, struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to 
 carry a high head, and look down upon the neighboring country. 
 
 The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellen- 
 bogen,f and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride 
 of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his predeces 
 sors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still 
 endeavored to keep up some show of former state. The times were 
 peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned 
 their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles nests among the 
 mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the valleys: 
 still the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cher 
 ishing, with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he 
 was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of dis 
 putes that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers. 
 
 The baron had but one child, a daughter ; but nature, when she 
 
 * The erudite reader, well versed in good-for-nothing lore, will perceive that 
 the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French 
 anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. 
 
 t i. e., CAT S- ELBOW. The name of a family of those parts very powerful in 
 former times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a 
 peerless dame of the family, celebrated for her fine arm. 
 
IS2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy , 
 and so it was with the daughter of the baron. All the nurse*, gossips, 
 and country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal 
 for beauty in all Germany ; and who should know better than 
 they ? She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under 
 the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some 
 years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were 
 skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education 
 of a fine lady. Under their instructions she became a miracle of 
 accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could 
 embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the 
 saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in their counte 
 nances, that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She 
 could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through 
 several church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the 
 Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable proficiency in writ 
 ing ; could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so 
 legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
 excelled in making little elegant, good-for-nothing, lady-like nick- 
 nacks of all kinds ; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the 
 day ; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar ; and knew 
 all the tender ballads of the Minnie-lieders by heart. 
 
 Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their 
 younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians 
 and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no 
 duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superan 
 nuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight ; never 
 went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or 
 rather well watched ; had continual lectures read to her about strict 
 decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the men pah! she 
 was taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such absolute 
 distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would not have cast 
 a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world no, not if he 
 were even dying at her feet. 
 
 The good effects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The 
 young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others 
 were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable 
 to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly 
 blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection 
 of those immaculate spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among 
 guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exul 
 tation, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the 
 world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind 
 could happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen. 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. V$ 
 
 But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be pro 
 vided with children, his household was by no means a small one ; 
 for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations. 
 They, one and all, possessed the affectionate disposition common 
 to humble relatives ; were wonderfully attached to the baron, and 
 took every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the 
 castle. All family festivals were commemorated by these good 
 people at the baron s expense; and when they were filled with 
 good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so 
 delightful as those family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 
 
 The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled 
 with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in 
 the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the 
 dark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the 
 walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at 
 his expense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm 
 believer in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain 
 and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded 
 even his own : they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes 
 and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated 
 for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the 
 oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and 
 happy, above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest 
 man of the age. 
 
 At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family 
 gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance : it 
 was to receive the destined bridegroom of the baron s daughter. 
 A negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old 
 nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the 
 marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted 
 with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without 
 seeing each other ; and the time was appointed for the marriage 
 ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled 
 from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the 
 baron s to receive his bride. Missives had even been received 
 from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, 
 mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. 
 
 The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable 
 welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon 
 care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarre41ed 
 the whole morning about every article of her dress. The young 
 lady had taken advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her 
 own taste; and fortunately it was a good one. She locked as 
 
SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire ; and the flutter of 
 expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. 
 
 The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heav 
 ing of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed 
 the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts 
 were continually hovering around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to 
 take great interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her 
 a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in 
 what manner to receive the expected lover. 
 
 The baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth, 
 nothing exactly to do : but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little 
 man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a 
 hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of 
 infinite anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their work 
 to exhort them to be diligent ; and buzzed about every hall and 
 chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a 
 warm summer s day. 
 
 In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed ; the forests 
 had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen ; the kitchen was 
 crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans 
 of Rhein-wein and Feme-wein; and even the great Heidelburg tun 
 had been laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive 
 the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in the true spirit of 
 German hospitality but the guest delayed to make his appearance. 
 Hour rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his downward 
 rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along 
 the summits of the mountains. The baron mounted the highest 
 tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching a distant sight of 
 the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; 
 the sound of horns came floating from the valley, prolonged by 
 the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, 
 slowly advancing along the road ; but when they had nearly 
 reached the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a 
 different direction. The last ray of sunshine departed the bats 
 began to flit by in the twilight the road grew dimmer and dimmer 
 to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and then 
 a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. 
 
 While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, 
 a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the 
 Odenwald. 
 
 The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his 
 route in that sober, jog-trot way in which a man travels toward mat 
 rimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 1 25 
 
 of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him as cer 
 tainly as a dinner at the end of his journey. He had encountered 
 at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with whom he had 
 <jeen some service on the frontiers ; Herman Von Starkenfaust, one 
 of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts of German chivalry, 
 who was now returning from the army. His father s castle was 
 not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an 
 hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each 
 other. 
 
 In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the young friends 
 related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave 
 the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom 
 he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most 
 enrapturing descriptions. 
 
 As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed 
 to perform the rest of their journey together ; and, that they might 
 do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, 
 the count having given directions for his retinue to follow and over 
 take him. 
 
 They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military 
 scenes and adventures ; but the count was apt to be a little tedious, 
 now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the 
 felicity that awaited him. 
 
 In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Oden- 
 wald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly-wooded 
 passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always 
 been as much infested with robbers as its castles by spectres; and, 
 at this time, the former were particularly numerous, from the 
 hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It 
 will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were 
 attacked by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. 
 They defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly over 
 powered, when the count s retinue arrived to their assistance. At 
 sight of them the robbers fled, but not until the count had received 
 a mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to 
 the city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighboring 
 convent, who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul 
 and body ; but half of his skill was superfluous ; the moments of 
 the unfortunate count were numbered. 
 
 With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly 
 to the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not 
 keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most 
 ardent of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, an4 
 
126 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should be speedily 
 and courteously executed. "Unless this is done," said he-, "I 
 shall not sleep quietly in my grave ! " He repeated these last 
 words with peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impres 
 sive, admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to soothe 
 him to calmness ; promised faithfully 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 engagements 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 untimely 
 fate of his comrade ; and then pondered on the awkward mission 
 he had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed ; 
 for he was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile 
 people, and to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. 
 Still there were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see 
 this far-famed beauty of 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 enterprise in his character 
 that made him fond of all singular adventure. 
 
 Previous to his departure he made all due arrangements with the 
 holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his 
 friend, who was to be btiried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near 
 some of his illustrious relatives ; and the mourning retinue of the 
 count took charge of his remains. 
 
 It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family 
 of Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still 
 more for their dinner ; and to the worthy little baron, whom we left 
 airing himself on the watch-tower. 
 
 Night closed in, but still no guest arrived The baron descended 
 from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed 
 from hour to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats 
 were already overdone; the cook in an agony; and the whole 
 household had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by 
 famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the 
 feast without the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, 
 and just on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn 
 from without the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. 
 Another long blast rilled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, 
 and was answered by the warder from the walls. The baron 
 hastened to receive his future son-in-law. 
 
 The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was befon? 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 127 
 
 the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a black 
 steed. His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic 
 eye, and an air of stately melancholy. The baron was a little 
 mortified that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. 
 His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt disposed to con 
 sider it a want of proper respect for the important occasion, and 
 the important family with which he was to be connected. He 
 pacified himself, however, with the conclusion, that it must have 
 been youthful impatience which had induced him to spur on sooner 
 than his attendants. 
 
 "I am sorry/ said the stranger, "to break in upon you thus 
 unseasonably " 
 
 Here the baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and 
 greetings ; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy 
 and eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem 
 the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered 
 it to flow on. By the time the baron had come to a pause, 
 they had reached the inner court of the castle ; and the stranger 
 was again about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by 
 the appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth the 
 shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as 
 one entranced ; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the 
 gaze, and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts 
 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 cavalier. 
 
 The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for 
 parley. The baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular 
 conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted 
 banquet. 
 
 It was served in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls 
 hung the hard-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of 
 Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the 
 field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, splintered jousting spears, 
 and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan 
 warfare ; the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned 
 horribly among cross-bows and battle-axes, and a huge pair of 
 antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful bride 
 groom 
 
28 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 The cavalier took but little notice of the company or the entertain 
 ment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in 
 admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that could 
 not be overheard for the language of love is never loud ; but 
 where is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest 
 whisper of the lover ? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in 
 his manner, that appeared to have a powerful effect upon the young 
 lady. Her color came and went as she listened with deep atten 
 tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his 
 eye was turned away, she would steal a sidelong glance at his 
 romantic countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. 
 It was evident that the young couple were completely enamored. 
 The aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, 
 declared that they had fallen in love with each other at firtt 
 ight. 
 
 The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were 
 all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses 
 and mountain air. The baron told his best and longest stories, 
 and never had he told them so well, or with such great effect. If 
 there was anything marvelous, his auditors were lost in astonish 
 ment ; and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly 
 in the right place. The baron, it is true, like most great men, was 
 too dignified to utter any joke but a dull one ; it was always 
 enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hockheimer ; and 
 even a dull joke, at one s own table, served up with jolly old wine, 
 is irresistible. Many good things were said by poorer and keener 
 wits, that would not bear repeating, except on similar occasions ; 
 many sly speeches whispered in ladies ears, that almost convulsed 
 them with suppressed laughter ; and a song or two roared out by a 
 poor, but merry and broad-faced cousin of the baron, that abso 
 lutely made the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 
 
 Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most 
 singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a 
 deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced ; and, strange as 
 it may appear, even the .baron s jokes seemed only to render him 
 the more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at 
 times there was a perturbed and restless wandering 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 t* 
 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- 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 129 
 
 groom ; their spirits were infected ; whispers and glances were 
 exchanged, accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. 
 The song and the laugh grew less and less frequent : there were 
 dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at length succeeded 
 by wild tales and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced 
 another still more dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of 
 the ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman 
 that carried away the fair Leonora; a dreadful story, which has 
 since been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all 
 the world. 
 
 The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He 
 kept his eyes steadily fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to 
 a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and 
 taller, until, in the baron s entranced eye, he seemed almost to 
 tower into a giant. The moment the tale was finished, he heaved 
 a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They 
 were all amazement. The baron was perfectly thunder-struck. 
 
 "What ! going to leave the castle at midnight ? why, everything 
 was prepared for his reception ; a chamber was ready for him if he 
 wished to retire." 
 
 The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously ; " I 
 must lay my head in a different chamber to-night ! " 
 
 There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was 
 uttered, that made the baron s heart misgive him ; but he rallied 
 his forces, and repeated his hospitable entreaties. 
 
 The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every 
 offer ; and, waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out 
 of the hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified the bride 
 hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 
 
 The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, 
 where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with 
 impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep arch 
 way was dimly lighted by a crosset, 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 engage 
 ment " 
 
 "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 " 
 
 5 
 
13 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 "Ah," said the baron, plucking up spirit, "but not until 
 to-morrow to-morrow you shall take your bride there." 
 
 "No! no I" replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, "my 
 engagement is with no bride the worms ! the worms expect me \ I 
 am a dead man I have been slain by robbers my body lies at 
 Wurtzburg at midnight I am to be buried the grave is waiting 
 for me I must keep my appointment ! " 
 
 He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, 
 and the clattering of his horse s hoofs was lost in the whistling of 
 Jhe night blast. 
 
 The baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and 
 related what had passed. The ladies fainted outright, others sickened 
 at the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion 
 of some that this might be the wild huntsman, famous in German 
 legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood-demons, and 
 of other supernatural beings, with which the good people of 
 Germany have been so grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
 One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might be some 
 sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the very gloomi. 
 ness of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy 
 personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the 
 whole company, and especially of the baron, who looked upon him 
 as little better than an infidel, so that he was fain to abjure his 
 heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the 
 true believers. 
 
 But whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were 
 completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular mis 
 sives, confirming the intelligence of the young count s murder, and 
 his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 
 
 The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The baron 
 shut himself 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 husband before she had even embraced 
 him and such a husband ! if the very spectre could be so gracious 
 and noble, what must have been the living man. She filled the 
 house with lamentations. 
 
 On the night of the second day of her widowhood, she had 
 retired to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 131 
 
 insisted on sleeping with her. The "aunt, who was one of the best 
 tellers of ghost stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one 
 of her longest, and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The 
 chamber was remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece 
 lay pensively gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they 
 trembled on the leaves of an aspen-tree before the lattice. The 
 castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music 
 stole up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and 
 stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure stood among the 
 shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight 
 fell upon the countenance. Heaven and earth! she beheld the 
 Spectre Bridegroom ! A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her 
 ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music, and had 
 followed her silently to the window, fell into her arms. When she 
 looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 
 
 Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for 
 she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady, 
 ;here was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed 
 endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty ; and 
 though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
 affections of a love-sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be 
 had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never 
 sleep in that chamber again ; the niece, for once, was refractory 
 and declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the 
 castle : the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone : but 
 she drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the 
 spectre, lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left 
 her on earth that of inhabiting the chamber over which the 
 guardian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 
 
 How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is 
 uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there 
 is a triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story ; it is, how 
 ever, still quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance of 
 female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week ; when 
 she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence 
 brought to the breakfast table one morning that the young lady 
 was not to be found. Her room was empty the bed had not been 
 slept in the window was open, and the bird had flown ! 
 
 The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was 
 received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the 
 agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his 
 friends. Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the 
 indefatigable labors of the trencher ; when the aunt, who had at 
 
132 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, 
 "The goblin ! the goblin ! 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, for they had heard the 
 clattering of a horse s hoofs down the mountain about midnight, 
 and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger, 
 bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the 
 direful probability ; for events of the kind are extremely common 
 in Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness. 
 
 What a lamentable situation was that of the poor baron ! What 
 a heart-rending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the 
 great family of Katzenellenbogen ! His only daughter 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 grandchildren. 
 As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an 
 uproar. The men were ordered to take horse, and scour every 
 oad and path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had 
 just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, and was about 
 to mount his steed to sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he 
 was brought to a pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen 
 approaching the castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a 
 cavalier on 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. He looked at his daughter, 
 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 all the while, he was no goblin) announced 
 himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adven 
 ture 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 teli 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 mis 
 take to continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what \\ ay 
 to make a decent retreat, until the baron s goblin stories had sug 
 gested his eccentric exit. HOH/. fearing the feudal hostility of th 
 
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 133 
 
 family, he had repeated his visits by stealth had haunted the 
 garden 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 baron would have been in 
 flexible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly 
 obstinate in all family feuds ; but he loved his daughter ; he had 
 lamented her as lost ; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, 
 though her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, he 
 was not a goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, 
 that did not exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in 
 the joke the knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; 
 but several old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured 
 him that every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cava 
 lier was entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a 
 trooper. 
 
 Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The baron pardoned 
 the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were 
 resumed. The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of 
 the family with loving kindness ; he was so gallant, so generous 
 and so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that 
 their system of strict seclusion, and passive obedience should be so 
 badly exemplified, but attributed it all to their negligence in not 
 having the windows grated. One of them was particularly mortified 
 at having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre 
 she had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit : but the niece 
 seemed perfectly happy at having found him substantial flesh and 
 blood and so the story ends. 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 When I behold, with deep astonishment. 
 To famous Westminster how there resorte 
 Living in brasse or stoney monument, 
 The princes and the worthies of all sorte ; 
 Doe not I see reformde npbilitie, 
 Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 
 And looke upon offenseless majesty, 
 Naked of pomp or earthly domination ? 
 And how a play-game of a painted stone 
 Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 
 Whome all the world which late they stood upcn 
 Could not content or quench their appetites. 
 Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 
 And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 
 
 CHRISTOLERO S EPIGRAMS, BYT. B. 1598. 
 
 ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter 
 part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening 
 almost mingle together, and throw a gloom over the declining 
 of the year, I passed several hours inrambling about Westminster 
 Abbey. There was something congenial to the season in the 
 mournful magnificence of the old pile ; and, as I passed its thres 
 hold, 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 subterranean look, 
 being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the 
 massive walls. Through this dark avenue 1 had a distant view of 
 the cloisters, with the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, 
 moving along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre 
 from one of the neighboring tombs. The approach to the abbey 
 through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its 
 solemn contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the 
 quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discolored 
 by damps, and crumbling with -age; a coat of hoafcy moss has 
 gathered over the inscripHpns of the,, mural monuments, and 
 obscured the death s heads, and other funereal ernblems. The sharp 
 touches of the chisM are gone from the rich traceTy of the arches ; 
 the roses which adorned the key-stdnes have lost their leafy beauty ; 
 everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which 
 yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay. 
 
 The sun was pouring down a yellow autufanal ray into the square 
 of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre, 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 135 
 
 and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of 
 dusky splendor. From between the arcades, the eye glanced up 
 to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud ; and beheld the sun-gilt 
 pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 
 
 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled 
 picture y<Q glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher 
 the ins\.iptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement 
 beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely 
 carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many 
 generations. They were the effigies of three of the early abbots ; 
 the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names alone remained, 
 having, no doubt, been renewed in later times. (Vitalis Abbas. 
 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas, 1114, and Laurentius. 
 Abbas. 1176.) I remained some little while, musing over these 
 casual relics of antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant 
 shore of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and 
 had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which 
 hopes still to exact homaige in its ashes, and to live in an inscrip 
 tion. A little longer, and even these faint records will be obXter- 
 ated, and the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I 
 was yet looking down upon these grave-stones, I was roused by the 
 sound of the abbey clock, reverbe\iting from buttress to buttress, 
 and echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this 
 warning of departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling 
 the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has rolled us onward 
 towards the grave. I pursued my walk to an arched door opening 
 to the interior of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of 
 the building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults 
 of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at clustered columns 
 of gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them to such an 
 amazing height; and man wandering about their bases, shrunk 
 into insignificance in comparison with his own handiwork. The 
 spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and 
 mysterious a\e. We step cautiously and softly about, as if fearful 
 of disturbing the hallowed silence of the tomb ; while every footfall 
 whispers along the walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, mak 
 ing us more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 
 
 It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon 
 the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We 
 feel that we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great 
 men of past times, who have filled history with their deeds, and the 
 earth with their renown. 
 
 And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human ambi- 
 
136 THE SKETCH-B O OK. 
 
 tion, to see how they are crowded together and jostrfed in the dust ; 
 what parsimony is observed in doling out a scanty nook, a gloomy 
 corner, a little portion of earth, to those, whom, when alive, king 
 doms could not satisfy ; and how many shapes, and forms, and 
 artifices, are devised to catch the casual notice of the passenger, 
 and save from forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which 
 once aspired to occupy ages of the world s thought and admira 
 tion. 
 
 I passed some time in Poet s Corner, which occupies an end of 
 one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The monuments 
 are generally simple ; for the lives of literary men afford no striking 
 themes for the sculptdr. Shakspeare and Addistm have statues 
 erected to their memories ; but the greater part have busts, medal 
 lions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the 
 simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the 
 visitors to the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and 
 fonder feeling 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 s reader. Other men are known to 
 posterity only through the median! of history, which is continually 
 growing faint and obscure : but the intercourse between the authoi 
 and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. He has 
 lived for them more than for himself ; he has sacrificed surrounding 
 enjoyments, and shut himself up frorothe delights of social life, 
 that he might the more intimately comrnwne with distant minds and 
 distant ages. Well may the world che rish his renown ; for it has 
 been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the 
 diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may postemy be grateful 
 lo his memory ; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty 
 names and sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright 
 gems of thought, and golden veins of language. 
 
 From Poet s Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of 
 the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered 
 among what once were ch\)els, but which are now occupied by 
 the tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with 
 some illustrious name, or the cognizance of some powerful house 
 renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers 
 of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effig&is ; some kneeling in 
 niches, _ as if in devotioji ; others stretched upon the tombs, with 
 hands piously/ pressed together: warriors in armor, as if reposing 
 after battle ; prelates with crosiers and mitres ; and nobles in robes 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 137 
 
 and coronets, 1/ing, 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 trananuted into stonj^r 
 
 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy ofa 
 knight in complete armor. , A large bu x okler was on one arm ; the 
 l iands were pressed together in suppl^aBon upon the breast: the 
 face was almost covered by the morifcn ; the legs were crossed, in 
 token of the warrior s having been engaged in the holy war. I< 
 was the tomb of a crusatler ; of one of those military enthusra,<ts ; 
 who so strangely mingled religion and romanVe, and whose exproits 
 form the connecting link between fact and fiction ; between the 
 history and the fairy tale. There is something; extremely picturesque 
 in the fombs of these adventurers, decora fe<Xas they are with rude 
 armoria,! bearings and Gothic sculpture, i hey comport with the 
 antiquated chapels in which they are generally found ; and in con 
 sidering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the legendary 
 associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous pomp and 
 pageantry, which poetry has spread over the wars for the sepulchre 
 of Christ. They are the rehcs of times utterly gone by ; of beings 
 passed from recollection ; of customs and manners with which ours 
 have no affimty; They are like objects from some strange and 
 distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about 
 which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is some 
 thing 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 fanciful attitiMes, the over-wrought conceits, and 
 allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. 1 have 
 been struck, also, with the supeViority of many of the old sepulchral 
 inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of saying 
 things simply, and yet saying them proudly ; and I do not know an 
 epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and 
 honorable lineage, than one which affirms, of a noble house, that 
 "all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 
 
 In the opposite transept to Poet s Corner stands a monument 
 which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art ; 
 but which to me appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the 
 tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac. The bottom of the 
 monument is represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a 
 sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his 
 fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking 
 into her affrighted husband s arms, who strives, with vain and 
 
I 3 S THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terri 
 ble truth and spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibblring yell of 
 triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre. But why 
 should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and 
 to spread horrors round the tomb of those we love ? The grave 
 should be surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness 
 and veneration for the dead ; or that might win the living to virtue. 
 It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and medi 
 tation. 
 
 While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles, 
 studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from 
 withcnat occasionally reaches the ear ; the rumbling of the passing 
 equipage ; the murmur of the multitude ; or, perhaps, the light laugh 
 of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose 
 around : and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear 
 the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating against the 
 very walls of the sepulchre. 
 
 I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from 
 chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away ; the 
 distant tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less fre 
 quent ; the sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayer ; 
 and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white surplioes, 
 crossing the aisle and entering the choir. I stood before the en 
 trance to Henry the Seventh s chapel. A flight of steps lead up to 
 it, through a deep and gloomy but magnificent arch; Great gates 
 of brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
 hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals 
 into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 
 
 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture, 
 and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are 
 wrought into universal ornament, incrusted with tracery, and 
 scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and mar 
 tyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the chisel, to have 
 been robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by 
 magic, and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minute 
 ness and airy security of a cobweb. 
 
 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights 
 of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decor 
 ations of Gotnic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
 affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and 
 swords ; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 
 with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and 
 purple and crimson, with the cold, gray fretwork of the roof. In 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 13$ 
 
 the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its 
 founder, his effigy, with that of his queen, extended on a sump 
 tuous tomb, and the whole surrounded by a superbly-wrought 
 brazen railing. 
 
 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this strange 
 mixture of tombs and trophies ; .these emblems of living and aspir 
 ing ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and 
 obli\ion in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing 
 impresses the mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread 
 the silent and deserted scene of former throng and pageVnt. On 
 looking round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their esqaires, 
 and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once 
 borne before them, my imagination conjured up the scene when 
 this hall was bright with the vUlor and beauty of the land ; glitter 
 ing with the splendor of jeweled 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 casaal chirping of birds, which 
 had found their way into the chapel, and built their nests among 
 its-friefes and pendants sure signs of solitariness and desertion. 
 
 When I read the names inscribed on the banners^ they were 
 those of men scattered far and wide about the world ; some tossing 
 upon distant seas ; some under arms in distant lands ; some min 
 gling in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets ; all seeking to 
 deserve one more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honors : 
 the melancholy reward of a monument. 
 
 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching 
 instance of the equality of the grave ; which 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 Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejacftla- 
 tion of pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with 
 indisnjaJtion at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth s sepulchre 
 continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave 
 of her rival. 
 
 A peculiar melancnoly reigns over the aisle where Mary lies 
 buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by 
 dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the 
 walls are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
 figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron 
 railing, much corroded, bearing her national emblem the thistle. 
 I was weary with wandering, and sat down to rest myself by tito 
 
*4<> THS SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 monument, revolving in my mind the chequered and disastrous 
 story of poor Mary. 
 
 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I 
 could only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest 
 repeating the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir ; 
 these paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
 desermm and obsSurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave 
 a deeper and more solemn interest to the place : 
 
 For in the silent grave no conversation, 
 No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 
 No careful father s coimsel nothing s heard, 
 For nothing is, but all oblivion, 
 Dust, and an endless darkness. 
 
 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ burst upon the 
 ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it 
 were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and 
 grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
 do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful 
 harmony through these caves of death, and make the silent sepul 
 chre vocal ! And now they rise in triumph and acclamation, heav 
 ing higher and higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
 sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices ot the choir 
 break out into sweet gushes of melody ; they soar aloft, and warble 
 along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the 
 pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling 
 thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon the 
 soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping con 
 cords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful it fills 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 round me ; the monuments began to cast 
 deeper and deeper gloom ; and the distant clock again gave token 
 of the slowly waning day. 
 
 I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the 
 flight of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye 
 was caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor, and I ascended 
 the small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general 
 survey of this <vilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 141 
 
 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 trophies to the chapels and chambers 
 below, crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers 
 and statesmen, lie mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close 
 by me stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, 
 in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene 
 seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce 
 an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning 
 and the end of human pomp and power ; here it was literally but a 
 step from the throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that 
 these incongruous mementos had been gathered together as a 
 lesson to living greatness ? to show it, even in the moment of its 
 proudest exaltation, the neglect and dishonor to which it must soon 
 arrive ; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass 
 away, and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
 and be trampled upon by the feet ot the meanest of the multitude. 
 For, strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. 
 There is a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to 
 sport with awful and hallowed things ; and there are base minds, 
 which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage 
 and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. The coffin 
 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 Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry 
 the Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some 
 proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind. Some 
 are plundered ; some mutilated ; some covered with ribaldry and 
 insult all more or less outraged and dishonored ! 
 
 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
 painted windows in the high vaults above me ; the lower parts of 
 the abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The 
 chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the 
 kings faded into shadows; the marble figures of the monuments 
 assumed strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze 
 crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; and even 
 the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet s Corner, had 
 something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my 
 morning s walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, 
 the door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole 
 building with echoes. 
 
 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my mind of the 
 objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already 
 
I 4 2 THE SKETCH-BOOK, 
 
 fallen 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 cf humilia 
 tion; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, 
 and the certainty of oblivion! \It is, indeed, the empire of death; 
 his great, shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the 
 relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the 
 monuments of princes. How idle a beast, after all, is the immor 
 tality of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; we 
 are too much engrossed by the story of the present to think of the 
 characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past ; and each 
 age is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol 
 of to-day pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and 
 will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow.) "Our 
 fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, "find their graves in our short 
 memories, and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." 
 History fades into fable ; fact becomes clouded with doubt and 
 controversy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue 
 falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they 
 but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters written in 
 the dust? What is the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an 
 embalmment? The remains of Alexander the Great have been 
 scattered to the wind, and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere 
 curiosity of a museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cam- 
 byses or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim cures 
 wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams."* 
 
 What, then, is to insure this pile which now towers above me from 
 sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come 
 when its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rub 
 bish 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 mansions 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 perishes from record and recollection ; his history 
 is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.f 
 
 Sir T. Browu. \ For notes on Westminster Abbey, see Appendix, 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 But is Md, old, good old Christmas gone ? Nothing but the hair cf his good, 
 gray old head, ana beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot nave 
 more of him. HUE AND RY AFTEH CHRISTMAS. 
 
 A man might then behold 
 
 At Christinas, in each hall 
 Good fires to curb the cold, 
 
 And meat for great and small. 
 The neighbors were friendly bidden, 
 
 And all had welcome true, 
 The poor from the gates were not chidden 
 
 When this old cap was new. 
 
 OLD SONG. 
 
 "VTOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over my 
 |\ imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and 
 rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my 
 fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only 
 knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets 
 had painted it ; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest 
 days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to 
 think the world was more homebred, 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 later days. Poetry, 
 however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and 
 holiday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes 
 as the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and 
 mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping 
 together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them 
 in verdure. 
 
 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the 
 strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn 
 and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the 
 spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment The services 
 of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring* 
 They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and 
 the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They 
 gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of 
 Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that 
 
f./ t. 
 
 144 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 brought peace and good-will to men. I do not know a grander 
 effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir 
 and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem in a cathe 
 dral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant har 
 mony. 
 
 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore ; 
 that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the 
 religion of peace and love, has been made the season forgathering 
 _ together of family connections, and drawing closer again those 
 bands of kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows 
 of the world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back 
 the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wan 
 dered 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 derive a 
 
 great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. 
 
 Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
 landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of 
 "" the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of 
 spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
 autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with 
 its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with 
 mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sen- 
 | sation. 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 desola 
 tion of the landscape, the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, 
 while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also 
 from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the 
 pleasure 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 call- 
 eth 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 domes 
 tic 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 in a kindlier welcome. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 145 
 
 Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader 
 and more cordial smile where is the shy glance of love more sweetly 
 eloquent than by the winter fireside? and as the hollow blast of 
 wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles 
 about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be 
 more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with 
 which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene 
 of domestic hilarity ? 
 
 The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout 
 every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals 
 and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country 
 life ; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the 
 religious and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even 
 the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint 
 humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to 
 mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. 
 It seemed to throw open every door and unlock every heart. It 
 brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks 
 in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of 
 castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and the Christ 
 mas 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 passengers 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 effects of modern refinement is the havoc 
 it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has com 
 pletely taken off the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these 
 embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more 
 smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. 
 Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely 
 disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falstaff, are become 
 matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They 
 flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed 
 life roughly, but heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, 
 which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, and the 
 drama with its most attractive variety of characters and manners. 
 The world has become more worldly. There is more of dissipa 
 tion, and less of enjoyment. (Pleasure has expanded into a broader, 
 but a shallower stream; and has forsaken many of those deeplind 
 quiet channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of 
 
 domestic lifeTj Society has acquired a more enlightened and-ele? 
 ^- J 
 
I 4 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 gant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, i^s 
 homebred feelings, its honest, fireside delights. The traditionary 
 customs of golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and 
 lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and 
 stately manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They com 
 ported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the tap 
 estried parlor, but are unfitted to the light, showy saloons and gay 
 drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 
 
 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, Christ 
 mas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is 
 gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds 
 so powerful a place~"1n every English bosom. The preparations 
 making on every side for the social board that is again to unite 
 friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing and repass- 
 ing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feeling : the 
 evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of 
 peace and gladness ; all these have the most pleasing effect in 
 producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies. * 
 Even the sound of the Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, 
 breaks upon the mid-watches 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, with the 
 sacred and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another 
 celestial choir, announcing peace and good-will to mankind. 
 
 How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these 
 moral influences, turns everything to melody and beauty ! The 
 very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose 
 of the country, " telling the night watches to his feathery dames," 
 was thought by the common people to announce the approach of 
 this sacred festival. 
 
 " Some say that ever gainst that season comes 
 Wherein our Saviour s birth is celebrated, 
 This bird of dawning singeth all night long ; 
 And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad, 
 The nights are wholesome then no planets strike. 
 No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
 So hallow d and so gracious is the time." 
 
 Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and 
 stir of the affections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can 
 remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling 
 -the season for kindling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the 
 ball, but the genial flame of charity in the heart. 
 
THE STAGE CGACH. 147 
 
 The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the 
 sterile waste of years; and the idea of home, fraught with the 
 fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit ; 
 as the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the dis 
 tant fields to the weary pilgrim of the desert. 
 
 Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land though for me n 
 social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors, 
 nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold 
 yet I feel the influence of the season beaming into my soul from the 
 happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is reflective, 
 like the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright with smiles, 
 and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to 
 others the rays of a supreme and ever-shining benevolence. H 
 who can turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of hi* 
 fellow- beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneli 
 ness when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong 
 excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and 
 social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas. 
 
 THE STAGE COACS. 
 
 Orane ben6 
 
 Sine poena 
 Tenipus est ludendi. 
 
 venit hora 
 
 Absque mor^ 
 Libros deponendi. 
 
 OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL SONG. 
 
 TN the preceding paper I have made some general observations 
 
 on the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to 
 
 illustrate them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the 
 
 country ; in perusing which I would most courteously invite my 
 
 reader to lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
 
 genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only 
 
 for amusement. 
 
 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long 
 distance in rjne of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christ 
 mas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passen 
 gers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the mansions 
 of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded 
 also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delicacies ; 
 and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman % 
 
I 4 8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 box, presents from distant friends for the impending feast. I had 
 three fine rosy-cheeked boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full 
 of the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the 
 children of this country. They were returning home for the holi 
 days in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. 
 It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and 
 the impracticable feats they were to perform during their six weeks 
 emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and ped 
 agogue. They were full of anticipations of the meeting with the 
 family and household, down to the very cat and dog ; and of the 
 joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which 
 their pockets were crammed; but the meeting to which they seemed 
 to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which 
 I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of 
 more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How 
 he could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he 
 would take there was not a hedge in the whole country that he 
 could not clear. 
 
 They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, 
 to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a 
 host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in 
 the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary 
 air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a 
 little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck 
 in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of 
 mighty care and business, but he is particularly so during this 
 season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of 
 the great interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not 
 be unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that 
 may serve as a general representation of this very numerous and 
 important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a 
 language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout 
 the 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 frequent pota 
 tions of malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a 
 multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the 
 upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, 
 low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief about his 
 neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom ; and has in 
 
THE STA GE CO A CH. 149 
 
 summer time a large bouquet of flowers in his button-hole ; the pres 
 ent, most probably, of some enamored country lass. His waist 
 coat is commonly of some bright color, striped, and his small 
 clothes extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots 
 which reach about half way up his legs. 
 
 All this costume is maintained with much precision ; he has a 
 pride in having his clothes of excellent materials; and, notwith 
 standing the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is still 
 discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is almost 
 inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
 consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the 
 village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and 
 dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with 
 every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the 
 horses are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something 
 of an air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler ; his 
 duty being merely to drive from one stage to another. When off 
 the box, his hands are thrust into the pockets of his great coat, and 
 he rolls about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lord 
 liness. 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 run errands, and do all kind of 
 odd jobs, for the privilege of battening on the drippings of the 
 kitchen and the leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to 
 him as to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions 
 about horses and other topics of jockey lore; and, above all, 
 endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. Every 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 counte 
 nance 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 entrance of a village, produces a 
 general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; some with 
 bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of the 
 moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies them. 
 In the mean time, the coachman has a world of small commissions 
 to execute. Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes 
 jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public house ; 
 and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of sly import, hands 
 to some half-blushing, half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped 
 billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles through 
 
l JO THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 the village, every one runs to the window, and you have giances 
 on every side of fresh, country faces and blooming, giggling girl?. 
 At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, 
 who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing 
 company pass ; but the sagest knot is generally at the blacksmith s, 
 to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful of much 
 speculation. The smith, with the horse s heel in his lap, pauses as 
 the vehicle whirls by ; the Cyclops round the anvil suspend their 
 ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; and the sooty 
 spectre, in brown paper cap, laboring at the bellows, leans on the 
 handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a 
 long-drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and 
 sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 
 
 Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than 
 usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody 
 was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other 
 luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the 
 grocers , butchers and fruiterers shops were thronged with cus 
 tomers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their 
 dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of holly, with their 
 bright-red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene 
 brought to mind an old writer s account of Christmas preparations: 
 "Now capons and hens, beside turkeys, geese, and ducks, with 
 beef and mutton must all die for in twelve days a multitude of 
 people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar 
 and honey, square it among pies and broth. Now or never must 
 music be in tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a 
 heat, while the aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half 
 her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards 
 on Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, 
 whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards 
 benefit the butler; and if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly 
 lick his fingers." 
 
 I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a shout 
 from my little travelling companions. They had been looking out 
 of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree 
 and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general 
 burst of joy "There s John! and there s old Carlo! and there s 
 Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands. 
 
 At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant in 
 \rery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated 
 pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, 
 with a shaggy rnane and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly 
 
\THE STAGE COACH. : 51 
 
 by the road-side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited 
 him. 
 
 I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows 
 leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who 
 wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object 
 of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some 
 difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and 
 the eldest should ride first. 
 
 Off they set at last; one on the pony, with the dog bounding and 
 barking before him, and the others holding John s hands; both 
 talking at once, and overpowering him with questions 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, a_nd a holiday was the summit of earthly 
 felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the 
 horses, and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us 
 in sight of a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms 
 of a lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little 
 comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the 
 carriage road. I leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of 
 witnessing the happy meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my 
 sight. 
 
 In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to 
 pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, 
 I saw on one side the light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming 
 through a window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth 
 time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and broad, honest 
 enjoyment, the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious 
 dimensions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly polished, 
 and decorated here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, 
 tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; 
 a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and 
 a clock ticked in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended 
 along one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and other 
 hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tankards of ale 
 seemed mounting guard. Travellers of inferior order were prepar 
 ing to attack this stout repast, while others sat smoking and 
 gossiping over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the 
 fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards 
 under the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady ; but still seizing 
 an occcasional moment to exchange a flippant word, and have a 
 rallying laugh, with the group round the fire. The scene com- 
 
152 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 pletely realized Poor Robin s humble idea of the comforts of mid 
 winter: 
 
 Now trees their leafy hats do bare "" 
 To reverence Winter s silver hair; 
 A handsome hostess, merry host, 
 A pot of ale now and a toast, 
 Tobacco and a good coal fire, 
 Are things this season doth require.* 
 
 1 had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to 
 the door. A young gentleman stept out, and by the light of the 
 lamps I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. 
 I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. 
 I was not mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good- 
 humored young fellow, with whom I had once traveled on the 
 continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance 
 of an old fellow-traveller always brings up the recollection of a 
 thousand pleasant scenes, 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 holidays, and which lay at a few miles distance. " It is 
 better than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he, 
 " and I can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the 
 old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I must con 
 fess 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 Bobin s Almanac, 1684. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
 Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
 From the night-mare and the goblin, 
 That is hight good fellow Robin; 
 Keep it from all evil spirits, 
 Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets: 
 
 From curfew time 
 
 To the next prime. 
 
 CARTWRIGHT. 
 
 IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold ; our chais 
 whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; the post-boy smacked 
 his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on 
 a gallop. "He knows where he is going," said my companion, 
 laughing, " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment 
 and good cheer of the servants hall. My father, you must know, 
 is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon 
 keeping up something of old English hospitality. He is a toler 
 able specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays in 
 its purity, the old English country gentleman ; for our men of for 
 tune 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 own mind, that there was no 
 condition more truly honorable and enviable than that of a 
 country gentleman on his paternal lands, and, therefore, passes ih& 
 whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate u 
 the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is 
 deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated 
 on the subject, Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among the 
 authors who flourished at least two centuries since ; who, he insists, 
 wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their 
 successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born 
 a few centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its 
 peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some distance from 
 the main road, in rather a lonely part of the country, without any 
 rival gentry near him, he has that most enviable of all blessings 
 to an Englishman, an opportunity of indulging the bent of his own 
 humor without molestation. Being representative of the oldest 
 * Peucham s complete Gentleman. l" tt 
 
i$4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 family in the neighborhood, and a great part of the peasantry 
 being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and, in general, is 
 known simply by the appellation of The Squire ; a title which 
 has been accorded to the head of the family since time immemorial. 
 I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, 
 to prepare you for any eccentricities 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, magnifi 
 cent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into flourishes 
 and flowers. The huge, square columns that supported the gate 
 were surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the 
 porter s lodge, sheltered under dark fir-trees, and almost buried in 
 shrubbery. 
 
 The post-boy rang a large porter s bell, which resounded through 
 the still, frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of 
 dogs, with which the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. 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 the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and 
 stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy 
 whiteness. She came courtesying 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 could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song 
 and story in the household. 
 
 My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the 
 park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise 
 should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of 
 trees, among the naked branches of which the moon glittered, as 
 she rolled through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn 
 beyond was sheeted with a slight revering of snow, which here and 
 there sparkled as the moon-beams caught a frosty crystal; and at a 
 distance might be seen a thin, transparent vapor, stealing up from 
 the low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the land 
 scape. 
 
 My companion looked around him with transport: "How 
 often," said he, "have I scampered up this avenne, on returning 
 home on school vacations ! How often have I played under these 
 trees when a boy ! I feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as 
 we look up to those who have cherished us in childhood. My 
 father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having 
 us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and superin- 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. l$ 
 
 tend 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 choisest gifts a parent could 
 bestow. " 
 
 We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts 
 and sizes, "mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low 
 degree," that, disturbed by the ring of the porter s bell and 
 the rattling of the chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across 
 the lawn. 
 
 " The little dogs and all, 
 
 Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! * 
 
 cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark 
 was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was sur 
 rounded 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. One wing was evidently very 
 ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and 
 overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small, 
 diamond-shaped panes of glass 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 ancestors, 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, clipped shrubberies, 
 raised terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with 
 urns, a leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentle 
 man, I was told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete 
 finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in garden 
 ing ; it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and 
 befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of nature in 
 modern gardening had sprung up with modern republican notions, 
 but did not suit a monarchical government; it smacked of the 
 levelling system I could not help smiling at this introduction of 
 politics into gardening, though 1 expressed some apprehension 
 
156 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. 
 Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only instance 
 in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics ; and he 
 believed that he had got this notion from a member of parliament 
 who once passed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad of 
 any argument to defend his clipped yew-trees and formal terraces, 
 which had been occasionally attacked by modern landscape 
 gardeners. 
 
 As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and 
 now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building. 
 This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants hall, where 
 a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even encouraged by the 
 squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided every 
 thing was done conformably to 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 mistletoe, 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 announced, the squire came out to receive us, accompanied 
 by his two other sons ; one a young officer in the army, home on 
 leave of absence; the other an Oxonian, just from the university. 
 The squire was a fine, healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair 
 curling lightly round an open, florid countenance ; in which the 
 physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint 
 or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevo 
 lence. 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the evening 
 was far advanced, the squire would not permit us to change our 
 travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which 
 was assembled in a large, old-fashioned hall. It was composed of 
 different branches of a numerous family connection, where there 
 were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
 married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins, 
 half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens. 
 They were variously occupied ; some at a round game of cards ; 
 others conversing around the fireplace ; at one end of the hall was 
 a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more 
 
 *The mistletoe is still hung up in farmhouses and kitchens at Christmas ; 
 and the young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking 
 each time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the priv 
 lege ceases. 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 157 
 
 tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a nmry game ; and a 
 profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, 
 about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who, 
 having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to 
 slumber through a peaceful night. 
 
 While the mutual greetings were going on between young Brace- 
 bridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have 
 called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the 
 squire had evidently endeavored to restore it to something of its 
 primitive state. Over the heavy, projecting fireplace was suspended 
 a picture of a warrior in armor, standing by a white horse, asd on 
 the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler and lance. At one end 
 an enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the brgj^jies 
 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 cum 
 brous workmanship of former days, though some art^es of modern 
 convenience had been added, and the oaken flwr had been 
 carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor 
 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 
 volume of light and heat : this I understood was the Yule clog, 
 which the squire was particular in having brought in and illumined 
 on a Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.* 
 
 It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hered 
 itary elbow chair, by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and 
 
 *The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought 
 Into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas eye, laid in the fireplace, 
 and lighted with the brand of last year s clog. While it lasted, there was 
 great drinking, singing and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied 
 by Christmas candles; but in the cottages the only light was from tlie ruddy 
 blaze of the great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night; if. it went 
 out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
 
 Derrick mentions it in one of his songs : 
 
 Come, bring with a noise, 
 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas log to the firing; 
 
 While my good dame, she 
 
 Bids ye all be free, 
 And drink to your hearts desiring. 
 
 The Yule clog is still burnt in many farmhouses and kitchens in England, 
 particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with 
 it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is 
 burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand 
 remaining from the Yule clog Is carefully put away to light the next year s 
 Christmas fire. 
 
158 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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, confident of kindness and protection. 
 There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality which 
 cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger 
 at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the 
 comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found 
 myself as much at home as if I had been one of the family. 
 
 Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served 
 up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with 
 wax, and around which were several family portraits decorated 
 with holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax 
 tapers, called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were 
 placed on a highly-polished beaufet among the family plate. The 
 table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the squire 
 made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes boiled in 
 milk, with rich spices, being a standing dish in old times for 
 Christmas eve. 
 
 I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of 
 the feast; and finding him to, be perfectly orthodox, and that 1 
 need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all 
 the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors 
 of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed 
 with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight, brisk 
 little man, with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was 
 shaped like the bill of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the 
 small-pox, with a dry, perpetual bloom on it, like a frost-bitten leaf 
 in autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a 
 drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. 
 He was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly 
 jokes and inuendoes with the ladies, and making infinite merriment 
 by harping upon old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance 
 of the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed to 
 be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl next him in 
 a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite of her awe of the 
 reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was 
 the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at every 
 thing he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance, I could 
 not wonder at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 159 
 
 ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; make an 
 old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and 
 pocket-handkerchief ; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous cari 
 cature, 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 revolved through 
 the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit; sometimes 
 visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote ; as is 
 often the case with gentlemen of extensive connections and small 
 fortunes in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, 
 always enjoying the present moment ; and his frequent change of 
 scene and company prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccom 
 modating habits, with which old bachelors are so uncharitably 
 charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being versed in the 
 genealogy, history and intermarriages of the whole house of Brace- 
 bridge, which made him a great favorite with the old folks ; he was 
 a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among 
 whom he was habitually considered rather a young fellow, and he 
 was master of the revels among the children ; so that there was not 
 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 humor in respect to old 
 times, and by having a scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. 
 We had presently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent, for no 
 sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other beverages 
 peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon was called 
 en for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a 
 moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was 
 by no means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, 
 like the notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty 
 
 Now Christmas is come, 
 
 Let us beat up the drum, 
 And call all our neighbors together. 
 
 And when they appear, 
 
 Let us make them such cheer, 
 As will keep out the wind and the weather, etc. 
 
 The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper 
 was summoned from the servant s hall, where he had been strum 
 ming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting himself 
 with some of the squire s home-brewed. He was a kind pt 
 
160 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 hanger-on, I was told, of the establishment, and, though ostensibly 
 a resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the squire s 
 kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond of the 
 sound of "harp in hall." 
 
 The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one ; 
 some of the older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured 
 down several couple with a partner, with whom he affirmed he had 
 danced at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master 
 Simon, who seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old 
 times and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste 
 of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, 
 and was endeavoring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, 
 and other graces of the ancient school ; but he had unluckily 
 assorted himself with a little romping girl from boarding-school, 
 who, by her wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and 
 defeated all his sober attempts at elegance : such are the ill- 
 assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately 
 prone ! 
 
 The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his 
 maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knav 
 eries with impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and his delight 
 was to tease his aunts and cousins ; yet, like all madcap young- 
 sters, he was a universal favorite among the women. The most 
 interesting couple in the dance was the young officer and a ward 
 of the squire s, a beautiful, blushing giiiof seventeen. From sev 
 eral shy glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, 
 I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between them: 
 and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a 
 romantic girl. He was tall, slender and handsome, and, like 
 most young British officers of late years, had picked up various 
 small accomplishments on the continent he could talk French and 
 Italiandraw landscapes, sing very tolerably dance divinely ; 
 but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : what girl of 
 seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, could resist such a 
 mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 
 
 The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and, 
 lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an attitude which 1 am 
 half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air of 
 the Troubadour. The squire, however, exclaimed against having 
 anything on Christmas eve but good old English ; upon which the 
 young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an effort 
 of memory, struck into another strain, and, with a charming air of 
 gallantry, gave Herrick s " Night-Piece to 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE. 161 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. 
 The shooting stars attend thee, 
 
 And the elves also, 
 
 Whose little eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 
 
 No Will o the Wisp mislight thee ; 
 Nor snake nor slow -worm bite thee ; 
 
 But on, on thy way, 
 
 Not making a stay, 
 Since ghost there is none to affright the. 
 
 Then let not the dark thee cumber ; 
 What though the moon does slumber, 
 
 The stars of the night 
 
 Will lend thee their light, 
 Like tapers clear without number. 
 
 Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
 Thus, thus to come unto me, 
 
 And when I shall meet 
 
 Thy silvery feet, 
 My soul I ll pour into thee. 
 
 The song might or might not have been intended in compliment 
 to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called; she, how 
 ever, was certainly unconscious of any such application, for she 
 aever looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor- 
 Her face was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there 
 was a gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless 
 causec 1 by the exercise of the dance; indeed, so great was her 
 indifference, that she amused herself with plucking to pieces a 
 choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was 
 concluded the nosegay lay in ruins 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," 1 should have been half tempted to steal from 
 my room at midnight, and peep whether the fairies might not be 
 at their revels about the hearth. 
 
 My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous 
 furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the 
 giants. The room was panelled with cornices of heavy carved 
 work, in which flowers and grotesque faces were strangely inter 
 mingled; and a row of black-looking portraits stared mournfully at 
 me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, 
 * 
 
fa THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I 
 had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break 
 forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found it 
 proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the Waits from some 
 neighboring village. They went round the house, playing under 
 the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more dis 
 tinctly. The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the case 
 ment, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 
 as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to 
 accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and listened they 
 became more and more tender and remote, and, as they gradually 
 died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep. 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY. 
 
 Dark and dull night, flie hence away t 
 And give the honor to this day 
 That sees December turn d to May. 
 
 Why does the chilling winter s morne 
 Smile like a field beset with corn? 
 Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
 Thus on the sudden? Come and see 
 Tiie cause why things thus fragrant be. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 WHEN I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events 
 of the preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing 
 but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced me of 
 their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I heard the sound 
 of little feet pattering outside of the door, and a whispering consul 
 tation. Presently a choir of small voices chanted forth an old 
 Christinas carol, the burden of which was 
 
 Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
 On Christmas day in the morning. 
 
 I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and 
 beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter 
 could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not 
 more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds 
 of the house, and singing at every chamber door ; but my sudden 
 appearance frightened them into mute 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 
 
CHRISTMAS DA Y. 163 
 
 by one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an 
 angle of the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their 
 escape. 
 
 Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this 
 strong-hold of old-fashioned hospitality. The window of my cham 
 ber 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 track 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 surrounded with evergreens, according to the English 
 custom, which would have given almost an appearance of summer; 
 but the morning was extremely frosty; the light vapor of the pre 
 ceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered 
 all the trees and every blade of grass with its fine crystallizations. 
 The rays of a bright morning sun had a dazzling effect among the 
 glittering foliage. A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain 
 ash that hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
 was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous 
 notes; and a peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and 
 strutting with the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the 
 terrace walk below. 
 
 I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite 
 me to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in 
 the old wing of the house, where I found the principal part of the 
 family already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cush 
 ions, 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 acquit 
 ted 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 favorite 
 author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted to an old church melody 
 by Master Simon. As there were several good voices among the 
 household, the effect was extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly 
 gratified by the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of gratefu? 
 feeling, with which the worthy squire delivered one stanza ; his eye 
 glistening, and his voice rambling out of all the bounds of time 
 and tune : 
 
 " Tis thou that crown st my glittering hearth 
 With guiltlesse mirth, 
 
t6* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Spiced to the brink : 
 Lord, tis thy plenty-dropping hand 
 
 That soiles my land : 
 And giv st me for my bushell sowne, 
 
 Twice ten for one." 
 
 I afterwards understood that early morning service was road on 
 every Sunday and saints day throughout the year, either by Mr. 
 Bracebridge or by some member of the family. It was once almost 
 universally the case at the seats of the nobility and 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 households, where the occasional 
 exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it 
 were, the key-note to every temper for the day, and attunes every 
 spirit to harmony. 
 
 Our breakfast consisted of what the squire denominated true old 
 English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over rrcdern 
 breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes 
 of modern effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old 
 English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to his table to 
 suit the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold 
 meats, wine, and ale on the sideboard. 
 
 After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank Brace- 
 bridge and Master Simon, or, Mr. Simon, as he was called by every 
 body but the squire. We were escorted by a number of gentle 
 manlike dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment; from 
 the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag-hound ; the last of which 
 was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind : they 
 were all obedient to a dog -whistle whick hung to Master Simon s 
 button-hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance an 
 eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand. 
 
 The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow 
 sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not but feel the 
 force of the squire s idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded 
 balustrades, and clipped yew-trees, carried with them an air of 
 proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual numr-er 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 n.ost ancient and 
 approved treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. 
 "In the same way," added he, with a slight air of pedantry, "we 
 
CHRISTMAS DA Y. 16$ 
 
 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 corners, 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 favorites with his father, who was extremely 
 careful to keep up the breed ; partly because they belonged to 
 chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the 
 olden time ; and partly because they had a pomp and magnificence 
 about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he 
 was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity thai 
 a peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 
 
 Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appointment at 
 the parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform 
 some music of his selection. There was something extremely 
 agreeable in the cheerful flow of animal spirits of the little man ; 
 and I confess I had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations 
 from authors who certainly were not in the range of every-day 
 reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 
 who told me with a smile that Master Simon s whole stock of erudi 
 tion 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 
 Husbandry ; Markham s Country Contentments ; the Tretyse of 
 Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaac 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 
 all occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out of old 
 books in the squire s library, and adapted to tunes that were popular 
 among the choice spirits of the last century. His practical appli 
 cation of 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 neighborhood. 
 
 While we were talking we heard the distant tolling of the village 
 bell, and I was told that the squire was a little particular in havinj 
 
166 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 his household at church on a Christmas morning ; considering it a 
 day of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tussei 
 observed : 
 
 "At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 
 And feast thy poor neighbors, the great with the small." 
 
 " If you are disposed to go to church," said Frank Bracebridge, 
 " I can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon s musical 
 achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has 
 formed a band of the village amateurs, and established a musical 
 club for their improvement ; he has also started a choir, as he 
 sorted my father s pack of hounds, according to the directions of 
 Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments ; for the bass he 
 has sought out all the deep, solemn mouths, and for the tenor the 
 loud-ringing mouths, among the country bumpkins ; and for 
 sweet mouths, he has culled with curious taste among the 
 prettiest lasses in the neighborhood ; though these last, he affirms, 
 are the most difficult to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer 
 being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
 accident." 
 
 As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the 
 most of the family walked to the church, which was . *ery old 
 building of gray stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile 
 from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low, snug parsonage, which 
 seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly 
 matted with a yew-tree, that had been trained against its walls, 
 through the dense foliage of which apertures had been formed to 
 admit light into the small, antique lattices. As we passed this 
 sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and preceded us. 
 
 I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, such as is 
 often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron s tajDie, 
 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 shrink away within it, 
 like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, with great 
 skirts, and pockets that would have held the church Bible and 
 prayer book : and his small legs seemed still smaller, from be ^g 
 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 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 167 
 
 were his delight ; and he was indefatigable in his researches after 
 such old English writers as have fallen into oblivion from .heir 
 worthlessness. In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. 
 Bracebridge, he had made diligent investigations into the festive 
 rights and holiday customs of former times ; and had been as 
 zealous in the inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; but it 
 was merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust 
 temperament follow up any track of study, merely because it is 
 denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether it 
 be the illustration of wisdom, or of the ribaldry and obscenity of 
 antiquity. He had poured over these old volumes so intensely, 
 that they seemed to have been reflected in his countenance ; which, 
 if the face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared to 
 a title-page of black-letter. 
 
 On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking 
 the gray-headed sexton for having used mistletoe among the greens 
 with which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an 
 unholy plant, profaned by having been used by the Druids in their 
 mystic ceremonies ; and though it might be innocently 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 tenacious was he on this point, that 
 the poor sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the 
 humble trophies of his taste, before the parson would consent to 
 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 armor, with his legs crossed, a sign of 
 his having been a crusader, I was told it was one of the family 
 who had signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose 
 picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 
 
 During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated 
 the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious 
 devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, 
 and a man of old family connections. I observed, too, that he 
 turned over the leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a 
 flourish; possibly to show off an enormous seal-ring which enriched 
 one of his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. But 
 he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the 
 service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the choir, and beating 
 time with much gesticulation and emphasis. 
 
 Tne orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most 
 
168 THE SKETCH-POOK. 
 
 whimsical grouping 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, pursy man, stooping and laboring at a bass-viol, so 
 as to show nothing but the top of a round, bald head, like the egg of 
 an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female 
 singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a 
 bright, rosy tint ; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been 
 chosen, like old Cremona riddles, more for tone than looks ; and 
 as several had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings 
 of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we some 
 times see on country tombstones. 
 
 The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the 
 vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and 
 some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by 
 travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing 
 more bars than the keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. Butt 
 the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged 
 by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. 
 Uuluckily, there was a blunder at the very outset ; the musician* 
 became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever ; everything 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 ; eacK 
 shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soo 
 as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, 
 bestriding and pinching a long, sonorous nose ; who happened t^ 
 stand a little apart, and, being wrapped up in his own melody, 
 kept on a quivering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, 
 and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars? 
 duration. 
 
 The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and 
 ceremonies of Christinas, and the propriety of observing it not 
 merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
 correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, 
 and enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, 
 St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of 
 saints and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was 
 a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array 01 
 forces to maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined 
 to dispute ; but I soon found that the good man had a legion of 
 ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in the course of his 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. 169 
 
 researches on the subject of Christmas, 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 Christinas \vas driven out of the land by proclamation of 
 Parliament.* The worthy parson lived but with times past, and 
 knew but little of the present. 
 
 Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of his 
 antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the 
 gazettes of the day ; while the era of the Revolution was mere 
 modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed 
 since the fiery persecution of poor mince pie throughout the land ; 
 when plum porridge was denounced as "mere popery," and roast- 
 beef as anti-christian ; and that Christmas had been brought in 
 again triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the 
 Restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardor of his" contest, 
 and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he 
 had a stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other 
 forgotten champions of the Round Heads, on the subject of 
 Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the 
 most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the traditional cus 
 toms 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 congregation 
 seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly 
 enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the 
 church-yard, greeting and shaking hands ; and the children ran 
 about crying Ule ! Ule ! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,! 
 which the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been 
 handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed their 
 hats to the squire as he passed, giving him the good wishes of the 
 season with every appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were 
 invited by him to the hall, to take something to keep out the cold 
 of the weather ; and I heard blessings uttered by several of the 
 
 * From the il 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 sen, and before they rose, were presented with a terrible 
 remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. 
 v. 16; 1 Cor. xv. 14, 17: and in honor of the Lord s Day, grounded upon these 
 Scriptures, John xx. 1 : Rev. i 10: Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; Mark xv. 8; 
 Psalm Ixxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-christ s masse, and those 
 Masse-mongers and Papists who observe it, etc. In consequence of which 
 Parliament spent some time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas 
 day. passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, 
 Which was commonly called Christmas day." 
 t "Ule! Ule! 
 
 Three puddings in a pule; 
 
 Crack nuts and cry ule! " 
 
t 7 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 f*>or, which convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the 
 worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christmas virtue of 
 charity. 
 
 On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed with generous 
 and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground which 
 commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic merri 
 ment 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 aay was of itself sufficient to inspire philanthropy. 
 Notwithstanding the frustiness of the morning, the sun in his cloud 
 less 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 dazzl 
 ing whiteness of the shadow slopes and hollows. Every sheltered 
 bank on which the broad rays rested yielded its silver rill of cold 
 and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent 
 up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung ,2ist 
 above the surface of the earth. There was something truly cheer 
 ing in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom 
 of winter ; it was, as the squire observed, an emblem of Christmas 
 hospitality, breaking through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, 
 and thawing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure to 
 the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys of the 
 comfortable farmhouses, and low thatched cottages. " I love," 
 said he, " to see this day well kept by rich and poor ; it is a great 
 thing to have one day in the year, at least, when you are sure of 
 being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the 
 world all thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join 
 with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish enemy to 
 this honest festival : 
 
 "Those who at Christmas do repine 
 
 And would fain hence dispatch him, 
 May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 
 Or else may Squire Ketch catch em." 
 
 The squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games 
 and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among 
 the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher ; when the old 
 halls of the castles and manor-houses were thrown open at day 
 light ; when the tables were covered with brawn, and beef, and 
 humming ale ; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long, 
 and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make 
 
CHRISTMAS DAY. i?i 
 
 merry.* " Our old games and local customs," said he, " had a 
 great effect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the pro 
 motion of them by the gentry made him fond of his lord They 
 made the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly 
 say, with one of our old poets : 
 
 I like them well the curious preciseness 
 And all-pretended gravity of those 
 That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
 Have thrust away much ancient honesty. 
 
 "The nation," continued he, "is altered; we have almost lost 
 our simple, true-hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder 
 from the higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separ 
 ate. They have become too knowing, and begin to read news 
 papers, listen to ale-house politicians, and talk of reform. I think 
 one mode to keep them in good humor in these hard times would 
 be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their estates, 
 mingle more among the country people, and set the merry old 
 English games going again." 
 
 Such was the good squire s project for mitigating public discon 
 tent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine in 
 practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the 
 holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did not 
 understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality ; many 
 uncouth circumstances occurred; the manor was overrun by all the 
 vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the neighbor 
 hood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year, 
 Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the decent part 
 of the neighboring peasantry to call at the hall on Christmas day, 
 and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale, among the poor, 
 that they might make merry in their own dwellings. 
 
 We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard 
 from a distance. A band of country lads, without coats, their 
 shirt sleeves fancifully tied with ribbons, their hats decorated with 
 greens, and clubs in their hands, was seen advancing up the ave 
 nue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They 
 stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar 
 air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance, advan- 
 
 *" An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i. e. on Christmas 
 flay in the morning, h;id all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by day 
 break. The strong beer was broached, and the blackjacks went plentifully 
 about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin 
 fthe great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must 
 take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by *he arms, and run her round the market 
 place till she is shamed of her laziness." Hound about our Sea-Coal Fire. 
 
IT* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 cing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping exact 
 time to the music ; while one, whimsically crowned with a fox s 
 skin, the tail of which flaunted down his back, kept capering round 
 the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with many 
 antic gesticulations. 
 
 The squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and 
 delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced 
 to the times when the Romans held possession of the island ; 
 plainly proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword dance 
 of the ancients. "It was now," he said, "nearly extinct, but he 
 had accidentally met with traces of it in the neighborhood, and 
 had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it was too apt 
 to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, and broken heads in 
 the evening." 
 
 After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained 
 with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. The squire himself 
 mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward dem 
 onstrations 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 some 
 thing of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; but the 
 moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were 
 exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all 
 seemed more at their ease. His varied occupations and amuse 
 ments had made him well known throughout the neighborhood. 
 He was a visitor at every farmhouse and cottage ; gossiped with 
 the farmers and their wives ; romped with their daughters ; and, 
 like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humble-bee, tolled the 
 sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 
 
 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer 
 and affability. There is something genuine and affectionate in the 
 gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and 
 familiarity of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters 
 into their mirth, and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly 
 uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more 
 than oil and wine. When the squire had retired, the merriment 
 increased, and there was much joking and laughter, particularly 
 between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed 
 farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the village ; for I observed 
 all his companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and 
 burst into a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand 
 them. 
 
 The whoie house, indeed, seemed abandoned to merriment: as I 
 
CHRISTMAS DINNER. 173 
 
 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 musicians, with pandean pipes 
 and tambourine ; a pretty, coquettish house-maid was dancing a jig 
 vith a smart country lad, while several of the other servants were 
 looking on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of 
 my face at the window, and, coloring up, ran off with an air of 
 roguish affected confusion. 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER. 
 
 Lo, now is come our joyful st feast! 
 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly. 
 Now all our neighbours chimneys smoke, 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning; 
 Their ovens they with bafk t meats choke 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 Without the door let sorrow lie, 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 Wee le bury t in a Christinas pye, 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 WITHERS JUVENILIA. 
 
 {HAD finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Brace, 
 bridge in the library, when we heard a distant thwacking 
 sound, which he informed me was a signal for the serving up 
 of the dinner. The squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well 
 as hall; and the rolling-pin, struck upon the dresser by the cook, 
 summoned the servants to carry in the meats. 
 
 Just in this nick the cook knock* d thrice. 
 And all the waiters in a thrice 
 
 His summons did obey ; 
 Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
 March d 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, crackling fire of 
 logs had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the 
 flame went sparkling and wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. 
 The great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been 
 profusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly and 
 ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on 
 
 * Sir John Suckling. 
 
174 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 the opposite wall, -which I understood \vere the arms of ^he s 
 warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the 
 authenticity of the painting and armor as having belonged to the 
 crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; 
 but I was told that the painting had been so considered time out of 
 mind ; and that, as to the armor, it had been found in a lumber- 
 room, and elevated to its present situation by the squire, who at 
 once determined it to be the armor of the family hero ; and as he 
 was absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, 
 the matter 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 vessel of the temple : " flagons, cans, cups, beakers, 
 goblets, basins and ewers;" the gorgeous utensils of good com 
 panionship that had gradually accumulated through many genera 
 tions of jovial housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule 
 candles, beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights 
 were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a 
 firmament of silver. 
 
 We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of 
 minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a stool beside the 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 ; those who were not 
 handsome were at least happy ; and happiness is a rare improver 
 of your hard-favored visage. I always consider an old English 
 family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein s portraits 
 or Albert Durer s prints. There is much antiquarian lore to be 
 acquired ; much knowledge of the physiognomies of former times. 
 Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes those 
 rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of this 
 country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features of anti 
 quity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient lines; 
 and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture 
 gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to generation, 
 almost from the time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was 
 to be observed in the worthy company around me. Many of their 
 faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and been merely 
 copied by succeeeding generations ; and there was one little girl in 
 particular, of staid demeanor, with a high, Roman nose, and an 
 antique, vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire s, 
 being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart 
 of one of his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 
 
CHRISTMAS DINNER. J7J 
 
 The parson said grace .which was not a short familiar one, such ar 
 Is commonly addressed to the Deity in these unceremonious days; 
 but a long, courtly, well-worded one of the ancient school. There 
 was now a pause, as if something was expected ; when suddenly 
 the butler entered the hall with some degree of bustle : he was 
 attended by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore 
 a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig s head, decorated 
 with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with 
 great formality at the head of the table. The moment this pageant 
 made its appearance, the harper struck up a flourish ; at the con 
 clusion of which the young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the 
 squire, gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, 
 the first verse of which was as follows : 
 
 Caput apri defero 
 
 Reddens laudes Domino. 
 The boar s head in hand bring I, 
 With garlands gay and rosemary. 
 I pray you all synge merrily 
 
 Qui estis in convivio. 
 
 Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, 
 from being apprised of the peculiar hobby of mine host ; yet, I con 
 fess, the parade with which so odd a dish was introduced some* 
 what perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation of the 
 squire and the parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing 
 in of the boar s head ; a dish formerly served up with much cere 
 mony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables, on 
 Christinas 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 college 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 parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such asso 
 ciations, 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 college. He went on, 
 with the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college 
 reading, accompanied by sundry annotations ; addressing himself 
 at first to the company at large ; but finding their attention gradu 
 ally diverted to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as 
 his number of auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks 
 
1 76 THE SKETCH S O OK. 
 
 in an under voice, to a fat-headed old gentleman next him, whs 
 was silently engaged in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey.* 
 
 The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented 
 an epitome of country abundance, in this season of overflowing 
 larders. A distinguished post was allotted to " ancient sirloin," as 
 mine host termed it ; being, as he added, "the standard of old Eng 
 lish hospitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expecta 
 tion." There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which 
 had evidently something traditional in their embellishments ; but 
 about which, as I did not like to appear over-curious, I asked no 
 questions. 
 
 I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently decorated 
 with peacock s feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which 
 overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This, the squire 
 confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a 
 peacock pie was certainly the most authentical ; but there had 
 been such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he 
 could not prevail upon himself to have one killed. f 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not 
 
 * The old ceremony of serving up the boar s head on Christmas day is still 
 observed in the hall of Queen s College, Oxford. I was favored by the parson 
 with a copy of the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of 
 my readers as are curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 
 
 The boar s head in hand bear I, 
 Bedeck d with bays and rosemary; 
 
 And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
 Quot estis in 
 
 convivio. 
 
 Caput apri defero, 
 Reddens laudes domino. 
 
 The boar s head I understand, 
 Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
 Which thus bedeck d with a gay garland 
 Let us servire cantico. 
 Caput apri defero, etc. 
 
 Our steward hath provided this 
 In honor of the King of Bliss, 
 Which on this day to be served is 
 In Reginensi Atrio. 
 Caput apri defero. 
 
 etc., etc., etc. 
 
 f The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. 
 Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared 
 above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak richly gilt ; at the other end 
 the tail was displayed. Such pies were served up at the solemn banquets of 
 chivalry, when knights-errant pledged themselves to undertake any perilous 
 enterprise, whence came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, "by cock 
 and pie." 
 
 The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and Mas- 
 singer, in his city Madam, gives some idea of the extravagance with which 
 this, as well as other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden 
 times: 
 
 Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 
 
 Their thirty pound butter d eggs, theii IMPS of carps tongues; 
 Their pheasants drench d with ambergris ; the carcases of three /at wetheri 
 bruited for gravy to make sauce /or a swfffo peacock. 
 
CHRISTMAS DINNER. 177 
 
 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 endeavoring to follow up, 
 though at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was 
 pleased, however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his 
 children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into the full 
 spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their parts ; having, 
 doubtless, been present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, 
 at the air of profound gravity with which the butler and other 
 servants executed the duties assigned them, however eccentric. 
 They had an old-fashioned look ; having, for the most part, been 
 brought up in the household, and grown into keeping with the anti 
 quated mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most probably 
 looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established laws of 
 honorable housekeeping. 
 
 When the cloth was, removed, the butler brought in a huge, silver 
 vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before 
 the squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation; being 
 the Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The con 
 tents had been prepared by the squire himself ; for it was a bever 
 age in the skilful mixture of which he particularly prided himself: 
 alleging that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehen 
 sion of an ordinary servant. It was a potatiom, indeed, that might 
 well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; being composed 
 of the richest 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 lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all 
 present, he sent it brimming round the board, for every one to fol 
 low his example, according to the primitive style ; pronouncing 
 it "the ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met 
 together."! 
 
 * The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine ; with 
 nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs ; in this way the nut-brown 
 beverage is still prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of sub 
 stantial farmers at Christmas. It is also called Lamb s Wool, and is celebrated 
 by Herrick in his Twelfth Night: 
 
 Next crowne the bowle full 
 
 With gentle Lamb s Wool ; 
 Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 
 
 With store of ale too ; 
 
 And thus ye must doe 
 To make the Wassaile a swinger. 
 
 f- " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having 
 his cup. When the steward came to the doore witli the Wassel, he was to cry 
 three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappell (chaplein) was to 
 Answer with a song." ARCH^EOLOGIA. 
 
178 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem of 
 Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the 
 ladies. When it reached Master Simon, he raised it in both hands, 
 and with the air of a boon companion struck up an old WassaLi 
 chanson. 
 
 The brown bowle, 
 
 The merry brown bowle, 
 
 As it goes round about-a 
 
 Still, 
 
 Let the world say what it will, 
 And drink your fill all out- a. 
 
 The deep canne, 
 
 The merry deep canne, 
 
 As thou dost freely quaff-a, 
 
 Sing 
 
 Fling, 
 
 Be as merry as a king, 
 And sound a lusty laugh-a.* 
 
 Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family top 
 ics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal 
 of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he 
 was accused of having a flirtation. This attack was commenced 
 by the ladies ; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the 
 fat-headed old gentleman next the parson, with the persevering 
 assiduity of a slow hound ; being one of those long-winded jokers, 
 who, though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their 
 talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general conver 
 sation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same terms; 
 winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master 
 Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, 
 seemed fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are 
 apt to be; and he took occasion to inform me, in an under tone, 
 that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman, and drove 
 her own curricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent hilarity, 
 and, though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many 
 a scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever wit 
 nessed 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 ! the joyous disposition of the 
 * From Poor Kobin i Almanac. 
 
CHRISTMAS DINNER. 179 
 
 worthy squire was perfectly contagious ; he was happy himself, 
 and disposed to make all the world happy; and the little eccen 
 tricities of his humor did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of 
 his philanthropy. 
 
 When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became 
 still more animated; many good things were broached which had 
 been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for 
 a lady s ear; and though I cannot positively affirm that there was 
 much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare 
 wit produce much less laughter. ^Wit, after all, is a mighty tart, 
 pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs; but 
 honest good humor is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and 
 there is no jovial companionship 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 imagination to 
 figure such a little dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a 
 madcap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures 
 of what men may be made by their different lots in life. The 
 squire had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, 
 in the vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had 
 flourished on to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, 
 on the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, 
 in the silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a 
 spark of almost extinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bottom 
 of his soul ; and as the squire hinted at a sly story of the parson 
 and a pretty milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of the 
 Isis, the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces," which, as 
 far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I verily believe was 
 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 humor 
 as a grasshopper filled with dew; his old songs grew of a warmer 
 complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He 
 even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he 
 informed me he had gathered from an excellent black-letter work, 
 entitled "Cupid s Solicitor for Love," containing store of good 
 advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me : the first 
 verse was to this effect; 
 
i8o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
 He must make hay while the sun doth shine ; 
 
 He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I, 
 But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine. 
 
 This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made 
 several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that 
 was pat to the purpose ; but he always stuck in the middle, every 
 body recollecting the latter part excepting himself. The parson, 
 too, began to show the effects of good cheer, having gradually 
 settled down into a doze, and his wig s tting most suspiciously on 
 one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
 room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose 
 joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum. 
 
 After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to the 
 younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy 
 mirth by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring 
 with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight 
 in witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
 holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing-room 
 on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the 
 game of blind-man s-buff. Master Simon, who was the leader of 
 their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfil the office of that 
 ancient potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst 
 of the hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
 fairies about FalstafF; pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his 
 coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine, blue-eyed girl of 
 about 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 library for his 
 particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furni 
 ture, with which his shadowy figure and dark, weazen face so 
 admirably accorded, he was dealing out strange accounts of the 
 
 * At Christmasse there was in the King s 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.-SioWB, 
 
CHRISTMAS DINNER. 181 
 
 popular superstitions and legends of the surrounding country, with 
 which he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian 
 researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman 
 was himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very 
 apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part 
 of the country, and pore over black-letter tracts, so often filled 
 with the marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several anec 
 dotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry, concerning the 
 effigy of the crusader, which lay on the, tomb by the church altar. 
 As it was the only monument of the kind in that part of the coun 
 try, it had always been regarded with feelings of superstition by 
 the good wives of the village. It was said to get up from the tomb 
 and walk the rounds of the church-yard in stormy nights, particu 
 larly when it thundered; and one old woman, whose cottage bor 
 dered on the church-yard, had seen it through the windows of the 
 church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the 
 aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had been left unredressed 
 by the deceased, or some treasure hidden, which kept the spirit in 
 a state of trouble and restlessness. Some talked of gold and 
 jewels buried in the tomb, over which the spectre kept watch; and 
 there was a story current of a sexton in old times, who endeavored 
 to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just as he reached it, 
 received a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy, which 
 stretched him senseless on the pavement. These tales were often 
 laughed at by some of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when 
 night came on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that 
 were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led across the 
 church-yard. 
 
 From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader 
 appeared to be the favorite hero of ghost stories throughout the 
 vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by 
 the servants to have something supernatural about U ; 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 servants, 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 churclf door most civilly swung open of itself ; not that he 
 needed it ; for he rode through closed gates and even stone walls, 
 
t82 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 and had been seen by one of the dairy maids to pass between tWQ 
 bars of the great park gate, making himself as thin as a shest ol 
 paper. 
 
 All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced 
 by the squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond 
 of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the 
 neighboring gossips with infinite giavity, and held the porter s wife 
 in high favor on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was 
 himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often 
 lamented that he could not believe in them ; for a superOious 
 person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land. 
 
 Whilst we were all attention to the parson s stories, our ears 
 were suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from 
 Jie hall, in which were mingled something like the clang of rude 
 jninistrelsy, with the uproar of many small voices and girlish 
 laughter. The door suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping 
 into the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the break 
 ing up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master 
 Simon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as lord of misrule, 
 had conceived the idea of a Christmas mummery or masking ; and 
 having called in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, 
 who were equally ripe for anything 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 the parlor 
 and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out into burlesque 
 imitations of an antique mask.* 
 
 Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient Christmas," quaintly 
 apparelled in ruff, a short cloak, which had very much the aspect 
 of one of the old housekeeper s petticoats, and a hat that might have 
 served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have figured in 
 the days of the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved 
 boldly forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the very 
 trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by the blue- 
 eyed romp, dished up as "Dame Mince Pie," in the venerable 
 magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat, and 
 high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, 
 
 * Masking* or mummeries were favorite sports at Christmas in old times, 
 and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often laid under contribu 
 tion to furnish dresses and fantastic disguislngs. I strongly suspect Master 
 lmo to have taken the idea of his from Ben Johnson s Masque of Chritr". 
 
CHklSTMAS DINNER. F&3 
 
 in a sporting dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with a gold 
 
 tassel. 
 
 The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep research, 
 and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to a young 
 gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his 
 arm in a pretty rustic dress, as "Maid Marion." The rest of the 
 train had been metamorphosed in various ways; the girl strussed up 
 in the finery of the ancient belles of the Bracebridge line, and the 
 striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad 
 skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to represent the 
 character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies cele 
 brated in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control of 
 the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; and I 
 observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand 
 over the smaller personages of the pageant. 
 
 The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according 
 to ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment. 
 Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with 
 which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, 
 though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of 
 all the characters, which from its medley of costumes, seemed as 
 though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames 
 to join in the sport. Different centuries were figuring at cross 
 hands and right and left ; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes 
 and rigadoons ; and the 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 chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely 
 hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was 
 discoursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance at 
 the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet 
 to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual excitement 
 from the varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing 
 before me. It was inspiring to see wild-eyed frolic and warm 
 hearted hospitality breaking out from among the chills and glooir.s 
 of winter, and old age throwing off his apathy, and catching once 
 more the freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
 in the scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs 
 
 * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called Pavon, from pavo, a pea 
 cock, says, "It is a grave ana majestic dance; the method or dancing it 
 anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by those of the 
 long robe in their gowns, by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in 
 gowns with long trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a 
 peacock." History of Music. ., 
 
1&4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only 
 family in England in which the whole of them was still punc 
 tiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, mingled with all 
 this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : it was suited to the time 
 and place ; and as the old manor-house almost reeled with mirth 
 and wassail, it seemed echoing back the joviality of long departed 
 years.* 
 
 But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time for me to 
 pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions asked by 
 my graver readers, "To what purpose is all this how is the world 
 to be made wiser by this talk ? " Alas ! is there not wisdom enough 
 extant for the instruction of the world ? And if not, are there not 
 thousands of abler pens laboring for its improvement? It is so 
 much pleasanter to please than to instruct to play the companion 
 rather than the preceptor. 
 
 What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw into the 
 mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure that my sagest deductions 
 may be safe guides for the opinions of others ? But in writing to 
 amuse, if I fail, the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, 
 however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out 
 one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of 
 one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then penetrate through 
 the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent vieAv of 
 human nature, and make my reader more in good humor with his 
 fellow beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have 
 written entirely in vain. 
 
 LONDON ANTIQUES. 
 
 1 do walk 
 
 Methinks like Guide Vaux, with my dark lanthorn 
 Stealing to set the town o fire ; i th country 
 I should be taken for William o the Wisp, 
 Or Eobin Gcndfellow. 
 
 FLETCHER. 
 
 I AM somewhat of an antiquity hunter, and am fond of exploring 
 London in quest of the relics of old times. These are princi 
 pally to be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up and 
 almost lost in a wilderness of brick and mortar ; but deriving 
 
 * At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of an old- 
 fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. 
 The author had afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs 
 above described, existing in unexpected vigor in the skirts of Derbyshire and 
 Yorkshire, where he passed the Christinas holidays. The reader wil> flnd some 
 notice of them in the author s account of his sojourn at Newstead >bbey. 
 
LONDON ANTIQUES. 18$ 
 
 poetical and romantic interest from the commonplace, prosaic world 
 around them. I was struck with an instance of the kind in the course 
 of a recent summer ramble into the city ; for the city is only to be ex 
 plored to advantage in summer time, when free from the smoke and 
 fog, and rain and mud of winter. I had been buffeting for some 
 time against the current of population setting through Fleet street. 
 The warm weather had unstrung my nerves, and made me sensi 
 tive to every jar and jostle and discordant sound. The flesh was 
 weary, the spirit faint, and I was getting out of humor with the 
 bustling, busy throng through which I had to struggle, when in a 
 fit of desperation I tore my way through the crowd, plunged into a 
 by lane, and after passing through several obscure nooks and 
 angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court with a grass-plot in 
 the centre, overhung by elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green 
 by a fountain with its sparkling jet of water. A student with book 
 in hand was seated on a stone bench, partly reading, partly medi 
 tating on the movements of two or three trim nursery maids with 
 their infant charges. 
 
 I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an oasis amid 
 the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet and cool 
 ness of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. I 
 pursued my walk, and came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel, 
 with a low-browed Saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. 
 The interior was circular and lofty, and lighted from above. 
 Around were monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were 
 extended the marble effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the 
 hands devoutly crossed upon the breast ; others grasped the pom 
 mel of the sword, menacing hostility even in the tomb ! while the 
 crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had 
 been on crusades to the Holy Land. 
 
 I was, in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars, strangely 
 situated in the very centre of sordid traffic ; and I do not know 
 a more impressive lesson for the man of the world than thus sud 
 denly to turn aside from the highway of busy, money-seeking life 
 and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twi 
 light, dust, and forgetfulness. 
 
 In a subsequent tour of observation, I encountered another of 
 these relics of a "foregone world" locked up in the heart of the 
 city. I had been wandering for some time through dull monoton 
 ous streets, destitute of anything to strike the eye or excite the 
 imagination, when I beheld before me a Gothic gateway of moulder 
 ing antiquity. It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the 
 
1 86 THE SKETCH- B O OK. 
 
 (ourt-yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of which stood invit 
 ingly open. 
 
 It was apparently a public edifice, and as I was antiquity hunting, 
 I ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting no one either 
 to oppose or rebuke my intrusion, I continued on until I found 
 myself in a great hall, with a lofty, arched roof and oaken gallery, 
 all of Gothic architecture. At one end of the hall was an enor 
 mous fireplace, with wooden settles on each side ; at the other end 
 was a raised platform, or dais, the seat of state, above which was 
 the portrait of a man in antique garb, with a long robe, a ruff, and 
 a venerable gray beard. 
 
 The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and seclu 
 sion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, that I had not 
 met with a human being since I had passed the threshold. 
 
 Encouraged by this loneliness, I seated myself in a recess of a 
 large bow window, which admitted a broad flood of yellow sun 
 shine, checkered here and there by tints from panes of colored 
 glass ; while an open casement let in the soft, summer air. Here, 
 leaning my head on my hand, and my arm on an old oaken table, 
 I indulged in a sort of a reverie about what might have been the 
 ancient uses of this edifice. It had evidently been of monastic origin ; 
 perhaps one of those collegiate establishments built of yore for the 
 promotion of learning, where the patient monk, in the ample 
 solitude of the cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, 
 emulating in the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile 
 he inhabited. 
 
 As I was seated in this musing mood, a small, panelled door in 
 an arch at the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number of 
 gray-headed old men clad in long, black cloaks, came forth one by 
 one; proceeding in that manner through the hall, without uttering 
 a word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and disap 
 pearing through a door at the lower end. 
 
 I was singularly struck with their appearance ; their black cloaks 
 and antiquated air comported with the style of this most venerable 
 and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed years, 
 about which I had been musing, were passing in review before me. 
 Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of 
 romance, to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, 
 existing in the very centre of substantial realities. 
 
 My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts and 
 corridors and dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice had many 
 additions and dependencies, built at various times and in various 
 styles ; in one open space a number of boys, who evidently belonged 
 
LONDON ANTIQ UES. 1 8? 
 
 to the establishment, were at their sports: but everywhere I 
 observed those mysterious, old, gray men in black mantles, some 
 times sauntering alone, sometimes conversing in groups: they 
 appeared to be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to 
 mind what I had read of certain colleges in old times, where judi 
 cial astrology, geomancy, necromancy, and other forbidden and 
 magical sciences were taught. Was this an establishment of the 
 kind, and were these black-cloaked old men really professors of the 
 black art ? 
 
 These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye glanced 
 into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and uncouth 
 objects ; implements of savage warfare ; strange idols and stuffed 
 alligators; bottled serpents and monsters decorated the mantle- 
 piece ; while on the high tester of an old-fashioned bedstead 
 grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a dried cat. 
 
 I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, 
 which seemed a fitting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was 
 startled at beholding a human countenance staring at me from 
 a dusky corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled, old man, with 
 thin cheeks, bright eyes, and gray, wiry, projecting eyebrows. I 
 at first doubted whether it were not a mummy curiously preserved, 
 but it moved, and I saw that it was alive. It was another of these 
 black-cloaked old men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, 
 his obsolete garb, and the hideous and sinister objects by which he 
 was surrounded, I began to persuade myself that I had come upon 
 the arch mago, who ruled over this magical fraternity. 
 
 Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to 
 enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know 
 whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into some 
 strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on his 
 mantlepiece ? He proved, however, to be anything but a conjuror, 
 and his simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery 
 with which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no less anti 
 quated inhabitants. 
 
 It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an ancient 
 asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed householders, 
 with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys. 
 It was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic 
 establishment, and retained somewhat of the conventual air and 
 character. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who 
 had passed before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into 
 magi, turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning ser 
 vice in the chapel. 
 
;S8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities, whom I had made, 
 the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the place, 
 and had decorated this final nestling-place of his old age with 
 relics and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According to 
 his own account he had been somewhat of a traveller; having been 
 once in France, and very near making a visit to Holland. He 
 regretted not having visited the latter country, " as then he might- 
 have said he had been there." He was evidently a traveller cf 
 the simplest kind. 
 
 He was aristocratical, too, in his notions ; keeping aloof, as I 
 found, from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates 
 were a blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which lan 
 guages Hallum was profoundly ignorant ; and a broken-down gen 
 tleman who had run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds 
 left him by his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage 
 portion of his wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indu 
 bitable sign of gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to 
 squander such enormous sums. 
 
 P. S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I have 
 thus beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter House, origin 
 ally the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611, on the remains of an 
 ancient convent, by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble 
 charities set on foot by individual munificence, and kept up with 
 the quaintness and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern 
 changes and innovations of London. Here eighty broken-down 
 men, who have seen better days, are provided, in their old age, 
 with food, clothing, fuel, and a yearly allowance for private expenses. 
 They dine together as did the monks of old, in the hall which had 
 been the refectory of the original convent. Attached to the estab 
 lishment is a school for forty-four boys. 
 
 Stow, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking of 
 the obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, "They are not 
 -to intermeddle with any business touching the affairs of the hospita 1, 
 but to attend only to the service of God, to take thankfully what is 
 provided for them, without muttering, murmuring, or grudging. 
 None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored 
 shoes, feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or unseemly 
 apparel, but such as becomes hospital men to wear." "And in 
 truth," adds Stow, "happy are they that are so taken from the cares 
 and sorrows of the world, and fixed in so good a place as these old 
 men are; having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to 
 serve God and to live in brotherly love." 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 189 
 
 For the amusement of such as have been interested by the pre 
 ceding sketch, taken down from my own observation, and who may 
 wish to know a little more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin 
 a modicum of local history, put into my hands by an odd-looking 
 old gentleman in a small, brown wig and a snuff-colored coat, with 
 whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter 
 House. I confess I was a little dubious at first, whether it was not 
 one of those apocryphal tales often passed off upon inquiring trav 
 ellers like myself; and which have brought our general character 
 for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper 
 inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assurances 
 of the author s probity; and, indeed, have been told that he is act 
 ually engaged in a full and particular account of the very interest 
 ing region in which he resides ; of which the following may be 
 considered merely as a foretaste. 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 What I write is most true * * * * I have a whole booke of cases lying by me 
 which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntieuts (within the hearing of Bow 
 bell) would be out of charity with me. 
 
 NASHE. 
 
 IN the centre of the great city of London lies a small neighbor 
 hood, consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of 
 very venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name 
 of LITTLE BRITAIN. Christ Church School and St. Bartholo 
 mew s Hospital bound it on the west ; Smithfield and Long Lane 
 on the north ; Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it 
 from the eastern part of the city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull- 
 and-Mouth Street separates it from Butcher Lane, and the regions 
 of Newgate. Over this little territory, thus bounded and desig 
 nated, the great dome of St. Paul s, swelling above the intervening 
 houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and Ave Maria Lane, 
 looks down with an air of motherly protection. 
 
 This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient 
 times, the residence of the Dukes of 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 Britain became the great mart of 
 learning, and was peopled by the busy and prolific race of book 
 sellers ; these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond 
 
,90 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 the great strait of Newgate 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 splendor. There are several houses ready to 
 tumble down, the fronts of which are magnificently enriched with 
 old, oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts and 
 fishes : and fruits and flowers which it would perplex a naturalist 
 to classify. There are, also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains 
 of what were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which 
 have in latter days beerusubdivided into several tenements. Here 
 may often be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its 
 trumpery furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated 
 finery, in great, rambling, time-stained apartments, with fretted 
 ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous marble fireplaces. The 
 lanes and courts also contain many smaller houses, not on so 
 grand a scale, but, like your small ancient gentry, sturdily main 
 taining their claims to equal antiquity. These have their gable 
 ends to the street ; great bow windows, with diamond panes set in 
 lead, grotesque carvings, and low, arched door-ways.* 
 
 In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed 
 several 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 tar 
 nished brocade, which bear the marks of having seen better days, 
 and have, doubtless, figured in some of the old palaces of Little 
 Britain. They seem to me to keep together, and to look down with 
 sovereign contempt upon their leathern-bottomed neighbors ; as I. 
 have seen decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian 
 society with which they were reduced to associate. The whole 
 front of my sitting-room is taken up with a bow window; on the 
 panes of which are recorded the names of previous occupants for 
 many generations, mingled with scraps of very indifferent, gentle 
 manlike poetry, written in characters which I can scarcely deci 
 pher, 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 neighborhood ; and, being 
 
 * It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has 
 Included, in his general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and 
 Courts that belong immediately to Cloth fair. 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 191 
 
 curious to learn the internal state of a community so apparently 
 shut up within itself, I have managed to work my way into all the 
 concerns and secrets of the place. 
 
 Little Britain may truly be called the heart s core of the city; 
 the strong-hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London 
 as it was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. 
 Here flourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and 
 customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on 
 Shrove Tuesday, hot-cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose 
 at Michaelmas; they send love-letters on Valentine s Day, burn 
 the pope on the fifth of November, and kiss all the girls under the 
 mistletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum-pudding are also 
 held in superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their 
 grounds as the only true English wines ; all others being considn 
 ered vile, outlandish beverages. 
 
 Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its 
 inhabitants consider the wonders of the world ; such as the great 
 bell of St. Paul s, which sours all the beer when it tolls ; the figures 
 that strike the hours at St. Dunstan s clock ; the Monument ; the 
 lions in the Tower : and the wooden giants in Guildhall. They 
 still believe in dreams and fortune-telling, and an old woman that 
 lives in Bull-and-Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by 
 detecting stolen goods, and promising the girls good husbands. 
 They are apt to be rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; 
 and if a dog howls dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure 
 sign of a death in the place. There are even many ghost stories 
 current, particularly concerning the old mansion-houses; in several 
 of which it is said strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and 
 ladies, the former in full-bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves, and 
 swords, the latter in lappets, stays, hoops, and brocade, have been 
 seen walking up and down the great waste chambers, on moonlight 
 nights ; and are supposed to be the shades of the ancient propri 
 etors 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 projections ; with a 
 brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He 
 is much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind 
 of conjurer, because he has two or three stuffed alligators hanging 
 up in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader 
 of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over 
 Alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, and 
 
192 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 volcanic eruptions ; which last phenomena he considers as signs 
 of the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal 
 out to his customers with their doses ; and thus at the same time 
 puts both soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in 
 omens and predictions ; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon 
 and Mother Shipton by heart. No man can make so much out of 
 an eclipse, or even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail 
 of the last comet over the heads of his customers and disciples 
 until they were nearly frightened out of their wits. He has lately 
 got hold of a popular legend or prophecy, on which he has been 
 unusually eloquent. There has been a saying current among the 
 ancient sibyls, who treasure up these things, that when the grass 
 hopper on the top of the Exchange shook hands with the dragon 
 on the top of Bow Church steeple, fearful events would take place. 
 This strange conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. 
 The same architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the 
 cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church ; and, 
 fearful to relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek 
 by jole, in the yard of his workshop. 
 
 " Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, " may go star 
 gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a con 
 junction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes, 
 which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers." 
 Since these portentous weather-cocks have thus laid their heads 
 together, wonderful events had already occurred. The good old 
 king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two years, had all 
 at once given up the ghost ; another king had mounted the throne; 
 a royal duke had died suddenly another, in France, had been 
 murdered ; there had been radical meetings in all parts of the 
 kingdom ; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato 
 Street ; and, above all, the queen had returned to England ! All 
 these sinister events are recounted by Mr. Skryme, with a mys 
 terious look, and a dismal shake of the head; and being taken with 
 his drugs, and associated in the minds of his auditors with stuffed 
 sea-monsters, bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a 
 title-page of tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the 
 minds of the people of 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 history of Whitting- 
 ton and his Cat bears witness. 
 
 The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemonger, 
 who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and i 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. IQ3 
 
 AS magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in the midst of one 
 of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of no little standing and 
 importance ; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and 
 Lad Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury. His opinion is very 
 much taken in affairs of state, having read the Sunday papers for 
 the last half century, together with the Gentleman s Magazine, 
 Rapin s History of England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is 
 stored with invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time 
 and use for centuries. It is his firm opinion that "it is amoral 
 impossible," so long as England is true to herself, that anything 
 can shake her: and he has much to say on the subject of the 
 national debt ; which, somehow or other, he proves to be a great 
 national bulwark and blessing. He passed the greater part of his 
 life in the purlieus of Little Britain, until of late years, when, having 
 become rich, and grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he 
 begins to take his pleasure and see the world. He has, therefore, 
 made several excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neigh* 
 boring towns, where he has passed whole afternoons in looking 
 back upon the metropolis through a telescope, and endeavoring to 
 descry the steeple of St. Bartholomew s. Not a stage-coachman 
 of Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes ; and he 
 is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose and 
 Gridiron, St. Paul s Church-yard. His family have been very 
 urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has great 
 doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and, indeed, thinks 
 himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages. 
 
 Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and 
 party spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival 
 " Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its meet 
 ing at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the cheese 
 monger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of 
 the apothecary : it is needless to say that the latter was the most 
 flourishing. I have passed an evening or two at each, and have 
 acquired much valuable information, as to the best mode of being 
 buried, the comparative merits of church-yards, together with 
 divers hints on the subject of patent-iron coffins. I have heard the 
 question discussed in all its bearings as to the legality of prohibit 
 ing the latter on account of their durability. The feuds occasioned 
 by these societies have happily died of late ; but they were for a 
 long time prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little 
 Britain being extremely solicitous of funereal honors and of lying 
 comfortably in their graves. 
 
 Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a 
 7 
 
I 9 4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor 
 over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little old- 
 fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagstaff, 
 and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a most 
 seductive bunch of grapes. The old edifice is covered with inscrip 
 tions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as "Truman, 
 Hanbury and Co. s Entire," "Wine, Rum and Brandy Vaults," 
 " Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, etc." This, indeed, has been a 
 temple of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It has 
 always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history is 
 tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much fre 
 quented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, 
 and was looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the 
 Second s day. But what Wagstaff principally prides himself upon 
 is, that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke 
 the head of one of his ancestors with his famous walking-staff. 
 This, however, is considered as rather a dubious and vainglorious 
 boast of the landlord. 
 
 The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the 
 name of "The Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in 
 old catches, glees, and choice stories, that are traditional in the 
 place, and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. 
 There is a mad-cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song ; 
 but the life of the club, and, indeed, the prime wit of Little Britain, 
 is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, 
 and he has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, 
 which go with it from generation to generation as heir looms. He 
 is a dapper little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face, 
 with a moist, merry eye, and a little shock of gray hair behind. At 
 the opening of every club night he is called in to sing his " Confes 
 sion of Faith," which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gam 
 mer Gurton s Needle. He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, 
 as he received it from his father s lips ; for it has been a standing 
 favorite at the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was 
 written : nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the 
 honor of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas 
 mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.* 
 
 * As mine host of the Half-Moon s Confession of Faith may not be familiar to 
 the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little 
 Britain, I subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe, that the 
 whole club always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and 
 elattr ring of pewter pots. 
 
 I cannot eate but lytle meate. 
 My stomacke is not good, 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 195 
 
 It would do one s heart good to hear, on a club night, the shouts 
 of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral 
 bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this 
 jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, 
 who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner s 
 window, or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop. 
 
 There are two annual events which produce great stir and sensa 
 tion in Little Britain ; these are St. Bartholomew s fair, and the 
 Lord Mayor s day. During the time of the fair, which is held in 
 the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing going on but 
 gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little 
 Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange figures and faces ; 
 every tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The fiddle and the song 
 are heard from the tap-room, morning, noon and night ; and at 
 each window may be seen some group of boon companions, with 
 half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth, and tankard in 
 nand, fondling and prosing and singing maudlin songs over their 
 liquor. Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must 
 
 But sure I thinke that I can drinke 
 
 With him that weares a hood. 
 Though I go bare, take ye no care, 
 
 I nothing am a colde, 
 I stuff my skyn so full within, 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Cliorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
 
 Booth foote and hand go colde, 
 But belly, God send thee good alo ynoughe 
 
 Whether it be new or olde. 
 
 I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste, 
 
 And a crab laid in the fyre ; 
 A little breade shall do me steade, 
 
 Much breade I not desyre. 
 No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowc, 
 
 Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
 I am so wrapt and throw! y lapt 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorut. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
 And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
 Full oft drvnkes shee, tyll ye may see, 
 
 The teares run downe her cheeke. 
 Then doth she trowle to me the bowle, 
 
 Even as a mault-worme sholde, 
 And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte 
 
 Of this joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
 Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke, 
 
 Even as goode fellowes sholde doe, 
 They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 
 
 Good ale doth bring men to; 
 And all poo re soules that have scowred bowlee, 
 
 Or have thorn lustily trolde. 
 God save the !y VPS of them and their wives, 
 
 Whether they bo vonge or olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, eto. 
 
I9 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 say is rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbors, is ne 
 proof against this Saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping 
 maid-servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set mad 
 ding with Punch and the Puppet Show ; the Flying Horses ; Signior 
 Polito ; the Fire-Eater ; the celebrated Mr. Paap ; and the Irish 
 Giant. The children, too, lavish all their holiday money in toys and 
 gilt gingerbread, and fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, 
 trumpets and penny whistles. 
 
 But the Lord Mayor s day is the great anniversary. The Lord 
 Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the 
 greatest potentate upon earth ; his gilt coach with six horses as the 
 summit of human splendor ; and his procession, with all the Sheriffs 
 and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. 
 How they exult in the idea, that the King himself dare not enter 
 the city, without first knocking at the gate of Temple Bar, and 
 asking permission of the Lord Mayor: for if he did, heaven and 
 earth ! there is no knowing what might be the consequence. The 
 man in armor who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city 
 champion, has orders to cut down everybody that offends against 
 the dignity of the city ; and then there is the little man with a 
 velvet porringer on his head, who sits at the window of the state 
 coach, and holds the city sword, as long as a pike-staff Odd s 
 blood! If he once draws that sword, Majesty itself is not safe ! 
 
 Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good 
 people of Little Britian sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual 
 barrier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord 
 Mayor has but to throw himself into the Tower, call in the train 
 bands, and put the standing army of Beef-eaters under arms, and 
 he may bid defiance to the world ! 
 
 Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and ita 
 own opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart 
 to this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with 
 considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John 
 Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national 
 character, when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I have 
 rejoiced, also, in the general spirit of harmony that prevailed 
 throughout it ; for though there might now and then be a few clashes 
 of opinion between the adherents of the cheesemonger and the 
 apothecary, and an occasional feud between the burial societies, 
 yet these were but transient clouds, and soon passed away. The 
 neighbor? met with good-will, parted with a shake of the hand, 
 and never abused each other except behind their backs. 
 
 I could give rare descriptions of wuig junketing parties at which 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 197 
 
 I have been present; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, 
 Tom-come -tickle-me, and other choice old games ; and where we 
 sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir 
 Roger de Coverley. Once a year, also, the neighbors would gather 
 together, and go on a gipsy party to Epping Forest. It would 
 have done any man s heart good to see the merriment that took 
 place here as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we 
 made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little 
 Wagstaff and the merry undertaker ! After dinner, too, the young 
 folks would play at blind-man s-buff and hide-and-seek ; and it was 
 amusing to see them tangled among the briers, and to hear a fine, 
 romping girl now and then squeak from among the bushes. The 
 elder folks would gather round the cheesemonger and the apothe 
 cary, to hear them talk politics ; for they generally brought out a 
 newspaper in their pockets, to pass away time in the country. They 
 would now and then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument 
 but their disputes were always adjusted by reference to a worthy 
 old umbrella maker in a double chin, who, never exactly compre 
 hending the subject, managed somehow or other to decide in favor 
 of both parties. 
 
 All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are 
 doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep 
 in ; factions arise ; and families now and then spring up, whose 
 ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. 
 Thus in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been griev 
 ously disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened 
 with total subversion, by the aspiring family of a retired butcher. 
 
 The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving 
 and popular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs were the belles 
 of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had 
 made money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass 
 plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss 
 Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance of the Lady 
 Mayoress, at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore 
 three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got 
 over it ; they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life ; 
 set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand 
 boy s hat, and have been the talk and detestation of the whole 
 neighborhood ever since. They could no longer be induced to 
 play at Pope-Joan or blind-man s-buff; they could endure no 
 dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever heard of in Little 
 Britain , and they took to reading novels, talking bad French, and 
 playing upon the piano. Their brother, too, who had been articled 
 
1 9 8 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 to an attorney, set up for a dandy and a critic, characters hithertft 
 unknown in these parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks exceed 
 ingly by talking about Kean, the opera, and the Edinburgh Review. 
 
 What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they 
 neglected to invite any of their old neighbors ; but they had a great 
 deal of genteel company from Theobald s Road, Red-Lion Square, 
 and other parts towards the west. There were several beaux of 
 their brother s acquaintance from Gray s Inn Lane and Hatton 
 Garden; and not less than three Aldermen s ladies with their 
 daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little 
 Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the lashing of 
 miserable horses, and the rattling and the jingling of hackney 
 coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen popping 
 their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy vehicles 
 rumble by ; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies, that kept 
 a look-out from a house just opposite the retired butcher s, and 
 scanned and criticised every one that knocked at the door. 
 
 This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole 
 neighborhood declared they woulcl have nothing more to say to the 
 Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements 
 with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum tea junk 
 etings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as she would say, "in 
 a friendly way;" and it is equally true that her invitations were 
 always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay, 
 the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the 
 Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum an Irish melody for 
 them on the piano ; and they would listen with wonderful interest 
 to Mrs. Lamb s anecdotes of Alderman Plunket s family, of Port- 
 sokenward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of 
 Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved their consciences, and 
 averted the reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the 
 next gossiping convocation everything that had passed, and pulling 
 the Lambs and their rout all to pieces. 
 
 The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable 
 was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the 
 meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the 
 voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad 
 face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters 
 always spoke of him as "the old gentleman," addressed him as 
 "papa," in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to coax him 
 into a dressing-gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. 
 Do what they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His 
 Sturdy nature would break through all their glozings. He had a 
 
LITTLE BRITAIN. 19$ 
 
 hearty, vulgar good-humor that was irrepressible. His very joke;; 
 made his sensitive daughters shudder ; and he persisted in wearing 
 his blue cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o clock, and 
 having a "bit of sausage with his tea." 
 
 He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his 
 family. He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and 
 civil to him ; no longer laughing at his jokes ; and now and then 
 throwing out a fling at " some people," and a hint about "quality 
 binding." This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; 
 and his wife and daughters, with the consummate policy of the 
 shrewder sex, taking advantage of the circumstance, at length pre 
 vailed upon him to give up his afternoon s pipe and tankard at 
 WagstafFs ; to sit after dinner by himself, and take his pint of port 
 a liquor he detested and to nod in his chair in solitary and 
 dismal gentility. 
 
 The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting along the streets in 
 French bonnets, with unknown beaux ; and talking and laughing 
 so loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within 
 hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and 
 actually induced a French dancing-master to set up in the neigh- 
 berhood ; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire at it, and 
 did so persecute the poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up fiddle 
 and dancing-pumps, and decamp with such precipitation, that he 
 absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings. 
 
 I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this fiery 
 indignation on the part of the community was merely the over 
 flowing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their horror 
 of innovation ; and I applauded the silent contempt they were so 
 vociferous in expressing for upstart pride, French fashions, and the 
 Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the infection 
 had taken hold ; and that my neighbors, after condemning, were 
 beginning to follow their example. I overheard my landlady im 
 portuning her husband to let their daughters have one quarter at 
 French and music, and that they might take a few lessons in 
 quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays, no less 
 than five French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss Lambs, 
 parading about Little Britain. 
 
 I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away ; 
 that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood ; might die, 
 or might run away with attorneys apprentices ; and that quiet and 
 simplicity might be again restored to the community. But, un 
 luckily, a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and left a 
 widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom daughters. 
 
too THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 The young ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony 
 of a prudent father, which kept down all their elegant aspirings. 
 Their ambition, being now no longer restrained, broke out into a 
 blaze, and they openly took the field against the family of the 
 butcher. It is true that the Lambs, having had the first start, had 
 naturally an advantage of them in the fashionable career. They 
 could speak a little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, 
 and had formed high acquaintances ; but the Trotters were not to 
 be distanced. When the Lambs appeared with two feathers in 
 their hats, the Miss Trotters mounted four, and of twice as fine 
 colors. If the Lambs gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to 
 be behindhand : and though they might not boast of as good com 
 pany, yet they had double the number, and were twice as merry. 
 
 The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable 
 factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games 
 of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; 
 there is no such thing as getting up an honest, country dance; and 
 on my attempting to kiss a young lady under the mistletoe last 
 Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having 
 pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter rivalry has also broken 
 out as to the most fashionable part of Little Britain; the Lambs 
 standing up for the dignity of Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters 
 for the vicinity of St. Bartholomew s. 
 
 Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal dissen 
 sions, like the great empire whose name it bears ; and what will be 
 the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his talent 
 at prognostics, to determine ; though I apprehend that it will ter 
 minate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism. 
 
 The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a 
 single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle, good-for- 
 nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by 
 profession in the place. I stand, therefore, in high favor with both 
 parties, and have to hear all their cabinet councils and mutual 
 backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all 
 occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with both parties, 
 by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to 
 my conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot 
 to my apprehension if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a 
 reconciliation, and compare notes, I am ruined ! 
 
 I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am 
 actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where 
 old English manners are still kept up ; where French is neither 
 eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken ; and where there are no fashion- 
 
STRA TFORD- ON- A VON. Sol 
 
 able families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a 
 veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about my ears, 
 bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and 
 leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the Trotters to divide the 
 distracted empire of LITTLE BRITAIN. 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 
 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
 Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream 
 The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
 For liallow d the turf is which pillow d his head. 
 
 GARRICK. 
 
 TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which 
 he can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of 
 something like independence and territorial consequence, 
 when, after a weary day s travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his 
 feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the 
 world without go as it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he 
 has the wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the 
 very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the 
 poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some twelve feet square, 
 his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of certainty, snatched from 
 the midst of the uncertainties of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming 
 out kindly on a cloudy day: and he who has advanced some way 
 on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husbanding 
 even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I not take mine 
 ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back 
 in my elbow-chair, and cast a complacent look about the little 
 parlor of the Reel Morse, at Stratford-on-Avon. 
 
 The words of sweet Shakspeare were just passing through my 
 mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in 
 which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a 
 pretty chambermaid, putting in her. smiling face, inquired, with a 
 hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest 
 hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion 
 was at an end ; so, abdicating my throne, like a prudent potenate, 
 to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide-Book 
 under my arm as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt 
 all night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David Garrick, 
 
 The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which 
 we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was about the middle of 
 
$62 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the 
 north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing 
 from the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing 
 every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 
 
 I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit 
 was to the house where Shakspeare was born, and where, accord 
 ing to tradition, he was brought up to his father s craft of wool- 
 combing. It is a small, mean-looking edifice of wood and plaster, a 
 true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight in hatching 
 its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are 
 covered with names and inscriptions in every language, by pilgrims 
 of all nations, ranks and conditions, from the prince to the peasant ; 
 and present a simple but striking instance of the spontaneous and 
 universal homage of mankind to the great poet of nature. 
 
 The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty, red face, 
 lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with artificial 
 locks of flaxen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap. 
 She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which 
 this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the 
 shattered stock of the very match-lock with which Shakspeare shot 
 the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was his tobacco- 
 box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter 
 Raleigh: the sword, also, with which he played Hamlet; and the 
 identical lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and 
 Juliet at the tornb! There was an ample supply also of Shak 
 speare s mulberry-tree, which seems to have as extraordinary 
 powers of self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of which 
 there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 
 
 The most favorite object of curiosity, however, is Shakspeare s 
 chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small, gloomy chamber, 
 just behind what was his father s shop. Here he may many a 
 time have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving 
 spit with all the longing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening 
 to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church-yard 
 tales and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of Eng 
 land. In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the 
 house to sit; whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any 
 of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I merely men 
 tion the fact; and mine hostess privately assured me, that, though 
 built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees, that the 
 chair had to be new-bottomed at least once in three years. It is 
 worthy of notice, also, in the history of this extraordinary chair, 
 that it partakes something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa 
 
STRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 203 
 
 of Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter ; for 
 though sold some few years since to a northern princess, yet, 
 strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the old chimney 
 corner. 
 
 I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing 
 to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I 
 am, therefore, a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anec 
 dotes of goblins and great men ; and would advise all travellers 
 who travel for their gratification to be the same. What is it to us, 
 whether these stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade 
 ourselves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the 
 reality ? There is nothing like resolute, good-humored credulity 
 in these matters ; and on this occasion I went even so far as will 
 ingly to believe the claims of mine hostess to a lineal descent from 
 the poet, when, luckily for my faith, she put into my hands a play 
 of her own composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity 
 at defiance. 
 
 From the birth-place of Shakspeare a few paces brought me to 
 his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a 
 large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly orna 
 mented. It stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered 
 point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the 
 town. Its situation is quiet and retired : the river runs murmuring 
 at the foot of the church-yard, and the elms which grow upon its 
 banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of 
 limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form 
 in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of 
 the yard to the church porch. The graves are overgrown with 
 grass ; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the 
 earth, are half covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the 
 reverend old building. Small birds have built their nests among 
 the cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 
 fluttering and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing about its 
 lofty gray spire. 
 
 In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton, 
 Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the 
 church. He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, 
 and seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the 
 trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few 
 years past. His dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the 
 Avon and its bordering meadows ; and it was a picture of that neat 
 ness, order and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings in this 
 country. A low, white-washed room, with a stone floor carefully 
 
204 
 
 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen and hall. Rows of pewter 
 and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken 
 table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family Bible and prayer- 
 book, and the drawer contained the family library, composed of 
 about half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, 
 that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite 
 side of the room ; with a bright warming-pan hanging on one side 
 of it, and the old man s horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. 
 The fireplace, as usual, was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip 
 knot within its jambs. In one corner sat the old man s granddaugh 
 ter sewing, a pretty, blue-eyed girl, and in the opposite corner was 
 a superannuated crony, whom he addressed by the name of John 
 Ange, and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. 
 
 r *J Craijon.-DeL 
 
 They had played together in infancy ; they had worked together 
 in manhood ; they were now tottering about and gossiping away 
 the evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be 
 buried together in the neighboring church-yard. It is not often 
 that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and tran 
 quilly side by side ; it is only in such quiet " bosom scenes " of life 
 that they are to be met with. 
 
 I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard 
 from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. 
 The long interval during which Shakspeare s writings lay in com 
 parative neglect has spread its shadow over his history ; and it is 
 his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biog 
 raphers but a scanty handful of conjectures. 
 
 The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpen- 
 
STRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 205 
 
 ters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and 
 they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who super 
 intended the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton, was 
 " a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John Ange had 
 assisted, also, in cutting down Shakspeare s mulberry-tree, of 
 which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign 
 quickener of literary conception. 
 
 I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very dubi 
 ously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakspeare house. John 
 Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable collection of 
 relics, particularly her remains of the mulberry -tree; and the old 
 sexton even expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare having been born 
 in her house. I soon discovered that he looked upon her mansion 
 with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet s tomb; the latter having 
 comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at 
 the very outset, and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge 
 into different channels even at the fountain head. 
 
 We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and 
 entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors 
 of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and 
 embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There 
 are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some 
 of which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piece 
 meal from the walls. The tomb of Shakspeare is in the chancel. 
 The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the 
 pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from 
 the walls, keeps up a low, perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks 
 the spot where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed 
 on it, said to have been written by himself, and which have in them 
 something extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show 
 that solicitude about the quiet of the grave which seems natural to 
 fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds. 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus sake forbears 
 To dig the dust enclosed here. 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
 And cursed be he that moves my bones. 
 
 Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of Shakspeare, 
 put up shortly after his death, and considered as a resemblance. 
 The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a finely-arched forehead ; 
 and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, 
 social disposition, by which he was as much characterized among 
 his contemporaries as by the vastness of his gsnius. The inscrip- 
 
2o6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 tion mentions his age at the time of his decease fifty -three years-, 
 an untimely death for the world : for what fruit might not have been 
 expected from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it 
 was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sun 
 shine of popular and royal favor. 
 
 The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its effect. 
 It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his 
 native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time contem 
 plated. A few years since, also, as some laborers were digging to 
 make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant 
 space almost like an arch, through which one might have reached 
 into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle with his 
 remains so awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any of the 
 idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be tempted to 
 commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the place for 
 two days, until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. 
 He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, but could 
 see neither coffin nor bones; nothing but dust. It was something, 
 I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakspeare. 
 
 Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter, 
 Mrs. Hall, and others of his family, On a tomb close by, also, is 
 a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe of usurious 
 memory ; on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. 
 There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell 
 on anything that is not connected with Shakspeare. His idea per 
 vades the place; the whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The 
 feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge 
 in perfect confidence : other traces of him may be false or dubious, 
 but here is palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod 
 the sounding pavement, there was something intense and thrilling 
 in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of Shakspeare were 
 mouldering beneath my feet. It was a long time before I could pre 
 vail upon myself to leave the place ; and as I passed through the 
 church-yard, I plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the 
 only relic that I have brought from Stratford. 
 
 I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim s devotion, but 
 I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys, at Charlecot, 
 and to ramble through the park where Shakspeare, in company 
 with some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful 
 offence of deer-stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told 
 that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper s lodge, where 
 he remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the 
 presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been gal-. 
 
STRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 207 
 
 ing and humiliating ; for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce 
 a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the park gate at Charle- 
 cot.* 
 
 This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so incensed 
 him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of 
 the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker. Shakspeare 
 did not wait to brave the united puissance of a knight of the shire 
 and a country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant 
 banks of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to Lon 
 don ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an actor ; and, 
 finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through the persecution of 
 Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an indifferent wool-comber, and 
 the world gained an immortal poet. He retained, however, for a 
 long time, a sense of the harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, 
 and revenged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way of a 
 good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the original Justice 
 Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice s 
 armorial bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white lucesf 
 in the quarterings. 
 
 Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften 
 and explain away this early transgression of the poet ; but I look 
 upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation 
 and turn of mind. Shakspeare, when young, had, doubtless, all 
 the wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undi 
 rected genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something 
 in it of the vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, 
 and delights in everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a 
 turn-up of a die, in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural 
 genius shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet ; and had not 
 Shakspeare s mind fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have 
 as daringly transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws. 
 
 I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an 
 
 unbroken colt, about the neighborhood of Stratford, he was to be 
 
 found in the company of all kinds of odd, anomalous characters ; 
 
 that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was one 
 
 * The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : 
 
 A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
 If lovvsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 
 
 He thinks himself great ; 
 
 Yet an asse in his state, 
 We allow by kis ears but with asses to mate, 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 
 
 f The luee i a pik or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot, 
 
208 THE SKETCH-B O OK. 
 
 of those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their 
 heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gallows, To 
 him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy s park was, doubtless, like a 
 foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his eager, and, as yet 
 untamed, imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.* 
 
 The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still 
 remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly 
 interesting, from being connected with this whimsical but eventful 
 circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house 
 stood but little more than three miles distance from Stratford, I 
 resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely 
 through some of those scenes from which Shakspeare must have 
 derived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 
 
 The country was yet naked and leafless ; but English scenery is 
 always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the 
 weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the land 
 scape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first awak 
 ening of spring ; to feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; 
 to see the moist, mellow earth beginning to put forth the green 
 sprout and the tender blade : and the trees and shrubs, in their 
 reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of returning 
 foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little borderer on the 
 skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste, white blossoms in 
 the small gardens before the cottages. The bleating of the new- 
 dropt lambs was faintly heard from the fields. The sparrow twit 
 tered about the thatched eaves and budding hedges; the robin 
 
 * A proof of Shakspeare s random habits and associates in his youthful days 
 may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder 
 Ireland, and mentioned in his " Picturesque Views on the Avon." 
 
 About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bed 
 ford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, 
 under the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of 
 good ale of the neighboring villages to a contest of drinking. Arnong others, 
 the people of Stratford were called out to prove the strength of their heads ; 
 and in the number of the champions was Shakspeare, who, in spite of the 
 proverb that "they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to his ale as 
 Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was staggered at the first onset, 
 and sounded a retreat while they had vet legs to carry them off the field. They 
 had scarcely marched a mile when, their legs failing them, they were forced 
 to lie down under a crab-tree, where they passed the night. It is still stand 
 ing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare s tree. 
 
 In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and proposed returning to 
 Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with 
 
 Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted Hilbro , Hungry Grafton, 
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksforci, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford 
 
 "The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the epithets thus 
 given them: the people of Pebworth are still filmed for their skill on the pipe 
 and tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilborough ; and Grafton id 
 famous for the poverty of its soil." 
 
STRA TFORD- ON- A VON. 209 
 
 threw a livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the 
 lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, towered 
 away into the bright, fleecy cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. 
 As I watched the little songster, mounting up higher and higher, 
 until his body was a mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, 
 while the ear was still filled with his music, it called to mind Shak- 
 speare s exquisite little song in Cymbeline : 
 
 Hark ! hark! the lark at heaven s gate sings, 
 
 And Phoebus gins arise, 
 His steeds to water at those springs, 
 
 On chaliced flowers that lies. 
 
 And winking mary-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes; 
 With every thing that pretty bin, 
 
 My lady sweet arise ! 
 
 Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground : every 
 thing is associated with the idea of Shakspeare. Every old cottage 
 that I saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had 
 acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and 
 heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has 
 woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are 
 told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to sit round 
 the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, 
 lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, gob 
 lins and friars."* 
 
 My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which 
 made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through 
 a wide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering from among wil 
 lows, which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among 
 groves, or beneath green banks ; and sometimes rambling out into 
 full view,, and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow 
 land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 
 Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its 
 boundary, whilst all the soft, intervening landscape lies in a manner 
 enchained in the silver links of the Avon. 
 
 After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into a 
 footpath, which led along the borders of fields, and under hedge- 
 
 * Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a host of these fireside 
 fancies. "And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urch 
 ins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke, 
 tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, change 
 lings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, 
 the hell-waine, the fler drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
 Tumbler, boneless, and such, otlier bugs, that we were afraid of our own 
 ghadowes." 
 
2io THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 rows to a private gate of the park ; there was a stile, however, foi 
 the benefit of the pedestrian ; there being a public right of way 
 through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which 
 every one has a kind of property at least, as far as the footpath is 
 concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, 
 and, what is more, to the better lot of his neighbor, thus to have 
 parks and pleasure-grounds thrown open for his recreation. He 
 breathes the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the 
 shade, as the lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of 
 calling all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 
 trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 
 
 I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, 
 whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded 
 solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their 
 hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long, 
 lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant 
 statue ; and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
 opening. 
 
 There is something about these stately old avenues that has the 
 effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended simi 
 larity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long duration, 
 and of having had their origin in a period of time with which we 
 associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken, also, the long- 
 settled dignity, and proudly-concentrated independence of an 
 ancient family ; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old 
 friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern 
 gentry, that "money could do much with stone and mortar, but, 
 thank Heaven, there was no such thing as suddenly building up 
 an avenue of oaks." 
 
 It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and 
 about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, 
 which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of Shak- 
 speare s commentators have supposed he derived his noble forest 
 meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in 
 " As you like it." It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes, 
 that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and 
 becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. 
 The imagination kindles into reverie and rapture ; vague but 
 exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon it ; and we revel in 
 a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in 
 some such mood, and, perhaps, under one of those very trees before 
 me, which threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and 
 quivering waters of the Avon, that the poet s fancy may have 
 
STRA 7 FORD- ON- A VON. a i v 
 
 sallied forth into that little song which breathes the very soul of a 
 
 rural voluptuary : 
 
 Under the green wood tree, 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry throat 
 Unto the sweet bird s note, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither. 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of 
 brick, with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen Eliza 
 beth s day, having been built in the first year of her reign. The 
 exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be con 
 sidered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country 
 gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park 
 into a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a 
 grass-plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is in imitation 
 of the ancient barbacan ; being a kind of outpost, and flanked by 
 towers ; though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. 
 The front of the house is completely in the old style ; with stone- 
 shafted casements, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and 
 a portal with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each 
 corner of the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt 
 ball and weather-cock. 
 
 The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at 
 the foot of a gently-sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear 
 of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon 
 its borders ; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. 
 As I contemplated the venerable o r id mansion, I called to mind 
 Falstaff s encomium on Justice Shallow s abode, and the affected 
 indifference and real vanity of the latter : 
 
 " Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 
 Shallow. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
 John: marry, good air." 
 
 What have may have been the joviality of the old mansion in 
 the days of Shakspeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. 
 The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked ; 
 there was no show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
 gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the 
 moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I 
 
2 1 2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 met with was a white cat, stealing with wary look and stealthy pace 
 towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not 
 omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw sus 
 pended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still inherit 
 that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rigorous 
 exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously manifested in 
 the case of the bard. 
 
 After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way 
 to a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the man 
 sion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, 
 who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed 
 me the interior of the house. The greater part has undergone 
 alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of liv 
 ing : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, that 
 noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still retains much of the 
 appearance it must have had in the days of Shakspeare. The ceil 
 ing is arched and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery in which stands 
 an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, which formerly 
 adorned the hall of a country gentleman, have made way for family 
 portraits. There is a wide, hospitable fireplace, calculated for an 
 ample, old-fashioned wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter 
 festivity. On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- 
 window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. 
 Here are emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the 
 Lucy family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I 
 was delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces, 
 by which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that 
 of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the 
 Merry Wives of Windsor, where the Justice is in a rage with Fal- 
 staff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken into 
 his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his 
 comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the family 
 pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to be a carica 
 ture of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas. 
 
 "Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star- 
 Chamber matter of it ; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall 
 not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 
 
 Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum. 
 
 Slender. Ay, and ratalorum too, and a gentleman born, master 
 parson ; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant, quit 
 tance, or obligation, Armigero. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, that I do and have done any time these three 
 hundred years. 
 
STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 213 
 
 Slender. All his successors gone before him have done t, and cil 
 his ancestors that come after him may ; they may give the dozen 
 white luces in their coat.***** 
 
 Shallow. The council shall hear it ; it is a riot. 
 
 Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot ; there is no fear 
 of Got in a riot ; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the fear 
 of Got, and not to hear a riot ; take your vizaments in that. 
 
 Shallow. Ha ! o my life, if I were young again, the sword 
 should end it! " 
 
 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by Sir Peter 
 Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of 
 Charles the Second : the old housekeeper shook her head as she 
 pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been 
 sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of 
 the family estate, among which was that part of the park where 
 Shakspeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus 
 lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the pres 
 ent day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she 
 had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 
 
 The picture which most attracted my attention was a great paint* 
 ng over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy 
 and his family, who inhabited the hall in the latter part of Shak 
 speare s lifetime. I at first thought that it was the vindictive knight 
 himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son ; the 
 only likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his tomb in 
 the church of the neighboring hamlet of Charlecot.* The picture 
 gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir 
 Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes with roses in 
 them ; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, 
 "a cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on the opposite side 
 of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, and the children 
 
 *Tlris effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete 
 armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following 
 inscription ; which, if really composed by her husband, places him quite above 
 the intellectual level of Master Shallow : 
 
 Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye 
 county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in 
 ye county of Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to 
 her heavenly kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 
 and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful ser 
 vant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most 
 sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and true. In friendship most 
 constant ; to what in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom 
 excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God 
 that did converse with ner moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of 
 hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters ; misliked of none unless of the 
 envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with 
 virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived 
 most virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knovve 
 what hath byii written to be true. 
 
 Thomas Lucye. 
 
214 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 have a most venerable stiffness and formality of dress. Hounds 
 and spaniels are mingled in the family group ; a hawk is seated on 
 his perch in the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; 
 all intimating the knight s skill in hunting, hawking, and archery 
 so indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.* 
 
 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had dis 
 appeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow-chair of 
 carved oak, in which the county squire of former days was wont to 
 sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains ; and in which 
 it might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in 
 awful state when the recreant Shakspeare was brought before him. 
 As I like to deck out pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased 
 myself with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the 
 unlucky bard s examination on the morning after his captivity in 
 the lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by 
 h ; s body-guard of butlers, pages, and blue-coated serving-men, 
 w.th their badges ; while the luckless culprit was brought in, for 
 lorn and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, 
 and whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. 
 I fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half- 
 opened doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 
 knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with 
 that pity " that dwells in womanhood." Who would have thought 
 that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the brief authority of a 
 county squire, and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 
 delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, the dictator 
 to the human mind, and was to confer immortality on his oppressor 
 by a caricature and a lampoon ! 
 
 I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and 1 
 felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbor where the justice treated 
 Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year s pippin of his 
 own grafting, with a dish of caraways; " but I had already spent so 
 much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up any 
 further investigations. When about to take my leave I was grati 
 fied by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I 
 would take some refreshment : an instance of good old hospitality 
 
 * Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, 
 "his housekeeping is seen much in the different families of dogs, and serving- 
 men attendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their throats is the depth 
 of his discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is ex 
 ceedingly ambitions to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved 
 with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, 
 "he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and 
 had hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall was com 
 monly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk perches, hounds, spaniels, 
 and terriers. On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest 
 terriers, bounds, and spaniels." 
 
STRA TFORD-ON-A VON. 21$ 
 
 which, I grieve to say, we castle-hunters seldom meet with in 
 modern days. I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present 
 representative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for Shak- 
 speare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate 
 in this respect, as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff. 
 
 "By cock and pye, sir, you shall not away to-night * 
 will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not 
 be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be 
 excused * * * Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged 
 hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 
 William Cook." 
 
 I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had 
 become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and char 
 acters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living among 
 them. Every thing brought them, as it were, before my eyes; and 
 as the door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to hear 
 the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favorite ditty : 
 
 " Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
 And welcome merry shrove-tide ! 
 
 On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the singular 
 gift of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind 
 over trie very face of nature ; to give to things and places a charm 
 and character not their own, and to turn this "working-day world" 
 into a perfect fairy land. He is, indeed, the true enchanter, whose 
 spell operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and 
 the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shakspeare I had been 
 walking all day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the land 
 scape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object with 
 the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 
 beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet 
 which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques 
 soliloquize beneath his oak : had beheld the fair Rosalind and her 
 companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, 
 had been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and 
 his contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the 
 gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand 
 honors and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull 
 realities of life with innocent illusions; who has spread exquisite 
 and unbought pleasures in my chequered path; and beguiled my 
 spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful 
 sympathies of social life ! 
 
Si6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused 
 to contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, 
 and could not but exult in the malediction, which ha? kept his 
 ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor 
 could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty com 
 panionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums 
 of a titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in Westmin 
 ster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile, which 
 seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! 
 The solicitude about the grave may be but the offspring of an over 
 wrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of foibles and 
 prejudices ; and its best and tenderest affections are mingled with 
 these factitious feelings. He who has sought renown about the 
 world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favor, will find, 
 after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no applause, se 
 sweet to the soul as that which springs up in his native place. It 
 is there that he seeks to be gathered in peace and honor among 
 his kindred and his early friends. And when the weary heart and 
 falling head begin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing 
 on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother s arms, to 
 sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his childhood. 
 
 How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when, 
 wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a 
 heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that, 
 before many years, he should return to it covered with renown; 
 that his name should become the boast and glory of his native 
 place; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most 
 precious treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
 were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become the 
 beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, to guide the literary 
 pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 
 
 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 
 
 "I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan s cabin hungry, and he 
 gave him not to eat ; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed hi: 
 
 mnot." 
 SPEECH OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 
 
 fpHERE is something in the character and habits of the North 
 American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over 
 which he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless 
 
 forests, majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 2i? 
 
 wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the wilder 
 ness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern, simple and 
 enduring; fitted to grapple with difficulties, and to support priva 
 tions. There seems but little soil in his heart for the support of the 
 kindly virtue; and yet, if we would but take the trouble to pene 
 trate through that proud stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which 
 lock up his character from casual observation, we should find him 
 linked to his fellow-man of civilized life by more of those sympa 
 thies and affections than are usually ascribed to him. 
 
 It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in 
 the early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the 
 white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary pos 
 sessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare : and their 
 characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. 
 The colonist often treated them like beasts of the forest ; and the 
 author has endeavored to justify him in his outrages. The former 
 found it easier to exterminate than to civilize ; the latter to vilify 
 than to discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were 
 deemed sufficient to sanction the hostilities of both ; and thus the 
 poor wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not 
 because they were guilty, but because they were ignorant. 
 
 The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated 
 or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been 
 the dupe of artful traffic ; in war he has been regarded as a fero 
 cious animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precau 
 tion and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his 
 own safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity ; and 
 Mttle mercy is to be expected from him, when he feels the sting of 
 the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy. 
 
 The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist in 
 common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies 
 have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to investigate 
 and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes ; 
 the American government, too, has wisely and humanely exerted 
 itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and 
 to protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current opinion of 
 the Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed from the 
 miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts 
 
 * The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameli 
 orate the situation of the Indians, andito introduce among them the arts of civil 
 ization, and civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds 
 of the white traders, no purchase of land from them by individuals is per 
 mitted ; nor is any person allowed to receive lands from them as a present, 
 without the express sanction of government. Tliese precautions are strictly 
 enforced. 
 
2i8 THE SKETCH-BOOR. 
 
 of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degert. 
 erate beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, 
 without being benefited by its civilization. That proud indepen 
 dence, which formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been 
 shaken down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their 
 spirits are humiliated and debased by a sense of inferiority, and 
 their native courage cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge 
 and power of their enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced 
 upon them like one of those withering airs that will sometimes breed 
 desolation over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their 
 strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their 
 original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has given them 
 a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has diminished their means 
 of mere existence. It has driven before it the animals of the chase, 
 who fly from the sound of the axe and the smoke of the settle 
 ment, and seek refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet un 
 trodden wilds. Thus do we too often find the Indians on our 
 frontiers to be the mere wrecks and remnants of once powerful 
 tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity of the settlements, and 
 sunk into precarious and vagabond existence. Poverty, repining 
 and hopeless poverty, a canker of the mind unknown in savage 
 life, corrodes their spirits, and blights every free and noble quality 
 of their natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish 
 and pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settlements, 
 among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which 
 only render them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of their 
 own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before their eyes ; 
 but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over the 
 fields ; but they are starving in the midst of its abundance : the 
 whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden ; but they feel as 
 reptiles that infest it. 
 
 How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords of 
 the soil ! Their wants were few, and the means of gratification 
 within their reach. They saw every one around them sharing the 
 same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same 
 aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, 
 but was open to the homeless stranger ; no smoke curled among 
 the trees, but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the 
 hunter in his repast. " For," says an old historian of New Eng 
 land, " their life is so void of care, and they are so loving also, that 
 they make use of those things they enjoy as common goods, and 
 are therein so compassionate, that rather than one should starve 
 through want, they would starve all ; thus they pass their time 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 2i9 
 
 merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better content with their 
 own, which some men esteem so meanly of." Such were the 
 Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their primitive natures: 
 they resembled those wild plants which thrive best in the shades of 
 the forest, but shrink from the hand of cultivation, and perish 
 beneath the influence of the sun. 
 
 In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone 
 to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, instead 
 of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not suffi 
 ciently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the Indians 
 have been placed, and the peculiar principles under which they 
 have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from rule than 
 the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according to some 
 general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that 
 govern him are, to be sure, but few ; but then he conforms to them 
 all ; the white man abounds in laws of religion, morals and 
 manners, but how many does he violate ? 
 
 A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their dis 
 regard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with which, 
 in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to hostilities. The 
 intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt 
 to be cold, distrustful, oppressive and insulting. They seldom 
 treat them with that confidence and frankness which are indispen 
 sable to real friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed not to 
 offend against those feelings of pride or superstition, which often 
 prompts the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of 
 interest. The solitary 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 proportion ably 
 severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we cannot sufficiently 
 appreciate. Where a community is also limited in number, and 
 forms one great patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury 
 of an individual is the injury of the whole ; and the sentiment of 
 vengeance is almost instantaneously diffused. One council fire is 
 sufficient for the discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. 
 Here all the fighting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and 
 superstition combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The 
 orator awakens their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a 
 kind of religious desperation, by the visions of the prophet and thu 
 dreamer. 
 
 An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a 
 
$56 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record 
 of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Ply 
 mouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, 
 and had plundered the grave of the Sachem s mother of some 
 skins with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remark 
 able for the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of 
 their kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the 
 abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been travel 
 ling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from the high 
 way, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed 
 the country for miles to some tumulus, buried, perhaps, in woods, 
 where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited ; and there 
 have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by this sublime 
 and holy feeling, the Sachem, whose mother s tomb had been 
 violated, gathered his men together, and addressed them in the 
 following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue ; a curious 
 specimen of Indian eloquence, and an affecting instance of filial 
 piety in a savage. 
 
 "When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this 
 globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to 
 take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methowght I saw 
 a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled ; and trembling at 
 that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, Behold, my son, whom I 
 have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that 
 lapped thee warm, and fed thee oft. Canst thou forget to take 
 revenge of those wild people who have defaced my monument in a 
 despiteful manner, disdaining our antiquities and honorable cus 
 toms? See, now, the Sachem s grave lies like the common people, 
 defaced by an ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and im 
 plores thy aid against this thievish people, who have newly intruded 
 on our land. If this be suffered, I shall not rest quiet in my ever 
 lasting habitation. This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a 
 sweat, not able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and 
 recollect my spirits that were fled, and determined to demand your 
 counsel and assistance." 
 
 I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show 
 how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to 
 caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous 
 motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs 
 prevents our properly appreciating. 
 
 Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their 
 barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy 
 and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 221 
 
 nations, were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss 
 of several warriors was sensibly felt ; this was particularly the case 
 when they had been frequently engaged in warfare ; and many an 
 instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe, that had long been 
 formidable to its neighbors, has been broken up and driven away, 
 by the capture and massacre of its principal righting men. There 
 was a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless ; 
 not so much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future 
 security. The Indians had, also, the superstitious belief, frequent 
 among barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, 
 that the names of their friends who had fallen in battle were 
 soothed by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, 
 who are not thus sacrificed are adopted into their families in the 
 place of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection 
 of relatives and friends ; nay, so hospitable and tender is their enter 
 tainment, that when the alternative is offered them, they will often 
 prefer to remain with their adopted brethren, rather than return to 
 the home and the friends of their youth. 
 
 The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been 
 heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was form 
 erly a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exas 
 perated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but be 
 sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient domin 
 ion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of 
 their race. They go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and 
 indignities which they have individually suffered, and they are 
 driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading desolation, 
 and the overwhelming ru/^n of European warfare. The whites have 
 too frequently set them an example of violence, by burning their 
 villages, and laying wa^te their slender means of subsistence : and 
 yet they wonder that savages do not show moderation and mag 
 nanimity towards thos^ who have left them nothing but mere exist 
 ence and wretchedness. 
 
 We stigmatize *he Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous, 
 because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force ; 
 but in this they are fully justified by their rude code of honor. 
 They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy ; the bravest 
 warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every 
 advantage of his foe: he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity 
 by which he has been enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. 
 Indeed, man is naturally more prone to subtilty than open valor, 
 owing to his physical weakness in comparison with other animals. 
 They are endowed with natural weapons of defence : with horns. 
 
222 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 with tusks, with hoofs and talons ; but man has to depend on his 
 superior sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper 
 enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he perversely turns 
 his hostility against his fellow-men, 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 educa 
 tion. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty 
 sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those 
 yearnings after personal ease and security, which society has con 
 demned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear of 
 shame ; and thus the dread of the real evil is overcome by the 
 superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination. It 
 has been cherished and stimulated, also, by various means. It has 
 been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story. The 
 poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the splendors of 
 fiction ; and even the historian has forgotten the sober gravity of 
 narration, and broken forth into enthusiasm and rhapsody in 
 its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been its reward: 
 monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill, and opulence its 
 treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a nation s gratitude and 
 admiration. Thus artificially excited, courage has risen to an ex 
 traordinary and factitious degree of heroism : and arrayed in all 
 the glorious "pomp and circumstance of war," this turbulent 
 quality has even been able to eclipse many of those quiet but in 
 valuable 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. He lives 
 in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are 
 congenial to his nature ; or, rather, seem necessary to arouse his 
 faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by 
 hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, 
 he is always prepared for fight, and lives with his weapons in his 
 hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the soli 
 tudes of ocean ; as the bird mingles among clouds and storms, 
 aud wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air; 
 so the Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, 
 through the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions 
 vie in distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, 
 
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER. 223 
 
 or the crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests, 
 exposed to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and 
 pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no 
 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 very 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 buffalo, and sleeps among 
 the thunders of the cataract. 
 
 No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his 
 lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains 
 its cruellest infliction. Indeed, we here behold him rising superior 
 to the white man, in consequence of his peculiar education. The 
 latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon s mouth ; the former 
 calmly contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, 
 amidst the varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted 
 agonies of fire. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, 
 and provoking their ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring 
 flames prey on his very vitals, and the flesh shrinks from the sin 
 ews, 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 without 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 degree of 
 melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be 
 met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though 
 recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for 
 themselves ; and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, 
 when prejudice shall have passed away. 
 
 In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New Eng 
 land, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the 
 tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the cold 
 blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read 
 of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams 
 were wrapped in flames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down 
 and slain in attempting to escape, " all despatched and ended in 
 the course of an hour." After a series of similar transactions, 
 "our soldiers," as the historian piously observes, "being 
 resolved by God s assistance to make a final destruction of them ;" 
 the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, 
 and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty, but gallant band, th 
 
224 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, 
 took refuge in a swamp. 
 
 Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair ; with 
 hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, and 
 spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they 
 refused to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and pre 
 ferred death to submission. 
 
 As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal 
 retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their 
 enemy " plied them with shot all the time, by which means many 
 were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and fog that 
 preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers 
 and escaped into the woods : " the rest were left to the conquerors, 
 of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who 
 would rather, in their self-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 sitting 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 more were killed 
 and sunk into the mire, and never were minded more by friend 
 or foe." 
 
 Can any one read this plain, unvarnished tale without admiring 
 the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that 
 seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught heroes, and to raise 
 them above the instinctive feelings of- human nature? When the 
 Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed 
 in their robes, and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule 
 chairs; in this manner they suffered death without resistance or 
 even supplication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as 
 noble and magnanimous ; in the hapless Indian it was reviled as 
 obstinate and sullen ! How truly are we the dupes of show and 
 circumstance! How different is virtue, clothed in purple and 
 enthroned in state, from virtue, naked and destitute, and perishing 
 obscurely in a wilderness ! 
 
 But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern 
 tribes have long since disappeared ; the forests that sheltered 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 
 gr later, be the fatt of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 225 
 
 and have occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle 
 in the wars of white men. In a little while, and they will go the 
 way that their brethren have gone before. The few hordes which 
 still linger about the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tribu 
 tary streams of the Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribew 
 that once spread over Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded 
 it along the proud banks of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said 
 to have existed on the borders of the Susquehanna ; and of those 
 various nations that flourished about the Potomac and the Rappa- 
 hannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shen- 
 andoah. They will vanish like a vapor from the face of the earth; 
 their very history will be lost in forge tfulness ; and " the places 
 that now know them will know them no more forever." Or if, per 
 chance, some dubious memorial of them should survive, it may be 
 in the romantic dreams -of the poet, to people in imagination his 
 glades and groves, like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of 
 antiquity. But should he venture upon the dark story of theil 
 wrongs and wretchedness ; should he tell how they were invaded 
 corrupted, despoiled, driven from their native abodes and the sep 
 ulchres of their fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the earth, 
 and sent down with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity 
 will either turn with horror and incredulity from the tale, or blush 
 with indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. " We are 
 driven back," said an old warrior, " until we can retreat no farther 
 our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our fires arc 
 nearly extinguished : a little longer, and the white man will cease 
 to persecute us for we shall cease to exist ! " 
 
 PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 
 
 AN INDIAN MEMOIR. 
 
 As monumental bronze unchanged his look: 
 A soul that pity touch d, but never shook : 
 Train d from his tree-rock d cradle to his bier 
 The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook 
 Impassive fearing but the shame of fear 
 A stoic of the woods a man without a tear. 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 ris 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 characters 
 that flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have 
 reached us are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us with 
 8 
 
B2 6 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a com 
 paratively 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 gener 
 ous and romantic qualities which have been artificially cultivated 
 by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude magnifi 
 cence. 
 
 In civilized life, where the happiness, and, indeed, almost the 
 existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow- 
 men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and pecu 
 liar traits of native character are refined away, or softened down 
 by the levelling influence of what is termed good-breeding ; and 
 he practices so many petty deceptions, and affects so many gener 
 ous sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is difficult to 
 distinguish his real from his artificial character. The Indian, on 
 the contrary, free from the restraints and refinements of polished 
 life, and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent being, 
 obeying the impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judg 
 ment ; and thus the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, 
 grow singly great and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every 
 roughness is smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the 
 eye is delighted by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface ; he, 
 however, 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 bitter 
 ness, the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers 
 of New England. It is painful to perceive even from these partial 
 narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the 
 blood of the aborigines ; how easily the^olonists were moved to 
 hostility by the lust of conquest ; how merciless and exterminating 
 was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many 
 intellectual beings were hunted from the earth, how many brave 
 and noble hearts, of nature s sterling coinage, were broken down 
 and trampled in the dust ! 
 
 Such was the fate of PHILIP OF POKANOKET, an Indian warrior, 
 whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Con 
 necticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of contem 
 porary Sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the Narragansets, 
 the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the 
 first settlement of New England ; a band of native, untaught heroes 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 227 
 
 jvho made the most generous struggle of which human nature is 
 capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, 
 without a hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an 
 age of poetry, and fit subjects for local story and romantic fiction, 
 they have left scarcely any authentic traces on a page of history, 
 but stalk, like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of tradition.* 
 
 When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their 
 descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World, 
 from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the 
 last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that 
 number rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships ; 
 surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to 
 the rigor of an almost arctic wi-nter, and the vicissitudes of an ever- 
 shifting climate ; their minds were filled with doleful forebodings, 
 and nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the 
 strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situa 
 tion they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the Wam- 
 panoags, a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of 
 country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of 
 the strangers, and expelling them from his territories, into which 
 they had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a gen 
 erous friendship, and extended towards them the rites 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 integ 
 rity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached. He 
 continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men ; suf 
 fering them to extend their possessions, and to strengthen them 
 selves 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 he endeavored to protect the religion of his 
 forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries; and stip 
 ulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off his 
 people from their ancient faith; but, finding the English obstinately 
 opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand. 
 Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander 
 and Philip (as they had been named by the English), to the resi- 
 
 * While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed 
 that a celebrated English poet has nearly finished an heroic poem on the story 
 of Philip of Pokanoket. 
 
228 THE SKETCH- B O OK. 
 
 dence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and 
 confidence ; and entreating that the same love and amity which 
 had existed between the white men and himself might be continued 
 afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace, 
 and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon 
 his tribe ; his children remained behind to experience the ingrati 
 tude 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 beheld with uneasi 
 ness their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was 
 doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with 
 the Narragansets to rise against the English and drive them from 
 the land. It is impossible to say whether their accusation was war 
 ranted by facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It is evident, 
 however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the settlers, 
 that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the rapid 
 increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in 
 their treatment of the natives. They despatched an armed force 
 to seize upon Alexander, and to bring him before their courts. He 
 was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting 
 house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers, un 
 armed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest, 
 and the outrage offered to his soverign dignity, so preyed upon the 
 irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging 
 fever. He was permitted to return home, on condition of sending 
 his son as a pledge for his reappearance ; but the blow he had 
 received was fatal, and before he had reached his home he fell a 
 victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit. 
 
 The successor of Alexander was Metacomet, or King Philip, as 
 he was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and 
 ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy 
 and enterprise, had rendered him 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 intruders into the country, who had 
 presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an influence bane 
 ful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen IT cit 
 ing before them from the face of the earth ; their territories slipping 
 from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble, scattered and 
 dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally purchased 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 22 
 
 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 adroitness 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 Philip to know that before the intrusion of the Euro 
 peans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that now they 
 were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers. 
 
 But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, 
 and his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he 
 suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the 
 settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, 
 as it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of 
 dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which w r ere at first 
 but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and substance; 
 and he was at length charged with attempting to instigate the vari 
 ous Eastern tribes to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, to 
 throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is difficult at this distant 
 period to assign the proper credit due to these early accusations 
 against the Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an 
 aptness to acts of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave 
 weight and importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded 
 where tale-bearing met with countenance and reward; and the 
 sword was readily unsheathed when its success was certain, and it 
 carved out empire. 
 
 The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the accu 
 sation of one Sausaman, a renegade Indian, whose natural cunning 
 had been quickened by a partial education which he had received 
 among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance two 
 or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his prin 
 ciples. He had acted for some time as Philip s confidential secre 
 tary and counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and protection. 
 Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were gathering 
 round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over to the 
 whites; and, in order to gain their favor, charged his former bene 
 factor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous investigation 
 took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted to be 
 examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers, 
 however, had now gone too far to retract; they had previously 
 determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbor; they had publicly 
 * Now Bristol Rhode IslamL 
 
$ 3 e THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 evinced their distrust; and had done enough to insure his hostility; 
 according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, 
 his destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman, 
 the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead, in 
 a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. 
 Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of Philip, 
 were apprehended and tried, and, on the testimony of one very 
 questionable witness, were condemned and executed as murderers. 
 
 This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment of 
 his friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of 
 Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened 
 him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no 
 longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and 
 broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind; and he had a 
 further warning in the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem 
 of the Narragansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before 
 a tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 
 conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been perfidi 
 ously despatched 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 Narragansets 
 for safety; and wherever he appeared, was continually surrounded 
 by armed warriors. 
 
 When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and irrita 
 tion, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a flame. The 
 Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and 
 committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings 
 a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler. This was the signal 
 or open hostilities; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of 
 their comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Ply 
 mouth 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 wildness of their situa 
 tion, among trackless forests and savage tribes, had disposed the 
 colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled their imaginations 
 with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and spectrology. They 
 were much given, also, to a belief in omens. The troubles with 
 Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by a variety of 
 those awful warnings 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 " prodi 
 gious apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, and other towns in 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 231 
 
 their neighborhood, " was heard the report of a great piece of 
 ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo." * 
 Others where alarmed on a still, sunshiny morning by the discharge 
 of guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the 
 noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the 
 westward; others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses 
 over their heads; and certain monstrous births, which took place 
 about the time, filled the superstitious in some towns with doleful 
 forebodings. Many of 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 for 
 est; the crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks; and to those other 
 uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so 
 strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. 
 These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have 
 been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to 
 with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and 
 mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies, 
 and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of 
 the day, are strongly characteristic of the times. 
 
 The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often dis 
 tinguishes 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 disregard of the natural 
 rights of their antagonists : on the part of the Indians it was waged 
 with the desperation of men fearless of death, who had nothing to 
 expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence and decay. 
 
 The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy clergy 
 man of the time ; who dwells with horror and indignation on every 
 hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he mentions 
 with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites. Philip 
 is reviled as a murderer and a traitor; without considering that he 
 was a true born prince, gallantly fighting at the head of his subjects 
 to avenge the wrongs of his family; to retrieve the tottering power 
 of his line ; and to deliver his native land from the oppression of 
 usurping strangers. 
 
 The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really 
 been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind and, had it not been 
 prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its con 
 sequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of 
 detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected enter- 
 * The Rev. Increase Mather s History. 
 
*32 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 prises. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess of 
 Philip, and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations 
 that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we find 
 him displaying a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a con 
 tempt of suffering and hardship, and an unconquerable resolution, 
 that command our sympathy and applause. 
 
 Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw him 
 self into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted 
 the settlements, and were almost impervious to anything but a wild 
 beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like the 
 storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the 
 thunder-cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place 
 least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There 
 were now and then indications of these impending ravages, that 
 filled the minds of the colonists with awe 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 forests, 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 toils, and, 
 plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all search or inquiry, 
 until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the 
 country desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps 
 or morasses which extend in some parts of New England ; com 
 posed of loose bogs of deep, black mud; perplexed with thickets, 
 brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of 
 fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain 
 footing and the tangled mazes of these shaggy wilds, rendered them 
 almost impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thrid 
 their 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 frightful recesses, where they might 
 perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They, 
 therefore, invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to build a 
 fort, with the thought of starving out the foe; but Philip and his 
 warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the 
 dead of the night, leaving the women and the children behind; and 
 escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of war among 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 23$ 
 
 the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck cQuntry, and threat 
 ening the colony of Connecticut. 
 
 In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. 
 The mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real ter 
 rors. He was an evil that walked in darkness ; whose coming 
 none could foresee, and against which none knew when to be 
 on the alert. The whole country abounded with rumors and alarms. 
 Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part 
 of the widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest took 
 place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions, 
 also, were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal in ne 
 cromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, 
 whom he consulted, and who assisted him by her charms and 
 incantations. 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 
 stances of savage warfare. 
 
 At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset, his 
 fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been 
 thinned by repeated fights, and he had lost almost the whole of 
 his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend 
 in Canonchet, chief Sachem of all the Narragansets. He was the 
 son and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already 
 mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of conspiracy, 
 had been privately put to death at the perfidious instigations of the 
 settlers. "He was the heir," says the old chronicler, "of all his 
 father s pride and insolence, as well as of his malice towards the 
 English;" he certainly was the heir of his insults and injuries, and 
 the legitimate avenger of his murder. Though he had forborne to 
 take an active part in this hopeless war, yet he received Philip and 
 his broken forces with open arms; and gave them the most gener 
 ous countenance and support. This at once drew upon him the 
 hostility of the English ; and it was determined to strike a signal 
 blow that should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. 
 A great force was, therefore, gathered together from Massachusetts, 
 Plymouth and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narraganset 
 country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen and 
 leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility, and would no 
 longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the Indians. 
 
 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater 
 part of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and 
 children of his tribe, to a strong fortress ; where he and Philip had 
 
2 3 4 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 likewise drawn lip 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 
 th"e martial genius of these two chieftains. 
 
 Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through 
 December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison 
 by surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants 
 were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their bravest 
 officers were shot down in the act of storming the fortress sword in 
 hand. The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodg 
 ment was effected. The Indians were driven from one post to 
 another. They disputed their ground inch by inch, fighting with 
 the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and 
 after a long and bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a hand 
 ful of surviving warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge 
 in the thickets of the surrounding forest. 
 
 The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort ; the whole was 
 soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women and the children 
 perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even the stoi 
 cism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded with the 
 yells of rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors, as they 
 beheld the destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing 
 cries of their wives and offspring. " The burning of the wigwams," 
 says a contemporary writer, "the shrieks and cries of the women 
 and children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most 
 horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the 
 soldiers." The same writer cautiously adds, " they were in much 
 doubt then, and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning 
 their enemies alive could be consistent with humanity, and the 
 benevolent principles of the Gospel."* 
 
 The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of par 
 ticular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the noblest 
 instances on record of Indian magnanimity. 
 
 Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, 
 yet faithful to his ally, and to the hapless cause which he had 
 espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on condition 
 of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared that "he would 
 fight it out to the last man, rather than become a servant to the 
 English." His home being destroyed ; his country harassed and 
 laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors ; he was obliged to 
 * MS. of the KevTw. Ruggles. 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. *3$ 
 
 wander away to the banks of the Connecticut ; where be formed a 
 rallying point to the whole body of western Indians, and laid waste 
 several of the English settlements. 
 
 Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, with 
 only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the vicinity of 
 Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for the sustenance 
 of his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely 
 through the Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narra- 
 ganset, resting at some wigwams near Pawtucket River, when an 
 alarm was given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven 
 men by him at the time, Canonchet despatched two of them to the 
 top of a neighboring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe. 
 
 Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indi 
 ans rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their 
 chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger. Canon 
 chet 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 
 ihere was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted to escape 
 round the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile 
 Jndians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the 
 swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first his blanket, 
 then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which his enemies 
 knew him to be Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of pur 
 suit. 
 
 At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a 
 stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so 
 struck him with despair, that, as he afterwards confessed, "his 
 heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a rot 
 ten stick, void of strength." 
 
 To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a 
 Pequod Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no 
 resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of 
 heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit 
 arose within him ; and from that moment, we find, in the anecdotes 
 given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated and 
 prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who 
 first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty-second 
 year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon 
 his youthful countenance, replied, "You are a child you cannot 
 understand matters of war let your brother or your chief come 
 him will I answer." 
 
 Though repeated offers were made to him of his life, on condition 
 
$36 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected them 
 with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the 
 great body of his subjects ; saying, that he knew none of them 
 would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith towards 
 the whites ; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag 
 nor the paring of a Wampanoag s nail; and his threat that he 
 would burn the English alive in their houses; he disdained to 
 justify himself, haughtily answering that others were as forward for 
 the war as himself, and " he desired, to hear no more thereof." 
 
 So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause and 
 his friend, might have touched the feeling of the generous and the 
 brave; but Canonchet was an Indian; a being towards whom 
 war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion 
 he was condemned to die. The last words of him 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 had spoken anything unworthy 
 of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he 
 was shot at Stoningham, by three young Sachems of his own rank. 
 
 The defeat at the Narraganset fortress, and the death of Canon 
 chet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made 
 an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the 
 Mohawks to take arms ; but though possessed of the native talents 
 of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of 
 his enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began 
 to subdue the resolution of the neighboring tribes. The unfor 
 tunate chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks 
 rapidly thinning around him. Some were suborned by the whites ; 
 others fell victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks 
 by which they were harassed. His stores were all captured ; his 
 chosen friends were swept away from before his eyes ; his uncle 
 was shot down by his side; his sister was carried into captivity ; 
 and in one of his narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his 
 beloved wife and only son to the mercy of the enemy. " His ruin," 
 says the historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his misery 
 was not prevented, but augmented thereby ; being himself made 
 acquainted with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity 
 of his children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereave- 
 ment of all family relations, and being stripped of all outward com 
 forts, before his own life should be taken away." 
 
 To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers 
 began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they might 
 purchase dishonorable safety. Through teachery a number of his 
 
PHILIP OF POKANOKET. 23? 
 
 faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of 
 Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were be 
 trayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them 
 at the time, and attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
 neighboring river: either exhausted by swimming, or starved by 
 cold and hunger, she 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 
 crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and her friend. Her 
 corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly vengeance ; the 
 head was severed from the body and set upon a pole, and was 
 thus exposed at Taunton, to the view of her captive subjects. 
 They immediately recognized the features of their unfortunate 
 queen, and were so affected at this barbarous spectacle, that we 
 are told they broke forth into the "most horrid and diabolical 
 lamentations." 
 
 However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries 
 and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers 
 seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is 
 said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of 
 his designs." The spring of hope was broken the ardor of enter 
 prise was extinguished he looked around, and all was danger and 
 darkness ; there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring 
 deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who still remained 
 true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back 
 to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. 
 Here he lurked about, like a spectre, among the scenes of former 
 power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family and friend. 
 There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous situation, 
 than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler, who is 
 unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless 
 warrior whom he reviles. " Philip," he says, "like a savage wild 
 beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the woods, 
 above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven 
 to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of 
 his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep 
 him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission to 
 execute vengeance upon him." 
 
 Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair, a sullen 
 grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves 
 seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over his 
 blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wild- 
 
238 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 ness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but mt dis 
 mayed crushed to the earth, but not humiliated he seemed to 
 grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce 
 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 
 he smote to death one of his followers, who proposed an expedient 
 of peace. The brother of the victim made his escape, and in re 
 venge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men 
 and Indians were immediately despatched to the swamp where 
 Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair. Before he was 
 aware of their approach, they had begun to surround him. In a 
 little while he saw five of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet ; 
 all resistance was vain ; he rushed forth from his covert, and made 
 a headlong attempt to escape, but was shot through the heart by a 
 renegade Indian of his own nation. 
 
 Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King 
 Philip; persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when 
 dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes 
 furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of 
 amiable and lofty character sufficient to awaken sympathy for his 
 fate, and respect for his memory. We find that, amidst all the 
 harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was 
 alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal tender 
 ness, and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity 
 of his "beloved wife and only son" are mentioned with exultation 
 as causing him poignant misery : the death of any near friend is 
 triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his own sensibilities; but the 
 treachery and desertion of many of his followers, in whose affections 
 he had confided, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have 
 bereaved him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to 
 his native soil a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their 
 wrongs a soldier, daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of 
 fatigue, of hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready 
 to perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with 
 an untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among 
 the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished recesses of 
 swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to sub 
 mission, 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 
 
JOHN BULL. 239 
 
 foundering amid darkness and tempest without a pitying eye to 
 weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his struggle. 
 
 JOHN BULL. 
 
 An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
 Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
 That kept a brave oldnouse at a bountiful rate, 
 And an old porter to relieve 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 hislookf, 
 With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
 And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 OLD SONO. 
 
 nnHERE is no species of humor in which the English more excel, 
 than that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous 
 appelations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsi 
 cally designated, not merely individuals, but nations ; and, in their 
 fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves. 
 One would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would be apt 
 to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is charac 
 teristic of the peculiar humor of the English, and of their love for 
 what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied their 
 national oddities in the figure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with 
 a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and a stout, 
 oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibit 
 ing their most private foibles in a laughable point of view ; and 
 have been so successful in their delineations, that there is scarcely 
 a being in actual existence more absolutely present to the public 
 mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull. 
 
 Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn 
 t)f them has contributed to fix it upon the nation ; and thus to give 
 reality to what at first may have been painted in a great measure 
 from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are 
 continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English 
 seem wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have 
 formed of John Bull, and endeavor to act up to the broad carica 
 ture that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they some 
 times make their boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or 
 grossness ; and this I have especially noticed among those truly 
 home-bred and genuine sons of the soil who have never migrated 
 beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little 
 
240 THE SKETCH-B O OK. 
 
 uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses 
 that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now 
 and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles, 
 he observes that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his 
 passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays 
 a coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, 
 he thanks heaven for his ignorance he is a plain John Bull, and 
 has no relish for frippery and nicknacks. 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 himself of being 
 the honestest fellow in existence. 
 
 However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the 
 first instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather 
 they have adapted themselves to each other ; and a stranger who 
 wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather much valuable 
 information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhib 
 ited in the windows of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is 
 one of those fertile humorists that are continually throwing out 
 new portraits, and presenting different aspects from different points 
 of view ; and, often as he has been described, I cannot resist the 
 temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye. 
 
 John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, matter-of-fact 
 fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There 
 is little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural 
 feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit ; 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 senti 
 ment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon com 
 panion, if you allow him to have his humor, and to talk about 
 himself ; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and 
 purse, however soundly he may be 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 country round, 
 and is most generously disposed to be everybody s champion. He 
 is continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbors 
 affairs, and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter 
 of consequence without asking his advice ; though he seldom 
 engages in any friendly office of the kind without finishing by 
 getting into a squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at 
 
JOHN BULL. 241 
 
 their ingratitude. He, unluckily, took lessons in his youth in the 
 noble science of defence, and having accomplished himself in the 
 u se of his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at 
 boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever 
 since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of 
 his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head 
 of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does not 
 require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has extended 
 his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole 
 country, that no event can take place without infringing some of 
 his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, 
 with these filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like 
 some choleric, bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web 
 over a whole chamber, so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, 
 without startling his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrath- 
 fully from his den. 
 
 Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at 
 bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of conten 
 tion. It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes 
 the beginning of an affray : he always goes into a fight with 
 alacrity, but comes out of it grumbling even when victorious ; and 
 though no one fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested 
 point, yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconcilia 
 tion, he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that 
 he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have been quar 
 relling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so much 
 to be on his guard against as making friends. It is difficult to 
 cudgel him out of a farthing ; but put him in a good humor, and 
 you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is 
 like a stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, 
 but roll its masts overboard in the succeeding calm. 
 
 He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad ; of pulling 
 out a long purse ; flinging his money bravely about at boxing 
 matches, horse races, cock fights, and carrying a high head among 
 "gentlemen of the fancy : " but immediately after one of these fits 
 of extravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms of economy ; 
 stop short at the most trivial expenditure ; talk desperately of being 
 ruined and brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, will not 
 pay the smallest tradesman s bill without violent altercation. He 
 is, in fact, the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the 
 world ; drawing his coin out of his breeches pocket with infinite 
 reluctance ; paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying 
 every guinea with a growl. 
 
242 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider, 
 and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical 
 kind, its chief object being to devise how he may afford to be ex 
 travagant ; for he will begrudge himself a beefsteak and pint of 
 port one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead 
 of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the next. 
 
 His domestic establishment is enormously expensive : not so 
 much from any great outward parade, as from the great consump 
 tion of solid beef and pudding ; the vast number of followers he 
 feeds and clothes ; and his singular disposition to pay hugely for small 
 services. He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, provided 
 his servants humor his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and 
 then, and do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may 
 manage him to perfection. Eveything that lives on him seems to 
 thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are well paid and pam 
 pered, and have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and 
 prance slowly before his state carriage ; and his house-dogs sleep 
 quietly about the door, and will hardly bark at a house-breaker. 
 
 His family mansion is an old, castellated manor-house, gray with 
 age, and of a most venerable though weather-beaten appearance. 
 It has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation 
 of parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The centre bears 
 evident traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous 
 stone and old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that 
 style, it is full of obscure passages, intricate mazes and dusky 
 chambers ; and though these have been partially lighted up in 
 modern days, yet there are many places where you must still grope 
 in the dark. Additions have been made to the original edifice 
 from time to time, and great alterations have taken place ; towers 
 and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults : wings 
 built in time of peace ; and out-houses, lodges, and other offices 
 run up according to the whim or convenience of different genera 
 tions, until it has become one of the most spacious, rambling tene 
 ments imaginable. An entire wing is taken up with the family 
 chapel, a reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, 
 and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified at vari 
 ous periods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its walls 
 within are storied with the monuments of John s ancestors; and it 
 is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where 
 such of his family as are inclined to church services, may doze 
 comfortably in the discharge of their duties. 
 
 To keep up this chapel has cost John much money ; but he is 
 staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circum- 
 
JOHN BULL. 243 
 
 stance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his 
 vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he had quarrels, 
 are strong papists. 
 
 To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, 
 a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and 
 decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always 
 backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks directly at his little 
 peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great 
 use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, 
 and, above all, to pay their rents punctually and without grumbling. 
 
 The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat 
 heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence 
 of former times ; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, un 
 wieldy furniture and loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast 
 fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars and sumptuous ban 
 queting halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, 
 of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. 
 There are, however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted 
 and time-worn ; and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay ; 
 so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the 
 ears of the household. 
 
 John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thor 
 oughly overhauled ; and to have some of the useless parts pulled 
 down, and the others strengthened with their materials ; but the 
 old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the 
 house is an excellent house that it is tight and weather proof, and 
 not to be shaken by tempests that it has stood for several hun ired 
 years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now that as *x> 
 its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the inconveni 
 ences, and would not be comfortable without them that as to its 
 unwieldy size and irregular construction, these result from its being 
 the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of 
 every generation that an old family like his requires a large house 
 to dwell in ; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages 
 and snug boxes ; but an old English family should inhabit an old 
 English manor-house. If you point out any part of the building 
 as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or decora 
 tion of the rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and swears that 
 the parts are so built into each other, that if you pull down one, 
 you run the risk of having the whole about your ears. 
 
 The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition to 
 protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of 
 sin ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its appoint- 
 
244 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 ments, and to be eaten up by dependents; and so, partly from 
 pride, and partly from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always 
 to give shelter and maintenance to his superannuated servants. 
 
 The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family estab 
 lishments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers whom he can 
 not turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. His 
 mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its magni 
 tude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or 
 corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. Groups 
 of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the 
 buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling 
 over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon 
 the benches at its doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned 
 by those supernumeraries and their families ; for they are amazingly 
 prolific, and when they die off are sure to leave John a legacy of 
 hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be struck 
 against the most mouldering, tumble-down tower, but out pops, 
 from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of some superannu 
 ated hanger-on, who has lived at John s expense all his life, and 
 makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from 
 over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an 
 appeal that John s honest heart never can withstand ; so that a 
 man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life is 
 sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days. 
 
 A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where his 
 broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the 
 remainder of their existence a worthy example of grateful recol 
 lection, which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not 
 be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to 
 point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their gcod 
 qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some little vain 
 glory, of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which 
 they have carried him. 
 
 He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family 
 usages, and family incumberances, to a whimsical extent His 
 manor is infested by gangs of gipsies ; yet he will not suffer 
 them to be driven off, because they have infested the place 
 time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every genera 
 tion of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be 
 lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest it should 
 molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. Owls have 
 taken possession of the dovecote ; but they are hereditary owls, and 
 must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every 
 
JOHN BULL, 24$ 
 
 chimney with their nests ; martins build in every frieze and cornice ; 
 crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather-cock ; 
 and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the 
 house, running in and out of their holes undauntedly in broad day 
 light. In short, John has such a reverence for everything that has 
 been long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being 
 reformed, because they are good old family abuses. 
 
 All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to drain the 
 old gentleman s purse; and as he prides himself on punctuality in 
 money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighbor 
 hood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting hfs engage 
 ments. This, too, has been increased by the altercations and 
 heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his family. 
 His children have been brought up to different callings, and are of 
 different ways of thinking ; and as they have always been allowed 
 to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privi 
 lege most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some 
 stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old estab 
 lishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever be the cost; 
 others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old 
 gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of 
 housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at 
 times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their whole 
 some advice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous con 
 duct of one of his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow of 
 rather low habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses 
 is the orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the 
 poorest of his father s tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his 
 brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes 
 the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. 
 When his tongue is once going nothing can stop it. He rants 
 about the room ; hectors the old man about his spendthrift prac 
 tices ; ridicules his tastes and pursuits ; insists that he shall turn 
 the old servants out of doors ; give the broken-down horses to the 
 hounds ; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher 
 in his place nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled 
 with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its 
 place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, 
 and skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage 
 drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the empti 
 ness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in 
 these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquof 
 over which he preaches about his father s extavagance. 
 
*4* THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with 
 the old cavalier s fiery temperament. He has become so irritable 
 from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or 
 reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. 
 As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, 
 having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent 
 scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is 
 fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served 
 abroad, but is at present living at home, on half-pay. This last is 
 sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong ; likes nothing 
 so much as a racketing, roystering life ; and is ready at a wink or 
 nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator s head, if he dares 
 to array himself against paternal authority. 
 
 These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare 
 food for scandal in John s neighborhood. People begin to look 
 wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are mentioned. 
 They all " hope that matters are not so bad with him as repre 
 sented ; but when a man s own children begin to rail at his extrava 
 gance, things must be badly managed. They understand he is 
 mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with 
 money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old gentleman, but 
 they fear he has lived too fast ; indeed, they never knew any good 
 come of this fondness for hunting, racing, revelling and prize-fight 
 ing. In short, Mr. Bull s estate is a very fine one, and has been in 
 the family a long time ; but, for all that, they have known many 
 finer estates come to the hammer. " 
 
 What is worst f all, is the effect which these pecuniary embar 
 rassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. 
 Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug, rosy face, which 
 he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk 
 as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet, gold-laced waistcoat, which 
 bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed be 
 fore the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a 
 calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and ap 
 parently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both 
 sides of his once sturdy legs. 
 
 Instead of strutting about as formerly with his three-cornered hat 
 on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every 
 moment with a hearty thump upon the ground ; looking every one 
 sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drink 
 ing song ; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with 
 his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his 
 hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, which are evi 
 dently mptv. 
 
JOHN BULL. 34F 
 
 Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present ; yet for all this 
 the old fellow s spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop 
 the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an in 
 stant ; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the coun 
 try ; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy 
 another estate ; and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cud 
 gel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff. 
 
 Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet 
 I confess I cannot look upon John s situation without strong feelings 
 of interest. With all hi? odd humors and obstinate prejudices, he 
 is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine 
 a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his 
 neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own ; all plain, 
 home-bred and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness 
 of his good qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity; 
 his quarrelsomeness of his courage ; his credulity of his open faith ; 
 his vanity of his pride ; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are 
 til 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 excresences in proportion to the growth and grandeur 
 of the timber ; and whose branches make a fearful groaning and 
 murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and lux 
 uriance. There is something, too, in the appeavance of his old 
 family mansion that is extremely poetical and picturesque ; and, as 
 long as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost 
 tremble to see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes 
 and opinions. Some of his advisers are, no doubt, good architects, 
 that might be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, 
 when they had once got to work with their mattocks on this vener 
 able edifice, would never stop until they had brought it to the 
 ground, and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that 
 I wish is, that John s present troubles may teach him more pru 
 dence in future. That he may cease to distress his mind about 
 other people s affairs ; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to 
 promote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and 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 his income if he thinks proper ; 
 bring his unruly children into order if he can ; renew the jovial 
 scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, 
 a green, an honorable, and a merry old age. 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 
 
 May no wolfe howle ; no screech owle stir 
 
 A wing about thy sepulchre ! 
 
 No boysterous winds or stormes come hither, 
 
 To starve or wither 
 
 Thy soft sweet earth ! but, like a spring, 
 Love kept it ever flourishing. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties 
 of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that 
 lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and 
 stopped one afternoon at a village, the situation of which was 
 beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive sim 
 plicity about its inhabitants, not to be found in the villages which 
 lie on the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, 
 and, having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neigh 
 boring scenery. 
 
 My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to 
 the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed, 
 it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being completely 
 overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an 
 angle of 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 after 
 noon it had cleared up ; and though sullen clouds still hung over 
 head, yet there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from 
 which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit 
 up all nature with a 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 melancholy fancying, which 
 has in it something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and 
 then, the stroke of a bell from the neighboring tower fell on my 
 ear; its tones were in unison with the scene, and, instead of jarring, 
 chimed in with my feelings ; and it was some time before I recol 
 lected that it must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the 
 tomb. 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. * 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green ; 
 it wound slowly along a lane ; was lost, and reappeared through 
 the breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sit 
 ting. The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in white ; 
 and another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a 
 chaplet of white flowers ; a token that the deceased was a young 
 and unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the parents. 
 They were a venerable couple of the better order of peasantry. 
 The father seemed to repress his feelings ; but his fixed eye, con 
 tracted brow, and deeply -furrowed face, showed the struggle that 
 was passing within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud 
 with the convulsive bursts of a mother s sorrow. 
 
 I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in 
 the centre aisle, and the chaplet of white flowers, with a pair of 
 white gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had 
 occupied. 
 
 Every one knows the soul-subduing pathos of the funeral service ; 
 for who is so fortunate as never to have followed some one he has 
 loved to the tomb ? but when performed over the remains of inno 
 cence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence what 
 can be more affecting ? At that simple, but most solemn consign 
 ment 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 still seemed to struggle 
 with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that 
 the dead are blessed which die in the Lord ; but the mother only 
 thought of her child as a flower of the field cut down and withered 
 in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, "mourning 
 over her children, and would not be comforted." 
 
 On returning to the inn, I learned the whole story of the deceased. 
 It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. She had* 
 been the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once 
 been an opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This 
 was an only child, and brought up entirely at home, in the sim 
 plicity of rural life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, 
 the favorite lamb of his little flock. The good man watched over 
 her education with paternal care ; it was limited, and suitable to 
 the sphere in which she was to move ; for he only sought to make 
 her an ornament to her station in life, not to raise her above it. 
 The tenderness and indulgence of her parents, and the exemption 
 from all ordinary occupations, had fostered a natural grace and 
 delicacy of character, that accorded with the fragile loveliness of 
 her form. She appeared like some tender plant of the garden, 
 blooming, accidentally, amid the hardier natives of the fields. 
 
2 $o THE SKETCHY O OK. 
 
 The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by 
 her companions, but without envy ; for it was surpassed by the 
 unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It 
 might be truly said of her : 
 
 "This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever 
 Ran on the green-sward; nothing she does or seems, 
 But smacks of something greater than herself; 
 Too noble for this place. 
 
 The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retain 
 some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals 
 and holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of 
 the once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted 
 by its present pastor, who was a lover of old customs, and one of 
 those simple Christians that think their mission fulfilled by pro 
 moting joy on earth and good-will among mankind. Under his 
 auspices the May-pole stood from year to year in the centre of the 
 village green; on May-day it was decorated with garlands and 
 streamers; and a queen or lady of the May was appointed, as in 
 former times, to preside at the sports, and distribute the prizes and 
 rewards. The picturesque situation of the village, and the fanci- 
 fulness of its rustic fetes, would often attract the notice of casual 
 visitors. Among these, on one May-day, was a young officer, 
 whose regiment had been recently quartered in the neighborhood. 
 He was charmed with the native taste that pervaded this village 
 pageant; but, above all, with the dawning loveliness of the queen 
 of May. It was the village favorite, who was crowned with flowers, 
 and blushing and smiling in all the beautiful confusion of girlish 
 diffidence and delight. The artlessness of rural habits enabled 
 ,Jhim readily to make her acquaintance; he gradually won his way into 
 her intimacy ; and paid his court to her in that unthinking way in 
 which young officers are too apt to trifle with rustic simplicity. 
 
 There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never 
 even talked of love : but there are modes of making it more elo 
 quent than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly 
 to the heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand 
 tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and 
 action these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be 
 felt and understood, but never described. Can we wonder that 
 they should readily win a heart, young, guileless and susceptible? 
 As to her, she loved almost unconsciously ; she scarcely inquired 
 what was the growing passion that was absorbing every thought and 
 feeling, or what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 25 i 
 
 not to the future. When present, his looks and words occupied her 
 whole attention ; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at 
 their recent interview. She would wander with him through the 
 green lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to 
 see new beauties in nature ; he talked in the language of polite and 
 cultivated life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance 
 and poetry. 
 
 Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the sexes, 
 more pure than this innocent girl s. The gallant figure of her 
 youthful admirer, and the spendor of his military attire, might at 
 first have charmed her eye ; but it was not these that had captivated 
 her heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry. She 
 looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his 
 society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical, 
 and now first awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and 
 grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune she thought 
 nothing; it was the difference of intellect, of demeanor, of manners, 
 from those of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed, 
 that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with 
 charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek 
 would mantle with enthusiasm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance 
 of timid adrniration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would 
 sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his passion was min 
 gled with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connec 
 tion in levity; for he had often heard his brother officers boast of 
 their village conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind ne 
 cessary to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of 
 youthful fervor. His heart had not yet been rendered sufficiently 
 cold and selfish by a wandering and a dissipated life : it caught fire 
 from the very flame it sought to kindle ; and before he was aware 
 of the nature of his situation, he became really in love. 
 
 What was he to do ? There were the old obstacles which so 
 incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in life 
 the prejudices of titled connections his dependence upon a proud 
 and unyielding father all forbad him to think of matrimony : 
 but when he looked down upon this innocent being, so tender and 
 confiding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in 
 her life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks that awed down every 
 licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify himself by a thou 
 sand heartless examples of men of fashion ; and to chill the glow 
 of generous sentiment with that cold, derisive levity with which he 
 had heard them talk of female virtue : whenever he came into her 
 
2$2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious but impassive 
 charm of virgin purity in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought 
 can live. 
 
 The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the 
 continent completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for 
 a short time in a state of the most painful irresolution ; he hesitated 
 to communicate the tidings until the day for marching was at hand; 
 when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening 
 ramble. 
 
 The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke 
 in at once upon her dream of felicity ; she looked upon it as a sud 
 den and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity 
 of a child. He drew her to his bosom, and kissed the tears from 
 her soft cheek; nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are 
 moments of mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the 
 caresses of affection. He was naturally impetuous ; and the sight 
 of beauty, apparently yielding in his arms, the confidence of his 
 power over her, and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired 
 to overwhelm his better feelings he ventured to propose that she 
 should leave her home, and be the companion of his fortunes. 
 
 He was quite a novice at seduction, and blushed and faltered at 
 his own baseness ; but so innocent of mind was his intended victim, 
 that she was at first at a loss to comprehend his meaning; and why 
 she should leave her native village, and the humble roof of her 
 parents. When at last the nature of his proposal flashed upon her 
 pure mind, the effect was withering. She did not weep she did 
 not break forth into reproach she said not a word but she shrunk 
 back aghast as from a viper ; gave him a look of anguish that 
 pierced to his very soul ; and, clasping her hands in agony, fled, as 
 if for refuge, to her father s cottage. 
 
 The officer retired, confounded, humiliated and repentant. It is 
 uncertain what might have been the result of the conflict of his 
 feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of 
 departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, soon 
 dissipated his self-reproach, and stifled his tenderness ; yet, Amidst 
 the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, 
 and even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal 
 back to the scenes of rural quiet and village simplicity the white 
 cottage the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn 
 hedge, and the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his 
 arm, and listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious 
 affection. 
 
 The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction 
 
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE. 253 
 
 of all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Paintings and hys 
 terics had at first shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by 
 a settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window 
 the march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless 
 lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and 
 trumpet, anc. the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze 
 after him, as the morning sun glittered about his figure, and hi? 
 plume waved in the breeze ; he passed away like a bright vision 
 from her sight, and left her all in darkness. 
 
 It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. It 
 was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, 
 and wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with 
 her lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence 
 and loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in 
 her soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting 
 in the porch of the village church ; and the milkmaids, returning 
 from the fields, would now and then overhear her singing some 
 plaintive ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her 
 devotions at church ; and as the old people saw her approach, so 
 wasted away, yet with a hectic gloom, and that hallowed air which 
 melancholy diffuses round the form, they would make way for her, 
 as for something spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake 
 their heads in gloomy foreboding. 
 
 She felt a conviction that she was, hastening to the tomb, but 
 looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had 
 bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no 
 more pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had enter 
 tained resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was 
 incapable of angry passions ; and in a moment of saddened ten 
 derness, she penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the 
 simplest language, but touching from its very simplicity. She told 
 him that she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his 
 conduct was the cause. She even depicted the sufferings which 
 she had experienced ; but concluded with saying, that she could 
 not die in peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and her 
 blessing. 
 
 By degrees her strength declined, that she could no longer leave 
 the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped 
 up in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out 
 upon the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted 
 to any one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never 
 even mentioned her lover s name ; but would lay her head on her 
 mother s bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in 
 
254 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 mute anxiety, over this fading blossom of their hopes, still flattering 
 themselves that it might again revive to freshness, and that the 
 bright, unearthly bloom which sometimes flushed her cheek might 
 be the promise of returning health. 
 
 In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon; 
 her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and 
 the soft air that stole in brought with it the fragrance of the cluster 
 ing honeysuckle which her own hands had trained round the 
 window. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible: it spoke 
 of the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven: it 
 seemed to have diffused comfort and serenity through her bosom. 
 Her eye was fixed on the distant village church; the bell had tolled 
 for the evening service : the last villager was lagging into the 
 porch ; and everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness pecu 
 liar to the day of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with 
 yearning hearts. Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over 
 some faces, had given to hers the expression of a seraph s. A tear 
 tremblad in her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her faithless 
 lover? or were her thoughts wandering to that distant church 
 yard, into whose bosom she might soon be gathered ? 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard a horseman galloped to 
 the cottage he dismounted before the window the poor girl gave 
 a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her cha r : it was her repent 
 ant lover ! He rushed into the house, and flew to clasp her to his 
 bosom; but her wasted form her death-like countenance so wan, 
 yet so lovely in its desolation, smote him to the soul, and he threw 
 himself in agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise she 
 attempted to extend her trembling hand her lips moved as if she 
 spoke, but no word was articulated she looked down upon him 
 with a smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes foi 
 ever! 
 
 Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story. 
 They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to 
 recommend them. In the present rage, also, for strange incident 
 and high-seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insignifi- 
 , cant, but they interested me strongly at the time ; and, taken in 
 connection with the affecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, 
 left a deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a 
 more striking nature. I have passed through the place since, and 
 visited the church again, from a better motive than mere curiosity. 
 It was a wintry evening ; the trees were stripped of their foliage; 
 the church-yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled 
 
THE ANGLER. 255 
 
 coldly through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been 
 planted about the grave of the village favorite, and osiers were 
 bent over it to keep the turf uninjured. 
 
 The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung the 
 chaplet of flowers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral : 
 the flowers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been 
 taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many 
 monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the sym 
 pathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke more 
 touchingly to my heart, than this simple but delicate memento of 
 departed innocence. 
 
 THE ANGLER. 
 
 This day dame Nature seem d in love, 
 
 The lusty sap began to move, 
 
 Fresh juice did stir th embracing vines 
 
 And birds had drawn their valentines. 
 
 The jealous trout that low did lie, 
 
 Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 
 
 There stood my friend, with patient skill, 
 
 Attending of his trembling quill. 
 
 SIR H. WOTTON. 
 
 IT is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away 
 from his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from, 
 reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; and I suspect that, in 
 like manner, many of these worthy gentlemen who are given to 
 haunt the sides of pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, may 
 trace the origin of their passion to the seductive pages of honest 
 Izaak Walton. I recollect studying his " Complete Angler" sev 
 eral years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, and, 
 moreover, that we were all completely bitten with the angling 
 mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as the weather was 
 auspicious, and that the spring began to melt into the verge of 
 summer, we took rod in hand and sallied into the country, as stark 
 mad as was ever Don Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 
 
 One of our party had equalled the Don in the fullness of his 
 equipments: being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprise. He wore 
 a broad-skirted, fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets; 
 a pair of stout shoes and leather gaiters ; a basket slung on one 
 side for fish ; a patent rod, a landing net, and a score of other incon 
 veniences, only to be found in the true angler s armory. Thus 
 harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of stare and won- 
 
: $6 THE SKETCH-B O OK. 
 
 derment among the country folk, who had never seen a regulat 
 angler, as was the steel-clad hero of La Mancha among the goat 
 herds of the Sierra Morena. 
 
 Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands 
 of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for the execution of those 
 piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins 
 of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that 
 lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties enough 
 to fill the sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes 
 it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over 
 which the trees threw their broad, balancing sprays, and long, name 
 less weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with 
 diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine 
 in the matted shade of a forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, after 
 this termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most 
 placid, demure face imaginable ; as I have seen some pestilent shrew 
 of a housewife, after filling her home with uproar and ill-humor, 
 come dimpling out of doors, swimming and courtesying, and smil 
 ing 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 occasional tinkling of a 
 bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a wood 
 cutter s axe from the neighboring forest. 
 
 For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that 
 required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above 
 half an hour before I had completely "satisfied the sentiment/ 
 and convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton s opinion, that 
 angling is something like poetry a man must be born to it. I 
 hooked myself instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; 
 lost my bait ; broke my rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, 
 and passed the day under the trees reading old Izaak ; satisfied 
 that it was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity aal rural feeling 
 that had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My com 
 panions, however, were more persevering in their delusion. I have 
 them at this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of 
 the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by 
 shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as 
 they break in upon his rarely-invaded haunt ; the king-fisher watch 
 ing them suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep, 
 black mill-pond, in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting him 
 self slip sideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning 
 himself ; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong as thej 
 
THE ANGLER. 257 
 
 approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world 
 around. 
 
 I recollect, also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping 
 about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in 
 spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly, country urchin 
 came down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree, 
 a few yards of twine, and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, a 
 crooked pin for a hook, baited with a vile earth-worm and in half 
 an hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout the day ! 
 
 But, above all, I recollect the "good, honest, wholesome, 
 hungry" repast, which we made under a beech-tree, just by a 
 spring of pure, sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill; and 
 how, when it was over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton s 
 scene with the milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles^ 
 in a bright pile of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear 
 like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recol 
 lections, which are passing like a strain of music over my mind, 
 and have been called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed 
 not long since. 
 
 In a morning s stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful 
 little stream which flows down from the Welsh hills and throws 
 itself into the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on 
 the margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran 
 angler and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow 
 with a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully 
 patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by and decently 
 maintainedo His face bore the marks of former storms, but present 
 fair weather ; its furrows had been worn into an habitual smile ; his 
 iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he had altogether the 
 good-humored air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed 
 to take the world as it went. One of his companions was a ragged 
 wight, with the skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I ll war 
 rant could find his way to any gentleman s fish-pond in the neigh 
 borhood in the darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward, coun 
 try lad, with a lounging gait and apparently somewhat of a rustic 
 beau. The old man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which 
 he had just killed, to discover by its contents what insects were season 
 able for bait ; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions 
 who appeared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind 
 feeling towards all " brothers of the angle," ever since I read Izaak 
 Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a "mild, sweet and peace 
 able spirit ; and my esteem for them has been increased since I 
 met with an old " Tretyse of fishing with the Angle," in which are 
 9 
 
258 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 set forth many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. "Take 
 good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, "that in going about 
 your disportes ye open no man s gates but that ye shet them again. 
 Also ye shall not use this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness 
 to the encreasing and sparing of your money only, but principally 
 for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and specyally 
 of your soule."* 
 
 I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me 
 an exemplification of what I had read ; and there was a cheerful con- 
 tentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could not 
 but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one part 
 of the brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep the 
 line from dragging on the ground or catching among the bushes ; 
 and the adroitness with which he would throw his fly to any par 
 ticular 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 apt to lurk. 
 In the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples ; 
 showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods, 
 fix their flies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The 
 scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his 
 scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which 
 Walton is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain cf 
 Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the 
 inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from fresh-smelling meadows. 
 The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and sunn 
 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 instructions 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 cheerful old 
 age; and, I fancy, was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
 displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now and then 
 to play the sage ? 
 
 He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had passed 
 some years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, 
 
 * From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industri 
 ous and devout employment than it is generally considered. "For when ye 
 purpose to go on your disports in fishynge ye will not clesyre greatlye many 
 persons with you, \\hich might let you of your game. And that ye may serve 
 God devoutly in savin go effectually your customable prayers. And tuns 
 doying, ye shall eschew and also avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which ts 
 principal! cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 
 
THE ANGLER. 259 
 
 where he had entered into trade, and had been ruined by the indis 
 cretion of a partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups 
 and downs in life, until he got into the navy, where his leg was 
 carried away by a cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown. 
 This was the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever 
 experienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with some 
 small paternal property, brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 
 pounds. On this he retired to his native village, where he lived 
 quietly and independently ; and devoted the remainder of his life 
 to the "noble art of angling." 
 
 I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he 
 seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent 
 good-humor. Though he had been sorely buffeted about the 
 world, he was satisfied that the world, in itself, was good and 
 beautiful. Though he had been as roughly used in different 
 countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, 
 yet he spoke of every nation with candor and kindness, appearing 
 to look only on the good side of things: and, above all, he was 
 almost the only man I had ever met with who had been an unfor 
 tunate adventurer in America, and had honesty and magnanimity 
 enough to take the fault to his own door, and not to curse the 
 country. The lad that was receiving his instructions, I learnt, 
 was the son and heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the 
 village inn, and, of course, a youth of some expectation, and much 
 courted by the idle, gentlemanlike personages of the place. 
 In taking him under his care, therefore, the old man had, probably, 
 an eye to a privileged corner in the tap-room, and an occasional 
 cup of cheerful ale free of expense. 
 
 There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, which 
 anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures inflicted on worms 
 and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure 
 serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their rec 
 reations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, it has been 
 reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed, it is an 
 amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly-cultivated 
 scenery -of -.England, ..where pvery roughness has been softened 
 away from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those 
 limpid streams, which wander, like veins of silver, through the 
 bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through a diversity 
 of small home scenery ; sometimes winding through ornamejitejd 
 grounds.; sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, 
 where the fresh green is mingled with sweet-smelling flowers ; some 
 times venturing in sight of villages and hamlets, and then running 
 
36o THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 capriciously away into shady retirements. The sweetness and 
 serenity of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradu 
 ally bring on pleasant fits of musing ; which are now and then 
 agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the distant whistle of a 
 peasant, or, perhaps, the vagary of some fish, leaping out of the still 
 water, and skimming transiently about its glassy surface. "When 
 I would beget content," says Izaak Walton, "and increase confi 
 dence in the power and wisdom and providence of Almighty God, 
 I will walk the meadows by some gliding stream, and there 
 contemplate the lilies that take no care, and those very many other 
 little living creatures that are not only created, but fed (man 
 knows not how) by the goodness of the God of nature, and, there 
 fore, trust in him." 
 
 I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those 
 ancient champions of angling, which breathes the same innocent 
 and happy spirit : 
 
 Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 
 
 Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
 Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 
 
 With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
 And on the world and my Creator think : 
 
 Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t* embrace; 
 And others spend their time in base excess 
 
 Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 
 
 Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 
 And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 
 
 So I the fields and meadows green may view. 
 And daily by fresh rivers walk at will, 
 
 Among the daisies and the violets blue, 
 Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil.* 
 
 On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of 
 abode, and happening to be in the neighborhood of the village a 
 few evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I 
 found him living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but 
 a perfect curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the 
 skirts of the village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, 
 with a small garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and 
 adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cottage was 
 overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weather 
 cock. The interior was fitted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas 
 of comfort and convenience having been acquired en tl.e berth- 
 deck of a man-of-wsr. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, 
 * .1. Davors. 
 
THE ANGLER. 261 
 
 which, in the daytime, was lashed up so as to take but little room. 
 From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship of his own 
 workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, and a large sea-chest, 
 formed the principal movables. About the wall were stuck up 
 naval ballads, such as Admiral Hosier s Ghost, All in the Downs, 
 and Tom Bowline, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 
 which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. The 
 mantel-piece was decorated with sea-shells; over which hung a 
 quadrant, flanked by two wood-cuts of most bitter-looking naval 
 commanders. His implements for angling were carefully disposed 
 on nails and hooks about the room. On a shelf was arranged his 
 library, containing a work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered 
 with canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical almanac, 
 and a book of songs. 
 
 His^Jamily consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a 
 parrot which he had caught and tamed and educated himself in 
 the course of one of his voyages; and which uttered a variety of 
 sea phrases with the hoarse, brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. 
 The establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson 
 Crusoe; it was kept in neat order, everything being "stowed away" 
 with the regularity of a ship of war; and he informed me that he 
 " scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between meals." 
 
 I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe 
 in the soft, evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the 
 threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an 
 iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been 
 angling all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much 
 minuteness as a general would talk over a campaign; being par 
 ticularly animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a 
 large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, 
 and which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the inn. 
 
 How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age; 
 and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest-tost 
 through life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbor in the even 
 ing of his days ! His happiness, however, sprung from within him 
 self, and was independent of external circumstances; for he had 
 that inexhaustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of 
 Heaven; spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, 
 and keeping the mind smooth and equable in the roughest weather. 
 
 On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was a universal 
 favorite in the village, and the^oracle of the tap-room; where he 
 delighted the rustic with his songs, and, like Sinbad, astonished 
 them with his stories of strange Jan.ds, and ship-wrecks, and sea- 
 
262 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 fights. He was much noticed, too, by gentlemen sportsmen of the 
 neighborhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; and 
 was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his 
 life was quiet and inoffensive, being principally passed about the 
 neighboring streams, when the weather and season were favorable; 
 and at other times he employed himself at home, preparing his 
 fishing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets 
 and flies, for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 
 
 He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he 
 generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his par 
 ticular request that when he died he should be buried in a green 
 spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which he had 
 marked out ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far 
 from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the fishes 
 it was the spot where his father and mother had been buried. 
 
 I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary ; but I 
 could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy "brother 
 of the angle ; " who has made me more than ever in love with the 
 theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his 
 art: and I will conclude this rambling sketch in the words of 
 nonest Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter s master 
 upon my reader, " and upon all that are true lovers of virtue ; and 
 dare trust in his providence ; and be quiet ; and go a angling." 
 
 THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKER* 
 
 BOCKER. 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut e^ 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 CASTLE OF INDOLENCE. 
 
 IN the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the 
 eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the 
 river denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan 
 Zee, and where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
 the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small 
 market-town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh, 
 but which is more generally and properly known by the name of 
 Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLO IV. 263 
 
 by the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate 
 propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on 
 market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but 
 merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
 Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little 
 valleyToFrather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the 
 quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through 
 it, with just murmur enough to lull one to repose ; and the occa 
 sional whistle of a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the 
 only sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 
 
 I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in squirrel- 
 shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of 
 the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature 
 is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as 
 it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and 
 reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a 
 retreat, whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, 
 and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of 
 none more promising than this little valley. 
 
 From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character 
 of its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch 
 settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of 
 SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow 
 Boys throughout all the neighboring country. A drowsy, dreamy 
 influence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very 
 atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high 
 German doctor during the early days of the settlement ; others, 
 that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his 
 powwows there before the country was discovered by Master Hen- 
 drick Hudson. Certain it is, the place still continues under the 
 sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of 
 the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. 
 They are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject 
 to trances and visions ; and frequently see strange sights, and hear 
 music and voices in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds 
 with local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars 
 shoot and meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other 
 part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, 
 seems to make it the favorite scene of her gambols. 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, 
 and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is 
 the apparition of a figure on horseback without a head. It is said 
 by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been 
 
264 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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 at no great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic 
 
 historians of those parts, who have been careful in collecting and 
 
 I collating the floating facts concerning this spectre, allege that the 
 
 . body of the trooper, having been buried in the church-yard, the 
 
 ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; 
 
 and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along 
 
 the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, 
 
 and in a hurry to get back to the church-yard before daybreak. 
 
 Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which 
 has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of 
 shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all the country firesides, by 
 the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have mentioned 
 is not confined to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is un- 
 consciously_jmbibed by every one who resides there for a time. 
 However wide awake they may have been before they entered that 
 sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching 
 influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative to dream 
 dreams, and see apparitions. 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; for it is in such 
 little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the 
 great State of New- York, that population, manners, and customs, 
 remainjfixed ; while the great torrent of migration and improve 
 ment, which is making such incessant changes in other parts of 
 this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like 
 those little nooks of still water which border a rapid stream ; where 
 we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly 
 revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the passing cur 
 rent. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
 shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not still 
 find the same trees and the same families vegetating in its sheltered 
 bosom. 
 
 In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote period of 
 American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy 
 wight of the name of Ichabod Crane; who sojourned, or, as he ex 
 pressed it " tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instruct 
 ing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut; 
 a State which supplies the Union with pioneeTsTfor the mind as well 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLO W. 26$ 
 
 as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier 
 woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of Crane 
 was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but exceedingly 
 lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dan 
 gled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shov 
 els, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head 
 was small and flat at top, with huge ears, large, green, glassy eyes, 
 and a long snipe, nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock, perched 
 upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see 
 him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes 
 bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for 
 the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow 
 eloped from a cornfield. 
 
 His school-house was a low building of one large room, rudely 
 constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched 
 with leaves of old copy-books. It was most ingeniously secured 
 at vacant hours, by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, and 
 stakes set against the window shutters ; so that, though a thief 
 might get in with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment 
 in getting out ; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, 
 Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot. The school- 
 house stood in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot 
 of a woody hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable 
 birch tree growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur 
 of his pupils voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in 
 a drowsy summer s day, like the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted 
 now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone 
 tf menace or command ; or, peradventure, by the appalling sound 
 of tire birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path 
 of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever 
 foqre 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 thosef 
 cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects ; 
 on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather 
 than severity; taking the burthen off the backs of the weak, and 
 te</ing it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that v 
 winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indul 
 gence ; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double 
 portion on some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch * 
 urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen be 
 neath the birch. All this he called " doing his duty by their par 
 ents;" and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it 
 
266 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 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 
 iive." 
 
 When the school hours were over he was even the companion and 
 playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday afternoons would con 
 voy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty 
 sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comfort of the 
 cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 
 pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would 
 | have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with his 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, accord 
 ing to country custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at 
 the houses of the farmers whose children he instructed. With 
 these he lived successively a week at a time ; thus going the 
 rounds of the neighborhood, withja.ll his worldly effects tied up in a 
 cotton handkerchief. 
 
 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic 
 patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous 
 burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of 
 rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the far 
 mers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms ; helped to 
 make hay; mended the fences; took the horses to water; drove the 
 cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, 
 too, all i-y dominant- rUp-nitv and absolute sway with which hg" lorded 
 it inTiislittle empire, the school, and b e^ame/vondertully gentle and 
 ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothersTb y petffflg 
 jme children, particularly the youngest ; and like the lion bold, 
 Iwhich. whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit 
 [with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole 
 frours together. 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing-master of 
 the neighborhood, and picked up many bright shillings by instruct 
 ing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little vanity 
 to him, on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church gal 
 lery, with a band of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he com 
 pletely 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 
 from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers little 
 s in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 267 
 
 by hook and by crook," the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably 
 enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the 
 labor of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 
 
 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the ; 
 female circle of a rural neighborhood ; being considered a kind of 
 idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accom / 
 plishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in ; 
 learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to j 
 occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farmhouse, and the 
 addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, perad- 
 venture, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our man of letters, there 
 fore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. 
 How he would figure among them in the church-yard, between ser 
 vices on Sundays ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines 
 that overrun the surrounding 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 mill-pond ; while the more 
 bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his su 
 perior elegance and address. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling ga 
 zette, carrying the whole budget of loca^gossip from house to house ; 
 so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction. He 
 was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, 
 for he had read several books quite through, and was a perfect 
 master of Cotton Mather s history of New England Witchcraft, in 
 which, by the way, he most firmly and potently believed. 
 
 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdnessandTsimple ere- v 
 dulity. His appetite for the marvelous, 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 bordering the little brook that whimpered by his 
 school-house, and there con over old Mather s direful tales, until \ 
 the gathering dusk of the evening made the printed page a mere 
 mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and 
 stream and awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened 
 to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching hour, flut 
 tered his excited imagination : the moan of the whip-poor-will* 
 from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger 
 of storm ; the dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden 
 
 * The whin-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night, 
 name from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 
 
 It receives its 
 
268 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 rustling in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The fire 
 
 flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now 
 
 and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream 
 
 across his path ; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle 
 
 came winging his blundering flight against him, the poor varlet 
 
 was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck 
 
 with a witch s token. His only resource on such occasions, either 
 
 \ to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
 
 tunes ; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by their 
 
 doors of an evening, were often filled with awe, at hearing his nasal 
 
 \ melody, "in linked sweetness long drawn out," floating from the 
 
 i distant hill, or along the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass long winte:. 
 evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire 
 with a row of apples roasting and spluttering along the hearth, ana 
 listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted 
 fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted 
 houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping 
 Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would 
 delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the 
 direful omens and portentous sights and sounds in the air, which 
 prevailed in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten 
 them wofully with speculations upon comets and shooting stars; 
 and with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely turr 
 round, and that they were half the time topsy-turvy ! 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while anugly cuddling in 
 the chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from 
 the crackling wood fire, and where, of course, no spectre dared to 
 show his face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subse 
 quent walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset 
 his path amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With 
 what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
 across the waste fields from some distant window ! How often 
 was he appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which, like a 
 sheeted spectre, beset his very path ! How often..did he shrink 
 with .curdling, awe at the sou4id-ol.liis.Qw 
 
 .beneath his feet; ,and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he" 
 should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind him ! 
 and how often was he thrown into complete dismay by some rush 
 ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that it was the Gal 
 loping Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of 
 the mind that walk in darkness ; and though he had seen many 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 269 
 
 spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in 
 divers shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an 
 end to all these evils ; and he would have passed a pleasant life of 
 it, in despite of the devil and all his works, if his path had not 
 been crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man 
 than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, 
 and that was a woman. 
 
 Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in 
 each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina 
 Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
 farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen ; plump as a 
 partridge ; ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her 
 father s peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, 
 but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as 
 might be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of 
 ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. 
 She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which her great-great- 
 grandmother had brought over from Saardam; the tempting 
 stomacher of the olden time ; and withal a provokingly short petti 
 coat, to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 
 
 Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the sex; and 
 it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a morsel soon found 
 favor in his eyes ; more especially after he had visited her in her 
 paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of 
 a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is 
 true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of / 
 his own farm ; but within those everything was snug, happy, and 
 well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not proud 
 of it ; and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than 
 the style in which he lived. His stronghold was situated on the 
 banks of the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, 
 in which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm- 
 tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot of which bub 
 bled up a spring of the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, 
 formed of a barrel ; and then stole sparkling away through the 
 grass, to a neighboring brook, that bubbled along among alders 
 and dwarf willows. Hard by the farm-house was a vast barn that 
 might have served for a church ; every window and crevice of 
 which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the 
 flail was busily resounding within it from morning to night ; swal 
 lows and 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 
 
2 ;o THE SKE TCH-B O OK. 
 
 bosoms, and others swelling, and cooing, and bowing about 
 dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, unwieldiy 
 porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of their pens; 
 whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to 
 snuff the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were riding in an 
 adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of 
 turkeys were gobbling through the farmyard, and guinea fowls fret 
 ting about it, like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, dis 
 contented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, 
 that pattern of a husband, a warrior and a fine gentleman, clapping 
 his burnished wings, and crowing in the pride and gladness of his 
 heart sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then gen 
 erously calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to 
 enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue s mouth watered as he looked upon this sumptu- 
 
 ous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind s 
 eye, he pictured to himself every roasting-pig running about with a 
 pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were 
 snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a cov 
 erlet of crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and 
 the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with 
 a decent competency of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw 
 carved out the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy, relishing ham ; 
 not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard 
 under its wing, and, perad venture, a necklace of savory sausages ; 
 and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a 
 
 / side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that quartei which his 
 
 [ chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his 
 great green eyes over the fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of 
 wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards 
 burthened with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement 
 of Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to 
 inherit these domains, and his 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 realized his hopes, and 
 presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of 
 children, mounted on the top of a wagon loaded with household 
 trumpery, with pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld 
 himself bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting 
 out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house the conquest of his heart was com- 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 271 
 
 pkte. It was one of those spacious farmhouses, with high-ridged, 
 but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from the 
 first Dutch settlers ; the low, projecting eaves forming a piazza 
 along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under 
 this were hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
 nets for fishing in the neighboring river. Benches were built along 
 the sides for summer use ; and a great spinning-wheel at one end, 
 and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this 
 important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wonder 
 ing Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the man 
 sion, and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent 
 pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyesT ~TrT<5ne~corner 
 stood a huge bag of wool ready to be spun ; in another a quantity 
 of linsey-woolsey just from the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and 
 strings of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the 
 walls, mingled with the gaud of red peppers ; and a door left ajar 
 gave him a peep into the best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs, 
 and dark, mahogany tables, shone like mirrors ; and irons, with 
 their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert 
 of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and conch-shells decorated the 
 mantle-piece ; strings of various colored birds eggs were suspended 
 above it : a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the 
 room, and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed i 
 immense treasures of old silver and well-mended china. 
 
 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of 
 delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and 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, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
 easily-conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and had to make 
 his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of ada 
 mant, to the castle keep, where the lady of his heart was confined; 
 all which he achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to 
 the centre of a Christmas pie ; and thjen the lady gave him her 
 hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win 
 his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth 
 of whims and caprices, which were forever presenting new diffi 
 culties and impediments ; and he had to encounter a host of fear 
 ful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numerous rustic admir 
 ers, who beset every portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and 
 angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
 cause against any new competitor. 
 
r;2 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, royster- 
 ing blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch 
 abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round, 
 which rang with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
 broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short, curly black hair, 
 and a bluff, but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air 
 of fun and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great 
 powers of limb, he had received the nickname of BROM BONES, by 
 which he was universally known. He was famed for great knowl 
 edge and skill in horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback 
 as a Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock-fights ; and, 
 with the ascendency which bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was 
 the umpire in all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving 
 his decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or 
 appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; but 
 had more mischief than ill-will in his composition ; and, with all 
 his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish 
 good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, 
 who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he 
 scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment 
 for miles around. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur 
 cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox s tail; and when the folks at 
 a country gathering descried this well-known crest at a distance, 
 whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always stood 
 by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing 
 along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, 
 like a troop of Don Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of 
 their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had 
 clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and 
 his gang!" The neighbors looked upon him with a 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 blooming 
 Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his 
 amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and 
 endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not alto 
 gether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were sig 
 nals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a 
 lion in his amours ; insomuch that when his horse was seen tied to 
 Van Tassel s paling, on a Sunday night, a sure sign that his master 
 was courting, or, as it is termed, "sparking," within, all other 
 suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quar 
 ters. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLO W. 273 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to 
 contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would 
 have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have 
 despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and 
 perseverance in his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple 
 jack yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and 
 though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it 
 was away jerk ! he was as erect, and carried his head as high as 
 ever. 
 
 To have taken the field openly against his rival would have been 
 madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, 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 farmhouse ; not that he had anything to apprehend from the 
 meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling- 
 block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy, indul 
 gent soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and, 
 like a reasonable man and an excellent father, let her have her way 
 in everything. His notable little wife, too, had enough to do to 
 attend to her housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she 
 sagely observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be 
 looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus, while 
 the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning-wheel 
 at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening 
 pipe at the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden 
 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 with the daughter by the side of 
 the spring under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, 
 that hour so favorable to the lover s eloquence. 
 
 I profess not to know how women s hearts are wooed and won. 
 To me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. 
 Some seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access ; 
 while others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a 
 thousand different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the 
 former, but a still greater proof of generalship to maintain posses 
 sion of the latter, for the man must battle for his fortress at every 
 door and window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is, 
 therefore, entitled to some renown ; but he who keeps undisputed 
 sway over the heart of a coquette, is, indeed, a hero. Certain it is, 
 this was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and from 
 the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
 
274 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 former evidently declined ; his horse was no longer seen tied at the 
 palings on Sunday nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose 
 between him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 prom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would 
 fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their 
 pretensions to the lady according to the mode of those most con 
 cise and simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore by single 
 combat; but Ichabod was too conscious olE the superior might of 
 his adversary to enter the lists against him -: he had overheard a 
 boast of Bones, that he would "double the schoolmaster up and 
 lay him on a shelf of his own school-house ;" and he was too wary 
 to give him an opportunity. There was something extremely pro 
 voking in this obstinately pacific system; it left Brom no alternative 
 but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, 
 and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod 
 became the object of whimsical persecution to Bones and his gang 
 of rough riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains ; 
 smoked out his singing school by stopping up the chimney ; broke 
 into the school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings 
 of withe and window stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy : 
 so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the 
 country held their meetings there. But what was still more annoy 
 ing, Brom took all opportunities of turning him into ridicule in 
 presence of his mistress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught 
 to whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a riva[ 
 of Ichabod s to instruct her in psalmody. 
 
 In this way matters went on for some time, without producing 
 any material effect on the relative situation of the contending 
 powers. On a fine, autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in his pensive 
 mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool whence he usually watched 
 all the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed 
 a ferule, that sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed 
 on three nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers ; 
 while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband 
 articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle 
 urchins ; such as half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly- 
 cages, and whole legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Ap 
 parently there had been some appalling act of justice recently 
 inflicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or 
 slyly whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master ; 
 and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school-room. 
 It was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow- 
 cloth jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, lik 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 275 
 
 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 frolic," to be held that evening 
 at Mynheer Van Tassel s ; and having delivered his message with 
 that air of importance, and effort at fine language, which a negro is 
 apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed over the 
 brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full of the 
 importance and hurry of his mission. 
 
 All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school-room. 
 The scholars were hurried through their lessons, without 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 tall word. 
 Books were flung aside without being put away on the shelves, ink 
 stands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school 
 was turned loose an hour before the usual time, bursting forth like 
 a legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in 
 joy at their early emancipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his 
 toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and, indeed, only suit of 
 rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass 
 that hung up in the school-house. That he might make his appear 
 ance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he_ borrowed 
 a horse from the farmer with whom he domiciliated, a choleric old 
 Dutchman of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly 
 mounted, issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. 
 But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic history, 
 give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero and his 
 steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, 
 that had outlived everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt 
 and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer ; his 
 rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs ; one eye 
 had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral ; but the other had 
 the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had fire 
 and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of 
 Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed of his master s, 
 the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused, 
 very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal ; for, old and 
 broken-down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in 
 him than in any young filly in the country. 
 
 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He rode with 
 short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of 
 
276 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers ; he car 
 ried his whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as 
 his horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the flap 
 ping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his 
 nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; and the 
 skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the horse s tail. 
 Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they sham 
 bled out of the gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether 
 such an apparition as is seldom to be met with in broad daylight. 
 
 It was, as I have said, a fine, autumnal day, the sky was clear 
 and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we 
 always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put 
 on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer 
 kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, 
 purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
 their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel might be 
 heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive 
 whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble-field. 
 
 The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the 
 fulness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping and frolicking, from 
 bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion 
 and variety around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the 
 favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, querulous note ; 
 and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and the golden- 
 winged wood-pecker, 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 
 under-clothes , screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbii j 
 and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every sorg- 
 ster of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to 
 every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over 
 the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store 
 of apples ; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees ; some 
 gathered into baskets and barrels for the market ; others heaped 
 up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great 
 fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy 
 coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding ; 
 and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair, 
 round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most 
 luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat 
 fields, breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he beheld them, 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 27? 
 
 Soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well but 
 tered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little 
 dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 
 
 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and " sugared 
 suppositions," he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills 
 which look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty 
 Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the 
 west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee lay motionless and 
 glassy, excepting that here and there a gentle undulation waved 
 and prolonged the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few 
 amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
 them. The horizon was of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually 
 into a pure apple green, and from that into the deep blue of the 
 mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody crests of the 
 precipices that overhung some parts of the river, giving greater 
 depth to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop 
 was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, 
 her sail hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflection 
 of the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel 
 was suspended in the air. 
 
 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the 
 Herr Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and 
 flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare, leathern-faced 
 race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, 
 and magnificent pewter buckles. Their brisk, withered little dames, 
 in close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, homespun petti 
 coats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay, calico pockets hang 
 ing on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their 
 mothers, excepting where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or, perhaps, a 
 white frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short, 
 square-skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and 
 their hair generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially 
 if they could procure an eel skin for the purpose, it being esteemed, 
 throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and strengthener of 
 the hair. 
 
 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come 
 to the gathering on his favorite steed Daredevil, a creature, like 
 himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which 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 con 
 stant risk of his neck, for he held a tractable, well-broken horse as 
 unworthy of a lad of spirit. 
 
 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that 
 
278 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he enceten fhs 
 parlor of Van Tassel s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom 
 lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white ; but tbe 
 ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumpt 
 uous 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 doughnut, the tenderer oly 
 koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short 
 cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of 
 cakes. And then there were apple pies and peach pies and pump 
 kin pies ; besides slices of ham and smoked beef ; and, moreover, 
 delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and 
 quinces ; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens ; 
 together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy- 
 piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the 
 motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst 
 Heaven bless the mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this 
 banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
 Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, 
 but did ample justice to every dainty. 
 
 He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in pro 
 portion as his skin was filled with good cheer, and whose spirit? 
 rose with eating as some men s do with drink. He could not help. 
 too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with 
 the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene 
 of almost unimaginable luxury and splendor. 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 humor, round and jolly as the 
 harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive, 
 being confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a 
 loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to "fall to, and help them 
 selves." 
 
 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 neighborhood 
 for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and 
 battered as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped on 
 two or three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow 
 with a motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and 
 tamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, ?7J 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon hii 
 yocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about him was idle ; and to 
 have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering 
 about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that 
 blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before you in person. 
 He was the admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, 
 of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighborhood, stood 
 forming a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, 
 gazing with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye-balls, and 
 showing grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the 
 flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady 
 of his heart was his partner in the dance, and smiling graciously in 
 reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
 with love and jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. 
 
 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot 
 of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one 
 end of the piazza, gossiping over former times, and drawing one 
 long stories about the war. 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was out 
 of those highly-favored places which abound with chronicle and 
 great men. The British and American line had run near it during 
 the war ; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and 
 infested with refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 
 Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story-teller to dress 
 up his tale with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness 
 of his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit. 
 
 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, blue-bearded 
 Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron 
 nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at 
 the sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall 
 be nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, 
 who, in the battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of 
 defence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that 
 he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at the 
 hilt : in proof of which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, 
 with the hilt a little bent. There were several more that had been 
 equally great in the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that 
 he had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termi 
 nation. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and appari 
 tions that succeeded. The neighborhood is rich in legendary 
 treasures of the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best 
 in these sheltered, long-settled retreats; but are trampled under 
 
2fc> THE SKETCH-BOOK, 
 
 foot by the shifting throng that forms the population of most of Out 
 country places. Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in 
 most of our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish their 
 first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before their surviv 
 ing friends have travelled away from the neighborhood ; so that 
 when they turn out at night to walk their rounds, they have no 
 acquaintance left to call upon. This is, perhaps, the reason why we 
 so seldom hear of ghosts except in our long-established Dutch 
 communities. 
 
 The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of super 
 natural stories in these parts, was, doubtless, owing to the vicinity of 
 Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew 
 from that haunted region ; it breathed forth an atmosphere of 
 dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy 
 Hollow people were present at Van Tassel s, and, as usual, were 
 doling out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
 were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings 
 heard and seen about the great tree where the unfortunate Major 
 Andre was taken, and which stood in the neighborhood. Some 
 mention was made also of the woman in white that haunted the 
 dark glen at Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 
 nights before a storm, having perished there in the snow. The 
 chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the favorite spectre 
 of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard 
 several times of late, patrolling the country ; and, it was said, 
 tethered his horse nightly among the graves in the church 
 yard. 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have 
 made it a favorite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, 
 surrounded by locust-trees and lofty elms, from among which its 
 decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
 purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope 
 descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees, 
 between which peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the Hud 
 son. To look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams 
 seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there, at least, the 
 dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a 
 wide, woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
 rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, 
 not far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge ; the 
 road that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by 
 overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day 
 time ; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 281 
 
 the favorite haunts of the headless horseman ; and the place where 
 he was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old 
 Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the 
 horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was 
 obliged to get up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and 
 brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge ; when 
 the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer 
 into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of 
 thunder. 
 
 This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous 
 adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the galloping 
 Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, on returning one 
 night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been 
 overtaken by this midnight trooper ; that he had offered to race 
 with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it, too, for 
 Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came 
 to the church-bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 
 of fire. 
 
 All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with which men 
 talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and 
 then receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep 
 in the mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large 
 extracts from his invaluable author Cotton Mather, and added 
 many marvellous events that had taken place in his native State 
 of Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly 
 walks about Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered 
 together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some 
 time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills. 
 Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
 swains, and their light-hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter 
 of hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and 
 fainter 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 custom 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 will not 
 pretend to say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I ( 
 fear me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after \ 
 no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen. 
 Oh these women ! these women ! Could that girl have been 
 playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? Was her encouragement 
 of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of 
 
482 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 his rival ? Heaven only knows, not I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod 
 stole forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen-roost, 
 rather than a fair lady s heart. Without looking to the right or left 
 to notice the scene of rural wealth on which he had so often 
 gloated, he went straight to the stable, and with several hearty 
 cuffs and kicks, roused his steed most uncourteously from the 
 comfortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, dream 
 ing of mountains of corn and oats, and w%ole valleys of timothy 
 and clover. 
 
 It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy- 
 hearted and crest-fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the 
 sides of the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he 
 had traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
 dismal as himself. Far below him, the Tappan Zee spread its 
 dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall 
 mast of a sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
 dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of the 
 watch dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; but it was so 
 vague and faint as only to give an idea 01* his distance from this 
 faithful companion of man. Now and tnen, too, the long-drawn 
 crowing of a cock, accidentally awakened, would sound far, far off, 
 from some farm house away among the hills but it was like a 
 dreaming sound in his ear. No signs oi life occurred near him, 
 but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or, perhaps, Ae 
 guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighboring marsh, as if 
 sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the 
 afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night 
 grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the 
 sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He 
 had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approach 
 ing the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories 
 had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip- 
 tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the 
 neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were 
 gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary 
 trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the 
 air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
 Andre, who had been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally 
 known by the name of Major Andre s tree. The common people 
 regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of 
 sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from 
 the tales of strange sights and doleful lamentations told concern- 
 
LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 283 
 
 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 approached a little 
 nearer, he thought he saw something white hanging in the midst 
 of the tree he paused and ceased whistling ; but on looking more 
 narrowly, perceived that it was a place where the tree had been 
 scathed by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly 
 he heard a groan his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
 against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge bough upon 
 r.nother, as they were swayed about by the breeze. He passed 
 :lie tree in safety, but new perils lay before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook crossed 
 the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly-wooded glen, known 
 by the name of Wiley s swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by 
 side, served for a bridge over the stream. On that side of the road 
 where the brook entered the w : ood, a group of oaks and chestnuvb, 
 matted thick with wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over 
 it. To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this 
 identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured, and under 
 the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen 
 concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered 
 a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who 
 has to pass it alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream his heart began to thump ; he 
 summoned ip, however, all his resolution, gave his horse half a 
 score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the 
 bridge ; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
 made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence. 
 Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on 
 the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it was all 
 in vain ; his st^ed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to 
 the opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder 
 bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon 
 the starveling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffl 
 ing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with a 
 suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his 
 head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the 
 bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow 
 of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something 
 huge, misshapen, black and towering. It stirred not, but seemed 
 gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to 
 spring upon the traveller. 
 
 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his head with 
 
284 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly was now too lai 
 and besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if 
 such it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Sum 
 moning up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammer 
 ing accents "Who are you?" He received no reply. He 
 repeated his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there was 
 no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the inflexible 
 Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary 
 fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm 
 put itself in motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood at 
 once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and 
 dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be 
 ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, 
 and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame. He made no 
 offer of molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side of the 
 road, jogging along on the blind side of old Gunpowder, who had 
 now got over his fright and waywardness. 
 
 Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion, 
 and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the 
 Galloping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving 
 him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an 
 equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to 
 lag behind the other did the same. His heart began to sink 
 within him; he endeavored to resume his psalm tune, but his 
 parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could not 
 utter a stave. There was something in the moody and dogged 
 silence of this pertinacious companion that was mysterious and 
 appalling. It was soon fearfully accounted for. On mounting a 
 I rising ground, which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in 
 relief against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, 
 Ichabod was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! 
 but his horror was still more increased on observing that the head, 
 which should have rested on his shoulders, was carried before him 
 I on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose to desperation ; he 
 rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by 
 a sudden movement, to give his companion the slip but the 
 spectre started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, 
 through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing at every 
 bound. Ichabod s flimsy garments fluttered in the air, as he 
 stretched his long, lank body away over his horse s head, in the 
 eagerness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns off to Sleepy Hol 
 low ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 285 
 
 of keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong 
 down hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow, 
 shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the 
 bridge famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 
 knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 
 
 As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an 
 apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he had got half way 
 through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt 
 it slipping from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and 
 endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save 
 himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the 
 saddle fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his 
 pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper s wrath 
 passed across his mind for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was 
 no" time for pet^y fears ; the goblin was hard on his haunches \ 
 and (unskilful rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his 
 seat ; sometimes slipping on one side, sometknes on another, and 
 sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse s back-bone, with 
 a violence that he verily feared wo^Id cleave him asunder. 
 
 An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hope that the 
 church bridge was at hand. The wavering reflection of a silver 
 star in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. 
 He saw the walls of the church dimly glarii g under the trees 
 beyond. He recollected the place where Brom Bones ghostly 
 competitor had disappeared. "If I can but reach that bridge," 
 thought Ichabod, "I am safe." Just then he heard the black 
 steed panting and blowing close behind him ; he even fancied that 
 he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in the ribs, and 
 old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge ; he thundered over the 
 resounding planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod 
 cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to 
 rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin 
 rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of hurling his head at 
 him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge the horrible missile, but too 
 late. It encountered his cranium with a tremendous crash h? 
 was tumbled headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black 
 steed, and the goblin rider passed by like a whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, 
 and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass af 
 his master s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at break 
 fast dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at 
 the school-house, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; 
 but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel 
 
286 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An 
 inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came 
 upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church 
 was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; the tracks of horses 
 hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, 
 were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad 
 part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found 
 the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered 
 pumpkin. 
 
 The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was 
 not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate, 
 examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They 
 consisted of two shirts and a half ; two stocks for the neck ; a pair 
 or two of worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; 
 a rusty razor ; a book of psalm tunes, full of dogs ears ; and a 
 broken pitchpipe. As to the books and furniture of the school- 
 house, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather s 
 History of Witchcraft, a. New England Almanac, and a book of 
 dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap 
 much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a 
 copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
 books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames 
 by Hans Van Ripper; who from that time forward determined to 
 send his children no more to school ; observing, that he never knew 
 any good come of this same reading and writing. Whatever 
 money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his 
 quarter s pay but a day or two before, he must have had about his 
 person at the time of his disappearance. 
 
 The mysterious event caused much speculation at the church on 
 the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected 
 in the church-yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and 
 pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and 
 a whole budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they had 
 diligently considered them all, and compared them with the symp 
 toms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to the 
 conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by the galloping Hes 
 sian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody s debt, nobody troubled 
 his head any more about him. The school was removed to a dif 
 ferent 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 intelligence that Ichabod 
 
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 287 
 
 Crane was still alive ; that he had left the neighborhood, partly 
 through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in 
 mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress ; 
 that he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country ; 
 had kept school and studied law at the same time, had been admit 
 ted to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the news 
 papers, 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, wasob-. 
 served to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod 
 was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention 
 of the pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that he knew more 7 
 about the matter than he chose to tell. 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of 
 these matters, maintain to this day that Ichabod was spirited 
 away by supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story often told 
 about the neighborhood round the winter evening fire. The bridge 
 became more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that 
 may be the reason why the road has been altered of late years, so 
 as to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. The 
 school-house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported 
 to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue ; and the 
 plough-boy, loitering homeward of a still summer evening has 
 often fancied his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm 
 tune among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 THE preceding Tale is given almost in the precise words in 
 which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 
 city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 
 most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, 
 gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly 
 humorous face ; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, 
 he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
 concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
 from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater 
 part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking old 
 gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and 
 rattier severe face throughout : now and then folding his arms, 
 inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning 
 a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who 
 never laugh but upon good grounds when they have reason 
 
288 THE SKETCH-BOOh. 
 
 the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the com- 
 pany had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on 
 the elbow of his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, demanded, 
 with a slight but exceedingly sage motion of the head and con 
 traction of the brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it 
 went to prove ? 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, 
 as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
 inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
 slowly to the table, observed that the story was intended most log 
 ically to prove : 
 
 "That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
 pleasures provided we will but take a joke as we find it. 
 
 " That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely 
 to have rough riding of it. 
 
 "Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
 Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
 this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
 syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
 with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that 
 all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the 
 extravagant there were one or two points on which he had his 
 doubts. 
 
 " Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don t 
 believe one half of it myself." 
 
 D. K. 
 
 L ENVOY.* 
 
 Go, little booke, God ser.tf thee good passage, 
 And specially let this he thy prayere, 
 Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
 Where thon art wrong, after their help to call, 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 CHAUCER S Belle Dame sans Mercie. 
 
 IN concluding a second volume of the Sketch-Book, the author 
 cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which 
 his first has been received, and of the liberal disposition that 
 has been evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even 
 the critics, whatever may be said of them by others, he has found 
 to be a singularly gentle and good-natured race; it is true that each 
 has in turn objected to some one or two articles, and that these 
 individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount 
 almost to a total condemnation of his work; but then he has been 
 * Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
 
L ENVOY. 389 
 
 consoled by observing, that what one has particularly censured 
 another has as particularly praised; and thus, the encomiums being 
 set off against the objections, he finds his work, upon the whole, 
 commended far beyond its deserts. 
 
 He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind 
 favor by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed 
 upon him ; for where abundance of valuable advice is given gratis, 
 it may seem a man s own fault if he should go astray. He can 
 only ay, in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a 
 time, to govern himself in his second volume by the opinions 
 passed upon his first; but he was soon brought to a stand by the 
 contrariety of excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to 
 avoid the ludicrous; another to shun the pathetic; a third 
 assured him that he was tolerable at 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 pensive mood, but was grievously mistaken if he imagined 
 himself to possess a spirit of humor. 
 
 Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn 
 closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to 
 range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, 
 be to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed; 
 when, all at once, the thought struck him to ramble on as he had 
 begun ; that his work being miscellaneous, and written for different 
 humors, it could not be expected that any one would be pleased 
 with the whole; but that if it should contain something to suit each 
 reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit 
 down to a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One 
 has an elegant horror of a roasted pig ; another holds a curry or a 
 devil in utter abomination; a third cannot tolerate the ancient 
 flavor of venison and wild-fowl ; and a fourth, of truly masculine 
 stomach, looks with sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks, 
 here and there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is con 
 demned in its turn; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, 
 seldom does a dish go away from the table without being tasted 
 and relished by some one or other of the guests. 
 
 With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second 
 volume in the same heterogeneous way with his first; simply 
 requesting the reader, if he should find here and there something to 
 please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for intelli 
 gent readers like himself; but entreating him, should he find any 
 thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the 
 author has been obliged to write for readers of a less refined 
 19 
 
*9 THE SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 To be serious. The author is conscious of the numerous faults 
 and imperfections of his work ; and well aware how little he is dis 
 ciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His deficien 
 cies are also increased by a diffidence arising from his peculiar sit 
 uation. He finds himself writing in a strange land, and appearing 
 before a public which he has been accustomed, from childhood, to 
 regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence. He is full 
 of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet finds that very solici 
 tude continually embarrassing his powers, and depriving him of 
 that ease and confidence which are necessary to successful exer 
 tion. Still, the kindness with which he is treated encourages him to 
 go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing; and 
 thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprised at hi* 
 own good fortune, and wondering at bis own temerity. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 VOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ASSET. 
 
 TOWARD the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under tht 
 dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, Pope 
 Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon youths 
 exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived a fancy for the 
 race, and determined to send missionaries to preach the gospel among 
 these comely but benighted islanders. He was encouraged to this by 
 learning that Ethelbert, kingof Kent, and the most potent of the Anglo- 
 Saxon princes, had married Bertha, a Christian princess, only daughter 
 of the king of Paris, and that she was allowed by stipulation the full 
 exercise of her religion. 
 
 The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of re 
 ligious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman monk, 
 with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to effect 
 the conversion of the king and to obtain through him a foothold in the 
 island. 
 
 Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the open 
 air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of spells and 
 magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Christian 
 as his wife; the conversion of the king, of course, produced the conver 
 sion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of Augustine were 
 rewarded by his being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being 
 endowed with authority over all the British churches. 
 
 One of the most prominent converts was Segebert of Sebert, king of 
 the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of 
 which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had come over with 
 Augustine, was made bishop. 
 
 Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the river 
 side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, being, in 
 fact, the origin of the present pile ot Westminster Abbey. Great pre 
 parations were made for the consecration of the church, which was to be 
 dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the appointed day, Mellitus, 
 the bishop, proceed with great pomp and solemnity to perform the 
 ceremony. On approaching the edifice he was met by a fisherman, who 
 informed him that it was needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. 
 The bishop stared with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate 
 that the night before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter 
 appeared to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church 
 himself that very night. The apostle accordingly went into the church, 
 which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in 
 sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds 
 of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came into the boat and 
 ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so and had a miraculous 
 draught of fishes ; one of which he was commanded to present to the 
 bishop, and to signify to him that the apostle had relieved him from the 
 necessity of consecrating the church. 
 
 Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirmation of 
 the fisherman s tale. He opened the church doors and beheld wax 
 candles, crosses, holy water, oil sprinkled in various places and various 
 other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still any lingering doubts^ 
 
292 JH SKETCH-BOOK. 
 
 they were completely removed on the fisherman s producing the identi 
 cal fish which he had^been ordered by the apostle to present to him. 
 To resist this would have been to resist ocular demonstration. The good 
 bishop accordingly was convinced that the church had actually been 
 consecrated by St. Peter in person ; so he reverently abstained from pro 
 ceeding further in the business. 
 
 The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
 the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which he 
 meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built another in 
 its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a magnificent 
 shrine. 
 
 The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a reconstruc 
 tion, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present appearance. 
 
 Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
 turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues. 
 
 EELICS OP EDWARD THE CONFESBOB. 
 
 A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers of 
 the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the sacred 
 edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones of Edward 
 the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their sepulchre upwards 
 of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth the crucifix and golden 
 chain of the deceased monarch. During eighteen years that he had 
 officiated in the choir, it had been a common tradition, he says, among 
 his brother choristers and the gray-headed servants of the abbey, that 
 the body of King Edward was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, 
 which was indistinctly seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his 
 memory. None of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a 
 nearer inspection, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, 
 mounted to the coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of 
 wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of 
 iron. 
 
 Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in the 
 coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, a hole ap 
 pearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by the workmen. 
 No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred depository of 
 royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, the circumstance came to the 
 knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He forthwith repaired to the 
 abbey in company with two friends of congenial tastes, who were de 
 sirous of inspecting the tombs. Procuring a ladder, he again mounted 
 to the coffin and found, as had been represented, a hole in the lid about 
 six inches long and four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. 
 Thrusting in his hand, and groping among the bones, he drew from un 
 derneath the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enameled, affixed 
 to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquis 
 itive friends who were equally surprised with himself. 
 
 "At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of the 
 coffin, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and 
 firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a list 
 of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet, surrounding the 
 temples. There was also in the coffin white linen and gold- colored, 
 flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh; but the least stress put 
 thereto showed it was well nigh perished. There were all his bones, 
 and much dust likewise which I left as I found." 
 
 It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than 
 the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in its 
 
APPENDIX. **3 
 
 ooffln by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to fece with him 
 
 through a hole in the lid f 
 
 Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and chain 
 back again into the coffin and sought the dean, to apprise him of his 
 discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and fearing that 
 the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other hands, he got a 
 brother chorister to accompany him to the shine about two or three 
 hours afterwards, and in his presence again drew forth the relics. These 
 he afterwards delivered on his knees to King James. The king subse 
 quently had the old coffin inclosed in a new dneof great strength : "each 
 pJank being two inches thick and cramped together with large iron 
 wedges, where it now remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, 
 that no abuse might be offered to the sacred ashes therein 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 catches the rays of the 
 sun, forever set on its splendor * * * * Only two of the spiral 
 pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken, and covered 
 with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within reach ; only 
 the lozenges of about a foot square and five circular pieces of the rich 
 marble remain." Malcolm, Lond. rediv. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IK THE SKETCH. 
 
 Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his second 
 wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, young 
 est sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble family ; for all the 
 brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtuous. This Duchess was a 
 wise, witty, and learned lady, which her many Bookes do well testify: 
 she was a most virtuous and loving and careful wife, and was with her 
 lord all the time of his banishment and miseries, and when he came 
 borne, never parted from him. in his solitary retirement. 
 
 In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the after 
 noon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of the choir 
 partially lighted up, while the main oody of the cathedral and the tran 
 septs are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white dresses of the 
 choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the open slats and canopies ; 
 the partial illumination makes enormous shadows from columns and 
 screens, and darting into the surrounding gloom, catches here and there 
 upon a sepulchral decoration or monumental effigy. The swelling 
 notes of the organ accord well with the scene. 
 
 When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the 
 old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their white 
 dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the abbey 
 and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and arches and grim 
 sepulchral monuments and leaving all behind in darkness. 
 
 On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean s Yard, 
 the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a distant view 
 of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which a strong glare 
 thrown by a gas light has quite a spectral effect. It is a mural mona 
 mem of one of the Pultneys. 
 
 THE END. 
 

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