I 
 
The Family Mansion. 
 
 Drawn by Allan Barrand. 
 
 204.) 
 
Ubc Sketch* Book 
 
 (Bcoffreg dragon, (Sent. 
 
 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 ML, AS FROM A COMMON THEATRE OR SCkNE." 
 
 BURTON. 
 
 LONDON 
 24 Bedford Street, Strand 
 
 Ubc Hmcfeerbocher press 
 1895 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1894 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 
 
 
 Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by 
 
 Ube Ifcnfcfcerbocfcer press, mew lorb 
 G. P. PUTNAM S SONS 
 
 oik 
 
 - " v 
 
 
fll 
 
 V,2_ 
 
 Contents 
 
 THE STAGE COACH 
 
 CHRISTMAS EVE 13 
 
 CHRISTMAS DAY ....... 3 2 
 
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 55 
 
 LONDON ANTIQUES So 
 
 LITTLE BRITAIN 9 
 
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON Il6 
 
 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER . . . .149 
 
 PHILIP OF POKANOKET 1 68 
 
 JOHN BULL 97 
 
 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE . . . .216 
 
 THE ANGLER 2 37 
 
 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW . . . 248 
 
 L ENVOI 34 
 
 APPENDIX 3^ 
 
Illustrations 
 
 THE FAMILY MANSION .... Frontispiece 
 
 Drawn by Allan Barraud 
 
 THE STAGE COACH 
 
 Drawn by Allan Barraud 
 
 "THE CHAISK STOPPED AT THE GATE " 
 
 Drawn by Allan Barraud 
 
 "ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL LITTLE FAIRY 
 
 GROUPS" 
 
 Drawn by Arthur Rack ham 
 
 "AFTER DINNER THE YOUNG FOLKS WOULD 
 PLAY HIDE AND SEEK " 
 
 Drawn by Arthur Rackham 
 
 THE AMERICAN WINDOW STRATFORD-ON-AVON 
 
 PARISH CHURCH 
 
 From a photograph 
 
 HOLY TRINITY PARISH CHURCH, STRATFORD- 
 ON-AVON . . . ... .146 
 
 From a photograph 
 
 " TO HAUNT THE SIDES OF PASTORAL STREAMS, 
 
 6 
 
 16 
 
 34 
 106 
 
"ICHABOD CRANE S SCHOLARS 
 WERE NOT SPOILED" . 
 
 CERTAINLY 
 
 From a drawing by F O. C. Darley 
 
 "HE WAS BOARDED AND LODGED AT THE 
 HOUSES OF THE FARMERS WHOSE CHILDREN 
 
 HE INSTRUCTED " 
 
 From a drawing by F. O. C. Darley 
 
 "IN THE MEANTIME ICHABOD WOULD CARRY 
 ON HIS SUIT UNDER THE GREAT ELM " 
 
 From a drawing by F. O. C. Darley 
 
 " ICHABOD PRIDED HIMSELF AS MUCH UPON HIS 
 DANCING AS UPON HIS VOCAL POWERS " 
 
 From a drawing by F. O. C. Darley 
 
 "THE HAIR OF THE AFFRIGHTED PEDAGOGUE 
 ROSE UPON HIS HEAD WITH TERROR " . 
 
 From a drawing by F. O. C. Darley 
 
 "AWAY THEY DASHED, STONES FLYING, AND 
 SPARKS FLASHING AT EVERY BOUND " 
 
 From a drawing by F. O. C. Darley 
 
 254 
 
 260 
 
 294 
 
 298 
 
 
SfcetcMBooh 
 
 (Beoffrey? Graven, Cent. 
 
THE SKETCH-BOOK 
 
 ZIbe Stage Goacb 
 
 Omne bene 1 
 
 Sine poena 
 Tempus est ludendi. 
 
 Venit hora 
 
 Absque mor 
 Ubros deponeudi. 
 
 Old Holiday School Song. 
 
 the preceding paper 
 I have made some 
 general observa- 
 t i o n s on the 
 Christmas festiv 
 ities of England, 
 and am tempted 
 to illustrate them 
 by some anec- 
 
 dotes of a Christ 
 mas 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 gen- 
 
Sfcetcb*:)Boofc 
 
 nine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, 
 and anxious only for amusement. 
 
 In the course of a December tour in York 
 shire, I rode for a long distance in one of the 
 public coaches, on the day preceding Christ 
 mas. The coach was crowded, both inside 
 and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, 
 seemed principally bound to the mansions of 
 relations or friends, to eat the Christmas din 
 ner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, 
 and baskets and boxes of delicacies ; and hares 
 hung dangling their long ears about the coach 
 man s 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 
 holidays in high glee, and promising them 
 selves a world of enjoyment. It was delight 
 ful to hear the gigantic plans of the little 
 rogues, and the impracticable feats they were 
 to perform during their six weeks emancipa 
 tion from the abhorred thraldom of book, 
 birch, and pedagogue. 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 pock- 
 
 
Cbe 
 
 Coacb 
 
 ets 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 op 
 portunity 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 par 
 ticularly 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 function 
 aries, who have a dress, a manner, a language, 
 an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent 
 
4 ZTbe Sfcetcb*:fiSoofe 
 
 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, curi 
 ously 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 potations of malt liquors, and his 
 bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity 
 of coats, in which he is buried like a cauli 
 flower, 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 summer-time a large bou 
 quet of flowers in his button-hole ; the present, 
 most probably, of some enamored country lass. 
 His waistcoat 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, notwithstanding 
 the seeming grossness of his appearance, there 
 is still discernible that neatness and propriety 
 of person, which is almost inherent in an Eng 
 lishman. He enjoys great consequence and 
 
 s ! 
 

 Cbc Stage Goacb 
 
 consideration along the road ; has frequent con 
 ferences with the village housewives, who look 
 upon him as a man of great trust and depend 
 ence ; and he seems to have a good understand 
 ing with every bright-eyed country lass. The 
 moment he arrives where the horses are to be 
 changed, he throws down the reins with some 
 thing 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 lordli 
 ness. Here he is generally surrounded by an 
 admiring throng of hostlers, stable-boys, shoe 
 blacks, and those nameless hangers-on, that 
 infest inns and taverns, and run errands, and 
 do all kinds 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 his pockets, rolls in his gait, talks 
 slang, and is an embryo Coachey. 
 
 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing 
 serenity that reigned in my own mind, that I 
 
fancied I saw cheerfulness in every countenance 
 throughout the journey. A stage-coach, how 
 ever, carries animation always with it, and 
 puts the world in motion as it whirls along. 
 The horn, sounded at the entrance of a vil 
 lage, 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 com 
 missions 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 the village, every 
 one runs to the window, and you have glances 
 on every side of fresh country faces and bloom 
 ing, giggling girls. At the corners are assem 
 bled 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 
 
Cbc 
 
 Coacb 
 
 , l 
 
 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 gro 
 cers , butchers , and fruiterers shops were 
 thronged with customers. The housewives 
 were stirring briskly about, putting their 
 dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches 
 of holly, with their bright-red berries, began 
 to appear at the windows. The scene brought 
 to mind an old writer s account of Christmas 
 preparations : Now capons and hens, be 
 side turkey, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
 mutton must all die for in twelve days a 
 multitude of people will not be fed with a lit 
 tle. 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 med 
 itation by a shout from my little travelling 
 companions. They had been looking out of 
 the coach-windows for the last few miles, rec 
 ognizing every tree and cottage as they ap 
 proached 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 livery, 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 mane 
 and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly 
 by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling 
 times that awaited him. 
 
 I was pleased to see the fondness with which 
 the little fellows leaped about the steady old 
 footman, and hugged the pointer, who wrig 
 gled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was 
 
Stacje Coacb 
 
 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 pre 
 dominated ; for I was reminded of those days 
 when, like them, I had neither known care 
 nor sorrow r , and a holiday was the summit of 
 earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 
 afterwards to water the horses, and on resum 
 ing our route, a turn of the road brought us in 
 sight of a neat country-seat. I could just dis 
 tinguish the forms of a lady and two young 
 girls in the portico, and I saw my little com 
 rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop 
 ing 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 en 
 joyment, 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 pre 
 paring to attack this stout repast, while others 
 sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on 
 two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. 
 Trim housemaids were hurrying backwards 
 and forwards under the directions of a fresh, 
 bustling landlady ; but still seizing an occa 
 sional moment to exchange a flippant word, 
 and have a rallying laugh, with the group 
 round the fire. The scene completely realized 
 Poor Robin s humble idea of the comforts of 
 mid-winter. 
 
 " Now trees their leafy hats do bear 
 To reverence Winter s silver hair ; 
 
Cbe Sta0c Coacb 
 
 "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." * 
 
 I had not been long at the inn when a post- 
 chaise drove up to the door. A young gentle 
 man 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 travelled on the continent. 
 Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the 
 countenance of an old fellow-traveller always 
 brings up the recollection of a thousand pleas 
 ant 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, 
 *Poor Robin s Almanac, 1684. 
 
Cbe 5fcetcb=OBoofc 
 
 and I must confess the preparation I had seen 
 for universal festivity and social enjoyment 
 had made me feel a little impatient of my lone 
 liness. 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. 
 
Gbristmas Bx>e 
 
 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 ex 
 tremely cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly 
 over the frozen ground ; the post-boy 
 smacked his whip incessantly, and a part 
 of the time his horses were on a gallop. 
 " He knows where he is going," said my com 
 panion, 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 tolerable 
 specimen of what you will rarely meet with 
 nowadays in its purity, the old English country 
 gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend so 
 
fi 
 
 much of their time in town, and fashion is car 
 ried 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 the whole of his time on 
 his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the 
 revival of the old rural games and holiday ob 
 servances, and is deeply read in the writers, an 
 cient and modern, who have treated on the sub 
 ject. 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 old- 
 * Peacham s Complete Gentleman, 1622. 
 
Cbristmas five 
 
 est 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, magnificent old 
 style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top 
 into flourishes and flowers. The huge square 
 columns that supported the gate were sur 
 mounted 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 ap 
 peared 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 an 
 tique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher, 
 and her silver hair peeping from under a cap 
 of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying 
 
16 
 
 forth, with many expressions of simple joy at 
 seeing her young master. Her husband, it 
 seemed, was up at the house keeping Christ 
 mas 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 covering of snow, which here and there 
 sparkled as the moonbeams 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 landscape. 
 
 My companion looked around him with 
 transport: "How often," said he, "have I 
 scampered up this avenue, 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 super 
 intend 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 de 
 lightful. It was the policy of the good old 
 gentleman to make his children feel that home 
 was the happiest place in the world ; and I 
 value this delicious home-feeling as one of the 
 choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 
 
 We were interrupted by the 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 surrounded 
 and almost overpowered by the caresses of the 
 faithful animals. 
 
 We had now come in full view of the old 
 

 18 
 
 family mansion, partly thrown in deep shadow, 
 and partly lit up by the cool moonshine. It 
 was an irregular building, of some magnitude, 
 and seemed to be of the architecture of differ 
 ent periods. One wing was evidently very 
 ancient, with heavy stone-shafted bow-win 
 dows 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 gentleman, I was told, was extremely- care 
 ful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its 
 original state. He admired this fashion in 
 gardening ; it had an air of magnificence, was 
 courtly and noble, and befitting good old fam 
 ily style. The boasted imitation of nature in 
 modern gardening had sprung up with mod 
 ern republican notions, but did not suit a 
 monarchical government ; it smacked of the 
 levelling system. I could not help smiling at 
 
 
Cbristmas jvc 
 
 this introduction of politics into gardening, 
 though I expressed some apprehension that 
 I should find the old gentleman rather intoler 
 ant 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 ser 
 vants hall, where a great deal of revelry was 
 permitted, and even encouraged by the Squire, 
 throughout the twelve days of Christmas, pro 
 vided everything 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 immi 
 nent peril of all the pretty housemaids.* 
 
 * The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and 
 
Cbe Sfeetcb<fBoofc 
 
 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 
 benevolence. 
 
 The family meeting was warm and affection 
 ate : 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 differ 
 ent branches of a numerous family connection, 
 where there were the usual proportion of old 
 uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, 
 superannuated spinisters, blooming country 
 cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed 
 
 kitchens at Christmas ; and the young men have the 
 privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each 
 time a berry from the bush. When the berries are all 
 plucked, the privilege ceases. 
 
 ffl 
 
f 
 
 Cbrfstmas 
 
 21 
 
 boarding-school hoydens. They were vari 
 ously 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 tender and budding age, fully engrossed 
 by a merry game ; and a profusion of wooden 
 horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls, 
 about the floor, showed traces 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 Bracebridge 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 endea 
 vored 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, and on the opposite 
 wall hung a helmet, buckler, and lance. At 
 one end an enormous pair of antlers were 
 inserted in the wall, the branches serving as 
 hooks on which to suspend hats, whips, and 
 spurs ; and in the corners of the apartment 
 were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other 
 sporting implements. The furniture was of 
 the cumbrous workmanship of former days, 
 
 
though some articles of modern convenience 
 had been added, and the oaken floor had been 
 carpeted ; so that the whole presented an odd 
 mixture of parlor and hall. 
 
 The grate had been removed from the wide 
 overwhelming fireplace, to make way for a fire 
 of wood, in the midst of which was an enor 
 mous 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 illu 
 mined on a Christmas eve, according to ancient 
 custom.* 
 
 * The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes 
 the root of a tree, brought into the house with great 
 ceremony, on Christmas eve, 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 Christ 
 mas candles ; but in the cottages the only light was 
 from the ruddy blaze of the great wood-fire. The 
 Yule clog was to burn all night ; if it went out, it 
 was considered a sign of ill-luck. 
 
 Herrick mentions it in one of his songs : 
 " Come, bring with a noise, 
 My merrie, merrie boyes, 
 The Christmas log to the 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 farm-houses 
 
Cbrtetmas Ere 
 
 It was really delightful to see the old Squire 
 seated in his hereditary elbow-chair, by the 
 hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking 
 around him like the sun of a system, beaming 
 warmth and gladness to every heart. Even the 
 very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
 lazily shifted his position and 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 
 
 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. 
 
24 
 
 Sfcetcb=;Boofc 
 
 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 I need 
 not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted 
 him with all the warmth wherewith we usually 
 greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 
 
 The mirth of the company was greatly pro 
 moted by the humors of an eccentric person 
 age 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 frostbitten leaf in 
 autumn. He had an eye of great quickness 
 and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking wag 
 gery of expression that was irresistible. He 
 was evidently the wit of the family, dealing 
 very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with 
 
Cbritma$ 
 
 the ladies, and making infinite merriment by 
 harping upon old themes ; which, unfortu 
 nately, 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 oppo 
 site. 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 accomplishments 
 in their eyes. He could t 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 caricature, that the young folks were 
 ready to die with laughing. 
 
 I was let briefly into his history by Frank 
 Bracebridge. He was an old bachelor, of a 
 small independent income, which, by careful 
 management, was sufficient for all his wants. 
 He revolved through the family system like a 
 vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting 
 one branch, and sometimes another quite re 
 mote ; as is often the case with gentlemen of 
 extensive connections and small fortunes in 
 England. He had a chirping buoyant disposi- 
 
tion, 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 gene 
 alogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole 
 house of Bracebridge, 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 spec 
 imen of his last- mentioned talent ; for no sooner 
 was supper removed, and spiced wines and 
 other beverages peculiar to the season intro 
 duced, than Master Simon was called on for a 
 good old Christmas song. He bethought him 
 self 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 
 
 i^^ 
 
 , >t 
 
Christmas }vc 
 
 falsetto, like the notes of a split reed, he quav 
 ered 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, 
 
 Ivet 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 
 servants hall, where he had been strumming 
 all the evening, and to all appearance comfort 
 ing himself with some of the Squire s home 
 brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was 
 told, of the establishment, and, though osten 
 sibly 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 
 
 \ 
 
1 
 
 28 
 
 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 un 
 luckily 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 knaveries with 
 impunity : he was full of practical jokes, and 
 his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; 
 yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a uni 
 versal favorite among the women. The most 
 interesting couple in the dance was the young 
 officer and a ward of the Squire s, a beautiful 
 blushing girl of seventeen. From several sly 
 glances which I had noticed in the course of 
 the evening, I suspected there was a little 
 kindness growing up between them, and, in 
 deed, the young soldier was just the hero to 
 captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slen 
 der, and handsome, and, like most young Brit 
 ish officers of late years, had picked up various 
 small accomplishments on the continent ; he 
 could talk French and Italian draw land 
 scapes sing very tolerably dance divinely ; 
 
Obrtatmas 
 
 but, above all, lie had been wounded at Water 
 loo : what girl of seventeen, well read in poe 
 try 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 I am half inclined 
 to suspect was studied, began the little French 
 air of the Troubadour. The Squire, however, 
 exclaimed against having anything on Christ 
 mas 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 Julia." 
 
 " Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
 The shooting stars attend thee, 
 And the elves also, 
 Whose little eyes glow 
 Like the sparks of 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 thee. 
 
 " 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 11 pour into thee." 
 
 The song might or might not have been 
 intended in compliment to the fair Julia, for so 
 I found his partner was called ; she, however, 
 was certainly unconscious of any such applica 
 tion, for she never looked at the singer, but 
 kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face 
 was suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, 
 and there was a gentle heaving of the bosom, 
 but all that was doubtless caused by the exer 
 cise 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 con 
 cluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the floor. 
 
 The party now broke up for the night with 
 the kind-hearted old custom of shaking hands. 
 As I passed through the hall, on my way to 
 my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule 
 clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it 
 not been the season when " no spirit dares stir 
 abroad," I should have been half tempted to 
 steal from my room at midnight, and peep 
 whether the fairies might not be at their revels 
 about the hearth. 
 
Christmas Bvc 
 
 My chamber was in the old part of the man 
 sion, 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 intermingled ; and a row 
 of black-looking portraits stared mournfully 
 at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, 
 though faded damask, w T ith 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 distinctly. The moonbeams fell 
 through the upper part of the casement, par 
 tially 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 
 
Gbristmas 
 
 Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
 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 pee 
 The cause why things thus fragrant be. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 HEN I woke the next 
 morning, it seemed as 
 if all the events of the 
 preceding evening had 
 been a dream, and 
 nothing but the iden 
 tity of the ancient 
 chamber convinced 
 me of their reality. 
 While I lay musing 
 
 o n my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet 
 pattering outside of the door, and a whisper 
 ing consultation. Presently a choir of small 
 voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the 
 burden of which was 
 
 r 
 
Cbristmas >av> 
 
 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 by one im 
 pulse, 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 stronghold of old- 
 fashioned hospitality. The window of my 
 chamber looked out upon what in summer 
 would have been a beautiful landscape. There 
 was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at 
 the foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with 
 noble clumps of trees, and herds of deer. At 
 a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke 
 from the cottage-chimneys hanging over it ; 
 and a church with its dark spire in strong re- 
 
 VOL. II. 3 
 
 - ^ s 
 
34 
 
 Cbe SfcetctKJBoofc 
 
 1 
 
 lief 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 preceding evening had been pre 
 cipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees 
 and every blade of grass with its fine crystalli 
 zations. 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 display 
 ing all the glories of his train, and strutting 
 with the pride and gravity of a Spanish gran 
 dee, on the terrace walk below. 
 
 I had scarcely dressed myself, when a ser 
 vant 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 cushions, 
 hassocks, and large prayer-books ; the servants 
 were seated on benches below. The old gentle 
 man 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 
 
*0neofh ttcautifii! Li ill* l^airy 
 
 (jrTOUpS? 
 
 
Cbristmas 
 
 B 
 
 justice to say that he acquitted himself with 
 great gravity and decorum. 
 
 The service was followed by a Christmas 
 carol, which Mr. Bracebridge himself had con 
 structed 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 grateful feeling, with 
 which the worthy Squire delivered one stanza ; 
 his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out 
 of all the bounds of time and tune 
 
 T is thou that crown st my glittering hearth 
 
 With guiltless mirth, 
 And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink 
 
 Spiced to the brink ; 
 Lord, t is 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 read on every Sunday and saints 
 day throughout the year, either by Mr. Brace- 
 bridge or by some member of the family. It 
 was once almost universally the case at the 
 seats of the nobility and gentry of England, 
 
SfcetctKTBoofc 
 
 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 wor 
 ship 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 in 
 dulged in some bitter lamentations over modern 
 breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured 
 as among the causes of modern effeminacy and 
 weak nerves, and the decline of old Knglish 
 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 Bracebridge and Master Simon, or, 
 Mr. Simon, .as he was called by everybody but 
 the Squire. We were escorted by a number of 
 gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed loungers about 
 the establishment, from the frisking spaniel to 
 the steady old stag-hound, the last of which 
 was of a race that had been in the family time 
 out of mind ; they were all obedient to a dog- 
 whistle which hung to Master Simon s button 
 hole, and in the midst of their gambols would 
 
Cbristmas E)av> 
 
 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 moon 
 light, 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 number of 
 peacocks about the place, and I was making 
 some remarks upon what I termed a flock of 
 them, that were basking under a sunny wall, 
 when I was gently corrected in my phraseology 
 by Master Simon, who told me that, according 
 to the most ancient and approved treatise on 
 hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. 
 "In the same way," added he, with a slight 
 air of pedantry, " we say a flight of doves or 
 swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of 
 wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building 
 of rooks." He went on to inform me that, 
 according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought 
 to ascribe to this bird "both understanding 
 and glory ; for, being praised, he will presently 
 set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to the 
 intent you may the better behold the beauty 
 thereof. But at the fall of the leaf, when his 
 tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself in 
 corners, till his tail come again as it was." 
 
 
Sfcetcb^JiSoofe 
 
 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 be 
 longed to chivalry, and were in great request 
 at the stately banquets of the olden time, and 
 partly because they had a pomp and magnifi 
 cence about them, highly becoming an old 
 family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed 
 to say, had an air of greater state and dignity 
 than 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 quo 
 tations 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 erudition was confined to some 
 half a dozen old authors, which the Squire had 
 put into his hands, and which he read over 
 

 Gbrtetmas H)av> 
 
 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 Con 
 tentments ; 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 authori 
 ties ; 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, huntsmen, 
 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 having his 
 household at church on a Christmas morning, 
 considering it a day of pouring out of thanks 
 and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 
 
 At 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 from the 
 village amateurs, and established a musical 
 club for their improvement ; he has also sorted 
 a choir, as he sorted my father s pack of 
 hounds, according to 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 bump 
 kins; 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 re 
 markably fine and clear, the most of the fam 
 ily walked to the church, which was a very 
 old building of gray-stone, and stood near a 
 village, about half a mile from the park gate. 
 Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which 
 seemed coeval with the church. The front of 
 it was perfectly matted with a yew-tree, that 
 had been trained against its walls, through the 
 
Cbrtetmas Bap 
 
 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-con 
 ditioned pastor, such as is often found in a 
 snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron s 
 table ; but I was disappointed. The parson 
 was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with 
 a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood 
 off from each ear ; so that his head seemed to 
 have shrunk away within it, 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 being planted 
 in large shoes, decorated with enormous 
 buckles. 
 
 I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that 
 the parson had been a chum of his father s at 
 Oxford, and had received this living shortly 
 after the latter had come to his estate. He 
 was a complete black-letter hunter, and would 
 scarcely read a work printed in the Roman 
 character. The editions of Caxton and Wyn- 
 kin de Worde were his delight ; and he was 
 indefatigable in his researches after such old 
 English w r riters as have fallen into oblivion 
 from their worthlessness. In deference, per- 
 
 fe 
 
haps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he 
 had made diligent investigations into the fes 
 tive rites 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 learn 
 ing ; indifferent to its intrinsic nature, whether 
 it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of the 
 ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had 
 pored over these old volumes so intensely, that 
 they seemed to have been reflected in his coun 
 tenance ; 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 w r as, he 
 observed, an unholy plant, profaned by having 
 been used by the Druids in their mystic cere 
 monies ; 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 hum- 
 
Cbrtstmas Dag 
 
 ble 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 monu 
 ments 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 fire 
 place in the hall. 
 
 During service, Master Simon stood up in 
 the pew, and repeated the responses very audi 
 bly ; evincing that kind of ceremonious devo 
 tion 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. 
 
 The orchestra was in a small gallery, and 
 presented a most whimsical grouping of heads, 
 

 piled one above the other, among which I par 
 ticularly 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 fid 
 dles, 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 sometimes 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 loi 
 tering fiddler now and then making up for lost 
 time by travelling over a passage with prodig 
 ious celerity, and clearing more bars than the 
 keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But 
 the great trial was an anthem that had been 
 prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and 
 on which he had founded great expectation. 
 Unluckily there was a blunder at the very out- 
 
Cbnstmas Dap 
 
 set ; the musicians became flurried ; Ma>kr 
 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 part 
 ing company : all became discord and confu 
 sion ; each shifted for himself, and got to the 
 end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could, 
 excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn 
 spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long 
 sonorous nose ; who happened to stand a little 
 apart, and, being wrapped up in his own 
 melody, kept on a quavering 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 Christmas, and the 
 propriety of observing it not merely as a day of 
 thanksgiving, but of rejoicing ; supporting the 
 correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages 
 of the church, and enforcing them by the 
 authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyp 
 rian, 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 of forces to maintain a point which no 
 one present seemed inclined to dispute ; but I 
 soon found that the good man had a legion of 
 
ideal adversaries to contend with ; having, in 
 the course of his 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 
 Christmas was driven out of the land by procla 
 mation 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 re 
 tirement 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 
 
 * From the Flying Eagle, a small gazette, pub 
 lished December 24, 1652 : " The House spent much 
 time this day about the business of the Navy, for 
 settling the affairs at sea, and before they rose, were 
 presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christ 
 mas day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 
 16 ; i Cor. xv. 14, 17 ; and in honor of the Lord s Day, 
 grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. i ; Rev. i. 
 10 ; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, n ; 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 Parlia 
 ment spent some time in consultation about the aboli 
 tion of Christmas day, passed orders to that effect, and 
 resolved to sit on the following day, which was 
 commonly called Christmas day." 
 
 V. 
 
Christmas Dap 
 
 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- Chris 
 tian ; 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 cham 
 pions 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 customs of 
 their fathers, and feast and make merry on 
 this joyful anniversary of the Church. 
 
 I have seldom known a sermon attended ap 
 parently 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 churchyard, 
 greeting and shaking hands ; and the children 
 ran about crying Ule ! Ule i and repeating some 
 uncouth rhymes,* which the parson, who had 
 
 * "Ule! Ule! 
 
 Three puddings in a pule ; 
 Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 
 
4 s 
 
 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 appear 
 ance 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 bless 
 ings uttered by several of the poor, which con 
 vinced 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 com 
 manded something of a prospect, the sounds 
 of rustic merriment now and then reached our 
 ears : the Squire paused for a few moments, 
 and looked around with an air of inexpressible 
 benignity. The beauty of the day was of 
 itself sufficient to inspire philanthrophy. Not 
 withstanding the frostiness of the morning, the 
 sun in his cloudless journey had acquired suf 
 ficient 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 midwinter. Large 
 tracts of smiling verdure contrasted with the 
 dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and 
 hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the 
 
Obristmas Dap 
 
 broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill of cold 
 and limpid water, glittering through the drip 
 ping grass ; and sent up slight exhalations to 
 contribute to the thin haze that hung just 
 above the surface of the earth. There was 
 something truly cheering in this triumph of 
 warmth and verdure over the frosty thraldom 
 of winter ; it was, as the Squire observed, an 
 emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking 
 through the chills of ceremony and 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 farm-houses and low thatched cot 
 tages. "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 daylight ; 
 when the tables were covered with brawn, and 
 beef, and humming ale ; when the harp and 
 the carol resounded all day long, and when 
 rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and 
 make merry.* Our old games and local cus 
 toms," said he, " had a great effect in making 
 the peasant fond of his home, and the promo 
 tion 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, 
 
 1 1 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. 
 
 * " An English gentleman, at the opening of the 
 great day, i. e. on Christmas day in the morning, had 
 all his tenants and neighbors enter his hall by day 
 break . The strong beer was broached, and the black 
 jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar, and 
 nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackiu (the 
 great sausage) must be boiled by daybreak, or else two 
 young men must take the maiden (i. e. the cook) by 
 the arms, and run her round the market-place till she 
 is shamed of her laziness." Round about our Sea- 
 Coal Fire. 
 

 Cbristmas 
 
 "The nation," continued he, "is altered; 
 we have almost lost our simple true-hearted 
 peasantry. They have broken asunder from 
 the higher classes, and seem to think their 
 interests are separate. They have become too 
 knowing, and begin to read newspapers, 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 mit 
 igating public discontent : 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 coun 
 try 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 
 neighborhood in one week than the parish offi 
 cers 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 avenue, fol 
 lowed by a large number of villagers and peas 
 antry. They stopped before the hall door, 
 where the music struck up a peculiar air, and 
 the lads performed a curious and intricate 
 dance, advancing, 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." 
 
Cbrtetmae 
 
 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 demonstrations of deference and 
 regard. It is true I perceived two or three of 
 the younger peasants, as they were raising 
 their tankards to their mouths, when the 
 Squire s back was turned, making something 
 of a grimace, and giving each other the wink ; 
 but the moment they caught my eye the} 
 pulled grave faces, and were exceedingly de 
 mure. With Master Simon, however, they all 
 seemed more at their ease. His varied occu 
 pations and amusements had made him well 
 known throughout the neighborhood. He was 
 a visitor at every farm-house and cottage ; 
 gossiped with the farmers and their wives ; 
 romped with their daughters ; and, like that 
 type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, 
 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 pleas- 
 
54 
 
 SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 an try frankly uttered by a patron, gladdens 
 f ^ ft^ t ^ ie ^ eart f *ke dependent more than oil and 
 x) !\jp\ wine. When the Squire had retired, the mer 
 riment increased, and there was much joking 
 and laughter, particularly betv/een Master 
 Simon and a hale, ruddy-faced, white-headed 
 farmer, who appeared to be the wit of the vil 
 lage ; 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 whole house indeed seemed abandoned 
 to merriment : as I passed to my room to dress 
 for dinner, I heard the sound of music in a 
 small court, and, looking through a window 
 that commanded it, I perceived a band of wan 
 dering musicians, with pandean pipes and 
 tambourine ; a pretty coquettish housemaid 
 was dancing a jig with, a smart country lad, 
 while several of the other servants were look 
 ing 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. 
 
 -x 
 
 \ 
 
ZTbc Cbristmas Dinner 
 
 , now is come our joyful st feast ! 
 Let every man be jolly, 
 Eache roome with yvle leaves is drest, 
 
 And every post with holly. 
 Now all our neighbours chimneys smoke, 
 
 And Christmas blocks are burning ; 
 Their ovens they with bak t meats choke, 
 And all their spits are turning. 
 Without the door let sorrow lie, 
 And if, for cold, it hap to die, 
 Wee le bury t in a Christmas pye, 
 And evermore be merry. 
 
 WITHERS Juvenilia. 
 
 HAD finished my toilet, and 
 was loitering with Frank 
 Bracebridge 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 cus- 
 toms in kitchen as well 
 
 as ^ ia ^ anc * ^ ie r lli n g~pi n 
 struck upon the dresser by 
 
 the cook, summoned the servants to carry 
 in the meats. 
 
Cbe 5fcetcb<JBoofc 
 
 
 " 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 apart 
 ment, 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 the opposite wall, which I 
 understood were the arms of the same 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 situa 
 tion by the Squire, who at once determined it 
 to be the armor of the family hero ; and as he 
 
 * Sir John Suckling. 
 
 \ f 
 
Cbc Cbristmas Dinner 57 
 
 was absolute authority on all such subjects in 
 his own household, the matter had passed into 
 current acceptation. A sideboard was set out 
 just under this chivalric trophy, on which 
 was a display of plate that might have vied (at 
 least in variety) with Belshazzar s parade of 
 the vessels of the temple ; flagons, cans, 
 cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers"; 
 the gorgeous utensils of good companionship 
 that had gradually accumulated through many 
 generations 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 fireplace, and 
 twanging his instrument with avast 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 
 Diirer 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 
 e y es 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 
 succeeding 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. 
 
 The parson said grace, which was not a short 
 familiar one, such as 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 some 
 thing was expected ; when suddenly the butler 
 entered the hall with some degree of bustle : 
 he was attended by a servant on each side with 
 
 ffl 
 
Cbc Cbristmas Dinner 59 
 
 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 conclusion of which the young 
 Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the Squire, 
 gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, 
 an old carol, the first verse of which was as 
 follows : 
 
 " 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 confess, 
 the parade with which so odd a dish was intro 
 duced somewhat perplexed me, until I 
 gathered from the conversation of the Squire 
 and the parson, that it was meant to represent 
 the bringing in of the boar s head : a dish 
 formerly served up with much ceremony and 
 the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great 
 tables, on Christmas day. " I like the old cus- 
 
 
Cbe Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 torn," 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 associations, and who was 
 always more taken up with the text than the 
 V ^ 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 
 gradually diverted to other talk and other 
 objects, he lowered his tone as his number of 
 auditors diminished, until he concluded his 
 remarks in an undervoice to a fat-headed old 
 gentleman next him, who was silently engaged 
 in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey.* 
 
 * 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 par 
 son with a copy of the carol as now sung, and, as it 
 
Cbristmas Binncr 
 
 61 
 
 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 expectation." There were several 
 dishes quaintly decorated, and which had evi 
 dently something traditional in their embellish- 
 
 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, as I understand, 
 Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
 Which thus bedeck d with a gay garland 
 Let us servire cantico. 
 Caput apri defero, etc. 
 
 " Our 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. 
 
 ft 
 
62 
 
 ments ; but about which, as I did not like to 
 appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 
 
 I could not, however, but notice a pie, mag 
 nificently decorated with peacock s feathers, in 
 imitation of the tail of that bird, which over 
 shadowed a considerable tract of the table. 
 This, the Squire confessed, with some little 
 hesitation, was a pheasant-pie, though a pea 
 cock-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.* 
 
 *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 Massinger, 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, their pies of 
 carps tongues ; 
 
 44 Their pheasants drench d with ambergris; the 
 
 &*i 
 
 ra 
 
Cbe Cbrtetmas Dinner 
 
 It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser 
 readers, who may not have that foolish fond 
 ness for odd and obsolete things to which I 
 am a little given, were I to mention the other 
 makeshifts 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 antiquated 
 mansion, and the humors of its lord ; and most 
 probably looked upon all his whimsical regu 
 lations as the established laws of honorable 
 housekeeping. 
 
 When the cloth was removed, the butler 
 brought in a huge silver vessel of rare and cu 
 rious workmanship, which he placed before the 
 Squire. Its appearance was hailed with ac- 
 
 carcascs of three fat wethers bruised for gravy to make 
 sauce for a single peacock." 
 
clamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so re 
 nowned in Christmas festivity. The contents 
 had been prepared by the Squire himself ; for 
 it was a beverage in the skilful mixture of 
 which he particularly prided himself ; alleging 
 that it was too abtruse and complex for the 
 comprehension of an ordinary servant. It was 
 a potation, indeed, that might well make the 
 heart of a toper leap within him ; being com 
 posed of the richest and raciest wines, highly 
 spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bob 
 bing 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 
 
 * 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 bever 
 age is still prepared in some old families and round 
 the hearths of substantial 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." 
 
It. 
 
 Cbe Cbristmas inner 
 
 round the board, for every one to follow his 
 example, according to the primitive style; 
 pronouncing it " the ancient fountain of good 
 feeling, where all hearts met together. * 
 
 There was much laughing and rallying as 
 the honest emblem of Christmas joviality circu 
 lated, 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 com 
 panion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 
 
 " The brown bowle, 
 The merry brown bowle, 
 As it goes round about-a, 
 
 Fill 
 
 Still, 
 
 Let the world say what it will 
 And drink your fill all out-a. 
 
 "The deep canne, 
 The merry deep caune, 
 As thou dost freely quaff-a, 
 
 Sing 
 
 Fling, 
 
 Be as merry as a king, 
 And sound a lusty laugh-a." f 
 
 * "The custom of drinking out of the same cup 
 gave place to each having his cup. When the stew 
 ard came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry 
 three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the 
 chappell, (chaplein) was to answer with a song." 
 
 ARCH^OI^OGIA. 
 
 f From Poor Robin s Almanac. 
 
 VOL. II. 5 
 
ft 
 
 Much of the conversation during dinner 
 turned upon family topics, to which I was a 
 stranger. There was, however, a great deal 
 of rallying of Master Simon about some gay 
 widow, with 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 conversation, he renewed his bantering 
 in pretty much the same terms ; winking hard 
 at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Mas 
 ter 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 prodig 
 iously fine woman, and drove her own curricle. 
 
 The dinner-time passed away in this flow of 
 innocent hilarity, and, though the old hall may 
 have resounded in its time with many a scene 
 of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether 
 it ever witnessed more honest and genuine en 
 joyment. How easy it is for one benevolent 
 being to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how 
 
Cbe Cbrtstmas Dinner 67 
 
 truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, 
 making everything in its vicinity to freshen 
 into smiles ! the joyous disposition of the 
 worthy Squire was perfectly contagious ; he 
 was happy himself, and disposed to make all 
 the world happy ; and the little eccentricities 
 of his humor did but season, in a manner, the 
 sweetness of his philanthropy. 
 
 When the ladies had retired, the conversa 
 tion, 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 
 
68 
 
 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 lust 
 ily 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 ex 
 tinguished fire, feebly glimmering in the bot 
 tom of his soul ; and as the Squire hinted at 
 a sly story of the parson and a pretty milk 
 maid, whom they once met on the banks of the 
 Isis, the old gentleman made an alphabet of 
 faces," which, as far as I could decipher his 
 physiognomy, I verily 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 com 
 plexion, and he began to talk maudlin about 
 the widow. He even gave a long song about 
 
Cbc Cbrfstmas Binncr 
 
 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 : 
 
 " 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 gen 
 tleman, 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, everybody recollecting the latter 
 part excepting himself. The parson, too, be 
 gan to show the effects of good cheer, having 
 gradually settled down into a doze, and his 
 wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. 
 Just at this juncture we were summoned to 
 the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the pri 
 vate 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 sly 
 ness 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 
 
 * " At Christmasse there was in the Kinge 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 wor- 
 shippe, were hespirituall or temporal!. " STOWE. 
 
Gbe Cbrlstmas Dinner 
 
 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, listen 
 ing 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 funiiture, with which his shadowy figure 
 and dark weazen face so admirably accorded, 
 he was dealing out strange accounts of the 
 popular superstitions and legends of the sur 
 rounding country, with which he had become 
 acquainted in the course of his antiquarian 
 researches. I am half inclined to think that 
 the old gentleman was himself somewhat tinc 
 tured with superstition, as men are very apt 
 to be who live a recluse and studious life in a 
 sequestered part of the country, and pore over 
 black-letter tracts, so often filled with the mar 
 vellous and supernatural. He gave us several 
 anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring 
 peasantry, concerning the effigy of the crusa 
 der, which lay on the tomb by the church-altar. 
 As it was the only monument of the kind in 
 that part of the country, it had always been 
 regarded with feelings of superstition by the 
 good wives of the village. It was said to get 
 
up from the tomb and walk the rounds of the 
 churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when 
 it thundered ; and one old woman, whose cot 
 tage bordered on the churchyard, had seen it 
 through the windows of the church, when the 
 moon shone, slowly pacing up and down the 
 aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had 
 been left 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 fol 
 lowed, 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 it ; for they remarked that, 
 
(Tbe Christmas Dinner 
 
 73 
 
 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 church-door 
 most civilly swung open itself; not that he 
 needed it, for he rode through closed gates and 
 even stone walls, and had been seen by one 
 of the dairy-maids to pass between two bars of 
 the great park-gate, making himself as thin 
 as a sheet of paper. 
 
 All these superstitions I found had been 
 very much 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 gravity, and held the porter s wife in 
 high favor on account of her talent for the 
 marvellous. He was himself a great reader 
 of old legends and romances, and often 
 lamented that he could not believe in them ; 
 

 for a superstitious person, he thought, must 
 live in a kind of fairy land. 
 
 Whilst we were all attention to the parson s 
 stories, our ears were suddenly assailed by a 
 burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall, 
 in which were mingled something like the 
 clang of rude minstrelsy, with the uproar of 
 many small voices and girlish laughter. The 
 door suddenly flew open, and a train came 
 trooping into the room, that might almost have 
 been mistaken for the breaking up of the court 
 of Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Si 
 mon, in the faithful discharge of his duties as 
 lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a 
 Christmas mummery or masking ; and having 
 called into his assistance the Oxonian and the 
 young officer, who were equally ripe for any 
 thing that should occasion romping and merri 
 ment, they had carried it into instant effect. 
 The old housekeeper had been consulted ; the 
 antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rum 
 maged, 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 a burlesque imitation of an antique 
 mask.* 
 
 * Maskings or mummeries were favorite sports at 
 
Cbe Cbristmas EMnncr 
 
 75 
 
 Master Simon led the van, as "Ancient 
 Christmas," quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a 
 short cloak, which had very much the aspect 
 of one of the old housekeeper s petticoats, and 
 a hat that might have served for a village 
 steeple, and must indubitably have figured in 
 the days of the Covenanters. From under 
 this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed with 
 a frostbitten bloom, that seemed the very tro 
 phy of a December blast. He was accompan 
 ied by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as 
 " Darne Mince Pie," in the venerable magnifi 
 cence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, 
 peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The young 
 officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting 
 dress of Kendal green, and a foraging cap with 
 a gold tassel. 
 
 The costume, to be sure, did not bear testi 
 mony to deep research, and there was an evi 
 dent 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 Marian." The rest of the 
 train had been metamorphosed in various 
 
 Christmas in old times ; and the wardrobes at halls 
 and manor-houses were often laid under contribution 
 to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly 
 suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his 
 from Ben Jonson s " Masque of Christmas." 
 
76 Cbe 5fcetcb<RSoofc 
 
 ways : the girls trussed 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 char 
 acter of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other 
 worthies celebrated 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 his motley crew, with beat 
 of drum, according to ancient custom, was the 
 consummation of uproar and merriment. Mas 
 ter 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 fan- 
 
,. 
 
 Cbe Christmas Dinner 
 
 tastic 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 dis 
 coursing 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 hospital 
 ity breaking out from among the chills and 
 glooms of winter, and old age throwing off his 
 apathy, and catching once more the freshness 
 of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest 
 in the scene, from the consideration that these 
 fleeting customs were posting fast into oblivion, 
 and that this was, perhaps, the only family in 
 England in which the whole of them was still 
 punctiliously observed. There was a quaint- 
 ness, too, mingled with all this revelry, that 
 * Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called 
 the Pa von, from pavo, a peacock, says : " It is a grave 
 and majestic dance, the method of dancing it anciently 
 was by gentlemen dressed with caps and swords, by 
 those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers in 
 their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long 
 trains, the motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that 
 of a peacock." History of Music. 
 
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. Me- 
 thinks 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 
 
 * At the time of the first publication of this paper, 
 the picture of an old-fashioned Christmas in the coun 
 try was pronounced by some as out of date. The au 
 thor 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 Christmas holidays. 
 The reader will find some notice of them in the 
 author s account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 
 
 jfe 
 
w n 
 Cbe Cbristmas EHmier 
 
 79 
 
 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 sor 
 row ; if I can now and then penetrate through 
 the gathering film of misanthropy, prompt a 
 benevolent view of human nature, and make 
 my reader more in good-humor with his fellow- 
 beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not 
 then have written entirely in vain. 
 
Xonfcon Hntiques 
 
 1 do walk 
 
 Methinks like Guido 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 Robin Goodfellow. FLETCHER. 
 
 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 wilder 
 ness of brick and mortar ; but deriving 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 explored 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 sensitive 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 per 
 petually 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 meditating 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 coolness 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 pommel of the sword, 
 menacing hostility even in the tomb ! while 
 the crossed legs of several indicated soldiers of 
 
82 
 
 Cbe 
 
 the Faith who had been on crusades to the 
 Holy L,and. 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 suddenly to turn aside 
 from the highway of busy money-seeking life, 
 and sit down among these shadowy sepulchres, 
 where all is twilight, dust, and forgetfulness. 
 
 In a subsequent tour of observation, I en 
 countered another of these relics of a " fore 
 gone world" locked up in the heart of the 
 city. I had been wandering for some time 
 through dull monotonous streets, destitute of 
 anything to strike the eye or excite the imagi 
 nation, when I beheld before me a Gothic 
 gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened 
 into a spacious quadrangle forming the court 
 yard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of 
 which stood invitingly open. It was appar 
 ently 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 
 enormous fireplace, with wooden settles on 
 each side ; at the other end was a raised plat- 
 
: 
 
 
 fcyBt 
 
 london Bnttquee 
 
 form, 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 mo 
 nastic quiet and seclusion, 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 yel 
 low sunshine, 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 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, \vhere the patient monk, 
 in the ample solitude of the cloister, added 
 page to page and volume to volume, emula 
 ting in the productions of his brain the magni 
 tude 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 
 
 : 
 . 
 
8-1 
 
 Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 manner through the hall, without uttering a 
 word, each turning a pale face on me as he 
 passed, and disappearing through a door at the 
 lower end. 
 
 I was singularly struck with their appear 
 ance ; their black cloaks and antiquated air 
 comported with the style of this most vener 
 able 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 addi 
 tions and dependencies, built at various times 
 and in various styles ; in one open space a 
 number of boys, who evidently belonged to 
 the establishment, were at their sports ; but 
 everywhere I observed those mysterious old 
 gray men in black mantles, sometimes saun 
 tering 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 
 
XouDon antiques 
 
 85 
 
 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 mantel-piece ; while 
 on a 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 labo 
 ratory 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 eye 
 brows. 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. 
 
 ?? 
 
^c 
 
 Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose 
 and invited me to enter. I obeyed, with sin 
 gular 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 mantel-piece ? 
 He proved, however, to be anything but a 
 conjurer, and his simple garrulity soon dis 
 pelled all the magic and mystery with which 
 I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its 
 no less antiquated inhabitants. 
 
 It appeared that I had made my way into 
 the centre of an ancient asylum for superan 
 nuated tradesmen and decayed householders, 
 with which was connected a school for a lim 
 ited number of boys. It was founded upwards 
 of two centuries since on an old monastic es 
 tablishment, and retained somewhat of the con 
 ventual 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 re 
 turning from morning service in the chapel. 
 
 John Hallum, the little collector of curiosi 
 ties, 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 
 
Xonfcon antiques 
 
 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 of 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 languages Hall urn was profoundly 
 ignorant, and a broken-down gentleman 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 indubitable 
 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, originally 
 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 
 
Sfcetcb^oofc 
 
 broken-down men, who had 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. At 
 tached to the establishment 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 hospital, but to attend only to the 
 service of God, and take thankfully what is 
 provided for them, without muttering, mur 
 muring, or grudging. None to wear weapon, 
 long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored shoes, 
 feathers in their hats, or any ruffian-like or un 
 seemly apparel, but such as becomes hospital 
 men to w r ear." " 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." 
 
 For the amusement of such as have been 
 interested by the preceding sketch, taken down 
 
lonDon Bntiqucs 89 
 
 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 gen 
 tleman in a small brown wig and a snuff-col 
 ored 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 travellers like my 
 self ; and which have brought our general char 
 acter 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 actually engaged in a full and par 
 ticular account of the very interesting region 
 in which he resides ; of which the following 
 may be considered merely as a foretaste. 
 
/ 
 
 
 
 - 
 
 OLittle 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 
 auntients (within the hearing of Bow bell) would be out of 
 charity with me." NASHE. 
 
 IN the centre of the great city of Condon 
 lies a small neighborhood, consisting of 
 a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of 
 very venerable and debilitated houses, 
 which goes by the name of LITTLK 
 BRITAIN. Christ Church School and St. Bar 
 tholomew s Hospital bound it on the west ; 
 Smithfield and Long Lane on the north ; 
 Aldersgate Street, like an arm of the sea, di 
 vides 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 designated, the great dome 
 of St. Paul s, swelling above the intervening 
 houses of Paternoster Row, Amen Corner, and 
 Ave Maria Lane, looks down with an air of 
 motherly protection. 
 
 This quarter derives its appellation from 
 
little ^Britain 
 
 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 pro 
 lific race of booksellers ; these also gradually 
 deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the great 
 strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Pater 
 noster Row and St. Paul s Churchyard, where 
 they continue to increase and multiply even at 
 the present day. 
 
 But though thus falling 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, un 
 known birds, beasts, and fishes : and fruits 
 and flowers which it would perplex a natural 
 ist to classify. There are also, in Aldersgate 
 Street, certain remains of what were once 
 spacious and lordly family mansions, but which 
 have in latter days been subdivided into several 
 tenements. Here may often be found the 
 family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery 
 furniture, burrowing among the relics of an 
 tiquated finery, in great rambling, time-stained 
 apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded cor- 
 
 
 
nices, 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 maintaining their 
 claims to equal antiquity. These have their 
 gable ends to the street ; great bow- windows, 
 with diamond panes set in lead, grotesque carv 
 ings, and low arched doorways.* 
 
 In this most venerable and sheltered little 
 nest have I passed several quiet years of exist 
 ence, 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 miscella 
 neous array of furniture. I have a particular 
 respect for three or four high-backed claw- 
 footed chairs, covered with tarnished brocade, 
 which bear the marks of having seen better 
 days, and have doubtless figured in some of 
 the old palaces of Little Britain. They seem 
 to me to keep together, and to look down 
 with sovereign contempt upon their leathern- 
 bottomed neighbors : as I have seen decayed 
 gentry carry a high head among the plebeian 
 society with which they were reduced to asso- 
 
 * 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. 
 
Xittlc Britain 
 
 ciate. The whole front of my sitting-room is 
 taken up with a bow-window, on the panes 
 of which are recorded the names of previous 
 occupants for many generations, mingled 
 with scraps of very indifferent gentleman-like 
 poetry, written in characters which I can 
 scarcely decipher, and which extol the charms 
 of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has 
 long, long since bloomed, faded, and passed 
 away. As I am an idle personage, with no 
 apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly 
 every week, I am looked upon as the only in 
 dependent gentleman of the neighborhood ; 
 and, being curious to learn the internal state 
 of a community so apparently shut up within 
 itself, I have managed to work my way into 
 all the concerns and secrets of the place. 
 
 Little Britain may truly be called the 
 heart s core of the city, the stronghold 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 reli 
 giously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot- 
 cross-buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at 
 Michaelmas ; they send love-letters on Valen 
 tine s Day, bum 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 venera 
 tion, and port and sherry maintain their 
 grounds as the only true Knglish wines ; all 
 others being considered vile outlandish bev 
 erages. 
 
 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. 
 Dustan s clock ; the Monument ; the lions in 
 the Tower ; and the wooden giants in Guild 
 hall. They still believe in dreams arid for 
 tune-telling, and an old woman that lives in 
 Bull-and- Mouth Street makes a tolerable sub 
 sistence by detecting stolen goods, and promis 
 ing 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 
 
TLittIc ^Britain 
 
 ii 
 
 chambers, on moonlight nights ; and are sup 
 posed to be the shades of the ancient proprie 
 tors in their court-dresses. 
 
 Little Britain has likewise its sages and great 
 men. One of the most important of the for 
 mer 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 horned 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 ac 
 counts of plots, conspiracies, fires, earthquakes, 
 and 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 unusualty dark da} , and he shook 
 the tail of the last comet over the heads of his 
 customers and disciples until they were nearly 
 
 "^ i -V 
 
96 be Sfcetcb*:JBoofc 
 
 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 grasshopper on the top of the Exchange 
 shook hands with the dragon on the top of 
 Bow Church steeple fearful events would take 
 place. This strange conjunction, it seems, has 
 as strangely come to pass. The same architect 
 has been engaged lately on the repairs of the 
 cupola of the Exchange, and the steeple of 
 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 con 
 junctions 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 the astrologers." Since 
 these portentous weathercocks have thus laid 
 their heads together, wonderful events had 
 already occurred. The good old king, not 
 withstanding 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 
 
 \ 
 
 (3 
 
little Britain 
 
 97 
 
 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 mysteri 
 ous 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 his 
 tory of Whittington and his Cat bears witness. 
 The rival oracle of Little Britain is a sub 
 stantial cheesemonger, who lives in a fragment 
 of one of the old family mansions, and is as 
 magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite in 
 the midst of one of his own Cheshires. In 
 deed, 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 Sun 
 day papers for the last half century, together 
 with the Gentleman 1 s Magazine, Rapin s His- 
 
 VOL. II. 7 
 
 
tory of England, and the Naval Chroni 
 cle. 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 a moral 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 bul 
 wark 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 excur 
 sions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other 
 neighboring 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 con 
 sidered 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. 
 
Xittlc Britain 
 
 99 
 
 
 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 meeting at the Swan and Horse Shoe, and 
 was patronized by the cheesemonger ; the 
 other at the Cock and Crown, under the aus 
 pices 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 compara 
 tive merits of churchyards, together with 
 divers hints on the subject of patent-iron cof 
 fins. I have heard the question discussed in 
 all its bearings as to the legality of prohibiting 
 the latter on account of their durability. The 
 feuds occasioned by these societies have happily 
 died of late ; but they were for a long time 
 prevailing themes of controversy, the people 
 of Little Britain being extremely solicitous of 
 funeral honors and of lying comfortably in 
 their graves. 
 
 Beside these two funeral societies there is a 
 third of quite a 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 
 
 
 
; 
 
 100 
 
 for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with a 
 most seductive bunch of grapes. The old 
 edifice is covered with inscriptions 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 frequented by the gallants and cavalieros 
 of the reign of Elizabeth, and was looked into 
 now and then by the wits of Charles the 
 Second s day. But what Wagstaff principally 
 prides himself upon is, that Henry the Eight, 
 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 vain-glorious boast of the 
 
 landlord. 
 
 The club which now holds its weekly sessions 
 here goes by the name of "The Roaring Lads 
 of Little Britain." They abound in 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 madcap undertaker who is inimitable at a 
 merry song; but the life of the club, and 
 
 
Xittlc Britain 
 
 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 
 heirlooms. He is a dapper little fellow, with 
 bandy legs and pot-belly, a red face, with a 
 moist merry eye, and a little shock of gray 
 hair behind. At the opening of every club- 
 night he is called in to sing his " Confession 
 of Faith," which is the famous old drinking- 
 trowl from "Gammer Gurton s Needle." 
 He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, 
 as he received it from his father s lips ; for it 
 had been a standing 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 
 clattering of pewter pots. 
 
 " I cannot eate but lytle meate, 
 My stomacke is not good, 
 
 : , -; 
 
Ube Sfcetcb^ffioofc 
 
 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 confec 
 tioner s window, or snuffing up the steams of 
 a cookshop. 
 
 There are two annual events which produce 
 great stir and sensation in Little Britain ; these 
 are St. Bartholomew s fair, and the Lord 
 
 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. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, 
 
 Booth foote and hand go colde. 
 But belly, God send thee good ale 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 trowe, 
 
 Can hurte mee, if I wolde, 
 I am so wrapt and throwly lapt 
 
 Of joly good ale and olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc. 
 
little Britain 
 
 103 
 
 4 m 
 
 Mayor s day. During the time of the fair, 
 which is held in the adjoining regions of 
 Smithfield, there is nothing going on but gos 
 siping 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 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 hand, fondling, and prosing, 
 
 " And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe, 
 
 Loveth well good ale to seeke, 
 Full oft dry tikes 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 thisjoly 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 fellows sholde doe, 
 They shall not mysse to have the blisse, 
 
 Good ale doth bring men to ; 
 And all poore soules that have scowred bowles, 
 
 Or have them lustily trolde, 
 God save the lyves of them and their wives, 
 
 Whether they be yonge or olde. 
 Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc." 
 
Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 and singing maudlin songs over their liquor. 
 Even the sober decorum of private families, 
 which I must say is rigidly kept up at other 
 times among my neighbors, is no proof against 
 this Saturnalia. There is no .such thing as 
 keeping maid-servants within doors. Their 
 brains are absolutely set madding 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 anni 
 versary. 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 Alder 
 men in his train, as the grandest of earthly 
 pageants. How they exult in the idea, that 
 the King himself dare not enter the city, with 
 out 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 
 
little JBritain 
 
 cut down everybody that offends against the 
 dignity of the city ; and then there is the little 
 man with the velvet porringer on his head, 
 who sits at the window of the stage-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 poten 
 tate, therefore, the good people of Little Britain 
 sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an effectual bar 
 rier against all interior foes ; and as to foreign 
 invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw 
 himself into the Tower, call in the train-bands, 
 and put the standing army of Beef-eaters un 
 der arms, and he may bid defiance to the 
 world ! 
 
 Thus wrapt up in its own concerns, its own 
 habits, and its 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 
 
 105 ^ 
 
 x- ; . 
 

 apothecary, and an occasional feud between the 
 burial societies, yet these were but transient 
 clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbors 
 met with good-will, parted with a shake of the 
 hand, and never abused each other except be 
 hind their backs. 
 
 I could give rare descriptions of snug junk 
 eting parties at which I have been present ; 
 where w r e 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 
 gypsy party to Epping Forest. It would have 
 done any man s heart good to see the merri 
 ment 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 cheese 
 monger and the apothecary, to hear them talk 
 politics ; for they generally brought out a news 
 paper in their pockets, to pass away time in the 
 
Play I fid 
 
m 
 
 little Britain 
 
 107 
 
 country. They would now and then, to be 
 sure, get a little warm in argument ; but their 
 disputes were always adjusted by reference to 
 a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double chin, 
 who, never exactly comprehending the sub 
 ject, managed somehow or other to decide in 
 favor of both parties. 
 
 All empires, however, says some philosopher 
 or historian, are doomed to changes and revo 
 lutions. 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 grievously disturbed, and its 
 golden simplicity of manners threatened with 
 total subversion, by the aspiring family of a 
 retired butcher. 
 
 The family of the Lambs had long been 
 among the most thriving and popular in the 
 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 on the Lady Mayoress, at 
 her great annual ball, on which occasion she 
 wore three towering ostrich feathers on her 
 
 
 
io8 
 
 Cbe 
 
 head. The family never got over it ; they 
 were immediately smitten with a passion for 
 high life ; set up a one-hcrse carriage, put a bit 
 of old 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 nov 
 els, talking bad French, and playing upon the 
 piano. Their brother, too, who had been ar 
 ticled to an attorney, set up for a dandy and 
 a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these 
 parts ; and he confounded the worthy folks 
 exceedingly by talking about Kean, the opera, 
 and the 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 tow 
 ards 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 
 
Xittlc JBritain 
 
 horses, and the rattling and the jingling of 
 hackney coaches. The gossips of the neigh 
 borhood might be seen popping their nightcaps 
 out at every window, watching the crazy vehi 
 cles rumble by ; and there was a knot of viru 
 lent old cronies, that kept a lookout 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 
 would have nothing more to say to the Lambs. 
 It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no 
 engagements with her quality acquaintance, 
 would give little humdrum tea -junketings to 
 some of her old cronies, " quite, " as she would 
 say, "in a friendly way" ; and it is equally 
 true that her invitations were 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 won 
 derful interest to Mrs. Lamb s anecdotes of 
 Alderman Plunket s family, of Portsokenward, 
 and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses 
 of Crutched-Friars ; but then they relieved 
 their consciences, and averted the reproaches 
 of their confederates, by canvassing at the next 
 

 gossiping convocation 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 him 
 self. 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 hearty vulgar good- 
 humor that was irrepressible. His very jokes 
 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 un 
 popularity 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." 
 
Xtttlc Britain 
 
 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 flaunt 
 ing 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 
 neighborhood ; but the worthy folks of Little 
 Britain took fire at it, and did so persecute the 
 poor little 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 overflowing of their 
 zeal for good old English manners, and their 
 horror of innovation ; and I applauded the 
 silent contempt they were so vociferous in ex 
 pressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, 
 
 tf> 
 
Sfeetcb^JBoofc 
 
 and 4 ,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 importuning her hus 
 band 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 unluckily a 
 rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, 
 and left a widow with a large jointure and a 
 family of buxom daughters. The young ladies 
 had long been repining in secret at the parsi 
 mony 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 natu 
 rally an advantage of them in the fashionable 
 
 Cl, 
 
Xittlc JGritam 
 
 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 ban 
 ners 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 attempt 
 ing 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 dissensions, like the great empire 
 whose name it bears; and what will be the 
 
 VOL. II. 8 
 
result would puzzle the apothecary himself, 
 with all his talent at prognostics, to deter 
 mine ; though I apprehend that it will termi 
 nate in the total downfall of genuine John 
 Bullisni. 
 
 The immediate effects are extremely unpleas 
 ant to me. Being a single man, and, as I ob 
 served 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 fashionable families of re 
 tired 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 Trot 
 ters to divide the distracted empire of LITTLE 
 BRITAIN. 
 
 Xittlc .tOritain 
 
Stratforfcon^Hvon 
 
 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 hallow d the turf is which pillow d his head. 
 
 GARRICK. 
 
 O 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 conse 
 quence, 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 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 
 
"7 
 
 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 a pil 
 grimage 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 
 Red Horse, 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, put 
 ting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesi 
 tating 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 poten 
 tate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the 
 Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pil 
 low companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all 
 night of Shakspeare, the jubilee, and David 
 Garrick. 
 
 The next morning was one of those quick 
 ening mornings which we sometimes have in 
 
 LV> 
 
118 
 
 Cbe Sfeetcb^JBoofc 
 
 early spring ; for it was about the middle of 
 March. The chills of a long winter had sud 
 denly 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 pilgrim 
 age. My first visit was to the house where 
 Shakspeare was born, and where, according 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 de 
 light 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 condi 
 tions, 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 exceed 
 ingly 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 matchlock with 
 which Shakspeare shot the deer, on his poach 
 ing exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box ; 
 which proves that he was a rival smoker of 
 Sir Walter Raleigh ; the sword also with 
 which he played Hamlet ; and the identical 
 lantern with which Friar Laurence discovered 
 Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! There was 
 an ample supply also of Shakspeare s mul 
 berry-tree, which seems to have as extraordi 
 nary 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, how 
 ever, 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, watch 
 ing the slowly revolving spit with all the long 
 ing of an urchin ; or of an evening, listening 
 to the cronies and gossips of Stratford, dealing 
 forth churchyard tales and legendary anecdotes 
 of the troublesome times of England. 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 
 mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately 
 assured me, that, though built of solid oak, 
 
Jr 120 abe 5fcetcb*;)Boofc 
 
 6 
 
 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 par 
 takes something of the volatile nature of the 
 Santa Casa of L,oretto, 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 anecdotes 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 willingly 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 con 
 sanguinity at defiance. 
 
 From the birthplace of Shakspeare a few 
 . 
 
121 
 
 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 ornamented. It stands on the banks of 
 the Avon, on an embowered point, and sepa 
 rated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs 
 of the town. Its situation is quiet and retired ; 
 the river runs murmuring at the foot of the 
 churchyard, 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 flutter 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 accom 
 panied 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 him 
 self a vigorous man, with the trivial exception 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 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 was a picture of that neatness, 
 order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest 
 dwellings in this country. A low white 
 washed room, with a stone floor carefully 
 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 granddaughter sewing, a pretty blue- 
 eyed girl, and in the opposite corner was a 
 superannuated crony, whom he addressed by 
 thename of John Ange, and who, I found, had 
 been his companion from childhood. They 
 had played together in infancy ; they had 
 worked together in manhood ; they were now 
 tottering about and gossiping away the evening 
 

 ,r 
 
 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 tranquilly 
 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 traditionar) 
 anecdotes of the bard from these ancient chron 
 iclers ; but they had nothing new to impart. 
 The long interval during which Shakspeare s 
 writings lay in comparative neglect has spread 
 its shadow over his history ; and it is his good 
 or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his 
 biographers but a scant} handful of conjec 
 tures. 
 
 The sexton and his companion had been 
 employed as carpenters on the preparations for 
 the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they re 
 membered Garrick, the prime mover of the 
 fete, who superintended 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 Shak 
 speare s mulberry-tree, of which he had a mor 
 sel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign 
 quickener of literary conception. 
 
 I was grieved to hear these two worthy 
 wights speak very dubiously of the eloquent 
 dame who shows the Shakspeare house. John 
 
124 
 
 Cbe Sfeetcb^JBoofc 
 
 Auge shook his head when I mentioned her 
 valuable collection of relics, particularly her 
 remains of the mulberry-tree ; and the old sex 
 ton even expressed a doubt as to Shakspeare 
 having been born in her house. I soon dis 
 covered 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 out 
 set, 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 escut 
 cheons, and banners dropping piecemeal 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 mur 
 mur. 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 
 
 fVlrtP^f 
 
125 
 
 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 forbeare 
 To dig the dust enclosed here. 
 Blessed be he that spares these stones, 
 And curst 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 dis 
 position, by which he was as much character 
 ized among his contemporaries as by the vast- 
 ness of his genius. The inscription mentions 
 his age at the time of his decease fifty-three 
 years ; an untimely death for the world : for 
 what fruit might not have been expected from 
 the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered 
 as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, 
 and flourishing in the sunshine 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 
 
 wwf 
 
 v# 
 

 126 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^oofc 
 
 native place to Westminster Abbey, which was 
 at one time contemplated. 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 sex 
 ton 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 
 famity. 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 pervades the place ; the 
 whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The 
 feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by 
 

 ^tratfora 
 Parish Church. 
 
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 prevail upon myself to 
 leave the place ; and as I passed through the 
 churchyard, 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 pil 
 grim 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 Strat 
 ford, 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 treat 
 ment must have been galling and humiliating ; 
 for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce 
 a rough pasquinade, which was affixed to the 
 park gate at Charlecot.* 
 
 * The following is the only stanza extant of this lam 
 poon : 
 
128 
 
 Cbe 
 
 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 coun 
 try attorney. He forthwith abandoned the 
 pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal 
 trade ; wandered away to London ; 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, Strat 
 ford 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 re 
 venged himself in his writings ; but in the 
 sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir 
 Thomas is said to be the original Justice Shal 
 low, and the satire is slyly fixed upon him 
 by the justice s armorial bearings, which, like 
 
 " A parliament member, a justice of peace, 
 At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
 If lowsie 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 his ears but with asses to mate ; 
 If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
 Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it." 
 
those of the knight, had white luces* in the 
 quarterings. 
 
 Various attempts have been made by his biog 
 raphers 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 ir 
 regularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and un 
 directed 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 licen 
 tious. 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 fortu 
 nately 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 mad 
 caps of the place, and was one of those unlucky 
 urchins, at mention of whom old men shake 
 
 * The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the 
 Avon about Charlecot. 
 
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 sur 
 rounding park still remain in the possession 
 of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly inter- 
 
 * A proof of Shakspeare s random habits and asso 
 ciates in his youthful days may be found in a tradi 
 tionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder 
 V ^**f Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque Views on 
 the Avon. 
 
 About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty 
 little market-town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two 
 societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under 
 the appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge 
 the lovers of good ale of the neighboring villages to a 
 contest of drinking. Among others, the people of 
 Stratford were called out to prove the strength of 
 their heads ; and in the number of the champions was 
 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 yet 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 
 standing, and goes by the name of Shakspeare s tree. 
 
 In the morning his companions awaked the bard, and 
 
esting, from being connected with this whimsi 
 cal 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 sud 
 den change in the temperature of the weather 
 was surprising in its quickening effects upon 
 the landscape. It was inspiring and animating 
 to witness this first awakening of spring ; to 
 feel its warm breath stealing over the senses ; 
 to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put 
 
 proposed returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying 
 be had had enough, having drank with 
 
 Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
 Haunted Hilbro , Hungry Grafton, 
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wickford, 
 Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford." 
 
 " The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still 
 bear the epithets thus given them : the people of Peb 
 worth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and 
 tabor ; Hilborough is now called Haunted Hilbor 
 ough ; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its 
 
 
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 win 
 ter, was to be seen with its chaste white 
 blossoms in the small gardens before the cot 
 tages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs 
 was faintly heard from the fields. The spar 
 row twittered about the thatched eaves and 
 budding hedges ; the robin 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 Shakspeare 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 everything that pretty bin, 
 My lady sweet arise ! " 
 
Indeed the whole country about here is 
 poetic ground : everything 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 supersti 
 tions 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, goblins, 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 
 w T ide and fertile valley ; sometimes glittering 
 from among willows which fringed its bor- 
 
 * Scot, in his " Discoverie of Witchcraft," enu 
 merates a host of these fireside fancies. " And they 
 have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, 
 urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, 
 syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, 
 dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, 
 changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow, the spoorne, 
 the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier 
 drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 
 Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were 
 afraid of our own shadows." 
 
ders ; sometimes disappearing among groves, 
 or beneath green banks ; and sometimes ram 
 bling 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 undula 
 ting 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 
 rows to a private gate of the park ; there was 
 a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedes 
 trian ; there being a public right of way 
 through the grounds. I delight in these hos 
 pitable 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 rec 
 reation. 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. 
 
nvon 135 
 
 I now found myself among noble avenues 
 of oaks and elms, whose vast size bespoke the 
 growth of centuries. The wind sounded sol 
 emnly among their branches, and the rooks 
 cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree- 
 tops. The eye ranged through a long lessen 
 ing vista, with nothing to interrupt the view 
 but a distant statue ; and a vagrant deer stalk 
 ing like a shadow across the opening. 
 
 There is something about these stately old 
 avenues that has the effect of Gothic archi 
 tecture, not merely from the pretended simi 
 larity of form, but from their bearing the evi 
 dence 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 an 
 cient 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 soli 
 tudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke, which 
 then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that 
 
Gbe Sfcetcb*:fi3oofc 
 
 some of Shakspeare s commentators have sup 
 posed he derived his noble forest meditations 
 of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pic 
 tures 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 kin 
 dles into revery and rapture ; vague but ex 
 quisite images and ideas keep breaking upon 
 it ; and we revel in a mute and almost incom 
 municable 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 sallied forth into that little song which 
 breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary. 
 
 " Under the greenwood 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, 
 
 I 
 
and is in the Gothic style of Queen Elizabeth s 
 day, having been built in the first year of her 
 reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its 
 original state, and may be considered a fair 
 specimen of the residence of a wealthy country 
 gentleman of those days. A great gateway 
 opens from the park into a kind of courtyard 
 in front of the house, ornamented with a grass- 
 plot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The gateway is 
 in imitation of the ancient barbacan ; being a 
 kind of outpost, and flanked by towers ; though 
 evidently for mere ornament, instead of de 
 fence. 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 
 weathercock. 
 
 The Avon, which winds through the park, 
 makes a bend just at the foot of a gently slop 
 ing 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 old 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. 
 
 Shallozv. Barren, barren, barren ; beggars all, 
 beggars all, Sir John : marry, good air." 
 
 Whatever may have been the joviality of 
 the old mansion in the days of Shakspeare, 
 it had now an air of stillness and solitude. 
 The great iron gateway that opened into the 
 courtyard was locked ; there was no show of 
 servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
 gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer 
 harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The 
 only sign of domestic life that I met with was 
 a white cat, stealing with wary look and 
 stealth} 7 pace towards the stables, as if on some 
 nefarious expedition. I must not omit to men 
 tion the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I 
 saw suspended against the barn wall, as it 
 shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly 
 abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that rig 
 orous 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 mansion. I 
 was courteously received by a worthy old 
 housekeeper, who, with the civility and com 
 municativeness of her order, showed me the 
 
Strattotf>*oti8voti 
 
 interior of the house. The greater part has 
 undergone alterations, and been adapted to 
 modern tastes and modes of living : there is a 
 fine old oaken staircase ; and the great hall, 
 that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, 
 still retains much of the appearance it must 
 have had in the days of Shakspeare. The 
 ceiling is arched and lofty ; and at one end 
 is a gallery in which stands an organ. The 
 weapons and trophies of the chase, which 
 formerly adorned the hall of a country gentle 
 man, 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 men 
 tioned in the first scene of the Merry Wives 
 of Windsor," where the Justice is in a rage 
 with Falstaff for having "beaten his men, 
 killed his deer, and broken into his lodge." 
 The poet had no doubt the offences of himself 
 
140 
 
 Gbe SfcetcfcKIBoofc 
 
 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 ralalorum too, and a geutleman 
 born, master parson ; who writes himself Annigero 
 in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, Armi- 
 gero. 
 
 Shallow. Ay, that I do ; and have done any time 
 these three hundred years. 
 
 Slender. All his successors gone before him have 
 done t, and all his ancestors that come after him 
 may ; they may give the dozen while 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 I^ely, 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 in 
 formed me that this lady had been sadly ad 
 dicted 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 present day. It is 
 but justice to this recreant dame to confess that 
 she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm. 
 
 The picture which most attracted my atten 
 tion was a great painting over the fireplace, 
 containing likenesses of Sir Thomas Lucy and 
 his family, who inhabited the hall in the lat 
 ter part of Shakspeare s lifetime. I at first 
 thought that it was the vindictive knight him 
 self, 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 Charle- 
 cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the 
 
 * This 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 inscrip 
 tion ; which, if really composed by her husband, 
 places him quite above the intellectual level of Master 
 Shallow : 
 
 Here 1 yeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas 
 
Gbe 
 
 costume and manners of the time. Sir Thomas 
 is dressed in ruff and doublet ; white shoes 
 with roses in them ; and has a peaked yellow, 
 or, as Master Slender would say, a cane- 
 colored beard." His lady is seated on the 
 opposite side of the picture, in wide ruff and 
 long stomacher, and the children have a most 
 venerable stiffness and formality of dress. 
 Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the family 
 group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in the 
 
 I/ucy of Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, 
 Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Button 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 servant of her good God, never de 
 tected 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 com 
 mitted 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 her 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 knowe what hath byn 
 written to be true. 
 
 Thomas Lucye. 
 
Stratford*on*Svon 
 
 foreground, and one of the children holds a 
 bow; all intimating the knight s skill in 
 hunting, hawking, and archery so indispen 
 sable to an accomplished gentleman in those 
 days.* 
 
 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture 
 of the hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped 
 to meet with the stately elbow-chair of carved 
 oak, in which the country squire of former 
 days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire 
 over his rural domains ; and in which it might 
 be presumed the 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 entertain- 
 
 * 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 at 
 tendant on their kennels ; and the deepness of their 
 throats in the depth of his discourse. A hawk he 
 esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly 
 ambitious 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 commonly 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, hounds, and 
 spaniels." 
 
Cbe Shetcb^JBoofc 
 
 ment, 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 his body-guard 
 of butler, pages, blue-coated serving-men, 
 with their badges ; while the luckless culprit 
 was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the 
 custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whip- 
 pers-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 daugh 
 ters of the knight leaned gracefully forward, 
 eying the youthful prisoner with that pity 
 "that dwells in womanhood." Who would 
 have thought that this poor varlet, thus trem 
 bling before the brief authority of a country 
 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 I 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 
 \vas obliged to give up any further investiga 
 tions. When about to take my leave I was 
 gratified by the civil entreaties of the house 
 keeper and butler, that I would take some 
 refreshment : an instance of good old hospital 
 ity 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 represen 
 tative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; 
 for Shakspeare, 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 
 . . . I 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 kick 
 shaws, 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 charac 
 ters connected with it, that I seemed to be 
 actually living among them. Everything 
 brought them as it were before my eyes ; and 
 as the door of the dining-room opened, I 
 almost expected to hear the feeble voice of 
 
 VOL. II. 10 
 
 
Master Silence quavering forth his favorite 
 ditty : 
 
 " Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
 And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 
 
 On returning to my inn, I could not but 
 reflect on the singular gift of the poet ; to be 
 able thus to spread the magic of his mind 
 over the very face of nature ; to give to things 
 and places a charm and character not their 
 own, and to turn this " w T orking-day w r orld " 
 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 Shak- 
 speare I had been walking all day in a complete 
 delusion. I had surveyed the landscape 
 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 solilo 
 quize 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 au 
 gust Justice Shallow, down to the gentle Master 
 
 "^Tiffin 
 
 m 
 
 : 
 
/^ fsh C/nnr/i, Strati 
 
 on- .-Iron. 
 
rm 
 
Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thou 
 sand 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 checkered path ; 
 and beguiled my spirit in many a lonely hour, 
 with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of 
 social life ! 
 
 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 has 
 kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and 
 hallowed vaults. What honor could his name 
 have derived from being mingled in dusty 
 companionship with the epitaphs and escutch 
 eons and venal eulogiums of a titled multitude ? 
 What would a crowded corner in Westminster 
 Abbey have been, compared with this reverend 
 pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneli 
 ness 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 
 
148 
 
 applause, so 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 failing head 
 begin to warn him that the evening of life is 
 drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the 
 infant to the mother s arms, 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 dis 
 grace 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 treas 
 ure ; 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 ! 
 
 : 
 
Uraits of flnMau 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 him not." 
 
 SPEECH OF AN INDIAN CHIEF. 
 
 ,HERE is something 
 in the character and 
 habits of the North 
 American savage, 
 taken in connection 
 with the scenery over 
 which he is accus 
 tomed to range, its 
 
 vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic rivers, 
 and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, 
 wonderfully striking and sublime. He is 
 formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for 
 the desert. His nature is stern, simple, and 
 enduring ; fitted to grapple with difficulties, 
 and to support privations. There seems but 
 little soil in his heart for the support of the 
 kindly virtues ; and yet, if we would but take 
 the trouble to penetrate through that proud 
 
stoicism and habitual taciturnity, which lock 
 up his character from casual observation, we 
 should find him linked to his fellow-man of 
 civilized life by more of those sympathies and 
 affections than are usually ascribed to him. 
 
 It has been the lot of the unfortunate abor 
 igines of America, in the early periods of col 
 onization, to be doubly wronged by the white 
 men. They have been dispossessed of their 
 hereditary possessions by mercenary and fre 
 quently wanton warfare ; and their characters 
 have been traduced by bigoted and interested 
 writers. The colonist often treated them like 
 beasts of the forest ; and the author has en 
 deavored 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 for 
 est were persecuted and defamed, not because 
 they were guilty, but because they were igno 
 rant. 
 
 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 ferocious animal, whose life or death was a 
 question of mere precaution and convenience. 
 
Craits ot fttftian Cbaractcr 
 
 Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own 
 safety is endangered, and he is sheltered by im 
 punity ; and little mercy is to be expected from 
 him when he feels the sting of the reptile and 
 is conscious of the power to destroy. 
 
 The same prejudices, which were indulged 
 thus early, exist in common circulation at the 
 present day. Certain learned societies have, 
 it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored 
 to investigate and record the real characters 
 and manners of the Indian tribes ; the Ameri 
 can government, too, has wisely and humanely 
 exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and for 
 bearing 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 of the settlements. These are too com 
 monly composed of degenerate beings, cor- 
 
 * The American government has been indefatigable 
 in its exertions to ameliorate the situation of the In 
 dians, and to introduce among them the arts of civil 
 ization, and civil and religious knowledge. To pro 
 tect 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 lauds 
 from them as a present, without the express sanction 
 of government. These precautions are strictly en 
 forced. 
 
152 
 
 Gbe 
 
 rupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, 
 without being benefited by its civilization. 
 That proud independence, which formed the 
 main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken 
 down, and the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. 
 Their spirits are humiliated and debased by a 
 sense of inferiority, and their native courage 
 cowed and 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 settlement, and seek 
 refuge in the depths of remoter forests and yet 
 untrodden 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 settle 
 ments, 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 
 
 1 
 
Gratis of Indian Cbaractcr 
 
 every free and noble quality of their natures. 
 They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thiev 
 ish, and pusillanimous. They loiter like va 
 grants about the settlements, among spacious 
 dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, 
 which only render them sensible of the com 
 parative 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 hard 
 ships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed in 
 the same rude garments. No roof then rose, 
 but was open to the homeless stranger ; no 
 smoke curled among the trees, but he was wel 
 come to sit down by its fire, and join the hunter 
 in his repast. "For," says an old historian 
 of New England, " 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 
 merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better 
 content with their own, which some men es 
 teem so meanly of. " Such were the Indians, 
 whilst in the pride and energy of their primi 
 tive 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 preju 
 dice and passionate exaggeration, instead of 
 the candid temper of true philosophy. They 
 have not sufficiently considered the peculiar 
 circumstances in which the Indians have been 
 placed, and the peculiar principles under which 
 the} 7 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 disregard of treaties, and the 
 treachery and wantonness with which, in time 
 of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to 
 
 oft 
 V l 
 
 /V 
 
x 
 
 Grafts of UnDtan Cbaractcr 
 
 155 
 
 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 indispensable to real 
 friendship ; nor is sufficient caution observed 
 not to offend against those feelings of pride or 
 superstition, which often prompt 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 super 
 stitions, are all directed towards fewer objects ; 
 but the wounds inflicted on them are propor- 
 tionably 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 ven 
 geance 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. Elo 
 quence and superstition combine to inflame the 
 minds of the warriors. The orator awakens 
 their martial ardor, and they are wrought up 
 
156 
 
 to a kind of religions desperation, by the 
 visions of the prophet and the dreamer. 
 
 An instance of one of those sudden exas 
 perations, arising from a motive peculiar to the 
 Indian character, is extant in an old record of 
 the early settlement of Massachusetts. The 
 planters of Plymouth had defaced the monu 
 ments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had 
 plundered the grave of the Sachem s mother of 
 some skins with which it had been decorated. 
 The Indians are remarkable for the reverence 
 which 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 travelling in the 
 vicinity, have been known to turn aside from 
 the highway, and, guided by wonderfully ac 
 curate 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 fol 
 lowing beautifully simple and pathetic har 
 angue ; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, 
 and an affecting instance of filial piety in a 
 savage : 
 
traits of Inftian Cbaractcr 
 
 When last the glorious light of all the sky 
 \\as underneath this globe, and birds grew si 
 lent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to take 
 repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, 
 methought I saw a vision, at which my spirit 
 was much troubled ; and trembling at that 
 doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 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 
 everlasting habitation. This said, the spirit 
 vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce 
 to speak, began to get some strength, and rec 
 ollect 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 gen 
 erous 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 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, had been 
 broken up and driven away, by the capture 
 and massacre of its principal fighting-men. 
 There was a strong temptation, therefore, to 
 the victor to be merciless ; not so much to 
 gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for 
 future security. The Indians had also the 
 superstitious belief, frequent among barbarous 
 nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, 
 that the manes of their friends who had fallen 
 in battle were soothed by the blood of the 
 captives. The prisoners, however, who are 
 not thus sacrificed, are adopted into their fam 
 ilies in the place of the slain, and are treated 
 with the confidence and affection of relatives 
 and friends ; nay, so hospitable and tender is 
 their entertainment, that when the alternative 
 
 
ttraits of Indian Character 
 
 159 
 
 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 colo 
 nization of the whites. What was formerly a 
 compliance with policy and superstition, has 
 been exasperated into a gratification of ven 
 geance. They cannot but be sensible that the 
 white men are the usurpers of their ancient 
 dominion, the cause of their degradation, and 
 the gradual destroyers of their race. They go 
 forth to battle, smarting with injuries and in 
 dignities which they have individually suf 
 fered, and they are driven to madness and 
 despair by the wide-spreading desolation and 
 the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. 
 The whites have too frequently set them an 
 example of violence, by burning their villages, 
 and laying waste their slender means of sub 
 sistence ; and yet they wonder that savages 
 do not show moderation and magnanimity 
 towards those who have left them nothing but 
 mere existence and wretchedness. 
 
 We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly 
 and treacherous, because they use stratagem in 
 warfare, in preference to open force ; but in this 
 they are fully justified by their rude code of 
 honor. They are early taught that stratagem 
 
 
 
1 60 
 
 is praiseworthy ; the bravest warrior thinks it 
 no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every 
 advantage of his foe ; he triumphs in the su 
 perior craft and sagacity by which he has been 
 enabled to surprise and destroy an enemy. In 
 deed, man is naturally more prone to subtlety 
 than open valor, owing to his physical weak 
 ness in comparison with other animals. They 
 are endowed with natural weapons of defence : 
 with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and talons ; 
 but man has to depend on his superior sagac 
 ity. In all his encounters with these, his proper 
 enemies, he resorts to stratagem ; and when he 
 perversely turns his hostility against his fellow- 
 man, he at first continues the same subtle mode 
 of warfare. 
 
 The natural principle of war is to do the 
 most harm to our enemy with the least harm 
 to ourselves ; and this of course is to be effected 
 by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which 
 induces us to despise the suggestions of pru 
 dence, and to rush in the face of certain dan 
 ger, is the offspring of society, and produced 
 by education. 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 condemned as ignoble. It 
 is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame, 
 
{Traits of fnftfan Character 
 
 161 
 
 and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by 
 the superior dread of an evil which exists but 
 in the imagination. It has been cherished and 
 stimulated also by various means. It has been 
 the theme of spirit-stirring song and chival 
 rous story. The poet and minstrel have de 
 lighted 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. Tri 
 umphs and gorgeous pageants have been its 
 reward ; monuments, on which art has ex 
 hausted 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 extraordinary 
 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 invalua 
 ble virtues, which silently ennoble the human 
 character, and swell the tide of human happi 
 ness. 
 
 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 
 
 VOL. II. II 
 
 
 
 ,/ 
 
162 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 and to give an interest to his existence. Sur 
 rounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of war 
 fare 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 solitudes of ocean, as 
 the bird mingles among clouds and storms, and 
 wings its way, a mere speck, across the path 
 less fields of air, so the Indian holds his 
 course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through 
 the boundless bosom of the wilderness. His 
 expeditions may vie in distance and danger 
 with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the cru 
 sade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast 
 forests, exposed to the hazards of lonely sick 
 ness, 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 sub 
 sistence 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 sur 
 pass the Indian in his lofty contempt of death, 
 and the fortitude with which he sustains its 
 
{Traits ot Indian Cbaractcr 
 
 163 
 
 cruellest infliction. Indeed we here behold him 
 rising superior to the white man, in conse 
 quence 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 pro 
 tracted agonies of fire. He even takes a pride 
 in taunting his persecutors, and provoking 
 their ingenuity of torture ; and as the devour 
 ing flames prey on his very vitals, and the 
 flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his 
 last song of triumph, breathing the defiance 
 of an unconquered heart, and invoking the 
 spirits of his fathers to witness that he dies 
 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 
 
164 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^oofc 
 
 wars in New England, there is a touching 
 account of the desolation carried into the tribe 
 of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks 
 from the cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate 
 butchery. In one place we read of the sur- 
 prisal 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 being despatched 
 and ended in the course of an hour. After a 
 series of similar transactions, our soldiers, 
 as the historian piously observes, being re 
 solved 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, the 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 preferred 
 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 
 
 .- 
 
 {1- 
 
Grafts of Indian Cbaractcr 
 
 165 
 
 plied them with shot all the time, by which 
 means many were killed and buried in the 
 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 vir 
 tue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, 
 from virtue, naked and destitute, and perish 
 ing obscurely in a wilderness ! 
 
 But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pict 
 ures. The eastern tribes have long since dis 
 appeared ; 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 stream. And such 
 must, sooner or later, be the fate of those 
 other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have 
 occasionally been inveigled from their forests 
 to mingle in the wars of white men. In a 
 little while, and they 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 tributary streams of the 
 Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes 
 that once spread over Massachusetts and Con 
 necticut, and lorded it along the proud banks 
 of the Hudson ; of that gigantic race said to 
 
Crafts of InMatl Cbaracter 
 
 167 
 
 have existed on the borders of the Susque- 
 lianna ; and of those various nations that 
 flourished about the Potomac and the Rappa- 
 hannock, and that peopled the forests of the vast 
 valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like 
 a vapor from the face of the earth ; their very 
 history will be lost in forgetfulness ; and " the 
 places that now know them will know them 
 no more forever." Or, if, perchance, some 
 dubious memorial of them should survive, it 
 may be in the romantic dreams of the poet, to 
 people in imagination his glades and groves, 
 like the fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of 
 antiquity. But should he venture upon the 
 dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness ; 
 should he tell how they were invaded, cor 
 rupted, despoiled, driven from their native 
 abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers, 
 hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and 
 sent down with violence and butchery to the 
 grave, posterity will either turn with horror 
 and incredulity from the tale, or blush with 
 indignation at the inhumanity of their fore 
 fathers. "We are driven back," said an old 
 warrior, until we can retreat no farther ; 
 our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, 
 our fires are nearly extinguished : a little lon 
 ger, and the white man will cease to persecute 
 us for we shall cease to exist ! " 
 
pbilip of pofeanofeet 
 
 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. 
 
 IT is to be regretted that those early writers, 
 who treated of the discovery and settle 
 ment of America, have not given us more 
 particular and candid accounts of the re 
 markable characters that flourished in 
 savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have 
 reached us are full of peculiarity and interest ; 
 they furnish us with nearer glimpses of human 
 nature, and show what man is in a compara 
 tively 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 wit 
 nessing, as it were, the native growth of moral 
 sentiment, and perceiving those generous and 
 
pbtlip of pofeanofcct 
 
 romantic qualities which have been artificially 
 cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous 
 hardihood and rude magnificence. 
 
 In civilized life, where the happiness, and in 
 deed almost the existence, of man depends so 
 much upon the opinion of his fellow-men, he is 
 constantly acting a studied part. The bold and 
 peculiar traits of native character are refined 
 away, or softened down by the levelling influ 
 ence of what is termed good breeding ; and he 
 practises so many petty deceptions, and affects 
 so many generous sentiments, for the purposes 
 of popularity, that it is difficult to distinguish 
 his real from his artificial character. The In 
 dian, on the contrary, free from the restraints 
 and refinements of polished life, and, in a great 
 degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys 
 the impulses of his inclination or the dictates 
 of his judgment ; and thus the attributes of his 
 nature, being freely indulged, grow singly 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 wild- 
 ness 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 bitterness, the 
 outrages of the Indians, and their wars with 
 the settlers of New Kngland. It is painful to 
 perceive even from these partial narratives, how 
 the footsteps of civilization may be traced in 
 the blood of the aborigines ; how easily the 
 colonists were moved to hostility by the lust of 
 conquest ; how merciless and exterminating 
 was their warfare. The imagination shrinks 
 at the idea, how many intellectual beings were 
 hunted from the earth, how many brave and 
 noble hearts, of nature s sterling coinage, were 
 broken down and trampled in the dust. 
 
 Such was the fate of PHILIP OP POKANOKET, 
 an Indian warrior, whose name was once a terror 
 throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut. 
 He was the most distinguished of a number of 
 contemporary Sachems who reigned over the 
 Pequods, the Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, 
 and the other eastern tribes, at the time of the 
 first settlement of New England ; a band of 
 native untaught heroes, who made the most 
 generous struggle of which human nature is 
 capable ; fighting to the last gasp in the cause 
 of their country, without a hope of victory or 
 a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of 
 poetry, and fit subjects for local story and ro 
 mantic fiction, they have left scarcely any au- 
 
 
of pohanohct 
 
 thentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, 
 like gigantic shadows, in the dim twilight of 
 tradition.* 
 
 \Vhen the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers 
 are called by their descendants, first took refuge 
 on the shores of the New World, from the relig 
 ious persecutions of the Old, their situation was 
 to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. 
 Few in number, and that number rapidly per 
 ishing away through sickness and hardships ; 
 surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage 
 tribes exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic 
 winter and the vicissitudes of an ever-shifting 
 climate, their minds filled with doleful forebod 
 ings, 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 Sag 
 amore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief, 
 who reigned over a great extent of country. 
 Instead of taking advantage of the scanty 
 number of the strangers, and expelling them 
 from his territories, into which they had intru 
 ded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a 
 generous friendship, and extended towards 
 
 * 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. 
 
172 \LDC SmetCDsjBOOR 
 
 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 
 integrity and good faith of Massasoit have 
 never been impeached. He continued a firm 
 and magnanimous friend of the white men ; 
 suffering them to extend their possessions, and 
 to strengthen themselves in the land ; and 
 betraying no jealousy of their increasing power 
 and prosperity. Shortly before his death he 
 came once more to New Plymouth, with his 
 son Alexander, for the purpose of renewing 
 the covenant of peace, and of securing it to 
 his posterity. 
 
 At this conference he endeavored to protect 
 the religion of his forefathers from the en 
 croaching 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 Eng- 
 
v 
 
 lish), to the residence of a principal settler, 
 recommending mutual kindness and confi 
 dence ; and entreating that the same love and 
 amity which had existed between the white 
 men and himself might be continued after 
 wards 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 
 ingratitude of white men. 
 
 His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. 
 He was of a quick and impetuous temper, and 
 proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights and 
 dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial 
 conduct of the strangers excited his indigna 
 tion ; and he beheld with uneasiness their 
 exterminating wars with the neighboring 
 tribes. He was doomed soon to incur their 
 hostility, being accused of plotting with the 
 Narragansetts to rise against the English and 
 drive them from the land. It is impossible to 
 say whether this accusation was warranted by 
 facts or was grounded on mere suspicion. It 
 is evident, however, by the violent and over 
 bearing 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 
 
I 
 
 174 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 fol 
 lowers, unarmed, after the toils of the chase. 
 The suddenness of his arrest, and the outrage 
 offered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon 
 the irascible feelings of this proud savage, as 
 to throw him into a raging fever. He was per 
 mitted 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 baneful to 
 savage life. He saw the whole race of his 
 countrymen melting before them from the face 
 
Ipbilin of pofcanohct 
 
 175 
 
 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 by the 
 settlers ; but who does not know the nature of 
 Indian purchases, in the early periods of coloni 
 zation ? The Europeans always made thrifty 
 bargains through their superior adroitness in 
 traffic, and they gained vast accessions of terri 
 tory by easily provoked hostilities. An un 
 cultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into 
 the refinements of law, by which an injury 
 may be gradually and legally inflicted. Lead 
 ing facts are all by which he judges ; and it 
 was enough for Philip to know that before the 
 intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen 
 were lords of the soil, 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 indigna 
 tion at the treatment of his brother, he sup 
 pressed them for the present, renewed the con 
 tract 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. Suspi 
 cions, however, which were at first but vague 
 * Now Bristol, Rhode Island. 
 
5fcetcb<fiSoofc 
 
 and indefinite, began to acquire form and sub 
 stance ; and he was at length charged with at 
 tempting to instigate the various eastern tribes 
 to rise at once, and, by a simultaneous effort, 
 to throw off the yoke of their oppressors. It is 
 difficult at this period to assign the proper 
 credit due to these early accusations against 
 the Indians. There was a proneness to sus 
 picion, 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 talebearing met with counte 
 nance and reward and the sword was readily 
 unsheathed when its success was certain, and 
 it carved out empire. 
 
 The only positive evidence on record against 
 Philip is the accusation of one Sausaman, a 
 renegado 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 principles. He had acted for 
 some time as Philip s confidential secretary and 
 counsellor, and had enjoyed his bounty and 
 protection. Finding, however, that the clouds 
 of adversity were gathering round his patron, 
 he abandoned his service and went over to 
 the whites ; and, in order to gain their favor, 
 
pbilip of pofcancfcet 
 
 charged his former benefactor with plotting 
 against their safety. A rigorous investigation 
 took place. Philip and several of his subjects 
 submitted to be examined, but nothing was 
 proved against them. The settlers, however, 
 had now gone too far to retract ; they had pre 
 viously determined that Philip was a danger 
 ous neighbor ; they had publicly evinced their 
 distrust ; and had done enough to insure his 
 hostility ; according, therefore, to the usual 
 mode of reasoning in these cases, his destruc 
 tion 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 appre 
 hended and tried, and, on the testimony of one 
 very questionable witness, w r ere condemned 
 and executed as murderers. 
 
 This treatment of his subjects, and ignomin 
 ious 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 in 
 sulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled 
 in his mind ; and he had a further warning in 
 
 VOL. II 12 
 
178 
 
 ,-; ^ V^- r - 
 
 5fcetcb=:fl3oofc 
 
 the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sa 
 chem of the Narragansetts, who, after manfully 
 facing his accusers before a tribunal of the 
 colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of 
 conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, 
 had been perfidiously despatched at their insti 
 gation. 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 Narragansetts for safety ; 
 and wherever he appeared, was continually 
 surrounded by armed warriors. 
 
 When the two parties were thus in a state of 
 distrust and irritation, the least spark was suffi 
 cient to .set them in a flame. The Indians, hav 
 ing 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 a signal for 
 open hostilities ; the Indians pressed to revenge 
 the death of their comrade, and the alarm of 
 war resounded through the Plymouth colony. 
 
 In the early chronicles of these dark and 
 melancholy times we meet with many indica 
 tions of the diseased state of the public mind. 
 The gloom of religious abstraction, and the 
 wildness of their situation, among the trackless 
 forests and savage tribes, had disposed the 
 colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled 
 
pbtlip of pofcanofect 
 
 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 pre 
 ceded, we are told, by a variety of those awful 
 warnings which forerun great and public calam 
 ities. The perfect form of an Indian bow ap 
 peared in the air of New Plymouth, which was 
 looked upon by the inhabitants as a " prodigi 
 ous apparition." At Hadley, Northampton, 
 and other towns in their neighborhood, "was 
 heard the report of a great piece of ordnance, 
 with a shaking of the earth and a considerable 
 echo." * Others were alarmed on a still, sun 
 shiny 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 fore 
 bodings. Many of these portentous sights and 
 sounds may be ascribed to natural phenomena : 
 to the northern lights which occur vividly in 
 those latitudes ; the meteors which explode in 
 the air ; the casual rushing of a blast through 
 the top branches of the forest ; the crash of 
 * The Rev. Increase Mather s History. 
 
1 80 
 
 Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 cur 
 rency of these superstitious fancies, and the 
 grave record made of them by one of the learned 
 men of the day, are strongly characteristic of 
 the times. 
 
 The nature of the contest that ensued was 
 such as too often distinguishes the warfare 
 between civilized men and savages. On the 
 part of the whites it was conducted with supe 
 rior 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, and who had nothing to 
 expect from peace, but humiliation, depend 
 ence, and decay. 
 
 The events of the war are transmitted to us 
 by a worthy clergyman of the time, who dwells 
 with horror and indignation on every hostile 
 act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst 
 he mentions with applause the most sanguinary 
 
pbilip ot pohanohct 
 
 181 
 
 atrocities of the whites. Philip is reviled as a 
 murderer and a traitor ; without considering 
 that he was a true-born prince, gallantly fight 
 ing 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 re 
 volt, if such had really been formed, was worthy 
 of a capacious mind, and, had it not been pre 
 maturely discovered, might have been over 
 whelming in its consequences. The war that 
 actually broke out was but a war of detail, a 
 mere succession of casual exploits and uncon 
 nected enterprises. Still it sets forth the mili 
 tary genius and daring prowess of Philip ; and 
 wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate nar 
 rations that have been given of it, we can 
 arrive at simple facts, we find him displaying 
 a vigorous mind, a fertility of expedients, a 
 contempt of suffering and hardship, and an 
 unconquerable resolution, that command our 
 sympathy and applause. 
 
 Driven from his paternal domains at Mount 
 Hope, he threw himself into the depths of 
 those vast and trackless forests that skirted 
 the settlements, and were almost impervious to 
 anything but a wild beast, or an Indian. Here 
 he gathered together his forces, like a storm 
 
 1 
 
accumulating its stores of mischief in the 
 bosom of the thunder-cloud, and would sud 
 denly emerge at a time and place least ex 
 pected, carrying havoc and dismay into the 
 villages. There were now and then indica 
 tions of these impending ravages, that filled 
 the minds of the colonists with awe and ap 
 prehension. 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 wan 
 dering 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 sur 
 rounded by the settlers, yet Philip as often es 
 caped 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 ; composed of 
 loose bogs of deep black mud ; perplexed with 
 thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered 
 
ot pohancfect 
 
 183 
 
 < ^ 
 
 and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, over 
 shadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The un 
 certain footing and the tangled mazes of these 
 shaggy wilds rendered them almost impene 
 trable 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 in 
 vested the entrance to the Neck, and began to 
 build a fort, with the thought of starving out 
 the foe ; but Philip and his warriors wafted 
 themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in 
 the dead of night, leaving the women and chil 
 dren behind, and escaped away to the west 
 ward, kindling the flames of war among the 
 tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck 
 country, and threatening the colony of Con 
 necticut. 
 
 In this way Philip became a theme of uni 
 versal apprehension. The mystery in which 
 he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. 
 He was an evil that walked in darkness, whose 
 coming none could foresee, and against which 
 none knew when to be on the alert. The whole 
 
Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 country abounded with rumors and alarms. 
 Philip seemed almost possessed of ubiquity ; 
 for, in whatever part of the widely extended 
 frontier an eruption from the forest took place, 
 Philip was said to be its leader. Many super 
 stitious notions also were circulated concerning 
 him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and 
 to be attended by an old Indian witch or 
 prophetess, w r hom he consulted, and who as 
 sisted him by her charms and incantations. 
 This indeed was frequently the case with In 
 dian chiefs ; either through their own credu 
 lity, or to act upon that of their followers ; 
 and the influence of the prophet and the 
 dreamer over Indian superstition has been 
 fully evidenced in recent instances 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 re 
 peated 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 Narragansetts. 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 insti 
 gations of the settlers. "He was the heir," 
 
ot pohanohct 
 
 185 
 
 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 legiti 
 mate avenger of his murder. Though he had 
 forborne to take an active part in this hopeless 
 war, yet he received Philip and his broken 
 forces with open arms, and gave them the most 
 generous countenance and support. This at 
 once drew upon him the hostility of the English, 
 and it was 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, Ply 
 mouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the 
 Narragansett 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 impene 
 trable fastnesses to the Indians. 
 
 Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had con 
 veyed the greater part of his stores, together 
 with the old, the infirm, the women and chil 
 dren of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he 
 and Philip had likewise drawn up the flower 
 of their forces. This fortress, deemed by the 
 Indians impregnable, was situated upon a ris 
 ing mound, or kind of island, of five or six 
 acres, in the midst of a swamp ; it was con- 
 
/ 
 
 structed with a degree of judgment and skill 
 vastly superior to what is usually displayed in 
 Indian fortification, and indicative of the mar 
 tial 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 at 
 tack, and several of their bravest officers were 
 shot down in the act of storming the fortress 
 sword in hand. The assault was renewed 
 with greater success. A lodgment was effected. 
 The Indians were driven from one post to an 
 other. 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 Canon- 
 chet, with a handful of surviving warriors, 
 retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the 
 thickets of the surrounding forest. 
 
 The victors set fire to the wigwams and the 
 fort ; the whole was soon in a blaze ; many of 
 the old men, the women, and the children per 
 ished in the flames. This last outrage over 
 came even the stoicism of the savage. The 
 neighboring woods resounded with the yells of 
 rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive war 
 riors, as they beheld the destruction of their 
 
pbtlip of pofcanofect 
 
 187 
 
 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 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 Canon- 
 chet is worthy of particular mention : the last 
 scene of his life is one of the noblest instances 
 on record of Indian magnanimity. 
 
 Broken down in his power and resources by 
 this signal defeat, yet faithful to his ally, and 
 to the hapless cause which he had espoused, 
 he rejected all overtures of peace, offered on 
 condition of betraying Philip and his follow 
 ers, and declared that he would fight it out 
 to the last man, rather than become a servant 
 to the English." His home being destroyed ; 
 his country harassed and laid waste by the 
 incursions of the conquerors ; he was obliged 
 to wander away to the banks of the Connecti 
 cut ; where he formed a raltying point to the 
 * MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles. 
 
 f . 
 
Sfcetcb<fi5ook 
 
 whole body of western Indians, and laid waste 
 several of the English settlements. 
 
 Early in the spring he departed on a haz 
 ardous 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 Narragansett, 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 Indians rapidly advancing, they 
 fled in breathless terror past their chieftain, 
 without stopping to inform him of the danger. 
 Canonchet sent another scout, who did the 
 same. He then sent two more, one of whom, 
 hurrying back in confusion and affright, told 
 him that the whole British army was at hand. 
 Canonchet saw there was no choice but imme 
 diate flight. He attempted to escape round 
 the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued 
 by the hostile Indians, and a few of the fleet 
 est of the English. Finding the swiftest pur- 
 
of pohanehct 
 
 suer close upon his heels, he threw off, first 
 his blanket, then his silver-laced coat, and belt 
 of peag, by which his enemies knew him to be 
 Canonchet, and redoubled the eagerness of 
 pursuit. 
 
 At length, in dashing through the river, his 
 foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep 
 as to wet his gun. This accident so struck 
 him with despair, that, as he afterwards con 
 fessed, " his heart and his bowels turned within 
 him, and he became like a rotten stick, void 
 of strength." 
 
 To such a degree was he unnerved, that, 
 being seized by a Pequod Indian within a short 
 distance of the river, he made no resistance, 
 though a man of great vigor of body and bold 
 ness 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." 
 
 
i go 
 
 Cbe SfeetcbOBoofc 
 
 Though repeated offers were made to him of 
 his life, on condition 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 for 
 ward 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 feelings of the generous and the 
 brave ; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being 
 towards whom war had no courtesy, humanity 
 no law, religion no compassion ; he was con 
 demned 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, 
 
 Hiss 
 
of pohanofect 
 
 191 
 
 for he was shot at Stoningham, by three young 
 Sachems of his own rank. 
 
 The defeat at the Narragansett fortress, and 
 the death of Canonchet, were fatal blows to 
 the fortunes of King Philip. He made an 
 ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war, by 
 stirring up the Mohawks to take arms ; but 
 though possessed of the native talents of a 
 statesman, his arts were counteracted by the 
 superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and 
 the terror of their warlike skill began to sub 
 due the resolution of the neighboring tribes. 
 The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily 
 stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thin 
 ning 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 cap 
 tured ; 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 com 
 pelled 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 aug 
 mented thereby ; being himself made ac 
 quainted with the sense and experimental 
 
192 
 
 feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of 
 friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement 
 of all family relations, and being stripped of all 
 outward comforts, before his own life should 
 be taken away." 
 
 To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, 
 his own followers began to plot against his life, 
 that by sacrificing him they might purchase 
 dishonorable safety. Through treachery a 
 number of his faithful adherents, the subjects 
 of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset, a 
 near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, 
 were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. 
 Wetamoe was among them at the time, and 
 attempted to make her escape by crossing a 
 neighboring river : either exhausted by swim 
 ming, or starved by cold and hunger, she w r as 
 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 friends. 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 
 
pbilip of pofcanofcet 
 
 unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this 
 barbarous spectacle, that we are told they 
 broke forth into the " most horrid and diaboli 
 cal lamentations." 
 
 However Philip had borne up against the 
 complicated miseries and misfortunes that sur 
 rounded him, the treachery of his followers 
 seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to 
 despondency. It is said that "he never re 
 joiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his 
 designs." The spring of hope was broken, 
 the ardor of enterprise was extinguished, he 
 looked around, and all was danger and dark 
 ness ; 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 wan 
 dered 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 situ 
 ation 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 
 
I 9 4 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 careworn followers, brooding in 
 silence over his blasted fortunes, and acquiring 
 a savage sublimity from the wildness and 
 dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but 
 not dismayed crushed to the earth, but not 
 humiliated he seemed to grow more haughty 
 beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce sat 
 isfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness, 
 lyittle minds are tamed and subdued by misfor 
 tune ; 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 revenge 
 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. Be 
 fore he was aware of their approach, they had 
 
 ^ 
 
of pofcanofcct 
 
 195 
 
 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 un 
 fortunate King Philip ; persecuted while living, 
 slandered and dishonored when dead. If, how 
 ever, 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 friend 
 ship. 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 sensibilities ; but the treach 
 ery 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 
 
 \ 
 
: 
 
 Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 submission, and live depen 
 dent and despised in the ease and luxury of the 
 settlements. With heroic qualities and bold 
 achievements that would have graced a civilized 
 warrior, and have rendered him the theme of 
 the poet and the historian, he lived a wanderer 
 and a fugitive in his native land, and went 
 down, like a lonely bark foundering amid dark 
 ness and tempest without a pitying eye to 
 weep his fall, or a friendly hand to record his 
 struggle. 
 
3obn Bull 
 
 An old song, made by an aged old pate, 
 
 Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate, 
 
 That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate, 
 
 And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate. 
 
 With an old study fill d full of learned old books, 
 
 With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his 
 
 looks, 
 
 With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks, 
 And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks. 
 Like an old courtier, etc. 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 THERE is no species of humor in which 
 the English more excel than that 
 which consists in caricaturing and 
 giving ludicrous appellations, or 
 nicknames. In this way they have 
 whimsically designated, not merely individuals, 
 but nations ; and, in their fondness for push 
 ing a joke, they have not spared even them 
 selves. One would think that, in personifying 
 itself, a nation would be apt to picture some 
 thing grand, heroic, and imposing ; but it is 
 characteristic of the popular humor of the Eng 
 lish, and 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 stout oaken cudgel. 
 Thus they have taken a singular delight in 
 exhibiting their most private foibles in a laugh 
 able point of view ; and have been so success 
 ful 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 of 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 
 caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. 
 Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted 
 Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or 
 grossness ; and this I have especially noticed 
 among those truly homebred and genuine 
 sons of the soil who have never migrated 
 beyond the sound of Bow-Bells. If one of 
 these should be a little uncouth in speech, and 
 apt to utter impertinent 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 refine 
 ments, he thanks heaven for his ignorance he 
 is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for 
 frippery and knickknacks. His very prone- 
 ness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay ex 
 travagantly for absurdities, is excused under 
 the plea of munificence for John is always 
 more generous than wise. 
 
 Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will 
 contrive to argue every fault into a merit, and 
 will frankly convict himself of being the 
 honestest fellow in existence. 
 
 However little, therefore, the character may 
 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 infor 
 mation from the innumerable portraits of John 
 Bull, as exhibited in the windows of the cari 
 cature-shops. Still, however, he is one of 
 those fertile humorists, that are continually 
 throwing out new portraits, and presenting 
 
 1 
 
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 victori 
 ous ; and though no one fights with more ob 
 stinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when 
 the battle is over, and he comes to the recon 
 ciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere 
 shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his an 
 tagonist 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 extrava 
 gance he will be taken with violent qualms of 
 economy ; stop short at the most trivial expen 
 diture ; talk desperately of being ruined and 
 brought upon the parish ; and, in such moods, 
 
Sobn JBiill 
 
 will not pay the smallest tradesman s bill with 
 out 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. 
 
 With all his talk of economy, however, he 
 is a bountiful provider, and a hospitable house 
 keeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, 
 its chief object being to devise how he may 
 afford to be extravagant ; for he will begrudge 
 himself a beef-steak and pint of port one day, 
 that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogs 
 head of ale, and treat all his neighbors on the 
 next. 
 
 His domestic establishment is enormously 
 expensive ; not so much from any great out 
 ward parade, as from the great consumption 
 of solid beef and pudding ; the vast numbers 
 of followers he feeds and clothes ; and his sin 
 gular disposition to pay hugely for small ser 
 vices. 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 be 
 fore his face, they may manage him to perfec 
 tion. Everything that lives on him seems to 
 thrive and grow fat. His house-servants are 
 
 . -r . 
 
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 sur 
 prised into a broad laugh ; but he loaths senti 
 ment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. 
 He is a boon-companion, 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 cud 
 gelled. 
 
 In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has 
 a propensity to be somewhat too ready. He is 
 a busy-minded personage, who thinks not 
 merely for himself and family, but for all the 
 country round, and is most generously dis 
 posed to be everybody s champion. He is 
 continually volunteering his services to settle 
 his neighbor s affairs, and takes it in great 
 dudgeon if they engage in any matter of con 
 sequence without asking his advice ; though 
 
, 
 
 201 
 
 he seldom engages in any friendly office of the 
 kind without finishing by getting into a squab 
 ble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at 
 their ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons 
 in his youth in the noble science of defence, 
 and having accomplished himself in the use of 
 his limbs and his weapons, and become a per 
 fect 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 dis 
 tant of his neighbors, but he begins inconti 
 nently 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 coun 
 try, 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 di 
 rection, 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 wrathfully from 
 his den. 
 
 Though really a good-hearted, good-tem 
 pered old fellow at bottom, yet he is singularly 
 fond of being in the midst of contention. It 
 
204 
 
 Cbe SKetcfcKfiSeoK 
 
 well paid, and pampered, 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 vari 
 ous 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 par 
 tially lighted up in modern days, yet there are 
 many places where you must still grope in the 
 dark. Additions have been made to the origi 
 nal edifice from time to time, and great altera 
 tions have taken place ; towers and battlements 
 have been erected during wars and tumults ; 
 wings built in time of peace ; and out-houses, 
 lodges, and offices run up according to the 
 whim or convenience of different generations, 
 until it has become one of the most spacious, 
 rambling tenements imaginable. An entire 
 wing is taken up with the family chapel, a 
 reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly 
 
JBull 
 
 sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having 
 altered and simplified at various 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 stanch in his religion, and 
 piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that 
 many dissenting chapels have been erected in 
 his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with 
 whom he has 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 discreetly at his little peccadil 
 loes, 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 anti 
 quated taste, somewhat heavy, and often incon 
 venient, but full of the solemn magnificence 
 
of former times ; fitted up with rich though 
 faded tapestry, un wieldly furniture, and loads 
 of massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fire 
 places, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and 
 sumptuous banqueting 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 totter 
 ing 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 thoroughly overhauled ; and to 
 have some of the useless parts pulled down, 
 and the others strengthened with their mate 
 rials ; 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 tem 
 pests that it has stood for several hundred 
 years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble 
 down now that, as to its being inconvenient, 
 his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, 
 and would not be comfortable without them 
 that, as to its unwieldly size and irregular con 
 struction, these result from its being the 
 growth of centuries, and being improved by 
 
 "T 
 
3obn JBull 
 
 ^ 
 
 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 decoration of the 
 rest, and the harmony of the whole ; and 
 swears that the parts are so built into each 
 other, that, if you pull down one, you run the 
 risk of having the whole 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 an 
 ancient and honorable family to be bounteous 
 in its appointments, and to be eaten up by de 
 pendents ; 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 establishments, his manor is 
 encumbered by old retainers whom he cannot 
 turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay 
 down. His mansion is like a great hospital of 
 invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a 
 whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook 
 
 corner but is of use in housing some useless 
 
208 
 
 Sbe Sfcetcb^oofe 
 
 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 these supernumeraries 
 and their families ; for they are amazingly pro 
 lific, and when they die off, are sure to leave 
 John a legacy of hungry mouths to be pro 
 vided 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 superannuated 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 re 
 mainder of their existence, a worthy example 
 of grateful recollection, which if some of his 
 neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their 
 discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleas- 
 

 3obn JSull 
 
 ures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, 
 to dwell on their good 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 venera 
 tion for family usages, and family incum- 
 brances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is 
 infested by gangs of gypsies ; 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 generation 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 dove-cot ; but they are heredi 
 tary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swal 
 lows have nearly choked up every chimney 
 with their nests ; martins build in every frieze 
 and cornice ; crows flutter about the towers, 
 and perch on every weathercock ; and old gray- 
 headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the 
 house, running in and out of their holes un 
 dauntedly in broad daylight. 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. 
 
 VOL. II. 14 
 
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 neighborhood, they have caused 
 him great perplexity in meeting his 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 privilege most clamorously in the present 
 posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the 
 honor of the race, and are clear that the old 
 establishment should be kept up in all its state, 
 whatever may be the cost ; others, who are 
 more prudent and considerate, entreat the old 
 gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put 
 his whole system of housekeeping on a more 
 moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, 
 seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but 
 their wholesome advice has been completely 
 defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of 
 his sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, 
 of rather low habits, who neglects his business 
 to frequent ale-houses, is the orator of village 
 clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest 
 
3obn JGull 
 
 of his father s tenants. No sooner does he 
 hear any of his brothers mention reform or re 
 trenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words 
 out of their mouths, and roars out for an over 
 turn. When his tongue is once going, nothing 
 can stop it. He rants about the room ; hectors 
 the old man about his spendthrift practices ; 
 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 con 
 stantly complaining of the emptiness of his 
 purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his 
 pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and 
 even runs up scores for the liquor over which 
 he preaches about his father s extravagance. 
 
 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 
 
212 
 
 Gbe Sfcetcb*JBoofc 
 
 the latter is too sturdy and refractory for pater 
 nal 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, roistering 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 represented ; but when 
 a man s own children begin to rail at his ex 
 travagance, 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 7 any 
 good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, 
 revelling, and prize-fighting. 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 
 
3obn JGull 
 
 have known many finer estates come to the 
 hammer." 
 
 What is worst of all, is the effect which these 
 pecuniary embarrassments 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 prosper 
 ous days when he sailed before the wind, now 
 hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a 
 calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and 
 wrinkles, and apparently 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 drinking 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 
 evidently empty. 
 
 Such is the plight of honest John Bull at 
 present ; yet for all this the old fellow s spirit 
 
214 
 
 is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop 
 the least expression of sympathy or concern, 
 he takes fire in an instant ; swears that he is the 
 richest and stoutest fellow in the country ; talks 
 of laying out large sums to adorn his house or 
 buy another estate ; and with a valiant swagger 
 and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly 
 to have another bout at quarter-staff. 
 
 Though there may be something rather 
 whimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannot 
 look upon John s situation without strong feel 
 ings of interest. With all his 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 
 all the redundancies of a rich and liberal char 
 acter. He is like his own oak, rough without, 
 but sound and solid within ; whose bark 
 abounds with excrescences in proportion to 
 the growth and grandeur of the timber ; and 
 whose branches make a fearful groaning and 
 
3obn 
 
 215 
 
 murmuring in the least storm, from their very 
 magnitude and luxuriance. There is some 
 thing, too, in the appearance of his old family 
 mansion that is extremely poetical and pictur 
 esque ; and, as long as it can be rendered com 
 fortably habitable, I should almost tremble to 
 see it meddled with, during the present con 
 flict of tastes and opinions. Some of his ad 
 visers are no doubt good architects, that might 
 be of service ; but many, I fear, are mere lev 
 ellers, who, when they had once got to work with 
 their mattocks on this venerable 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 pres 
 ent troubles may teach him more prudence in 
 future ; that he may cease to distress his 
 mind about other people s affairs ; that he may 
 give up the fruitless attempt to promote the 
 good of his neighbors, and the peace and hap 
 piness of the world, by dint of the cudgel ; 
 that he may remain quietly at home ; gradu 
 ally get his house into repair ; cultivate his 
 rich estate according to his fancy ; husband 
 his income if he thinks proper ; bring his un 
 ruly children into order if he can ; renew the 
 jovial scenes of ancient prosperity ; and long 
 enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an hon 
 orable, and a merry old age. 
 
TTbe prifce of tbe 
 
 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, 
 I,ove kept it ever flourishing. 
 
 HERRICK. 
 
 N 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 
 simplicity 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 neighboring scenery. 
 
Cbe priDc of tbc Dilla0e 
 
 217 
 
 My ramble, as is usually the case with trav 
 ellers, 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 orna 
 ment, peered through the verdant covering. 
 It was a lovely evening. The early part of 
 the day had been dark and showery, but in the 
 afternoon it had cleared up ; and though sullen 
 clouds still hung overhead, 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 tomb 
 stone, 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 recollected that it must 
 be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the 
 tomb. 
 
 Presently I saw a funeral train moving across 
 the village green ; it wound slowly along a 
 lane ; was lost, and reappeared through the 
 breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place 
 where I was sitting. The pall was supported 
 by young girls, dressed in white ; and another, 
 about the age of seventeen, walked before, 
 bearing a chaplet of white flowers : a token 
 that the deceased was a young and unmarried 
 female. The corpse was followed by the par 
 ents. 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 
 
 
 
Sbc pnfce of tbc Village 
 
 as never to have followed some one he has loved 
 to the tomb ? but when performed over the 
 remains of innocence and beauty, thus laid low 
 in the bloom of existence, what can be more 
 affecting ? At that simple but most solemn con 
 signment of the bod} r to the grave " Karth 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 blest 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, " mourn 
 ing over her children, and would not be com 
 forted." 
 
 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 simplicity of rural life. She had been 
 the pupil of the village pastor, the favorite 
 lamb of his little flock. The good man watched 
 over her education with paternal care ; it was 
 limited, and suitable to the sphere in which 
 
1 
 
 A/ 
 
 2 2O 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^Boofc 
 
 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 indul 
 gence 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. 
 
 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 man 
 ners. 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 pres 
 ent pastor, who was a lover of old customs, 
 and one of those simple Christians that think 
 their mission fulfilled by promoting joy on 
 earth and good-will among mankind. Under 
 
Cbe prtoc of tbc Wlla0c 
 
 221 
 
 his auspices the May-pole stood from year to 
 \vur 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 vil 
 lage, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes 
 would often attract the notice of casual visi 
 tors. Among these, on one May-day, was a 
 young officer, whose regiment had been re 
 cently quartered in the neighborhood. He 
 was charmed with the native taste that per 
 vaded 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 smil 
 ing in all the beautiful confusion of girlish 
 diffidence and delight. The artlessness of 
 rural habits enabled him readily to make her 
 acquaintance ; he gradually won his way into 
 her intimacy ; and paid his court 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 eloquent 
 than language, and which convey it subtlely 
 and irresistibly to the heart. The beam of the 
 
m 
 
 : 
 
 eye, the tone of voice, the thousand tender 
 nesses which emanate from every word, and 
 look, and action, these form the true elo 
 quence 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 scarce!}- 
 inquired what was the growing passion that 
 was absorbing every thought and feeling, or 
 what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, 
 looked not to 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. Shewould wan 
 der 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 lan 
 guage of polite and cultivated life, and breathed 
 into her ear the witcheries of romance arid 
 poetry. 
 
 Perhaps there could not have been a passion, 
 between the sexes, more pure than this inno 
 cent girl s. The gallant figure of her youthful 
 admirer, and the splendor 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 
 

 Cbc priOc ot tbc 
 
 223 
 
 being of a superior order. Slie 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 dif 
 ference 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 
 admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and 
 she would sigh and blush at the idea of her 
 comparative un worthiness. 
 
 Her lover was equally impassioned ; but his 
 passion was mingled with feelings of a coarser 
 nature. He had begun the connection in 
 levity ; for he had often heard his brother 
 officers boast of their village conquests, and 
 thought some triumph of the kind necessary 
 to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he 
 was too full of youthful fervor. His heart 
 had not yet been rendered 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. 
 

 
 224 
 
 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 depend 
 ence upon a proud and unyielding father all 
 forbade 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 
 tr} to fortify himself by a thousand 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 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 regi 
 ment to repair to the continent completed the 
 confusion of his mind. He remained for a 
 short time in a state of the most painful irreso 
 lution ; 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 
 
 ffl 
 
Cbe prtfc or tbc 
 
 occurred to her. It broke in at once upon her 
 dream of felicity ; she looked upon it as a 
 sudden and insurmountable evil, and wept 
 with the guileless simplicity of a child. He 
 drew her to his bosom, and kissed the tears 
 from her 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, appar 
 ently 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 com 
 panion of his fortunes. 
 
 He was quite a novice in seduction, and 
 blushed and faltered at his own baseness ; but 
 so innocent of mind was his intended victim, 
 that she was at first at a loss to comprehend 
 his meaning ; and why she should leave her 
 native village, and the humble roof of her 
 parents. When at last the nature of his pro 
 posal flashed upon her pure mind, the effect 
 was withering. She did not weep she did 
 not break forth into reproach she said not a 
 word but she shrunk back aghast as from 
 a viper; gave him a look of anguish that 
 pierced to his very soul ; and clasping her 
 
 ! 
 
 
 VOL. II. 15 
 
Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 
 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 feel 
 ings, 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, even the din of 
 battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal 
 back to the scenes of rural quiet and village sim 
 plicity 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 of all her ideal world, had 
 indeed been cruel. Paintings and hysterics 
 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 faith 
 less lover borne off, as if in triumph, amidst 
 the sound of drum and trumpet, and the pomp 
 of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after 
 him, as the morning sun glittered about his 
 
(Tbc priDc ot tbc 
 
 227 
 
 figure, and his plume waved in the breeze ; he 
 parsed 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 lone 
 liness, 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, return 
 ing from the fields, would now and then over 
 hear 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 
 bloom, and that hallowed air which melan 
 choly 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 entertained resentment 
 
ft 
 
 228 
 
 against her lover, it was extinguished. She 
 was incapable of angry passions ; and in a 
 moment of saddened tenderness 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 suffer 
 ings which she had experienced ; but con 
 cluded with saying that she could not die in 
 peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness 
 and her blessing. 
 
 By degrees her strength declined ; 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 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 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
Cbc prlDc ot tbc Wlla0e 
 
 229 
 
 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 fra 
 grance of the clustering honeysuckle which her 
 own hands had trained round the window. 
 
 Her father had just been reading a chapter 
 in the Bible ; it spoke of the vanity of worldly 
 things, and 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 evening 
 service, the last villager was lagging into the 
 porch, and everything had sunk into that 
 hallowed stillness peculiar 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 trembled in 
 her soft blue eye. Was she thinking of her 
 faithless lover ? or were her thoughts wander 
 ing to that distant churchyard into whose 
 bosom she might soon be gathered ? 
 
 Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard a 
 horseman galloped to the cottage he dis 
 mounted before the window the poor girl gave 
 a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her 
 chair : it was her repentant lover ! He rushed 
 into the house, and flew to clasp her to his 
 bosom ; but her wasted form her deathlike 
 
Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 unut 
 terable tenderness and closed her eyes for 
 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 in 
 cident and high -seasoned narrative, they may 
 appear trite and insignificant, but they inter 
 ested me strong^ 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 churchyard looked naked 
 and mournful, and the wind rustled 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. 
 
Cbc IPrifce ot tbc 
 
 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 flow 
 ers were withered, it is true, but care seemed 
 to have been taken that no dust should soil 
 their whiteness. I have seen many monu 
 ments, where art has exhausted its powers to 
 awaken the sympathy of the spectator, but I 
 have met with none that spoke more touch- 
 ingly to my heart than this simple but delicate 
 memento of departed innocence. 
 
Ube Bugler 
 
 This day daine 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 in 
 duced 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 those worthy gentlemen who are given to 
 haunt the sides of pastoral streams, with angle- 
 rods in hand, may trace the origin of their 
 passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak 
 Walton. I recollect studying his Complete 
 Angler several 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 
 
To Haunt the Sides of Pastoral Sin 
 
 in Hand" 
 
 Dt 
 
Gbe Busier 
 
 the spring began to melt into the verge of sum 
 mer, 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 
 fulness of his equipments ; being attired cap-cL- 
 pie for the enterprise. He wore a broad-skirted 
 fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred 
 pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and leathern 
 gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish ; a 
 patent rod, a landing-net, and a score of other 
 inconveniences, only to be found in the true an 
 gler s armory. Thus harnessed for the field, he 
 was as great a matter of stare and wonderment 
 among the country folk, who had never seen a 
 regular 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 beau 
 ties, 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 balanc- 
 
ing sprays, and long nameless 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-cut 
 ter 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 ; tan 
 gled my line in every tree ; lost my bait ; broke 
 my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in de- 
 
Cbe Bnfllcr 
 
 spair, and passed the day under the trees, 
 re-ailing old Izaak ; satisfied that it was his 
 fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural 
 kxling that had bewitched me, and not the 
 passion for angling. My companions, how 
 ever, were more persevering in their delusion. 
 I have them at this moment before my eyes, 
 stealing along the border of the brook, where 
 it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed 
 by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern ris 
 ing with hollow scream as they break in upon 
 his rarely invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watch 
 ing them suspiciously from his dry tree that 
 overhangs the deep black mill-pond, in the 
 gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself 
 slip sideways from off the stone or log on 
 which he is sunning himself ; and the panic- 
 struck frog plumping in headlong as they ap 
 proach, and spreading an alarm throughout the 
 watery world around. 
 
 I recollect also, that, after toiling and watch 
 ing and creeping about for the greater part of 
 the 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 be 
 lieve, a crooked pin for a hook, baited with a 
 vile earthworm, and in half an hour caught 
 
 X." 
 
Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 more fish than we had nibbles throughout the 
 day ! 
 
 But, above all, I recollect, the " good, hon 
 est, 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 ego 
 tism ; yet I cannot refrain from uttering these 
 recollections, which are passing like a strain 
 of music over my mind, and have been called 
 up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed 
 not long since. 
 
 In a morning s stroll along the banks of the 
 Alun, a beautiful little stream which flows 
 down from the Welsh hills and throws itself 
 into the Dee, my 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 main 
 tained. His face bore the marks of former 
 storms, but present fair weather ; its furrows 
 had been worn into an habitual smile ; his 
 
dbc Biutlcr 
 
 iron-gray locks hung about his ears, and he 
 hud altogether the good-humored air of a con 
 stitutional philosopher who was disposed to 
 take the world as it went. One of his com 
 panions was a ragged wight, with the skulk 
 ing look of an arrant poacher, and I 11 war 
 rant could find his way to any gentleman s 
 fish-pond in the neighborhood 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 seasonable 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 peaceable spirit"; and my esteem for 
 them has been increased since I met with an 
 old Trctyse of Fishing with the Angle in which 
 are set forth many of the maxims of their in 
 offensive fraternity. "Take good hede," say- 
 eth 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 covet- 
 ousness to the encreasing and sparing of your 
 
238 
 
 money only, but principally for your solace, 
 and to cause the helth of your body and spe- 
 cyally of your soule."* 
 
 I thought that I could perceive in the vet 
 eran 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 gal 
 lant manner in which he stumped from one 
 part of the brook to another ; waving his rod 
 in the air, to keep the line from dragging on 
 the ground or catching among the bushes ; and 
 the adroitness with which he would throw his 
 fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim 
 ming 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 
 
 * From this same treatise, it would appear that an 
 gling is a more industrious and devout employment 
 than it is generally considered. " For when ye pur 
 pose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye will not 
 desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might 
 let you of your game. And that ye may serve God 
 devoutly in sayinge effectually your customable pray 
 ers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also 
 avoide many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall 
 cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is 
 right well known." 
 
 A : \^ : ." "" vliV /~ 
 ||^^|^1i^ 
 
Cbc Biuilcr 
 
 239 
 
 l\vo 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 of Cheshire, close by 
 the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where 
 the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from 
 among fresh-swelling meadows. The day, too, 
 like that recorded in his work, was mild and 
 sunshiny, with now and then a soft-dropping 
 shower, that sowed the whole earth with dia 
 monds. 
 
 I soon fell into conversation with the old an 
 gler, 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 communi 
 cative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful 
 old age ; and I fancy was a little flattered by 
 having an opportunity of displaying his pis 
 catory 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, where he 
 
240 
 
 Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 had entered into trade, and had been ruined 
 by the indiscretion 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 experi 
 enced, for it got him a pension, which, to 
 gether with some small paternal property, 
 brought him in a revenue of nearly forty 
 pounds. On this he retired to his native vil 
 lage, where he lived quietly and indepen 
 dently ; and devoted the remainder of his life 
 to the " noble art of angling." 
 
 I found that he had read Izaak Walton at 
 tentively, 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 differ 
 ent countries as a poor sheep that is fleeced 
 by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of 
 every nation with candor and kindness, ap 
 pearing to look only on the good side of 
 things ; and, above all, he was almost the only 
 man I had ever met with who had been an un 
 fortunate adventurer in America, and had hon 
 esty and magnanimity enough to take the fault 
 
Cbe 
 
 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 gentle 
 ness of spirit, and a pure serenity of mind. 
 As the English are methodical even in their 
 recreations, 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 
 every 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 ornamented grounds ; some 
 times brimming along through rich pasturage, 
 
 VOL. II. 16 
 
 " 
 
242 
 
 where the fresh green is mingled with sweet- 
 smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight 
 of villages and hamlets, and then running 
 capriciously away into shady retirements. 
 The sweetness and serenity of nature, and the 
 quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually 
 bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are 
 now and then agreeably interrupted by the 
 song of a bird, the distant whistle of the peas 
 ant, or perhaps the vagary of some fish, leap 
 ing out of the still water, and skimming tran 
 siently about its glassy surface. "When I 
 would beget content," says Izaak Walton, 
 " and increase confidence 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 therefore trust in him." 
 
 I cannot forbear to give another quotation 
 from one of those ancient champions of an 
 gling, which breathes the same innocent and 
 happy spirit : 
 
 " I^et 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 ; 
 
Cbc Busier 
 
 24.* 
 
 And on the world and my Creator think : 
 Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t em 
 brace : 
 
 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 river walk at will, 
 
 Among the daisies and the violets bl ue, 
 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 even 
 ings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek 
 him out. I found him living in a small cot 
 tage, 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 honey 
 suckle. 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 conven 
 ience having been acquired on the berth-deck 
 of a man-of-war. A hammock was slung from 
 * J. Davors. 
 
244 
 
 {Tbe Sfcetcb<fBoofc 
 
 the ceiling, which, in the day-time, 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 prin 
 cipal movables. About the wall were stuck up 
 naval ballads, such as " Admiral Hosier s 
 Ghost," " All in the Downs," and " Tom Bow 
 line," intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, 
 among which the battle of Camperdown held 
 a distinguished place. The mantelpiece 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 family consisted of a large black cat 
 with one eye, and a parrot which he had 
 caught and tamed, and educated himself in the 
 course of one of his voyages ; and which 
 uttered a variety of sea-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 
 
Gbc Hiuilcr 
 
 245 
 
 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 sun 
 shine. 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 an 
 gling all day, and gave me a history of his 
 sport with as much minuteness as a general 
 would talk over a campaign ; being particularly 
 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 evening of his days ! His happiness, how 
 ever, sprung from within himself, and was in 
 dependent of external circumstances ; for he 
 had that inexhaustible good-nature, which 
 is the most precious gift of Heaven, spread 
 ing 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 de 
 lighted the rustics with his songs, and, like 
 Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of 
 strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea-fights. 
 He was much noticed too by gentlemen sports 
 men of the neighborhood ; had taught several 
 of them the art of angling ; and was a privi 
 leged visitor to their kitchens. The whole 
 tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, 
 being principally passed about the neighbor 
 ing 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 dur 
 ing the sermon. He had made it his particu 
 lar 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 
 
 
 p^p 
 
Cbc Bmilcr 
 
 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 honest Izaak Walton, by craving the 
 blessing of St. Peter s master upon my reader, 
 and upon all that are true lovers of virtue ; 
 and dare trust in his providence ; and be quiet ; 
 and go a-angling." 
 
Ube SLecjenfc of Sleepy Ibollow 
 
 FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE I,ATE DIEDRICH 
 KNICKERBOCKER. 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 For ever flushing round a summer sky. 
 
 Castle of Indolence. 
 
 N the bosom of one of 
 those spacious coves 
 which indent the east 
 ern shore of the Hud 
 son, at that broad 
 expansion of the river 
 denominated by the an 
 cient Dutch navigators 
 the Tappan Zee, and 
 where they always pru 
 dently 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. 
 
 m 
 
Cbc legend of Slccpv; Ibollow 
 
 249 
 
 This name was given, we are told, in former 
 days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
 country, from tlie 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 valley, or rather lap of land, 
 among high hills, which is one of the quietest 
 places in the whole world. A small brook 
 glides through it, with just murmur enough 
 to lull one to repose ; and the occasional 
 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 particularly 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 rem 
 nant of a troubled life, I know of none more 
 promising than this little valley. 
 
 1 
 
 
 
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 pow-wows there before the country was 
 discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. Cer 
 tain it is, the place still continues under the 
 sway of some bewitching power, that holds a 
 spell over the minds of the good people, caus 
 ing 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 ninefold, seems to make it the favor 
 ite scene of her gambols. 
 
 -^ ; 
 
Cbc XecicnD of Slccpv? 1xMlo\v 
 
 251 
 
 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts 
 this enchanted region, and seems to be com- 
 muiider-in-chief of all the powers of the air, 
 is the apparition of a figure on horseback with 
 out a head. It is said by some to be the ghost 
 of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been 
 carried away by a cannon-ball, in some name 
 less 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 vicin 
 ity of a church at no great distance. Indeed, 
 certain of the most authentic historians of 
 those parts, who have been careful in collecting 
 and collating the floating facts concerning this 
 spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, 
 having been buried in the churchyard, the 
 ghost rides forth to the scene of battle in 
 nightly quest of his head ; and that the rush 
 ing speed with which he sometimes passes 
 along the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is 
 owing to his being belated, and in a hurry to 
 get back to the churchyard before 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 Horse 
 man of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 It is remarkable that the visionary propen 
 sity I have mentioned is not confined to the 
 native inhabitants of the valley, but is uncon 
 sciously imbibed by every one who resides 
 there for a time. However wide awake they 
 may have been before they entered that sleepy 
 region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale 
 the witching influence of the air, and begin to 
 grow imaginative, to dream dreams, and see 
 apparitions. 
 
 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible 
 laud ; for it is in such little retired Dutch val 
 leys, found here and there embosomed in the 
 great State of New York, that population, 
 manners, and customs remain fixed ; while the 
 great torrent of migration and improvement, 
 which is making such incessant changes in 
 other parts of this 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 bub 
 ble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolv 
 ing in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the 
 rush of the passing current. Though many 
 years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
 shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question 
 whether I should not still find the same trees 
 
ft v 
 
 Cbc TLecicnD of Slccpv? t>ollo\v 
 
 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 expressed it, " tarried," in Sleepy 
 Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the 
 children of the vicinity. He was a native of 
 Connecticut, a State which supplies the Union 
 with pioneers for the mind as well as for the 
 forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of 
 frontier 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 dangled a mile out of his 
 sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, 
 and his whole frame most loosely hung 
 together. His head was small, and flat at top, 
 with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a 
 long snipe nose, so that it looked like a 
 weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to 
 tell which way the wind blew. To see him 
 striding along the 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 corn-field. 
 
His school-house was a low building of one 
 large room, rudely constructed of logs ; the 
 windows partly glazed, and partly patched 
 with leaves of old copy-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 archi 
 tect, 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 on a drowsy summer s day, 
 like the hum of a bee-hive ; interrupted now 
 and then by the authoritative voice of the 
 master, in the tone of menace or command ; 
 or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of 
 the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along 
 the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, 
 he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in 
 mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod and 
 spoil the child." Ichabod Crane s scholars 
 certainly were not spoiled. 
 
 I would not have it imagined, however, that 
 

Cbe XciicnC* of Slccpt? t>ollow 
 
 255 
 
 he was one of those cruel potentates of the 
 school, who joy in the smart of their subjects ; 
 on the contrary, he administered justice with 
 discrimination rather than severity, taking the 
 burden off the backs of the weak, and laying 
 it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
 stripling, that winced at the least flourish of 
 the rod, was passed by with indulgence ; but 
 the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting 
 a double portion on some little, tough, wrong- 
 headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who 
 sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen 
 beneath the birch. All this he called "doing 
 his duty" by their parents; and he never 
 inflicted a chastisement without following it 
 by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting 
 urchin, that " he would remember it, and thank 
 him for it the longest day he had to live." 
 
 When school- hours were over, he was even 
 the companion and playmate of the larger 
 boys ; and on holiday afternoons would convoy 
 some of the smaller ones home, who happened 
 to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for 
 mothers, noted for the comforts of the cup 
 board. 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 daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, 
 
 
256 
 
 and, though lank, had the dilating powers of 
 an anaconda ; but to help out his maintenance, 
 he was, according to country custom in those 
 parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the 
 farmers, whose children he instructed. With 
 these he lived successively a week at a time ; 
 thus going the rounds of the neighborhood, 
 with all 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 grievious bur 
 den, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had 
 various ways of rendering himself both useful 
 and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occa 
 sionally in the lighter labors of their farms ; 
 helped to make hay ; mended the fences ; took 
 the horses to water ; drove the cows from pas 
 ture ; and cut wood for the winter fire. He 
 laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and 
 absolute sway with which he lorded it in 
 his little empire, the school, and became 
 wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He 
 found favor in the eyes of the mothers, by pet 
 ting the children, particularly the youngest ; 
 and like the lion bold, which whilom so mag 
 nanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit 
 with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle 
 with his foot for whole hours together. 
 
 V 
 
 \ 
 
Cbe XcgcnD ot Sleeps t>ollo\v 
 
 In addition to his other vocations, he was the 
 singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked 
 up many bright shillings by instructing the 
 young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of 
 no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to take his 
 station in front of the church-gallery, with a 
 band of chosen singers ; where, in his own 
 mind, he completely carried away the palm 
 from the parson. Certain it is, his voice re 
 sounded far above all the rest of the congrega 
 tion ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be 
 heard in that church, and which may even be 
 heard half a mile off, quite to the opposite side 
 of the mill-pond, on a still Sunday morning, 
 which are said to be legitimately descended 
 from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by 
 divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way 
 which is commonly denominated "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 neigh 
 borhood ; being considered a kind of idle, 
 gentleman-like personage, of vastly superior 
 taste and accomplishments to the rough coun 
 try swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning 
 only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, 
 
 VOL. II. 17 
 
 
258 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb<fBoofc 
 
 is apt to occasion some little stir at the tea-table 
 of a farm-house, and the addition of a super 
 numerary dish of cakes or sweet-meats, or, per- 
 adventure, the parade of a silver tea-pot. Our 
 man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy 
 in the smiles of all the country damsels. How 
 he would figure among them in the church 
 yard, between services on Sundays ! gathering 
 grapes for them from the wild vines that over 
 run 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 sheep 
 ishly back, envying his superior elegance and 
 address. 
 
 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a 
 kind of travelling gazette, carrying the whole 
 budget of local gossip from house to 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 
 shrewdness and simple credulity. His appetite 
 for the marvellous, and his powers of digesting 
 
Gbc XegenD of Sleeps Dollow a 59 
 
 it, were equally extraordinary ; and both had 
 been increased by his residence in this spell 
 bound region. No tale was too gross or mon 
 strous 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 gather 
 ing 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 farm-house where he 
 happened to be quartered, every sound of na 
 ture, at that witching hour, fluttered his excited 
 imagination ; the moan of the whippoorwill* 
 from the hill-side ; the boding cry of the tree- 
 toad, that harbinger of storm ; the dreary hoot 
 ing of the screech-owl, or the sudden 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 
 
 * The whippoorwill is a bird which is only heard at 
 night. It receives its name from its note, which is 
 thought to resemble those words. 
 
 IV* 
 
260 
 
 was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea 
 that he was struck with a witch s token, 
 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 even 
 ing were often filled with awe, at hearing his 
 nas al melody, " in linked sweetness long drawn 
 out," floating from the distant hill, or along 
 the dusky road. 
 
 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure 
 was, to pass long winter evenings with the old 
 Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the fire, 
 with a row of apples roasting and spluttering 
 along the hearth, and 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 head 
 less horseman, or Galloping Hessian of th< 
 Hollow, as they sometimes called him. 
 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 specula 
 tions upon comets and shooting-stars, and with 
 the alarming fact that the world did absolutely 
 turn round, and that they were half the time 
 topsy-turvy 
 
 
 
 ~ 
 


 
,- 
 
 261 
 
 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while 
 snugly cuddling in the chimney-corner of a 
 chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the 
 crackling wood- fire, and where, of course, no 
 spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly 
 purchased by the terrors of his subsequent 
 walk homewards. What fearful shapes and 
 shadows beset his path amidst the dim and 
 ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With what 
 wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of 
 light streaming across the waste fields from 
 some distant window ! How often was he 
 appalled by some shrub covered with snow, 
 which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his very 
 path ! How often did he shrink with curdling 
 awe at the sound of his own steps on a frosty 
 crust beneath his feet ; and dread to look over 
 his shoulder, lest he should behold some un 
 couth being tramping close behind him ! and 
 how often was he thrown into complete dismay 
 by some rushing blast, howling among the 
 trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping 
 Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 
 
 All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
 night, phantoms of the mind that walk in dark 
 ness ; and though he had seen many spectres 
 in his time, and been more than once beset by 
 Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely perambu 
 lations, yet daylight put an end to all these 
 
262 
 
 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 instruc 
 tions in psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the 
 daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch 
 farmer. She was a blooming lass of fresh eigh 
 teen ; 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 per 
 ceived 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 petticoat, 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 
 
 
Cbc Xoicitf of Slccpp tbollow 
 
 69 
 
 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 satis 
 fied 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 
 bubbled 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 treas 
 ures of the farm ; the flail was busily resound 
 ing within it from morning till night ; swallows 
 and martins skimmed twittering about the 
 eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one 
 eye turned up, as if watching the weather, 
 
> 
 
 v 
 
 Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 some with their heads under their wings, or 
 buried in their bosoms, and others swelling, 
 and cooing, and bowing about their dames, 
 were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek 
 unwieldly 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 farm-yard, 
 and guinea fowls fretting 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 generously call 
 ing his ever-hungry family of wives and chil 
 dren to enjoy the rich morsel which he had 
 discovered. 
 
 The pedagogue s mouth watered, as he 
 looked upon this sumptuous promise of luxuri 
 ous 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 
 
 J 
 
Cbe 
 
 of Sleeps 
 
 265 
 
 : 
 
 tucked in with a coverlet of crust ; the geese 
 were swimming in their own gravy ; and the 
 ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug mar 
 ried couples, with a decent competency of 
 onion-sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out 
 the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relish 
 ing 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 quarter which 
 his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while 
 living. 
 
 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, 
 and as he rolled his great green eyes over the 
 fat meadow-lands, the rich fields of wheat, of 
 rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the 
 orchard burdened with ruddy fruit, which sur 
 rounded 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 in 
 vested in immense tracts of wild land, and 
 shingle palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his 
 busy fancy already realized his hopes, and pre 
 sented to him the blooming Katrina, with a 
 whole family of children, mounted on the top 
 
 
 
266 
 
 Cbe 5fcetcb*:fi3oofc 
 
 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 Ken 
 tucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 
 
 When he entered the house, the conquest of 
 his heart was complete. It was one of those spa 
 cious farm-houses, with high-ridged, but lowly- 
 sloping roofs, built in the style handed down 
 from the first Dutch settlers ; the low project 
 ing 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 wandering Ichabod entered the 
 hall, which formed the centre of the mansion 
 and the place of usual residence. Here, rows 
 of resplendent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, 
 dazzled his eyes. In one 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 ; 
 
 r ^fey^ 
 
Cbe 
 
 of Sleeps 1bollo\v 
 
 267 
 
 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 deco 
 rated the mantel-piece ; strings of various col 
 ored 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 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 adamant, to the 
 castle-keep, where the lady of his heart was 
 confined ; all which he achieved as easily as a 
 man would carve his way to the centre of a 
 Christmas pie ; and then the lady gave him 
 her hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on 
 
 
268 
 
 Cbe Sfcetcb^JBoofc 
 
 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 difficulties and impedi 
 ments ; and he had to encounter a host of 
 fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the 
 numerous rustic admirers, who beset every 
 portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and 
 angry eye upon each other, but ready to fly 
 out in the common cause against any new com 
 petitor. 
 
 Among these the most formidable was a 
 burly, roaring, roistering blade, of the name 
 of Abraham, or, according to the Dutch ab 
 breviation, 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 unpleas 
 ant 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 BONKS, by which he was 
 universally known. He was famed for great 
 knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being 
 as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar. He 
 was foremost at all races and cockfights ; and, 
 with the ascendency which bodily strength 
 acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all 
 
 , s 
 
 fej 
 
Cbc XciicnD of Sleeps t>cllo\v 
 
 disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giv 
 ing his decisions with an air and tone admit 
 ting 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 
 the bottom. He had three or four boon com 
 panions, who regarded him as their model, 
 and at the head of whom he scoured the 
 country, attending every scene of feud or mer 
 riment for miles round. In cold weather he 
 was distinguished by a fur cap, surmounted 
 with a flaunting fox s tail ; and when 
 the folks at a country gathering descried 
 this well-known crest at a distance, whisking 
 about among a squad of hard riders, they al 
 ways stood by for a squall. Sometimes his 
 crew would be heard dashing along past the 
 farm-houses 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 altogether 
 discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad 
 vances were signals for rival candidates to 
 retire, who felt no inclination to cross a line 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 quarters. 
 
 Such was the formidable rival with whom 
 Ichabod Crane had to contend, and, consider 
 ing all things, a stouter man than he would 
 have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser 
 man would have despaired. He had, how 
 ever, a happy mixture of pliability and per 
 severance 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. 
 
Cbc Xcticno of Sleep*? "bellow 
 
 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. Icha- 
 bod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet 
 and gently insinuating manner. Under cover 
 of his character of singing-master, he had 
 made frequent visits at the farm-house ; 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 fight 
 ing the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In 
 the meantime, Ichabod would carry on his 
 
272 
 
 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 ave 
 nues, and may be captured in a thousand dif 
 ferent ways. It is a great triumph of skill to 
 gain the former, but a still greater proof of 
 generalship to maintain possession of the latter, 
 for the man must battle for his fortress at 
 every door and window. He who wins a thou 
 sand 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 re 
 doubtable Brom Bones ; and from the moment 
 Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests 
 of the former evidently declined ; his horse was 
 no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday 
 nights, and a deadly feud gradually arose be 
 tween him and the preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 
 
 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry 
 in his nature, would fain have carried matters 
 to open warfare, and have settled their preten 
 sions to the lady according to the mode of those 
 
In // Jiabod would ( 
 
 on A 
 
Cbc Xccicnfr of Sleeps tollow 
 
 most concise and simple reasoners, theknighls- 
 errant of yore by single combat ; but Ichabod 
 was too conscious of 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 provoking in this 
 obstinately pacific system ; .it left Brom no al 
 ternative but to draw upon the funds of rustic 
 waggery in his disposition, and to play off 
 boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Icha 
 bod became the object of whimsical persecu 
 tion 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 every-. 
 thing topsy-turvy : so that the poor school 
 master began to think all the witches in the 
 country held their meetings there. But what 
 was still more annoying, Brom took opportuni 
 ties 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 rival of Ichabod s 
 to instruct her in psalmody. 
 
 VOL. II. 18 
 
274 
 
 Sfcetcb<3oofc 
 
 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 pen 
 sive 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, pop 
 guns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole legions 
 of rampant little paper game-cocks. Appar 
 ently 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 still 
 ness 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, like the cap 
 of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a 
 ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he man 
 aged with a rope by way of halter. He came 
 clattering up to the school-door with an invita- 
 
Cbc 
 
 of Sleeps tbollow 
 
 275 
 
 
 tion 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 scamper 
 ing 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, inkstands 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 earl 3* emancipation. 
 
 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an 
 extra half-hour at his toilet, brushing and fur 
 bishing up his best and indeed only suit of 
 rusty black, and arranging his locks by a bit 
 of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the 
 school-house. That he might make his ap- 
 
 , 
 
5fcetcb*;JBoofc 
 
 pearance before his mistress in the true style 
 of a cavalier, he borrowed a horse from the 
 farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a chol 
 eric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van 
 Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, issued 
 forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adven 
 tures. But it is meet I should, in the true 
 spirit of romantic story, 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 almost 
 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 tan 
 gled 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 the 
 
 .- 
 
 ft* 
 
Cbc XcflcnD of Sleepy t>cllo\v 
 
 saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck out like grass 
 hoppers ; he carried his whip perpendicularly 
 in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse 
 jogged on, the motion of his arms was not 
 unlike the flapping of a pair of wings. A 
 small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, 
 for so his scanty strip of forehead might be 
 called ; and the skirts of his black coat flut 
 tered out almost to the horse s tail. Such was 
 the appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as 
 they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van 
 Ripper, and it was altogether such an appari 
 tion as is seldom to be met with in broad day 
 light. 
 
 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 yel 
 low, 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 cockrobin, the favorite game of 
 stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous 
 notes ; 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, scream 
 ing and chattering, nodding and bobbing and 
 bowing, and pretending to be on good terms 
 with every songster of the grove. 
 
 As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his 
 eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary 
 abundance, ranged with delight over the treas 
 ures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld 
 vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppres 
 sive 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 
 
 - 
 
Cbc lc0cnD of Sleeps 1x>Uc\v 
 
 179 
 
 lair roun<l bellies to the sun, and giving ample, 
 prospects of the most luxurious of pies ; and 
 anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, 
 breathing the odor of the bee-hive, and as he 
 beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his 
 mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and 
 garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate 
 little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 
 
 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet 
 thoughts and "sugared suppositions," he 
 journeyed along the sides of a range of hills 
 which look out upon some of the goodliest 
 scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun grad 
 ually wheeled his broad disk down into the 
 west. The wide bosom of the Tappan Zee 
 lay motionless and glossy, excepting that here 
 and there a gentle undulation waved and pro 
 longed the blue shadow of the distant moun 
 tain. 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 
 
280 
 
 Sfcetcb=:fiSoofc 
 
 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 Heer 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 petticoats, 
 with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
 pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, 
 almost as antiquated as their mothers, except 
 ing where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps 
 a white frock, gave symptoms of city innova 
 tion. 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 him 
 self, full of mettle and mischief, and which no 
 one but himself could manage. He was, in 
 
 t 
 
Cbc XcflcnD of SIccpg 1bollo\v 
 
 fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, 
 given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the 
 rider in constant risk of his neck, for he held 
 a tractable well-broken horse as unworthy of a 
 lad of spirit. 
 
 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world 
 of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze 
 of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of 
 Van Tassel s mansion. Not those of the bevy 
 of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display 
 of red and white ; but the ample charms of a 
 genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sump 
 tuous time of autumn. Such heaped- up plat 
 ters of cakes of various and almost indescribable 
 kinds, known only to experienced Dutch house 
 wives ! 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 pumpkin-pies ; besides slices 
 of ham and smoked beef ; and moreover delect 
 able 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-pig 
 gledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, 
 with the motherly tea-pot sending up its clouds 
 of vapor from the inidst Heaven bless the 
 
Sfcetcb^oofc 
 
 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 proportion as his skin was 
 rilled with good cheer ; and whose spirits rose 
 with eating as some men s do with drink. He 
 could not help, too, rolling his large eyes round 
 him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi 
 bility 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 
 themselves. 
 
 And now the sound of the music from the 
 common room, or hall, summoned to the dance. 
 
Cbc Xccjcnfc of Sleepy t>oilo\v 
 
 283 
 
 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 
 .stamping with his foot whenever a fresh 
 couple were to start. 
 
 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as 
 much as upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, 
 not a fibre about him was idle ; and to have 
 seen his loosely jutng frame in full motion, 
 and clattering about tiij 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 de 
 light at the scene, rolling their white eyeballs, 
 and showing grinning rows of ivory from ear 
 to ear. How could the flogger of urchins be 
 otherwise than animated and joyous? the 
 lady of his heart was his partner in the dance, 
 and smiling graciously in reply to all his amo 
 rous oglings ; while Brom Bones, sorely smitten 
 
284 
 
 with love and jealousy, sat brooding by him 
 self 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 out long stories about the war. 
 
 This neighborhood, at the time of which I 
 am speaking, was one of those highly favored 
 places which abound 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 has elapsed to 
 enable each story-teller to dress up his tale 
 with a little becoming fiction, and, in the indis 
 tinctness 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 men 
 tioned, who, in the battle of White Plains, 
 being an excellent master of defence, parried a 
 musket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that 
 
Ichabod Prided Himself as J\. 
 
I >i 
 
 L^s^f\ 
 A 4HTV 
 
 
 
Cbc Xccicnfc ot Sleeps IxMlcxv 
 
 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 termination. 
 
 But all these were nothing to the tales of 
 ghosts and apparitions 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 underfoot by the shifting 
 throng that forms the population of most of 
 our country places. Besides, there is no en 
 couragement for ghosts in most of our vil 
 lages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
 their first nap, and turn themselves in their 
 graves before their surviving friends have 
 travelled away from the neighborhood ; so that 
 when they turn out at night to walk their 
 rounds, the} 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 preva 
 lence of supernatural stories in these parts was 
 doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hol- 
 
 285 
 
. 
 
 low. 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 churchyard. 
 
 The sequestered situation of this church 
 seems always to have made it a favorite haunt 
 of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll, sur 
 rounded 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 
 
a be 
 
 of Slccpv? tbollow 
 
 287 
 
 gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet 
 of water, bordered by high trees, bet ween 
 which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills 
 of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 
 yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so 
 quietly, one would think that there at least 
 the dead might rest in peace. 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 daytime, 
 but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. 
 This was one of the favorite haunts of the 
 headless horseman ; and the place where he 
 was most frequently encountered. The tale 
 was told of old Brouvver, a most heretical dis 
 believer 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 
 
 
288 
 
 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 under 
 tone 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 the 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 
 
Cbe Zeoenfc of Sleepy l5ollo\v 
 
 clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent wood 
 lands, 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 tttc-&-t$te 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 cer 
 tainly 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 coquet 
 tish tricks? Was her encouragement of the 
 poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her 
 conquest of 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, dreaming of mountains of corn and 
 oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 
 
 VOL. II. 19 
 
 fr. 
 
2QO 
 
 Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 It was the very witching time of night that 
 Ichabod, heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pur 
 sued 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 him 
 self. 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 bark 
 ing of the watch-dog from the opposite shore 
 of the Hudson ; but it was so vague and faint 
 as only to give an idea of his distance from this 
 faithful companion of man. Now and then, 
 too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acci 
 dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, 
 from some farm-house away among the hills 
 but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. 
 No signs of life occurred near him, but occa 
 sionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or 
 perhaps the gutteral twang of a bull-frog, from 
 a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncom 
 fortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 
 
 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he 
 had heard in the afternoon, now came crowd 
 ing upon his recollection. The night grew 
 darker and darker ; the stars seemed to sink 
 deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occa- 
 
of Slecpp t)ollo\v 
 
 sionally hid thc-in from his sight. He had 
 never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, 
 moreover, approaching 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 mix 
 ture of respect and superstition, partly out of 
 sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred name 
 sake, and partly from the tales of strange 
 sights and doleful lamentations told concern 
 ing it. 
 
 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he 
 began to whistle : he thought his whistle was 
 answered, it was but a blast sweeping sharply 
 through the dry branches. As he 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 
 
292 
 
 Sfcetcb*JBoofc 
 
 where the tree had been scathed by lightning, 
 and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
 heard a groan, his teeth chattered and his 
 knees smote against the saddle : it was but the 
 rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as 
 they were swayed about by the breeze. He 
 passed the tree in safety ; but new perils lay 
 before him. 
 
 About two hundred yards from the tree a 
 small brook crossed the road, and ran into a 
 marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by 
 the name of Wiley s swamp. A few rough 
 logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over 
 this stream. On that side of the road where 
 the brook entered the wood, a group of oaks 
 and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape 
 vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To 
 pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was 
 at this identical spot that the unfortunate 
 Andre was captured, and under the covert of 
 those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy 
 yeomen concealed who surprised him. This 
 has ever since been considered a haunted 
 stream, and fearful are the feelings of the 
 school boy who has to pass it alone after dark. 
 
 As he approached the stream, his heart began 
 to thump ; he summoned up, however, all his 
 resolution, gave his horse half a score of kicks 
 in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly 
 
 , 
 
Gbe XcflcnD of Sleeps follow 
 
 across the bridge ; but instead of starting for 
 ward, the perverse old animal made a lateral 
 movement, and ran broadside against the fence. 
 Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, 
 jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
 lustily with the contrary foot : it was all in 
 vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
 only to plunge to the opposite side of the road 
 into a thicket of brambles and alder bushes. 
 The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip 
 and heel upon the starveling ribs of old Gun 
 powder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
 snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, 
 with a suddenness that had nearly sent his 
 rider sprawling over his head. Just at this 
 moment a plashy tramp by the side of the 
 bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. 
 In the dark shadow of the grove, on the mar 
 gin 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 terror. What was to be 
 done ? To turn and fly was now too late ; and 
 besides, what chance was there of escaping 
 ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could 
 ride upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning 
 
up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded 
 in stammering accents "Who are you?" 
 He received no reply. He repeated his de 
 mand in a still more agitated voice. Still there 
 was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the 
 sides of the inflexible Gunpowder, and, shut 
 ting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary 
 fervor into a psalm-tune. Just then the shad 
 owy 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, 3^et the form of the un 
 known might now in some degree be ascer 
 tained. He appeared to be a horseman of 
 large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse 
 of powerful frame. He made no offer of moles 
 tation 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 Gal 
 loping 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, think 
 ing to lag behind, the other did the same. 
 His heart began to sink within him ; he en- 
 fe 
 

. i/T?^ 
 
 let 
 
CTbc Xccicnfc of Sleepy t>cllo\v 
 
 - 95 
 
 deavored to resume his psalm-tune, but his 
 parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, 
 and be could not utter a stave. There was 
 something in the moody and dogged silence 
 of this jKTtinacioiis companion, that was mys 
 terious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
 accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, 
 which brought the figure of his fellow-traveller 
 in relief against the sky, gigantic in 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 
 on the pommel of the saddle : his terror rose 
 to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks 
 and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sud 
 den 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. Icbabod s flimsy garments flut 
 tered in the air, as he stretched his long lank 
 bod}- away over his horse s head, in the eager 
 ness of his flight. 
 
 They had now reached the road which turns 
 off to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who 
 seemed possesed with a demon, instead of keep 
 ing up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged 
 
* ) 
 
 296 
 
 headlong downhill 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 underfoot 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 petty 
 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, sometimes on another, 
 and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his 
 horse s backbone, with a violence that he verily 
 feared would cleave him asunder. 
 
 An opening in the trees now cheered him 
 with the hopes that the church-bridge was at 
 hand. The wavering reflection of a silver star 
 
 \ 
 
Cbc Xeacno of Sleeps 
 
 in the bosom of the brook told him that he 
 was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the 
 church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. 
 He recollected the place where Brom Bones 
 ghostly competitor had disappeared. " If I 
 can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, 
 " I am safe." Just then he heard the black 
 steed panting and 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 thun 
 dered 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 brim 
 stone. 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 encoun 
 tered his cranium with a tremendous crash, 
 he was tumbled headlong into the dust, and 
 Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin 
 rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 
 
 The next morning the old horse was found 
 without his saddle, and with the bridle under his 
 feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master s 
 gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance 
 at breakfast ; dinner-hour came, but no Icha 
 bod. The boys assembled at the school-house, 
 
 vx 
 
and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; 
 but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now 
 began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of 
 poor 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, be 
 yond 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 pitch- 
 pipe. As to the books and furniture of the 
 school-house, they belonged to the community, 
 excepting Cotton Mather s History of Witch 
 craft, a New England Almanac, and a book of 
 dreams and fortune-telling ; in which last was 
 a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted 
 
Dashed, St<> 
 Sparks Flashii 
 

Cbc XcflcnO of 
 
 Y.\ 
 
 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 deter 
 mined 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 specu 
 lation at the church on the following Sunday. 
 Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in 
 the churchyard, at the bridge, and at the spot 
 where the hat and pumpkin had been found. 
 The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
 budget of others, were called to mind ; and 
 when they had diligently considered them all, 
 and compared them with the symptoms of 
 the present case, they shook their heads, and 
 came to the conclusion that Ichabod had been 
 carried off by the Galloping Hessian. As he 
 was a bachelor, and in nobody s debt, nobody 
 troubled his head any more about him. The 
 school was removed to a different quarter of 
 the Hollow, and another pedagogue reigned 
 in his stead. 
 
 ai 
 
3oo 
 
 Cbe SfcetcbOBoofc 
 
 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 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 ad 
 mitted to the bar, turned politician, election 
 eered, written for the newspapers, and finally 
 had been made a justice of the Ten Pound 
 Court. Brom Bones too, who shortly after his 
 rival s disappearance conducted the blooming 
 Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed 
 to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
 story of Ichabod was related, and always 
 burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the 
 pumpkin ; which led some to suspect that he 
 knew more about the matter than he chose to 
 tell. 
 
 The old country wives, however, who are 
 the best judges of these matters, maintain to 
 this day that Ichabod was spirited away by 
 supernatural means ; and it is a favorite story 
 often told about the neighborhood round the 
 
of 
 
 t)cllo\v 
 
 301 
 
 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 millpond. 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 dis 
 tance, chanting a melancholy psalm-tune, 
 among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy 
 Hollow. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT, 
 
 FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKER 
 BOCKER. 
 
 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 Mauhattoes, at which 
 were present many of its sagest and most illustrious 
 burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gen 
 tlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with 
 a sadly humorous face ; and one whom I strongly sus 
 pected of being poor, he made such efforts to be en 
 tertaining. 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, 
 
302 
 
 one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling 
 eyebrows, who maintained a grave and rather severe 
 face throughout ; now and then folding his arms, 
 inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, 
 as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one 
 of your wary men, who never laugh, but on good 
 grounds when they have reason and the law on their 
 side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
 subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm 
 on the elbow of his chair, and sticking the other 
 akimbo, demanded, with a slight but exceedingly 
 sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, 
 what was the moral of the story, and what it went 
 to prove ? 
 
 The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of 
 wine to his lips, as a refreshment after his toils, 
 paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer with an 
 air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
 slowly to the table, observed, that the story was in 
 tended most logically to prove : 
 
 " There is no situation in life but has its advan 
 tages and pleasures provided we will but take a joke 
 as we find it ; 
 
 " That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin 
 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 pre 
 ferment in the state." 
 
 The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold 
 closer after this explanation, being sorely puzzled by 
 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 
 
Cbc OLcflcnD of Sleepy IxMlow 
 
 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. 
 
X JEtuoot* 
 
 Go, little booke, God send thee good passage, 
 And specially let this be thy prayere, 
 Unto them all that thee will read or hear, 
 Where thou art wrong, after their help to call, 
 Thee to correct in any part or all. 
 
 CHAUCER S 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 lib 
 eral disposition that has been evinced to 
 treat him with kindness as a stranger. Kven 
 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 arti 
 cles, and that these individual exceptions, taken 
 in the aggregate, would amount almost to a 
 total condemnation of his work ; but then he 
 has been consoled by observing, that what one 
 has particularly censured, another has as par 
 ticularly praised ; and thus, the encomiums 
 
 * Closing the second volume of the London edition. 
 
X Envoi 
 
 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 say, in 
 his vindication, that he faithfully determined, 
 for a time, to govern himself in his second vol 
 ume by the opinions passed upon his first ; but 
 he was soon brought to a stand by the con 
 trariety of excellent counsel. One kindly ad- 
 vi>ed 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 de 
 clared that he had a very pretty knack at turn 
 ing 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 
 
 VOL. II. 20 
 
 

 
 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 some 
 thing to suit each reader, his end would be 
 completely answered. Few guests sit down to 
 a varied table with an equal appetite for even* 
 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 condemned 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 re 
 questing the reader if he should find here and 
 there something to please him, to rest assured 
 that it was written expressly for intelligent 
 readers like himself; but entreating him, 
 should he find anything to dislike, to tolerate 
 it, as one of those articles which the author 
 
Envoi 
 
 307 
 
 has been obliged to write for readers of a less 
 refined taste. 
 
 To be serious The author is conscious of 
 the numerous faults and imperfections of his 
 work ; and well aware how little he is disci - 
 plined and accomplished in the arts of author 
 ship. His deficiencies are also increased by a 
 diffidence arising from his jx?culiar situation. 
 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 approba 
 tion, yet finds that very solicitude continually 
 embarrassing his powers, and depriving him 
 of that ease and confidence which are neces 
 sary to successful exertion. vStill the kindness 
 with which he is treated encourages him to go 
 on, hoping that in time he may acquire a 
 steadier footing ; and thus he proceeds, half 
 venturing, half shrinking, surprised at his own 
 good fortune, and wondering at his own temer 
 ity. 
 
appendix 
 
 NOTI-:S CONCERNING \VI.STM INSTKR ABBEY. 
 
 TOWARD the end of the sixth century, when Britain, 
 under the 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, con 
 ceived 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 Kthelbcrt, king of Kent, and the 
 most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had married 
 Bertha, a Christian prim-ess, 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 religious 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 confer 
 ence in the open air ; being distrustful of foreign 
 priestcraft, and fearful of spells and magic. They 
 ultimately succeeded in making him as good a Chris 
 tian as his wife ; the conversion of the king of course 
 produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The 
 

 310 
 
 zeal and success of Augustine were rewarded by his 
 being made archbishop of Canterbury, and being en 
 dowed with authority over all the British churches. 
 
 One of the most prominent converts was Segebert 
 of Sebert, king of the Bast Saxons, a nephew of Ethel- 
 bert. He reigned at London, of which Mellitus, one 
 of the Roman monks who had come over with Augus 
 tine, was made bishop. 
 
 Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a mon 
 astery 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 of Westminster Abbey. Great 
 preparations 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, 
 proceeded 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 illumin 
 ated. 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. 
 
 /& r etJIik r$* JfL 
 
Mellitns was a wary man, slow of belief, and 
 required confirmation of tin.- 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. It" 
 he had still any lingering doubts, they were com 
 pletely removed on the fisherman s producing the 
 identical 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 proceeding 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 reconstruction, 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. 
 
 KKLICS OF EDWARD THK CONFESSOR. 
 
 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 Kdward 
 
Shctcb-JCoofc 
 
 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 tra 
 dition, he says, among his brother choristers and the 
 gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of 
 King Bdward 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 inspec 
 tion, 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 scaffold 
 ing used in the coronation of James II., the coffin was 
 found to be broken, a hole appearing 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 after 
 wards, 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 desirous 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 underneath 
 the shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, 
 affixed to a gold chain twenty-four inches long. 
 These he showed to his inquisitive friends, who 
 were equally surprised with himself. 
 
313 
 
 " At that time," says lu\ " when I took the cross and 
 chain out of the coffin, I drew Hie 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 
 ail 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 coffin by a prying 
 chorister, and brought to grin face to face with him 
 through a hole in tlu- lid ! 
 
 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 fear 
 ing that the 4< holy treasure " might be taken away by 
 other hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany 
 him to the shrine 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 subsequently had the old coffin 
 inclosed in a new one of great strength : " each plank 
 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." Malcom, Land, rediv. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT AIJvUDED TO IN 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, youngest 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 loveing and careful wife, and was 
 with her lord all the time of his banishment and 
 miseries, and when he came home, never parted from 
 him in his solitary retirements. 
 
 In the winter time, when the days are short, the 
 service in the afternoon is performed by the light of 
 tapers. The effect is fine of the choir partially lighted 
 up, while the main body of the cathedral and the 
 transepts 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 screen-, and darting into the surround 
 ing 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 leav 
 ing 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 monument of one of the Pultneys. 
 
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